#he had to rig up an old inspection table lamp and I had to give up because it was way too dark

[telomirage]

me at my old job asking people why they were working in the dark vs me not turning lights on in my apartment unless absolutely necessary (or if maintenance comes by and turns on a light while they work)

[somethingaboutklance]

This is a little ficlet for @drippingpen / @letlancelive. It was supposed to be a Christmas present but I’m trash and late so whoops, happy new year?

Have Keith and Lance going on a cute arcade date!

“I let you win, you know.” Lance said, pouting at his score sheet.

“Sure you did,” Keith smirked at his 1st place in laser tag. He only scored ten points above Lance, but a win was a win.

“Yeah! I was protecting you from the children!” Lance explained, “If it weren’t for me, they would have destroyed you.”

“Maybe not destroyed, but I’ll give it to you since they did all gang up on you.”

Lance shook his head, “Being ‘good with kids’ is a slippery slope for five eight year olds pinning you down and shooting you repeatedly.”

“You trash talked them.”

“I was trying to make to bond with them! I didn’t know they were tiny evil soldiers.”

Keith rolled his eyes and took his boyfriend’s hand, “What else do you want to do?”

The boys scanned the small arcade while neon lights drew their eyes to each game. A group of children ran around, feet pounding on the eccentric patterned carpet, asking each other for extra coins while their parents watched from the tables. Lance and Keith were probably the oldest players in the space, but they wouldn’t let that ruin their fun.

After roaming through the maze of pinball machines and vintage Pac-Man, the couple landed at an air hockey table. Space-themed with blinking red and blue lights on either side, it was begging for contenders. Four coins for two rounds, Lance smirked, “How about this?”

Keith planted himself at the far end of the table, where the red lights danced on his face as he gripped the paddle, “Let’s go.”

Lance slid the coins into the machine as he said, “Don’t be a sore loser.”

Keith scoffed as he watched Lance take his side, starting with the puck. Keith squinted, “Just start,”

“Whatever you say, sore loser,” Lance let the puck loose.

“I’m not a-”

Within the moment, Lance got a point.

“That’s not fair!”

As the electronic scoring charts spazzed at Lance’s side was given one point. Keith scowled and he took his turn starting with the puck.

No more than two minutes later, Lance won 7-4.

Keith groaned, “Why are you so good at this?!”

Lance gestured to the score chart, which was resetting itself for a rematch. The table turned on again, the electric buzzing began as the handles and puck slide with the static. Lance smiled, “Maybe it was beginner's luck. Go again?”

Keith huffed, “Yes.”

The following match took more time, as the two sides were already warmed up. Still, skill trumps passion and Lance won again.

Keith crossed his arms, “I hate this game.”

“Aw,” Lance skipped over and embraced his pouty boyfriend, “Let’s play another game. I bet you can pulverize me at those racing games.”

Finding the nearest Mario Kart system, Keith grabbed Lance’s hand and pulled, “We are going on Rainbow Road.”

“No!”

They hop from game to game, Lance winning at the shooting one while Keith does oddly well at the mini basketball hoops. With only a handful of tokens left, Lance stopped at the claw machines.

He pressed himself against the glass, peering down to see all the stuffed animals eligible to be won.

“Look at that little snowman!” Lance pointed in the direction of a dozen snowmen plushies, “These games are always rigged but my cousin, Joey, he’s a master at them. I think he’s a magician or something.”

“Lemme see,” Keith peered at one of the more available toys, a small snowman with a blue scarf and Christmas-themed chef hat. It was ridiculous and useless, but it was only two coins to play.

Lance scoffed, “Good luck,”

Keith took a breath then moved the claw around the cage. Luckily the claw was small and thick enough to give them a chance, unlike the loose, thin claws that couldn’t hold anything if their lives depended on it. Keith took the time to align the toy and the grabber as perfectly as he could before he pressed the button to seal the deal.

The claw held on to the toy for only a moment before slipping through it’s grasp.

Lance sighed dramatically as the claw returned empty, “That’s how they get you Keithy-boy, now come on, we have like ten coins left. Wanna play air hockey again?”

