Chapter Text
Adam hates Fergus Williams.
Well, he doesn’t
actually
hate Fergus Williams (He doesn’t think he could possibly muster up enough emotional repression and denial for that, and Adam has a
lot
of those). No, he more hates what Fergus represents. Stupid, frankly unprofessional, soppy love.
He’s never considered himself an emotional person. No ‘heart grows three sizes bigger’, no asshole with a secret heart of gold, no “learning what true love is”, no giving tree. He’s ductile, dependable, pure unfiltered twattery, and that’s what makes him a good mate, and better yet, good colleague.
Good mate, he firmly reminds himself, when he sees Fergus. Stupid Fergus in shorts.
He hates himself.
The self hatred is stronger when he’s leaning back against the awful gingham couch Fergus always makes fun of him for, second glass of pisspoor Tesco wine in hand and his grandmother’s old vinyls looping on the record player. Well, what’s actually wrong with loving Fergus? One part of his mind reasons, the one who watched When Harry Met Sally and cried. The other, more bitter, drop-kicked-a-mother-for-half-off-on-a-stereo side of his mind starts shoving a mental checklist down its throat. A fight ensues.
He thinks both of them are bloody pointless.
When he wakes up, he scrubs a hand over his face and imagines Fergus lightly making fun of how dishevelled he looks. Stupidly, annoyingly, it makes him smile. He tries not to think about it.
Tries being the operative word. Fergus goes on one of his long, embellished, jabbery rants at work, leaving Adam sitting patiently on that uncomfortable low-backed sofa, humming and I-see-ing. He zones out, and thinks about grey suit jackets being slipped off and kissing in the industrial lighting of the office. Fucking hell.
When he gets home, he receives several long-winded texts that he’s pretty sure could be considered death threats in the court of law slagging off their coworkers. He spends about an hour in the front of his flat’s door, keys in hand, staring at the screen, until some doddery bat next door gives him a strange look when she shuffles by. He’s hit with the sudden realisation that time is not, in fact, frozen, and hastily types out a reply that resembles wittiness.
A lot of the things in his life are inconsequential and pointless, he reflects, while his M&S spag bol spins in his dingy microwave. His family, his flat, his job, his favourite movies he’ll rant endlessly about after a couple of pints. But Fergus Williams, ginger, squash-playing, idiot in an ill fitting suit extraordinaire, is somehow important. He knows why that is, deep down, but deep down’s a lot of effort, and he’d rather not, thank you very much. Instead, he falls asleep to Pointless, having only guessed three of the answers, which were all worth above eighty, anyway.
He thought love was supposed to make you feel young. Why does it make him feel impossibly old?
Weeks pass by. He hates himself. He doesn’t. Wash, rinse, repeat, and tumble dry for good measure.
Fergus is as clueless as ever, umming and aaing and leaving a slow horde of J2o bottles in Adam’s wastepaper basket. They go to the pub and get tired after two rounds, but continue ordering anyway, chatting loudly because that’s what people like them do when they go to pubs.
Adam’s spent his entire life doing what he ought to do, or what other people did to fit in. He’s not a good person, but he’s an average person. Perfectly malleable, switching sides for whatever’s convenient. His mum told him he was like a cockroach. It says a lot he took it as a compliment. But now, well, bloody fucking hell, there’s not exactly a handbook , is there? No Saying I Love You To A Coworker At An Incredibly Public Job For Dummies, or awkward youtube tutorial with bad sound design. No, there’s only Adam’s frankly impressive cowardice, and the two simultaneous and equally desperate desires to cling on to him and tell him .
Optimist and pessimist. Annoying cunts.
He stalls. He blunders and pisses people off and shouts into his telephone and fixes Fergus’ mistakes and cancels squash and spends hours just staring . Staring at the little unnecessary swirly design on the ceiling of his boring flat, and wondering if in a year or two it’ll be exactly like this, cowardice and age and being a boring sod until he eventually retires and becomes a boring sod: Pro edition.
He doesn’t want that to happen. But it’s the safest bet, right?
Right.
They’re in the office. Adam is tired, because he usually is, and he doesn’t know how not to be. Fergus is talking to his mother in the other room, getting that stupid fond tone in his voice that’s somehow so endearing. The industrial lights are flickering. There’s a song stuck in his head.
He should just bloody do it.
He’s miserable, constantly, at this point it’s almost a fucking rule of life, so why not risk it? What does he have to lose?
The pessimist’s screaming and shouting. The optimist’s bricking it in. He wonders what wine the pessimist was promised.
Fergus finishes his call in the other room, and frowns. “Shit, you look awful.”
Adam can’t even drum up a witty retort. Oxford twat. Dickhead. Prickshit. Love of his life. “Well, I’m tired, aren’t I?” It comes off a little blunter than he anticipated.
“Alright.” Fergus responds, in a Calm-Down sort of way, which makes Adam both blindingly angry and a little ashamed. Dear Lord, he hates himself. “Sorry to say anything.”
Adam doesn’t respond. He idly gets his phone out of his pocket and fiddles around with it, not really sure what to do. He doesn’t want to bottle it, but it’s a bit fucking awkward now, saying I Love You after all that. He ends up keeping his stupid, stupid, idiotic, incompetent mouth shut, and not saying anything the entire taxi ride. He imagines dying in a horrible car accident. Wishful thinking.
When he gets back to his flat, he doesn’t fall asleep until three. Fergus doesn’t make fun of him in the morning.