UN3XP3CT3D R3B00T

“And they’re off,” he begins in his best monotonous voice; and then in one, long breath: “Good even dispatch to the bottom of the window; in the early stages is Raindrop One, showing plenty of dash if I do say so myself, and just behind him—Raindrop Two! on the near side; Raindrop Five began well and leading them up the centre from Raindrop Eight and further back then gone Raindrop Six, who’s not that far away, then Raindrop Nine right over on the far rail…”

It was safe to say I didn't have many friends.

“—Oh! And who’s this?!” he shakes his head, baffled; “Raindrop Eighty-Seven, you cheek! You aren’t supposed to be in this race at all! Oh well, I suppose you can join in.”

He goes back into commentator mode: “OH! He’s absolutely cruising at the moment as they come up past half-way—! Raindrop Eighty-Seven in the centre strikes the lead now from Raindrop One—!”

“Moss,” his dad speaks up from the front, “Would you keep it down? I’m trying to listen to the radio.” 

“But why?” he whines. “Raindrop racing is far better than horse racing,” he grimaces at the phrase.

“Maybe for a thirty-two year old child, okay? But I’m an adult.” To emphasize his point, he turns the volume on the radio up: loud to the point that Moss’ mum wakes.

“What’s happening?” she snaps drowsily. “Moss, what have you done now?”

“Nothing, Mum!” Moss exclaims. “You always assume I’ve done something! And it’s not fair!”

“That’s because you always do something.” She argues. She takes a stick of red lipstick out her handbag, pulls down the sun visor and starts applying it in the mirror. “Always misbehaving at work, with your friends that misbehave, and your boss that just lets you misbehave, like you’re a bunch of misbehaving animals—and I don’t want you misbehaving when we get there, either;” she adds, “We don’t need you to go making us look bad in front of the other parents—or your aunt.”

Moss scrunches his face at the mere mention of her. “But Mum—”

“—And that means I want you back by eight, every evening—no exceptions.”

“Remeber what happened last time, Moss?” his dad adds.

Moss buries his face in his pillow—he does remember: last year, he decided to stay out till eight-thirty got stuck in a bush the whole night: he’d been hiding from the twelve-year-old thugs that tend to roam around the caravan park during the later hours. His parents had warned him of the consequences of staying out past eight, and he hadn’t listened. 

“I remember.”

"After that, everyone thought we were junkies." his dad continues, "because you were found lying in a bush in a dress, with a plastic bag on your head."

“That was so I wouldn’t get cold!” Moss argues. “And the bag was so they wouldn’t think to bully me!” He squeezes the pillow tighter, “They’re scary, Dad!”

"They thought you were dead, Moss." One of the kids did find him that night, and mistook Moss’ sleeping, plastic-bag-donning form for a murder victim. The police were called, and the whole park had to be cleared out.

“Yes,” Moss says, “and so they didn’t bully me—nobody bullies a dead person! That’d be sick!”

“Enough, Moss.” His mum snaps. “Be back by eight. That’s final.”

Moss sinks in his seat, “Okay.”

"And sit up, for God's sake."

He grumbles something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

A whole weekend I was going to be stuck at Beige Sands Holiday Park, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing.

2 hours later...

Despite it being a Friday, the caravan park’s oddly empty—normally there’d be loads of people unloading their stuff into their respective caravans, but it seems only Moss’ parents are doing so today: "Help us take everything out of the car, Moss; you can play your Game Boy later."

“Just a second!” he replies from the car, biting his tongue in focus as he goes up against level two-hundred and twenty-five in Tetris, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, even though this has been the coldest, most dreadful summer’s day of the month. He’s completely invested in the game.

And soon enough, his parents have taken their lot into the caravan: “Moss, we’re going in now,” his mum calls. “Don’t forget to bring your stuff in.” Moss doesn’t reply—but it doesn’t matter, because she’s already gone back inside.

45 minutes later...

After a trial of blood, sweat and tears, Moss finally beats the level.

