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Spencer should have said no. It should have been an immediate red flag that Ian wasn't part of the plans. He should've gone with Shayne when his mom grabbed him. Two shots ago he should've puked. A lot of things should have happened.
"Hey! Look at that!" The upperclassman that'd invited Spencer hoots as Spencer splutters on another bitter mystery drink. "The kid is still in!"
A wave of laughter floats between the older boys. Spencer is pretty sure he knows some of them from school, but now their faces are spinning and their voices stab at his eardrums. So he can't really tell them apart anymore.
He doesn't even know why he'd agreed to come. It had felt like a chance maybe. His one shot at getting out of his shell before it solidifies back into the fortress it was the year before. And of course Shayne had jumped at the chance to tag along with the older guys. He always felt more mature than some of their classmates anyway. Suffice to say, Shayne hadn't lasted long before getting a tad fed up with the energy of the place.
"C'mon," Shayne had sighed, "No one is gonna snitch."
"I told my mom I was with Ian Shayne," Spencer had whined back, already tipsy though he hadn't realized. "If your mom has to drive me home she'll know right away it was bullshit!"
Shayne, the amazing friend he is, had caved, trusting Spencer to know what is best for himself. So of course, the moment Spencer was the only one under eighteen, the reality started to set in.
"Oh man... this is so fucked!" Someone giggles vaguely left of Spencer.
He know's they're pouring another rancid drink. He can hear the sloshing, smell the tangy syrups. All to see how many it takes before he hurls. They'd invited him moments after Shayne was gone. And Spencer was too scared to say no, terrified to be alone in a strange house with everyone from his school feeling brushed off. It was a recipe for disaster.
So as another sickly warm glass is pressed into his limp hands, the residue of everyone's fingerprints built up beneath his own, Spencer focuses on everything and anything else. The bump of music downstairs, the chill of hardwood through his shitty worn down jeans, the skunky heady smell of weed wafting through the window from the back porch below. He has just enough lucidity for one last thought before he drinks.
My mom is going to kill me.
*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*
Courtney's jaw is digging into Tommy's shoulder, but he can't bring himself to care. He feels free for the first time in weeks. As much as he loves the team, they'd been busy with the upcoming game, and he prefers to spend the least amount of time at his aptly named school possible. People tend to stare a bit, though no where near as much as last year.
So nestled into the corner of a kitchen he's never seen, his friend's legs bracketing his waist where she sits on the counter behind him, and the air clogged by the perfumes of about twelve girls packed together in the room, he feels somewhat normal for the first time since he was a kid. If God is real he specifically designed parties for Tommy.
Courtney shouts something, jostling Tommy's shoulders and kicking their legs. Normally Tommy would be right their with them, the beating heart of the conversation, but tonight he's content to just fondly wince at the volume right next to his ear, sinking back into Court's warm embrace and nursing something strong.
He's trying not to draw attention for once. They only got in because they know the host's little sister, and Tommy feels slightly like one of the many Seniors and even college kids might randomly ID check him if he's too annoying. Courtney had wanted to keep her head down too, until the cool older girls had absorbed them into their group, and she was too starstruck to be insecure.
It's nice. Really nice even. Girls are usually nicer to Tommy, but... he glances around. These girls are all so uniform. Matching slip dresses and manicures and subtle makeup. Because these are catholic school girls. That dress the same, and aren't really rebeling, and worry God would think them slutty if the wings of their eyeliner were too bold. So, yeah, it's nice. Really nice. But Tommy doesn't want to test that.
So when things start moving a bit too close to him being asked a bunch of probing personal questions, he slips out of Courtney's hold as gently as he can. He turns to face her, the buzz of anxiety growing in his skull. Courtney just smiles questioningly, eyes a tad glazed. Tommy chuckles at that, pulling the bottle of hard cider out of her grasp and squeezing her hand.
"I wanna go dance," he explains.
Court's eyes go bright, darting to look at the girls over his shoulder guiltily.
"You can stay here," Tommy reassures. "Just drink some water for me, yeah?"
"You sure?" Courtney frowns.
"Yeah, totally."
Tommy puts on his best "all good" face, oozing with confidence he's never quite sure if he has.
"Okay," Courtney concedes, smoothing his hair down affectionately. "Meet back here in like an hour? We'll walk back to my place. Olivia said it was fine to leave the car."
"Okay."
He slips out, a few of the girls offering him waves. One even smacks a lip gloss smeared kiss to his cheek, laughing hysterically at his shocked expression. Who knows if it was flirting, the presumptious actions of a straight woman that clocked him, or just a drunk impulse. Whatever the case he's beet red and grinning as he enters the living room.
