Archive of Our Own

The invitations arrived shortly after eleven o'clock, right between Deborah from accounting's typical ten-fifty-five phone call (to which Roy would remind her that once again that the antivirus software was doing its daily scan and no, it wasn't worth a phone call) and Stan from PR's usual eleven-o-five call (to which Roy would reiterate his conversation with Deborah).

Roy had slipped away into the kitchen to grab himself a can of Pepsi, hoping beyond hope that Stan would call and Moss would be obligated to answer (a futile wish, but one nonetheless), and had returned just in time to find Jen flicking through the mail. In her hand were a pair of bulging envelopes.

'Oh, don't tell me you've gone and picked it up again,' he said, cracking the ring pull. The Pepsi began to froth and fizz, and he took a slurp, much to Jen's visible disgust. 'There's a man for that, you know.'

'And he refuses to come down until you apologise. He's still quite upset about you calling him a pig.'

'I wasn't calling him a pig! I wasn't calling anyone a pig. I was talking about the movie.'

'Oh, that Babe. She's some pig, alright!' Moss chimed in as he slid his thumb under the envelope he'd been holding.

'You're confusing Babe with Charlotte's Web,' Jen said, somewhat distractedly as she thumbed through the envelopes. 'Oh, look, even Richmond got mail.'

As Jen walked off to the imposing red door, Roy craned his neck to watch Moss. The envelope, a shimmering gold, had been opened up and the contents removed. With a precise and exacting hand, Moss laid out two pieces of three pieces of thick card and a smaller, less shimmering but still gold, envelope that had been partly folded.

'What's that?' Roy asked, taking two steps to peer at it.

'It's a wedding invitation,' Moss replied, nodding his head the way he did when he was newly excited about something. 'Or, rather, it's a wedding invitation, a menu for the reception with dietary requirements, details of a gift registry, and a return envelope.'

Roy's mind began to spin. Jen had been holding identical envelopes.

'Who's getting married?'

'Patricia, from three. Apparently she's getting married to her sister's best friend's brother. It's quite the scandal, really.'

'Patricia? Is she the mousy one, with glasses?'

'No, that's Martha. Patricia's the one with the pointy nose.'

'Ahh, the rat one.'

A wedding. Not just a wedding, but wedding invitations. The IT team didn't get invited to work events, let alone weddings. Roy knew having Jen as their relationship manager was a good thing (by and large- he got slapped a lot less often), but he didn't know it was this good.

As Jen emerged from the server room, a bounce in her step, Roy stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Jen faltered midway, eyed his hand, and then looked back up at him.

'What?' she asked, confusion evident upon her face.

'Where's mine?'

'Where's what?'

'My... you know...' Roy gestured vaguely with his can of Pepsi, and then pointed at the envelope she still held in her hand. 'Is that it?'

Jen looked at the envelope, the can of Pepsi, and then back at Roy.

'I handed them all out. There were only four.'

'Bullocks.'

Stepping forward, Roy snatched the envelope from Jen's hand. Despite her noise of protest, Roy flicked the envelope around, certain he'd find his name written upon it. Instead, he found Gwenore Barber, IT Team, sub-level basement.

He read it twice over. No Roy Trenneman, no R. Trenneman, not even Roy Tenneman. Just some mysterious Gwenore.

'Who's Gwenore?' he asked, looking back at Moss.

Moss, already carefully selecting a pen to make his response to the invite, shrugged up at him.

'Me,' Jen said, quietly.

'What? No, you're not. You're Jen.'

'No. I'm... it's a family name.'

'Jen's your name.'

'Nickname. Can I have that back?'

'What?'

'It's Welsh. Envelope, please.'

'What?'

'I think Jen is attempting to tell you it's a hypocorism,' Moss interjected, just as Jen(-not-Gwenore) pulled the envelope and all its contents from between Roy's fingers.

'Your invite probably just got misdirected,' Jen said as she smoothed out the edges. 'Your mail is always getting stuck with Ray in maintenance, isn't it? Just go up and check.'

Roy rolled his eyes and went to retreat at his desk. He didn't like Ray. Beyond having a similar name, Ray was half an inch taller, had straight teeth and a full head of hair and, despite having a good ten years on Roy, had a far better rate of success with the ladies in marketing. Roy hated him. The last thing he was going to do was go simpering up to him and asking for his mail. He hadn't even gone up there when his gaming magazine subscription had gone misdirected for four months. Ray the good-looking mop man could get bent.