“YES!” he shouts, scrambling out the car and prancing around like he’s just won the Guinness World Records’ Biggest Tetris Geek award. “I did it! I beat level two-hundred and twenty-five! Take that, Tetris!” He looks back down at his Game Boy, but the number displayed at the top isn’t what he thought it would be:

He’s back at level zero.

He stops jumping and just stares at the pathetic little scream.

“What?!” he raises his voice in a fit of rage, “Back to level zero?! You’ve got to be kidding me!” He throws the device to the ground, and starts stomping on it, “Stupid, stupid game! Who the frick made this game?! A stupid, stupid person, that’s who! What a stupid, mother flipping game!”

When he’s decided he’s shown enough anger, he stops and picks the Game Boy back up, dusting it off. It is, somehow, still in (considerably) good condition.

A smile works its way onto his lips, “I just can’t stay mad at you, can I?” 

He grabs his pillow from his seat and makes his way to the back of the car, opening the boot and taking out his duffle bag. But just as he turns to start making his way to the caravan, a gang of kids mounted on bikes reveal themselves at the end of the road. They start at an even dispatch, pedalling straight for Moss and yelling his name at the top of their lungs.

“Oh teabags!” Moss curses, “not again!” He slings the bag’s strap over his shoulder and speeds off as fast as he can. Behind him: Biker Four on the near side; Biker Five began well and leading them up the centre from Biker Eight and further back then gone Biker Six, who's not that far away, then Biker Nine right over on the far rail as they start gaining on Moss.

"Come back, Mossy-Moss!" Biker Three yells from behind, voice only just about heard over Moss' heavy panting—working in IT doesn’t usually require this much running.

"Yeah, come back, you wanker!" Biker Five adds.

“I’m not a wanker!" Moss cries out.

"You are!” they yell, “Wanker, wanker, wanker!"

They continue to make their way through the rows upon rows of caravans. Moss’ bag billows on his back, he clutches at his Game Boy, grips at his pillow. No matter how hard he tries, how many sudden turns he takes, he just can’t throw these boys off his path.

Their voices grow nearer and nearer—Biker Eight coming up behind him… Getting closer and closer…

As Moss turns a corner, just before the rest of the boys, he yells "Quick thinking!" and jumps straight into a bush.

He curls up on the floor, clutching the duffel bag and pillow as the boys pass. They continue to call his name:

“Where's he gone?" one asks.

"Wanker probably ran home to his mummy." Another teases. Moss bites back the urge to scream "I'M NOT A FLIPPING WANKER!" but, by some miracle, he doesn't make a sound. Soon after, the kids get bored and move on to their next victim, leaving Moss in the bush, alone.

For a summer’s day, today is unusually cold—luckily the rain has stopped, but the residue left on the bush’s leaves keep dripping down Moss’ back, making him shiver.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the duffel bag and zipping it open. “I prepared for this!”

He’d packed himself a hot water bottle—stolen it from Jen when Aunt Irma was visiting. Of course, when Jen found out, she wasn’t happy in the slightest, and Moss went to Hell and back for it—but any time he even considered the idea of giving it back, he imagined himself in a bush just like this one, surrounded by everything wet and cold, but feeling nice and toasty with the aid of Jen’s hot water bottle.

The image is crystal clear in his mind as he practically tears the bag open, but instead of containing Jen’s bottle, it’s filled to the brim with his Mum’s evening dresses. “Darn it! Wrong bag!” He slams the bag back down on the ground, hugging himself in the small bush-space. He hesitates, eyes on the bag, considering it for a moment. Eventually he groans and rips out a random dress, holding it out in front of him—it’s still pretty hard to see properly, because there isn’t much space in the bush.

“Green is a good colour to wear in a bush.” he reasons. “Provides warmth and serves as good camouflage.” And so, he struggles it on, but when it’s on properly, he hears another bike whiz past. “No!” he hisses, clawing at the dress in a feeble attempt to get it off— “This was a stupid idea! Getting caught in a bush in a dress is social suicide!" 

He pauses, "Wait—" He grabs his pillow and strips it of its case, placing it on his head. He brings out his phone and dials Roy’s number. After a few rings, he picks up:

“What is it?”

