Nothing (2010/2011)
“Spencer.”
It’s raining outside. Air has crept between the panes of double-glazing in the back lounge and clung to the insides of the glass in both chubby and speckled droplets. It’s not the nice kind of downpour outside; it’s needle-sharp and at a 45-degree slant to ensure full coverage of every unfortunate wayfarer, umbrellas be damned.
He feels a breeze against the arm that’s leant against the windowsill but can’t quite put his finger on where it’s coming from. His mind drifts off to the thought of twisting up a blanket or a towel to line along the pane to block the draught. Maybe a hoodie or—
“Spence.” Dan sits beside him now; places a hand on his shoulder and says, for some reason, “I love you.”
Q nods, smiles, hums but keeps his eyes on the tiny liquid orbs that quake inside the glass, probably from the wind that’s creeping in. He wishes he had a little tool to slip inside, collect the water and seal it back up again when it’s all clean. Maybe he could use—
“Hey.” Right, Daniel. “These pills are too strong for you. You shouldn’t be like this, surely. Something’s not right.”
Spencer nods again, but his head turns this time too, even if his thoughts remain on the droplets racing to the bottom of the window. “Sorry,” he ventures, watching Dan until he realises he’s waiting. “Love you.”
His brother’s expression doesn’t waver further than an added tension between his brows. “Where are you,” he worries, and his arm comes up to rest on the windowsill in Spencer’s mirror image.
“‘nside the windowpanes,” he tries to joke, but when he exhales what should have been a laugh, his eyes feel hot and his breath catches before it can live to become a chuckle. He clears his throat, chases it away.
He knows he’s in a haze; knows he’s trapped somewhere; elsewhere. Can’t figure out how or when he got there or how to get back. Feels like he’s one of those mimes in an invisible box and he can’t break out. He just can’t quite collect his thoughts; wishes he had a tool or something to collect them all; pictures it in his head and tries to pull his thoughts together.
He finds one;
“Did y’say you love me?” Dan nods, still frowning. His throat burns. “I love you, too.”
“You already said that, Spence.” He takes Spencer’s hand from his lap and turns it face-up, talking as he massages it like it’s instinct. “Why does that make you sad?”
Dan’s left hand joins his right, both thumbs pressing into the ball of Spencer’s hand. It’s just absent solace, but it gives the younger brother something to watch as he catches sour noises in his throat, swallowing thick sounds and feeling them settle back down, heavy in the pit of his belly.
Why does that make him sad?
The breeze from the window cools his neck as he rests his head against the glass; thinks and watches; swallows and breathes.
“I wish I could be loved the way I want to be, by the ones that I want to love me.”
“Is this about your boyfriend,” Dan guesses, and moves on to Spencer’s other hand, squeezing a little harder than Spencer thinks he meant to.
He frowns. “Huh? Oh.” Boyfriend. Richie. Because Dan is seeing that girl and it made him feel put out and small and the lie left his mouth before it even entered his brain. “No, I don’t think so.”
Because, honestly, he doesn’t know who it is he’s missing, but he feels it and it feels abasing yet void. It feels a lot like those first fourteen years with Daniel, where he’d pour his heart and soul out to him until the rejection felt too shameful and he’d tear himself away for a while. He’s got him now though.
Dan doesn’t like to say Richie’s name out loud.
“You don’t think so?” Dan’s frowning yet again, and his hands have left Spencer’s so he’s nowhere else to look now. His eyes are hollow as ever, but he looks more tired than usual.
“You have Spanish eyes,” Q notes. He knows there’s a question he’s not answered, but there are more important matters at hand than a condensation-filled window and an empty heart.
Dan snorts; doesn’t seem to mind the change of subject. “I think that’s racist.”
Maybe he hates talking about Richie just as much as Spencer hates to talk about Rachel.
“Neh, not if I like ‘em.” He shrugs.
“You think?”
“Si.”
***
“Come over tonight. Nobody’s home ’til tomorrow. It’s whatever.”
He’s towering over him, whispering and swaying as he hangs off the tall metal bench frame, shoe squeaking against the tiled floor and echoing around the locker room. The sounds make Spencer dizzy, for some reason.
Gym looked rough today; almost an hour of circuits for everyone but Spencer (his sick note got him out of a test this morning too; couldn’t focus; could barely speak until around 11:30) and now he and Marc (yes, with a ‘c’ - you don’t have to say it, we’re all thinking it) are the only ones left.
All the other guys had left a little while ago, no interest in showering when it’s last period and they all have perfectly good showers at home (Spencer imagines the thought process went as follows; pros: privacy, consistent water temperatures, good shampoo, no risk of foot warts. Cons: cannot compare dick sizes with classmates) but Marc’s showered and clothed again and still looming over Spencer as he waits for his reply. Oh yeah—
“Hello,” Marc chuckled, reaches out as if to nudge him, but never commits. He’s shuffling on his feet now, fidgety and awkward; is this kid about to reject me?
