Team Phison

  Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve*

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen*

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilogue*

  Acknowledgements

  Other m/m recs

  About the author

  Also by Chace Verity

  TEAM PHISON

  Chace Verity

  Copyright 2017 Chace Verity

  Dearest readers,

  Thank you for taking a chance on my May-December m/m romance novella. This book was written with a pure need to create something funny, fluffy, and queer. Phil and Tyson have become dear to me. I hope they will become dear to you.

  While I strived to keep this book as trigger-free as possible, there might still be content some of you need to be prepared for. Phil swears a lot. There’s frequent mentions of alcohol. Tyson doesn’t have a happy past, but it’s not because of his sexuality.

  I have also marked the chapters with sexually explicit content with an asterisk. This is for people who need a heads up, who want to gloss over sex scenes, or who want to skip straight to the dirty stuff.

  If you have any questions about the presence of a specific trigger I might not have mentioned, please feel free to e-mail me at chaceverity@gmail.com.

  Best,

  Chace “this is my first time, omg” Verity

  One

  If I lose one more match with these self-centered assholes tonight, I’m going to throw my TV out the window. It’ll fall far. Crash prettily on the road, glass glittering under the street lamps. And I’ll sip my sweet, smoky Laphroaig and flip off the whole fucking world.

  Ugh. Get it together, Phil. These punks aren’t worth it. When they were in fourth grade, you were knee-deep in a mid-life crisis.

  With Curtis.

  I shudder when his name crosses my mind. Three years have passed since I’ve seen the toupee-wearing shitstain. It might be as silver as the moon, but at least I’ve got hair.

  Protect Earth At All Costs is my current obsession not related to whisky or meat. I am damn good at this game. But not good enough to carry a shitty team through a technology recovery mission.

  Once the game flashes red over my twenty-fourth century android avatar, I tell my team where they can stick it and go back to the main menu to switch mission types.

  “Defend The Flag Holder” is pretty easy for me to win, even with a garbage team, as long as I’m not the flag holder. Flag holders can’t use weapons or run, just walk at the world’s slowest pace.

  Of course, the match starts, and I’m the flag holder. My randomly-assigned team scatters once the aliens invade.

  Why do I play this ulcer-inducing game?

  Two of my teammates take off for the base where I’m supposed to bring the flag. It makes sense for one person to go ahead and clear the path of any hard enemies, but the other two should escort the flag holder from the swarm of low-ranking minions. One person can be sufficient for escorting if they’re an expert player.

  The person who stayed behind is shooting his laser rifle at a goddamn turret. Our turret.

  I stick close to BisonFalls anyway. Maybe the guy is lagging. Poor connections are common at the start of a match when everything is loading.

  But a minute passes, and BisonFalls’s aim has turned to the UFO in the sky -the titanium and stardust monstrosity that flies around for decoration only.

  Goddammit.

  I crouch in the corner of the alley next to BisonFalls in the game and take a sip of my drink in real life. The warm amber cools my rage enough that it’s safe to flick my headset on.

  “Bison, I admire how you keep firing the Xebulas from a distance.”

  “Huh? Oh? Am I firing at the right thing?”

  His thick, languid Southern accent gives his hoarse voice some flavor. Firing sounds more like far-in.

  Good, a redneck. I’m sure this is going to be grand.

  “No, you need to shoot the purple blobs coming straight for us. A rifle is useless now. Switch to your shotgun.”

  “How do I do that?”

  A newbie. Great.

  “Hold the left directional button down, and a wheel will pop up,” I say. Might as well teach what I can in the ten seconds I have left before I’m mobbed. “You switch with the left analog stick.”

  “Hey, that worked! Thanks! I just shoot everything I see now?”

  “You need to protect me. This is ‘Defend The Flag Holder.’”

  “All right, I’ll shoot everything.”

  God help me.

  “Keep zapping those baddies and follow me,” I say.

  “Oh, okay. I can do that.”

  Can sounds more like kin.

  What has my life come to? Wasting away Sunday nights on a video game, desperate for one lousy win. I ought to quit now and do something more productive like lick every spoon in my kitchen, but I’m so close to unlocking the ammo upgrade for my assault rifle.

  I take a lot of damage, but BisonFalls figures out what he’s doing and blasts away the swarm before the flag disintegrates.

  What the hell are the other two nimrods doing? Jerking each other off? Their avatars glow ostentatiously with full health in the corner of the screen. They’re still in the game and quite alive.

  “Hey, that alien dropped a health pack. If you pick it up, you’ll heal the whole team, including me,” I tell BisonFalls.

  He trots over to the floating medicine pack, and the flag stops burning. It’s still seconds away from shredding to pieces, I’m sure.

  Another wave of minions slithers toward us from a crisply-rendered hill. We’re not even a quarter of the way to our base.

  “You can’t pick those up?” he asks.

  “No, flag holders can only walk. They can’t do anything else. That’s why you have to protect me.”

  “Oh, so I’m like a knight?”

  “A futuristic one, sure.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  “Is this your first time playing?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I just got the game today.”

