Work Text:
The flat texture of Spencer’s plaid polyester comforter offered little comfort as you pulled it up under your chin to ward off the damp chill of Seattle’s mid-autumn temperatures. The smoothed cotton-blended material had a habit of trapping the cold rather than any sort of warmth. You pulled your feet up, folding your knees against your chest. Your eyes bore hollowly across the room at the strategy game displayed on the square TV that was positioned on a wide dresser brimming with socks, pajamas, and tees. A lone fuzzy sock dangled from the top drawer, probably part of a set from Socko’s growing collection of prototypes that he frequently gifted Spencer as part of his discount as his best friend.
Comfortably seated on the floor at the foot of the bed on a precariously slumped pile of pillows, couch cushions, and blankets sat Spencer himself. His hands quickly worked his controller as he hastily guided his character through a maze of spontaneous bursts of fire and sharp flying objects. Usually, on better days when you were able to ward off the heavy gloom of numb indifference, you were seated beside him, shouting unsolicited advice and directions or even playing those video games right along with him. As much as you hated to admit it, today wasn’t one of those days—and in all actuality, the last couple of months had been void of those days almost entirely.
As your mind surfaced from the sea of numbness that it often settled itself into, your thoughts unwillingly drifted back into negativity. The guilt of your sporadic inactivity weighed heavier the more often your depression overwhelmed you. Despite your efforts to attempt every possible solution, whether healthy solutions or not, the dark void had made itself comfortable within your mind like a purring cat curled into itself. You tried pushing through, you tried ignoring the intrusive thoughts, you even resorted to stuffing those hideous voices of self-doubt and crass insensitivity way down deep inside you somewhere.
At this point, you felt like a bottle of champagne waiting to pop a cork and gush all those overwhelming feelings out of its spout—but whatever depression was brewed of, you were quite sure it tasted nothing like champagne. It was more like a bitter root that lingered on the tongue or a batch of bad spaghetti tacos that sat heavily on the stomach.
Minutes wiled closer to an hour or more as Spencer contentedly succeeded through various levels of his game, all while talking excitedly about every little victory along the way, whether he was finding items or slaughtering another enemy. You desperately wanted to reply with something equally as interesting or funny that would reassure him of your interest, but instead, a tired hum of a laugh was all that made it passed your lips. Evidently, the off-note pitch of your less-than-convincing response was enough to garner his attention.
“Hey,” he leaned his head back against the mattress, looking back at you with an upside-down perspective, “Just tell me if you get bored, okay? I can switch games or we can watch a movie, if you want.”
“No no, you’re fine, Spence. I’m just tired.” Your tone was less than convincing, but all your energy was honed in on not spiraling before his very eyes.
“You suuure?”
“I’m sure,” you fibbed, “I like watching you play.”
His gaze lingered for one suspiciously drawn-out moment before he lifted his head and returned his attention to the screen. You hadn’t lied, really. You did like watching Spencer play video games, sometimes finding it even more fun than stressing yourself out by becoming far too invested when you played alongside him. The fib was the fact that you weren’t sure if it was truly a physical fatigue or an emotional drain. You suspected the latter was inspiring the former.
Suddenly, Spencer released a shrill sigh as he stretched his arms out wide and stretched the stiffness from his muscles. He plopped the controller onto the pile of blankets and leaned forward to manually switch the TV over to another HDMI for the DVD player, carding a hand through his chestnut hair in between motions. The screen was momentarily fuzzy until the player loaded, sending the screen to a blue home page awaiting a disc.
“Well, now that I’m bored of that, I know one thing! I’M STARVING!” He exclaimed, turning on his heel to plop belly-down onto the bed beside you. He flipped his hair back after a less than gracious landing, smiling goofily up at you from the covers. “Wanna go get some snacks from the kitchen?”
You knew the smile you offered him was weak. You knew it probably disappointed him.
“I think I’ll stay under the covers,” you admitted, enticing that all-too-familiar wave of shame to swell with intensity, “why don’t you surprise me with something?”
“M’kay,” he pursed his lips in thought, “Are you feelin’ sweet or savory? Or maybe a little fruity?”
“All of the above.”
“Oh, a little indecisive, a little greedy. I see, I see.” There was a peck to your cheek before he rolled off the bed and landed in a wobbly heap onto the floor. He rose as quickly as he fell, bounding for the kitchen and its treasure trove of snacks. Before he left the hallway, he hollered with an envious amount of energy, “I’ll be bACK WITH A PERFECTLY BALANCED SELECTION OF JUNK FOOD THAT WE’LL PROBABLY REGRET EATING IN FIFTY YEARS!”
