Housefire

He pushed his way into the seemingly abandoned office, carrying a caddy of cleaning supplies in his hand as he put his phone in his pocket.

 

Sun streamed in through the windows of Roblox HQ, illuminating the issued desk in a honeyed glow. Leaning towers of commands and papers awaited the occupant's divine approval, stacked neatly in cardboard-coated reams on his desk. The glare from the gold-plated nametag on the desk shone back at him as he set the cleaning supplies on the chair in front of the occupant’s desk, where clients (or, usually, Builderman) would sit and talk to him. That would be the first thing he'd clean; his nametag. The gilded wood plaque was light in his hands, shining as he turned it over and ran his thumb over each letter of the name. ‘Telamon.’ The name seemed to linger, sugar rotting his teeth and caressing each indent and curve in his mouth; ‘Telamon.’ If he said it any more, he was sure his teeth would fall out of his face, and his dentist would surely be upset at him. He had a sweet tooth, after all: never had a cavity, since he never let himself indulge, but if there was going to be any sweet to satisfy his eternal cravings, he’d imagine it tasting like his name. Telamon. He hadn’t seen the person whose name this belonged to in quite some time (seeing as his paperwork was piled high as the Roblox towers), but his name seemed to melt in his mouth and bring him familiar comforts.

 

He took to wiping a cloth over the nametag, making each indent and valley pop out of the sheet that covered the front. He replaced the dirty cloth in his hands with a dry one, as well as a spray bottle full of the cleaning liquid they used before budget cuts (Builderman hoarded it, pulling it out for special occasions or special clients or just special people), and soaked the clean rag in it. He got to work, scrubbing circles into the thinly caked layer of dust on Telamon's desk.

 

Contrary to popular belief, work was not the only thing Builderman cared about— it was simply the thing he loved the most. He relished every square inch of paper, licking his envelopes and kissing dots into the 'i's of his signature with the passion of a lover. In a literal and metaphorical sense, he was made for it; it was his purpose, to inspire and enable creativity in Robloxians and to protect their creative freedom. In the early days of Roblox, there was always something to be done. As the years passed, though this was still very much true, he’d gotten more people on the team and also developed more efficient systems to conquer and handle the large workload. Now he saw the awful, rotten fruits of his labor: calmness and tranquility. In the absence of duties to fill up his calendar with, he’d walked the streets of Robloxia and signed as many foreheads or posters as he possibly could have; he’d looked over everyone’s work, closed exploit loopholes, met with clients, signed new deals. He praised the Heights every time he got messages that the servers were down, all because it gave him something to do. His efficiency was his greatest source of pride, and he shone as one of the faces of Roblox— and yet, it was his greatest downfall.

 

So, he’d started trying to improve the workplace morale and environment. He’d gone and swapped late shifts with other admins so his colleagues got their well-deserved rest, and gone and set up catering for their office now that they had extra cash to spend. He’d make more public appearances with the other admins, encouraging them all to get out (in the sunlight) and spent some of his own spare time helping other creators script and model. Out of everyone, he’d admittedly grown to look forward to the time he and Telamon spent together the most. Hence why he was cleaning Telamon's desk instead of tackling the mountain of his own tasks. Telamon’s office should have been full of their laughter and conversation. Builderman stood alone in the early morning hours, quiet sighs or huffs of breath kicking up dust, accompanied only by the occasional percussive thud of rearranged souvenirs on Telamon’s desk.

 

Creative director of their team, he held a sensitivity that Builderman couldn’t help but admire. Recently, they've grown a habit of going to visit new Places together. They must've looked quite silly out together in such clean contrasts (and certainly attracted attention), but he liked watching the gears turn in Telamon’s head to figure out what the gimmick of the game was instead of defaulting to ruthless criticism. Builderman still did accompany him to SFOTH on occasion, but really, half of the time, he was admiring the handiwork of the Heights. Telamon really did deserve his title of Creative Director. His Place had its own unique culture and dedicated daisy-chains of posts just on the different advantages and disadvantages of each sword. It inspired people to come together. Ironic, considering the purpose of the game. Builderman had laughed out loud when he thought of it, then quickly apologized. Telamon must’ve been rubbing off on him, making him impolite, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a good thing— it was the first time he'd laughed out loud in months.

 

Though others certainly thought Telamon was mysterious, Builderman couldn't help but get lost in him. Every little move or word of his overwhelmed Builderman, making his skin flush with chills of electrical fingertips raking down his spine. He kept him up at night. Not with stress, but with a nameless anxiety that loomed over him constantly. Especially at night, and especially when he was talking to Telamon. Most importantly of all, he approached everything with a wildfire of sincere passion and determination. He chased pleasure thoughtlessly and without hesitation, racing to catch the sunlight of the Heights in his hands and dance in the rain of blood without regard to those he mowed down. Builderman was no dancer, but he could certainly admire his lack of restraint and boundless zeal.

 

What enamored him most was that they came from different sides of the same coin of ideation. Builderman wasn’t a poet, he was an engineer and a businessman. He didn’t wax verse in iambic pentameter, he built things and encouraged things to be built. He couldn’t write a novel, but he knew with divinely human intuition that Telamon was tempting— destroying. He glittered like the gold in a greedy man’s dreams, just like the sunlight that Builderman looked forward to every time he walked to his office. Builderman couldn't help thinking of him; he loved enabling creativity, and Telamon was nothing but creative. He’d let him handle all the pretty words. He’d admire them— light filtering through stained glass, glittering the colors of the rainbow on floors he’d dutifully keep up just to see them shine.

 

With Telamon’s desk clean, Builderman turned his attention to the reams of paper stacked atop Telamon’s desk. Which to tackle first?

 

Reports? No, Telamon liked ‘serving justice,’ or whatever he called it.

 

Approvals? No, Telamon liked laughing at bad ideas.

 

Bug fixes? … Maybe.

 

… Bug fixes it was. The number of reams covered as many issues as there were Places in Roblox, and he figured this one thing was a good start. Guilt grew in his stomach as he took in the sight of the gaping hole one ream being removed left. He was just restless, exhibiting some strange nervous compulsion, and that's why his stomach flitted with nerves at imagining the look of relief on Telamon's face when he looked upon his clean desk and the absence of much work to do at all. The truth was that as much as he missed him, he knew he couldn't keep Telamon caged here with him at HQ. He was only strong enough to skirt around the topic and hope that wherever Telamon was, he was doing alright.

 

He flipped open the first manila folder and got to work.