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“The competition is tough for our gorgeous contestants,” the TV Narrator Man said. The screen was taken up by a line of Identical Blonde Women on a beach, all smiling like activating facial muscles was more effort than it was worth. “Will any of them be lucky enough to find their forever soulmate? Find out after this.”
Bud hummed along to the disproportionately grandiose theme music.
Doug let out a sigh that managed to last all the way to the end of the first commercial.
Neither of them moved.
They were supposed to be doing work right now. Stories to write, songs to compose, lyrics to brainstorm: the usual, in a day of living the dream.
That had been the plan, anyway. Unfortunately, sometimes procrastination knew no mercy, even when ‘work’ was literally the best thing in the world. Which was how Bud had found himself spending an uneventful Wednesday afternoon lazing around on his best friend's couch, brain-rotting to reruns of some random dating show and staring into space.
Doug liked to refer to days like this as ‘mandatory recharge time’. Naturally, he’d spent it dangling upside down like a lanky bat—head hanging off the couch, legs awkwardly propped up sideways on the armrest, staring at the TV with an utter lack of interest. It could not have been comfortable (or stable), but clearly sitting like a normal person would just cramp his style.
The commercials continued. Bud had sworn to get up and do something productive 'as soon as the next commercial break ended.'
…That had been three entire episodes ago. The most he’d done was throw a cushion at Doug’s head.
Considering musical writing was their full-time proper job now, Bud probably should have been worried about the potential of wasting the entire day like this.
He wasn't worried at all. Not with Doug’s insane drive and contagious motivational energy perpetually waiting in the wings; hard as it was to believe right now, Doug could convince a sloth to run a marathon if he wanted, just by making it believe it could. It was one of those inexplicable, magical little traits of his. Bud still didn’t understand how he did it, even if Doug himself refused to see it as a big deal.
They'd get where they needed to be, eventually. It was just kind of an inevitable fact of life. And regardless, even if they did stumble a little, Doug would somehow manage to make the attempt feel like its own reward.
So, for now, Bud was more than content to slouch in a boneless heap and indulge in mindless mundanity. The kind inherent to binge-watching reality TV and making aimless small talk. As good a way to spend time as any, really—after all, if hanging out with Doug didn’t make the day brighten and the time fly, what could?
The commercial break ended. The theme music swept back in as several Generic Men congregated around a vibrantly turquoise swimming pool.
Bud shifted a little. The shiny faux leather of the couch gave a muffled squeak of protest, as it always, always, always did with any tiny movement. Always.
Doug cracked his knuckles. Rested his hands on his stomach. Sighed again.
In short, they both continued to do absolutely nothing.
“Hey Doug?”
Doug glanced up at him (well, technically he glanced down). “Hm?” he said, looking only half present. Probably the blood pooling in his head.
Much as Bud wished he could question Doug's furniture preferences, Doug was convinced his beloved disaster couch could do no wrong, and any attempt to imply otherwise had proven to end…poorly.
So, Bud opted to bring up something a little less volatile. A little more on theme.
“Do you believe in soulmates?”
Doug’s expression was harder to read upside down, but the way he screwed up his face and scoffed was difficult to mistake. It was exactly the same face he made when someone said they didn’t like musicals. Or Stephen King. Or Stephen King-based musicals.
“Uh, no." He rolled his eyes as well, because he was Doug, and he couldn’t survive without being sufficiently dramatic. "What do you take me for?”
Bud didn’t have much of an opinion on the whole ‘soulmate’ thing either way. It was just something to talk about.
…Right?
He hadn’t devoted any brain space to the concept before now. And yet, something about Doug’s reaction made the inside of his chest sting a little, as if a rubber band had been snapped at it.
“Geez, alright,” he said. The TV murmured on in the background (apparently, Blonde Woman #3 was having trouble with the truly impossible choice between Generic Man #1, Generic Man #4, and The Redhead). “What do you have against the idea of soulmates, anyway?”
Doug took a deep, foreboding breath. “Well—"
Ah. From the sounds of it, Bud was in for one of Doug’s trademark Impassioned Rants. It was a good thing he didn’t have anywhere else to be today.
A side effect of being the Devoted Best Friend Of Doug Simon was frequently becoming the solo audience of his Impassioned Ranting. A side effect Bud had become very, very…very familiar with over the years.
It was nearly impossible to predict what might set Doug off. Some of his greatest hits included puffins (“They’re just ducks in penguin cosplay, do they really deserve the hype?”), fonts (“But why don’t they name fonts after people? Imagine a Julie Andrews font. She was robbed”), and the theatre industry in general (“You shouldn’t have to sell your car to see Broadway shows though, and even when they do record things they never put them anywhere particularly accessible, what’s with that?”). Once he got started, it would pretty much take Julie Andrews herself to make him stop.
