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Brad and Ray do not, strictly speaking, celebrate Valentine’s Day.
Or any holidays, for that matter, because Brad’s rarely home for any of them, and when he is, they’ve got better things to do with their time than spending money on frivolous commodities. The only exception is July 4th, and that’s because it’s a great excuse to drag out the barbecue.
It’s just that – Ray gets distracted, alright, this isn’t anything new, it’s not the first time this has happened and it definitely won’t be the last – his eye met the Valentine’s Day card of his dreams, and now he has to buy it, fucking groceries be damned. He shuffles the second bag of groceries under his left arm, and plants his chin on top of an orange so it won’t go rolling away to be an active hazard. He’s not sure he’d be able to afford grandma’s next hip replacement if she happens to put her foot on it and slip.
He grabs the card plus matching red envelope out of the rack, and wanders over to the service desk. The girl behind it looks down at the card, at him, then down at the card again. It looks like she’s trying very, very hard not to say something. Instead, she just asks if he needs a stamp with that, and when he says no, she shrugs. He manages to scramble some change out of his back pocket (there is a benefit to not emptying your pockets before you wash your jeans, Brad!), and shoves the card between a pack of yogurt and a carton of cereal. The healthy kind, of course. Not that Ray will eat that shit, but hey, whatever floats Brad’s boat. If he wants to eat his tastes-like-cardboard cereal first thing in the morning, good for him.
When Ray gets to his car, after making his way through a herd of shopping carts nobody’s bothered to put back in their native habitat (the shopping cart corral), he’s pleased to discover that both cars on either side of his own have left, and so he doesn’t have to awkwardly maneuver to the driver’s side door to unlock the car before he can dump his groceries in the trunk.
It’s not unlikely fruit will start rolling around in the back if he takes a corner a little too sharply, but he’ll deal with that when he gets home. At least getting out of the parking lot isn’t a whole ordeal. At Thanksgiving last year, Ray spent way too much time waiting for people to get out of the way and stop honking their horns. He’s glad Valentine’s Day isn’t the type of holiday (yet) where people yell at each other about who gets to have the last turkey.
Not that Ray is the type of person to buy and prepare a turkey for Thanksgiving, but it’s the thought that counts, right? (At least, that’s what his mother always said at their turkey-less Thanksgivings at home.)
When Ray pulls into the driveway of their shared home some fifteen minutes later, he’s glad to see Brad’s not home. Not that he’d expected him to be. Brad being home early is about as likely as Brad announcing he’s leaving the Corps, and he’s joining the Army instead. In all the time they’ve been together, it has happened approximately never.
Unlocking the door while handling two bags of groceries is an undertaking, but not one Ray hasn’t succeeded in before. (Ray’s never had to put a bag down in the four years he’s lived here, and he’s not about to start.) He shoves the bags onto the kitchen counter once he’s in the kitchen, and tries to take off his shoes at the same time. (The shoes look worse for the wear because he never laces them up properly. Ray’s pretty sure Brad has half an aneurysm every time he sees them lying discarded in the hall, all sad and worn and muddy.)
Ray’s too scatterbrained to keep track of where he put things (he’s spent more than one time wondering where the hell he put the carrots, because they weren’t in the fucking fridge) so everything has its designated spot. So, he puts away the oranges and bananas on the fruit bowl, the yogurt, chicken, margarine, deli meat, bell peppers, beef and cheese go into the fridge, and everything else (the cereal, barbecue sauce, peanuts, macaroni and multiple cans of diced tomato) go into the pantry. The piece de resistance, the new salt shaker, goes next to the pepper. (Brad accidentally dropped the last one on the floor – Ray had stepped on crunchy salt for way too long afterwards.)
If Ray’s forgotten something he needs for dinner tonight – tough shit, because he won’t be going back. Luckily, he just needs the chicken and bell pepper, they already had everything else at home for the sweet and sour stir fry he wants to make. Ray hadn’t even remembered today was Valentine’s Day, until his sister sent him a message telling him what her husband had gotten her (some chocolates, flowers, and apparently a reservation for a nice restaurant).
Ray’s pretty sure if he tried to ply Brad with chocolates, especially the kind that comes in a heart-shaped box, he’d be accused of buying into corporate consumerism – and then Ray would accuse Brad of being a communist dicksuck, and then they’d be too busy squabbling about which of them is the true communist to get around to eating at any expensive restaurants.
(Brad would still eat the chocolate, but he’d be insulting Ray all the way through.)
Ray’s not actually sure how Brad’s gonna take the card, but one, it’s just a card, it didn’t take a chunk out of his savings, and two, it’s technically not a card that buys into the Valentine’s Day establishment. Technically.
He sits at the table and thinks for a long time about what to write in it. Thankfully, the inside is blank and didn’t come with a cheesy line – but now he’s got to come up with a cheesy line himself. Maybe he should just take the block of cheese and tape the card to it.
It’s not like Brad’s gonna appreciate true effort. He hadn’t been a fan of the lyrics Ray and Walt had written for their country band, and threatened to throw Ray out if he ever dared to sing it in the house. That included the shower. Ray told him he was never gonna see any of his country music earnings in the divorce.
So, Ray could write the most magnificent Valentine’s Day card known to man and Brad would still tell him his donkey girlfriend would appreciate it more. (In which case Ray would make some quip about Brad being hung like a horse and then they’d make out and forget about Ray’s card so then what would the point be?)