  “You didn’t do the tutorial?”

  “It was boring, so I quit.” He shoots several of the minions while talking. “Hey, how do I reload my ammo?”

  This kid. At least he’s nice.

  “Down directional arrow when you’re on zero. Play lots and you’ll be able to earn upgrades so your weapons will reload automatically.”

  “That’s awesome. You been playing long?”

  Since the day the game was released six months ago? Possibly. But I’m not buzzed enough to make that sort of confession.

  “Long enough.”

  “I wanted to pick this up back in February for my birthday, but then my car broke down. So I had to fix that. And it took a long time to save up since I needed to buy the console too.”

  “Stop talking and shoot, Bison.”

  But it’s too late. The flag’s taken too much damage, and the match is over.

  “Dang. Was that my fault? I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” I wipe my sweaty palm on my leg. “You’re new. The other two asswads in our party should have been helping.”

  “We had other party members?”

  “Yeah. This isn’t your first FPS, is it?”

  “FPS?”

  “First-person shooter?”

  “Oh. It’s not. I play a lot of
these.”

  One of the other players drops from the team, and we have to wait in the lobby for someone else to join. I really should quit and go to bed. Or count the tiles in my bathroom floor. Something more satisfying than this.

  “Hey, thanks for helping me out,” Bison says. “Do you think you can show me how to play the other games? You’re better to listen to than the tutorial.”

  Swell compliment. What the hell? This kid is decent. Amiable. Better than the no-mics and the foul-mouthed misanthropes and the mystifying teenagers.

  I invite BisonFalls to a party, and we start a bronze survival mission.

  Teaching him the ropes isn’t too bad. It’s almost enjoyable, sipping whisky and training a greenhorn in the not-so-complex world of alien invasions on a planet where all the humans have been engineered into androids.

  The game’s fun to play. I never said it had a Pulitzer-worthy story.

  BisonFalls and I play a few rounds of each kind of match before tackling “Defend The Flag Holder” again. I’ve finally gotten my ammo upgrade too.

  The game starts, and I’m so relieved neither of us are the flag holder.

  But halfway through the map, the flag holder quits and the game ends. Goddammit. I express my feelings over the mic in the form of four letter words.

  “Aw, that ain’t right,” BisonFalls groans.

  “Yeah, it sucks.” I rub my eyes and check the time on my phone. 10:00 PM. Shit. “Look, Bison, I need to call it a night.”

  “Cool. It was real good playing with you, GlacialSilt. Am I saying that right? We should play again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Doubt I’ll see him after tonight. This isn’t a game where I’m aiming to make friends. I’d go outside if I wanted friends.

  I shut the console down and flick the TV off with the remote app on my phone. The darkness of the room is my only companion while I sit and remember the times I went out every night. Always with my friends.

  Curtis and I had met in a bar on such a night.

  We spent nearly two decades together before he decided I was too old for him. We had eight measly years between us. I couldn’t keep up with the late nights, the constant black-out drinking, the month-to-month leases on shitty apartments.

  He got a new, younger boyfriend so fast. So fast.

  The pangs of loneliness drive me to check the other sort of matches I’ve been into lately. Online dating has been a needlessly frustrating experience over the past year, but a glimmer of hope tugs at my heartstrings every time I open the app.

  Maybe, just maybe, one of these faces will be the one.

  I swipe through the six new potential loves-of-my-life and hate them all equally. It’s not a surprise the selection of men seeking men over fifty in Massachusetts is colorful, but none of these hues complement me. A quick glimpse of their profiles reveal boring, pretentious hobbies like microbreweries or impossible standards for ideal body types. And, Christ, I’d rob a bank if I could get an option to automatically block vegetarians.

  How can anybody fall in love with someone they meet online?

  Two

  I own the greatest restaurant in the world. That’s me being modest.

  The menu is simple but covers all the basic food groups: gourmet burgers carved from various animals and bourbon. I live and breathe Hutton’s. The chic atmosphere brings the sleekest guests with remarkable personalities and generous wallets. There is no place I’d rather be.

  Except today.

  My goddamn venison dealer is stuck in the boonies with a blown transmission because he can’t be bothered to check his oil levels, a party of eight without a reservation wants the whole restaurant to themselves like I have enough charisma to kick out the other fifty guests, and my servers apparently drank from the same glass of piss. Monday lunches are not supposed to be this chaotic. And I’m the only manager around for another hour.

  A quail burger pops up on the rack. It’s missing a sesame bun. I check the ticket.

  “Leon, what the shit is this?”

  The tall, gangly Black chef groans. “Come on, Phil. I cooked it right. What’s wrong?”

  “Quails don’t come with kaiser rolls.”

  “We’re out of sesames.”

  “And when was someone going to tell me?”

  “We eighty-sixed them, like, ten minutes ago.”

  Ugh. I was behind the bar then. God, is two o’clock ever going to get here?

  Life was more pleasant at six this morning, surrounded by the shiny bottles of paradise and taking inventory. No whiny excuses. No problems. No jazz music quietly buzzing in my ear like a dying bee.