Flopping down in his seat, he took a swig from his can and determinedly studied his monitor. He refused to look over at Moss, even when he heard him capping his pen and putting the contents back in the envelope. Roy didn't even want to go to Patricia's ridiculous wedding. He didn't even like her.

*

The invitation didn't arrive that week, nor did it arrive the week after. Roy kept needling Jen to go and ask Ray in maintenance if he had it in an effort to weasel out of going himself, but Jen kept refusing. It was the principle of the matter, she said. Roy hated principles, and he refused to have any.

It did eat at him, though. Jen had already marked her invite as attending and had sent it back. Even Richmond seemed a little excited about it. He'd mentioned something about having his 'nice coat' dry-cleaned, and had even gone so far as to say Jessica was looking forward to it. Roy didn't understand- Richmond didn't even work for the company anymore. He just seemed to still live in the server room.

'You know, Roy,' Moss said over dinner during the third invitationless week. 'I could take you as my plus one.'

'Plus one?' Roy repeated, nearly dropping his plastic Chinese takeout container. 'You got a plus one? Did Jen get a plus one?'

'I would assume so, given she's bringing some man named Roger.'

'Roger?' This time he set his container down, fried rice and satay beef spilling out from the force of it. 'Jen got a plus one and she's invited some bloke named Roger and not me?'

Moss, likely deciding to ignore Roy's disbelief that Jen would wrong him like that, continued on. He skewered a piece of sweet-and-sour pork on his fork and kept speaking.

The old, worn couch they sat upon squeaked in complaint as Roy shifted to a more comfortable position. The movie on the telly had gone to an ad break, and noise was blaring in the background.

Spotting a particularly tender looking piece of pork, Roy reached over and stabbed it clean on his fork. Moss lightly tapped the back of his hand and, in retaliation, stole a forkful of satay beef. A piece of onion, precariously balancing atop it, splattered somewhere between the cushions of the worn couch. The mice would eventually carry it away.

'I was going to invite my mother, but as you've made it a personal mission to never speak to Ray in maintenance again, I thought I would bring you as my date. I've already filled in the RSVP and sent it back to Patricia.'

'You- I- what?'

The information had Roy reeling. He wasn't sure what threw him the most- that Moss would invite his mother, that he called Roy his date, or, most shockingly, he had willingly sent back an invite to a social event saying he would attend.

'You were bringing your mother as a date to a wedding?' Roy finally settled on.

'What?' Moss stared at him, squinting a little as he held his fork halfway to his mouth. 'Don't be ridiculous. I'm not Oedipus.'

'But you said I'd be your date- '

'Yes. We're not related.'

'But- '

'Shh, the movie's back on.'

Babe began to play again. Although he remained quietly bewildered, Roy turned back to the television and tried to push it from his mind. At least he had an invitation now, of sorts.

*

The invitation never turned up. As the weeks slipped by and the wedding date neared, Roy accepted that if he'd ever been invited, Ray had likely scurried the stuffed envelope into the night. By this point it had likely become part of a cosy nest for some small mammals.

People took his attendance at the reception as a given, though. The whole thing baffled Roy, who rarely wanted to see his coworkers (Moss notwithstanding) outside of business hours. The concept of inviting them to his own godforsaken wedding baffled him. Maybe Patricia had less friends than him and Moss combined.

At some point, Jen wrangled Roy into having his suit dry-cleaned. His arguments that guests might confused him for the groom went unheard ('believe me, Roy, no one is going to think you're in the wedding party'), but he was eventually permitted into wearing his sandshoes. A part of him suspected Jen now kept a spare pair in her car.

'If anyone asks,' Roy hissed into Moss's ear as they made their way up to the church, 'I have an invite. I'm not your date.'

'You're not my date,' Moss agreed with a firm nod of his head. 'You're my plus one.'

Several of their work colleagues passed by, and Roy could swear some of them were looking over their shoulders and whispering about them. Maybe the crunch of pebbles beneath their feet would muffle their conversation somewhat.

He couldn't find Jen anywhere; she said she'd meet them at the church, but they had never clarified if that meant inside or outside.