They’ve never gone to each other’s houses before. They’ve hooked up twice at school, and a few times at parties, and that one time in the back of Marc’s car, but taking each other home always felt off limits - a little too…
“S’a little intimate,” Spencer says, just lets it slip out because he’s standing up and he guesses he can’t think of more than one thing at once (being both the idea of another boy’s bedroom and the action of standing) and so something had to leave his brain before the other could begin to process.
He’s barely on his feet though, before his back’s pressed against a locker, Marc’s arm against his chest as they stand (and slump) nose-to-nose.
“Fuck you,” he gives another shove to punctuate, then kicks the locker beside them because he’s a white seventeen-year-old boy with rich parents and four PlayStations and is probably on steroids and takes all of five seconds to get mad (and even less time to get hard) about just about anything. “I’m no fag, Quinn”
And Spencer just nods, says, “I know, I didn’t mean that,” although he can’t quite remember what he said just now to make him think as such. “I just meant—“
“I don’t care!”
Honestly, he doesn’t scare Spencer. When he’s not touching his dick, Marc’s harassing him in the corridors in front of his big-bad-football-friends, or begging him to keep his mouth shut, keep what they’re doing a secret because “my dad would kill me, Spencer. He’d fucking kill me and even if he didn’t, my life would be over. You wouldn’t get it but—“ so the kid is essentially a closet case and a huge fucking pussy.
Q just nods and says “sorry” to humour him.
It’s snapped him out of his daze, at least.
Marc remains where he is, grunts, “forget it,” in a leer as is eyes dart to his mouth and back.
Spencer would kiss him; put him out of his misery; make the first move so the guy had someone else to blame it on, but the door opens then and Stevie’s yelling;
“Spencer if I turn this corner and find you with a dick in your— Oh.”
And Spencer’s on the floor in seconds, elbow throbbing from the impact as he watches Marc storm out of the room, similarly shoving Stevie as he passes him, but the kid barely registers the blow, eyes glued to Spencer’s, stunned with his mouth sealed shut until the door swings shut and leaves the two of them alone;
“What was that?!” Stevie rushes to his aid, tugs him up so quickly the room goes white.
Spence rubs his head as he mumbles, “can’t remember,” and almost loses his footing again.
***
On Tuesday he’s feeling a little better. The meds don’t feel as strong today and he can hold conversations and keep his thoughts on track. Still, though, he feels a little unmotivated and skips school to hang out with Jordan and Curly.
“I don’t know what you’re on, but I want it,” Curly jokes (Spencer knows he’s joking because he, too, is a lot more human today than he has been in a while. When he picked Spencer up from the corner of his street, his car was clean inside and the cigarette he was smoking smelt like nothing more than tobacco. He’d said, “alright, Spence? Hop in, mate,” in this sleepy but soft voice that Spencer had never heard from him before, and he drove without any rush as they headed to the apartment) and now he’s handing out coffees to Jordan and Spencer before he goes back for his own and calls through the house, “you look shattered.”
“I’m fine,” Q insists because Jordan has said a similar thing already, but he’s feeling more awake than he has in a while. “Thanks,” he then adds, turning to Jordan to frown; a silent ‘what’s gotten into Curly?’
Jordan shakes his head, stretches an arm over the back of the couch as he props his ankle on the opposing knee. “Later,” he whispers, just as Curly re-appears and Jordan changes the subject to, “he’s right. Y’look like shit.”
“Oi, don’t be a prick,” Curls jumps in as he claims his armchair, pulling his legs up to cross them up on the cushion.
“I’m just being—“
“Rude.”
“Not rude, honest.”
“You’re honestly being rude.”
Spencer huffs. “I really am fine. I got sick this weekend - mystery solved.”
“See,” Jordan says. “He’s sick. That’s why he looks like shit. I ain’t sayin’ he always looks shitty, just—“
“He doesn’t look like shit he just looks—“
“Guys! I’m right here and I’m fine.”
They’re always at each other’s necks lately.
“I’m going for a fag,” Curly grumbles, placing his cup down before he’s even had a sip. He grabs a pack of cigarettes from the fireplace and his jacket on his way out.
Jordan waits for the door to shut before he says, “his sister wants to visit. He’s trying to get clean again. He’s.” He huffs. “He’s done the hard part, but the mood swings are unreal.”
“Wow. That’s— woah.” He’s never seen Curly moody, but he’s never seen him comprehensive either. You win some you lose some and Spencer’s happy to accept the exchange.
“It won’t last.”
“Don’t say that.”
Jordan shakes his head. “It won’t last.”
***
“Don’t freak out.”
“Too late,” Jordan’s voice his a little crackled. Everyone keeps telling him to update his phone, but he never listens. “What’s going on?”
Dan's scowling where he sits on his couch, watching his brother pace his apartment as he taps his foot impatiently. Spencer can practically see the man restraining himself from snatching the phone.
