Collisions and Catalogues

“You’re still looking at that thing?” Jamie asked, not bothering to look up from his phone, a worn screen that threatened to flicker out at any moment. He shifted, the springs of Billie’s second-hand sofa groaning a protest beneath him. One of the cushion buttons was digging into his hip, but he’d learned to ignore it.

Billie grunted, flipping a page with a flourish that sent a cloud of biscuit crumbs airborne. “It’s important research, Jamie. How else am I supposed to curate my… aesthetic?” He held up the page, a picture of a minimalist coffee table in bleak greyscale. “See? This could really tie the room together. Or, you know, replace the stack of pizza boxes you’re currently using as a coaster.”

Jamie finally looked over, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “My pizza boxes are functional. And they’re not an ‘aesthetic,’ they’re a cry for help. Your aesthetic is ‘impending hoarder situation, winter edition’.” He gestured vaguely at the overflowing bookshelves, the pile of graphic novels on the floor, and the unidentifiable tangle of wires near the TV. A single, dusty Christmas ornament, a faded felt robin, still hung precariously from a picture frame, long past its festive relevance.

“You wound me,” Billie said, not sounding wounded at all. He lowered the catalogue, letting it fall open on his chest. His gaze drifted around the room, then landed on Jamie. “Remember that Boxing Day? The one where we… collided? I swear you looked like you were ready to commit grievous bodily harm over a toaster oven.”

Jamie snorted, the memory making a warmth spread through him despite himself. “Grievous bodily harm? You were elbowing elderly women for a half-price blender! And then you slammed your trolley into my shins, nearly sending me headfirst into a display of discounted bath bombs.”

The Bargain Basement Brawl

Billie laughed, a full, throaty sound that made the old floorboards tremble slightly. “That’s not how I remember it. I remember a scowling, intensely territorial boy guarding his treasure like a dragon. You had three of those ugly flannel shirts in your cart. Three!”

“They were 70% off! And they’re practical! Unlike your… desire for a toaster oven when you can barely make toast without setting off the smoke detector.” Jamie countered, his voice rising in playful indignation. He remembered the crush of bodies, the desperate scramble for deals, the way the air in the department store had been thick with the scent of cheap perfume and consumerist desperation. He’d seen Billie then, a shock of bright hair, a frantic, determined glint in his eye, and had instantly marked him as an enemy combatant.

“It was a gift for my nan!” Billie protested, pushing himself up to a sitting position on the beanbag, the catalogue sliding to the floor. “And your face, Jamie. Oh god, your face. Pure fury. Like I’d just insulted your entire lineage of flannel-wearing ancestors.”

“You did,” Jamie muttered, though he was smiling now, a small, private smile that only Billie ever seemed to draw out. “I genuinely thought you were the most obnoxious person I’d ever met. For about, oh, five minutes. Then you tripped over a rogue skateboard in the sports section and sent a whole pile of discounted footballs tumbling, and I knew… I knew you were something else.”

Billie grinned, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “And I thought you were a stick in the mud. All serious, with your sensible trainers and your ‘I came here to shop, not to make friends’ vibe. You were so… un-festive. Like a grinch who’d accidentally wandered into a rave.”

“It was Boxing Day, not a rave,” Jamie corrected, but the humour in his voice softened the retort. He remembered the sudden, unexpected eye contact across the chaos, a brief flicker of something – recognition? Amusement? – before Billie had collected his composure and given him a truly magnificent glare. Then, a few minutes later, Billie had been in line behind him, muttering about the inefficiency of the checkout staff, and Jamie, despite himself, had found himself agreeing.

“Still, you’re less grumpy now,” Billie mused, picking up the biscuit from the floor, examining it for dust, then taking a bite. “Mostly. Except when I refuse to throw out that vintage toaster I found at a charity shop last summer.”

Jamie watched him, a slow shake of his head. “You have three toasters. Three, Billie. You’re one of those people who buys duplicates of things just because they’re ‘interesting’.” His gaze landed on a chipped ceramic cat on the windowsill, then a stack of identical, unread paperbacks. “And that’s why your aesthetic is still ‘stuff’.”

“It’s a curated collection of nostalgic ephemera!” Billie defended, waving the catalogue like a flag. “And this room has character. Unlike, say, your apartment, which looks like a minimalist prison cell. All grey and… sterile.”

“It’s clean,” Jamie said, a touch defensively. “And organised. I know where everything is.”