It was lucky, then, that Bud really didn’t want to.
Sure, it could get on his nerves (like when Doug inevitably brought up Stephen King the Musical again, he seriously had to let that one go), but…every time, the sheer level of passion rang through each word like a nasal, enthusiastic bell. He just cared so much. About so many things. It didn’t matter how dull or inconsequential the subject matter seemed to be—somehow, he managed to make everything around him light up with life.
…Of course, that didn’t mean Bud actually listened to all of it. He didn’t have to. Doug’s Impassioned Rants usually worked best as background noise—like an old favourite movie, what it lacked in revelation it made up for in warm, soul-swaddling familiarity. A well-worn kind of comfort.
If Doug couldn’t shut up about something stupid, it meant all was right with the world. He wouldn’t be Doug otherwise.
But even though this Impassioned Rant would probably be no different from the others, this time Bud actually intended to pay full attention. This whole thing had him feeling a bit…defensive. For some reason. Maybe he should have just braved the dreaded couch ‘discussion’ after all.
The couch squeaked (speak of the devil) as Doug shuffled his legs around. Getting himself into proper Ranting Headspace, no doubt. “I’ve just always thought the whole ‘soulmate’ thing was kinda…creepy. And gross.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, glaring at the TV yet clearly paying no attention to it (Blonde Woman #1 was having a heated argument with Blonde Woman #3. Meanwhile, Blonde Woman #2 was crying in the background, and Narrator Man was saying something about unforgivable sins).
“I mean, it all feels a little…determinism-y,” Doug continued. He'd started waving his hands around, something he usually did when he felt strongly about a topic. Which meant it was something he usually did. Even if not usually while precariously upside down, with only a slippery devil-couch between safety and breaking his neck on the hardwood. “I don’t believe in all that super-secret special magic stuff. The idea that it would get to decide who I’m supposed to spend my life with is just…just ew, y’know?"
The couch gave a low, warning groan. Doug didn’t seem to notice.
"I'm not a fan of the whole ‘fate’ thing. You—woah!”
Either Doug’s ranting had gotten a little too impassioned, or Fate itself had heard him, and did not appreciate being denounced. Or maybe the couch was finally showing him its true colours.
Whatever the cause, Doug had ended up dislodged, abruptly backsliding towards the floor with an almighty screech. Whether the noise came from Doug or the couch would forever remain a mystery.
The couch itself did nothing to prevent this disaster. What cruel, disloyal furniture it was.
The symphony of squeaks reached a crescendo as Bud lunged forward, grabbed him by the sweater, and manhandled him back to safety with an embarrassing lack of grace. Because the couch may not have cared if he broke his neck on the hardwood, but Bud certainly did.
“…Woah.” Doug gave his head a dazed little shake, presumably letting it adjust to being upright again.
Bud did everything in his power not to laugh at his expense. He wasn’t entirely successful.
“You were saying?”
Doug blinked. “…Huh?”
“Something something, ‘super-secret special magic stuff doesn’t control your life’?”
“Oh, right.”
Doug pulled his legs onto the couch and crossed them, looking like an overgrown elementary schooler. “I guess…I just think you make stuff happen for yourself. Make relationships happen for yourself. Sure, you can meet someone and really hit it off, but it’s not magic. There’s nothing cosmic about that—it comes from you."
He ran a hand through his hair. "And…and the ‘universe’, or the ‘stars’, or whatever—” another eyeroll, “—none of that bullshit gets a say.”
And with that, against all odds, it seemed like Doug was actually finished talking. He lapsed into silence, gazing over at the TV again (Blonde Woman #1 was agonising over the terrible transgressions committed by Blonde Woman #3, because how dare she wear the same dress as Blonde Woman #2, what utter scandal).
For an Impassioned Rant, that had fizzled out remarkably quickly. Maybe Doug’s near-miss with the floor had severed a few carriages from his train of thought. They’d probably return later, crashing out of his brain at high speed while he was trying to think of a rhyme for ‘love’ or ‘stars’ or ‘existentialism’.
Not that his train of thought was prone to moving in a calm, orderly manner. ‘Off the rails’ was kind of his natural state.
Bud settled an elbow on the armrest, tapping the fabric with a plastic-y tic (squeak), tic (squeak), tic (…squeak). “Hm…I mean, yeah…but…”
Doug was well in his peripheral vision, but that incredulous head tilt was pretty distinctive.
“'But'?” Doug said, with the kind of offense he usually reserved for insults towards the couch. “What do you mean, ‘but’?”
Unfortunately, Bud also had no idea what he was getting at. He agreed with everything Doug had said—profoundly so—but there was something about the concept of ‘soulmates’, the concept of matching with someone in an inexplicable way, that just felt…right.
