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When Xyx was young, once and only once, he snuck into his neighbor’s yard to steal fruit off their plum tree. Over the weeks, he had studied the tree with fascination, watching buds give way to flowers and flowers give way to hard, fuzzy fruits and when they were finally, finally ripe he knew he needed one for himself. The tree was close enough that he could smell the cloying sweetness of the split windfall and hear the flies buzzing around their opportune feast.
He was a good climber even when he was small. He got over the fence and into the tree without so much as a scraped shin. He made a basket with the front of his shirt and gathered a few of the biggest, shiniest plums—a couple for himself and maybe, if she seemed impressed with him, one for his sister, too.
His mother started calling for him—curious, not demanding—before he could climb back to his own yard. In his rush to reach the top of the fence before she became angry, he dropped a plum and made a noise of distress and that was when his mom noticed him. The way she said his name then, every syllable of it, made his muscles lock. He fell from the fence. He made his first ever trip to the hospital in a shirt covered with crushed plums and left with his arm in a cast.
While they drove back home, Xyx’s mom told him about all the ways names can have power, and how the power can be both helpful and dangerous. Together, they picked out a nickname that she could use for him so that she would never hurt him again.
Xyx inherited his mother’s knack with names and more. Every time he whispered a new name, he made a new friend. A name and a chime candle got him partnered with the cute girl on school projects (it also probably had something to do with landing her as a homecoming date and definitely had something to do with how quickly he chased away her sobbing when, at the end of the night, he decided they weren’t such a good pair after all,) and he credited a Wikipedia dive and some origami planes for the time his favorite band booked a tour date at a venue that was just a bus ride away. With little thought or effort, names eased him through his eventual career, where his clients were always open and reasonable with him.
Simply put, Xyx was used to getting what he wanted from people.
At some point, Xyx decided to become the sort of person who casually used pet names or silly nicknames. There wasn’t much hope of his relationships feeling fully genuine and raw the way they were for others; he’d always know, when people were being unpleasant or stubborn, that he had a convenient way to make them see things his way, and that colored all his interactions. He didn’t really mind. He wouldn't give up his talent even if he could. It was useful. It was his.
This made the internet a novelty to him. It was a chance to escape his charmed life. A wondrous playground of anarchy. Screen names were a shield. Saying GatorPuncher42069 aloud wasn’t going to make anyone fall in love with him. If the people he met there liked him organically, sight unseen, that was nice, and if they hated his guts, it was even better. Indifference and annoyance were strange and new and something about that was satisfying to him.
Maybe it was self-destructive, the way he gave up an essential part of himself for hours each day as he got increasingly more absorbed by the internet, or maybe it was fortifying for him to be, for a time, someone who navigated the world without the crutch. He wasn’t sure if he was testing his own abilities or aching for something genuine when he tried to connect with people online. Tried making friends, or something similar. It was especially unclear each time he sabotaged himself by being a dick just for the hell of it.
When he joined the Blooming Panic discord server, he wasn’t expecting much from himself or the others there. There wasn’t anything special about the way he approached them, so he was surprised by how much they seemed to like him, or tolerate him, at least, even when he let the worst sides of himself come out. They’d give him the jail role and it was fun, not demeaning, and they all laughed about it and he pretended he wasn’t laughing along, but he got the sense they knew, anyway. Whether or not he wanted it, being there was healing, and, unassisted, he had made friends.
Xyx had never shared his love of Final Fantasy with anyone before, never so much as talked about it. In real life, it was difficult for him to judge the level of nerdiness of everyone around him, but he was always able to conclude that they were not nerdy enough for MMORPGs. It was difficult to contain his love sometimes—the story, the world, the pride he felt for building up his character, even the daily chores all charmed him endlessly. There were times when the hours he spent in game were the best part of his day. The few friends of his who knew this only rolled their eyes at him.
Then Toaster came along. Someone who understood that private part of him. Someone who played along with his bits. Someone who could make him feel at peace. Someone who he desperately wanted to know better, someone he searched for tirelessly in game even though it was probably useless and they were probably in different servers, someone he wanted to be with as much as possible in every capacity possible and someone he could never reach.
It tore Xyx apart, the way his power was powerless to give him what he wanted most. He had been capable before in similar situations. His talents had always been stronger than his mother's, more flexible, and with the right spells, he was able to do many things. He had summoned his favorite band, once, after all. Given a name and a little creativity, he was unstoppable.
NakedToaster was not a name.
That didn’t stop Xyx from trying everything that came to mind, even if it was just as futile as when he was searching in Final Fantasy. Candles in every color, all phases of the moon, some truly foul tisanes, eggs and herbs and crystal cups, mirrors and spring water and tears, and doorways, and coins, and cards. They had never been his type of magic, but his own magic had failed him and he needed something. Anything.
As Xyx was signing off for the day, Toaster said good night to him in their private channel, a simple statement but utterly singular against the chaos of the server’s general chat, and another feeble spark shone in Xyx’s chest.
There was a weariness in him as he set up his ritual. Himself and a candle and a box to break the wind arranged beneath the stars. He let his instincts guide him through the motions. He didn’t know Toaster’s name, but in him was the barest sliver of a prayer that maybe he didn’t need to. He wanted him and Toaster to meet, and he at least had half of that equation.
This time, he used his own name in the ritual. This time, instead of begging to find them, he begged to be found.