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For Fergus’ 25th birthday, Adam buys him a Walkman.
They don’t exactly do birthday gifts, and overall Fergus is quite glad of it. He’s never been prone towards generosity in any sense and when it comes to gift-giving, one is either forced into sentimentality or left having to smile awkwardly while handing over an insincere and inappropriate gift to someone feigning gratitude. Alternatively, you’re on the other side of the fence and Fergus can’t decide which he hates more: the pressure of how to respond to a person’s generosity or the deep discomfort that the attention brings. It’s awkward, and Fergus’ existence is fucking awkward enough as it is.
Secondly, for Adam and Fergus it’s a matter of time and convenience: they are busy people (Adam is a busy person, understandably. God knows Fergus would always make the time). Sometimes they go for long periods without seeing each other (long, aching months that seem to stretch out endlessly. Not that Fergus keeps track or anything). This is an unspoken but accepted fact between them, and Fergus thinks it’s probably better that way. If they spent as much time together as Fergus would ideally like, his already inconvenient feelings for Adam could end up exploding like a fucking atomic bomb and destroying the only meaningful connection Fergus has ever experienced.
Fergus finds the term ‘connection’ to be sickeningly cliche but it’s always a struggle to land on an accurate label for whatever it is they have. They’re friends. At times they’ve been somewhat more than friends (the ‘benefits’ side of the friendship slowly faded out after the first couple of years. Fergus tries his best not to dwell upon it for the sake of his own fragile sanity). Fergus likes Adam more than he’s ever liked anyone in his entire life. It’s complicated.
Besides, if they had the sort of relationship where big, thoughtful birthday gifts were the norm, Fergus might end up bursting into hysterical tears or suggesting they run away to the south of France together and never return. Fergus has a hard enough time keeping his emotions in check. The situation between them works best this way. He keeps telling himself that.
So, when Adam casually places a Walkman in his hands as if he’s simply passing him the pub menu, Fergus thinks his confusion is understandable.
‘What’s this?’
‘It was your birthday. I believe it’s common for people to buy gifts,’ Adam’s already looking away, taking a sip of his pint with one eye on the telly above the bar.
‘Oh!’ Fergus, predictably, doesn’t fucking know what to say. He runs his fingers along the buttons, watching Adam perplexedly.
‘Not a big deal. Thought you might like it,’ Fergus finds himself relieved that Adam is keeping his eye on the football because he can tell that his face has gone bright red and he can’t stop opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He mutters out an awkward ‘thank you’ before Adam blissfully changes the subject.
It’s only once Fergus gets home that he notices the cassette tape that’s been left inside. At first he wonders if Adam picked up the Walkman second-hand and simply hadn’t noticed the tape, but then he spots his name written in Adam’s scrawled handwriting and his insides start swooping like a flock of hungry pigeons.
It looks like a mixtape. That fucking prick has made him a mixtape.
He almost doesn’t want to listen to it for fear of the emotions it will inevitably evoke. He imagines throwing it in the bin or burying it outside in his garden or hiding it in a cupboard somewhere, forgetting about it by sheer force of will before the circling pigeons start taking chunks out of his insides.
The thing is, he and Adam have always bonded over music. Their taste is far from identical; they have had their fair share of heated debates and disagreements, but that’s always been part of the fun. As unbearably soppy as it sounds, he knows it’s something that means a great deal to both of them.
On the very first night they met at the Student Union, Adam had asked what he liked to listen to and ribbed him for being a Smiths fan (‘That fucking miserable Manc virgin gets far more praise than he deserves,’) though Fergus later learned that Adam was the owner of a well-loved copy of Hatful of Hollow, the fucking hypocrite.
Fergus likes that they come at music from different angles and yet experience it with the same depth. He’d never say it out loud for fear of sounding like a pretentious wanker, but Fergus has always been drawn to music from a sonic perspective; he likes songs that he can feel physically, sounds that can conjure up abstract images in his brain, transport him to particular places in time and make him feel deep, vast emotion without the need for him to focus on the lyrics.
He likes The Smiths because of their lyrical content too, but it’s the sound that counts the most to him; songs that make him want to move, songs that allow him to purge pent up emotions he can’t always name.
Fergus likes Morrissey’s voice because he thinks it sounds like a cello. He likes Johnny Marr’s riffs because they seem to scratch itches in his brain that he didn’t know were there. The first time he’d heard Strangeways, Here We Come he’d had to play it three times over just to make sure he’d absorbed every single feeling and image in its entirety, committed every sensation to memory. He’d lain on his bed in his tiny uni dorm room with the curtains closed and let it wash over him, allowed himself to pretend he was somewhere else. After that, it had barely left his turntable for three months.
