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Andrew never knows what day he's living on.
He should get a calendar, like the one his dad gifted him so many months ago back when he started to live on his own. He needed help moving everything to the small one-room apartment and his dad offered a helping hand which he didn't refuse. A cardboard box with basic necessities infiltrated among his stuff, and Andrew then had a calendar as well as an alarm clock.
He did get to use them the time he lived there, but they got lost at some point. Perhaps it happened during that time he turned the apartment upside down to get more space to practice; perhaps it happened when he stopped living there at all.
He's been thinking about getting one, mostly to remember when he has a special event he must attend; Fletcher has to give him a multitude of reminders and warnings to assure Andrew is aware of every activity that's been scheduled for him, and it's a miracle that the man has endured this long without much complaint.
He's always lost as to whether he's living a Monday or a Friday, a Wednesday or a Sunday, let alone know the dates.
Not that it matters. Every day feels the same, in some way. It's more like he's living an eternal day, or like he's trapped in a time loop living the same day again, again, again. Sometimes his day begins with absolute darkness, in the middle of the night, and ends with the rising sun —that's not the way it's supposed to be, is it?—; days mingle into nights and nights mingle into days, there's no start and no end, all over again.
So when he wakes up at 1:00 p.m. with a raging headache, the least he cares about is what day it is.
Fortunately, a text sent hours ago from none other than his dad, proves itself useful at answering that question.
8:03 a.m. — Happy Valentine's day! May you have a joyful life with the ones you love and cherish!
It sounds like an automated message by a bot. Since when did Valentine's day extend to family? This was supposed to be a couples-only celebration, as far as he knew. Still, his dad tends to use any excuse to text him, so this doesn't really come up as a surprise.
8:07 a.m. — Do you have any plans for today? We could always watch a movie together
He's quick to write back an answer.
1:14 p.m. — happy day. I have practice, sorry
His phone doesn't have enough time to display a black screen before he's obtained a reply.
1:14 p.m. — But you can always practice. Today is special!
1:14 p.m. — I got some of the chocolates you like
No need to.
1:15 p.m. — next time
He finally leaves bed and this time, he doesn't take his phone with him.
.
The shower helps with his headache, but it doesn't entirely make it go away.
And maybe it's the brief conversation with his dad, or the unrelenting capitalism that fills his phone with ads of flowers and heart-shaped cushions, but he can't stop thinking about it. Everyone seems to be way too excited. Is this how things are supposed to go? Maybe he really should get a calendar to plan things ahead.
His thoughts are interrupted with the appearance of the only person he could spend the day —and any day whatsoever— with. He's not even met with a good morning, but Andrew didn't plan on giving a greeting either.
"What are the plans for today?"
"What do you mean 'what plans'?" Fletcher doesn't turn around to look at him as he opens the fridge to grab the lemonade jar he always keeps at the bottom. It's weird to see the object and think about its sour taste, considering Andrew has just begun eating his cereal. The man sits down in front of him, fork in one hand and newspaper in the other; deep down it's nice not to eat alone, despite their different schedules.
"Yeah, for today."
"For a Wednesday? I don't know, what do you feel like doing, sweetheart?" He begins, taking his eyes off the newspaper and sending a pointed look to Andrew over his reading glasses, "It's not Sunday so church is out of the table, I suppose."
Andrew suspects Fletcher is deliberately messing up with him. He's not this dense. He can't be this dense, can he? Fuck, he's not sure now. Maybe Fletcher doesn't have a calendar either and he doesn't know what day it is.
"It's Valentine's day." Andrew feels so stupid even saying it, but the crooked grimace on Fletcher's mouth is worth anything. It even makes him forget why the fuck did he bring out the topic in the first place.
In fact, why did he?
Fletcher lets an entire minute go by, waiting for Andrew to laugh or break into a smile he's sure holding back. It doesn't happen. He's stopped trying to understand whatever may be going on inside that smooth brain of Andrew's; he'll never get it.
"Oh, right. Sure, how could I forget? I actually have a dinner reservation for us later. At the Empire State."
"Mh." Here comes a Fletcher-special comment, Andrew can feel it.
"Then we'll come home to watch Love Actually while eating ice cream." His gaze falls on the newspaper once again, to remark how less of a fuck he gives. Remind him, why are they having this conversation?
Andrew thinks about it. "I've never watched it."
"What the fuck? Really?" His comment really throws Fletcher off, his mocking stance breaking. "What do kids even watch nowadays?"
"How the fuck would I know?"
This is pointless. Why did he say this in the first place?
He waits for something, anything, from Fletcher. A beat goes by.
"There's practice from 4:00 to 8:00."
