Spencer gets to visit him once. He and Jordan sit opposite Curly while the man chews on his chapped lips, looking off distantly. Spencer’s mother is burning holes into his profile as she shifts on her feet across the room but smiles softly whenever he looks her way.
Explaining his age to Jordan was rough and he hadn’t expected it to be such a huge deal. They’ve come this far. Jordan had called him sick at first; for lying for so long, but frankly, they’re in too deep. Jordan barely goes near him anymore.
Jordan asks “have you eaten today, Curls?” Curly nods but that’s it.
“Hey, Curly, Jordan thinks the apartment’s gotten even worse since you left,” Spencer notes with a forced laugh, and Jordan jabs him with his elbow, tells him to shut up. They both know that Jordan’s barely coping and Spencer thinks Curly ought to know, too.
Curly doesn’t acknowledge him anyway. He’s watching his hands now as he picks the skin around his nails.
“How are you still high in a place like this,” Jordan snaps suddenly, slamming a palm against the table to steal his attention. Two of the prison guards watch them carefully as Spencer jumps at the sudden outburst and Curly looks physically wounded. “You were almost clean, Curly. What the fuck happened?”
Curly shakes his head. He looks ashamed.
“I thought this was the kick up the ass you needed. You’re in prison and you’re still- Fucking hell, look at me.”
Curly looks up from his hands and Spencer’s sure he can see the tether connecting their gazes as he mutters, “I’m sorry, J.”
“You were sorry two years ago. Two weeks ago, you were sorry. You—.” He ducks, leaning in close as he hisses, “you’re fuckin’ killing me.”
“I love you.”
Jordan scoffs as he stands, chair screeching behind him. He watches Spencer impatiently until the boy is on his feet too. Jordan says, “fuck you” as Spencer mumbles, “take care of yourself, Curly.”
---
March 28, 2013
It’s 11am near the end of March and there’s a knock at the front door. He hears a soft hum of a conversation, hears his mother shush his father, and then hears footsteps ascending the stairs. Spencer’s writing when his bedroom door opens and Jordan shuffles inside.
He’s not sure why he feels a compulsion to stand, but he does.
Jordan wraps him up in a tight embrace. He smells like smoke and beer. It feels like an apology and Spencer waits for an explanation as his own arms wind around his waist. Spencer’s about to tell him that it’ll be alright, is about to say, “he’ll be back before you know it,” when a back-breaking sob rips through the man.
He says, “I love him, I love him, I love him.”
---
Jordan says he knows it was an accident because he didn’t leave a note. And he would have. He would have left one.
His mother asks if he needs some time off school, but Spencer says no because his brain is already swimming in liquid guilt but he can’t quite find where it’s leaking out from. He doesn’t want time to think, regardless. He hasn’t cried -can’t cry- and somehow that makes it all so much worse.
It was a concoction of cocaine and heroin. His heart couldn’t take and he passed away at four in the afternoon, alone in his cell with a needle in his arm. His hair was still wet - that’s what Curly’s mother had says. She also says that Jordan isn’t welcome at the funeral, but he goes anyway.
Spencer doesn’t. Can’t.
He runs into Jeff and Dean at a food stand some weeks later and they tell him all about it, but not before they both hug him and ask how he feels. Spencer can’t think of a single thing to say. His mother rubs his back and leaves to wait on one of the benches, trying her very best to be respectful and obtrusive.
“We all miss seeing you around, kid,” Dean smiles and nudges him lightly. “You should come hang out sometime. We’re thinking about all getting together. For Curly, y’know?”
“Yeah, I. Maybe.” Spencer nods, smiles politely. “I mean. It’s just that… Things are really stressful right now. The school year’s almost up.” He pulls his coat tighter around his body, trapping his scarf beneath the thick fabric. It’s been raining all day and the air is cold and wet. “H-how was the funeral? Was it…”
“It was nice.” Jeff nods.
“His mom gave Jordan a piece of her mind,” Dean adds, but it’s fond. He says, “it’s a shame. Nobody tried half as hard as J did. He had to give up eventually.”
---
On the way home, he asks his mother to take a detour.
The headstone says, Elliot Michael Clarke.
Somebody’s written Curly beneath it in black ink and Spencer still can’t cry.
[Text] You never fear anyone
[Text] Except me when I start to try and cheer you up
[Text] just.. Don’t kill him ehn you come. i’ll see you soon
John looked down at his phone and smiled a bit before shutting off his truck and climbing out of of the driver's seat. It didn't take long to get from his home to hers, ten minutes tops. Honestly he probabaly could've walked, but he didn't want to waste any time.
He bounded up the stairs 2 at a time then knocked at the door, hand resting in his pockets as he waited for someone to answer. His posture was straight, eyes focused. He hoped it was her brother who came to the door, first impression was key. Hopefully he wouldn't have to start out with his hand around Viserys' neck, but he wouldn't deny enjoying it if it came to that.
Haste husky sounds coming from the room continuous to hers had woken her from slumber, with careful stride and heart palpitating rapidly out of anger, jealousy and betrayal Rebecca approached his room expecting to find another with him, slowly did she open the door to find none but him, with a heavy exhale she felt better but curiosity had claimed her, so she ascended his bed, taking imperil his lips were captured by hers, hand kneading arousal of his in a slow manner, if only once, he was hers.
MY MUSE IS CLEARLY HAVING A VERY VIVID DREAM, THEIR BODY REACTING TO IT IN A VERY SEXUAL MANNER, PANTING AND WRITHING IN REACTION AS THEY SLEEP. IT SEEMS THAT WHATEVER OR WHOEVER THEY ARE DREAMING OF IS DOING A GOOD JOB OF TURNING THEM ON. SEND ME YOUR MUSE’S RESPONSE TO WALKING IN AND FINDING THEM LIKE THAT.
It was so vivid, so real… her supple soft skin, milky pale in the soft, cold night. He could hear her soft, pleasured moans in his ear, asking for more, begging to be made his. Moonlight bathed them, and for once the sight of a female bare and naked before him set fire to Jonathan Lightree’s cheeks. He could feel her warmth, her mountains and valleys… he was not sure he could hold himself back much longer, the sweet sensation of skin against skin making him moan softly in anticipation… though of course this was only a dream. Only here could he satisfy his thirst for her, for his lady… “Becca…” he muttered in his sleep as he felt her lips meet his, and he took them hungrily. He moaned softly, unable to tell if he was truly dreaming anymore… part of him was unsure he wished this to be happening in reality, afraid of what was to come after when it was said and done. But still his hands came up to cup the soft flesh of her bottom, squeezing gently. His eyes just barely fluttered open to peer upon her, though he made no move to stop himself from kissing her still.
