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Thomas has one of those neighbours. You know the kind. Loud at the wrong hours, not too polite on the apartment WhatsApp group chat, and overall just annoying. Thomas isn't one to back down either, and has repeatedly made it clear with the man that if nothing changes, he will report him to their Landlord. Of course, he hasn't gone through with that threat yet, but he's no less sincere about it.
Fortunately, his neighbour — Mr. Gally Lilei — is out of town for the week. Good, Thomas thinks, peace at last.
These words ring through Thomas' head on repeat during a long, almost gruelling night of eerie silence. He breathes in and out deeply, trying to force his eyes to shut. When nothing changes, a groan bubbles up in the back of his throat. He decides that maybe what he's missing is some background noise, even though he's always been convinced that no, he can sleep fine without it.
The first route Thomas' mind goes to is blaming Gally. His stupid, stupid carpentry or whatever, conditioning him night after night to grow used to the sound of sawing and sanding and hammering and moving— Pulling himself out of bed, Thomas winces as his exhausted head spins. It takes him a minute or two to take in his bedroom without feeling nauseous. Despicable Gally, keeping him from sleeping with his absence.
Thomas' room is coloured a shade of dark blue in the past-midnight air. His white curtains ripple slightly, catching a breeze from his ajar window. Bracing himself for a burning headache, Thomas flicks on the lamp on his bedside table as he fumbles for his phone. Immediately, a moth appears from nowhere, dancing in the soft, yellowed light. Thomas finds he can't care.
The clock on his phone reads 02:09, which makes Thomas groan again, this time even louder with frustration. He tosses his phone onto his mattress, and spins, sending a sharp kick to his and Gally's shared wall. Obviously, he regrets this right away, toes throbbing in pain. Again, he blames Gally, as he's hopping up and down in agony.
Once he finds he can walk again, Thomas stumbles through his bedroom door, staggering straight into the kitchen. Water— he needs a good glass of cold water. Running his hand up and down the wall, he locates the room's light switch and flicks it down. He waits. Nothing. "You've gotta be kidding me." Thomas hisses, and he attacks the switch with his hand, refusing to accept the possibility of a fuse blowing for the seventh time this year.
On the ninetieth attempt, one bulb on the ceiling crackles to life and blinks at him, appearing to pulse more like an alarm-light than anything. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Thomas considers how Gally is always awake at this time, he does electrical stuff too, right? Holding his head up high, he storms around his kitchen counter, ready to demand Gally help him.
He instinctively checks his doormat for any mail slipped through the door as he approaches it, then he pauses. Gally isn't home. He's in Italy, or Iceland, or some other country beginning with I because that's all he can recall from his short-lived conversation with the man. There is no post on his doormat. There hasn't been any post on his doormat since Gally left.
Deciding that the world just hates him, Thomas feels a pit in his stomach form, for he still has work tomorrow. Well, today, technically. With sluggish movements, he walks to his kettle like a ghost, flicking it on and staring as a blue light comes to life.
By the time it has hit six o'clock, Thomas has checked through his emails twice, cleared all messages on his phone a dozen more times, and is lazily watching television with his head pounding harder than it did during his last hangover. Curse Newt and his horrid idea of a pub crawl on a Sunday night.
"Could natural land in your area be threatened by new housing plans?" The woman on screen asks. Thomas thinks of Gally. He used to be a construction worker before he started deliveries, another reason to dislike him.
Even when Thomas changes the channel, he hears, "Local crafts and businesses have been falling faster than ever before, new statistics say.." blaring, and his mind is taken back to Gally. Gally is a carpenter, that's how he keeps Thomas up with his loudness after dark, another reason to dislike him.
Fingers twitching, Thomas reaches for his mug of tea on the coffee table, yet when he brings it to his lips, it's cold. Not even lukewarm. Cold. He must have been angrily dwelling over Gally for some time to have his tea frozen this way, another reason to dislike him.
Thomas remains ignorant to how his whole morning so far seems to have revolved around his neighbour. It's not the first time. Normally, it's just subconscious loathing, but since Gally walked out the door, the raging inside of Thomas' head has been getting louder and louder. He grips his phone tightly, pulling it out of his lap, debating to send Gally an angry message.
However, as soon as he unlocks his phone, a weird sensation twists at his stomach. Thomas calls it anxiety and moves on, closing his phone again with rigid movements.
When his alarm for 06:10 goes off, Thomas shuts off the television robotically and moves to his bedroom to get changed. He grabs his work clothes, all a little creased and untidy — so long as Gally's isn't around, he's got no one to try and out dress — and barely looks at his reflection in the mirror as he's brushing his teeth. Yellow rucksack by the door, leftover dinner from last night in a plastic box for lunch, the routine has never been perfect, or even pretty, but Thomas doesn't like change. Like clockwork, he is out the door, marching down the corridor.
