Chapter Text
It was supposed to be stupid.
That’s what Miguel told himself, anyway, as he stood outside the strip mall arcade at half-past six, watching Eli balance a churro between his teeth while aggressively texting someone (probably Demetri) with the same intensity most people reserved for hostage negotiations. The sun was just starting to drop behind the roof of the GameStop across the parking lot, leaving the sidewalk tinted in pink and gold and that weird purplish blur that only existed for like, seven minutes a day. Miguel pretended not to care about it. He pretended not to care about a lot of things.
Like how this was technically a date. Or how he’d shaved the dumb little patch of scruff on his chin this morning and immediately regretted it. Or how he was currently holding two swipe cards for the arcade and had made sure both had enough credits for exactly one photo booth session, plus three rounds of air hockey, one racing game, and an emergency round of skee-ball if Eli got grumpy about losing.
He had planned it. Not like a maniac. Not like he was obsessed or anything. He just… liked knowing how to make Eli smile.
Inside, the place was noisy and half-lit and smelled like soft pretzels and broken electronics. Eli lit up the moment they walked through the door — literally grinned and did this stupid little fist pump like he was about to enter the final round of a tournament — and Miguel had to physically stop himself from staring. Which was hard, because Eli in his arcade element was dangerous. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Hair a little wind-wrecked. Eyes sharp. Mouth sharp. Hands on every joystick like he could bend machines to his will.
They played for an hour. Maybe more. Eli crushed him at the zombie shooter game but lost horribly at the basketball one, which Miguel absolutely did not gloat about. (He did.) At one point, Eli spilled half a slushie on his shoe and Miguel thought about it for the next five minutes like it was a metaphor for something. They played skee-ball. They played whack-a-mole. They cheated at claw machines by shaking the base when no one was looking.
And then — too fast and not fast enough — the booth.
It was tucked in the back corner, wedged between a broken DDR setup and a claw game that seemed to exclusively contain rubber ducks. Miguel noticed it early on, but didn’t say anything. Not until they were on their second lap around the token machines and Eli had started making fun of the prizes like he was personally offended by the concept of ticket-based economics.
A flick of his wrist and a casual point toward the corner. “Wanna?” Miguel asked, his tone light, almost too light — like the question didn’t matter.
Eli followed the gesture, eyes landing on the slightly lopsided photobooth nestled between a claw machine and a flickering “Out of Order” sign taped to a busted Dance Dance Revolution setup. He blinked once, then again, head tilting like he wasn’t quite sure if he was impressed or deeply unimpressed.
“I mean—unless you think it’s dumb,” Miguel rushed out, already backpedaling. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the motion quick, restless. “Or, like. Unsanitary. It’s probably got kid germs. We don’t have to.”
For a second, Eli just stared. At the booth. Then at Miguel. Then back again, like he was trying to decide if he was being tricked.
And then, with the flattest voice imaginable, he said, “You’re such a sap.”
The words hit harder than they had any right to. Miguel flushed instantly, posture going stiff with offense — the fake kind, the kind he used when he was secretly pleased to be caught. “What? No. I just thought it might be funny—”
“You literally planned this.”
“I did not plan—”
“Your card had enough credits for this exact amount of games, didn’t it.”
No comeback. Just silence, and the flicker of guilt that crossed Miguel’s face like a badly hidden tell. His mouth opened, then closed again. Useless. Eli grinned — that sharp, smug, vaguely dangerous grin he wore whenever he knew he was right and you knew it too. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, voice dripping with fake disgust. “You scheduled romance.”
With no warning, his hand shot out and caught Miguel by the wrist. Warm fingers. Steady grip. He didn’t even break stride as he turned and tugged him toward the booth, not giving him time to argue or process or try to explain why maybe it wasn’t the most tragically embarrassing idea ever.
Miguel let himself be pulled along, barely keeping pace, his heart doing backflips in his chest. He didn’t look away from where their hands were joined — Eli’s thumb tapping absently against the edge of his wristband, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Inside, it was smaller than Miguel remembered. Not that he had a ton of photo booth experience to go off of, but still — the curtain was barely enough to keep out the flickering arcade lights, and the seat was… not so much a seat as a shelf.
Miguel started to sit, knees already bent to ease himself onto the tiny booth bench, only to yelp—loud and startled—as Eli suddenly flopped backward and yanked him off-balance in one smooth, unrepentant motion. Miguel tumbled with him, landing squarely in Eli’s lap with zero grace and even less warning, limbs flailing just enough to knock into the side panel on the way down.
