Euphemisms for Insanity (2/3)
first
“Heard you went to see that guy last weekend,” says Bryar. Spencer winces.
“Yeah, Ryan really liked him.”
“Did he cure Ryan?” asks Bryar. He looks concerned.
“No,” says Spencer. “He’s a fraud, come on. And we never made it up to see a doctor either, so I don’t know what I’m gonna do-”
On cue, Madam Asher, sweeps into the store, towing Ryan behind her. She’s mammoth today, in blues and pinks. Ryan’s still wearing his dusty clothes from the day before and he looks serene.
She deposits Ryan in front of the counter and leaves, hissing. “He said I was orange.”
“I said,” Ryan explains to the silent, startled shop. “I said, she was tangerine.”
There is silence. Spencer counts to five and uncurls his hands.
“It’s a sweet thing,” says Ryan, helpless.
Spencer puts his hands on his hips. Spencer crosses his arms. Spencer puts a hand to his forehead, breathing deeply. Spencer says, “can I go on my lunch break?” and Stump’n’Bryar nod, dumbfounded.
It is a short, silent walk home. When Spencer unlocks the front door, Ryan pushes past him and straight to Spencer’s bedroom. Spencer ignores him and goes to the kitchen. He calms himself by banging around making himself an angry sandwich. He doesn’t know what he’s angry at. Ryan for being crazy. Himself for wasting time all weekend. Fuck it all, he decides. Fuck Ryan, fuck Asher, fuck Bryar, fuck Billy and most of all, fuck fucking Brendon and his band of aubergine overcoat coveting thieves.
Satisfied, he takes the plate into his bedroom. Ryan is pressed against the wall, knees to his chest. His shoes are on the floor, neatly perpendicular to the bed. He looks like he knows he’s in trouble, which would be a good thing, if that meant anything at all.
Spencer sits down on the chair across from the bed and starts to eat his sandwich.
Ryan wraps his arms around his knees and sighs, ghostlike. He stares at Spencer’s mouth.
Spencer breaks his sandwich in half and offers it to Ryan. He hates his best friend. He really does.
Ryan takes the sandwich and chews.
“Madam Asher doesn’t want you to come back to her place,” says Spencer. “So. . .I don’t know. You can stay here. I don’t think Stump’n’Bryar want you hanging out at the store.”
Ryan chews.
“And. I don’t know.” Spencer stares at his sandwich. “You need to see someone, Ryan. Like, someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”
Ryan chews, swallows.
“You’re not possessed,” says Spencer. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Ryan chews some more. Then he does something that surprises Spencer; “sorry.”
Spencer stares. For a brief, beautiful second he sees clarity and normality in Ryan’s eyes, and then Ryan wipes up mayonnaise he spilled on the bedspread with one finger. He pops his finger in his mouth and sucks.
Spencer sits back, counts the minutes until his lunch break is over and thinks that he is in for a very long evening.
;;
As much as Ryan does not like churches, he does not like being forced off of Spencer’s bed and out of his only clothes at Spencer’s house. At least, thinks Spencer, he’s easier to undress when he’s unconscious. And all that sitting around, doing nothing, has made Ryan paper-thin and easily deposited on the living room couch.
It is a little uncomfortable that Ryan’s so naked, but he shouldn’t have gone so crazy on Spencer either. Spencer strips his bed of its sheets, and picks up Ryan’s clothes. For good measure, since he’s already in the washroom, he strips down to his shorts as well, and dumps his clothes in the washer. He goes back out into the living room to see if Ryan’s conscious yet. Ryan is not, or is. Who knows. His eyes are open, but he’s staring at the ceiling, frowning, ignorant of the goosebumps on his skin. Spencer tugs a blanket off the couch and lays it over him. Ryan doesn’t even blink.
Maybe they’ll both sleep well tonight. That would be a nice change.
Spencer stares down at his best friend. He’s not used to playing a parent and certainly not to the most independent man Spencer has known since he was five and Billy made him eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce.
