School Reunion, part 3 (Patreon)

I awoke at 9:15 the next morning, groaning as the light chinking through the curtains stabbed me in the eyes like daggers of sunlight. My head felt thick and overinflated, and – as I staggered to the bathroom to rid myself of the intestinal detritus from last night’s feast – I promised myself to at least try not to overindulge, next time I got together with the fat Welshman.

After cleaning my teeth and having a quick wash to clear my head, I went downstairs in my dressing-gown and slippers. Andrew was already up, sipping a cup of tea and reading yesterday’s paper in the recliner; he was wearing the trousers and shirt from last night, of course. To my vague annoyance, he didn’t seem to be suffering any aftereffects at all. (It’s just so unfair). The sofa-bed had been folded away, all the litter cleaned up, the bedclothes neatly folded and piled up behind the sofa.

“Morning, Sleepyhead,” Andrew said, looking over the top of his reading glasses and smiling.

“Morning yourself,” I replied, a trifle ungraciously. “Please tell me the teapot’s still warm.”

“Just made it,” Andrew grinned, enjoying my discomfort far too much, in my opinion. “Thought you might need it when I heard you stomping about.”

I went into the kitchen, poured myself a big mug of black tea with one sugar, and carried it back into the lounge where he sat gingerly on the sofa. I looked at Andrew exasperatedly. “Been up long, have we?”

“Oh, about an hour or so. Comfy bed, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I sipped at the hot tea gingerly. “I must say, you look indecently well, given how much we both ate and drank last night.”

Andrew chuckled, his belly bouncing slightly with the motion. “After all these years, lad, my body’s given up on hangovers. Truth be told, my bloodstream’s probably about 65% proof by now.”

I put down my tea on the side-table. “I think I need some breakfast to get me going. Have you eaten yet?”

Andrew immediately looked interested. “What are you planning to have?”

I grinned at him. “Well, since it’s Saturday, I thought I’d do a proper fry-up – bacon, eggs, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes, potatoes, toast, fried bread, baked beans, sausages, black pudding…” I could see Andrew’s eyes widen, his mouth working rapidly to swallow the saliva manifesting there. “Can I tempt you to join me?”

“I should say so!” Andrew replied, smiling widely. “You should know by now that I can resist anything except temptation.”

I moved into the kitchen and started to cook, leaving Andrew behind in the lounge. I love cooking, truth to tell; and part of me had been hoping to get the opportunity to cook dinner for Andrew sometime. (Ah, well, breakfast will have to do for now). I mentally calculated how much food I’d need for two people, and automatically doubled it; then I grinned to myself a bit naughtily, and instead tripled it. The house quickly filled with delicious fried-food smells, and I chuckled to myself as I tried to imagine Andrew’s face as the smells wafted under his nose. As the meal-preparation progressed, however, I noticed something a bit odd… something missing.

Half an hour later, I proudly carried in a lap-tray holding a plate piled high with all of the good things I’d promised Andrew, in great quantity, plus smaller side-plates of buttered toast and fried bread and a fresh mug of tea. The older man made suitable expressions of delight at the meal, and tucked in immediately, as if he’d not eaten for a week. I sat back on the sofa, and started on my own, more modest breakfast. (Mmm, delicious – if I do say so myself).

For the next few minutes there was silence, save for the sounds of contented munching and the occasional grumble from Andrew’s digestive tract. Then I put my knife and fork down. “Andrew?”

“Mmmm?” Andrew’s mouth was still stuffed full.

“What happened to the leftovers?”

“Leftovers? What leftovers?” He tried for an expression of innocence that utterly failed to convince.

“Last night’s leftovers. There was easily enough Chinese left to make at least a couple more good meals, even by your standards. I put it in the fridge before I went to bed, but there’s nothing left. You didn’t throw it away, did you?”

I strongly suspected this wouldn’t be the case, but I wanted to hear the admission from his own grease-covered lips.

Andrew had the grace to look chagrined. He wiped his mouth and bearded chin with one hand, in a nervous gesture. “Ah, well, as to that…” He looked directly at me. “… I woke up at 5am, first. I used your downstairs convenience to ‘clear the decks’, so to speak. But when I came back by the kitchen for a glass of milk, the cold Chinese in the fridge looked so appetising I… sort of made myself a midnight snack.”

My eyes widened. That “snack” would have fed a family of four comfortably!

Andrew misread my expression, and quickly gabbled “I’m really sorry, Tom, you were probably saving it for your tea, but it was delicious, and I was starving hungry…” He stopped short then, because I was laughing helplessly.

“You…” I eventually wheezed. “You… ate all that food… as a snack!” Tears were running down my face. I wasn’t even sure why it was so funny – it wasn’t like I didn’t want or expect Andrew’s runaway appetite to pull a stunt like this – but his expression was just too comical. “You were starving… after all that food last night!” I forced myself back under control, with some difficulty. “Ahhh… I really should have expected this, shouldn’t I? I can’t judge you by the standards of everyone else.” I looked fondly over at Andrew’s still-distressed face, and winked broadly at him. “I’d better go and get you your second breakfast plate, then. What kind of host would I be, if I let my favourite guest go hungry? And I’ll keep the third plate warm in the oven…” I left the room, greatly amused at watching the face of a man in his late fifties go from ‘puppy-dog shame’ to ‘Christmas-morning delight’ in the span of two seconds….