As always, the lift is 'closed for repairs' that will never come, meaning Thomas turns towards the stairwell and hurries down. Trainers, that are probably not even allowed under the School's Dress Code, tapping away at the stone steps, the red carpet upon them having eroded away months ago, Thomas' mind flicks back to his first encounter with Gally. Just like right now, he was jogging downwards, when crash. He bumped into someone.
Although, from how hard he fell backwards, at was more like someone crashed into him. The man was tall, frighteningly so, and has a very solid chest. Thomas' back hurt from colliding with the corner of a step, so when the man offered a hand at him, he kissed his teeth and batted it away. It was that moment which sparked the following two years of neighbouring rivalry. To be honest, Thomas cringes at the memory now.
The downstairs lobby is always empty, and looks like a movie set straight out of the 1970s. Red carpet — less faded than the stairwell's, dark green sofas stood beside one another at a weird angle in the centre of the room, orange wallpaper that had started peeling behind the reception. Why is there even a reception?? Thomas can't wait for a raise from his boss if he gets this promotion, because his first call of action will be looking for a nicer flat, a modern one, with no rowdy neighbours to bother him eternally.
At least the high-street is nice, and close, being only a five minute drive from the apartment building's car park. Thomas feels no joy from seeing his new mini in his favoured parking spot. Usually, it's a battle between him and Gally's ugly, somehow roadworthy grey truck over that spot. Since Gally's truck's been away, their competitive game has been no fun, because it's no use playing it solo.
At this time of day, the roads are quiet, despite it being rush hour across the country. Thomas' mini runs along, a blur of red against the sulky blues and greens of the world outside the tinted windows.
Thomas' stomach rumbles as he pushes open the door of the bakery. Arguably, the bakery is his favourite shop on the whole street, and not just because he gets a friendship discount from Frypan on a good day.
Sweet scents hit his nose the second the door's bell chimes, signalling his routine appearance. "Thomas!" Frypan nods, "The usual?"
"Hi Fry, and yeah." Thomas hums, looking around at the shelves of pastries and bread rolls. Everything smells warm and fresh, and when Frypan hands him two paper bags over the counter, he smiles wide, excited to eat. The brown paper crinkles between his fingers as he snatches up both parcels with one hand, tossing Fry some cash with the other.
His next stop is the corner shop, which he always has to hurry through as he tries to keep the pastries warm. It's always the same two drinks he grabs: one for himself, one for Gally. It's not like him and Gally are friends. It's just a deal they have. Thomas is up early so he grabs breakfast and a drink, and then Gally orders a takeaway for them in the evening. It's usually a Chinese, Thomas' favourite.
As he stands waiting in line at the checkout, he tries to think of where this deal originated from. Was it the time Gally was sick for a week and couldn't move, so Thomas brought him food? Or the time Thomas was so caught up with work, Gally "accidentally" ordered food to his house as an way to ensure he ate something? Either way, this is just the way it is now. Even though Thomas doesn't enjoy Gally's company, he can at least be civil with him.
It's Brenda's shift at the checkout today, which Thomas learns when he hears a chipper, "Cor, are those from Fry?"
He lifts his head, placing two cold bottles — one bottled protein vanilla milkshake, one iron brew — on the counter, "Yep."
"God, if I have one more of his lemon meringue cakes, I might have to wife him up." Brenda sighs dreamily, "I could live with being cooked treats like that every day." She scans the milkshake, then pauses as she picks up the iron brew, "I thought Gally was on holiday?"
Thomas pauses, and his eyes flick to the paper bags in his hand, "..You're right."
"You still bought him breakfast, didn't you."
"…You're right."
"Aw, does this mean you'll ever so kindly give me his—"
"You're not having the bakewell tart or croissant, Bren."
"Not even—?"
"Not my iced roll either."
"You hate me." Brenda pouts, placing Gally's bottle to the side and flipping the card machine around, "Two pound fifty."
Grumpily, Thomas swipes his card and takes back his milkshake, sadly glancing at the iron brew before he leaves. Without anything now to do — no rush to get home and deliver anything to Gally — Thomas selects a bench across the road and settles down, slipping his rucksack off.
Tearing into his bag of brown paper, Thomas' hands find the iced bun. It is soft as he pulls it out, and flakes crumble off of it, falling into his lap. It's the same as always, just as Thomas likes.
Taking a bite, he feels the world around him pause. The food is still hot, burning at his lips, but the taste cuts through everything. Frypan deserves more than a small Bakery on a slowly dying high-street. Icing is evenly spread across the surface of the bun, and the texture is silky. Thomas has finished it in seconds, and uncaps his milkshake, taking a slow sip.