“I lost something at your place yesterday. Or— maybe I didn’t lose it, it was in my pocket, but I guess when we were in the kitchen or maybe just— I don’t know when—“
“You’re freakin’ me out.”
“Pills.” I had these pills and they’re not there anymore. I thought maybe I dropped them or something because I know C—“ He glances at Dan, then away again. “I know he’s trying to get clean and stuff, but I don’t know if—“
The line is quiet for so long Spencer wonders if Jordan just dumped his phone somewhere and left to take care of it himself, but then he’s shouting so loud that Spencer jumps, jerks the phone away from his ear as Jordan says, “are you fucking kidding me?! Why would you— What made you think bringing that shit into an addict’s apartment was a good fucking idea?! Fuck!”
Spencer says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—“ as Dan says, “is he fucking yelling at you?” and Jordan says, “I fucking knew it. I fucking knew he was on some shit.” And then “FUCK!” again.
“Give me the phone.” Dan’s on his feet and snatching it before Spencer has a chance to defend the device. He spits, “listen to me you lowlife fucking junkie, talk shit at my brother again and I swear to God— Hey, fuck you— Kill me? I’d like to see you—“
He gets the phone back and presses red before he can think of a better option.
***
“I love you.” He swallows so hard that Spencer feels his throat move against his thigh. “You’re so good.”
It’s six-thirty. His parents won’t be back for hours, but he’s jittery as he ignores the buzz of his phone, which sits ignored on the nightstand beside them.
It was a stupid idea, letting Curly come over, but things with Jordan are weird for both of them now, and Curls can’t go back to that Jules guy and he can’t be by himself when he’s like this and Spencer’s still not sure who Oscar is, but Curly chokes up when he tries to talk about him and he’s not sure why.
It’s selfish, but he doesn’t particularly want to know about this Oscar character and all of the problems he’s unloading onto Spencer’s friend.
“What are you gonna do,” he asks, “about your sister.”
No point in acknowledging what Curly had said. The man can’t even feel his feet these days, so Spencer would guess that feelings like love are out of the question. Besides, he’s just trying to say sorry without the words having to leave his mouth, and Spencer knows he shouldn’t be making it easy for him.
He hums in his lap, then continues to breathe loudly through his mouth. He’s shaking like always and it leaves Spencer feeling sick, watching Curly’s face as the man’s eyes remain glued to the far wall. “I’ll get clean.”
“Jordan said you’ve tried—”
“Jordan doesn’t believe me anymore. Not a word I say, Spence.” He sniffs, and the fabric of Spencer’s pants, just a little above his knee, feels damp as a choked sound leaves the man.
The music’s only on a low volume. Spencer’s not really listening to it as he continues to play with Curlys hair, doing his best to act unphased as the man hiccups for breath in his lap now.
Curly’s mumbling, “it bloody hurts, don’t it? Loving someone this much. I love him so much that sometimes I think I might die,” but he tries to laugh when he says it as well. Spencer doesn’t believe that he’s joking but doesn’t say that.
Instead, he says, “I wouldn’t know,” as he reaches to turn the music up and pick his phone up from the table.
“Shall we dance or summet?” Curly’s pushing himself up into a seated position, then twisting to face Spencer, their noses inches from touching but all Spencer can really take in is the blue that’s smudged around the man’s eyes.
“No, Curls,” he sighs. “You can barely walk.”
He just shrugs, then shakes his head, breaths a shaky breath and says, “we still can. If you want.”
“I don’t want.”
And he goes quiet and Spencer can see his expression change as he backtracks, thinks about what he’d asked and realises how stupid he sounds. He shakes his head again as he says, “yeah, sorry.”
He can say sorry for the little things like asking him to dance. Can’t say sorry for taking his pills and finishing his prescription.
As he moves to sit beside him, back against the headboard, Curly mumbles, “I do love you,” as he leans his head against the wall and watches Spencer’s profile. “I know you don’t believe me either.”
His palm lands on Spencer’s knee and he squeezes gently as he smiles; Spencer just turning his head in time to catch it.
“You’ll love me, y’know,” he goes on, and Spencer doesn’t want to listen anymore – wishes the music was a little louder. Curly’s hand slips up a little as he continues to speak. “The proper me, I mean. You’ll really love me. When I’m clean I’ll tell you about—”
He kisses him because he knows that’s where this is going and just wants to get it over with already.
“Why—” Curly’s pulled away, and his eyes are darting all over and his hand’s in his own lap now, until he’s stumbling off the bed and picking his jacket up from the chair.
“Sorry, I—”
“Why does everyone do that,” he’s asking himself and he leaves Spencer’s room.
***
His mom asks him that night if he’s been crying.
He hasn’t, for the record.
She says, “you know you can speak to me about anything,” and, “I love you.”
Spencer tells her to give him a fucking break because, God, he’s sick of hearing that word.