Keith grabbed two more coins, “Just...let me try one more time.”

“Whatever you say, but that’s just two less coins for me to mow your ass.”

“I don’t think that’s how that phrase is used,” Keith put the two coins in the machine, and grabbed the handle for the claw that stared him down.

Steady, he positioned the claw, then he walked around to the side of the machine to be sure he was right. Happy with himself, he came back and pressed the button.

With their breaths held, they watched as the claw reached, closed, and captured the snowman. With wide eyes, they watched as the snowman was lifted up away from it’s fellow prizes, carried over and dropped into the receiving slot.

“Ohhhhh!” Lance yelled and jumped.

Keith laughed, “For you.”

Lance hugged the tiny toy to his chest, “Ah! That’s so awesome! Now I have to get you one!”

Keith realized his mistake, “Oh-uh-you don’t have to.”

Lance was already putting the coins into the slot, “Nah, it’ll be easy, you got yours in two tries, I bet I can get it in one.”

Keith laughed nervously and looked around, “Hey, how about we play another shooting game? That Jurassic Park one is finally open.”

“Maybe after,” Lance focused intently on the placement of the claw, “I’m gonna get this guy! He’ll match mine!”

Keith gave up and attempted to help Lance position the claw as accurately as possible.

Four tries later, Lance hung his head in shame as he approached the front desk clerk and bought three dollars worth of tokens.

Cup full of coins, Keith tugged on Lance’s jacket as he marched back to the claw machine. Keith bartered, “Listen, you don’t have to get one for me. Actually, I-I don’t want one.”

Lance looked down to Keith, painful expression on his face, “Keith, at this point, it doesn’t matter if you want one or not. It’s pride, babe. I’ve worked this hard, who am I if I give up now?”

“Three dollars richer.”

Lance shook his head. He stopped in front of the machine, it’s pink lights and cute flower designs striking fear in his heart. He cracked his knuckles, “It’s time.”

Keith leaned against the machine, “Here we go.”

Lance inserted the money and hunched down. As Keith stood on the side, Lance was navigated on where to go.

The claw dropped, grabbed, and slipped.

Lance banged his head on the button in distress.

Suddenly, Keith tugged on his collar, pulling him up. He pointed inside the machine.

Lance gasped, how could he be so blind?

With all of Lance’s attempts grabbing the snowman that matched his own perfectly, he didn’t see the one across the cage, a snowman with a red scarf and black top hat. A new friend. The plushie was sitting face down, completely free of anything in its way.

“He’s ready.” Keith said, as if commenting on the ripeness of a new harvest of fruits.

Lance swallowed and began aligning the claw for the new goal.

He looked at Keith, who inspected the scene. With completely trust, Lance waited for Keith’s nod, then pressed the button.

They watched as the claw easily slide down, and grabbed hold of the toy tightly as if it was meant to be. It carried it over like a helicopter staging a rescue, and safely delivered it home.

Lance shouted and whoops as he collected his prize. He giddly shoved it in Keith’s hands, who was doubled over laughing at his boyfriend’s display.

“Okay, okay,” Keith wipes his eyes, “You won, are we done with this now?”

Lance nodded, “Oh yeah, for sure, let’s go.”

Later in the car, the two were comparing their prizes while parked in the lot. The stationary lamps posts created spotlights in the night while the heavy noise of the motor buzzed in the background.

Pointing to the plushie in Keith’s hands, Lance said, “His name is Seb, he’s our son.”

“Is yours our son too? Because his name is Albert.” Keith said.

Lance shook his head, “No, no, Albert is our son in law. They are gay for each other.”

“I’ll dig that.” Keith agreed.

“I had fun,” Lance smiled, leaning towards Keith in the driver’s seat.

Keith arched an eyebrow, “Even though I beat you at pretty much everything?”

Lance groaned, “I was trying to have a moment!”

Laughing, Keith leaned forward and kissed Lance softly.

Humming into the kiss, Lance pulled back and nodded, “And I totally mowed your ass at air hockey.”

“I’m leaving you.” Keith pulled back and started up the car, putting it into reverse, “I’m never playing anything with you ever again.”