“Roy!” Moss says, voice muffled from under the sheet. “I’m in a pickle, Roy!”

“What is it this time? They didn’t throw you in a bush again, did they?”

Moss gasps, “How did you know that?!”

“It happens every year, Moss.” Roy says. “You’ve got to start standing up for yourself.”

Moss makes a pfft noise, “Have you looked at these kids, Roy? They’d destroy me.”

“Why are you calling, Moss?”

“Because I don’t know what I’m doing!” Moss yells. “All these boys are scoring girls left, right and centre—snogging and having sex and all that, and I’m stuck in a dress in this bloody bush—”

“Wait,” Roy interrupts, beyond exasperated, “you’re wearing a dress again?”

“—You know what?” Moss continues, “If a woman so much as looks at me, I’m going to snog her.”

“Moss, I don’t think that’s a very good idea—”

“Thanks for checking in, Roy!” he exclaims. “See you Monday!”

“Moss—” Moss hangs up.

...

Moss wakes up to the sound of screaming. "What the hell?!"

His eyes slam open, blinded by the hallucinating whiteness of the pillow as the sun glares down at him through the leaves. He keeps down, too scared to move, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mum—it was the boys, the ones on the bikes! I got scared—and they wouldn’t leave me alone—and the bush was right there—right there—!”

“Oh my God,” his mum says. He hears her shuffle her feet on the grass; probably moving closer to the bush. He squeezes his eyes shut, but then she yells:

“HELP! There's a dead body in the bush! Somebody call the police!”

Moss instinctively reaches out from the bush and drags you in, taking up the little space left it had. You scream harder: “HELP! ZOMBIE! ZOMBIE! HE’S TRYING TO EAT ME!”

Moss rips the bag off his head, revealing—not his mum sitting in front of him—but you; eyes wide and full of pure horror. “Shh!” he hisses, “The biker-boys will hear you!”

“Please don’t eat me,” you cry, “I’ll do anything!” You struggle to move away in a bush so small; the branches dig into your back, leaves tangle in your hair. You can't even sit up straight.

 “I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “I’m not dead.”

“What?” you mutter, wiping your tears away with shaky hands. “You’re not dead? Why aren't you fucking dead? You had a bloody bag on your head.”

“It was a pillow,”

“Same difference!” you shout. “Why did you drag me in here?!” Your eyes trail down, “And why are you wearing a dress?!”

Moss covers your mouth with his hand, “Stop flipping shouting.”

You slap his hand away, “What’s going on? Why did you drag me in a bush?!”

A bike whizzes past from beyond the safe confines of the bush, “Because of that—” Moss points with the little space he has “—you keep ruddy shouting; you’ll lead them right to us!”

“Lead who right to us?”

“The biker-boys!” Moss replies as a few more bikes pass. “Just wait till they leave.”

You pull your legs to your chest and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin on your kneecaps. You sit in an awkward silence for a few long minutes—occasionally making eye contact as they boys ruthlessly slag Moss off.

“What’s your name?” you ask after they boys have cleared. “And why are you scared of ten-year-olds?”

“I am not scared of them,” he says and holds out his hand. “I’m Moss.”

“You are scared of them,” you reply and shake it. “I’m Y/n.”

He glares at you, “Okay, if you’re so brave, go outside yourself.”

“No,” you mutter.

“Why not?”

You shrug a shoulder coyly, “They’re scary.”

...

You’ve been sitting like soldiers in the trenches for quite a while now; Moss fiddles with the hem of his mum’s dress as you untangle your hair from the branches. Every now and then, someone passes from outside—but, more often than not, it’s just a normal park-visitor.

Moss remembers something: “Oh I am a pickle—” he says, “I was supposed to kiss you, wasn't I?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What?”

“I told my friend, Roy—” he chuckles, “Sorry—it’s a funny story, it really is—I told Roy if a woman so much as looked at me, I’d snog her.”

“Why?”

“Look at me, Y/n!” he gestures to his attire. “I haven’t kissed a woman in my life.”

