She sighs and leans her head back on the metal bar, like she used to during our late-night campground games of Truth or Dare.

“Just be careful,” she says. “Don’t lose yourself in this too fast.”

“Whatever. Old Brandon was nothing but‌…‌tin and bones.” I crack up at my own stupid joke. “Who cares about him?”

“I do,” she says softly.

I feel a distant twinge because I’ve made her sad for some reason I can’t grasp but really I just want her to worship the stars with me which are bigger and brighter than I’ve ever seen, I guess because we’re deep in the heart of Texas like that song from freshman chorus said. I lift my finger to the sky and play connect the dots. “Becky,” I say, because I haven’t called her Becky in forever, and I love her and her hair is so pretty in the lavender light of the bug zappers.

“Yes, Brandon.”

“Father Mike was right.”

She lifts her head. “Huh?”

“God works in very, very mysterious ways.”

“Oh boy.”

“Every world, even this one, has its unexpected mercies.”

“Easter sermon?”

“Episode 1-16.”

“Okay, weirdo.” She kisses me on the forehead. “Clearly you’re hopeless tonight.”

She swings herself off the merry-go-round and gives it a shove before she scuffs away. I always forget how strong she is. The platform spins and rattles and the stars whirl into streaks and if hey_mamacita were writing this she’d say it was like the crash of the starship in the Castaway Planet pilot, the last thing they saw before they all clasped hands and said their brave goodbyes, and then woke up bloody and alive on a whole new planet.

I picture hey_mamacita crosslegged on the platform beside me, the red heart on her ragged t-shirt flickering like a hundred tiny votives. Her dreadlocks are streaked with gray and she smells like clean dirt and salt water and her knife halo glints, ready to defend me. She rests her rough hands on mine like a different kind of mother, the kind who roller-derbies and lives in an electric blue cottage and writes campy redemptive porn about you, and she leans close and whispers in my ear: Don’t worry, she says. Even God ships Abandon.

I wait for Father Mike, for a random earthquake to hit or an airplane part to fall from the sky and crush me but nothing happens, nothing nothing nothing and I feel pure liquid freedom shoot through all my veins at once.

It’s set.

Six days. First kiss. A fake kiss, but whatever. It’s a start.

SWEET BABY MOSES ON A MOTORBIKE, says hey_mamacita.

And I’m like, What have I done?

hey_mamacita:

THE CASTAWAY BALL CREED. a communal prayer by the church of abandon.

sorcha doo:

omg lol

hey_mamacita:

O MY FELLOW DISCIPLES

i call on you now, as our blessed boys

tango straight to the edge of their incandescent fate

FOR THE LOVE OF ST. IGNATIUS LET US GIVE DESTINY A RUTHLESS FREAKING TURBOCHARGE

sorcha doo:

let us hold nightly abandon prayer circles lol

a_rose_knows:

Let us create a new Abandon playlist: 1. “Strange Powers” ~ Magnetic Fields 2. “Heartbeat Song” ~ Futureheads ‌…‌

retro robot:

Let us assail the universe all week long with the hottest dancefic our giant intellects can produce.

whispering!sage:

we shall make them make out on the dance floor like whoa

amity crashful:

omg to “such great heights.” that song is everything they choose to be.

hey_mamacita:

YEA, VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, they shall dress up like sim and cadmus and give each other overpowering hotpants as they do each other’s makeup and sensuously button each other’s buttons.

sorcha doo:

**dead**

retro robot:

May our words take wing and lead them ever closer to each other as their wheels roll closer and closer to Long Beach. May they lock eyes over Ramen noodles in the RV and waltz in a Laundromat as their clothes entangle in the dryer.

hey_mamacita:

we ask this in the name of the Captain, the Android, and the Holy Spirit of One True Love.

amity crashful:

amen!!!

retro robot:

Amen.

hey_mamacita:

AMEN.

CastieCon #4

Long Beach, California

Chapter Sixteen

“Fellow fans and devoted followers,” Abel says to the camera, “welcome to Room 809 of the Long Beach Monarch Inn. Where right now, right in front of your very eyes, Brandon and I will perform an act of unprecedented intimacy.”

“I found the mascara,” I say.

“Perfect. Sit down, love. So tonight, obviously: the Castaway Ball. Which will change our lives forever, since the ballroom stage eight floors below us is now prepped and ready for two very very special guests‌—‌Sim and Cadmus themselves, David Darras and Ed Ransome. Bran‌…‌you okay?”

I’m fanning myself. “Whew. Just feeling faint.”

“You and every Cadsim shipper in this freakin’-damn hotel. So anyway, a sad and little-known fact about me and my friend here is that both of us missed our respective proms: Brandon tells me he was huddled miserably in his room, listening to Season 2 commentary tracks and nursing a pint of Cherry Garcia, while I on the other side of town was swearing oaths of eternal devotion in the blacklit basement of my ex-boyfriend, who in retrospect was so not worth it. So tonight we both get a do-over. And to make our evening an extra-large slice of teen-geek heaven, we’ve decided to give each other a little gift.”

“Yep. So stay tuned, to this space‌…‌”

“‌…‌because in less than a half-hour we’ll post again, and you’ll see exactly what happens when two ordinary queer boys from central PA become each other’s‌…‌” He swoops close to the camera. “‌…‌ultimate fantasy.”

I say, “You first, Tin Man.”

He says, “It will be my honor. Captain.”

***

This is how you turn a boy into an android.

First, on the long road from San Antonio to Long Beach, you read a half-dozen fics about this exact moment: when you’re in your hotel room and the Castaway Ball is a half-hour away and you’re standing in front of his black leather swivel chair, a confusion of dollar-store makeup pots and brushes spread out on the table. You act out details from the best stories. The way you dip the largest brush in the silvery powder and smooth it across his cheeks, and then lean in just a little to blow stray flecks off his nose. The way you gloss the comb with Amp-U Electric Blue gel, just enough to streak his white hair Sim-blue. You’re so gentle with the comb, it makes him think of when he was five and his mom would detangle his wet head while she told him his favorite bedtime story.

Then it’s your turn.

He’s faster with the hairspray and makeup brushes, just like the fics predicted. He makes your face a screenshot of Cadmus from the season finale’s last scene: bloodied and triumphant, right before he collapses from the crystal spider bite. Red lipstick blends with brown mascara for authentic blood spatters; he tousles and soft-spikes your hair to perfection and mists it with a spray that smells like apples. Then he swoops in close to draw the spider bite on your neck with an eyebrow pencil, like he does in this week’s installment of “How to Repair a Mechanical Heart,” except in the fic he’s also shirtless and his pecs are like a love poem engraved on his torso. Your heart whirs faster anyway.