Fergus had once mentioned liking the Smiths to some tosser he’d met at a party and he’d remarked that it was fitting: ‘From one miserable sod to another.’ Fergus had only just managed to repress his overwhelming indignation.
He knows that Adam, in contrast, is mad about good lyrics. Fergus remembers when Adam had forced him to sit down and listen to that bloody horrible Nick Cave album, lyric sheet placed in front of him like notes on an exam. Fergus had, unsurprisingly, hated every second of it; much of Nick Cave’s music makes him feel as though an army of goths are about to break down his door, beat him to a pulp and then chuck his body in the nearest river. He hadn’t known Adam all that long at the time, and so he’d tried his best to be polite about it but Adam had seen through him instantly, smirking to himself as Fergus had attempted to stumble through some vague remark about the lyrics on fucking Red Right Hand. At least he doesn’t have to try and feign flattery anymore whenever Adam has him listening to something shit.
The first Stone Roses album had been a much more successful follow-up suggestion on Adam’s part. Fergus enjoyed the instrumentation a lot. He’d enjoyed listening to Adam enthuse about the music coming out of the Madchester scene even more. Adam gets a lovely glint in his eye and a pretty flush to his cheeks when he’s passionate about something, so Fergus thinks he can be forgiven if he didn’t absorb all that much information about Ian Brown.
And now there’s this fucking mixtape sat on his kitchen counter, mocking him from inside the Walkman with all of its sentiment. He stares at it for what feels like a long, long time before he finally resigns himself to the inevitable. He can feel his hands start to shake as he puts on his headphones and presses play. It takes approximately three seconds for him to know he’s fucked.
Fucking New Order. Not just New Order, but sodding Age of Consent.
Adam is such a fucking bastard.
Of course, there’s a chance Adam hadn’t considered the implications of choosing Age of Consent as the opening track. Fergus can picture him nonchalantly flicking through his albums, picking whichever song his finger happens to land upon. Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing and picked it just to make Fergus squirm. Whatever the reason, the implications are fucking startling clear to Fergus.
They’d been playing New Order at the SU the night they met. They were the first artist they’d discussed, one of the first things they’d bonded over. On reflection, it was a natural middle ground for them; sonically satisfying, lyrically intriguing. The rhythm of Blue Monday had remained on a loop in Fergus’ mind as he had walked back to Adam’s flat that night, still repeating in his brain as he’d drifted off to sleep in Adam’s bed, sated and awestruck.
The next time they bumped into each other was at a pub near the uni, and Ceremony had started playing as Fergus was halfway through his second drink.
Adam had caught his eye and smirked. Fergus had tried not to make it obvious that he was inhaling Adam’s cheap aftershave as Adam leaned towards him over the sticky table, ‘Always songs from fucking Substance, isn’t it?’
Fergus had frowned, his fingers tracing patterns on his pint glass, ‘It’s a good album.’
‘Yeah, not their best though,’ Adam had rested his chin on his hand, gazing at Fergus with a sly smile gracing the corners of his mouth, ‘Fancy listening to something else?’
And that’s how Fergus had found himself sat on the floor of Adam’s room, his back resting against the bedframe, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jumper as Adam had put Power, Corruption and Lies on the turntable. Within the first minute of Age of Consent, Adam was kissing him and Fergus’ heart was attempting to beat itself out of his chest.
As Fergus listens to it now, sat alone on his sofa, he tries very hard not to dwell on all of the inconvenient details. Tries to pretend that the sound of the synth doesn’t remind him of the way Adam had softly gasped into his mouth, his thumb rubbing tender little circles on the skin of Fergus’ hip under his shirt. He pointedly doesn’t think about the softness of Adam’s hair beneath his fingers or the way he’d huffed out a quiet, dazed little laugh into Fergus’ mouth as they’d broken away for air, his breath smelling of lager.
They’d spent the rest of that night alternating between arguing about music and languidly making out before Fergus had passed out on Adam’s bed, Peter Hook’s basslines overlapping in his buzzing mind and conscious of the massive, fuck-off hickey under his right ear. But Fergus isn’t thinking about that right now because Adam wasn’t either. He picked the song because it’s New Order, and they both like New Order.
It’s an overwhelming relief when the second song begins because Fergus immediately realises that he doesn’t have to overthink Adam’s intentions with this one.
Bowie. That’s easy territory.