Finished with that too, Thomas grips the cold zipper of his bag, yanking it open, and he tiredly stuffs Gally's paper bag inside. Who knows, maybe he'll want a croissant or a bakewell tart for lunch today. Beginning his walk back to his car, a small, hollow feeling chips away at Thomas' chest. He attempts to ignore it.
At lunchtime, Thomas is sat alone. He watches the delivery men outside of the staff room, unloading boxes upon boxes of supplies through the front office. Thomas sips his tea, the opened paper bag that once contained Gally's breakfast now eaten. Despite knowing Gally is away, Thomas cannot help but search for him among the men, expecting to see a broad pair of shoulders and a blonde buzzcut.
On a normal day, Gally would catch his gaze knowingly and roll his eyes, then would inconveniently stick his head into Thomas' classroom mid lesson with a cardboard box, or a toolkit, to deliver something to Thomas or fix something in the room. Thomas knows that half of the deliveries are unnecessary, and most of the repair trips too, but he never stops Gally. The kids have grown to expect Gally too, and Gally gets a chorus of, "Hi, Mr. Lileo!" every time he steps through the door.
This week has just.. felt quieter.
"Minho!" Thomas answers the phone as he shuts the front door, "It's been a while, huh?" Slumping against the kitchen counter, Thomas undoes his tie, tossing it onto the surface. It takes a lot of energy to push himself upright again, and he moves toward his coffee maker like a ghost.
"What's up, Tomtom? I'm guessin' you just got home?" Minho's voice crackles through the call, and Thomas turns his phone on loudspeaker, planting it beside his sink.
"Yeah, I'm knackered. Are you all okay? You don't usually phone people. I'm lucky with one text message per month." Slipping his favoured mug into the hold of the coffee machine — "World's Best Teacher" — Thomas lets the machine run, then turns to the side to grab some sugar in preparation. To his dismay, he finds nothing. At first, Thomas tries a sip of the drink to taste it, but the bitterness is too much for him, and he groans as he sticks his tongue out. Sugar, he thinks, he needs sugar.
"I just wanted to check up, 'cause I know Gally's out of town at the minute. I was thinking you might be lonely."
Moving like a sloth, Thomas ambles toward the front door. Him and Gally have a mutual friend, which is Frypan from the bakery, and Thomas knows how whenever Fry visits Gally, they always end up baking something. This means that if anyone was to have sugar, it would be Gally. He barely registers Minho's words, but heat rises in his face when they settle in his head, "Lonely? Tch, why the hell would that make me lonely?"
Minho is quiet for a moment, then he laughs, "Thomas, are you kidding me? You're obsessed with that poor man."
Thomas gets all the way to Gally's front door, and is about to knock, when he's struck by the obvious; Gally isn't home. "Damn it." Thomas murmurs, yanking his hand away from the door and spinning around quickly, marching back inside of his flat. "Damn it." He just can't understand it. Why is Gally's absense tormenting him? Could it mean something?—
"I'm guessing you just did something stupid which proved my point?"
"Shut up, Minho."
No, Thomas refuses to read more into this. Whatever him and Gally share is a mutually beneficial partnership and that alone, which allows them to somewhat coexist despite the differences between them and the incredible ability Gally has when it comes to making Thomas want to collide his head with the wall. Although, thinking about it, Thomas can't remember the last time he truly got mad at Gally.
Maybe during that Christmas party where they bumped into each other, when they were both a tad tipsy and Gally smiled at him but Thomas' fuzzy mind assumed it was condescending, and they ended up yelling at each other in front of everyone, which looking back at it, was a bit embarrassing?
And even that was, well, almost a year ago now.
Minho's voice is practically a teasing whisper in the back of Thomas' head, "You should probably start planning what you're gonna say to him when he gets back, y'know."
"You're over analysing." Thomas snaps, but his eyes fix onto his stupid, bitter coffee, and he has to suppress panic. He's always been more of a lone character, happy in silence, at peace when no one is around. Yet, he feels so dependent on Gally all of a sudden, and he dares to wonder despite himself; what is Gally thinking right now? Over there in Ireland, or Iceland, or whatever. Is Gally complaining about a lack of bakewell tarts? Is he bored now that he has no one to bother in the middle of the day?
It frightens Thomas, but there is a possibility — a small one at that, he tells himself — that he just might be as important to Gally's day as Gally is to his.
"Fry has been shipping the pair of you since Gally moved in."
"What does that even mean?" Thomas groans. He may be a teacher, but he's always struggled keeping up with the newest 'slang.'
