good MorNing

Dougie stretched as he lay in his bed, sunlight seeping through the thick drapes of the curtains. Morning. Gah. It shouldn’t be morning. It wasn’t right. He was still tired. He looked blearily over at the bedside clock… nine… fifteen? Meh… Maybe a few more hours.

No. His mum always told him that he should at least be up while there were two hours of morning left, and, he admitted, it was quite nice being awake before the others. Nice and quiet. No Danny giving him wedgies or Harry drumming. Peaceful. Still too fucking early though.

He sat up and took a swig from the drink on the table next to him, trying to remove the fuzziness in his mouth. Must have forgotten to brush his teeth or something last night. Sighing, he climbed out of bed, wandering over to the door and pulling his black dressing gown from the hook, wrapping it around his naked body. He padded softly past Danny’s half-open door. The guitarist had a phobia about going to sleep in a room with the door closed – induced by childhood trauma, he claimed. More likely so a bedmate could get in and out without the hinges squeaking. Or a bandmate – he had suspicions, but never caught them. Whoever it was. Wasn’t him though, he knew that. Unless he was a sleepwalker…

Eurrgh. He shook himself. Not such a nice thing for 9am thoughts.

He trudged down the stairs, pausing at the calendar, finding the last crossed out date and reading up. Tuesday. Right. Tuesday… He yawned. Coffee – need coffee. He cast a glance through the glass door into the small lobby between the front door and the rest of the house – few bits of post today it seemed. Fine… He opened the door, and stepped onto the cold tiles, wrapping his dressing gown tighter as he felt the cold air assault his body. He picked up the few envelopes there, mentally sorting them – bills sent to the house’s previous owner, actual bills for them, spam, and a wad of fanmail, most of it addressed in pink handwriting, decorated with hearts. Oh well, at least they weren’t camping outside – the January frost drove away even the hardiest of fanatics.

He went back towards the kitchen, his feet feeling as if they could feel every individual hair in the carpet, sensitised by the cold. No mugs. Harry never did the washing up. Kicking a greasy pizza box out of the way, he looked through the pile of crockery by the side of the sink, looking for the cleanest, finally selecting the big mug with “Danny” written on it in red letters. It probably wasn’t clean, it was more he just couldn’t see the grime against the black glaze. Kettle… no water in it. He refilled it, and returned to the sink to look for a spoon. Rinse, dry with dressing gown cord… find coffee, sugar. Milk… he wrinkled his nose. Gone off. Okay, black coffee… Who was meant to have gone and got more milk anyway? Probably wasn’t any bread either…

There was a dead fly in the jam.

He started going through the fanmail waiting for the kettle to boil, sorting the individuals out between the four of them, and dumping the rest in the middle. He paused. The same envelope he’d been getting every day for a week now. Always first class, always the address printed, apparently on a typewriter that was missing the top of the E. The same typewriter Tom had inherited from some aunt who died. Always poetry. He smiled – it was sweet. He knew Tom knew he knew Tom knew he knew… or something. Every afternoon, Tom would sit on the sofa in the lounge, seal the envelope and put on the stamp, before announcing he was going to post a letter. Every morning, a beautifully-written poem was waiting in its envelope for Dougie’s perusal.

The kettle clicked, and he poured the boiling water into the mug, adding some cold from the tap so he could drink it without scalding his tongue. The first sip scaled his tongue anyway. He sat down, and used his finger to rip open the top of the envelope, spilling out the folded sheet of paper onto the table.

For the one who makes me smile

For the one who makes me laugh

For when I wake up in the morning

It’s as though you are my sun

My love, my Doug

Tom

To be honest, it wasn’t one of the best efforts, but the message that came with it… that was a first. It wasn’t a surprise as such – the other letters had been romantic, but…

He took a sip of coffee – it was just about cool enough now. He gingerly sniffed the pack of sliced bread on the counter, but it was thankfully free of mould. He shoved two slices into the toaster and grabbed some butter from the fridge. Or was it can’t believe it’s not butter... You’d butter believe it... Some buttery thing.

So Tom loved him… he’d known it, but it had never been said. Truth be told, he enjoyed the attention. It made him feel special to have someone as… well… nice as Tom say that sort of thing about him. He just wasn’t quite sure what he should do about it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Tom – he just didn’t like him in quite… that way.