by C. S. Poe
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By C.S. Poe
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New Game, Start
By C.S. Poe
Reclusive medieval scholar, Edgar Royal, has a crush. On a guy. Not a big deal, except that said guy, Walter Chase, is a famous online gamer who has no idea Edgar even exists. Edgar has harbored these feelings for nearly a year, and when Walter announces on Twitter that he’ll be visiting New York City as a guest at the GamerOn convention, Edgar decides he’ll be one of the thousands of fans who responds to the message.
He definitely doesn’t expect to be singled out by the humble, gorgeous, out-and-proud heartthrob. And when it comes to dealing with people, Edgar’s skills are pretty nonexistent. Even with Walter giving all the right signals, Edgar lacks the courage do anything about the mutual attraction growing through their online courtship. He’s always been better with the written word, so maybe the perfect Christmas gift will say what he cannot. But if Edgar can’t get the present to Walter before the convention ends, he may miss out on the boyfriend of a lifetime.
THERE WAS this guy…. Shit. That was how it always started, right?
Walter Chase.
He was better known by his online gaming persona, Waldere, which was actually the name of the fragments of an otherwise long-lost Old English epic poem about the legendary Walter of Aquitaine. I didn’t think Walter’s typical fans realized that, but I had a PhD in medieval studies and languages, so the fact that Walter Chase had even a rudimentary knowledge of Waldere made him even more endearing to me.
Here was the thing, though.
Walter Chase didn’t even know I existed.
Because I was only one of his subscribers out of millions—just another adoring fan of his mad video-game skills, hilarious commentary, and humble personality. Walter was also an out-and-proud gay man. He was completely unapologetic and shut down homophobia on his channel quicker than the Addams Family could snap in unison. It was empowering to watch him succeed and be respected.
But seriously, I had no chance. I wasn’t some famous video gamer. I didn’t even play much beyond what would be considered casual gaming. I only watched playthroughs because I found them relaxing. I was a horribly insecure scholar and freelance translator, getting by in the big, bad city of New York, and pining after a gorgeous, wonderful, amazing stranger who had guys a thousand times hotter than myself asking in the comment threads of his videos to hook up at conventions.
So there was this guy… and I guess you could say it was pretty one-sided.
T-MINUS 1 week until I’m in NYC for GamerOn! Who will I see there? #ChristmaswithWaldere
I stopped mid coffee slurp and stared at Waldere’s morning tweet. I’d only made a Twitter account so I could follow him. He had 3.3 million followers. I had six.
Walter Chase was going to be in New York City?
I opened the internet browser on my phone and typed in GamerOn. The homepage advertised the event as the “must-attend” video game convention on the East Coast. It was three days long, from December 19-21, with previous attendances totaling over a hundred thousand fans.
And this year Waldere was a guest of honor.
Christ.
I flipped back to the tweet to see that within the span of me giving GamerOn a once-over, Walter already had over a thousand little hearts and several hundred replies. Did he even read the comments he got on social media? I mean—he couldn’t. How would he have the time to? Even if he replied to a tenth of the messages he got per day, that would have to take him hours. Hours!
I guess that’s why I felt… confident in leaving a message. I mean, what could it hurt? It’s not like Walter would see it. And maybe if my voice became one of the millions who didn’t say anything special or unique and was ignored because he seriously had better things to do with his time, maybe I could finally shake this crush I’d been harboring for the better part of a year.
@Waldere 1st visit to NYC? Drinks on me. Would love to meet u @GamerOn! #JingleYourBells
I finished the last dreg of coffee and stood to refill my cup at the counter. I’d barely topped off the mug when my phone gave a series of whimsical chimes. I’d never had a Twitter notification before, on account of not being someone worth notifying, so I didn’t even realize what the alert meant until I sat again and saw two bubbles on the screen.
@Waldere liked your Tweet
@Wadere replied to your Tweet
No. He. Didn’t.
I picked up the phone, swiped, and opened the app. I checked the notifications.
Holy fuck.
@PrincessEdgar It’s my first visit to NYC! Can’t wait! Would love to meet viewers. Where at? #IsThatMistletoe
I raised my head and looked around the tiny kitchen, expecting a camera crew to climb out of a cupboard and exclaim I just got punk’d.
Was I supposed to respond?
I mean, was he being serious?
Did he hashtag flirt with me?
My fingers were actually shaking as I typed out a response.
@Waldere Retro on 37th btwn 7/8th Ave. Game theme drinks! #Hohoohhh
I waited.
No beep, boop, ding, or ring from my phone.
I drank half of my coffee before admitting to myself this was about as high school as it got. Like when you were a lowly freshman pining after the hunky senior who didn’t know you breathed the same air. But for one hot second in your life, he helped you pick up dropped books in the hallway after you walked into an open door, and was terribly charming while doing so. Not that I had firsthand experience or anything.
I pushed my chair back and stood.
I shouldn’t have added the last hashtag. It was stupid.
Now I’d obsess all day about how I made an ass out of myself.
Thank you, Twitter.