Of course, the doorbell rings and Spencer’s so lost in thought that he answers the door in his shorts, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Brendon freezes on the doorstep. “Uh,” he says when Spencer opens the door. “Is this a bad time?”
Spencer is embarrassed so he crosses his arms and glares. “What do you want, Brendon?”
Brendon steps back a little. “Nothing,” he says, looking a little downtrodden. “Nothing, nevermind.”
Spencer is not going to let him go.
“What,” he says, reaching out and grabbing Brendon by the wrist. “What do you want?”
Brendon says, “I just wanted to-”
Ryan stirs from the couch with an “ow, fuck, Spencer.” He, of course, drops the blanket to the floor and walks across the living room to Spencer’s bedroom, completely and unrepentantly naked. He is muttering to himself, and touching his head, wincing. Spencer knows, because Spencer turns around at the first sound of Ryan waking up, and watches the entire act with equal amounts of concern and horror.
Brendon says, behind him, “oh, I totally called it. You’re such a liar.”
Spencer whirls on him, yanking his wrist and pulling him close. They’re flush up against each other, only an inch of dead air between them and Spencer is fucking pissed. “You’re a fucking good for nothing, low-down, lying, stealing, robbing, fake-fucking-preaching dirtbag and my best friend is sick.”
They’re so close Spencer can feel Brendon’s chest rise and fall in irregular beats. “Fucking sick, you asshole,” Spencer says again and grips Brendon’s wrist tight. He breathes. He lets go Brendon and steps away. His eyes are warm so he shuts them and leans against the door frame. “Fucking get out of here. You’ve done so much damage already.”
Brendon doesn’t move. Spencer opens his eyes and Brendon moves closer and says, “I want to help him.”
Spencer does not hesitate even though Brendon is almost as tall as him. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. He punches Brendon in the stomach and slams the door shut.
;;
“Hey,” says Stump. “This dude in front is asking for you.”
It’s a Tuesday morning. Spencer is sitting in stock, staring at shelves of fakes, and feeling bad about himself. He’d kind of like to wallow. “What does he want?”
“Dunno,” says Stump. “He looks like a big spender though.”
Spencer stands, dusts off his pants and follows Stump into the showroom. It’s Brendon, twisting his hands. He’s wearing a full suit, vest, tie and all.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” says Spencer. And he refuses to apologise, he absolutely refuses.
Brendon moves toward him. “I’m interested in purchasing a set of drums.”
“Okay,” says Spencer, and he still refuses to apologise. He wants to ask why Brendon can’t just steal some drums, but Stump’n’Bryar are leaning against the counter, watching them. He’s not interested in losing his job.
“Okay,” says Brendon.
Spencer frowns.
Bryar clears his throat. “Would you be interested in trying some kits out?”
Spencer stares at Brendon.
“Oh,” says Brendon. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Spencer leads him into a side room with three kits set up in varying sizes and styles. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed.
“Cool,” says Brendon, looking less nervous in the presence of noise-making instruments. He even smiles a little. “Which do you suggest?”
The drum kits are really just set up according to how Spencer, Bryar and Stump like them. Spencer points. “That one’s got more for jazz. That one’s a bit more rock. And the stripped down one’s better for vaudeville, ragtime.”
Brendon doesn’t speak, just runs his fingers along the edge of a cymbal.
“Seriously,” says Spencer, because he wants to see Brendon do this. “Go ahead and try.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’re sure,” says Spencer. “You’re the one buying.” He lowers his voice, “you had better be the one buying.”
Brendon cocks his head with a smile and sits down at Stump’s tricked out kit. He can keep time pretty well, it turns out. He’s not great, not as good as Spencer and Bryar, or even as good as Stump, but he’s got a good sense of time. Probably comes from being a pianist, thinks Spencer. The good ones have a developed sense of rhythm.