You roll your eyes, “I can’t possibly imagine why.”

“I can’t either!” he says. “So, I thought: why not solve the problem by kissing a girl myself? They’re probably shy, bless them.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Probably, yeah,” you play along, “Poor girls.”

“So!” he grins. “Are you up for it?”

Your mind goes through a quick fight-or-flight response: you could a) agree and be Moss’ first kiss in a caravan park called ‘Beige Sands’, hiding from a bunch of 10-year-old bike-riding twats. Or, option b) you could ignore his question entirely; divert the focus onto another poor woman.

Selfishly, you choose the latter: “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Why?”

“Cancel all your plans.” You say. ‘God, what am I doing?’ you think, but it’s too late: “I’ll find you a girl to snog,”

His eyes light up, “Really?”

“Really.” You echo. “Meet me in the car park at eight tomorrow.”

He nods eagerly, “AM or PM?”

“AM, obviously.”

“Okay then! Ta!” he beams as you give him one last, tight smile and exit the bush.

When he’s alone, he takes out his phone and calls Roy again.

“What happened now?”

“Roy!” Moss exclaims, “I just met this girl and she totally has the hots for me!”

saturday morning...

Moss’ mum is making tea in the small kitchen when Moss passes, with his hands grasping his backpack straps like a school boy. "Moss, where are you going?"

He steps a foot out the door, turning to give her one last look, "I'm going out!" he calls, saying the word ‘out’ like it's a brag of the highest order: he doesn’t usually go out when it’s not with his mum or his dad or his bloody aunt. "I'll be back by eight!" 

“But your aunt’s—”

“Bye!” Moss slams the door shut. “Those lot,” he mutters, practically skipping down the road, headed for the car park. “They don’t know a thing about the world—Y/n knows, though; she’s seen it all, done it all, and now she’s helplessly in love with me…” He sighs whimsically, stopping in his tracks to muse: “I know she really just wants to spend more time with me; that’s why she’s doing all this; it’s all just a big, fat excuse to spend more time with me…”

He smiles: everything’s starting to look up. Gone are the days of following his parent’s every word, of putting up with his aunt, of every woman laughing at his pathetic attempts at flirting. Now he doesn’t have to listen to anyone—

“Get on the bike, Moss.”

You stand in an empty parking space with two bikes; one for you, one for Moss. He timidly looks down at his shoes, fiddling with his fingers nervously. “Do I have to?”

“Oh, come on: it’s only a bloody bike.”

“”Just a bike”,” he mutters, looking back up, “Was it “just a bike” when a dozen of them chased me half-way across the park, leading me to jump into a bush and put on a dress?!”

“You need to start standing up to the bullies, Moss.” You say. “Think in Back to the Future: the girl only wanted the boy in the end because he had the guts to punch his bully in the face.” You push one of the bikes towards Moss, and he catches it by the handle. “No girls are gonna wanna snog you if you run away every time you spot a bike—they’re everywhere, for Christ’s sake. You can forget the honeymoon in Amsterdam.”

He shakes his head and slings a leg over the bike. As he stares down at the handle, the little bell on the right that reminds him of all the night the biker boys have spent outside his caravan, ringing their bells and chanting his name over and over and over.

He gets off the bike, letting it drop to the floor. “Nope. Not doing it. Never doing it. I have legs; legs are for walking, not pedaling.”

“But you’ve only sat on it two seconds!”

“I tried it,” he states. “Wasn’t for me.”

You stare at him for two disbelieving seconds, “Get over here, Moss.”

He’s taken a little aback by your order, but he then remembers how you’re truly, madly, and deeply in love with him.

‘It’s time,’ he thinks. ‘She’s finally going to confess her deeply-routed, undying love for me.’

He comes closer, straightening his tie, smiling cockily. “A bit fast, but I suppose I wouldn’t mind.”

You glare at him. “Get on the bike, Moss.” You gesture to the space behind you.

He clears his throat, “Oh, right.” He takes a quick glance back at the seat, “Will I fit on there?”

“With enough perseverance.” You say, and he awkwardly clambers on.