It took Fergus a very short time to discover that Adam appears to view Bowie in a similar manner to how a deeply devoted Christian might view Christ. Adam is so obsessed with Bowie that, at times, it borders on the absurd.
Fergus had noticed the massive Ziggy Stardust poster, pinned front and centre on Adam’s wall, the first time he’d been to Adam’s flat but at the time he’d found himself somewhat too distracted to comment. It wasn’t as if it was a particularly standout choice, really. Fergus liked Bowie. Plenty of people liked Bowie. However, he vividly remembers the first time he’d heard Bowie mentioned around Adam because he’d never seen Adam’s eyes light up with such speed and intensity, nor had he ever heard him talk about anything with such unbridled enthusiasm. No cruelty, no calculation, no cynicism or bravado: just pure, genuine excitement. Like a little boy who’s just gotten really into dinosaurs.
In fact, Fergus had been taken so off-guard by the childlike joy in Adam’s face that he’d assumed Adam had taken something in the club toilets. It turned out that Adam was just genuinely like this when it came to Bowie. Utterly and completely adoring.
Fergus reckons he’s probably learned more about Bowie in the past six years than many would in an entire lifetime.
Fergus doesn’t consider Adam to be a fanatical person, per se. To imply that Adam might be ‘nerdy’ in any sense would only ever earn him a scowl and a smack on the arm (he’d once joked that if journalism didn’t work out, Adam could always look for a job in Forbidden Planet. In his defence, it was in response to hearing Adam quote entire scenes from Labyrinth with fucking astonishing accuracy). Over time, he’s learned to view Bowie as the exception to most of Adam’s rules. He knows every album backwards, can tell you everything you’d ever want to know about every period of Bowie’s career, and, perhaps most unnerving of all, will go to incredible lengths to avoid criticising Bowie in any capacity. Even after six years, Fergus can’t get used to it.
The mixtape is good. The mixtape is fucking brilliant, in fact.
The Smiths. Pet Shop Boys. Tears for Fears. Every song hits Fergus like a ton of bricks. The entire mixtape feels as though it was meticulously crafted to make Fergus’ knees go weak and his brain turn to a gelatinous puddle. And yet it’s somehow effortless too, because it’s Adam. As if Adam’s ever had to put any effort in to leave Fergus starry-eyed.
The fact that Adam went to the trouble to make it is far too much for Fergus to contemplate closely without crying or panicking or ringing Adam up and saying things he’ll immediately regret. Music is simply a staple of their friendship, a shared language that they’re both fluent in. It isn’t as deep as Fergus’ racing heart would have him believe. Adam just has a clear understanding of his music taste and that’s completely fucking normal.
It was a birthday gift from a friend. It isn’t a big deal.
A few days later, Adam calls him to bitch about the football results. Fergus hopes that he’ll mention the mixtape, ask him whether or not he liked it, make some comment about Fergus being predictable and easy to please when it comes to music. Adam doesn’t bring it up, so neither does Fergus.
He has no idea how to address it; do friends normally do this sort of thing? Adam and Fergus certainly don’t. Recommending music and borrowing each other’s albums somehow pales in comparison to a mixtape. Fergus feels as though Adam might as well have given him a ten-page love letter or a fucking promise ring. It feels like some sort of invisible boundary has been crossed between the two of them and now Fergus is forbidden from talking about it.
After some vague murmurings about work and a promise to meet Fergus a week on Saturday at the pub, Adam hangs up and Fergus realises that he’d barely listened to a word that Adam had said. As always, he’s overthinking it. It’s only a fucking tape. It’s of no consequence and Fergus should simply forget about it and move on.
As if Fergus has ever been able to move on from anything.
It takes about a week and a half of agonising for Fergus to finish making Adam’s mixtape. He goes through his record and cassette collection seven times respectively and struggles to focus on much else until it’s complete. He feels like a fucking lunatic.
In the end, he decides to send Adam the tape in the post because he finds he’d rather rip out his own fingernails with a pair of pliers than give it to him in person. He doesn’t bother writing a note (what the fuck is he supposed to say? ‘Look what you’ve started! Look what you’ve made me do, you inconsiderate twat!’), he can’t even bring himself to write Adam’s name on the tape.
A few months later, he returns home from Adam’s flat and finds another tape tucked into his work bag, his name scribbled on it in blue ink like a beacon of doom.
Fuck.
Many years later, in a ramshackle little house in West London, tucked between the TV cabinet and the mixed-up crates of records and CDs, sit two almost identical boxes full of cassette tapes.