Chapter Text
Simon was amid his third consecutive repeat of Saturday’s set, shaking the walls of his empty apartment, when the prick downstairs perked up.
A small note: the prick downstairs referred to his downstairs neighbour, an amendment made following the “stop oversharing about your cock, Jesus Christ Simon” look that Eden’s bassist, Ava, had shared with him when he complained (whined) about it the next afternoon.
Listen, Simon was no monster, he had implemented what he thoroughly believed to be effective soundproofing around his drumset. Unfortunately, his strategy of duct taping halved egg cartons to his walls was not exactly industry standard. Simon, too, had resolved that if someone were to complain about the noise, he would reschedule his practice and surrender himself to his insomnia. But then he just had to insult him. No way he’s caving to that bastard now.
His hatred for his faceless neighbour sat restlessly at the back of his mind as he buckled himself into Chica, his beat up red pickup, and sped his way to C.O.I Steelworks. Drums were great and all, but the financial relationship between music and himself was despairingly unrequited.
He cracked his knuckles, shifting his joints in a little wiggle as he prepared to trade the next 8 hours of his life for 100 odd dollars and a stiff back. No. Stop Simon. This is the negativity that David, his psychologist with whom he met– let’s say– contractually but stuck around with longer than his “contract” mandated, had been encouraging him to divert. Happy thoughts Simon, happy thoughts.
Hey, at least his asshat neighbour wasn’t here.
Simon leaned back into the headrest. Yes, that was certainly a positive.
A cyclist swerved off the pavement, bringing his overpacked bike basket frighteningly close to his side mirrors.
So much for positivity.
The highlighter impression of a man– God, he could count four shades of yellow across that outfit… unless those shoes were meant to be white– was stopped next to him at the red light. Red like all the lights had been that morning.
He reached over, unwinding his window with an embarrassing creak:
“Hey, asshole.”
The man turned to him, looked around, and gestured toward himself innocently.
“Yeah, you. Stay in your damn lane!” he groveled.
“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realise. I had a long night, sorry.” The man shouted over the traffic.
Simon sighed, maybe it was the heavy, purple bags lying beneath the man’s eyes, or maybe it was the rest of the face surrounding the eyebags– really, besides the coat, the man wasn’t difficult to look at. The coat, contrastingly, was a hard sight. So. Yellow. Like a dandelion fucked a lemon and then smeared its weird hybrid dandilemon babies over a banana.
“Whatever, just watch out, alright?” he rolled up his window.
It wasn’t his problem, not like he would ever see him again or anything.
####
Ryland Grace was exhausted.
A heavy weariness that made his eyes tingle and turned his mind into mush. ‘
Five minutes into lunch, he gave into the tender promise of his fatigue. It's fine, he set a timer on his phone. That hard, worn desk (complete with tasteful carvings of dicks) looked far too comfortable for him not to rest his head…
He awoke to his eighth grade class snickering, as they tucked in their chairs.
“See ya, Mr Grace!” Jerome called, sauntering out of the classroom.
What? Why was everyone leaving– the lesson had only just started.
Oh Newton. Lunch was an hour ago. The lesson on sound he had so thoroughly prepared the night before floated past him as if he were counting sheep.
Mmm. Sheep. Sleep.
Sleep would be nice.
Grace yawned widely.
Right. This needed to stop.
With the convicted resolve of a man operating on 2 hours of sleep and the sheer longing to return back to his bed, Grace pulled out a sheet of scrap paper, and got to work.
How to apologise… he tapped his chin thoughtfully, or tried to, at least, in his weary delirium his aim centred more to the right side of his jaw.
Flowers? No. He didn’t cheat on him, come on Ryland, get your head in the game.
A new pair of drumsticks? Drumming was at least one of the man’s passions, but he didn’t want to encourage the behaviour. And besides, if he took the apology the wrong way the whole encounter could go… ass backwards. No, what are you doing– don’t think too hard about the psychoanalytical implications of that. Listen, it was an extreme jump, but Grace had watched the Book of Mormon musical three times, he would take no chances.
Home baked goods? Actually, that wasn’t all that bad.
Easy, all he had to do was pop by the store, grab some cake mix, grab a cupcake tray, and learn how to use his untouched oven.
He was not prepared for the amount of decision making involved in picking out a box-mix.
Vanilla? That’s the classic, plain, tasteful. But did it give the impression that he didn’t care?
Chocolate. That’s timeless. But what if his taste in cupcake flavours was more… esoteric?
Carrot cake? Too divisive.
Peanut butter? What if he was deathly allergic?
Grace stood in front of the baking aisle, paralysed.
Maybe… lemon.
No. Nobody likes lemon.
Grace settled on banana bread. This was arguably, not a cake. But y’know, life might not need water to exist, banana bread can be delivered in the anatomy of a cupcake– Grace was a man chock full of mad ideas.
Grace checked the back of the box– what?
This thing needed both eggs and milk. What was the point of buying the forking box mix then– it’s not like people had those items just lying around in their houses. Grace huffed, shoveling bricks of instant ramen into his basket, might as well do the groceries whilst he was here.
This was a disaster. Good gravy, what had he been thinking.
Grace, despite all his scientific experience, was failing to follow the methodology listed on the back of the banana bread mix.
He picked out another shard of egg shell from the... bubbling... mixture. Good enough. A little shell never hurt anybody.