“Eli—!” he yelped, breath catching somewhere between panic and laughter.
“It’s fine,” Eli said immediately, voice casual like nothing about this was weird. He shifted under him like they’d rehearsed this a dozen times. “We both fit. Barely. Mostly.”
Miguel scrambled to adjust himself, trying not to crush any vital organs, but Eli’s arms had already looped around his waist like a human seatbelt, pulling him snug. “I’m going to crush you.”
“You’re tiny. This is adorable. Shut up.”
The worst part was how calm he sounded — like this wasn’t a mildly absurd decision made in a three-second burst of chaos, but a completely rational solution to limited seating. Miguel made a helpless, deeply betrayed noise in the back of his throat and attempted to shift sideways. There wasn’t enough room. The bench gave a loud, offended squeak beneath them, the kind of sound that promised eventual collapse.
His knee smacked the coin return on the way down, and Eli winced behind him but didn’t let go. Instead, he tucked his head down, chin hooked over Miguel’s shoulder, arms squeezing tighter like he intended to wear Miguel like a backpack. The curtain drifted closed around them in a slow flutter, dimming the light until they were bathed in soft half-dark, barely illuminated by the flickering screen above.
“This is ridiculous,” Miguel muttered, cheeks warm, body tense in all the places it refused to relax.
“You’re ridiculous,” Eli replied, muffled against the side of his neck. He sounded smug. Content. Entirely too pleased with himself.
Miguel tried again to shift, only to flinch when Eli’s knee jabbed him in a particularly unfair place. “Your knee is digging into my ass right now.”
“Again,” Eli said, deadpan. “Adorable.”
Miguel rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were already hot. It wasn’t fair. Eli was always like this — cocky and stupid and exactly what Miguel wanted, and maybe this was karma for every note they’d passed, every look they hadn’t said out loud, every time Miguel had thought just kiss me already and then pretended it was a joke.
The booth beeped.
Miguel flinched. “Wait—shit, is it starting?”
There was a mechanical click, a blink of light. They both froze.
The first flash caught them mid-argument — Miguel’s mouth open, Eli squinting like a confused raccoon, one of them halfway through gesturing and the other halfway to laughing. Their heads were turned in opposite directions. Eli’s hair was a mess. Miguel looked personally betrayed by the camera.
They both stared at the little preview image on the screen.
“Oh my god,” Eli whispered, leaning closer to the screen with wide eyes. His voice was half horror, half delight. “We look crazy.”
Miguel covered his face with both hands. “Delete it.”
Eli didn’t even try to stop laughing, the sound muffled behind his fist. “It’s literally printing.”
“I’m gonna set it on fire,” Miguel groaned. He dropped his hands and stared at the grainy preview on the screen, already regretting every decision he’d made in the last three minutes. “I’m gonna take it, crumple it into a tiny ball, and throw it directly into the sun.”
“You’re such a drama queen,” Eli said, still grinning, his knee knocking into Miguel’s under the tiny counter. “I’m framing it.”
“You would.”
Miguel turned to glare at him, but it didn’t quite land — not with how close Eli was, not with the light still fading from the last flash, casting everything in this weird, dreamy glow. Eli was smiling like he hadn’t in days. Loose around the eyes. Unbothered. Like being in a tiny, questionably sanitized box with Miguel was the best idea he’d had all week. Miguel buried his face in his hands, which only smushed them further into Eli’s shoulder. He could feel the laughter shaking through both of them, this low, bright thing that hummed beneath his skin, impossible to contain. The camera beeped again. They barely had time to sit up straight.
The second flash caught them laughing. Or—Miguel was laughing. Head tipped back slightly, eyes scrunched, mouth open like he hadn’t even meant to do it. Eli was already looking at him. Not the camera. Just him. That stupid smile on his face, half pride, half affection, all Eli. Their cheeks were almost touching.
Miguel caught the preview and blinked at it.
“Oh,” he said.
Eli leaned over his shoulder. “Okay, that one’s… actually kind of good.”
Miguel couldn’t look at him. He didn’t know why. It was just a picture. Just a laugh. Just a moment where they hadn’t been trying to be anything except close. But something about it hit him a little sideways, like a tight string pulled too fast and too deep in his chest.