“…I don’t know.” He scratched a nail against the armrest (squeak squeak squeak) and avoided Doug’s eye. “I…think I get it? The soulmate thing, I mean.”
(Blonde Woman #5 was being interviewed by the ‘experts’. “I’ve never met anyone like him before,” she said, beaming. “I don’t know why, but he just feels…special.”)
Doug raised an eyebrow, once again with such gravitas that it was obvious without needing to look at him. “Really?”
“…Yeah. But like…I don’t mean all that supernatural…stuff. Not…” he waved a hand in the air in what he hoped was a vaguely dismissive fashion, “…not that whole ‘cosmic literal magic fated connection’ kind of thing.”
The couch shifted (and squeaked, naturally) as Doug leaned back into it. “Alright, good. Cause that’s dumb.”
For someone so talented with words, Doug could be wonderfully ineloquent.
Bud smiled. “Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything ‘pre-destined’ about it. It’s…I guess it’s a bit like…uh, dreams? If that makes sense?”
He glanced at Doug, who looked like he was trying to solve a complicated maths problem, and judging the equation’s life choices while he was at it. “…Honestly? Nope. Not even a little. Gonna need you to elaborate for me, buddy.”
That was going to be difficult, when Bud also had no clue where this was coming from or where it was going.
It felt important, though. He had to try.
“So…y’know how, when you find the thing you want to do for the rest of your life—that one special thing that just feels right—how you kinda just…know? You just know it’s your dream, without even really knowing why you’re so sure?”
The question was rhetorical, of course. They both knew that feeling. Heck, they’d eaten that feeling. Turned that feeling into a lifelong bottomless buffet.
The look Doug gave him this time landed somewhere between exasperated and fond. “Duh.”
“Well, I think it’s kinda like that, but…with people.” The Blonde Women and their Generic Men were reduced to tan smears as Bud’s eyes glazed over. “That…that you can meet someone, and as you start getting to know them, something just feels…right. Something you can’t really explain.”
(“I mean,” Blonde Woman #5 went on, “he just…he makes me happier than I ever thought I could be.”)
Bud kept talking. He’d be rivalling Doug’s Impassioned Rants at this rate. “There’s something about them that makes things seem bright. Vibrant. Like anything’s possible.”
(“He’s the light of my life.”)
“And it’s not predestined—you know it won’t all materialise from nowhere. Like with dreams, you know you’ll have to work for it. But, when they're around, it feels…inevitable. You trust it’ll all turn out right, someday. Even if you don’t know why.”
(“With him, everything clicks into place.”)
“They make you believe. In the best of things. In magic, and dreams, and…yourself.”
Bud still didn't know where all this had come from. But he was starting to get an idea of where it was headed.
Apparently, Doug wasn’t far behind. “…Ok, I…think I get what you mean.”
He didn’t sound incredulous now. His voice had gone all soft at the edges, the way it did around lost children and frightened old ladies and…Bud himself, at the slightest indication that he needed to hear it. This was the side of Doug which always seemed to get overlooked—a depth of kindness that was right there beneath the surface, in every dramatic eyeroll and Impassioned Rant and blinding sunlight smile. As inherent to his soul as his endless enthusiasm.
Doug was the gentlest, most genuine person in the whole world. And far too many people somehow didn't see that, instead squinting into his blinding sunlight and deciding it must be ‘too much’. It was their loss, really. They didn’t know what they were missing.
(“I love him so, so much. Even when he drives me crazy. Especially then.”)
This was supposed to be mindlessly mundane. Something light and suitably un-profound to fill up ‘mandatory recharge time’. And yet, here Bud was, having a totally unexpected yet totally obvious epiphany.
Could it really be considered an epiphany if it changed absolutely nothing?
Doug swallowed. “Like…‘soulmates’ in a more metaphorical kind of way?”
“Right. Like…it’s not magic, but…”
“…it kinda is. Real, but…”
“…extraordinary. In the same way as, like…a rainbow, or a sunset, or…”
…Or the way Doug could cheer him up with nothing but a pat on the back and a smile. The way Doug could so easily make him feel safe and comfortable and totally completely understood.
The way Doug could take the mundane and make it into something special. By doing nothing but continue to be loudly, enthusiastically himself.
It was like living life with a firework—a dark night or a dull day, inexplicably lit up in an explosion of sparkling colour. The kind that was a bit headache-inducing, but…wonderfully, one-hundred-percent worthwhile.
For whatever reason, there was something about this frenetic, and chaotic, and explosive, and gentle and loyal and frustrating and dramatic and passionate and kind and wonderful mess of a man that just…fit. Something about him that had nestled its way into Bud’s soul and made itself belong, like it had always had a home there. Something inexplicable, inextricable…undeniable.
Impossible to explain.