The room is filled to the brim. In the middle a crowd weaves and pulses, music shaking the walls from a huge speaker up front. Tommy cringes at the warbling flat screen across from him. Hopefully it doesn't fall. He puts it out of mind, sliding between some grinding idiots to lose himself in the bass.
Not much thought goes into it. He doesn't have to dance well, or get all the lyrics right when he sings along. Most of the others are probably blackout by now. If only he could be too. He just sways, flicking the spiraling thoughts out of his hair. If he sees old classmates in the faces around him where they definitely aren't, that's Tommy's business.
It should be hot, soffocating even. People are sweating, and crammed closer than comfortable, as chunks of the student bodies of several local high schools and community colleges fill an only slightly above average suburban home. Really the only appeal of the venue is the out of the way location and resulting lack of nosey neighbors. But someone must have thrown open the sliding door leading out to the yard, because between swelterimg body heat a breeze pushes through. It slips under Tommy's tshirt, cropped just enough to look good without showing his stomach in unknown company, and dusting goosebumps over his skin. It carries the smell of weed and chlorine from a pool it's too cold out to jump in.
For some reason it has a sobering affect, slowly plucking at Tommy's wandering mind until he feels like himself again. Maybe it's the reminder of where he is, the taste of the outside world. He's not in a technicolor bubble. He's sandwhiched between a bunch of inebriated possible homophobes, trying to forget who he is.
So when it happens, he's the only alert one around. The only one that sees it.
A pack of guys, the kind of steroid-pushing, podcast-making, pants-sagging white guys that get pissed by how tall Tommy is, wrestle their way down the stairs. They're laughing and stumbling, clearly off their asses. Sour dread curls in Tommy's gut.
Why would they have gone upstairs to drink when everything is down here? Plus it's never a good sign when that crowd is happy. So Tommy zeroes in on them, though part of him doesn't want to know.
"Did you see his fucking face?" One of them slurs. "I bet he's gonna drown in his own puke!"
A fist comes down on the guy's head. A taller, somehow even more ripped dude gives him a scolding glare. Tommy recognizes him from somewhere. A football player from a closer school.
"Don't even joke asshole."
"What?" First guy croons, rubbing at his scalp. "Scared they'd blame us?"
God. Tommy shudders thinking about what they did to whatever poor bastard they're talking about. He watches them drift towards the kitchen, probably to shove their grimmy hands into a communal chip bowl or hit on a girl.
He tries to get back to that wonderful unburdened headspace he'd been in. For a minute or so he even halfheartedly rolls his hips. But Tommy's mood is thoroughly dampened.
For some reason his brain keeps sticking on what he'd overheard. Who knows why. It's typical really. A bunch of jerkoffs sneak off to torture each other, and make crude comments about whichever of them lost. Except… that's not it, is it? No matter how many times Tommy's eyes drift to the stairs, the last idiot doesn't come stumbling down covered in sharpie doodles. The stairway stays suspiciously empty, and the boys don't turn back to grab their friend. It's almost like… whover it was wasn't their friend. But then who was it?
"I bet he's gonna drown in his own puke!"
"Oh my God…"
Tommy stalls, pushed back and forth by the people on either side. He stares in horror at the empty stairs, mind racing with all the twisted possibilities. He imagines being alone with those guys, not knowing any of them. His stomach swoops unhappily. Jesus this could be bad.
He finds his legs carrying him in the direction of his waking nightmare without thought. No one else had been paying attention. Someone is alone and drunk and probably scared, and Tommy is the only one that knows. Sixteen year old, flighty, crying-prone Tommy. What a joke.
It's quieter upstairs. The music is muffled by the floor, and only a few scattered lights are on. Tommy wonders if he's walked into a horror movie.
One by one he nervously approaches each door, inching them open with the tip of his shoe. They're mostly empty, though he is greeted by the sight of one of his classmates passed out on the floor of what looks like an office. He seems fine though, so Tommy figures that's not the person he's looking for.
Finally he makes his way to the last door. It's no different than any of the others, but Tommy swears it must be taller or made of darker wood or something. He knows right away this must be it. Taking a long breath in and holding it, Tommy slowly turns the knob. The door creaks as it opens, revealing what seems to be the primary bedroom.
On first glance it looks empty as well. Dark green and blue shadows cover the large bed, the window cracked and curtains rustling. It's quiet, abandoned bottles of who knows what scattered over the floor. The combined flavors smell downright rank, a few small mystery puddles only adding to the disturbing ambiance.
In the corner is another door, cracked just barely open. Light pours out, sending reflections over the glasses. Probably the ensuite.