  So there’s one tiny flaw with my restaurant, but jazz boosts sales tremendously.

  “Phil!”

  The food runner walks up to me, a broken olive oil bottle in her hand. The viscous liquid drips everywhere. Christ. She’s the epitome of a white girl mess.

  “Get a mop before someone breaks their neck,” I grumble. “What happened to you, Shorty?”

  She wipes her hands on her apron after throwing the bottle away. “The baby at twelve took this from me while I was making the table’s Greek salad.”

  “You let a baby take your olive oil?”

  “He was sneaky.”

  My eyes hit the back of my head hard enough to make me see stars. I nudge her toward the utility closet. “Go. Clean up the mess. I’ve got food dying in the window.”

  I grab the quail burger and the well-done classic angus that’s finally ready. I try not to judge my guests’ tastes, but some of them don’t have any.

  I drop the plates off at seven. “Hey, guys, here you go. Can I grab you anything?”

  The angus-eater shakes his head. “No, this looks great.”

  “Can I get some ketchup?” asks the man with the quail burger.

  It kills me on the inside, but I agree.

  No taste. No taste. Should have known from his tweed jacket.

  On my way to collect the ketchup, I pass two servers with their noses glued to their phones. I flick them both in the back of the head.

  “Did I hire you to check your Facebook? Funny, I don’t recall that.”

  Whine colors one server’s voice. “It was just for a moment, Phil.”

  “Yeah, and my tables are fine,” the other says.

  “You could be cleaning something or running food or doing something productive. You kids spend too much time on your phones, I swear.”

  When I drop the ketchup off, the angus-eater looks up at me and grits his teeth.

  “My burger is too cooked.”

  “You wanted a well-done?” I ask slowly.

  “Yeah, but not too well-done.”

  Fuck this day.

  Getting home later in the afternoon is like making-out with the world’s fluffiest cloud. Bless this quiet condo of mine with its perfect air-conditioning and no pets policy.

  The best benefit of getting dumped by Curtis was moving to the sleepy outskirts of Cape Cod. He always wanted to be within walking distance of the hottest bar. That bastard thrived on noise and drama.

  After pouring a glass of Laphroaig, I fire up Protect Earth At All Costs. Nothing unwinds me better than blasting aliens and yelling at screw-ups I can’t shame in person.

  There’s a notification on the main menu. A friend request from BisonFalls.

  That buffoon really thinks we’re pals, huh? Well, I guess he’ll get better if he sticks with me. He’s also not the worst person to talk to.

  He’s online. I invite him to a party, and he joins while I’m adjusting my headset.

  “Hi, Glacial, how you doing?”

  “Hey, Bison.”

  What a dork. I sip my drink and let it sit on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. The peat and oak revive me completely.

  “I’ve been playing the story today. It’s kind of boring though.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I only play multiplayer.”

  “Maybe I will too.”

  “What kind
of match do you want?”

  “I’ve leveled up some, so I think I’m ready to try a silver survival mission.”

  He’s level five. Ten is the minimum for silver. The guy’s got gumption, I’ll give him that.

  “No, let’s stick with bronze. You don’t get experience if you lose a game, and we’ll lose.”

  “But I wanna see what it’s like.”

  I grumble and give in. Some people have to touch the fire to see if it’s hot. Once he’s burned, we’ll bulldoze through bronzes together.

  We lose. Horrifically. Two other under-tens thought they’d enjoy sucking face with failure too. I’m the last person in the party to stand, but it’s the fastest I’ve gone down in a silver-ranked mission.

  “Oops,” he says.

  “Oops is right.”

  I can’t help chuckling. He sounds so shocked.

  “Can we try again?” he asks.

  “Seriously? Whatever.”

  Some people need to end up in the burn ward before they understand fire is hot.

  After we lose four or five more matches, I set us up for a bronze survival mission. We shouldn’t be idling for too long in the lobby as we wait for party members to join us. There are always newbies. Everywhere. Like minions.

  Except we’re sitting around in silence for a couple of minutes. What the hell? It’s summer. Middle of the day. There should at least be kids around.

  BisonFalls isn’t chatting. It’s awkward, since he’s been talking my ear off so far. Maybe he went to the bathroom? No, I think I can hear him breathing.

  “So, uh, BisonFalls. Interesting username.”

  “Oh, sorry. I had to get another Vanilla Coke. Yeah, it’s pretty cute, isn’t it?”

  Cute. Not the first word I’d think of. Tasty, possibly. The bison burger at work is one of our more popular items.

  Also? Vanilla Coke? That stuff is impossibly sweet. Ugh.

  “So you named yourself after a place? Or after the animal?”

  “Animal? No, no, my name’s Tyson, and I’m bisexual. Bison.”

  “…huh…”

  The comment throws me. He’s pretty open about his sexuality. I wouldn’t have ever expected it from a guy with a Southern accent more pronounced than Gomer Pyle.

  “And the falls part?” I ask, even though I have no idea why I’m curious.