“What do I do now?” he asks.

You roll your eyes, “Wrap your arms around me.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you seen any romance movie, Moss? Wrap your bloody arms around me.”

He eventually, reluctantly, complies. “I don’t like this.”

“The bullies, Moss, remember the bullies.” You whisper, soft like you’re leading a zen class. “They’ll be the ones laughing when you’re speeding down the road with your little woven basket and a copy of The Hobbit.”

“Yes, they will be!” Moss shouts. “They’ll be laughing because I can’t even ride a bike without flipping the fudge out!” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms practically shaking now. “I’m mortified, Y/n.”

“Hold on tighter, then.” You reply. His warm breath puffs on your neck, which is pretty uncomfortable considering the fact the sun’s actually out today. “I still have some air left in me.” And, surely enough, he squeezes the last of it out of you. “There we go. I’m going to start pedaling, okay? Keep your feet off the floor—and, whatever you do, stay balanced.”

He hums, and you can feel the vibrations on your neck.

You start your journey through the car park, sticking to the road. It’s pretty sparse today, as most families have gone down to the beach—which happens to be a comfortable bike ride away. After Moss learns to ride a bike, you plan on going down there with him. Emphasis on the word plan, because with the way Moss is acting now, you don’t think he’ll ever have the guts to even ride a scooter.

“I don’t like it!” he yells, unknowingly supporting your claim. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

“Remember, Moss; the bullies!” you say, struggling to keep balance with his vice-like grip. “Think of the bullies!”

“Think of the bullies,” he echoes. “Think of the bullies.”

“There we go,” you say as his arms loosen a little around you. “Biking can be fun; it’s not so bad.”

“I suppose not.” He says. “Can I have a go?”

You raise your eyebrows, caught by surprise, “Really?”

"Yeah, why not?”

You stop the bike and get off, leaving Moss to finally sit with a comfortable amount of space. “Okay, remember: pedal, balance, look straight ahead, don’t panic. Got it?”

He nods nobly.

“And watch out for cars.”

“Please, do you see any cars?” he gestures around to the empty car park. “Pigs are more likely to fly than I am to get hit by one.”

You tug his ear (“Ow!” he squirms), “Pedal, balance, straight ahead, don’t panic, don’t get hit by a car.”

“Okay,” he grumbles, and starts pushing his feet along the concrete.

“Pedal, Moss, pedal.”

“But I can’t pedal!” he exclaims. “How am I supposed to pedal?!”

You huff, “Stop the bike.” You come up from behind, holding the bike by the seat. “I’m gonna push you. Put your feet on the pedals—” Moss complies, making the bike wobble, but you somehow manage to keep it up. “Okay, let’s go.”

You slowly make your way through the car park—you doing considerable more work than Moss. But soon enough he begins to pick up the confidence to go a little faster, “I’m doing it, I’m doing it!”

“That’s right, Moss.” You grin. “I’m going to let go, okay? Remember: don’t panic.”

“Okay!”

And he’s off: a good dispatch to the end of the road; in the early stages showing plenty of dash, a good, steady rhythm...

He looks back at you, beaming—

Oh! And what’s this?! Your face drops in horror as Car Forty-Five comes up through the entrance, headed straight for Moss. The driver, distracted, rams straight into the bike, sending Moss toppling to the floor, along with the bike.

“Shit!” You rush over, kneeling down beside him. He’s splayed out in his back, cheek pressed against the hard concrete and eyes closed. For the second time since you’ve met him, he looks like the victim of a murder.

“Moss, are you okay?” you ask, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes flutter open, “Oh, what time is it?” His eyes widen, and he checks his watch-less wrist for the time. “No! My aunt should be arriving any minute now!” he tries to sit up, “Gosh, I hate her!”

You ease him back down and glance up to meet the eyes of the driver. Your focus returns to Moss, “We’re going to get you to a nurse, okay?”

“Ah, was that your plan all along?” he asks. “Are you going to get me a date with a nurse?”

Your eyes widen, “No! Of course not!”