After breakfast, we showered one after the other, and I made us both a fresh pot of tea… with a plate of chocolate biscuits for Andrew to snack upon. As we drank it in companionable silence, I waited to see if Andrew was going to comment on last night’s emotional outburst, (crying in my arms, telling me “You’re a good boy. A good friend”) but there was no explanation forthcoming. (He either doesn’t remember – well, he drank a lot of beer last night – or he doesn’t want to be the first one to bring it up). I decided never to mention it again, unless and until Andrew broached the subject.

Andrew instead asked me if I had any plans for the day. “I have a few hours’ work to get done this morning,” I replied. “Being self-employed now means longer, and odder, hours that it did when I was a humble wage-slave.”

Andrew nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean, lad. I need to get away and open up my shop, anyway.” He explained that he only opened to the public on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays generally, “Although I’ll be closed next Saturday – there’s an auction I have to attend in the next town over.” He looked at me sideways. “Perhaps, if you’re free, you might like to join me?”

“I’d love to,” I said, with a smile. “Well, if I can, anyway. It sounds really interesting, and I’d like to find out more about your work.“

Andrew laughed. “If you find a lot of pompous old bores bidding pence for dreadful tat and talking seriously about china dogs ‘interesting’, one of these auctions should cure you of that notion quick-smart!”

The week flew by, in what was rapidly becoming 'business as usual' to me:

On Monday night, I met Andrew at the pub for a long, very boozy session.

On Tuesday, he invited me to visit a Greek restaurant. We ate very well, naturally, and were of course the last to leave.

On Wednesday morning, I realised with surprise that I was struggling to fasten my trousers and my belt, the latter forced to settle on the next hole across from its accustomed place. Running my hand down my belly, I found a noticeable bulge where the slight soft curve of my abdomen used to be. I kept stroking it and pressing it for quite a few minutes, mesmerised. In the past, this obvious sign of increasing heft would have irritated me; now, I just patted it affectionately and grinned to myself, sticking it out as far as I could in order to get some idea of my inevitable future expansion.

At the pub on Wednesday night, Andrew off-handedly asked me if I still wanted to come to the auction on Saturday, and seemed pleased when I confirmed eagerly. “In that case, son, might you happen to have an hour or so free in your schedule tomorrow? Four to five, say?”

I mentally checked my calendar. “I believe I might be able to fit you in, old man,” I replied a little whimsically.

“Splendid! I thought you might like a bit of a browse around my shop, then, if you’ve a mind to?”

“Love to!”

Andrew’s shop was small and fairly cramped, as I’d surmised the first time I looked through its window. Part of this was because it was filled – almost literally - with a dizzying array of ancient, decorative, and frankly odd pieces. I honestly couldn’t tell if I was looking at a treasure-trove or a heap of junk, and said as much to Andrew. He guffawed in response.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, lad! If it were not so, antique dealers as a species would go bankrupt!”

I followed him behind the counter to see the office and storage area at the back. As the door opened, I caught a faint scent of cigar-smoke coming from the back room, and suddenly the little shop felt unexpectedly… homelike.

After an hour, Andrew locked up and took me to – of course – a pub nearby, where he ordered an early dinner of pie and mash for us both, along with a couple of pints each. Gazing at him as we took our first sips, I suddenly realised that Andrew was wearing the very same checked shirt he wore the first day we renewed our acquaintance - but where it fitted him quite well then, now the buttons across the belly were gaping with rugby ball-shaped gaps, showing pale, hairy flesh - Andrew rarely wore a vest under his shirt, as I had reason to know by now. Even the buttons over his chest were showing some strain. Clearly, I was not the only one putting on weight because of this friendship!

I found myself watching Andy like a hawk, as every bite of pie seemed like it might pop one of those buttons clear off, but no luck – the buttons held on for dear life. I made a vow to myself that I would see Andy lose a button by closing time, or die trying. (This is too good an opportunity to miss). I stood and took myself off to the bar and ordered four more pints - three for Andy, one for me. Andrew looked surprised but delighted, and downed the first one with gusto. The second was savoured a little more slowly. The third, however… as he leant his head back and tipped up the pint to drain the last of it, arching his back in the process, not one but two buttons burst from his belly like bullets, exposing a sizeable patch of hairy flab and a deep, dark bellybutton that thrust through the opened breach like eager shoppers on the first day of the January Sales.

Watching eagerly for this opportunity, I managed to snag both buttons in flight, and then ogled the revealed and very sexy belly unashamedly. When Andrew slammed the pint glass on the table with a satisfied ‘Ahhh’, he noticed the gap (but not my gaze, luckily) and frowned, only to smile – a bit self-consciously – when I opened my hand and presented the missing buttons to him like a school prize.

“Regular hazard when you’re a fat old glutton like me, my lad,” he grumbled half-proudly. “Keep those as souvenirs if you want, I’m not likely to fit into this shirt again after tonight!”

