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It had been a lazy day with a breeze that had been just cool enough to motivate the city to drag through the hot June afternoon and the sun had begun to set, slowly dipping below the brick buildings and trees that stood in a grid that made up the town.
Frenchie was draped across the couch languid and sleepy, ready to go to bed. The window in the curved alcove a few feet away was cracked open and the breeze snuck in and kissed him on the nose, dancing through his hair and into the apartment. The heat was finally breaking for the day. Frenchie's fingers quietly and arbitrarily plucked the strings on his guitar, letting the notes resound off the walls and the oak hardwood floors.
The clock struck six and as if they were in a storybook where everything was perfect and nice, the front door opened and Wee John came in from work.
"Hey." Frenchie called, not moving from where he was on the couch. His knee poked out from his shorts and he swayed it back and forth, feeling the cool wind caress his legs and feet.
"That was a bitch of a shift," John said, taking off his shoes followed eagerly by the disgustingly uncomfortable suit that his work insisted he wear for etiquette's sake. He disappeared inside his bedroom for a moment before coming back out in much more comfortable clothing that were also more appropriate for the weather that day had rained down upon them. Well...sunned? He came over to the couch and stood behind the backrest, placing a hand on Frenchie's knee. "How was your day?"
"Probably easier than yours," Frenchie mused, looking back up at his friend. "You alright?"
"Oh I'll be fine," said Wee John dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Just ruddy business."
"Well, they're lucky to have you. So am I. You help pay rent."
"Yeah, and you help keep the place clean. We've been over this."
"What's with the shirt?"
"What shirt?" Wee John frowned.
"The one you're wearing, stupid, why so fancy?"
"It's just a button down. I'm not going to wear my pajamas to dinner."
Now Frenchie felt like the stupid one. He sat up, putting his guitar aside.
"Dinner?" he asked.
"With Pete and Lucius." Wee John reminded him.
Both men stared at each other intensely for a minute, like they were trying to telepathically get on the same page. Frenchie came around first.
"Right. Dinner. I was...supposed to cook something. And then I didn't. What time are we supposed to be there?" he said, standing and stretching before heading over to the kitchen and pouring through the cupboards and cabinets for something he might be able to whip up quick enough.
"Like 6:30?"
"Fuck."
---
They arrived at 6:42 with a pot of canned soup. They'd rehearsed the lie on the bus, that it wasn't Campbell's Italian Wedding Soup, but a recipe of John's grandmother that had been passed out for generation. Wee John was Irish now and the old man sitting across from them stared at the men clinging onto their every word, hearing the most interesting story he'd heard in half a century.
"Hey what took you guys so long? You're twelve minutes late." Pete said, dead serious with a tone like a white suburban mother who was upset at her girlfriends for being late to wine night.
"More like Lucius every day, I see." Frenchie remarked, coming inside.
"Shoes off at the door. I don't want dirt in the house." Lucius called, already at the table.
"Yes sir, Your Highness, sir." Wee John muttered.
"What, will you have us call you God next?" Frenchie said, coming in and giving Lucius a hug, smiling broadly.
It was good to be amongst friends. There were several more pans on the stove and Wee John set the pot down. The can of soup they'd opened and dumped in looked so sad compared to the colourful variety of dishes Pete had whisked up, and it all smelled amazing.
Wee John and Frenchie weren't the most successful of cooks and much of their diet consisted of takeout and pizza boxes, canned goods and food Wee John's mother would often drop off and though delicious was never fresh and always a little bit stale.
The meal that was lain out on the table by comparison to all of that looked like something fit for Goldilocks, Frenchie thought, picky bitch didn't eat much but he doubted she'd think twice about this. He took a step forward and then he saw it, like an evil villain that stood between the hero and the final prize, and immediately any inkling of an appetite that French had was gone.
He'd had a good day. It had been a good day. Frenchie had had a good day.
He'd lain on the couch and watched Doctor Who, watered the plants and tuned his guitar. After lunch he'd spoken on the phone with Jim for a while and said hi to Oluwande. He'd gotten the groceries with minimal conflict and settled back down on the couch strumming his guitar again until John had come home.
It had been a good day.
Frenchie kept reminding himself that as he stared in front of him, his eyes wide with alarm. It had been a good day, this wasn't a big deal.
His hands gripped the counter top so hard his knuckles went pale and his mouth went dry as paper.
"Mate, are you alright?" Wee John asked him, having already brushed past him and sitting down at the table.
Frenchie wanted to respond, perhaps say "yeah, im fine." or "never better", but his mouth didn't move, and even if he did he didn't think he could form a coherent noise right now.
His eyes were trained on a fluffy white loaf sitting on a chair next to Lucius, basking in a ray of sun, asleep and content. Lucius stared at him, weird.
"Why are you staring at my cat like that? Stop it?" he asked Frenchie, who hadn't moved an inch. He blinked, rapidly and forced himself to move, anyhwere, just move, you cant just stay standing still like an idiot.
Cat. They got a cat. Lucius and Pete had gotten a cat and they hadn't told him. They had gotten a cat and they hadn't told him. They got, hadn't told him. The cat. It was.
The cat was going to kill him, maybe Lucius and Pete wanted to kill him Maybe he shouldn't have made those jokes earlier They had gotten a cat and they hadn't told him and they wanted to kill him Stop it. stop
The closing of Pete and Lucius' apartment door snapped him out of zoning out, but the thoughts still ran rampant in his head. His hands started shaking and he ran his thumb over his fingers, pacing back and forth in front of the door.
They wanted to no stop that's stupid youre stupid this is all stupid
He tried counting in his head, but that turned into needing to count to ten ten times because if he didn't the cat would teleport outside and kill him early. Silently, he tapped each finger against his leg twice, over and over, pacing, his breathing erratic. It felt like eons before he turned and found Wee John standing behind him.
Frenchie jumped a little and rubbed his palms on the sides of his shirt, apologizing, trying to find the words.
"I'm sorry, uh, there was the cat and uh, it was going to, I just had to go." he got out, gasping in a breath. A hand took his and Frenchie flinched, but relaxed, remembering that this was Wee John's hand, and he would never be hurt at his hand. Ever. They had made that assurance years ago when they first became friends and he would tell Frenchie as many times as he needed to hear it. All night if he had to.
what if it wasn't wee john though
Frenchie pushed the thought away and focused on the feeling of the hand that wasnt his own gently running their thumb over his knuckles, rubbing circles onto the back of his hand.
Frenchie focused on the circles.
"Don't apologize, just, breathe for me, you look like you're gonna pass out." Wee John reminded him.
Frenchie breathed.
Gradually, his head stopped spinning and the ringing in his ears subsided a bit. He gained control of his thoughts once more and he stared at the floor, embarrassed.
After seven years of friendship, Frenchie was still embarrassed.
"We can go home if you like. I'll just tell the guys I've got a headache or something, it's not a big deal." Wee John said after a while.
Frenchie shrugged.
"I'm hungry." he replied after a long silence.
"I'll go see if the cat's still at the table." Wee John nodded, opening the door to the apartment again, Frenchie trudging in behind him.
Pete was putting the cat away in its crate in their bedroom, and Lucius stood in the hallway chewing his lip and feeling guilty. He began speaking the second he heard the door open.
"Hey, I'm so sorry about Norma. I completely forgot you had a phobia, and I didn't mean to trigger anything, I'm so sorry and-"
"It's alright mate," Frenchie said, smiling a little, finding his pep again little by little. "Not your fault. Or the cat's for that matter."
"Oh thank god I thought I was going to have to bake you apology muffins and I can't bake for shit."
Frenchie laughed softly.
"Can we still stay for dinner?"