I swallow hard, keeping my eyes on his beautiful profile. We can be ourselves in the dead of night, can’t we? He’s vulnerable. Semi-naked. Maybe I can take another layer off. Metaphorically, of course.
“Why did you quit working at Scorpio Games?” I try, and then immediately regret starting with that question, given how noticeable it’s been that he’d rather avoid the subject.
Erik closes his eyes, and for a moment I think he will ignore me and fall asleep right there.
“I wanted to start my own company,” he says. “Work on a project I started together with a classmate at university. Make it into a finished product. Sell it. Make a living out of it.” His voice sounds mechanical, stripped of emotion, but the fact that his eyes remain closed betrays his need to detach himself from the pain of his failure—because it’s clear he didn’t succeed.
I want to be positive and supportive, so I say, “That sounds nice. I’ve always wanted to do the same but never had the idea or the money or the courage.” Employment is the safest option, and that’s probably what Erik realized. What hurts him. “What happened?” I ask as gently as I can.
“We started, but...”
He stops there. I look at his tightened jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and wait, but nothing more comes.
“And now you’re looking for jobs?” I keep trying to treat the subject with care and sensibility, even though my curiosity is getting the best of me.
Erik nods, and his silence urges me to start babbling. “I’ve been there myself not that long ago,” I say, trying to meet his gaze, which he keeps anywhere but on me. “It really sucks.” I exhale, feeling his pain, and he nods again.
“Yeah.”
My mouth doesn’t stop, unintimidated by his reserved attitude. “I worked at that Brazilian indie game studio I told you about for five years, but for a large chunk of that period, I wasn’t there full-time, or I wasn’t being paid and was just helping out to have something on my CV and avoid having to help my mom in her salon.” I confess the embarrassing truth about my career before Scorpio Games. “I was looking for jobs all the while, but Brasília doesn’t have many good opportunities for designers and close to zero in the game business. So I kept staying at Vortex, even though they didn’t have the money to pay me, just hoping for better days, but the projects we worked so hard on were not the success we expected.”
“The industry is full of this shit,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, weary but likely not tired enough to sleep.
“Yes,” I agree with vigor.
“I’m on unemployment benefits, you know.” He looks at me at last, and my heart gives a small leap before beating at a significantly faster rate. I keep my gaze steady on his, trying to find the bright blue of his eyes in the shadows covering his face. “It’s not exactly lovely.”
Erik sighs, leaning back heavily, and I dare to touch his arm. I feel a little tingle, a light jerk when our skin touches, as if we’ve been coated in static electricity. Erik peers at me, his eyelids, heavy before, now rising fully. We stare at each other.
“Go to the bed now and rest,” I say to him, letting my hand stroke his arm once. Maybe the static is still there, because my palm keeps tingling, so I pull my hand away. “I know the thoughts disturb you, but you must give yourself a break.”
“I don’t want a job.” Erik leans his head back on the couch, the corners of his lips stretched up in a nonsmile as he stares at the ceiling. “I want to finish my project.”
“Then do it,” I say firmly, like a command.
He straightens his posture and looks at me again. The soft glow of the streetlamp outside makes his features discernible—even in the middle of the night. It’s as if the dark can reveal what he hides in daylight. I can see what is behind his ocean-blue eyes. There is defeat, hurt confidence, low self-esteem, and a bunch of other harmful feelings.
We stare at each other for long seconds. Nothing shifts in his eyes. His dilated pupils are wells that go deep into a dark, empty space.
“I can’t,” he answers me at last and then lies down on his pillow, determined to sleep.
That is when I realize he is not a giver because he has nothing to give. Erik Storm can’t help others because he needs help.
I stand and take his fallen duvet and lay it over his body. Erik doesn’t move, but I can see his lips curving in gratitude before I return to his bed.
I make breakfast for both of us. Eggs, toast, and a protein smoothie. When Erik gets up at eight, I’m about to leave for work. I thought he would sleep longer, so I left a sticky note near his portions on the table, saying: Til dig. Tak for igår. I translated it on Google. It means, “For you. Thank you for yesterday.”
“Thank you, Sol,” he says, sitting down to eat. No smile, but last night I learned not to expect one.
“No worries.” My gaze lingers on his body—still in tank top and underwear—but only for a second.
I ignore the memory of his remarkable figure by being busy at work. In the morning, I do my usual tasks, participate in a meeting, and help Chiara and the other QA testers report a bug in a level that was released last week. After lunch, I assist the marketing and customer support teams with player communication after a malfunction in the system. Later, I squeeze in time to help the kitchen assistant clean after we eat cake to celebrate the birthday of the new HR employee. I go as far as carrying some boxes and garbage bags to the dumpsters outside the building.
I can’t say no to people. Even when they don’t ask directly.
This resulted in a very unproductive day for me in my role, but it made a lot of people happy, so I’m satisfied. Judging by the proud smile Lars flashes at me when he passes by my desk, I can see that my boss is also happy with my proactivity—and I wasn’t even trying to impress him.
Near the end of the day, Astrid, the HR lead, a tall woman in her forties with silver-blond hair, gathers everyone for an announcement.
“The Fun Season starts this week! For those of you who don’t know what the Fun Season is all about, the slogan summarizes it: ‘When the days get colder...’” She prompts her colleagues to continue.
“...our hearts get warmer!” a chorus of about a dozen people utters in unison. The crowd claps and cheers.
Smiling, Astrid goes on. “We have decided to split you into ten groups of eight. We’ve planned some activities that all groups will do, but separately. All groups will also have a budget for activities they decide for themselves, like eating out and so on.”
The room hums with an excited murmur.
“Groups will be formed randomly, but the leads have been picked. Leads, raise your hands!”
Eleven of the most senior employees put their hands in the air. Lars is among them.
“As some of you may already know, it’s not a competition...”
“But it is!” someone shouts, and people laugh.
“Well, yes, if you say so.” Astrid smirks. “In your groups, you may choose whatever form you wish of giving scores to individual members or sub-teams. The final event of the Fun Season, gathering all employees, is our Christmas party, where we have a talent show and reward the winners of each group.”
I look at the enthusiastic faces around me. This Fun Season thing looks like a big deal. Some more veteran employees whisper to each other, anticipating what is to come.
