Trazin Spaceport, Tau Ceti Gamma. A port that booms and busts at the whims of mankind’s evolving trade partnerships, currently in a bit of a bust. But gray-haired old Zebulon Sirius isn’t worried. Overpriced jewelers and exotic tech dealers may shutter their businesses and move out, but not him. On the fringes of human dominion there’s always money to be made in warm food and alcoholic drinks. Especially when catering to homesick spacers is your specialty.

It’s just about sundown when Walter Ito, a regular, flings open the doors to the pub in a huff that he can’t conceal. “Dumb fucks,” he mutters.

Zeb turns, not hearing the words but catching the tone. “Walter, mah guy! What’s got ya down?”

Walter takes a deep breath, but doesn’t lose the scowl.

“It’s those pricks from the Inspector’s office,” he hisses, slowly pulling off his parka. “Apparently they’ll just let any dumb kid wear the badge now—”

“Do me a favor, Walt, tell me but write it down.”

Of course Walter knows the policy, but he appreciates Zeb’s patience. You write down your grievances as you come in. You set them down on the bar, leave them behind, have yourself a time, and if you still want them after that, he’ll be happy to return them to you. Otherwise they go right in the trash can.

Walter peels a sheet off the notepad and starts scribbling.

“I’m middle aged. I wear a fur coat. I have a homeworld accent and I always show my medallion. And some racist brat ten years my junior still mistakes me for a stevedore and tries to boss me around, cause I don’t look like a businessman to him.”

Zebulon just nods. “No doubt about it, the admin is getting dumber. I still have some pull though, case you want the sonofabitch fired—don't answer now. Give it some thought.”

Walter nods quietly, accepts a complimentary Suntory and water (his usual) and a slice of cherry pie (it's to die for), and is heading for his usual spot in the back when a gorgeous young androgyne catches his eye, coyly stretching out their shoulders.

“How you doing, Zaddy?”

Walter tenses for a moment, then grins and turns. “Better now. How did you know I was queer? I don’t exactly telegraph it.”

The young flirt smiles toothily, and takes another sip of their caipirinha.

“Couldn’t be sure—but you are the best dressed man in the joint. I thought I’d shoot my shot.”

A warmth spreads in Walter’s chest. There’s something about them that has him riveted. Something he definitely wasn’t expecting to run into tonight.

“Thanks, it comes with being a furrier. And you are easily the most beautiful person here.”

“Aww. Thanks, it comes with being a holo actor. And if you wondered, yes, I’m a man. Mostly. Usually.”

It isn’t lust, although there’s that too. And it couldn’t be love—Walter never falls on first sight. But there’s this feeling, practically smacking him in the face, that the two of them were supposed to meet. He takes another big calming breath and extends a hand.

“Walter Ito. Nice to meet you.”

“Kay Germaine. Likewise.”

They talk all night over dessert and drinks. About the newfound passion for Earthling theater on Tralf Prime. And the surprisingly robust market there for ethically sourced plant and animal leathers, which Walter buys wholesale from a cousin in Canada. About recent drastic improvements to the quality of produce here in Trazin. About business, and the arts, and aging. About the ups and downs of interstellar travel, of which they’ve both had their share—Kay’s many cosmetic surgeries belie the fact that he’s really just a few years younger than Walter.

“But they don’t stop my back from hurting!” he says with an impish look.

The bar has gradually emptied without their noticing.

"Zeb will probably kick us out soon."

"Yeah. You know, I tried to get with him once, that silver fox. Can you believe that sap is a one woman man, with a face like that, with all the ass his fame could pull?"

Walter looks around self-consciously. Sure enough, the old man is watching from across the bar, arms folded, some uncertain mixture of amused and annoyed.

"Well, the straights are like that," he whispers.

"Who says he's straight? I saw how he checked me out, he wanted this. Just not as badly as he wants his old lady."

"Speaking of which," says Zeb—finally Kay turns and sees him approaching—"it's nearly 3, and you're the last ones here. So I'm going home to spend what remains of the night with my 'old lady'. I love you both, please come again, get the fuck outta my bah."

Walter nods, chastened, exchanges glances with Kay, and sets about zipping up his parka and tucking everything in just right. They are nearly at the door when the old man shouts, "Hey, Waltah! You want your grievances back?"

"No thanks!"

They cut across the exterior to get back to Rez. Outside of the dome, the night is frigid, not just physically but psychically. The very stars seem to scream that they should be home by now. The slight hint of navy blue has begun to appear in the southern sky.

“The accent really comes out when he's miffed,” Kay says softly. “So, uh… did you want to come by my place?”

Walter bites his lip, divided right down the middle. For once he has no idea what to do; it feels like all paths are open. He searches Kay’s eyes for a tiebreaking vote, but finds none. Finally, he sighs.

“Not tonight, Kay… but believe me, I'd like to sometime.”

Kay nods, unbothered. “I get it.”

“—Because you’re absolutely my type—”

“Really, I'm on the same page as you. It’s late, and we’re old men, and I am seeing you again. I have your word on it. And your business card right here in my pocket.”

Walter nods, and they awkwardly hug. Which is a bit silly, as they're halfway home and both still going the same direction. Having settled the matter, though, the air somehow feels warmer, the stars more at ease, the silence more contemplative.

They are standing in front of Walter's hotel when he turns to Kay and says,

"I know your ride to Tralf Prime is paid for, but I hope you'll consider my offer. My ship’s as fast as theirs. It would be nice to have someone onboard I can really talk with…"

Kay turns and envelops him in another hug. "I'll think about it, I will."

This hug is easy. Is natural. It, too, stirs something unnameable. At length they separate—just as one of the little roadside woofers, entirely unbidden, starts blaring the smooth voice of little-known old Earth singer Rupert Holmes, talking about getting caught in the rain.

"Good," says Walter. "Because you know, I have a tend—"

They both stare at each other, eyes wide as tumblers.

"—a tendency to get what I want," they both say in unison.

The wind stops. The regular blinking of the spaceport tower lights stops. Everything stops. All ambient sound cuts out, even the song, replaced by static.

Walter's face is scrunched up to high heaven in a smirk. "Heh. Game over."

"And what a magnificent game it was," says Kay. "I think I actually like it best like this, when they talk so long they forget to fuck."

Walter nods briskly in understanding as the lights on the hotel die out. "Coming back to ourselves, to remembering us, that's the real prize."

Kay begins to laugh riotously.

"What?"

"What, don't you ever wanna laugh out loud when you realize you walked right past the NPC of yourself?"

"I don't know. I asked the ship's brain to use all personnel records it could to populate the port, make it feel real."

"And you never walked past yourself and thought, 'I'd fuck that hottie'?"

"Once or twice. The ship put a lot of cute people in that bar, mind you."

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the moon, and the lights of the spaceport, begin to fade away.

"But somehow, we always find each other."

"Eventually. I mean, there was that one year when it took us three weeks…"

"And yet. You couldn't stop thinking about me. What kind of pilot can't muster the will to leave port because of a crush?"

"So you still think it's fate, huh?"

"Only insofar as psychology is fate. I’m always drawn to your presence, and you to mine. And I do generally get what I want. It being the 14th doesn’t hurt."

Player One chuckles at this. "Gods, I love you. Happy anniversary, Kitten."

Player Two is beaming, though it's hard to see it with only the cold stars and the unborn sunrise for light. "Happy anniversary, Puppy."

"What should we get for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Belgian waffles, without a doubt."

Player One takes one last deep, contemplative breath of the nonexistent air.

"Alright then. Until next year?"

"Yep. End simulation."