Work Text:
Spot didn’t get it. This whole thing was taking way too long.
He huffed and shrugged his backpack higher on his shoulder as he walked through the hall. He had been heading to AP US History, one of his favorite classes, when he’d caught sight of Race at his locker, chattering away with Albert and Jack like nothing was wrong. They were laughing and joking around, shoving at each other and practically hitting other students in the process. Race’s hair was tousled, messy in that effortless sort of way, and his eyes were shiny crescents, and he was smiling, and Spot didn’t get it.
They broke up two weeks ago. And they weren’t back together yet. And Spot didn’t get it.
As he turned the corner, he tried to get Racer’s ringing laugh out of his head. His chest ached a little, thinking about how often he used to be the one to make him laugh. Now, it was like Race was a stranger to him. He’d moved on so easily, Spot almost thought their relationship had never even happened, like some fucked up months-long dream sequence he’d wake up falling from.
Spot and Race had broken up before. This was far from the first time they’d fought and vowed to be done with each other; they were both hotheads after all, and God knew it was difficult to see eye-to-eye on everything when you have a boyfriend. Had, Spot reminded himself— when you had a boyfriend.
The difference, this time, is that they’d never spent two whole weeks apart before making up.
Memories of their many fights came to mind as Spot shoved into the stairwell door and shuffled down to the first floor. One fight, in their early days, started when Race had flirted with one of Spot’s teammates after a water polo match. Race had wrapped his slender fingers around the guy’s biceps, throwing his head back in a bubbly laugh, and Spot couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen red like that. That fight-break up-make up situation had only taken three days.
Other fights washed over him in a blur: backhanded compliments and unthinking comments, clinginess and melodrama. Their fights were usually petty, rage-filled or jealousy-induced, and they were usually being stupid teenagers about it, but they knew that, so then they’d make up and go back to the way they used to be before the fight— passionate and handsy and good.
Spot thought it was a pretty great system, all things considered, and he figured Race must’ve felt the same. At least… he did before. Now, Spot didn’t know what the hell was going through Race’s head.
As the last warning bell rang, Spot fell into his desk chair, his bag sliding off his shoulder with an unceremonious thump. He swooped down to grab his notebook and a pencil, and he promised himself he would not think about Racetrack until class was over.
He opened his notes to the last day’s sheet and took down the date, squinting at the board to copy the night’s homework readings.
But seriously, what was Race’s deal? He didn’t even look sad. He looked happy and healthy, and he was still going to class, meanwhile Spot’d stayed home sick a couple days. This whole reaction— or lack thereof— made Spot so angry. But more than that, somewhat infuriatingly, Spot was utterly miserable.
Spot’d never confess the number of nights that had ended with him furiously crying over Racer. He’d smash through solos in his room like his secondhand drumset had personally killed his parents, and even after his hands were near bloody, callouses burning and sweat pouring down his brow, he didn’t feel better— he just felt hollow.
What had gone so wrong for Race to treat their relationship like it was a sticky note on the side of his laptop? Why wasn’t Race hurting the way he must’ve known Spot was hurting?
Class went on without Spot, his promise immediately forgotten as he drummed his pencil lightly. The memory of their inciting argument rolled like a wave crashing over Spot’s head.
“Tickets for prom ‘re goin’ on sale in the next week or two,” Race said, rolling over to lean his head on Spot’s shoulder. They were lounging on Race’s bed, Spot finishing up some homework on his laptop while Race scrolled away on his phone.
“Okay,” replied Spot, only half-listening as he finished his last sentence. Only two more questions before he could submit his work and be done for the night.
“So, are ya gonna get a ticket?” Racer lifted his head and turned to face Spot. His attention burned into Spot’s head like a laser.
“Well, yeah, o’ course.” Spot wondered what was making Race ask this in the first place. He pushed his laptop away, turning to lean on his elbow, and he reached out to pull Race’s hand into his own, threading their fingers together.
Race looked away. “Okay.”
Spot wondered what he’d said wrong. He tried to rewind the tape in his head, but nothing came up. “Are you getting a ticket?” he managed, rubbing his thumb over the blond’s knuckle.
“I don’t know,” Racer huffed, seemingly irritated now. “Am I?”