Then he frowns because Brendon is not a pianist. He is a liar and a fake and wearing too many clothes for mid-April in the back of Stump’n’Bryar’s music shop.
Brendon drops a drumstick and bends over to pick it up, grunting, face screwed up in pain.
“Sorry,” says Spencer and, fuck. Maybe Brendon didn’t notice. That wasn’t a real apology anyway.
Brendon leans against the back wall, twirling a drumstick. “Apology accepted.”
“I had it coming,” says Brendon, “anyway.” He grins. “A low-down dirtbag like myself. I had it coming. Couldn’t expect to stay unmolested forever.” He kicks the bass drum at a steady beat. “Congratulations, Spencer. You were my first.”
Spencer stares at him. “Uh.”
He just wants to leave. He wants to go home. He doesn’t care if Ryan’s still pissy from the clothing incident and has refused clothes altogether today. He wants to go home.
“You like that one?” Spencer forces himself to say. “A real bargain.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Brendon. “I dunno. It’d be a bit of a hassle, moving around all the time like we do. And no one really knows how to play.”
“Huh,” says Spencer. “Yeah.”
“You play?” says Brendon, getting up with some difficulty. He tosses the sticks to Spencer and Spencer catches them out of habit. Brendon grins. “Yeah, you do.”
Spencer sits down at his own kit and plays some rough fill, heavy on the cymbals.
“Nice,” says Brendon.
Spencer feels a bit braver sitting down with a tom between his knees. “Why are you here?”
Brendon sticks his hands in his pocket. The action makes him look unbelievably cool. “I want to help Ryan,” he says, again. “And I wanted to say that someplace where you couldn’t hit me in the stomach and shut a door in my face.”
“Ryan lost his job yesterday,” says Spencer, by way of explanation.
Brendon raises his shoulders high. “I know how to help him. I can.”
“I’m kind of done with you,” says Spencer. “Since all you’ve done is stolen Ryan’s shit, guilted me out of money, wasted hours of my weekend, and insinuated that we were lovers.”
Brendon raises four knobbed fingers and counts down. “Sisky stole Ryan’s shit and I didn’t even know he was on a run that day. You didn’t have to give us any money. You didn’t have to come. And, Spencer, come on. He was naked. You looked well-fucked.”
“Well,” says Spencer, sputtering. “I wasn’t.”
“Bummer,” says Brendon, smirking.
“Huh,” says Spencer.
“You should come next week,” says Brendon. “I can heal him. I’ll make him better. He’ll be normal again. Won’t talk in colors and tastes.”
“The hell you will,” says Spencer. “You’re not going to see us again. I’m taking Ryan to a doctor this weekend.”
“That’s a shame,” says Brendon, “because I could.”
Brendon walks out of the shop without a word more to Bryar, Stump, or Spencer. Spencer slouches out of the drum room and leans against the doorframe. He watches Brendon leave through the shop window. His trousers are cut professionally, flattering his figure without making him seem girlish. His coat-tails bounce as he walks. His hands are still in his pockets as he walks away, and his posture is not entirely straight. He slouches like a teenager, shoulders raised.
“What happened?” says Stump.
Spencer touches the door frame. “He was just fucking around.”
;;
Ryan is sitting on the unmade bed when Spencer gets home that evening. He had skipped lunch, couldn’t stand the idea of going back and seeing Ryan right now. He had figured Ryan won’t mind. Ryan never eats anymore. It wouldn’t really matter.
Ryan watches Spencer undress from his work shirt and slacks. He’s sitting on the bare mattress, legs folded underneath him.
“You couldn’t have at least made the bed?” says Spencer, dropping his coat on top of the dresser. “I was out all day.”
Ryan watches him. He’s still naked.
“Brendon came to the music store,” says Spencer. He unbuttons the top four buttons of his shirt. He frowns at himself in the mirror. “He’s got stupid ideas about us.”
“He sees us see each other in pink,” says Ryan. He scratches his temple. “Blood pulsing.”
