They bicker like an old married couple, get into screaming matches over football when drunk and smack each other like wains fighting over a toy if they sit on the couch together for too long.
At least, they don't fight until Simon washes a blanket. It's red, white and blue, and it's been on their bed for weeks. It smells like sweat, fags and the faint hint of aftershave. Common sense tells Simon to toss it in for a wash.
It's childish, Johnny's reaction. Slamming things down on the kitchen counter as he unpacks shopping bags, red in the face and swearing him out in that heavy, almost indiscernible Scottish brogue.
Quite frankly, Simon wants to leave until the other man can get his act together because he won't tolerate a tantrum over a household task. Until Johnny's voice wavers and he catches a glimpse of the other man's eyes, rimmed with tears.
"What's so special about that fucking blanket? You don't kick up a fuss when I was any of the others."
"It wis ma da's. Huvane fuckin washed it since he-"
The blanket that Johnny's dad kept over his chair at the sergeant's childhood home, because it's his team's colours, something the man had told Simon when Johnny had reluctantly dragged him away to meet his parents.
And Johnny refused to wash it because it still smelled like his dad's aftershave, one he'd been using for years on end and refused to change, claiming loyalty to the brand that made it.
Suddenly, Simon feels like a cunt. The idea of holding a parent close after their passing, remembering their smell and the sound of their voice, was something that never crossed his mind. He can't relate to the experience. Once again, his own father managed to ruin something for him, and the man is long dead.
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