The third photo flashed before he could think.
He was already turning his head, already catching the tail end of Eli’s grin, when Eli leaned forward and kissed him.
It was quick. Not performative. Not even that practiced. Just instinct, sharp and soft and real. Miguel went still for half a second, breath caught somewhere in his throat, and then kissed him back without even trying to make it a whole thing. His hand settled lightly against Eli’s shoulder. Eli’s curled tighter around his waist. The flash went off, and the moment locked itself in the little glass eye of the machine forever.
Miguel was going to pass out.
Eli pulled back like it was nothing. No big deal. Just a kiss. Just one more in the long, quiet string of ones they’d gotten used to sneaking between classes, behind vending machines, after practice in the back lot, like they were collecting them for something they hadn’t named yet.
The fourth photo happened just as Miguel exhaled.
They weren’t smiling anymore. Not in the perform-for-the-camera kind of way. But something had softened between them. Miguel’s head was resting just under Eli’s chin now, and Eli’s fingers had found his hand without him noticing. There wasn’t much space, but there was enough. It didn’t feel cramped anymore. Just close.
The light flickered again. The camera clicked.
A moment passed.
The photo strip slid out with a quiet whir and a little curl at the edge, like it was shy about what it had captured. Miguel reached out for it on instinct, fingers halfway there — but Eli got to it first. One clean, practiced motion, like he’d been planning it. He didn’t even glance at Miguel. Just plucked it from the tray, turned on his heel, and started walking toward the front of the arcade with the same kind of smug, half-bounced stride he usually reserved for tournament wins or mid-prank exits.
Miguel blinked, still squished on the tiny booth bench, knees a little numb, brain short-circuiting just enough to forget how standing worked. “Seriously?” he called after him. “You’re just stealing the evidence?”
Eli didn’t answer. Didn’t slow down. Just waved one hand over his shoulder like you’ll live and beelined straight for the front counter. The one with the chained pens and the little stack of prize claim slips and a bored-looking employee scrolling on their phone.
For a second, Miguel just sat there, trying to catch up. His face was warm. His chest was still buzzing from the kiss — that soft, laughing one right before the last flash, the one that had caught them tangled together like they didn’t have anything to hide. He hadn’t meant to kiss Eli in the booth. It just… happened. Like most things with Eli. The best ones, anyway.
By the time Miguel peeled himself off the bench and caught up, Eli was hunched over the counter with all the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. He had the strip laid flat and a pen in one hand, scribbling furiously, body curled around it like he was trying to block Miguel from seeing. The guy behind the register didn’t even blink — just nodded once and went back to his phone, like this was a regular occurrence. Maybe it was.
Miguel leaned in, shoulder nudging against Eli’s as he tried to sneak a look at what he was doing. The booth was already cramped enough without Eli curling over the photo strip like it was top-secret. Miguel craned his neck a little, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Eli muttered, not bothering to glance up. His handwriting scratched faintly against glossy paper, the pen in his hand moving with suspicious precision. He was clearly editing something. Possibly defacing. One arm blocked the strip like a bodyguard, the other working in quick, efficient lines. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t innocent.
Miguel watched him for a second, then narrowed his eyes. “You better not be drawing horns on me again.”
“That was one time.”
“No,” Miguel said flatly, “it was twice.”
There was a beat of silence as Eli kept working, expression pure focus. His tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth in that way he probably didn’t even know he did when he was concentrating. He tilted the photo toward the light, inspecting something with mock seriousness. Finally, without looking up, he muttered, “It was funny.”
Miguel rolled his eyes but didn’t press. He waited, watching Eli’s hand move across the back of the photo strip in fast, jerky strokes. There was something weirdly endearing about how serious he looked. Brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a little line. His hoodie sleeve had slipped halfway down his arm, and Miguel could see the curve of his wrist, the slight ink smear already forming on his fingers. It was probably nothing. A doodle, a joke. Something dumb and sweet in the way all of Eli’s notes were — chaotic handwriting, half-caps, maybe a tiny cartoon punching a heart in the face.
But then Eli was ripping the strip.
Not gently. Not like someone trying to preserve a memory. Just one quick, decisive tear straight down the middle, right between the second and third photo. Miguel stared, baffled, as Eli shoved one half into his hand.
“There,” Eli said. “For your shrine.”
Miguel blinked down at the strip.