Your eyes fell to the comforter slumped around your body and the earth-toned pattern it offered. With Spencer gone from the room, you felt an even heavier weight settle itself onto your bones. It was obvious to you then how he managed to help you without even trying, how much of a reprieve even his mere presence offered you…even when you weren’t being totally honest with him. It was as if you had inhaled deeply and held your breath the moment he walked out, and with him, the colors around you faded to a scale of muted greys.
Cabinets and drawers could be heard slamming shut, as well as the fridge swinging wide open and its contents rattling when Spencer shut it, presumably with his foot. Heavy footsteps drew closer until he appeared in the bedroom doorway, arms full of treats. He dropped the entire bounty of delicacies onto the bed in one fluent motion before going through them one by one for you. You could exhale again.
“Alright, I’ve got potato chips, I’ve got puffy cheese balls, a family-sized bag of knock-off Doritos, a carton of raspberries that Carly promised to eat before they go bad but probably never will, three and a half strawberries, an entire box of dangerously sugary cereal—“ he shook the unopened box with an expression of mock seduction before brandishing his last option, “Oh, and this bag of homemade trail mix that Mrs. Benson gave me two years ago.”
“Two years ago?”
“Yeah, it was some sort of attempt at encouraging me to keep healthier snacks for Carly.”
“That obviously worked out well.” You managed to retort, glancing at the heap of treats.
“Do you think these almonds could break a tooth?” He lifted the bag and centered one of the almonds between his thumb and index finger, attempting to break it. When it refused to crack in half, he snickered, “I should give these to Sam.”
He seemed enamored with the gel-like consistency of the aged cranberries for a moment longer before discarding the bag onto another dresser and turning to the set metal shelves by the TV. You watched quietly as he roamed his selection of movies; some of them yours that you kept there for movie nights, some of them Socko’s that he’d never returned, and a handful of them were the home videos he forced Carly to watch every Christmas. Overwhelmed with the selection, he glanced back at you while knelt on the floor.
“Any requests, m’lady? I can be your movie DJ.”
“I’m good with anything.”
“Okay then,” he mused, plucking several cases from the selection, “I’ll give you some options.”
In just a few moments, Spencer had a small selection of movies in his grasp. He stood and went through them one by one, naming off every movie you had ever deemed your favorite. When you still had difficulty choosing between them, he decided to stuff them in a pillowcase and mix them up. The first to be picked from the assortment was Bridget Jones’s Diary. You found a glimmer of solace in the excited smile that lit up Spencer’s face—he, too, was a fan of any and every Jane Austen adaptation, no matter the era. Especially ones with a Mr. Darcy in them.
Popping open the case, he slipped the disc into the player and waited for it to load. When the series of pre-movie trailers started up, he sprang for the box of cereal and made himself comfortable on his pallet on the floor. You felt a bit deflated from his choice of seating. His close proximity to you was the sort of reassurance you craved more than anything on days like this—but somehow, deep within your muddled thoughts, you feared that admitting you needed to be cuddled and fawned over was the same as admitting that you were failing to stay happy on your own.
Of course you know that being in a relationship meant sharing your troubles with each other, but sometimes it proved to be so much more difficult than you had the energy for. The ever-present, ever-fluctuating burden of your mental health was not something you had ever been skilled at being open about and it was increasingly more difficult when your boyfriend was the personification of sunshine himself.
It wasn’t that you were jealous or envious of Spencer—well, in a way, you were, but not with malicious intent. You envied his ability to cling to positivity with such vigor. You were jealous of his capability to stay productive and involved in life. But you didn’t wish he wasn’t that way or less than who he was to accommodate your differences. You just wished you could match his efforts, his unwavering humor and consistent well of creativity.
Spencer had his mood swings and his ruts; you knew that, you had been witness to his art blocks and his days of panicked disinterest. But with Spencer, there was never any doubt he would come through. It was like a momentary blip on his radar. Not any less significant or valid, of course, but still different. With you, it was like—…Well, it was like a pit. A really deep pit.
And no matter how much you dug around the dirt for a rope or dragged your hands along the looming walls for a root or a stone to grab hold of, there wasn’t anything. Not a single thing to latch onto in that darkness. You just had to wait for the something to come along and lift you out, like rain filling up the pit whenever it moseyed around, letting you float to the top as it took its sweet time in lifting you back up to solid ground. The rain, of course, being whatever was needed to balance the delicate mix of things tumbling around in your mind and fill up whatever was missing.