'No, no,' he replied with a wave of his hand. 'I'm not your plus one.'

'Right, you're my date.'

'No! I have an invite.'

'You're my date and you have an invite.'

They had arrived at the front of the church. Just inside, Roy could see the usher directing which side guests should sit on; he'd never understood that. To be fair, he'd never understood marriage as a concept.

'No.'

Cocking his head to the side, Moss eyed him side-on. 'But you have an invite?'

'Exactly.'

'And at no point are you my mother.'

'That's precisely it,' Roy agreed, glad they could have clarified that.

The usher, having patiently waited for them, cleared his throat. Moss turned to him and beamed.

'Hullo! I'm Moss, and this is my date, Roy. He's not my mother, but he has an invite.'

That was close enough. Roy would accept it.

They had arrived with minutes to spare. The seats (chairs? Pews? Roy knew his grandmother would be disappointed that he didn't know, but he had plenty to disappoint her with to begin with) were already filling up, with the only seats free still predominantly at the back. It seemed a bit useless, getting all dressed up in a suit, only to miss the show.

Jen was seated several rows back from the front, but in decent seats. Beside her sat Richmond and Jessica. Smacking Moss in the arm, Roy pointed the three out. The hurried up as a silence began to descend throughout the church. They hissed at each other to remain quiet as they scurried up, as quickly as they could. As he neared the row, he reached back, partly to just hasten Moss. Although normally it would take him by surprise to feel Moss' hand in his own, he didn't have time to pay it much attention at that moment. The groom was standing at the front, as was the priest and the one that wasn't the groom or the priest but still had some role to play, even if it was just standing around and not doing much of anything.

The wedding proceeded in the same way weddings always did. There were the boring vows and awkward kissing. Jen cried, which Roy had expected to happen. Moss also cried, but only because he was allergic to the flowers in the bouquets and he had forgotten to pack antihistamines. Jen turned and cried into Roy's shoulder, while Moss grabbed at his hand once more as he tried to sneeze into his elbow. Trapped between them, Roy also began to cry; his suit was dry-clean only and Moss had a stronger grip than expected.

*

They were seated at the table nearest the kitchen with two of Patricia's distant cousins and someone who may have been either a former school chum or perhaps a moderately disliked neighbour. Both seemed like possibilities, the longer Roy sat there and listened to them drone on. Although the seats were apparently bad, Roy didn't care; it meant their food came out hot.

Early on in the evening, before the first course had even come out but after the first speech, Moss elbowed Roy square in the ribs.

'I Googled what we should talk about during a wedding reception,' he said, pulling a set of palm cards out of his jacket pocket.

'God, it's not going to be another football game, is it?' Roy asked, wishing the booze had already been sent out.

'That, if I may remind you, was your fault.'

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Roy took the cards when they were handed to him. He had to give Moss credit for researching this beforehand; all he had done was spray a few squirts of breath freshener in his mouth and buy a new can of deodorant.

Some of the cards were general topic ideas, such as current events (Moss had noted the recent weather events and had a note on the last football match, which Roy wanted to scratch out). There were a couple of general, positive remarks about the bride's dress. There were a few questions, such as how the guest knew the bride or groom, and if they had travelled from out of town or lived locally. Lastly, Moss had written a few supposed 'fun' facts about weddings, such as wedding bands originally being made from braided grass.

Roy pocketed the last one.

'Jen! Roger! Did you see the lovely tnetennba outside? Who're your friends?'

A woman had come sidling up. She already had a drink in hand, which Roy enviously eyeballed. They were invited and Roy smiled, shook the hand that was proffered to him. He didn't quite catch her name, and when he went to ask her for it, he felt a jab in his side. Moss had spotted a waiter. His interest in the as-yet-unnamed woman waned, and, instead, he waved down the waiter. The woman had fallen into conversation with Jen and Jessica, and

It was, it turned out, an open bar. At first Roy lit up, until he ran through the mental list of what he actually wanted to drink and settled on his typical beer. He turned to Moss.

'Milk?'

'Please. I don't want to start the night out too strong.'

More speeches occurred during the night. Dinner was served between each of them, and Roy poked at the plate every time someone went to stand behind a microphone. He swapped his steak tartare for Moss' prawn cocktail, and, in turn, Moss handed over his salmon fillet for Roy's chicken breast.