“Exactly!” Billie exclaimed, snapping the catalogue shut. “Where’s the adventure in that? Where’s the thrill of discovery? Last week, I found a tenner under that beanbag. It was like finding pirate treasure.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t suppress the smile that kept tugging at his lips. He loved this about Billie – the sheer, unadulterated chaos, the way his mind worked in tangents and unexpected leaps. It was exhausting sometimes, like trying to herd a flock of hyperactive pigeons, but it was never boring. He remembered how, in those early weeks after Boxing Day, they'd kept bumping into each other on campus, then 'accidentally' studying in the same library corner, and the arguments had slowly morphed into conversations, the glares into something else entirely.

The Catalogue of Contention

“Okay, fine,” Jamie conceded, pushing himself up from the sofa. “But if you’re actually buying this ‘minimalist’ table, then something has to go. This whole… landscape of questionable knick-knacks and half-finished projects has to change.” He gestured with a sweeping hand. “Like that… lamp. It looks like it belongs in a Victorian asylum.”

Billie narrowed his eyes, clutching the catalogue to his chest. “The lamp is a statement piece! It’s got history. It’s got… character!” He bounced slightly on the beanbag, the springs creaking. “You just don’t appreciate artistic integrity.”

Jamie walked over, standing above Billie, who now looked up at him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The light caught the stray hairs falling across Billie’s forehead. Jamie reached out, brushing them back. Billie leaned into the touch, a silent invitation. “Artistic integrity isn’t an excuse for clutter, Billie. It’s called ‘interior design’ not ‘archaeological dig’.”

“But where’s the fun in a perfectly designed room?” Billie murmured, his voice softer now, less argumentative. He reached out, taking Jamie’s hand that was still lingering near his temple, his fingers warm around Jamie’s colder ones. “It’s like… perfectly designed relationships. All symmetrical and predictable.”

“Is that what you think we are?” Jamie asked, pulling Billie gently until he was closer, their knees almost touching. The scent of Billie’s faintly citrusy laundry detergent, mixed with something indefinably 'Billie', filled his senses. “Symmetrical? Predictable?”

Billie snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “Hardly. We’re more like… a beautifully chaotic dumpster fire. An avant-garde installation of mutually assured exasperation.” He squeezed Jamie’s hand. “You’re the straight lines, I’m the squiggly ones. We somehow… work.”

Jamie smiled, shaking his head. “A dumpster fire, huh? Poetic. And accurate. You’re definitely the one setting things on fire.” He let go of Billie’s hand, then leaned down, picking up the fallen catalogue. He flipped to a random page, landing on a picture of a plush, oversized armchair. “What about this, then? A giant, ridiculously comfortable armchair. Fits your… ‘curated collection’ vibe.”

Billie peered at it, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes. “Hmm. Too beige. And probably too expensive. But… comfortable. I could get behind comfortable.” He looked up at Jamie, his playful grin returning. “You’d probably just sit in it, all prim and proper, instead of sprawling like a normal person.”

“And you’d probably fill it with old socks and half-eaten crisps within a week,” Jamie retorted, nudging Billie’s foot with his own. The biscuit lay abandoned on the floor, unnoticed. “It’s a losing battle, isn’t it?”

Billie leaned back, resting his head against the soft beanbag, his eyes closing for a moment. “Probably. But it’s a fun battle. A truly magnificent, pointless battle.” He opened his eyes, meeting Jamie’s gaze. A comfortable, easy silence settled between them, the kind that only years of knowing each other, flaws and all, could forge. The hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen was the only other sound. Then Billie’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait. Does that mean we’re *not* getting the minimalist coffee table?”

Jamie just looked at him, then at the catalogue still in his hands. The armchair. The beige. The absolute certainty that Billie would turn it into a nest of forgotten things. And the thought, ridiculous as it was, made him feel… exactly where he was supposed to be.

“You know,” Billie said, breaking the silence, his voice a low rumble. “I still wouldn’t trade that Boxing Day for anything. Even with the near-death experience by bath bomb.” He pushed himself to his feet, stretching like a cat, then walked towards the window, pressing his nose against the cold glass. Outside, the grey day was beginning to fade, turning the sky a bruised purple. He turned, a serious expression on his face, which was rare for him. “You think we’ll ever stop arguing about stupid stuff?”

Jamie looked at the untouched biscuit on the floor, then at Billie’s expectant face, framed by the dying light. He considered the question, the long history of their disagreements, big and small, trivial and profound. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted them to stop.