And no matter how many times you tried to remind yourself that it wasn’t your fault, that it was something millions of people understood and experienced, you somehow still managed to convince yourself that it was just laziness. Your inability to function at the very fundamental level of existence, whether it was through simple conversation or hygiene or a dozen other seemingly basic tasks, was just the icing on top of the gloomy cake. Wasn’t it enough that you were passed between a state of perpetual panic and bleak numbness? Did it also have to bleed into your energy, your hobbies, your work and household chores, and your days with Spencer?
The sudden silence of the film halted your all-consuming thoughts abruptly. You blinked as you tried to surmise what had happened to the sound. When your eyes refocused on the screen, you saw that even the image of Bridget standing in Daniel Cleaver’s office had stopped moving. It was then that you became aware of Spencer’s gaze as he turned halfway around. He placed a hand over the curve in the comforter where your feet were huddled together beneath it.
“You never miss a chance to scream at Bridget for trusting Daniel,” he stated.
“Huh?”
“Are you totally sure you’re okay today?”
“Oh,” you tightened your grip on the comforter, “I promise, Spence. I really am just super tired today. I’ve been sleeping at odd hours again.”
Why were you trying so hard to cover it up and keep it all hidden?
His gaze lingered with a skeptical intensity that told you he didn’t quite believe you. Then, in one brief moment before he turned around, there was an obvious expression of disappointment mingled with hurt. The guilt washed over you with such sudden intensity like the abrupt tugging of a dangerous rip current pulling you out into a sea of heightened self-loathing. You hadn’t meant to lie to him, or for him to be so perceptive that he knew when you were holding back, but it was such a reflexive response. You were so used to bottling yourself up when it got bad.
He pointed the remote toward the TV and pressed play. Daniel Cleaver resumed his attempts at wooing Bridget, and for once, you wished it made you impassioned enough to grow angry. Angry enough to complain about it, at the very least.
As the movie played on and you watched as Mark Darcy and Bridget continued their awkward and prolonged dance around each other before his dramatic confession, you thought about how you had spent years of your life hoping to find someone to love and be loved by in return—just like Bridget. But unlike Bridget at this very moment, you had that someone. You just needed to reach out. You just needed to be honest, not just with him, but with yourself. There was no clawing your way out of the pit this time. You needed help.
“Spencer.”
Your voice came out far more panicked than you had meant it to, but maybe that was how it was supposed to sound after keeping everything bottled up for so long. It was enough to alarm him; he didn’t bother with pausing the movie as he turned back around, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. He hadn’t even finished chewing his mouthful of dry cereal before attempting to ask what was wrong.
“I need you. Please.”
“Sure!” he exclaimed, clambering to his feet, “Of course.”
The mattress sank as he plopped himself down on the bed and crawled next to you. You felt your anxiety spike suddenly, inducing a chill across your skin that you involuntarily tried to shake off. Perceptive as he was, Spencer leaned forward and snatched one of the soft fleece blankets from the pile in the floor and flattened it atop the comforter. Tenderly, he tucked a wayward cluster of hair away from your face, tracing your cheek with his knuckle in the process.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I-I don’t know—” you managed, “I just don’t feel good.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it your allergies or a tummy ache or something?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s not physical.”
You knew you were offering him very little help in the deduction process, but at least you were opening up. At least you were trying to be honest.
“Then what is it?”
There was a pause. A long, dense pause. But he was patient with you, even as your eyes grew watery without explanation.
“It’s gotten bad again,” you finally admit, “my depression, the anxiety. I just can’t do anything anymore. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Okay, that’s okay, we can work with that.” He drew closer, wrapping an arm behind you and tucking you into his side. Before he could say anything else, you released a trembling sigh of pent up panic.
“I feel like I can’t breathe—“
He sat up straighter, “W-what do you need? Am I too close? Do you need some space? I can turn on the ceiling fan to get some circulation in here—”
When he began to lean way, you latched onto his arm like a lifeline. He froze.
“No, don’t go,” you pleaded, “Stay.”
He nodded and seemed to take a half second to evaluate what to do before he decided. He slipped beneath the comforter and offered his own warmth to you, pulling the blanket along with him. He stretched it the soft fabric across you.
“Here, the comforter’s not very cozy,” he tucked the fleece around both of you beneath the cool comforter. “Sometimes it helps me to feel different textures when I start to get panicky. It engages one of your five senses, y’know? Helps distract you from the anxiety.”