The last two frames. The first was the one where they were laughing, still caught in the aftermath of the kiss — Miguel’s head tipped back slightly, Eli’s eyes scrunched, both of them grinning so hard it looked like their faces had given up on holding it in. The kind of joy you couldn’t fake. The kind that didn’t ask permission.
The second one… was quieter. Their foreheads resting together, Miguel’s eyes almost closed, Eli’s mouth tugging into something soft and stupid and way too fond. Miguel didn’t even remember posing for it. But there it was — a moment frozen like it had been waiting for them to notice it.
And across the bottom, scrawled in Eli’s messy, too-dark pen:
i love. u
Just like that. No punctuation except the awkward, telling period after love . Like he hadn’t meant to write it. Like he had and then changed his mind and then changed it again. Like the words had spilled out faster than he could organize them — not dramatic, not rehearsed, just there.
Miguel stared.
The arcade buzzed behind him, all neon and chaos, tickets flapping, buttons clicking. Some kid screamed near the skee-ball machines. None of it landed. Not really. Just static in the corner of his hearing while his heart tried to decide whether to short-circuit or sprint away entirely.
Eli was pretending to be casual. Slurping the last inch of slushie through his straw, not looking at him, like maybe he hadn’t just handed Miguel the emotional equivalent of a live wire. Like maybe he hadn’t written those words at all. Like Miguel didn’t know his handwriting by heart.
He looked at Eli and didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
He stepped in close, still clutching the photo, and wrapped his arms around Eli’s shoulders without warning. It wasn’t one of those casual, shoulder-slap, hey-bro hugs they sometimes faked in front of friends. This was the real kind. The kind that anchored. The kind that said I saw it. I felt it. Me too.
Eli made a startled noise — half a grunt, half a laugh — and froze with his slushie still in hand. “Dude,” he muttered, but there wasn’t any real annoyance in it. Just a sigh, soft around the edges, like he’d already lost the argument. “It’s not that deep.”
Miguel didn’t let go.
He pressed his face into Eli’s shoulder, fingers fisting in the fabric of his hoodie, and held on like the words might sink in better this way. There was this fullness in his chest, blooming and buzzing and loud in a way that didn’t hurt, but still kind of made him want to sit down. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about saying it. He had. A lot. It just always seemed like such a big thing. A line you crossed and couldn’t uncross. Something people waited for the perfect moment to say, as if timing would make it safer.
But Eli — of course — hadn’t waited. He’d scribbled it on a photo strip in messy black ink and handed it over like it was just one more dumb note in a long, chaotic chain of them. And somehow that made it better. Realer. Like it didn’t have to be a ceremony. It could just be .
Miguel’s breath hitched before he could hide it, face pressed against the side of Eli’s neck like he was trying to muffle the entire universe. His arms had tightened without permission, fingers curling into the back of Eli’s hoodie as if that would somehow undo the ache building in his chest. The photo strip was still clutched in one hand, crinkled slightly now at the edges. Ink smeared across the corner of frame three — right where Eli had written it.
“You’re such an idiot,” Miguel muttered, the words low and uneven, his voice betraying him with the faintest shake. “You can’t just write that and then act like it’s not a thing.”
Eli made a face, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “I didn’t act like it wasn’t a thing,” he said, as if this were the most obvious logic in the world. “I gave it to you, didn’t I?”
His fingers moved up instinctively, threading through Miguel’s curls — slow, steady, like it was second nature. Maybe it was. The motion was too gentle to be anything else. He didn’t sound smug, not really. Just stubborn in that way he always was when he knew he meant something and didn’t feel like defending it.
Miguel pulled back just enough to glare at him, though the effect was ruined by the way his face was clearly still struggling to regulate emotions. “That’s worse.”
Eli’s mouth twitched. “It’s literally better.”
“God, shut up.”
“You’re hugging me in front of the ticket counter,” Eli pointed out, tone maddeningly casual. “You don’t get to be mad and clingy at the same time.”
Eli let out a short, exasperated huff, barely more than a breath. “You’re gonna make it weird,” he muttered, shifting like he was trying to find some safe, neutral position for his hands — but Miguel was still holding on, and there was nowhere to move.
Miguel didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just pulled back enough to meet Eli’s eyes properly, his brows furrowed in something caught between disbelief and affection. “You made it weird,” he said, quietly. Not accusing. Just honest.