“Ha! Told you! You’re a sore loser!”

“Get out of my car.”

“I love you too.”

[backcountryquotes]

Earl Howell Reed, The Dune Country, 1916

Page 9: While many interesting volumes could be filled by pencil and pen, this story of the dunes and the “back country” has been condensed as much as seems consistent with the portrayal of their essential characteristics.

Page 69: One morning we missed Billy, and we possibly have never seen him since. He may have answered “the call of the wild” and joined the black company that goes over into the back country in the morning and returns to the bluffs at night, or he may have fallen a victim to indiscriminating overconfidence in mankind — a misfortune that is not confined to crows.

Page 71: They probably flew over into the back country, where food was more abundant and where they were subjected to less observation.

Page 89: It was Sipes’s custom to take the old shotgun over into the marshes of the back country, and shoot ducks in the fall and spring. His ideas of killing ducks were worthy of the Stone Age, for it was meat that he sought, and not sport. He always “killed ‘em settin’,” and would “lay fer ‘em ‘till fifteen er twenty got in a bunch, an’ then let ‘em ‘ave both bar’ls.

Page 103: “Swanson an’ Burke took my gun an’ went over in the back country an’ shot some tame ducks an’ brought ‘em back to the shanty an’ wanted me to fix ‘em up to cook. When I was picking’ ‘em on the beach the owners come over. They’d heard the shots an’ they found some tracks an’ seen where they was some feathers. I told ‘em I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, but as I was settin’ there undressin’ the fowls they seemed to think I had, an’ I had a lot o’ trouble fixin’ things up.

Page 108: Pete got in contact with a voracious bulldog, that came from somewhere over in the back country; and in the final analysis — in which the two animals participated — Pete was left in a badly mangled condition.

Page 112: “The real facts is ‘e lived over in the back country fer twenty years, an’ ‘e was chased into the hills by ‘is wife an’ mother-in-law fer good an’ sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope oncet about some girl ‘e was stock on some ‘res down south. It’s all right fer an old cuss like ‘I’m to set ‘round an’ talk, but ‘e was just ‘avin’ dizzy dreams, an’ you fergit ‘em. If ‘e’d only tell the truth, the way I always do, ‘e wouldn’t never have no trouble, an’ folks would ‘ave some respect fer ‘I’m, like they do fer me.”

Page 118: John knew most of the outcasts along the beach for many miles. He occasionally visited some of them, particularly Sipes, to obtain extra supplies of fish, with an old gray horse and a dilapidated buggy frame — both of which were also rheumatic. On the wheels back of the seat he had mounted a big covered box for the fish, which he peddled over into the back country. Some of the fish were very dead, and the whole box was replete with mystery and suspicion.

Page 130: We proceeded about half a mile along the shore, and took the road that led through the sand hills into the back country. When we got to the marshy strip, we bumped along over the corduroy for quite a distance, but the road became better when we got to higher ground. As soon as we arrived on firm soil, Napoleon stopped. A fat man with a green basket was advancing hurriedly along the edge of the thin timber, about a quarter of a mile away, and the horse probably surmised that his coming was in some way connected with a rest.

Page 134: We approached a weather-beaten house standing near the road. A middle-aged woman in a gingham dress and brown shawl stood near the face. The nondescript rig had been seen coming. Travelers on the road in the back country are so rare that a passing vehicle is an event; it is always observed, and its mission thoroughly understood, if possible. In no case during the day were we compelled to announce our arrival.

Page 195: Among the most interesting of the marsh dwellers is the muskrat. This active little animal is an ever-present element in the life of the sloughs, and he is the most industrious live thing in the back country. His numerous families thrive and increase, in spite of vigilant enemies that besiege them. The larger owls, the foxes, minks, and steel traps are their principal foes.

Page 197: The muskrats are great travelers, and roam over the meadows, through the ravines, up and down the creeks, and around on the sand hills, in search of food and adventure. They run along the lake shore at night, and their tracks are found all over the beach. Their well-beaten paths radiate in all directions from their homes. They are not entirely lovable, but the back country would be desolate indeed without them.