My phone did that chime again as I was cleaning my mug at the sink. I glanced at it, sitting there all innocent-like on the tabletop. I shut off the tap and stared for another moment. My slipper-clad feet shuffled to the table against my will, and just before the screen went dark, I caught the notification.
@Waldere sent you a message
My gut did one of those simultaneous leaps and plunges. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream or vomit. Both, maybe.
I could only imagine what the message said.
Dear @PrincessEdgar, please don’t hashtag at me again. Also, your user name is stupid.
It was stupid.
My name was Edgar Royal, and I thought it’d be cute to go by Prince Edgar, but that was taken and I had no imagination, so… Princess Edgar it was.
“Damn it.” This whole thing had backfired on me. I left a comment because hundreds of others did and it was supposed to be lost in the buzz and brouhaha. I shouldn’t have made that suggestive joke. It wasn’t even funny. Now I’d have to close that account and make a new one, because it was so embarrass—
My phone ding-a-linged again.
“For fuck’s sake.” I grabbed it and opened Twitter. The message icon had a little bubble beside it. I tapped it.
Hi Edgar! This is easier than squeezing a conversation into 140 characters. Would love to organize a meetup for locals. Retro 12/18 @ 6PM? Bring your friends!
Yeah right. What friends?
Btw what kind of translator are you?
Huh?
How’d he know—oh right. Duh. My Twitter bio.
Edgar.
Hopelessly single, can never mingle.
Likes tall guys who bring roses to dates.
PhD, freelance translator.
I never thought I could sum up my entire existence into such a short description, but it turned out to not
be terribly difficult when I was about as interesting as drying paint. Also, if I ever thought someone like Walter Chase would actually read it, I’d have never said… well… any of that. Especially the roses part. It reeked of desperation.
No guy had ever given me roses.
The cursor was blinking in the reply box, mocking me with every second that ticktocked by.
Walter was not supposed to reply to me. My message was supposed to be ignored and lost in cyberspace. How was I to get over my slight obsession if said obsession insisted on being polite and courteous and engaging?
Retro, 12/18 6PM, got it! I sent the message. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard. If I ignored his question, shut down the polite chatter then and there, I could almost pretend I never checked his Twitter at all that morning.
Of course I’d have to delete the app from my phone, because I was a danger to myself. But then I’d save over a hundred bucks by not registering for GamerOn. And instead of going to Retro like a little fanboy, I could go one block in any direction of the bar and meet a not-famous guy who maybe didn’t bring me roses, but… I dunno… daisies would be okay too.
I’m a scholar of medieval studies. I do some work with Old English, but you can imagine that the bills are better paid with translations from French and German. :)
God, I was hopeless.
I slammed the phone down a bit harder than necessary and walked out of the kitchen.
“No more of that,” I said firmly. “Don’t talk to him, don’t engage him, don’t anything him.” I stripped out of my pajamas in the bedroom, cold air nipping my skin as I walked to the bathroom. “Because one day, when the famous Waldere gets a super-hot, super-perfect boyfriend that he’ll show off to the world, you’re going to have a broken heart and lie in bed for a week with Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and porn.”
I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray.
“And it won’t be Cocky Boys,” I insisted. “If you keep doing this to yourself, nothing but eighties porn forever. With big mustaches and shitty music drowning out the good stuff. You won’t even be able to mourn properly.”
There. That was a decent enough threat.
I took a deep, cleansing breath, choked on water, and finished washing. I climbed out and wiped my hand across the fogged-up mirror. The guy staring back through the condensation wasn’t bad-looking. I mean, he wasn’t great….
Average.
But not particularly memorable.
Tallish—all arms and legs. No real muscle mass. Brown eyes. Brown hair—sides closely cut with a bit of a curly mop on top.
Let’s just say I did what I could with what I had.
After a quick shave and a moment of wet-curl fussing, I went back to the bedroom and changed into my day-job pajamas. Why bother with pants if I wasn’t leaving the house or trying to impress someone, right? I pulled a hoodie on and peeked into the kitchen.
The phone sat where I’d left it.
I walked out again.
I still had three more chapters of a romance novel to translate into French before the new year. And I’d also taken on some dry-as-dust pharmaceutical translating work, which required the utmost attention and care. So I was busy, dammit.
I sat down on the couch with a huff and grabbed the laptop from beside me. I opened the computer, pulled up my work document, and stared at the screen for a solid five minutes before letting out a frustrated shout and standing again.
I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. “Shut up,” I said to it, on the off chance it wanted to openly mock me. I’d opened Twitter by the time my ass met the couch cushion.
One new message from Waldere.
Wow, that’s really cool! I love epic poems, but you probably caught that. ;)
I smiled, then immediately forced myself to frown. Yes, yes, Walter. On top of all your other perfect traits, you’re smart on Old English poetry. You’re literally my ideal boyfriend. Please don’t rub more salt into the wound.
And still, I responded. Like a moron.
I did.
Oh good, you’re still there, Walter answered before I put the phone down.
That made me pause.
He’d been… waiting for me to respond?
Yeah, sorry, I typed back. Shower and a shave.