Grace scooped the concoction haphazardly into his new tray, and fed it to the oven with a whisper of positive affirmation to the poor, gooey lumps.
Meanwhile, Grace set himself to making a proper apology card. Using his limited artistic ability, he drew a drum kit with a sad face next to it, and wrote across the top of the card:
“I’m Sorry :(“
He was certain that the additional sad face would truly convey his remorse.
He evaluated his kitchen, used thoroughly for the first time since Grace moved in. He clapped his hands together, cleaning, at least, was an activity he knew he could do.
After scrubbing his dirty dishes, a line of dust coating his unused ceiling fan caught his eyes. Well he better fix that. Stood precariously on his single dining chair he wiped the fan clean. Much better.
Oh, well from up here he can see all the dust in his apartment! It was quite the hygiene hazard actually.
And so, Grace went about cleaning the nooks and crannies of his apartment, from the skirting to the unused edges, to the borders of picture frames left neglected on his broken desk.
He stood back, admiring the cleanliness of his apartment. Beautiful, if it wasn’t for that smell…
Oh crud. The cakes.
Grace rushed to extract the charred cupcakes from the oven. Thankfully, they were burnt, but not smoking, meaning that in Grace’s book he could just scrape off the black char and call it a day.
He arranged his present, clapped his hands together with pride at his banana bread cupcakes (what a unique and thoughtful flavour!) and left the present at the doorstep of his neighbour.
Then, he promptly passed out on the lounge, covered in charred banana bread and still wearing that bright yellow coat.
####
Simon, exhausted from a long shift at C.O.I Steelworks, collapsed into his driver’s seat. He spared himself exactly 1 minute, 45 seconds to stare blankly at the steering wheel, before turning the key and heading downtown.
Eden met in the garage of their singer, Paul, three times per week. They would practice for around 4 hours, or Ava and Simon would practice for 4 hours whilst the rest of the band distracted themselves.
For example, now.
Paul was attempting to whip the lead of the microphone against his leg for dramatic effect. Sarah, their lead guitarist, engendered this behaviour by using the notes of her Gibson as a sort of impromptu rating system.
Simon and Ava shared an exasperated look.
“Butcher!” Paul called.
“Got any lyrics for me?”
Simon shook his head.
“Not right now, thought we were focusing on covers to get our names out there?”
Paul staggered toward him, snaking the lead around himself.
“Yeah dude, but I got a girl I need to impress. Whatever. I’ll use a song we already have. Let’s pick it up from Lithium.”
Simon nodded, sitting up straight and counting,
“1…2…3…4”
As muscle memory took over, and the thudding bass drum anchored his mind in the music, Simon felt himself melt into the rhythm. It was a beautifully strange line between presence and disconnect which Simon had always found alluring. When he played, he lost himself. He was his drums.
“Butcher! You’re going too heavy man, you’re losing time.”
Simon snapped up, the spell broken.
“What?”
“Yeah dude, this is my song y’know, I’m sort of the singer… stop overdoing it back there on the drums.”
Simon grit his teeth.
“Right, sorry.”
Fucking asshole.
After practice, Ava cornered him.
“You alright?” she asked.
“I’m fine, a little pissed, but that’s Paul for you.”
Ava chuckled.
“Gym this Friday?”
“Sure.”
“Excellent. You can tell me all about your neighbour who, what was it, makes your downstairs perk up?”
Simon groaned.
“I make one mistake with my wording… besides, I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Why don’t you find out? Remind me how long it’s been since you’ve been on a date…” Ava teased.
“Fuck no” Simon replied, hopping into his truck.
The sun had long set when Simon returned to his apartment complex. He was tired, a little angry, but mostly confused.
Downstairs had left a present.
A plastic container, covered in scratches and the handle half fallen off, filled with muffins, alongside a handmade card.
Simon went for the card first, despite the humble exterior, the interior contained a rather long winded paragraph that featured the word “sorry” around 15 times.
He opened the container and gave the contents a cautious whiff.
Nope.
He returned the muffins back downstairs and shoved the card into his kitchen drawer. Well, the bastard would get what he wanted tonight, between the C.O.I and practice he was a blink away from sleep.
It’s fine, he’ll double his practice tomorrow night, God knows that Paul was one public stuff-up away from kicking him out of the band.
Committed to his decision, Simon kicked back in bed, and prepared for a night spent rewatching “50 First Dates”. There was nothing like a good rom-com to soothe the soul.
####
When Grace awoke from his nap (it lasted eight hours, this, most would argue, had crossed over into "sleep" territory) and checked outside his door.
His jaw dropped in offense.
His neighbour, that son of a monkey, had returned his cakes!
He picked up the offending container, only to find a note scribbled inside it:
“I don’t want your poison muffins.”
Grace, initially, felt a flame of anger ignite in his chest. This had not been a cheap endeavor. He certainly wouldn’t splurge on poison, not when there were far more effective ways to murder his neighbour.
After the initial anger subsided (it was truly amazing how proper rest changes a person) Grace felt a wave of humiliation crash into him.
He had realised, after reflecting on the note left by his neighbour, that banana bread cupcakes were not a particularly unique idea, and in fact were proliferated as part of a subspecies of baked goods: muffins.
He was so overcome by his inner turmoil, that he failed to notice the absence of pounding reverberations travelling through his walls, and the silent serenity of his apartment.
To distract himself from his strife, he opened his laptop and pulled up “The Wedding Singer.” There was nothing like a good rom-com to soothe the soul.