He smiles dopily, “It better be a ruddy attractive nurse…”

And, with that, he slips into unconsciousness.

...

When Moss’ eyes flitter back open, he’s laying in a hospital cot. 

"He'll be okay," the nurse says to you. He smirks as his eyes trail down her form, ‘She’s not bad to look at at all,’ he thinks. ‘Not. At. All.’

“He has a mild concussion,” the nurse continues. “Just give him a wet paper towel and he’ll probably be alright.”

You smile, “Thank you.”

The nurse leaves, leaving just you and Moss in the small nurse’s room.

“What happened?” Moss asks. “I should be hospitalized more often.”

You sit in the chair beside his bed. “You crashed into a car; hit your head pretty bad.”

His eyes widen, “That’s bloody—” he sputters out and your face scrunches as you prepare yourself for a long-winded rant on how he didn’t want to get on a bike in the first place. But instead he says, “Wicked. That was bloody flipping wicked!”

You furrow your brows, “What?”

“A head injury?” he exclaims, “How attractive is that?”

You glance around confusedly, “Not very..?”

“That’s super attractive, Y/n!”

“Oh,” you mutter. “Right? Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I was planning on taking you down to the beach—there are lots of fit women there; I thought maybe one of them would want to snog you.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugs, “there’s still plenty of fish in the sea—or the caravan site.”

Your eyes lighten up, “Hey! I have an idea! Sure, we can’t go down to the beach anymore, but they’re hosting an eighties disco in the clubhouse from ten. It’s adults-only, too—so there’ll be plenty of women to snog!”

“The eighties?” he grimaces, “really?”

that evening...

You sit with Moss on the sofa, donning black leather jackets and sunglasses, cigarettes hanging from your mouths, releasing a never-ending puff of smoke that’s clouded the caravan to the point it looks like Winston Churchill’s paid you a visit. You watch Grease on VHS (even though it’s from the late 70s); the whole afternoon has been spent teaching Moss 80s slang, making him watch 80s movies, and you’ve even taught him how to ‘French inhale’.

As the end credits roll, Moss stares at the telly in awe. “I think l'm beginning to understand why everybody loves the eighties so much.” He says, smoke escaping from his mouth with every word. “Living in the past is brilliant!”

You grin in victory and put out your cigarette on the ashtray that you stole from outside. “I think it’s time you listen to some eighties music—it would be weird if you went to an eighties party and didn’t know who Madonna was.”

“Who’s Madonna?”

Your lips press into a thin line, “See my point?”

You continue talking as you get up and walk down the hallway to your room, where you stored your CD player, coughing at the absurd amount of smoke in the air. “If you’re able to sing along to the music, everybody will probably think you’re a normal, eighties-loving man.”

“Ah,” he mutters from the other room, and when you return with the player and about a dozen CDs he’s playing on his Game Boy. “The Game Boy was made in the eighties, you know.” He muses as you set the CD player on a side table and plug it into the wall. “When I first found out, I didn’t want to believe it—but now, now I’ve seen the eighties for what it truly is, and I wouldn’t wish for the Game Boy to come from any other decade.”

You smile: you’ve grown to enjoy his company, even after your first encounter with him in the bush. You enjoy his little comments and habits; his unique ways of saying things. You decide to forget the music for a second and sit next to him (a little closer than before), putting your full attention on him. “What’re you playing?”

“Tetris,” Moss says. “I'm trying to get past level two-hundred and twenty-five, but every time I get there, it keeps on sending me back to level zero.” He shakes his head, “I think the game’s broken.”

“Are you sure it's not just, like, the last level?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “For showing such dedication I expect some form of gratitude—not just a bravo.” He shakes his head in disapproval.

You furrow your brows, “What? What's a 'bravo’?”

“It's part of the Tetris lingo,” he explains, “it’s basically when the whole playfield is clears without leaving any blocks behind.”

From his reply, you're left with more questions than you originally started with; “What's a playfield?”

“A playfield,” he says, “is the grid that the tetrominoes fall on.”

“What are tet—”

“We could be here all night, Y/n.”