It was there, in the proximity of his own experience and intimate sincerity, that you began to find some semblance of relief.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Why are you sorry, (Y/n)? You can’t help it. And even if you could, there’s still no reason to be sorry. It just happens sometimes.”
“But it hasn’t just been today, or sometimes—“ your tears finally returned after their months-long hiatus, streaming down your cheeks, “—it’s been all the time for a couple months now.”
There seemed to be some hesitation as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“I don’t know… I guess I thought you wouldn’t really understand because you’re always so happy. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“(Y/n), just because I’m goofing around most of the time and am generally a creative, fun spirit doesn’t mean I don’t understand adult feelings. It doesn’t mean I can’t sit down with you and help you work through it. I mean, I know I can be a little childish or hyper sometimes—or, most times—but I know what depression feels like, too. You don’t have to keep it from me. You’re not a disappointment for feeling a certain way.”
“But you’re such a positive influence on me, Spencer, and I feel like I just bring you down. How can I not be? You give me so much of yourself, you constantly try to cheer me up and make life bearable for me, but I still wind up here again. I can’t even tell you the last time I actually cried,”
“Well, it looks like we’re doing something right,” you felt the fluffy corner of the blanket dabbed against your cheek as he blotted your tears away, “it’s good to get it out. It has to go somewhere, right? I’d much rather you share it with me than keep it all to yourself. I want to do more than make your life bearable, (Y/n). I want to make it enjoyable.”
You turned into his embrace, lying against the temperate comfort of his chest. Burrowed together beneath the covers, you could feel some of the burden being lifted from your shoulders as he began to peel those layers of armor back and help you carry the load. His chin found its place atop your hair, his arms winding around your frame with a grip equally as gentle as it was firm.
“Remember when I was so stressed about my first art exhibit that I didn’t leave the couch for a whole week?”
You hummed a confirmation of sorts against the radiating warmth of his chest.
“Do you also remember who it was that sat there with me, made me eat every meal, convinced me to shower, ran to the store for my favorite candy, and bought me four different smoothies from The Groovy Smoothie because I was so indecisive I couldn’t even pick a flavor?”
Of course you knew who it was. You.
“But you always pull through, Spence. You never let it get too far. You’re strong that way. I feel like I’m just constantly between episodes and you’re left to deal with it.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t feel like that again someday,” he reminded you, “and you were the one there for me then, and I know you’ll be there for me the next time. So what makes you think I wouldn’t want to do the same for you?”
It took you a moment to consider an answer. There were several reasons that fed into this concept that Spencer’s patience was like an hourglass sifting sand through its curved column—as if every bump in the road for you would inevitably drive him away if you didn’t fix it before he noticed. But if that were true, and if people in love really existed with some sort of countdown to failure, then wouldn’t you feel the same way about him? Wouldn’t you have been annoyed or upset on his off days?
The answer, of course, was no. The only thing you felt during those short periods of his slumps was the desperation to help him, reassure him, comfort him, and do everything in your power to make it easier for him to come through on the other side. So why had you convinced yourself it was any different for him where you were concerned?
“Because maybe it gets old for you, having to help me get through it so much. Because sometimes it’s really hard for me to want to be here anymore, like sleeping is better than trying another day. And if I exhaust myself the way I do, it only makes sense that I’m exhausting to you too.”
The touch of his hand to your chin prompted your eyes to meet. The blur of your tears subsided as you looked up at him. The dampness of your cheeks and the dark circles under your eyes did not deter him, nor did the desperation in your tired gaze.
“You couldn’t exhaust me if you tried. You make me happy, no matter what you’re going through, or what state of mind you’re stuck in. Sometimes you forget what a relationship is supposed to look like—“ he pressed his forehead to yours with the loving cadence of a fluffy fleece blanket, “—but that doesn’t mean I’m done trying to show you.”
It was moments like these that you were reminded of how deep the well of Spencer’s own emotions ran. He wasn’t just an exuberant artist, a goofy older brother and responsible guardian, an affectionate boyfriend, or a carefree personality whose outlook on life was generally one of positivity and eager excitement. He was a human being, capable of falling into his own pit without any foreseeable way out. The difference was that he was honest with himself and the people around him when he needed help. He didn’t dare try to keep it all locked inside.
Whether it was a sculpture made of discarded household items or a painting bursting with shapes and colors, Spencer was honest. His sincerity wasn’t natural instinct, it hadn’t been easy to form the habit of being vulnerable, but it had been necessary. And thankfully, with a heart of gold and a temperament like his, he was determined to help you do the same.