"You mean, like every day? Wow, thanks. Super romantic. Did you plan this on your own or did you ask a wedding planner for advice?"
"Just so you know, I originally meant for you to start practice earlier. This is an accommodation, you ungrateful bastard. Take it or leave it."
"Oh my god, you're so loving and so caring." Andrew punctuates, finishing with an honest "Fuck you, I'm coming at 5:00," before standing up and leaving the room.
He didn't really want anything, but it was worth the shot. Like either of them were capable of doing anything remotely romantic.
.
"Am I at least getting a break in between?" Andrew asks once he's seated in front of the drums.
"I ain't giving you shit. Stop asking."
A shame.
Practice begins.
His hands are sweating even more than usual, and he can't quite reach the tempo Fletcher wants. It's not a good day for either of them.
"Wait, let me—" he interrupts Fletcher for the umpteenth time to dry off his hands against his denim. Some brown dots are painted on the washed blue color of the pants; fuck, he really needs to buy darker denim pants, otherwise it looks like he never washes his clothes.
Fletcher brings a hand to stroke the wrinkle forming on forehead as he closes his eyes. He's not happy. He can handle an overly excited and almost manic Andrew or a tired Andrew, but it's difficult to understand this current mood, when his mind is racing miles away from his body. It's not good.
"Ready?" He doesn't wait for an answer, already lifting his finger to mark the cue to start.
"Wait." The tone comes out as more exasperated than Andrew intends. This isn't right —he's unsure about what's exactly wrong, but something isn't right .
He stands up to turn around the stool he's seated on, then uses the handle to reduce its height. He sits again. It's still wrong .
"What do you think you're doing?" Fletcher asks from a meter afar, walking in circles around the room.
"I can feel it sticking up my ass."
"The only thing you'll feel up your ass is my foot, if you keep complaining nonstop."
Andrew doesn't dignify him with an answer. It's not his fault Fletcher hasn't changed his furniture in the past two decades. At least the drum set is decent.
He plays some more. It doesn't really work out.
"Take a walk, a shower, a dump if it helps, but make sure that when you come back, you'll play . What I've heard for the past hour isn't any actual playing." The older man orders less than ten minutes later and Andrew might hate it, but he's probably going to take his word. "Now get the fuck out of here."
Andrew stands up and the motion is painful in both a physical and spiritual sense; his back hurts but his pride is more wounded. He wants to play, he really does ; for some reason his hands disagree though.
A hand on his chest puts him to a halt, and a pair of menacing blue eyes threaten him some more before leaving, "I expect you to play properly when you come back. Don't set a foot in my sight if you're not going to do that. Am I clear?"
Andrew shakes the hand off with a grunt, walking past Fletcher.
.
It turns out that a walk around the city both helps and wrecks him up. Every street is filled with couples, friend groups and whatnot, and the sight kind of hurts his eyes. He's offered to buy chocolates, balloons and roses wherever he goes —even on his trip to the pizzeria—, and it's exhausting. Is this how people his age waste their time?
When he comes back, he's sure to make as much noise as possible with his keys. Once he's in front of Fletcher lying on the couch with nothing in sight —he tends to to that a lot : just lying down doing nothing, staring at the wall in front of him with a melancholic look on his eyes; he once saw him shed a tear when he was so concentrated he didn't notice Andrew had arrived to the room. It's fucking weird—.
"Catch."
He throws a plastic bag aiming for his face. Maybe now that he's deep in thought he won't see it coming. Nope, Fletcher falls to the side to avoid the impact. Not that it would cause much pain, but the bag is bulky; it would've been a pleasant sight.
Bag in hand, Fletcher holds the thing like it's a bomb, and maybe he should . Andrew is capable of anything, for better or for worse.
Undoing the carelessly made knot to secure its contents, Fletcher gets his hand inside, not parting away from Andrew's gaze the entire time.
He grabs what's inside and takes it out. It's a knitted winter hat. A light blue one.
It has a fur ball at the top. It's fluffy.
Fletcher finally focuses his attention on something that isn't Andrew. Namely, the price tag with a "50% off!" discount mark that Andrew intentionally left on. He wonders if Fletcher can even read what it says without his glasses, even as the man puts the tiny cardboard as far as he can to make out the letters on it, squinting his eyes.
"Really?" He tries to convey every single one of his thoughts through his unexcited tone and it works.
Of course it's a fucking winter hat with a fucking fur ball . Like he doesn't stand enough of Andrew's shit about his baldness. Very funny.
"You need one."
"Stop the obsession with my head. You'll end up like me in some years. Mark my words." He turns the object around and inside out; it's soft to the touch —better than that weird type of yarn that makes him itchy. At least Andrew was thoughtful enough to grant him this mercy.