Tommy looks both ways, just to be sure a demon isn't hiding around the door to pounce on him, before pushing into the room. He nimbly tiptoes around the trash, silently promising he won't put himself through the misery of cleaning it. The host can just deal with the consequences of dumb adolescent parties alone. Tommy is already babysitting apparently.
When he reaches the bathroom he hesitates. What if this person really did drown in puke? Is he about to find a body? Is this what he'll be known for the rest of his life?
Tommy shakes himself. This isn't the time to be stupid. Squaring his shoulders, he forces himself to swing open the door.
It's a nice bathroom, decently sized. Past the double sink is a built in shower, white tiled halfwall blocking it from Tommy's view. Water covers the floor, the sound of the showerhead dripping echoing in the quiet. A crumpled up flannel sits in the corner, sopping wet and covered in a suspicious stain. Who is Tommy kidding? That's most definitely vomit. Great.
He turns his attention to the shower. Sneakers squeaking on the wet floor, Tommy moves in closer. First are the shoes. Heavy boots poke out from the bottom of the shower, ratty cuffed jeans riding up to reveal some very silly egg patterned socks.
When he finally gets close enough to see, Tommy is braced for a corpse and still freezes in panic. Because he had expected a lot. Probably had catastrophized. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight he's met with.
Spencer- St. Charles soccer team Spencer, a.k.a. The most infuriatingly rude straight boy Tommy has ever had the misfortune of being attracted to -is laying in the fetal possition at the bottom of the shower, hair slicked, shivering, and shirtless except for the beads of water pooling in every dip of his skin.
"What the fuck," Tommy mumbles, unable to do anything but gape.
Look, they aren't exactly friends, Tommy gets great joy out of making the other boy go red with rage, but he likes to think he has a pretty good idea of who Spencer is after a year of constantly throwing jabs at each other.
Ragers where a bunch of upperclassman get you totally blasted? Not Spencer's scene. Sure, Tommy has seen him at a party or two. He's even yelled a few insults just to get those eyes on him a couple times. But Spencer is always glued to the wall, never more than two drinks in, and always being hovered over by one of his teammates. They act like he's their baby. This isn't an image Tommy thought he'd ever see.
Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe in between flares of annoyance at the, frankly too specific, insults the other boy throws, Tommy had been subconciously searching for a reason to see good in him. Maybe he had wished, deep down, that he wouldn't stoop so low as to be obsessed with a total douche.
Spencer groans, wrenching Tommy from his musings and back to the situation at hand. Right. Very drunk confused Spencer at his feet. Fantastic.
Sighing, Tommy drops to his knees, grabbing a towel off the hook next to him and laying it across the other boy's shoulders.
"You know, logically this isn't how you wanted your night to go either, but I can't help but feel like this is a personal sabotage."
"Wha…?"
"Don't worry about it."
Spencer shifts, slipping out of Tommy's grasp and propping himself on his elbows. Well there goes helping him up. He blinks, eyes puffy from crying and gaze unfocused. The hair that had been squished against the floor sticks up like a giant puppy licked the side of his face. It is decidely not endearing.
"Uh- God, here."
Tommy huffs, pulling the towel back to guide it to Spencer's hair. With the way it's sending rivulets of water down his face, Tommy won't be able to move him without drying it. Spencer's hair is drenched, stray curls plastered to his face and clumped around the top of his neck. It's longer than normal, as though Spencer hadn't cut it over the summer. Which is a problem for a few reasons.
For one it'll take a lot more work to stop it from leaving puddles everywhere. More pressingly though, at least to Tommy, is that like this it's thick enough he can feel it through the rough fabric under his hands, and that sensation will for sure be haunting his dreams for at least a month. If not eternity.
Spencer is uncharacteristically agreeable. He doesn't so much as blink, just sitting patiently as Tommy squeezes the moister out of his bangs. It takes a lot of self control not to be rough with how little progress it's making. If Spencer notices Tommy clenching his teeth to keep himself steady, he doesn't react. It's honestly unnerving. He's still as a satue, not letting out a peep, just watching Tommy.
Tommy knows this because, even though he pointedly avoids Spencer's eyes, he can feel them exploring his face without a lick of shame. It makes an embarassed warmth creep up Tommy's neck that he forces himself to ignore. No way is he blushing right now. He can't be. That would be stupid, and way too obvious, and even out of it Spencer would immediately make fun of him for it. So he's not, because Spencer is docile as a fawn.
Once water stops seeping through the towel down Tommy's wrists, he deems it good enough. Sitting back on his heel, he hastily drops the towel. It flops around Spencer's shoulders, his semi-dry hair puffing up like a crown of feathers. For the first time since sitting down, Tommy lets himself really process his surroundings. It's a mistake.