No problem. Hey, do you like Sky Quest?
I knew that game. I’d actually bought it because of Walter. He loved it. And even though I played sporadically, it was pretty entertaining.
Sure!
Want to play with me?
Want to… what? Hold up. Was this massive hottie with a fanbase in the millions asking me, a nobody, to spend… quality time with him?
[Emphatic] Yes, I typed, before I had the opportunity to think it through.
Lol! Awesome. My Skype is WheresWalter. Give me a ring.
Holy shit.
Was I in some alternate reality suddenly? A bizarre dream-state? Hallucinating on cold medicine or something? I didn’t even have a cold!
I quickly snatched my headset from a nearby bookshelf, plugged it in, and loaded Skype. Seconds after sending WheresWalter a friend request, he accepted.
Then a video call popped up.
Wait, wait, wait. Video? I didn’t—but I—fuck! I scrambled off the couch and ran to the bedroom. I flung open the closet door with one hand and yanked my hoodie over my head with the other. I did a spin before tossing the clothing to the side and searching through my shirts as the Skype call continued ringing from the other room.
Come on, come on! My celebrity crush was so not going to see what a slob I usually dressed like!
Jesus Christ, didn’t I own a single T-shirt?
I pulled a plaid shirt off a hanger and ran back to the other room as I buttoned the front and rolled the sleeves back. I dove onto the couch and hit Accept just before the call canceled. “Hi!” I said, a bit winded.
And then Walter’s webcam came into focus, and the hopes I had of beating my feelings into submission melted away like snowflakes brought in from the cold. Walter had one of those infectious smiles that seemed to make everyone around him happy. It was like a beacon, a shining display of his soul. It didn’t help matters that he was extremely easy on the eye too. Walter had wavy auburn hair, a strong jawline, and a perfect amount of stubble that never failed to send zings of pleasure through me when I kissed a guy sporting the look. He wore the cutest rounded 50s-style glasses and had on a T-shirt that said Team Internet!
I sighed dreamily.
“Princess Edgar?” he asked.
I felt my cheeks burn. “Oh yeah… ha… just Edgar is fine.”
Walter chuckled. “Pleasure to meet you. Thanks for your message this morning.”
I shook my head. “If I’d known you’d actually read it, I wouldn’t have used the hashtag.”
He smiled widely. “The hashtag was the best part. Well, that and the promise of a cutie buying me a drink.”
I opened my mouth—closed it—and pursed my lips together. “Come again?” I finally asked.
Walter reached out of the camera’s view and brought a coffee cup to his lips. “Okay, I admit,” he began after taking a sip. “I replied to your tweet because of your profile pic. You can’t fault a guy for being swept away by a sophisticated-looking scholar such as yourself.”
“Well, I don’t—” I paused when I caught sight of myself in the webcam screen and realized my buttons were horribly misaligned. I looked down and frantically began fixing them. “Are you—crap, come on—are you sure you don’t have me mistaken with another Princess Edgar?”
“Pretty sure.”
I glanced up. Walter was smiling over the rim of his coffee cup. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think we’d be on a video call. I work from home and… yeah.”
“PJs aren’t acceptable attire for online gaming?”
“No, I mean, they are, but I didn’t want you thinking I….” I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t know. Sorry.”
&nb
sp; “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m a little bit of a fanboy.”
A little? Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Walter smiled wryly. “So what server do you play?”
“Server…? Oh, you mean the game!”
Walter’s gaze shifted to focus on probably bringing up the window of Sky Quest. “Let’s get to know each other first, Ed.”
God, I felt like such an idiot. I remained quiet and loaded the game on my end.
“Before I start spilling my ‘to serve or to be serviced preferences,’ I usually like to know a bit about a guy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Er—what do you want to know?”
“Dogs or cats, big spoon or little spoon, warrior or mage. You know, the biggies.”
“Guess those are pretty important questions,” I agreed.
“Uh-huh. So?”
“So?”
“Which is it? Hop on Avalon server.”
“Okay.” I did as Walter instructed. “Well… cats.”
“Hm-hm.”
“Uh… little spoon,” I said around clearing my throat. “And warrior.”
“I spawned outside the tavern. Come over here,” Walter said.
“On my way.” I lead my not-so-coincidently warrior character through the fantasy town, looking for said watering hole. “How’d I do?”
“Pretty decent.”
“What about you?”
“Cats, definitely. Big spoon. But also warrior, so we might have a bit of trouble if we rush Mt. Morose without a mage at our backs.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad,” I said.
“No. What’s your favorite book?”
“Oh… uhm… Beowulf?” I answered.
“I dig that.”
“Kind of a cheap answer.”
Walter hummed under his breath. “Scholarly Edgar—what’s your last name?”
“Royal.”
“Cute.”
I really hoped Walter didn’t have dual monitors so he couldn’t see me blushing.
“Scholarly Edgar Royal, drinking wine and reciting Beowulf in Old English.”
“I don’t like wine,” I hesitantly answered. I bumped into Walter’s character in the game. “Wow, you’ve got a lot of armor and… everything.”
