Title: The Last Helicopterer (1/1)
Content: Implied slash (m/m), language.
Disclaimer: I own neither person, nor the Helicopter Flash Game. Though I do own AT the Helicopter Flash Game.
Summary: Ed likes the Helicopter Flash Game, but Rob really just wants to bone.
Notes: This is the game. The horrible, awful, stupid, wonderful game that I spent many hours just playing. Goddamnit.
"Rob, quit it!" Ed yells, half turning. Rob removes his hands and shrugs.
"It's just a game."
"It's just a game now," Ed grits his teeth, clicking to start once again. "But what if one day, I'm called upon by the government - fuck it!" He crashes again, at 146 this time. Click to start. He does. " - To fly a helicopter into - " Only 38. " - Into a war, and I have to avoid the little green alien bars. What then?"
"The Last Starfighter."
"Yes. I will be the last Helicopterer."
"Come to bed."
"No." He clicks to start again. "After I beat my score. I swear."
"Christ!" 653 that time. Almost 836, but not quite. He leans back and adjusts himself in the chair. Maybe a casual pose will help. Slouching back instead of forward. Click to start. Nope. 417. Okay, back to hunching in front of the monitor. He takes his glasses off and squints instead, clicking to start.
Rob's hands on his shoulders distract him briefly, but he regains composure. Until he crashes. 5-something, he doesn't have time to check the score, just clicks to start and ignores Rob.
"455! That is such a load of shit." Rob kneads his shoulders, and Ed continues to ignore it, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands before clicking to start again. His eyes are sore, but 836 has to be beaten.
277 and Rob kisses his neck, which is so not helping. He ignores it until 646 when he closes his eyes, and breathes. Just breathes. And then clicks to start.
228. His nose is cold for no reason he can think of, and one of Rob's hands is circling his back now. But he has to beat the score. He has to. 464 is no good.
"YES! 1101!! Take that, motherfuckers!" Ed shrugs off Rob with various celebratory gestures, and Rob heaves a sigh.
"So you're coming to bed?"
"I dunno. I could probably beat that score."
"But..." He stares at the screen. Click to start, Best: 1101. Click to start. He doesn't look at Rob. And he clicks to start. "380, Jesus. I can do way better."
838 is better. It's no 1101. But it's better.
"We have work tomorrow." Rob resumes his place behind Ed, tiredly watching the screen and trying to come up with more arguments for his side.
"731. That's no good," Ed mumbles. "Oh, yeah, I know. Just one more game. I swear."
"That one sucked, Ed."
421 did, in fact, suck. So did 539.
"Look, I'll give you three more games. Then I'm going to bed without you."
"Fine, fine. Just you wait until you get to say you're fucking The Last Helicopterer."
"Not at 388. One down, two to go, Helms."
Ed grunts in response, hunching deeper over the mouse and closer to the monitor. He can do this. 1101. He can do it.
"313. One more." Rob reminds him, and Ed clicks to start, trying to formulate excuses. Are there mulligans in the Helicopter Flash Game? There should be.
"Fuck!" Ed jerks back from the screen, staring in disbelief at the 433. "That one didn't count, it was lagging."
"No, you lost."
Defiant, Ed ignores him, and clicks to start, promptly crashing at 193, and again at 275. He sighs, and rolls his head back.
"Fine. I lost. There is no hope for the world. I cannot save anyone from the giant green bars."
"Good." Rob pats him on the back and leans over to close the window himself, fearing it will never get done otherwise. "You still did pretty good."
"Yeah?" Ed smiles a little, rising for the first time in a very long time.
"Definitely. You're The Last Helicopterer in my books."