They haven’t broken the television yet. Baj’s been very careful about that. The yellow box with its wood paneling remains mostly uncharred.
Baj is… possessive maybe isn’t the word. But it’s the first time they’ve had a television. First time they’ve had anything that costs that much, probably. And they don’t own it, technically. There’s a big PROPERTY OF WPL stencil along the side. But it’s still one of the handful of things Baj’s allowed to have in their “apartment.”
(Pisses them off that these people have the gall to call it an apartment. It’s a cell disguised as a home.)
Anyway: Fray is messing with the television, and it’s making Baj nervous.
“What is that?” they demand again, leaning deep enough over to again see the gray and red box trailing wires that sits on the floor in front of it. “Is that a Nint—Nindo—”
“Nintendo,” Fray supplies in his soft voice. He does not look at them. He is focusing, seemingly very hard, on plugging the Nintendo into the television. “Like in the arcade.”
“’Like in the arcade,’” Baj parrots, mocking his gentle Midwestern drawl, the one they’ve worked so hard to suppress. Dipshit. Like he thinks Baj doesn’t know what a video game is. Yet as ever, it fails to get a rise out of Fray. “I know what it is. Just forgot the name.”
“For sure,” Fray says, good-naturedly.
Baj cannot fucking deal with him. They stand there, glowering at his back and his stupid girly hair, and seriously consider trying to cook him alive again. It didn’t work the first time, or the second or third. Maybe they could catch his hair on fire this time, though. He’s as vain as he ever was, worse, even. That might finally piss him off.
But they cast their eyes over the pair of gray plastic rectangles and their bright red buttons, and the three cardboard boxes advertising their games’ contents lying beside them. Final Fantasy, says one. Another: Castlevania. And the third—
“Are you fucking kidding?” Baj blurts.
Now Fray does pause, peering up at them over his shoulder. His eyebrows arch questioningly. Baj curls a lip at him. In an excellent display of dramatic timing, a thread of smoke curls out of their throat. “‘Kid Icarus’?” they say, as scathingly as possible. “Are you for real?”
Fray does that thing where he doesn’t answer right away, just looks. Another thing that pisses Baj off. He didn’t used to do that. It’s like his superiority act extends so far that he has to play at long, ponderous thoughts. Fucker. Bootlicking—
“The guy at the shop said it was good,” Fray says, interrupting what Baj had felt was going to be a very nasty and clever string of insults. Irritatingly, there’s no authoritative note in his words. It’s almost questioning. “Did I get scammed?”
Baj’s curled lip turns into a snarl. There’s no spit of flame, as much as they wish for it. “Don’t play dumb.” Oh, this is getting to them, actually. They catch Fray’s eyes darting to the thermometer that was installed a few weeks ago. It’s usually sitting at eighty-five, thanks to the heat Baj radiates. It’s climbing toward ninety before their eyes.
Finally Fray puts down the cords, turning to them fully. Oh, you’re giving me your full attention now that I’m being scary. How caring. “What?” he says after a minute. It’s laced with genuine confusion. “Why are you upset?”
“Icarus?” Baj hisses. “The boy with wax wings?”
Fray looks from Baj to the game box, and back again. There. The spark of comprehension. The wince of realizing Thou Hast Fucked Up. “Oh,” he says, and he’s on the back foot, Baj can tell, and it should soothe them but it just pisses them off worse. “Crap. I di … I didn’t think about. About that.”
“What else is new.”
“I can go exchange it,” Fray says, all appeasement and earnestness, but Baj has already stalked off to sulk behind their privacy screen.