Spencer wrinkles his nose at his reflection and musses his own hair. “He won’t leave us alone. It was a mistake, going to his freak show.” He turns around. “I’m gonna call a doctor tonight, one from the city.”
“But he sees you in pink,” muses Ryan. “He’s odd. Stupid, and odd.”
“He’s very stupid,” says Spencer. “Hey, you want to put on some clothes? Yours should be dry now, they’ve been hanging up all day.”
Ryan frowns at him. “Yes, okay.” Then he says, “I want to go back this week.”
“No,” says Spencer.
“Then I don’t want any clothes,” says Ryan. “I don’t need them.”
Spencer feels like crying. “Ryan. What-”
“Your words are yellow too,” says Ryan. “You taste like beef today, what’s with that?”
Spencer sleeps on the couch that night.
;;
Brendon does not come back to the store next day, but Greta accosts him in the market just after his shift. Spencer does not appreciate the sudden intrusion of a short angry blond in his blessedly sane hours away from home and work.
She steps in front of him so quick that when he’s about to reach for a loaf of bread, he ends up with a fistful of blond curls. “You’re wrong,” she says.
Spencer drops her hair and takes five steps back. She’s angry, and even though she’s shorter than him, she does not look like she would have any qualms about punching him in the stomach. In fact, she’s in prime position.
He takes a sixth step back and attempts to stare her down from six steps away.
“You’re wrong about Brendon,” she says.
“What?” says Spencer. “That he’s a thief and a liar and he can’t heal my best friend?” He laughs, short. “No.”
“Yes,” she says. And then she says, “well, no, he is a thief and he is a liar, but he-”
“You could already talk,” says Spencer. “And that guy with cancer, you hired him.”
She takes six steps forward and they end up chin to nose. She tilts her head up, and Spencer is afraid. Spencer is very afraid of this small blonde woman. He needs to get away. Hell, he needs to get out of this town.
“But I couldn’t,” she says.
Spencer sidesteps her and grabs a loaf of bread. “Yeah.”
She follows him down the aisle. He needs more eggs. Ryan’s been preferring eggs lately, hardboiled. He cracks them on the counter and leaves the shells everywhere, but he eats most of his egg, and sometimes half of an apple as well. It’s an improvement, at least.
“I was mute until I was sixteen,” she continues. He picks up a carton of eggs and examines them. “I was. I couldn’t speak. No one knows why. I don’t even know why. The doctors had no idea, my parents had no clue.”
“Psychological trauma,” Spencer remarks. He makes a move to put the carton in his basket but Greta stops him, pointing one fine finger at an egg in the corner with a crack. He nods at her and sets it back on the shelf. He picks up another carton and they examine it together.
“Yeah. No one knew, that was it,” she shrugs. He puts his carton of eggs in his basket and wanders off towards produce. She stays in step with him. “And then one day, Brendon, he, uh. Sets up his tent on my daddy’s back lot.”
“Really,” says Spencer, skeptic.
“Yeah,” says Greta, “really. Daddy was a spiritualist, we had all kinds of crazies setting up camp in the backyard. Brendon was one of the best, he was well-behaved. And he was just standing around one afternoon, out in back with Butcher and Daddy told me to go give them some water.”
Spencer picks up a few carrots and places them in his basket. “And he turned it into to wine.”
She knocks him on the forehead with a stem of broccoli before putting in his basket. “No. I hand Brendon a jug of water and he looked at me and he says-”
She’s choked up. She’s actually getting choked up as she sorts through string beans with him. Spencer stares. She blinks and touches her throat, swallowing. “He says, in this deep voice I’d never heard him use before, he says, ‘you can speak.’”
“What,” says Spencer. He’s not even sorting string beans anymore, just standing with them bunched in his hand.
“‘You can speak,’” she repeats. “And my right hand, I sat down and I sang.”
“You sat down,” repeats Spencer.