They're close. A lot closer than Tommy had aimed for. He's practically in Spencer's lap, the other boy's hip pressed against Tommy's thigh. And what Tommy hadn't realized, so focused on his self assigned task, is that Spencer had been inching his way up the whole time, now sitting almost all the way up with his hands splayed behind him. It puts them right in each others space, Spencer's eyes lifted to meet Tommy's.
"Sorry…" Tommy whispers, frozen in shock.
Spencer's mouth does a funny twitch, teeth peaking out for just a moment. He's flushed from the alcohol, eyes blown wide and sparkling under the overhead lights. He looks completely awestruck, like he has no idea what's happening. Which, to be fair, he probably doesn't.
"S'okay," he slurs, and then he gives Tommy a shakey little smile.
It is just the ghost of his real one, only the edge of his braces visible, but Tommy knows somehow that it's true.
"What?"
"It's okay… I dunno what you did."
Spencer shrugs, his whole body thrown into the movement so that he nearly slips on the slick tiles. Tommy almost grabs him, but thinks better of it when Spencer catches himself. No reason to go crossing the bare shoulders line when he doesn't half to.
He's just considering how he'll possibly get Spencer home, when Spencer starts giggling wildly. Tommy can't help it, he stares, gobsmacked.
The sounds are like hisses of air, choked between Spencers teeth. His nose is scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed as he shakes his head.
"You're Tommy!" He finally blurts, way too loud in the tiny shower stall.
Tommy blinks, not sure what is so funny about any of this.
"Uh… huh."
"No, no…" Spencer mumbles.
He suddenly has a moment of clarity, smile falling as he thinks for what Tommy would bet is the first time in several hours. All at once Spencer is groaning, wrapping his arms around his torso and tilting back. Tommy lurches forward, panic flaring as Spencer's head nearly bangs into the wall.
"Wait! Don't do that!"
Spencer just grumbles, dropping his head into Tommy's hand petulantly. His forehead is hot and damp, but Tommy only notices how soft his skin is.
"We need to get you out of here," Tommy says as calmly as he can, the frantic realization of how difficult this could get lighting a fire under him. "I need you to not throw yourself on the floor."
Spencer makes another almost giberish sound, swaying forward. Only the insistent press of Tommy's palm to his face keeps him from fully going slack against Tommy's shoulder.
"What?" Tommy snaps, the humiliation of it all finally wearing down his patience.
Why did it have to be Spencer of all people? Drunk people are moody and needy and ridiculous, but Spencer is all those things on a normal day! He's the most self pitying, oblivious jerk that Tommy's ever met, and now he's trying to pout on top of him. Because of course he's so focused on his own misery he's not considering at all how far into Tommy's personal space he is, or how shirtless he is, or how cruel it is to smush his mouth so close to Tommy's wrist that every hot puff of breath flutters over Tommy's racing pulse.
"You're gonna be mean!" Spencer whines, peeking between Tommy's own fingers up at him.
Of course his glare is cute. There's a reason Tommy spends so much time wringing it out of him. Jesus Christ.
"Okay!" Tommy cuts him off. "I am not going to be mean. Unless! You deserve it. So you are going to stop flopping around, and I am going to help you stand."
"Noooo," Spencer drawls, pushing his head more insistantly.
He manages to shove past Tommy's hand, burrying his face into the crook of Tommy's shoulder. Tommy goes stock still, arms hovering awkwardly as he debates what to do now in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the boy trying to crawl into his jugular.
"Yesssss," Tommy finally mocks, deciding to just roll with it.
He wraps his arms beneath Spencers armpits, shuffling to start dragging them both up.
"You are going home, where you can't bother me, and I am going to repress this memory!"
"Mmm…"
"Whatever you gotta tell yourself."
It's clunky, getting them both off the floor. Spencer makes no move to help, too busy hiding in Tommy's shirt and muttering about how upset he is. Meanwhile Tommy has to unfold his legs on slippery ground, with dead useless weight pulling him down, and his brain flipping back and forth between fluster and fury.
Once he has them standing, Spencer slumps against him, hand flapping out to smack into the wall as support. Tommy adjusts, guiding Spencer to one arm, tucked against his side. He absolutely does not think about how romantic that would be in any other context with any other boy.
"Okay," Tommy murmurs, looking around.
Spencer's shirt is still crumpled on the floor, but Tommy has a feeling it wasn't exactly salvegable. He taps his foot anxiously, looking around for any alternatives. Realizing it's a lost cause, Tommy just unrolls the towel still dangling around Spencer like a scarf, letting it fall down over his arms to regain some sense of modesty.