You perch your arm on the backrest of the sofa, resting your cheek on your palm, “We have time.”

...

“A ‘Hard Drop' is where you instantly drop the piece to the bottom of the playfield, locking it into place.” Moss says robotically, showing you an example on the game as Whitney Houston sings quietly from the side table. “And a 'Soft Drop’ is where you press down on the keypad to move the piece down faster—which can be cancelled or rotated if needed, of course.”

“Wow,” you mutter in awe, staring at Moss like he's the hottest thing since Patrick Swayze. “You sure do know a lot about Tetris…” Suddenly, Moss has stopped being that nerdy-bush-man who doesn't understand why no women wants to snog him, and has become the nerdy-bush-man who doesn't understand why no women wants to snog him, and knows an awful lot about Tetris. Your thighs press against his, your cigarette-breath is practically fanning his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Please,” he chuckles, “I haven't even told you about entry delays or jiznickery—” You can't help it; you blame the nicotine as your eyes watch Moss’ mouth name every word in the Tetris dictionary.

There's just something so... fit about it.

So you pull him down by the leather jacket and kiss him.

He freezes, not sure what to do, how to respond; whether to touch your face, your shoulder, your arm, your hand…

It’s not anything dirty, nor is it suggestive. When you pull away, probably 3 or 4 seconds have passed in real time, but Moss looks absolutely mortified all the same.

His mind is whizzing at the speed of light, starting at an even dispatch and—

"Crap," you say.

“I’m sorry,” Moss says instinctively, even though you’re the one who kissed him. You don’t reply as you get up and take out the Whitney CD.

You pull out another one titled ‘The Joshua Tree’ from your collection. "We have under two hours and you don’t know a single U2 song."

...

Before tonight, Moss would’ve found Beige Sand’s 80s party as claustrophobic, meaningless, and utterly horrific. But after having watched Saturday Night Fever (once again: not from the 80s), he’s prepared for any song, any dance, and any flashing light the production crew can possibly throw at him.

You’re both wearing the same outfits as you were earlier—only now you’ve additionally done your hair and makeup, in classic 80s fashion. Moss comes back from the bar with a cocktail (yours) and a Slushie (his) and sets it down on your table—the one in the quietest corner of the function.

You groan, “A Slushie, Moss, seriously? Do you not want to be kissed?”

He looks at you, confused: “But we kissed.”

“Yes, but that was a one-time thing,” you take a long sip of your cocktail. “We’re not together—and, besides, this isn’t about me; it’s about you! It’s about you getting out there and sleeping with loads of women!”

“I suppose…” he mutters.

“Look!” you exclaim. “There’s some fit girls over there!” You start pushing Moss toward them. “I’m gonna go get another drink, Moss. Chat with them while I’m gone.”

“But you’ve only just started your first one—”

You down the rest of it in mere seconds, “See you in a minute, Moss!”

“Okay,” he mutters, begrudgingly making his way over to the table of women.

...

“You got with any girls yet?” you ask.

“Nope.” He slurps the remains of his melted Slushie. “Now that I think about it, it’s probably because I haven’t actually approached any of them.”

You roll your eyes, “Moss, we’ve already talked about this—”

“I know, I know,” he huffs. “They’re all intimidated by me… But I don’t know if I actually want to do this anymore.”

“What?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat, “I don’t know if I actually want to do this anymore.”

“I heard what you said,” you tut. “I’m just having trouble understanding what you said.”

“Oh,” Moss says, “What I meant to say was—”

“Okay, Moss, I get it.” You sigh, looking down at your drink. “Why the change of heart, then?”

“Adultery is a sin.”

You furrow your brows, “We’re not married.”

“What is this all about, then?” he asks. “Why are we doing this?”

“What do you mean “Why are we doing this”? I’m trying to set you up with loads of women because that’s what you wanted.”

He shakes his head, “I thought you fancied me—I said yes out of pity.”

“Pity?” you scoff. “I don’t fancy you.”

“Oh.” He says, “Well, we’re doing this for no reason, then.”