“I sat down and I sang ‘Amazing Grace.’” She huffs and drops green beans into a bag. “You ask Butcher, he was there. He saw it all.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. He moves towards the front counter. The manager nods at him, bored and familiar. Spencer likes the manager of the grocery store. He’s young man, only a little older than Spencer, with no drive or ambition. Spencer sees him in the music shop sometimes. He’s a nice guy. No gumption.
Greta trails after him, singing. Spencer puts his things on the counter.
“Spencer,” says the manager in greeting.
“Hi,” says Spencer.
“That saved a wretch like me,” sings Greta.
“Who’s she?” says the manager, without even looking up from the register.
“No idea,” says Spencer. He pulls out his wallet.
“Was blind but now I see,” carries Greta. She looks up from her shoes. “Hey, you know Sisky? He used to be colorblind.”
“Huh,” says Spencer.
“Sometimes he stills feels a little bit gray,” she confides. “That’s why the tent is so bright. Reminds him about colors. Reminds him that it’s all good.”
“I really,” says Spencer, “don’t know if I believe that.”
“It’s true,” she insists.
“Fifteen thirty-seven,” says the manager and he puts Spencer’s groceries in a bag, yawning.
“What about Butcher?” says Spencer, digging around in his pockets for pennies. He must have left them all at home.
“Butcher,” she says fondly. She opens up the clutch she’d been carrying and hands him seven cents. “Butcher’s just crazy.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. He hands the manager money. The manager hands him a receipt and a brown paper bag. “Thanks.”
“See you,” says the manager, half-asleep.
“Bye Spencer,” says Greta. “I’ll see you. You owe me though.”
“Seven cents,” says Spencer, hefting the bag in his arms. Greta eyes him.
“No,” she says. “I don’t want seven cents. Something else.”
“Sure,” says Spencer. He has no clue what she’s asking him for but he’s sure it’s nothing he currently possesses. “Okay.”
“Good,” she says. She smiles, bright and beautiful at him for the first time. He nearly takes a step back again. “Goodbye.”
“Huh,” says Spencer, and he walks home alone.
;;
Ryan’s aunt wants to give Spencer casserole. It’s odd, Spencer thinks. She has no idea of the afflictions of her nephew, only that Spencer’s told her Ryan is staying at his house because Ryan’s roof has been leaking. Of course this is a terrible lie, and it hasn’t rained in months besides, but Ryan’s aunt seems to think it’s perfectly sweet of Spencer to put Ryan up and calls every three days or so for Spencer to pick up a casserole. She never asks after Ryan, or of his leaky roof. Only if they want a casserole, because she just happens to have made too much of this one and she knows how boys don’t eat right, now don’t protest Spencer, she’s watched him grow up, she knows him like he was her own nephew. Come get a casserole, you can warm it in the oven.
Spencer is, for once, glad of the mad relatives that populate his and Ryan’s shared lives who encourage the eating of casseroles. It might have been terrible at the age of eleven, but now he’s finding it quite useful. He hasn’t had to cook very much for the past two weeks, it’s been great.
He’s halfway to Ryan’s aunt’s house - and he does genuinely like Ryan’s aunt, she’s a sweet lady - at the edge of town. In fact, he’s just beginning to reach the edge of her property, a vast front yard entirely filled with flowers in no discernable order or pattern, when Butcher leaps out of a particularly thick growth of some birds-of-paradise. Spencer only screams a little, and he only takes a couple of steps back.
“Spencer,” says Butcher. “Spencer Smith.”
“What,” says Spencer, touching his chest near his heart. He thinks it’s still beating.
“I see you,” says Butcher, winking.
Spencer, having now become certain his heart is still beating at regular intervals, grows angry and suspicious. Why is Butcher in Ryan’s aunt’s birds-of-paradise, and what gives him any right to jump out at unsuspecting people such as Spencer. “What are you doing here?” he says. “Ryan’s aunt is inside. If you try to rob her, she’ll beat you up. She’s fierce.”
