Friends: Surprise

Part 8

Okay.
It’s Friday.
Don’t panic.

Everything is going good so far.
Just another day.
Chris glances nervously at you where you stand on the balcony, talking on the phone with your boss, a frustrated look on your face.
You hate having to actually talk to your boss.
It’s why you work from home; you’re not a people person.
Chris slouches down on the couch, glancing at his jacket hanging on the pegs by the door. The ring was nestled safely in the inside pocket, Chris checked it every fifteen minutes to make sure. 
Thank god he was a musician. 
And people like his music.
And hopefully would keep buying it.
It was the only way he would ever be able to afford the payments the ring was costing him.
And then there was the issue of your wedding dress, if that’s the one you wanted.
Three fucking grand?
Jesus.
His next album better sell like fucking moon rocks.
….
He hopes those sell well.
Fuck.
Right.
He glances over as you step inside, snapping something into the phone as you go to where you computer sits and ruffle through all the papers you had chaotically sprawled around it. You had never been an organized person, and Chris has no idea how you manage to find anything on your desk.
He doesn’t understand why you don’t just move in already, officially. You have your furniture there, your clothes — your apartment is so sparse it looks like it’s uninhabited; you hadnt been in it in over two weeks! It was just a waste of money on your part.
And Chris has a spare bedroom, your sister could stay with the two of you.
Although he wouldn’t look forward to it.
He thought Sydney was a little bitch personally.
But, considering he had plans on marrying you, he supposes he’ll have to accept that. 
He’d known your family so long he might as well be part of it.
And you his.
“Well I don’t fucking know then!” he hears you fuss, tossing your papers down in irritation. “Don’t blame me because you lost the number, you little asswipe!”
Well then.
Chris looks at you curiously. 
Someone was in trouble apparently. 
“How am I supposed to know? I just write the articles!” You rant, heading back towards the balcony, jerking the glass door closed so Chris wouldn’t have to listen to you. He glances at the curtains, seeing them shake with the force of your shutting.
Sounds like a bad day at work.
Plus you had a headache from drinking so much.
You’d been grouchy all day.
Chris sinks a little lower in the couch.
Please go smoothly tomorrow. 
Please don’t murder me.
Or punch me.
Please just say yes you’ll marry me.
Please please please.
He rubs his face tiredly.
He was so on edge.
He had been the entire week, and you probably sensed it.
You’d had a lot of sex lately.
Oddly enough. 
He means, you have sex pretty frequently, but the past week had been hardcore.
And he liked it.
Maybe he should be tense more often.
No.
Fuck.
He’s just so nervous. 
Just thinking about it makes him squirm.
He glances at the balcony before wiping his hands on his pants nervously. 
God he loves you.
He couldn’t imagine coming home and not seeing you every day now, he can’t imagine not spending the rest of his life with you.
He sounds like a lame love song.
And oddly he’s okay with that.
Because it’s true.
If he hadn’t been such a jackass before he could’ve been dating you for a lot longer.
But he’s kind of glad he didn’t.
At least this way, you were both mature, both able to support yourselves if need be, didn’t need to rely on the other.
It only took him thirty years to figure out what he did want in life.
He’d never thought he’d want kids, really. He figured he might fuck up one day and get someone pregnant, but he’d never just really thought about wanting them.
Except with you.
Everything was so different with you.
He wants the big house, he wants to come home every day and kiss you, he wants to have kids with you, make little people who had the both of you in them.
Maybe more you then him in the looks department anyway.
Would the two of you have little girls?
A boy?
Many boys?
Twins?
Hopefully not triplets.
He couldn’t handle that.
But maybe one, or two….
Of course, according to you, it would have to be an accident. 
And those happen.
Even if Chris has to make it an accident. 
But that would make him feel like shit.
He doesn’t want to force a baby on you like some kind of jackass.
He wants you to want to have a baby with him.
He sighs, letting his head rest on the couch, eyes closing. The TV was playing in the background, but he wasn’t watching it at all, he never really did. He just uses it for noise if he didn’t have music on.
And generally you just used your headphones.
He drums his fingers against his legs. 
He hadn’t played guitar in a while, and he could remember when he was first learning, how awful he’d been and how much support you’d given him.
You couldnt play for shit though.
Hmm….
​He can’t just sit there, he has to do something! 
​Guitar it is!​​​​
~~~~
Fucking morons!
All of them!
Idiots!
Assholes!
Ugh!
You throw your arms in the air as you stride into the apartment, tossing your phone onto the coffee table in irritation. 
​​​
​​​​​Fucking jerks.
It wasn’t your fault your manager had lost the bloody codes!
You weren’t even in coding, you just send the articles where they’re supposed to go!
Ridiculous!
You scowl.
Fuckers.
Can’t do anything by themselves. 
​….​​
What’s that?
You hesitate, glancing around when you don’t see Chris anywhere, but instead hear the faint sounds of music.
You bite your lip, then slowly swivel towards the hallway. 
Was he playing guitar?
You haven’t heard him play in a long time.
You’re surprised he even remembers how.
Curiously, you follow the music, your steps silent as you make it to the spare room where he mostly keeps his instruments and anything extra that was basically band related. You stop by the door, not daring to make a sound or alert him that you’re nearby.
You just want to hear him sing.
You don’t recognize the song though.