You massage your temples. “I’m gonna go on a walk,” you say as you walk away.

...

You step outside for a breath of fresh air. After your little row with Moss, the air has felt less 80s-reminiscent and more, just, stuffy. You debate going back to your caravan, but when you spot Moss smoking next to a fire exit your legs move before you can properly think about it.

“Hey, Moss.” You say. “How’s it going?”

“Terrible,” he replies, refusing to look at you. “I tried to do the Dirty Dancing lift with some girl, and I think I broke her back.”

“Ooh,” you cringe. “How’d you manage that? You’d have to drop her at quite the awkward angle.”

He glares at you, “I was the one getting lifted.”

You bite back a smile, “Oh. That makes more sense, then.”

“I don’t want to go back in,” he continues. “I want to go home.” He looks down at his cigarette, “And I don’t want to smoke: it tastes disgusting.”

“You smell good,” you say. “Like lung cancer.”

“What does lung cancer even smell like?” he asks. “I don’t want to smell like a type of cancer! That’s disgusting!”

Your smile finally surfaces, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” You take his cigarette and step on it: “Better?”

His shoulders ease like a pressure’s been lifted; he nods. “Much better. Thank you.”

You each look out to the rows of caravans lit up by the streetlamps, some lit in the windows, others completely dark. It occurs to you that this is your last night in Beige Sands, and you’ll never see Moss after this.

‘Why not?’ you think.

“I lied earlier,” you confess. “I…” you hesitate, “...do fancy you.”

“HA!” Moss points his finger at you, “I knew it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you shove him away. “Shut up.”

“I knew you fancied me!” he continues.

“Moss, shut your mouth before I put you in another dress and shove you in a bush.”

He grins, “Now there’s an idea.” He—though it is a bit of a struggle with his weak IT arms—scoops you up bridal-style and takes you to the nearest groups of bushes, holding you over it.

“Put me down!” you squirm, laughing through your retaliation as you try and wriggle out of his grasp.

He doesn’t do anything; all he does is hold you close in his arms, as tight to his chest as he possibly can; all he does is smile down at you like you’ve hung all the stars in the night sky; all he does is kiss you proper, slowly, confidently, like he has all the time in the world.

sunday morning...

“Goodbye, Moss.” You say as his parents load the last of their stuff into the car. You’re sitting behind a wall of bushes, hiding from the prying eyes of his mum.

“Goodbye, my love.” He sweeps you into another kiss. “I’ll stay in touch.”

“You better,” you grin. “I want to hear all about what’s going on in IT. And,” you add, “maybe if my computer breaks down, I’ll give you a call.”

He blushes and grins bashfully, “I am pretty incredible when it comes to computers.”

“I bet you are.” You kiss him once more.

...

“You know, Moss, we haven’t seen you all weekend.” His mum lectures as they drive down the A-road.

“Sorry, Mum, I was busy.” He replies as he approaches level two-hundred and nineteen.

“Your aunt kept asking where you were,” she continues, “What on earth were you doing the whole time?”

“Nothing!” he shouts.

That’s what happened at Beige Sands; I met a girl, kissed her, and never saw her again. I knew Roy and Jen would never believe that I actually managed to get a woman to kiss me: that’s why I added her on—

“Oh no!” he yells. “I forgot to add her on Friendface!”

————————————

A/n: tysm for the request!! I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it :))

I kinda wish I included a scene of Moss standing up to the bullies, but the fic was getting wayyyyyyyy too long for my liking and anyways I just know that the next time he goes to Beige Sands (I ripped the name off the Golden Sands Holiday Park btw) he’ll just go back to hiding in that bush again so…….

I’m beginning to realize that all my fics are taking the exact same structure (the whole build up till the end where they kiss and happily ever after and yada yada yada), and I hope it isn’t getting too tedious. To mix it up, my next Moss fic Y/n will already be in a relationship with him, so you can look forward for that!! But first I’m finally getting round to writing a Richmond fic mwahahahahaahahahahahha

If anyone needs me, I’ll be binge watching Friday Night Dinner, bye bye xxxxx