(“…Yeah. He’s…definitely my soulmate.”)
Bud forced his mind back to reality, refocusing his gaze to find Doug watching him, sat up straight and staring intently. His eyes were alight with a captivated, revelatory wonder. Like he was seeing a firework for the first time.
He sniffed. “So, like…a miracle.”
“…Yeah. Like a miracle.” Bud smiled again. Doug had always been uniquely good at making him do that. “And I know you believe in those.”
Doug slouched. “Well…” He focused down at his own crossed legs, fiddling with the cuff of one of his socks. “…I didn’t used to.”
The smile Doug gave him as he met his eye again wasn’t the usual giga-watt beam. It was smaller. Softer. Halfway smug and halfway sincere and wonderfully, one-hundred-percent Doug.
Bud didn’t understand how he did it. But somehow, this frenetic, gentle, wonderful mess of a man managed to make brain-rotting to reruns of some random dating show on an uneventful Wednesday afternoon feel like a dream come true.
Maybe that didn’t make sense. Maybe it didn’t have to.
Like magic, like miracles, like soulmates…Doug made him believe it was possible anyway.
(“There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the rest of my life by his side.”)
…The moment was abruptly interrupted when Doug sneezed. Then stretched. Then burped.
Eventually, he collapsed sideways on the couch, commandeering its entire length with his stupid gangly legs and nearly kicking Bud in the face while he was at it. He settled with his cheek planted against the armrest, one arm draped over his waist and the other folded under him. Meanwhile, the couch itself let out a furious frenzy of screeches and squeaks, like an angry high-pitched squadron of seagulls was trapped in the fabric.
Bud ended up with a lapful of aforementioned gangly legs. He rolled his eyes as he let his arms rest on Doug’s calves. “Thanks. I really needed your feet alarmingly close to my face today.”
Doug had gone back to gazing at the TV with the interest of someone watching paint dry. Well, with the one eye that wasn’t smushed against traitorous faux leather, anyway. “You’re welcome.”
Back over at the TV, Blonde Woman #5 was scoffing at a question, flashing her toothpaste-commercial-white teeth. She had some serious shark vibes about her. A tanned, perfectly manicured shark.
“Huh?” she said. “No, I only met him, like, two hours ago. What does that matter? Getting to know someone is overrated. I know he’s The One, because I asked the universe, and the stars told me that—"
“Ugh.” Doug chucked a cushion at her disconcertingly shiny face. It bounced uselessly off the screen with a pathetic thwump. “Can you please change the channel? I can feel my brain actively turning to goo.”
“It’s your TV, Doug. And the remote’s about three inches from your head.”
The very next moment, said remote was bouncing off Bud’s shoulder with an equally pathetic thwump.
He glared at Doug. “Ow.” It hadn’t been thrown with anywhere near enough force to hurt, but that was hardly the point.
Doug didn’t even look up. The absolute nerve.
“Well,” Narrator Man chimed in again, “that sounds pretty definitive. How could the universe be wrong? According to our experts, this is a beautiful example of true lo—”
Tragically, the TV menu popped up to cut him off. Bud scrolled through channels and streaming apps, as well as the inevitable avalanche of ads, while Doug sighed in exaggerated relief (ever the drama queen).
Bud took the opportunity to put on the first Star Wars movie—Episode 4, not Episode 1—before Doug had a chance to do anything about it.
The drama queen himself groaned with disproportionate anguish. “Ugh. Why?”
“Because. You can’t stop me.” He patted Doug’s leg. “You did this to yourself, buddy.”
“I think that counts as victim blaming.”
“Then come get the remote.”
Doug’s only response was a long-suffering, one-eyed glare.
“That’s what I thought.”
They were supposed to be doing work right now. And they would be, just as soon as Doug’s insane drive and contagious motivational energy had been ‘properly recharged’. It wouldn’t take long; this was Doug, after all. And even if it did end up taking a little too much of the day, the time wouldn’t exactly be wasted.
How could an entire day spent with Doug ever be a waste?
For now, Bud was more than content to slouch in a boneless heap and indulge in mindless mundanity. The kind inherent to watching a long-time favourite movie with a long-time favourite person: the usual, in a day of living the dream.
'A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away....'
Bud hummed along to the appropriately grandiose theme music.
Doug let out a sigh that managed to last all the way to the end of the opening crawl.
Neither of them moved.
It was ordinary, well-worn, and familiar. And, much like a million other identically normal days in the years he’d spent by Doug’s side, it sparkled at the seams with something inexplicable. Something warm, bright, colourful…theirs.
When Doug was around, the line between outlandish fantasy and mundane reality got a little less tangible. A little more inconsequential.
No matter what the universe, the stars, or Fate itself had to say, that was the kind of super-secret special magic stuff that was worth believing in.