“Uhh,” Spot spluttered, at a complete loss. They’d been dating for seven months, more or less, so prom felt like a natural next step. “Well, I kinda figured we was going together, right?”
“Oh, you figured?” Race laughed, pulling his hand away to scratch his curls off his forehead.
“Yeah, I did.” Spot was annoyed now. He never liked being left out, sitting on the outside of Racer’s head in situations like this, so he decided to get to the bottom of whatever stick was up his ass. “What’s your problem?”
Race chuffed, his cheeks pink. “My problem? Oh, I don’t know,” he laughed out. “I guess I thought my boyfriend cared enough to achlly ask me to prom instead of whatever the hell this is.”
As the conversation faded out of memory, Spot felt like he could breathe again, finding a break in the tide. Glancing at the board, he recognized that the subject of the class had shifted without his notice. His notebook sat blank in front of him as his pencil continued to drum.
He thought about his ride home that night, quiet car noises echoing as he drove, dumbfounded and chilly— he’d left his favorite red sweatshirt at Race’s by accident. At the time, it didn’t matter much to him, because he had figured he’d get it back in a couple days when Race apologized.
Spot paused his thought process, considering that. Was it Race’s turn to apologize?
To be fair to Racer, Spot had been a bit of a dick. He probably could’ve asked the question better, and not gotten so heated. But then again, if Race’d wanted to do the whole stupid prom question thing, with the sign and the flowers and the heart-shaped pizza, he coulda just said so. Spot would’ve done just about anything for him. He probably still would, if the blond would let him. Didn’t Race know that?
The bell startled Spot out of his thoughts. Another class wasted on a spiral. Add it to the pile.
The next period was lunch, so Spot slung his bag on his arm and headed to the cafeteria, opting for a drink and chips from the vending machine instead of a proper meal. He didn’t have much of an appetite today.
Spot found his friends at a table in the corner, inconveniently placed past Race and company’s table. As he passed by, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over the blond, who wasn’t paying any attention to him. Not even a glance. Spot didn’t get it.
And Spot was dying for those pretty blue eyes to look at him again.
“It's like we never even ‘appened,” Spot sighed out, having thrown himself into a seat across from Vince and Hotshot.
“Here we go again—” Hotshot sighed, biting into their green beans.
Spot continued, “I mean, ‘e won’t even look at me! What the fuck is up with that?”
Vince and Hotshot shared a look, a conversation silently passed between them before Vince huffed and turned to Spot. In their mental game of Rock/Paper/Scissors, Vince was apparently the loser.
“Have ya tried talking to him?” she asked gently.
“No,” Spot admitted, his eyes getting caught on the scratches along the edge of the table. He pushed his fingers through his hair and looked up, a new heat boiling in his stomach. “But why should I be the one to talk first? He broke up with me.”
Hotshot rolled their eyes as Vince continued, “Well, didja deserve it this time?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “Maybe a little,” Spot allowed. “I guess I was kind ‘f a moron.”
“Okay. So—”
“Still,” Spot interrupted, “it’s a two way street!”
Just then, Myron joined the group, slotting his tray in front of the seat next to Spot. “Wait, what’s a two way street?”
Hotshot groaned, flipping their hair out of their eyes. “Spot’s fuckass relationship problems with Racetrack.”
Myron groaned, slapping Spot’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Still?”
“Have you seen the way he’s acting?” Spot asked Myron. “He’s just so… unaffected!”
“Good for him,” Myron shrugged, and Spot had never wanted to punch him so hard.
Hotshot cracked a smirk. “Spotty boy, have you considered cryin’ about it?”
Vince shoved her shoulder into Hotshot, earning a wince. “Don’t listen to them. Ya just need to talk to him,” she reasoned, pointing her fork at Spot. “Tell him how ya feel.”
“What, so ‘e can tell me how great ‘e’s doing without me? Trust me, I can already see that.” Spot knew he was deflecting, taking out his frustrations on the wrong people, but he couldn’t quite help it. He felt so pent up, wiry and unfocused, and talking about his emotions was certainly not going to help that.
“No, dickhead.” Vince picked up a green bean and threw it at Spot, making him yelp. “Talk to him so’s you can reconcile or move on.”