The strangers at the table left once they realised they had nothing in common. Jen initially went with them, but she returned before dessert, Roger having disappeared into the crowd. Richmond and Jessica went up to dance, but they came back to the table and called the music intolerable.

'The DJ turned down all my requests,' Richmond said, though it was, as always, difficult to tell if he was disappointed or not.

Roy, three beers in, ordered Moss a White Russian.

'You don't need to drink it,' he explained. 'You can just look at it.'

'Thank you.'

After the fourth drink, Roy got up to dance, and, after the fifth, he went and dragged Moss with him. Moss had finished the drink Roy had ordered for him, and had even ordered a second, though it was only partly consumed; it combined to make him a little more pliable to going along with Roy's idea. Things had begun to feel soft around the middle, and a hazy glow washed through him. Although Moss initially complained, stating that, 'my body has no rhythm, Roy. A funky beat comes on and my limbs do something else!', he allowed himself to get pulled onto the floor. Jen was already on the floor and bouncing from person to person, while Richmond and Jessica were both staring at their feet and doing something that might resemble a dance for two very depressed people.

Holding Moss by the wrist, Roy spun him around the floor. Laughter spilled from him as he hooked his fingers around Moss' own and reeled him back in. Everything seemed to have a soft, hazy glow as the alcohol pulsed through him, leaving him warm and giddy. The joyous atmosphere had spread throughout the crowd, and the awkwardness of attending a large social gathering had disappeared. Maybe their colleagues still found them odd, maybe the guests still found them peculiar, but in that group they were just another pair of dancing, slightly drunk fools with matching grins on their faces.

Dessert was brought out; wedding cake with optional fruit salad. Jen insisted he, Moss and Richmond all at least have a bite of the fruit salad before devouring the cake. They rolled their eyes but conceded, and Roy, barely noticing, finished the fruit.

The reception was beginning to wind down. Roy wasn't even sure when guests had started leaving. Richmond and Jessica had disappeared at some point between YMCA and Time Warp, and Jen had begun to bemoan Roger's exit.

Moss had flopped down in his seat, complaining of gout, and Roy fell down beside him.

'Jen- Jen, look, they're gonna toss the... the flowers.'

'Bouquet?'

'Yeah, that thing.'

Jen had her shoes off and was not-so-subtly rubbing her feet. She had once again purchased a pair too small, though they seemed to fit her feet a little better.

'Go up,' Roy insisted, still the right side of tipsy. 'I want to see some hair pulling.'

'It's not a wedding until someone's eye has been gouged,' Moss added.

'Go on, Jen!' Roy encouraged. 'Show them what you're made of!'

At their needling, Jen hauled herself up, stumbling a little from the champagne, wine and vodka she'd consumed and wobbled her way up to the gaggle of giggling and squabbling bridesmaids, squealing girlfriends and high-heeled single women. She looked over her shoulder once at the pair of them, her nose screwed up, and then elbowed her way towards the front of the group. From where he sat at their table, Roy cheered and clapped, laughing alongside Moss.

Someone had coerced the bride up onto a chair. Shaking his head, Roy leaned back to find the beer he had set down somewhere. Moss had already grown disinterested in the goings-on of the bouquet toss and had dug his phone out from his pocket.

'On three!' the bride called out. 'One! Two!'

Roy barely heard the Three! over the raucous cheer of women scrambling for the bouquet. Turning away, Roy grabbed his half-empty bottle of beer from behind the table centrepiece. He had just picked it up when an explosion of petals and leaves hit him.

The bouquet had hit Moss in the head. Roses fell onto the table, the stems sticking up, naked and beheaded. The ribbon that had tied the flowers together had become equally undone and tangled throughout the evening. Long, spindly leaves littered the table and Moss' chest and lap as he stared at the bouquet that had attacked him.

Roy met his eyes. They took in the carnage of the former bouquet, and then turned to look at the furious mob of women.

'I think it's time we left,' Roy said.

'Agreed.'

Hauling themselves out of their chairs, they ran off while the women bolted for the floral remains.

*

One of them hailed a cab. It was likely Roy, given Moss' general anxiety about doing it wrong. A swarm of taxis were idling outside the reception hall, which meant it was a relatively easy process, which, in turn, meant Moss' concern over doing it wrong was amplified.