"That'll just… have to do."
Spencer sniffles, no longer actively fighting, but Tommy doesn't relax. Who knows when he'll decide to be difficult again.
Adjusting his grip on Spencer's middle, Tommy guides them out of the bathroom, and through the bedroom. Spencer almost eats it tripping over a bottle, but it at least puts him in a better mood when he splutters a laugh at himself.
What on Earth is Tommy supposed to do? He has no clue how Spencer got here, hadn't even realized he was at first. He doesn't know where Spencer's house is, or have his teammates' numbers. Tommy can't even drive yet, since he only just passed the test and is limited to family. Besides, Tommy had a few earlier, and even though he feels pretty scared straight now, he knows not to test his underage tolerance.
It's as he's trying to figure out how to get Spencer down the stairs that his luck turns.
"Tommy!"
He startles, looking up to find Courtney rushing up the stairs towards them. Spencer is slower on the uptake, still letting out little bouts of laughter and watching his own feet shuffle around.
"Oh thank God," Tommy gasps, his whole body untensing at the sight of his friend.
"I was so worried when you didn't come back, and then I heard some guys were getting pretty wild up here, and I thought maybe- who's that?"
Tommy blushes, trying to subtly inch Spencer away from him. It doesn't do much with the other boy picking at Tommy's collar absentmindedly.
"He's, uhm- he goes to St. Charles… I found him like this."
"Wow…"
Courtney throws Spencer a judgemental once over, coming to the same conclusion Tommy had earlier. He must've been hanging out with the neanderthals from before.
"He doesn't look the type," Courtney jokes dryly, trying to lighten the mood. "Hold on…"
"For what?" Tommy asks, as Courtney steps past him into the quiet of the upstairs and pulls out her phone.
"I'm gonna call a friend that goes to St. Charles. Do you know his name?"
"Uh- Spencer Agnew."
Something flashes in Courtney's eye at the bitter tone Tommy says it with, but she doesn't ask. Instead they just hold up a finger, phone buzzing as the call goes through.
Tommy takes the moment to think, glad to be getting help. Somehow, through a chain of contacts, they'll find someone that can get the doofus, and balance will be restored to the universe. Spencer will be safe out of his hands, and Tommy will do his best to salvage the night with Court.
Oddly, Tommy feels sort of disappointed. Sure, Spencer sucks, but Tommy knows he didn't respond the best when they first met. He knows he can be sensitive sometimes, and that he gives as good as he gets. It doesn't feel great to be thought so lowly of…
"You're gonna be mean!"
Tommy doesn't consider himself a mean person. Protective, sharp tongued, defensive even, but mean?
He glances down. Spencer's eyes are vacant, chewing sleepily on his mouth. He's so vulnerable, and he'd been left like that. Then when Tommy found him, tried to help, he was affraid. Discomfort swirls in Tommy's gut.
He makes a small promise to himself. No matter how bad they fight, because surely they'll fight again- the season is just starting, he won't take it too far. He won't bring the other players into it, he won't pull any pranks, he won't start it off the field. Spencer will be a monster slayed with words. Because Tommy isn't mean, and he's not the kind of guy that leaves vulnerable people on their own. Even if they're irritating and won't remember or thank him for his efforts.
"Hey."
Spencer's voice, still muddled and wobbly, pulls Tommy out of his head.
"What?"
Mischeif dances across Spencer's face. Never a good sign.
"I stretched out your shirt."
Tommy gasps, pushing Spencer back to check, and- yup. There it is. The collar of his tshirt, one with a beautiful print on the front that he tastefully cropped, is stretched and sagging awkwardly around his throat.
"Hey!"
Spencer laughs, fully laughs. Not choked back giggles, or whistled air. His smile splits his face, teeth bright and braces reflecting dully. The bands are red. All at once Tommy can't bring himself to retaliate.
He sighs, throwing Courtney a desperate glance. She gives him a sympathetic one in return, throwing him a thumbs up as she explains the situation to one of Spencer's classmates. Good, Tommy isn't sure how much longer he can take being close enough to smell Spencer's shampoo with out killing one or both of them.
"You get this one time," Tommy mutters, aware that Spencer probably isn't actually listening. "Then I am going to destroy you."
*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*
The memory does end up haunting him. All season. Every time Spencer shouts something about his "gangly legs," or cheers when Tommy messes up, it taunts him.
He saves it, sharpenning it from a moment of weakness into a weapon. A knife tucked against the back of his brain. So that one day, when Spencer thinks he's got the leg up, Tommy will get to rub it in his face, and finally be rewarded the karmic justice he is owed.
At least… that's what he tells himself.