Friday I'm In Love

Chapter 1

"Morrissey! C'mon, open up!" Johnny Marr shouted, pounding on the door of his band mate's flat. They were supposed to meet up to discuss some new songs they were working on but Johnny had been knocking for nearly five minutes, standing out in the cold Mancunian air. He knew that Morrissey was normally unwilling to open his door to anyone, but usually allowed Johnny in once he heard him calling.
"Johnny?" came a puzzled voice behind him.
Johnny turned to see Morrissey, standing in a warn coat, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
"Where the hell were you?" Johnny asked angrily.
"I went for a walk, why?"
"Why? I've been waiting for you for bloody ever, Moz. We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago!"
"Sorry, I didn't think you'd get here so close to on time." Morrissey snapped, stepping past him and walking inside. Johnny frowned, following Morrissey up to his room silently.
Morrissey collapsed on the bed, glaring up at the ceiling and folding his arms behind his head. Johnny sat on the floor across from him, moving aside books and clothes to make room for his guitar.
"So what do you have for the riff I gave you?" Johnny asked, picking up the cassette that he'd given the older man a few days before, beside the tape player. Morrissey simply tossed an open notebook towards Johnny, still not looking at him.
"What is this?" Johnny asked, frowning at the messy scrawl that was spread, broken, across the page. He couldn't make any rhyme or reason from it, no chorus or verses, just chicken scratch and punctuation.
"Song," Morrissey replied icily.
"What, you're mad at me now because I was on time?" Johnny asked, standing.
"Well, you could do to be a bit more punctual," Morrissey told him, sitting up.
"I might be more eager to get here if you actually had something for me to look at, not just scribbles on a page!" Johnny said, his voice rising.
"Like you could write anything better!"
"It wouldn't be difficult, just find a bunch of rhymes about how much I want to kill myself, a few lines of plagiarism from ancient films, and something about how much I want to fuck James Dean!"
"What? I don't-" Morrissey blushed.
"Oh, sorry," Johnny corrected, "Be fucked by James Dean."
"You prick! As if you do any more, just copying Keith Richards' and Lou Reed's guitar parts. Anyone could do it!"
"I'd like to see you try," Johnny scoffed.
"Ugh! Get out," Morrissey frowned, pointing at the door.
"Gladly," Johnny fumed, roughly grabbing his guitar and leaving. Morrissey threw himself back on the bed, curling on his side. He sighed loudly, glaring at the door.
...
That night, the whole band was going out to dinner to celebrate before Andy and Mike's rehearsal dinner that was scheduled for the next day. The entire dinner, Morrissey and Johnny had been studiously avoiding looking at each other.
"So, you guys are still coming to the dinner tomorrow night, right?" Mike asked, worried.
"Of course they're coming," Andy told him, reassuringly, "It's our wedding rehearsal. They wouldn't miss it."
"They did forget to come to my birthday party last year," Mike pointed out.
"And they said they were sorry," Andy said
"Not enough," Mike mumbled, taking a bite of his food.
After a few moments of silence, Andy looked curiously at Johnny and Morrissey.
"You two aren't fighting or something, are you?"
Morrissey quickly replied "no" just as Johnny said "yes."
"Morrissey insulted my guitar," Johnny said in a voice similar to a child tattling on their sibling.
"Well, I'm sure he-" Andy began.
"Johnny insulted my song writing." Morrissey piped in.
"You both just need to-"
"Yeah, so what?" Johnny asked. "Any lovesick twelve year old can write poetry. It's not even a song until it's set to music."
"Johnny-" Andy tried.
"Try selling pop stations instrumentals in this day and age," Morrissey shot back, "You'd be on the streets in seconds."
"Morrissey-"
"Better than shut up in my room like a hermit!" Johnny shouted, standing sharply and walking out onto the street.
"I'm going home," Morrissey told Mike and Andy.
"You'll be there tomorrow, though? You won't forget?" Mike asked.
"Sure," Morrissey said, walking away.
"They always forget about me," Mike said, frowning at the table.
"They don't forget, they just get... Distracted," Andy insisted, lacing their fingers together.
...
When Morrissey got home, he went immediately to his record player. He flipped through stacks of vinyl, looking for something to distract himself with. He searched through the records angrily, muttering the whole time.
"Stupid Johnny, with his stupid guitar and his stupid sunglasses. He just has to go and- ugh!"
...
Johnny arrived at his flat, scowling. He hated fighting with his best friend, but sometimes Morrissey could just be such a twat. He shoved his way into his room, scanning the records leaning against his turntable.
"Stupid Morrissey, with his stupid messy handwriting and his stupid hair! He always has to go and- ugh!"
...
Morrissey growled, flicking the records back into place and stabbing the start button on the record player without looking at the center of the set record.. He sludged back to his bed and flung himself down.
...
Johnny resigned himself to whatever was set on the record player and moved the needle over the first groove, settling back on his heels.
...
" Closet full of rags, all tucked away in a bed that's swank, two sedans and the latest sports car plus a lot of money in the bank. Baby, just give me you in a love affair made for two, don't make no mistake about which one I would take ."
...
Morrissey groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. It was the song that Johnny had played him the day they met.
"Not this damn song," he muttered, glaring at the 45.
...
"You're the one," Johnny sang along wryly, sneering at the record player. He pulled his guitar across his lap, picking out the chords and playing them loud and sloppily, shouting over the music. "You're the one, the only one!"