'We'll... we'll take you home first,' Roy slurred around a hiccup as he picked petals and leaves from his shirt.

'My mum'll be furious. I'm mildly inebriated.'

'Exactly. She'll be more furious if I don't get you home.'

'You're not my mum, Roy.'

'I'm not your mum, I'm your date.'

'Precisely.'

The car rocked just enough that Roy was lulled into a stupor somewhere between relaxed and vaguely nauseated. He watched the world go by and half-lidded eyes as Moss, somehow as equally tipsy as him despite only having only a quarter of the alcoholic drinks, slumped against him. The driver had the front window cracked open just enough to let the cold, early winter air blow against his face, which had grown clammy from booze.

Falling into an uneasy doze, Roy let himself slip down in the seat to rest upon Moss. Everything had that wonderful warm glow to it, with a fluttering excitement and hungry joy, like falling asleep on Christmas Eve or after a birthday dinner where a cake had been alight with candles. It wasn't something Roy necessarily felt much of these days, what, with being a sullen grown man, but he still clung to it in his tippled fog.

The car came to the stop. Running on auto, Roy groped about in his pocket to pay as Moss slid out of the car beside him. After he thanked the drive, Roy also pulled him out of the taxi and stumbled up the path behind Moss.

'You need to... my mum said no friends over anymore, without prior warning,' Moss said as he pulled his keys out.

'I know, I know.' Roy waved his hand. The taxi had driven off. 'I just want t' make sure you get in safe. It's the gentlemanly thing t' do.'

He knew the route from Moss' home to his own like the back of his hand. He'd walked it many a time, in far more inebriated states.

He felt like he was dropping some lass of after a date. He was itchy all over from the flowers, and from his coat pocket, he dug out a half-crushed bloom. With a laugh, he handed it over to Moss.

It was a gesture he'd done plenty of times before, without even thinking. A last ditch effort to impress a girl, a habit that he must have read from some magazine or online bullet point article, which said it would help cement the deal. And, like all those times before, Roy finished it off by leaning over and kissing Moss.

This wasn't like the previous kiss the two of them had shared, which had been awkward, mildly off-centre mashing of their lips. It was still somewhat left of the middle, and it was Moss' turn to flay his hands out for balance, unlike last time. Roy, though, having a good deal more experience in these matters (despite both of somewhat inebriated states) was far gentler than Moss had been. The frame of Moss' glasses pressed into his cheeks, and he was acutely aware that he was likely smudging them.

There was a honking of a car horn in the distance. Someone yelled in the night. It almost seemed like a cat should screech. Roy rocked his weight onto his toes, before sinking back onto his heels.

'You, uh... water. Have some water,' he said, as Moss awkwardly pulled his glasses off and attempted cleaning them on his shirt. Roy knew it wouldn't help.

'Right. Water.'

'Goodnight, Moss.'

'Goodnight, Roy.'

Moss was still holding the rose in his other hand. As Roy stumbled down the footpath and waved, he could see the petals sticking out from between Moss' fingers.

*

The following morning, Roy awoke to a pounding headache, his mouth feeling stuffed with cotton, a rash up along his right arm from where he had an allergic reaction to the flowers from the bouquet.

He dragged himself out of bed, showered, and slathered his skin in calamine lotion. He'd be shedding pink dust for the rest of the morning, but he typically relied on Moss for antihistamines and therefore didn't keep any in the house.

The sun was too bright and the office too cheery; even his dark sunglasses couldn't dampen it. When he arrived to the cool familiarity of the basement, he was met with Jen's mostly-closed door and a groan from within. The bright red server door was firmly shut (as always). Only one person seemed remotely alive.

'Hello, Roy!' Moss, cheery as ever, smiled at him from behind a glass of milk. 'Sleep well?'

Roy jerked his chin up in response and shuffled to his desk. Flopping down in his chair, he folded his hands and let his head brow fall against them. He could hear the squeak of Moss' chair and the sound of footsteps. He did his best to ignore it.

Minutes later, the footsteps returned. There was a soft thump against his desk, and when Roy lifted his head, he was greeted with a mug of coffee.

'Thanks, Moss.'

As he picked up the mug, he looked over the top of his sunglasses to where Moss was tapping away at his computer. The crushed rose was balanced atop his monitor. He'd think about it later, when his head wasn't pounding so hard.