"I hardly think so."
Deep inside, Fletcher agrees. For some reason, he's always had trouble trying to picture an older Andrew. He can add white hair or even a bald head —and ignoring the fact that the image is highly unpleasant— it feels like an absolute fantasy: something that only belongs to his mind and has no correlation to the real world. It'd be the same if he imagined Andrew with wings and a tail: it's not real.
Instead, he opts to stay quiet as he takes one more look at the hat.
He already has one —one winter hat, that is. It's a black one that's subtle and warm enough to protect him from the cold.
The one he's holding in his hands is nothing like the one he uses and likes.
"You should be thankful." Andrew catches Fletcher's attention with his voice. "I was between that one and a hat with hanging fur balls."
"Can't figure out why you wouldn't invest in such an extraordinary product."
"It was more expensive," he answers, "and you would throw it on my face without hesitation the moment you fell on your wrinkled hands."
Andrew is absolutely right.
But it's not like this is any better. "This definitely pushes the limit," Andrew continues, "but it's still within the limits of what I can force you to wear," he confidently finishes.
Fletcher raises his eyebrows, incredulous, but Andrew knows he's right.
He doesn't put the hat on. Andrew will have to accomplish that task on his own if he ever wants to see Fletcher wear it.
Andrew shrugs as he sits next to Fletcher on the couch. "Still, it's better than nothing." There's pure pettiness in his voice.
Hell, Andrew is never letting this go, is he? He just will never drop it.
He'll bring it up for the following five discussions —so, for the next two weeks, give or take—, in the ones where they yell at each other until their throats ache and throw things aiming for the contrary's eyes. The ones in which Andrew threatens to destroy his apartment, even though he's only managed to break a framed picture so far, earning a closed fist blow in the process.
Fletcher can sense it.
By now, he knows better than to start a fight in the kitchen if he doesn't feel like buying a new crockery set, after discovering Andrew's tendency to break glasses and mugs alike. The floor ends up covered with sharp, tiny, pointy pieces, afterwards. It's a pain in the ass to clean them.
"I'm not wearing this," he says instead of "thank you".
"I don't care," Andrew says instead of "you're welcome".
They decide to take a break to have dinner. It's a tasty meal.
.
"Enough chit-chat. Back to practice," Fletcher announces when it's been twenty minutes since Andrew gave the last bite to his burrito.
Andrew complies.
As soon as he takes his seat in front of the drums though, he notices there's something different.
Raising his head to find the person responsible for this, it's obvious Fletcher is trying too hard to appear nonchalant as he searches for something inside his bag —the one he used to keep his stuff, back at Shaffer.
He stays quiet, starts to play.
There's no better way to talk to Fletcher than through jazz.
When he's done, Fletcher is serious, but the ever-present wrinkle on his forehead is nowhere to be seen.
"It's better than before, at least," is his final verdict.
Andrew laughs. How does he put up with this ridiculous man on a daily basis?
"It's because this seat suddenly doesn't stick up in my ass."
"Don't blame the stool for your ineptitude."
He laughs again. Fletcher pays him no mind; he expected Andrew's reaction to be something among these lines.
When he's done laughing and the only evidence of such a heartfelt expression is his loop-sided smile, Andrew is suddenly stricken by the thoughts that have been consuming his mind from the very moment his eyes landed on his phone.
"Why are we like this?" He asks, all sober-minded.
"What do you mean?"
"You'd rather beat me up with the drumsticks than admit you bought me a new seat," Fletcher opens his mouth, about to interrupt but Andrew stops him, "Shut up. You're just proving my point." Fletcher closes his mouth as he shakes his head, and Andrew continues, "But honestly, I don't blame you. I'd rather have you yelling the shit out of me than making any pretense at a romantic gesture." He cringes at the mere thought. “We should treat each other better, though. Try to be like a normal couple.”
"Why would you want that, in the first place?"
Andrew reflects about it.
He thinks, thinks, thinks.
Fuck, Fletcher's right.
He nods. "I don't."
Fletcher smiles in response.
Standing up, feeling drops of sweat fall from his wet hair as he walks towards the other man, Andrew gets a valentine's kiss at last.
He also gets a book thrown at him, hours later during practice.
Both actions make him equally happy.
It's a good day, indeed.
• • • •
Am I good at love?
Or am I bad at love?
Is this flow out? (Save me now, save me)
The doubt that I can’t erase now (Good at love or bad at love?)
A loop that cannot be escaped from
Truth in the veil
I’m addicted to love
So baby tell me, am I good at love?
(Am I?)
“Good at love” - TWICE
• • • •