Page 201: A man of perhaps forty, but who looks to be fifty, rather tall and spare, with bent shoulders and shambling step, appears after a few minutes. His shaved upper lip and long chin whiskers strictly conform to the established customs of the back country.

Page 203: Time slumbers in the back country. The weekly paper is the only printed source of news from the outside, and, with the addition of a monthly farm magazine, with its woman’s department, constitutes the literature of the home. These periodicals are read by the light of the big kerosene lamp on the table in the middle of the room, and the facts and opinions found in them become gospel.

Page 212: The stock of merchandise was varied, but there was very little of any one kind, except plug tobacco. Over a case containing several large boxes of this necessity of life in the back country was a strip of cardboard, on which was inscribed, “Don’t use the nasty stuff.” Under a wall lamp was another placard, “This flue don’t smoke, neither should you.” Other examples of the proprietor’s wit were scattered along the edges of the shelves, and on the walls, and helped to impart an individual character to the place. Among them were, “Don’t be bashful. You can have anything you can pay for.” “This store is not run by a trust.” “No setting on the counter — this means you!” “Credit gives only on Sundies, when the store is closed.” “Don’t talk about the war — it makes me sick.”

Page 215: It was indeed strange destiny that took the sardine, flashing his bright sides in the blue Mediterranean, and left him immured on a musty shelf in a store in the back country. It he, with the contents of the cans around him, could return to life, there would be a motley company.

Page 225: When the time comes to “git home to supper,” the dilapidated vehicles begin to crawl out into the fading light and disappear. They carry the pessimists and the few necessaries which they have bought at the store — some molasses, sugar, tea and coffee, possibly a new shovel, some nails, and always a plentiful supply of plug tobacco, a great deal of which is filtered into the soil of the back country. Some eggs, butter, vegetables, and other produce of the little farm has been left in payment.

Page 229: The road leading from the lake, through the sand hills, and the low stretches of the back country, over to the sleepy village, is broken — and badly broken — by numerous sections of corduroy reinforcements, which have been laid in the marshy places, across small creeks and quagmires. The portion of the road near the lake is seldom traveled. Occasionally, during the hot weather, a wagonload of people will come over from the sleepy village, and from the little farms along the road, and go into the lake to get cool. They will then spend the rest of the day sweltering on the hot sand to get warm, and return at night.

Page 232: In talking with Sipes, one afternoon, about some of the roads in the back country, he suggested that we take a walk over to the Judge’s house and see him. “The Jedge has got a map that’s got all them things on it. The ol’ feller deals in law, an’ land, an’ fire insurance, an’ everythin’ else.”

Page 256: The Winding River begins miles away and steals down through the back country. It curves and runs through devious channels and makes wide detours, before it finally flows out through the sand hills into the great lake.

Page 260: A crude mill-race has been dug parallel to the river’s course, and the clumsy old-fashioned wheel is slowly and noisily churning away under the side of the mill. The structure was once painted a dull red, but time has blended it into a warm neutral gray. Some comparatively recent repairs on the sides and roof give it a mottled appearance, and add picturesque quality. A few small houses are scattered along the road leading to the mill, and the general store is visible among the trees farther back, for the little boat has now come to the sleepy village in the back country. There are no railroad trains or trolley cars to desecrate its repose, for these are far away. Several slowly moving figures appear on the road. There is an event of some kind down near the mill, and the well-worn chairs on the platform in front of the store have been deserted. Whatever is going on must be carefully inspected and considered at once.

Page 263: The story of the eventful day percolates from the store off into the back country, and weeks later we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in the marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills. He unfortunately “wasn’t to town” at the time.

Page 280: Occasionally an imperfect or unfinished arrow or spearhead appears among the refuse, which the patient artificer discarded. Many perfect specimens are found, but these are seldom discovered near the sites of the rude workshops. They are uncovered by the shifting sands in the “blow outs,” where the winds eddy on the sides of hills that may have held their secrets for centuries, and turned up out of the fertile soil in the back country, by the plowshares of a race that carried the bitter cup of affliction to the aborigine.