At closing time we walked back to the shop – there was a bus stop a few doors away from it, and I would be just in time to catch the last bus home. We chatted about this and that, and I couldn’t help sneaking quick glances at Andrew’s massive paunch poking through the large gap in his shirt. I suddenly realised that Andrew’s whole silhouette had changed – grown - since the first time I saw him in the pub; racking my visual memory, I concluded that he’d expanded both from front view and side view. (My God, How much has the big Welshman gained to show such an obvious difference?).

Andrew was slowly scratching the bare patch of belly with his fingernail, and seemed at first not to notice my surreptitious looks, until he chuckled and I spotted him looking out of the corner of his eye. I turned my head resolutely to the front with a slight smile of my own. By the time we reached the shop door, Andrew and I had arranged for him to collect me in a taxi at 7:15 Saturday morning. “We need to be there by 9:30 for the viewings, and it takes about 30 minutes to get there,” he said.

“Then why…?”

“Why are we leaving so early? Simple. Because there’s a lovely little café which serves a good-sized cooked breakfast just down the road. Got to keep our strength up, boy!”

I sighed, resignedly. “I might have known…”

The auction-house was crawling with people - mostly older men in odd clothes, many with “interesting” facial hair - peering and tutting over the lots. Plenty of substantial bellies on show, too, I saw with pleasure; but with a bit of proprietary pride I decided that none of them came close to Andrew in the belly department. At 11:45 the auction proper began, and that was far more exciting than I thought it would be - certainly better than Andy had implied. I had to sit on my hands to avoid clapping when Andrew secured a small Queen Anne side-table he’d set his heart on. After the auction ended, we repaired to the auction-house's small bar for a well-earned pint, with Andrew chattering excitedly and animatedly about his purchases. Suddenly, a nasal voice rang out behind him:

“Well, well, well, look who’s here! It’s Big Fat Blubbery Andy!”

Andrew suddenly stiffened, his face going blank and his eyes wide; then he slowly turned around, plastering an obviously-fake smile on his face as he did so. I stepped around his girth to see who the owner of the voice was. I beheld a short, skinny, long-nosed man with thin red hair and a Terry-Thomas moustache, wearing a tweed jacket and yellow waistcoat with a cravat. For some reason, the mere sight of him made my skin crawl. A moment later, I would discover why.

“Ah, I’m right – it is you, Tubbo!” The little man eyed Andrew up and down, in a faintly unhealthy way. “Not that it could really be anyone else, unless they’ve started dressing hippos in cardigans!” He snorted and laughed in an ugly, whistling manner, obviously pleased with himself, his eyes flicking about to see if anyone else heard and appreciated his so-clever comment. No-one had, or at least no-one nearby was rude enough to show it. I glanced up at Andrew in consternation, as he just stood and took this horrible little man’s jibes with that same sickly smile on his face. (Why the hell doesn’t he do something?) Given their size and weight difference, Andrew could flatten this creep with one punch!

The odious little man jabbed Andrew harshly in the gut, eliciting a small “Oof” from the big man. Still Andrew did nothing. “Looks like you’ve still got your nose in the trough, you fat pig,” he snarled nastily. “You’re even fatter than last time I saw you! How are you even standing upright, with that massive gut pulling you over, then? Hah!”

He suddenly noticed me standing to the side, and spotted the obvious anger on my face. His grin became even more vicious, seeing another target for his cruelty. “And who’s this, then, Blubber-Guts? Friend of yours? Oh no, I forgot: you don’t have any real friends, do you, oh, boo hoo hoo. I suppose that means this one rents by the hour - OW!” The hateful redhead took a step backwards, clutching his nose and staring at me. “You hit me! My nose! It’s bleeding!”

“So I did.” My voice was shaking with anger. “You owe me an apology. You owe Andrew a massive apology. And you’re going to proffer it, or I’ll happily hit you again.”

“Sod you, you little whor - AAGH!” The creep hopped up and down in obvious agony, his bleeding nose forgotten, clutching the foot whose instep I had just stomped on. Hard. “I’ll get you for this! I’ve got friends! Who do you think you are?”

I stepped closer to the little bastard, my eyes narrowed, fury rolling off me in waves. “I think I’m the Cambridge Boxing Club champion, two years running. I think I’m a Judo Brown Belt. I know that if you or your so-called “friends” come anywhere near me or Andy, you’ll be very, permanently, sorry. Now turn around and FUCK OFF!”

The little man looked at me, terrified, and scuttled away at high speed. Several onlookers give a ripple of applause at the show. Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I turned back to Andrew – who was still standing rooted to the spot, white-faced, with a look of such horror and self-loathing on his face that my anger evaporated all at once. I took a step towards Andrew, concern on my face, my arms outstretched towards him – only to stop as Andrew took an involuntary step back. There was a moment of stillness, where we just looked at each other. Then:

“A-Andrew?” I said in a small voice.

And the big Welshman – my childhood hero, my secret crush, the man I was coming to think of as my best friend, the strongest man I had ever known – turned on his heel and just…scurried away.

“ANDREW!”