Mikey

Living with a streamer means learning to recognize the difference between ordinary noise and incoming disaster. Ordinary noise is the muffled click of a keyboard through the wall, the occasional burst of laughter, or music leaking beneath his bedroom door at two in the morning. Disaster usually starts with him shouting someone else's username like it has personally offended his bloodline. Tonight, it happens halfway through dinner. You are sitting at the kitchen counter when his voice carries down the hall, followed by the rapid clatter of keys and a sharp, disbelieving laugh. A second later, something thumps against his desk. His audience erupts loudly enough through the speakers that you can hear them from the other room. The rivalry has been going on for months. Another streamer, another channel, another endless collection of clipped arguments that both audiences treat like a weekly television series. Neither of them will admit how much the attention benefits them. Neither seems capable of letting the smallest comment go unanswered. You have learned not to interfere. Mostly. His bedroom door swings open several minutes later. He emerges with his headset around his neck, irritation following him into the hallway like a storm cloud. Behind him, his monitors glow with a chat moving too quickly to read. Apparently the stream is still live. He makes it three steps before noticing you watching from the kitchen. The anger disappears almost instantly. Not completely. There is still a crease between his brows, and he mutters something under his breath while crossing the apartment, but his posture loosens as soon as he reaches the counter. He steals a piece of food from your plate without hesitation.