Celebration

Celebration

It's a sad fact of life that birthdays are less exciting as you grow older. Turning fourteen isn't a patch on turning seven. Birthday parties when you're younger are jelly and ice cream and pass the parcel; you're definitely too old for that sort of celebration (in theory) by the time you're twelve. It's a shame, thinks Matt, as he sits in his room on the 1st of February, 2008. He could murder a bowl of strawberry jelly. Instead, the day is spent with new games (gratefully received, nonetheless) and awful commemorative tat adorned with big silver '18's. (When is that stupid plastic key ever going to come in useful -- and aren't keys for your 21st, anyway?) All Matt's had to look forward to was his choice of dinner. The toad in the hole was nothing short of remarkable, but it wasn't exactly party bags.

'Party bags'. Living around younger children is having a bad effect on him. He'd leave if he could be bothered. He turns over onto his side and curls up on his bed, DS resting awkwardly on the mattress.

It's pretty pathetic, spending your 18th like this. He'd had it all planned, once upon a time. He was going to go out with his friend and they were going to get completely drunk. And then they'd never do it again, because you can't beat Near if you're inebriated. (As it happens, Wammy kids are spoilt to the point that if Matt wants alcohol, he can have it. He's had his own supply of beer for a couple of years.) Still, would have been nice.

Matt turns off his DS and reaches for his cigarettes and lighter. Tobacco, alcohol... By Wammy standards, he's a tearaway; by everyone else's, he's rather dull. Eighteen years of mediocrity: ten of them spent in Mello's shadow and the last three in his own.

He's so stuck on that thought that it takes him a while to snap out of it when he finally hears the knocking at his bedroom door. It takes more effort than it should to drag himself over to answer it.

"I thought I told you to quit."

"James!"

It's been a while, about a year, since Matt has last seen his visitor. He'd been Matt's mentor once upon a time: they'd spend hours surrounded by mechanical parts and electronic components or hunched over computer screens writing programmes. James is a couple of years older than Matt, and when Roger put in a good word for him and he was whisked off to the States by NASA, Matt felt as if he were saying goodbye to an elder brother. It was good to see him again.

"Thought I'd better take you out for a pint, what with you becoming a man and all. If you fancy it, that is."

"Of course! It's good to see you. Hang on, I'm not making my first foray into manhood in my socks."

James smiles. Matt's missed that warmth. It kept him sane a few years back.

"Don't forget your ID with your actual date of birth on it -- you're buying!"

Matt rolls his eyes and picks up his wallet, the Mario keyring Mello bought him for his 11th birthday still hanging from it.

---

"I know this probably isn't what you had in mind," says James, sipping his pint carefully, "but I couldn't just leave you."

"Because I have no friends, you mean." Well, it's true. The people in Matt's life fall into three categories: housemates, carers and Internet acquaintances. He can find a player two from all three groups, but there aren't many who'd take him down the pub. He spends more time with his consoles than with people -- Matt likes it that way, but, sometimes, he wishes there were another human being in his room again.

"Don't be silly, Matt. I taught you how to be an anti-social geek. Mission accomplished."

"Congratulations." Matt looks down at the head on his beer, studying the bubbles through his goggles. He can hardly see through the tinted lenses and dim lighting of the pub.

Across the table, James inhales as if to speak before closing his mouth again. It doesn't escape Matt's attention.

"What?"

"Nothing." Matt doesn't pry. James chews on his bottom lip. "Is it safe to mention the 'M' word?"

Matt shrugs.

"Have you heard anything from him?"

"Nah."

An awkward silence falls between the two of them. It's not as if Mello's a taboo subject: James had been there for Matt when Mello left. He knows what Mello means to Matt: 'puppy love', he'd teased ('what are you, Donny Osmond?'), but it had made Matt smile. It's not as if they'd had deep heart-to-hearts together, but they have this... understanding. No holds barred.

"It's been years, Matt."

"I know."

"Don't you think he would have got in touch by now if he were going to?"

"He said he would, so he will."

James sighs. "Matt..."

"Drop it, James."

"I just... How long are you planning to wait? Forever?"

Matt pushes his chair back noisily. "I need a cigarette." He doesn't need to hear this; he's been through it all everyday in his own head for years.

"I'm sorry, Matt," James apologises quickly. "I just don't want you turning into that ghost from Pokémon. You know, that Maiden of the Rock or whatever it was."

"'The Ghost of Maiden's Peak', dumbass. And don't play the Pokémon card with me. No pun intended. God, can't we even have a decent argument?" Matt sits back down.

"I care about you. Both of you. It's just that he might never be coming back; maybe you should give up waiting."

Matt shrugs. "Too bad, it's too late: I'm already suffering from unshakeable loyalty. I trust Mello. End of." Matt pulls out his box of cigarettes from his pocket, just for something to fidget with. "And, no offense, but I'm not taking relationship advice from someone who's been single their entire life."

"Ouch," James smiles. "OK. I'll speak no more of it. I do wonder what he's up to, though."

"Well, he's probably pwning at it, whatever he's doing."

"I bet it's illegal, whatever it is."

Matt laughs. "Probably."

James raises his glass. "To the well-being of absent friends."

Matt clinks his glass against James's. "To Mello."

---

Matt arrives home just after eleven. He throws himself down heavily onto the swivel chair at his desk and goes through the all too familiar routine of refreshing multiple inboxes.

He sees the subject line 'Your Princess is in Another Castle' and the unknown e-mail address and he thinks that his heart might have skipped a beat.

He clicks on the link to open the e-mail, fingers too fast and computer not quick enough.

Dear M.,

I'm surrounded by Goombas, but Bowser's as good as wrapped around my little finger. I don't need saving (but don't extinguish those fireballs quite yet).

No idea what Toad's up to, but it's bound to be annoying, whatever it is.

Happy birthday, by the way.

Love,
Your very own stunning blond x

He reads it, re-reads it, paces around the room as if to digest it, then goes back and reads it again.

It really is very silly. There's only one person it could be from, only one person who'd think of writing something so apparently stupid that was really so clever. Only one person who'd know that Matt would appreciate it.

Matt laughs; laughs and laughs until he realises that he's crying.

He's alive. He's alive. Mello's still alive.

Matt couldn't ask for a better birthday present.

Matt drags his NES out from the depths of his cupboard, inserts the 'Super Mario Bros.' game cart and completes it in just over five minutes, despite his shaking fingers.

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