"How the hell do I work this thing?" Banky asked dejectedly.

"Don't sound so sad." Holden replied, stuffing a few dollars into his back pocket after receiving change for the two of them to spend a night at the arcade. He had just picked Banky up, seen as how he'd just flown in from New York to visit, and decided that, hell, maybe he should spend some time with him.

"But, they took out the classics!" Banky cried.

"I know, I know," Holden said. They had taken out the older models of Skee-ball and replaced it with new-fangled equipment.

"How do I get the fucking ball into the hole? There's a fucking FENCE in the way!"

"Let me show you."

"I can do it."

Holden laughed. "Have fun making a fool of yourself."

"I'm not going to make a fool of myself, okay?"

"Sure, whatever you say, buddy."

"Shut the fuck up." Banky grasped a ball in his hand and swung fiercely at the ramp. It barely made it into the ten hole.

"Damnit." He muttered. Banky rubbed at his forehead angrily.

Holden choked out a laugh. "Let me show you."

"Fine. Fucking conceited bitch…" he muttered, stepping back and crossing his arms.

Holden grasped a ball and flicked his wrist, sending it flying into the forty hole.

"See?" Holden said, brushing invisible dust off of his hands. "Nothing to it."

Banky was silent for a moment as he replayed the action in his head.

"So, so I…" he took one in his hands and positioned himself awkwardly, flicking the ball. It crashed into the twenty.

"Ya-ha!" Banky yelled triumphantly.

"Very good," Holden said, coming up beside him. "Now try for a forty. Hell, try for a thirty."

"Right." Banky said, swinging another ball. Another twenty.

"You suck." Holden commented.

"Suck this." Banky raised a long, bony middle finger.

"Very nice of you, Bank." Holden shook his head. "You're doing it wrong, by the way."

"I'm what?"

"Doing it wrong."

"Doing what wrong?"

"The game."

"I'm doing the game wrong?"

"The new one, yes."


"You aren't throwing it right."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you're—jeez, no, stop. Jackass! Stop it, you're doing it wrong."

"Fine. Bitch."

"Bend over."

"The hell!"

"No, not—shut up. Bend over like you're going to throw the ball."

Banky was skeptical and extremely hesitant, but he did so.

Holden came up behind him, wrapping one arm around Banky's stomach and the other around Banky's hand.

"Fuckin' queer."

"Shuddup." Holden pulled him closer and rested his chin on Banky's shoulder. He pulled back their arms and flicked out the wrist, tossing it. Forty, easy.

"Oh, I get it." Banky said, nodding.

"Now you try," Holden lectured, breathing into Banky's ear.

Holden let his right arm fall back as Banky pulled back, threw out his wrist, and swung. Another forty, almost a fifty.

"Very good." Holden cheered.

"Beat your ass." Said Banky.

"Not really." Said Holden.



"Fuck you."

"Not like you'd want to."


"Whatever." Holden squeezed his arm around Banky's stomach, to Banky's ultimate surprise, and then gripped his hand once more. "Take another one," he said to Banky's ear. "Come on."

Banky grabbed one. Holden pulls their arms back and they throw it. Fifty.

"We're good at this," Holden said, hot breath on Banky's ear. Banky shook his head.

"No, I'm good at this. You fucking suck." He said comically.

"Oh, yes, I'm so sure." Holden does not move.

"Y-you gonna get off me?"

"Sooner or later."

"…w-what the hell are you doing?"

"You got something on your lip."

"I do?"


"The hell is it?"

"Me." Holden pressed his lips against Banky's softly, resting there for a few seconds. That was enough time for him to react, wasn't it? But he didn't.

"Get off…" Banky breathed.

"No." Holden kissed him again, hungrily this time. Banky kissed back, but lightly, as if to test the water before plunging in.

He didn't mind so much. It was like…kissing a girl, except that there was something uncomfortable sticking against his thigh and that it was…rougher, hungrier. Not so soft, and he thought that, maybe, he didn't mind so much.

"Holy shit, you fucking queers."

On cue, their eyes widened and Holden spun his head around to face where the sound had come from.

Brodie stood with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, a stunned and disgusted look on his face.

"Brodie." Holden choked.

"What the hell where you guys doing?" Brodie cried disgustedly.

"I—we—it was just…" Banky started.

"Just? Just disgusting! That shit was fucked up! I can't believe you guys!" Brodie yelled.

"Keep it down, jackass." Holden murmured, casting the people starring at them a glare.

"Don't…don't go around fucking telling the world. We know you've got a big fucking mouth." Banky was now standing with his arms crossed.

"What the hell are you bitches gonna do if I tell? Fuck me up the ass?" Quipped Brodie, speaking as if the words were fire.

"You wouldn't want people knowing what you did while René was in New Brunswick now would you?" Holden chimed in.

Brodie was silent for a moment, contemplating the situation. "You wouldn't," he said finally.

"Don't try me, fucker."

He said nothing. Brodie gave Banky and Holden one last disgusted look before turning on his heel and walking to the front counter, where René was handing over a ten to the clerk. Brodie grabbed her by the waist and took the bill from the clerk, leaving him stunned as he dragged René out the front door.

Holden slowly turned to Banky. "Sorry…for that."

Shaking his head, Banky sighed. "It's, uh…fuck…it's fine. Don't…don't worry about it."

"Do…are you hungry?" Holden asked.

"A little, uh, yeah." Banky said, throwing the rest of the balls up the ramp and ripping off the tickets.

"I…hope this doesn't come off as being forward or any of that…do you want to come back to my place for dinner?"

"…that would be nice, thanks." Banky said, zipping up his jacket and handing his tickets to a kid standing by the Grabber.

"Okay." Holden smiled, turning to leave.

Banky took a few steps to catch up with him, walking beside him. Holden slipped his arm around Banky's waist as they exited the arcade and into the cold, bitter air of the night.