Spot sighed, the words turning over in his skull. The fact that moving on was an option— that moving on could be a potential future for Spot— made him nearly shiver. He couldn’t imagine a life without Racer; hell, he couldn’t even imagine going into senior year without him. Was this really gonna be it? Over a fuckin’ promposal?
“A’right, yeah,” Spot finally agreed, only slightly convinced. “Maybe I should talk to ‘im.”
“Atta boy.” Vince smiled and turned to Myron and Hotshot, effectively shifting the conversation to other topics.
The rest of the period went on as it normally did, the group shooting the shit and talking through upcoming plans. Spot was there, but not really there; he was too distracted by the weirdness of feeling an empty seat on his other side.
Spot’s last couple classes went by in a blur, his head clouded over and his notebook limp and unused. Even after the final bell, the day was far from over— as much as Spot wanted to go home and abuse the shit out of his drumkit, or throw glass bottles at a brick wall, or anything else to get his mind off the curly-haired blond running laps in his head, water polo practice waited for no one.
As he headed toward the pool, Spot passed the student body Treasurer, who was tabling to sell prom tickets. The table was dressed up in bright colors, streamers and glitter outfitting the garish banner that read “On Sale NOW”. With only a brief moment of hesitation, Spot stopped in front of the table, white-knuckling his backpack awkwardly.
“Hi, David,” Spot tried, wincing a little. Dave was always more Race’s friend than Spot’s.
“Oh, hey, Spot,” Dave smiled smally, his eyes looking past him down the corridor. A loaded silence fell between them.
“We’re selling prom tickets,” Dave continued, matter-of-factly and monotonous in that characteristically David way. “Did you want one?” It wasn’t lost on Spot that he didn’t pluralize the question.
“Uh,” Spot stuttered. He didn’t really want to go to prom now, not without his other half. I kinda figured we was going together, right? “Two. Please.”
It was spur of the moment, but maybe, Spot reasoned, this could help him nut up and set things straight with Race.
Dave’s eyebrows shot up into his curly flop of bangs, but he didn’t say anything, instead nodding and pointing at the flyer of QR codes on the table. “Apple Pay or Venmo. It’s a hundred bucks total.”
A hundred bucks could motivate the most stagnant of boyfriends— or ex-boyfriends, Spot reminded himself.
Spot paid quickly, shoving the tickets into his wallet. He nodded a tight, “Thanks,” to David before speedwalking down the hall to the pool. His wallet felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket.
Practice should’ve been a welcome relief, if only because he had something to do with his body, the physical movement acting as a source of release for the pent up energy coursing through his veins. The movement wasn’t enough, though, because his head was still distracted with daydreams of skinny legs around his waist, bit up nails scraping along his scalp, soft lips on his jaw.
He missed Racer so much. Missed his touch, missed his kiss, missed his voice. Most of all, though, Spot missed the closeness they shared. Racer could pull a rawness out of him like no one else.
Spot could admit that he wasn’t the easiest guy to handle, what with his glorious habit of steering toward emotional unavailability most days. As Spot thought about it more, he couldn’t help but feel like it was his emotional detachment that was pushing Racer away. Maybe this was about more than a promposal after all.
Suddenly, one of his favorite dates they’d had sliced through his thoughts. His mind drifted to all those months ago in September, right when school was getting busy and life was getting tough. They’d been watching the stars on Spot’s carhood, cuddled up together to shield each other from the breeze rustling through the clearing they’d parked in.
The ball shot past Spot, who wasn’t really paying attention, and Coach blew his whistle. “Conlon! Getcher head in the game!”
Spot nodded, slapping his cheeks a couple times and swimming to catch up with his team.
But that autumn night was still there, between his temples. He remembered Race talking about his family life, how he’d grown up, his friends. He shared his fears of dying and the inevitability of the sun’s heat death and the supposed secrets of the universe, his anxieties with college, how stuck he felt sometimes, the want to get up and run and never look back. And Spot could do nothing but listen to the boy in his arms— that impulsive, destructive, loud mouthed, gorgeous, brilliant boy.
He could do nothing but look at him like he had built the world, because in a way, he had.
And when Race looked back up at him, his piercing gaze crashing into Spot’s, Race had sworn to Spot that he was the only person who ever really got him.
“Spot, how’dja miss that?!” Elmer groaned as he splashed Spot, changing directions to follow the ball. Spot barely heard it; he wasn’t even there.
