The Who - Short Fiction

Behind Blue Eyes - 1/3

A loud knock came at the door, momentarily interrupting your focus on setting the table for dinner. Your guests weren't expected for another hour or so, but you figured that someone had decided to be extra punctual in order to make up for their chronic lateness.

"Come in!" you hollered towards the door. The handle turned, and in came Pete, the guitarist of your boyfriend's band. He clutched an umbrella in one hand, still dripping from his time out in the rain. Glancing out the window, you frowned at the gloomy London sky; it had been pouring for nearly a week straight without any sign of stopping.

"Afternoon, Y/N," Pete greeted you, stepping out of his scuffed penny loafers and depositing them on the shoe rack beside the door.

"Just hang your umbrella up—"

"On the hook behind the door," Pete finished for you. "Don't worry, I know." You held your hands up in a quick apology; sometimes it slipped your mind that Pete had been coming to the flat to see John since long before you moved in. He swung the door shut, closing it with a socked foot, and came to lean on the back of the chair at the head of the table.

"You're quite early," you noted, looking up from the other end of the table. Pete reached over the chair and adjusted the cloth napkin you'd folded atop one of the plates, which was slightly crooked.

"Is that allowed?" he inquired, observing you with tired eyes. Pete looked as if he hadn't slept in days, but his outfit tried to convey otherwise. Dressed in dark denim trousers, a cream-coloured roll-neck jumper and a smart black blazer, he looked prim and proper for the dinner party you'd insisted on having in celebration of their latest album release.

"Of course it is," you replied, looking up sharply. "You know you're always welcome here." As John's closest friend, Pete was often curled up on your sofa with a book, or engaged in a heated discussion with your boyfriend over tour logistics at the table. The guest room was almost exclusively reserved for him, and he used it often, especially after the boys had put away a significant number of drinks after a gig in town.

Satisfied with the way you'd set things up, you stepped back into the kitchen to check on the chicken and lemon potatoes roasting in the oven. Pete followed, stopping at the counter when he saw the plate of hors d'oeurves you'd prepared: crackers stacked with various meats, cheeses and jams. Thinking your attention was on the oven, he reached out and popped one into his mouth.

"Hey, I saw that," you warned, peeking at him over your shoulder. "Hands in your pockets, Townshend." He stopped chewing, glancing about as though he hadn't any idea what you were talking about. Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but you turned back to the oven, satisfied that he wouldn't do it again.

"Anything I can help with, Y/N?" he asked, chewing up the prosciutto and jam cracker he'd snatched. You closed the oven and adjusted your apron, flattening it over your knee-length skirt. Pressing your lips together thoughtfully, you considered what else there was left to do before the party.

"You could reach up into the cupboard there and bring down some wine glasses," you suggested, pointing at the top shelf of the corner cupboard. Pete nodded and set to it, putting his height to good use.

"Red or white?" he asked, comparing the sizes of the glasses he'd retrieved.

"John bought something stupid expensive," you replied, rolling your eyes. "Take a guess." Pete replaced the white wine glass and pulled down several more tall, wide glasses from the shelf. He knew his friend well; John had a tendency to spend more than he ought on a bottle of red, just because he could. The rest of you preferred something much sweeter, or much harder, but since you and John were hosting, everyone else would keep their thoughts to themselves on the matter (at least until Keith brought out a flask after dessert).