"Gally won't ask you out, Thomas." Minho sighs, "Apparently he's big and scary-looking but shy. Well, that's what I've heard. You're gonna have to—"
"Why are you telling me this?"
"..I'm tired of seeing my best mate reject hot people every single time we go to the bar just because he's a chicken who won't make the first move on his neighbour."
"You're an asshole." Thomas' thumb hovers over the end call button, but he draws it back, "…But, thanks, Minho. For looking out for me, that is."
Minho ends the call with a hushed chuckle. Thomas stares at his phone, then pours his coffee down the drain with a pitiful sigh. The liquid swirls into the drain, and Thomas is left to reminisce on the time he called Gally around to fix his pipes. How Gally had crouched there with his tools, muscles visible through his shirt, hair freshly buzzed. The way Gally knew exactly what to do was captivating.
That small smile his face held when things went right? Thomas dreamt about it for almost a week.
On the topic of weeks, Thomas' days seem to crawl by agonisingly. Boredom wants to pry his sanity right from his hands, but he fights it. Anticipation wants to shred him too, and reluctantly, Thomas sends a small message Gally's way. Hope you're enjoying your holiday.
He almost throws his phone across the room afterwards, shaking like a stupid teenager in love.
Solace only comes on Friday night, when Thomas is spooked awake on the couch by heavy footsteps outside. He tries shutting his eyes again, eager to rest after a long week full of restless children and never ending questions, but a loud, "Fuck me." from the hallway makes him second guess his nap.
Timidly, he creeps up and across the room, opening his door as far as the latch chain allows him. Through the gab, he sees a sight that makes his heart soar. Gally stood there with his headphones still on, a neck-pillow sitting on his shoulders, wearing a grey tracksuit. He's gripping the handle of his suitcase in one hand, and fighting his lock with keys in the other.
Thomas snickers, quickly undoing the latch and opening his door fully, "You said you'd be gone a whole week."
Gally jumps, then a small smile pricks at his lips, "That was the plan, yeah." He pulls his headphones down so they're resting on top of the neck-pillow, "Why are you still up? Don't you turn your lights off at nine?"
"It's not nine.. it's like ten or something…" Thomas huffs, leaning against the wall. Gally watches him quietly for a moment, then stares at his door, concentrating and finally managing to unlock it. Gally exhales through his nose, shoulders slumping tiredly, and Thomas reads his weariness clearly, "Here, let me help you with that."
Slowly, Thomas walks around and takes Gally's suitcase from him. Raising an eyebrow, Gally looks Thomas up and down, "When did you turn nice?"
"I've been nice, you're just ignorant." Thomas snorts.
Gally gracefully leads Thomas inside, and the door creaks shut behind them. They both step over the large pile of mail on Gally's doormat, a mix of both Gally and Thomas' because the postie can never get Thomas' address right.
Their voices can still be heard from outside, because as we know, the walls in this building aren't the thickest.
"Did you enjoy your trip to.." Thomas lets his words awkwardly hang in the air as he drags Gally's suitcase through the hall.
"…Iceland, yeah. I did. Went to see some family."
"Cool, cool."
"It was sorta.. lonely, though."
"Oh? How come? Do you have.. like, a partner you were missing or—"
"No, nothing like that. There just wasn't much to do, if you know what I mean. My carpentry stuff I left at home, and I didn't have any neighbours asking me to fix stuff every five minutes, or complaining at me—"
"It's not every five minutes!"
"It certainly is!" They stare at each other for a moment, then Gally breaks the charade, "I missed you. Is that weird?"
"Kinda." Thomas says before he can stop himself.
Gally's brow furrows, but more in jest, "Oh?"
"Shit, no, like.. I mean, no. It's strange considering you're saying that to me out of all people, but…" Thomas' voice drifts off, embarrassment clouding him. When he notices how Gally's eyes have dropped to his lips, it only encourages his face to flush further.
"I saw beautiful views in Iceland." Gally says, hushed, "But all I thought of when facing them was you." For the first time ever, Gally looks unsure, and he quickly corrects himself, "You and those old paintings you have on the living room wall. With the boats and big mountains behind them."
Thomas' eyes crease fondly, "Really?"
"Really."
"Then.. why don't you invite me with you next time, huh? To go look at.. boats. And hills."
"Sure."
Silence descends upon them, and Thomas can feel his heart beating in his ears.
"What the hell are we doing?" Gally eventually laughs, pulling off his neck-pillow and tossing it behind him onto his sofa. He takes a step forward, eyes on Thomas' mouth again.
Minho's words echo in Thomas' head, "..I'm tired of seeing my best mate reject hot people every single time we go to the bar just because he's a chicken who won't make the first move on his neighbour." and he does something reckless. He leans forward and meets Gally's lips with his own.