Looking back, Spot should’ve said something in response to Race’s admission, should’ve agreed and told him how having Race at his side was like finally being able to breathe, was like seeing color for the first time. He should’ve shared all of his big ideas and thoughts for their future. He should’ve vocalized his admiration, should’ve done more to make sure Race understood how he felt about him. He should’ve told Race he loved him. Because he did. He really, truly did.
In reality, Spot had only pulled Race closer and kissed his temple.
Frankly, Spot realized, it was no wonder they fought about prom, and flirting, and clinginess, and everything else they ever bickered about. How could Race have known that Spot needed him like he needed air, that Spot used his love for him like scaffolding, that Spot would never be able to handle another week, day, minute without Racetrack Higgins in his life?
And how had Spot gone so long without saying all of this to him?
“Conlon! Getcher ass outta the pool now!” Coach barked.
Hot embarrassment slinked across Spot’s neck and scalp as he gathered his things, his coach leaning over his shoulder to, “focus up next time, son, or yer gettin’ benched at the match!” Spot toweled off and skipped the showers. He needed this day to be over.
As he muscled out of the pool’s doors to the parking lot, his blood was searing. He had to do something, anything to clear his head.
He passed the running track as he stomped to his car, and if he had any sense in him, he wouldn’t have looked. But he was Spot Conlon, that brainless buffoon, and he looked.
With his earbuds in, sweaty curls plastered to his forehead, and long lean muscles working like pistons— Race was running like he was designed for it. Running like it was all he ever knew. He was beautiful.
The blond came around the bend of the track, closer to the fence and closer to Spot, and his eyes floated ahead of him in concentration. Until suddenly, they didn’t; instead, they traveled forward, further ahead, and met Spot’s gaze.
It was only for a moment. Those blue eyes, like headlights peering into Spot’s soul.
Although Spot had been willing it to happen for the last two weeks, the actuality of it was more devastating than he ever would have imagined.
Because Race looked at him.
And then he looked away.
And nothing had changed.
Spot stared into the back of Racer’s head as he rounded to the other side of the track. He wondered if the blond could feel him looking, or if he could see the hurt on Spot’s face, now that he’d actually cared to look at him.
God, Spot wished he could do what Racer did— just laugh like everything was funny, smile like nothing mattered, run like he didn’t care.
The drive home was loud. Bass-heavy rock music boomed from the speakers, a vibration shaking through Spot’s chest and drowning out the angry sobs hiccuping from his throat.
Spot felt sick.
The hours passed like minutes as he laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling for the rest of the afternoon. He skipped dinner, opting to instead sit on the roof outside his bedroom window. A cool breeze of spring jasmine filtered around him as he hugged his knees to his chest.
He took a drag of an old vape he dug out from under his bed. The coil was burnt and the flavor was too sweet and each inhale felt like death— but the device was Racer’s, and he couldn’t stop himself.
What an idiot he was, to let Race go on for nearly eight months without knowing how Spot really felt. He felt like a child, stupid and small. Vince was right— he needed to find a way to talk to Racer. He needed to tell him how he really felt, shake it into him and shout it from the rooftops and make sure he understood the cavernous hole Race had left when he stopped acknowledging Spot’s existence.
As the resolve hardened around him, he went back into his room and found his keys. He opened his wallet and thumbed the prom tickets, then shoved the fold back into his pocket. He was going to ask Race to prom tonight. He wasn’t sure how, or if it would be the right way, but he had to try. Racer deserved that much.
Racer deserved a fuck of a lot more than that, actually, but Spot could only plan so much when his heart felt like it was falling out of his ribs like this.
He jogged down the stairs, skipping steps and jumping down the last few, tugging on his coat. Race didn’t have practice this late, and his work didn’t schedule him on weekdays typically. He must be home, or out with friends. Spot wondered if he should text Albert or Jack— no, David. David would be nicer, and more forthcoming with information.
He grabbed his phone from his back pocket, and with his other hand, slung the door open in a swoop. He looked up to step outside and—
He was standing outside his door.
Racetrack. Here. Standing at his door. In Spot’s red sweatshirt. Here. Looking at him. On the porch.
Huh.
Spot didn’t get it.