“By writing what I meant?” Eli shot back, like he was daring Miguel to keep pushing. His voice wasn’t sharp, exactly, but it had that familiar edge to it — the one he used when he was trying to act unaffected and failing. His jaw ticked. His thumb brushed unconsciously over Miguel’s sleeve like he didn’t realize he was still touching him.
“Yeah,” Miguel said, barely above a whisper.
Eli raised an eyebrow, chin tilted with that same brand of stubborn confidence he always slipped into when he felt backed into a corner. There was color high on his cheeks now, but he wasn’t backing down — not even close. “And?” he asked, the word simple, but not small. Not this time.
Miguel looked at him.
Really looked.
At the faint smear of blue slushie on his bottom lip, sticky and slightly ridiculous. At the soft curl of his mohawk, mussed from where his hoodie had pushed it out of place. At the strip of skin between glove and sleeve, still smudged with ink from that cheap arcade pen. And then past all of it — the sarcasm, the deflection, the fear — straight into the wide, waiting part of Eli that had finally let something real slip out.
And just like that, the answer wasn’t hard. It wasn’t even scary. Not when Eli was standing right here, looking like this — like he'd never say the words out loud if he could help it, but couldn’t stop himself from meaning them anyway.
“And I love you too,” Miguel said.
Eli blinked.
For a second, he didn’t move. Just stared, mouth slightly parted, like someone had changed the rules of a game he thought he’d already mastered. Then his expression shifted — not to a grin, not all the way — but something smaller. Quieter. Like hearing it didn’t surprise him, exactly, but still hit in a place he wasn’t used to being touched.
Miguel stepped in again, rested his forehead lightly against Eli’s, and exhaled. “Now it’s even.”
Eli snorted. “Nothing about us is even.”
“Okay, rude.”
“True, though.”
Miguel rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. The kind of smile that felt like it came from somewhere deeper than his mouth — something rooted behind his ribs, buzzing against bone. He tucked the photo strip into his back pocket, right next to the old locker note from February and the faded scribble Miguel kept forgetting to throw out. Eli watched him do it. Didn’t comment.
Instead, he leaned in again and kissed him once — short, simple, right at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just a press of lips against skin, warm and easy and impossibly soft. The kind of kiss that made Miguel feel like the floor under him had gone quiet. Like the whole arcade had tilted for a second and left them right in the center of it.
Eli’s nose was still brushing against his cheek, his hand lingering at the base of Miguel’s spine like he didn’t know how to stop touching him now that he’d started. His thumb tapped once — absentminded, almost — against the edge of Miguel’s t-shirt. It felt like a secret. Like a heartbeat.
“Okay,” Eli said, drawing back just far enough to breathe again, though his hands still lingered at Miguel’s sides like he hadn’t quite decided to let go. His eyes flicked to the row of claw machines along the far wall, all glowing plastic and crammed prizes. “Let’s go win you one of those stupid ducks.”
Miguel’s grin came instantly — slow and smug, but helpless at the edges. Like it cracked open from the inside and he didn’t even try to stop it. “I already got the best prize.”
Eli made a noise like he’d been physically struck. “That was disgusting.”
“You started it.”
“I take it back.”
“You can’t,” Miguel said, grinning wider as he bumped their shoulders together, their steps falling into sync without thought as they turned toward the row of ticket counters and blinking prize shelves. “I have written proof.”
“God,” Eli groaned, dragging a hand down his face like the emotional weight of having a disgustingly romantic boyfriend was something he’d been doomed to carry alone. “You’re the worst.”
“You love it,” Miguel said — not teasing, just gently certain. His voice dropped a little at the end, quieter, softer, like it wasn’t something he was trying to perform.
And Eli, after a long, theatrical pause, gave in. Fingers curling around Miguel’s like they’d been waiting all night to do it. He didn’t say anything else. Just squeezed once, quiet and sure.
The arcade flickered around them — neon lights pulsing, bells ringing somewhere near the back, a machine blaring pixelated applause as someone hit the jackpot. But for a second, it all faded into background noise. Just color. Just light. Just this — hands clasped, feet in step, a photo strip folded safe in a back pocket.
No notes this time.
Just the words already said. Just the look in Eli’s eyes when he thought Miguel wasn’t paying attention. Just the quiet, blooming certainty that they’d keep saying it — in scribbles, in glances, in the spaces where the sentences softened.
This was their language now. And they knew it by heart.