Ray writes down a lame joke based on the front of the card, and wishes he had some lipstick so he could press his lips to the inside to make it the corniest card ever. He stuffs it into the envelope and writes Brad’s name on it, seriously debating putting it on Brad’s pillow so he finds it when he’s going to bed. He knows that’s a bad choice because one, Ray wants to see Brad’s reaction and he often goes to sleep before Brad, so that’s not possible, and two, he might be too tired and actually not notice the fire engine red envelope in the dark bedroom.
Maybe Ray should put it on his motorcycle, and claim it’s actually a message from Brad’s one true love on two wheels.
He ends up putting it with Brad’s other mail that he’ll sift through when he gets home. He’ll definitely see it that way in Ray’s presence.
Because Ray is the kind of person who has trouble keeping a poker face when he’s trying to keep something hilarious to himself, he strategically places himself at the kitchen counter around the time he knows Brad ought to be coming home. (Ought to, because Brad is the unfortunate kind of person to stay on base later than he expected. But at least he texts Ray when he does, if he has access to his phone.)
So when Brad comes in right after Ray’s started dinner, none the wiser about Ray’s plans, he dumps his shit (well, he’s all neat and puts his shoes where they belong, and he puts his jacket on an actual hanger) before he comes to greet Ray in the kitchen.
“I ran over an orange in the driveway,” Brad says, “and then I found another hiding out in the bushes.” He holds up the fruit, raising an eyebrow at Ray. “If you wanted to feed homeless people you could volunteer at a soup kitchen, Ray.”
“Last I checked, you don’t put oranges in soup, Brad.” They must’ve rolled out of the bag when he got it out of the car, or opened the door. Behind him, Brad puts the orange on the fruit bowl, and begins to sort through the mail. It’s a good thing Ray’s facing the pans on the stove, because he can’t keep the smile on his face from widening.
Behind him, Brad complains about Ray’s hot water usage after he’s opened the designated bill, and then there’s a quiet groan. Ray looks across his shoulder to see if Brad’s found his card – but he hasn’t, not yet. “What?” he says.
“Got another speeding ticket.”
Ray rolls his eyes. “And you hound me for dropping a dumb orange.” It’s the second ticket this year, and it’s February. Ray supposes it’s technically not his problem if Brad gets his license suspended – except it is, because it means he’ll have to do everything they can’t do without the car. (Ray’s car, that is, because he’s not allowed to touch Brad’s baby.)
Brad tosses the letter aside, and then he gets to the red envelope, the one where Ray debated if he should scratch on Brad’s name, or add their address – although he didn’t have a stamp, so it’d be pointless so even bother with address. He went with just Brad, and made an obnoxious heart of the A in Brad’s name.
Brad glances at the envelope, at Ray, and then back down. “Ray,” he says, and Ray pretends to be very busy with the potatoes in the pan in front of them, making exaggerated motions to loosen them up. Even with the sizzling sounds in front of him, the sound of the envelope being ripped open is loud. (Ray had licked it shut himself, grimacing at the taste of glue.) It’s quiet for a moment. Then Brad says, again, “Ray.”
Ray looks, and this time he doesn’t pretend he’s not. Brad’s holding up the card, unopened. Ray can tell he’s trying very hard not to look impressed – the only reason he’s failing is because Ray knows him so well. And how can he not be impressed? If Ray had to pick a card, any card, to give Brad for Valentine’s Day, obviously he would pick a card with a hilarious misprint. Brad’s raised eyebrow at the letters spelling out OOVE on the front of the Valentine’s Day card is a clear indicator he finds this just as hilarious as Ray does.
“What?” Ray asks, his face a picture of innocence when Brad fully turns his body to look at him.
“We said no cards, Ray,” Brad says. His attempt to sound stern is ruined by his barely hidden smile.
“You said no cards,” Ray points out. “I didn’t say anything.” He can’t stop the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth from spreading wider, and Brad shakes his head. After a few more seconds, he gives, unable to keep the grin off his own face.
“You’re a fucking dumbass, you know that, right?”
“But Brad,” Ray says, sticking out his lip and pouting at him. “I wanna know what oove is.” He drops the spatula on the counter, steps into Brad’s space and then swings a leg over his lap. “I want you to show me.” Brad’s hands drift down, first to the small of his back, then his ass.
“Oh, do you?”
He scoots his crotch a little closer. “Don’t you wanna feel what oove is, Brad?”
“Stop saying oove, you mentally-stunted backwards reprobate.”
“But I’m your backwards reprobate.” Ray wiggles his eyebrows. “And don’t you oove me, too?”
Brad groans, but Ray knows him well enough that it takes every ounce of Brad’s willpower not to give in right now. After another ten second stand-off, Brad seemingly gives up. “Fine. Weren’t you cooking dinner?”
Ray jumps up. “Oh, shit!”
It hasn’t been long enough for the potatoes to be unsalvageable, but it’s a close call. Ray pulls them off the flame, checks the veggies in the oven, and then looks across his shoulder again. Brad’s reading the card, the reflective pink bunting on the front flickering in the light of the overhead lamp. There’s still a faint smile on his face, a remnant of their previous conversation, or amusement at Ray’s absolutely abysmal rhyming skills. (Being good at writing lyrics is not the same as being good at writing cheesy poetry – just ask Walt!)
The card gets placed on the DVD shelf above the TV, next to the Christmas and Hanukkah cards.
The next Valentine’s day, after Brad gets back from another deployment, after Ray graduates from college, after Brad gets one too many speeding tickets and actually loses his license, after a bunch of silly fights on the state of Ray’s car, after Brad apologizes by buying take-out for a week, after Hannukah at the Colbert’s, and Christmas with Mama Person, after all of that, the OOVE card is joined by one saying, ‘Thank God you’re better in bed than you are at driving’.