Fierce and likely to try to feed him some casserole, seeing as Butcher is very slight.
“Huh? Oh,” says Butcher. “No, only on Saturdays and Sundays, come on. No.” He grins. “I’m here for you.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. “I don’t need you, thanks.”
“Spencer,” says Butcher, shaking his head. “Spencer, you need us.” He takes Spencer’s arm. Spencer wrenches away.
“I don’t,” he says. “I really don’t need any of you. In fact, I really need to get rid of you.” He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know why you people keep following around.”
“Greta found you!” Butcher seems delighted by this. “She’s so clever.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “She’s a good storyteller too. Said she couldn’t speak ‘til she was sixteen.”
“That is true though,” says Butcher. “I was there. I was with Brendon at the time, just hitching a ride and helping him pitch his tent. He healed her voice. I saw it.”
“What about Sisky,” says Spencer, suspicious.
“Used to be colorblind,” says Butcher. “Picked him up in Chicago. He was trying to be an artist.” Butcher giggles. “And Brendon said to him, ‘open your eyes,’ and he suddenly sat down and started weeping.”
“Weeping,” says Spencer, frowning. He doesn’t believe Sisky has ever wept a day in his life.
“Weeping,” says Butcher. “It was so funny. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, he went around all day touching things.” Butcher pulls down his shirt to reveal a multi-colored tattoo high on his chest.
“He loved my tattoos,” says Butcher. He grins. “But sometimes he feels a bit grey. That’s why the tent is so bright, you know. For when he feels grey.”
Spencer crosses his arms. “Huh.”
“It’s true.”
“Okay.”
“You owe Greta, don’t you,” says Butcher, gleefully.
Spencer stares.
“He healed a little boy who could only speak in nonsense French,” says Butcher. He stretches his arms above his head. “And that kid was British, I swear. He was my upstairs neighbor and all day he’d just shout out the window about cats, or maybe dogs. And Brendon told him to stop and he started speaking English. That’s when I picked up with him. And then Greta, and she came along with us, and then Sisky.”
“So,” says Spencer, “what. You think I’m next? Ryan’s next? No. We’re not going back.”
“You’ll be back,” says Butcher. “Hey, so. Don’t forget Greta. I’ll see you around.”
He walks away, taking off his shirt and humming as he does. His skin is multi-colored, arms and back decorated. Spencer wonders if he got all that for Sisky as well.
Spencer shakes his head, grinning for all the wrong reasons. He pushes open the front gate of Ryan’s aunt’s house and wades his way through the poppies and the tulips and the morning glories to her front door. She opens on the first knock and gives him a warm afternoon hug. “It’s a lovely casserole,” she says. “Ryan’s favorite, cheese and potato.”
“Ooh,” he says, trying to look cheered by the idea of force-feeding Ryan something that isn’t hardboiled eggs. “He’ll love that, he’s always starving when he gets in from work.”
“I think you’re just the best friend a boy could have, Spencer Smith,” says Ryan’s aunt, “putting up our Ryan through his troubles.”
Spencer forces a smile and doesn’t laugh or cry like he kind of wants to. She pats his arm and leading him into the kitchen where she has put a casserole dish in a green-and-purple patterned dish cover. Spencer could swear that Ryan has a shirt that matches. Ryan’s family is so weird.
“Eat it all up now, you hear,” she says, “and call me if you need more.”
“Oh, I bought some string beans today,” says Spencer, “but thank you for the casserole. I’ll- we’ll eat it. We love it.”
“Boys cannot grow on string beans,” she admonishes him and pushes him towards the front door. “You give me a call, you hear?”
“Yes ma’am,” says Spencer, and he finds himself, once again, wading through the poppies and the tulips and the morning glories. Now loaded down with food Ryan won’t eat.
He remembers that he’s forgotten to buy pineapple for Ryan at the store. Damn.
;;
Brendon returns to the store the following day. He charms Stump’n’Bryar like proud fathers. He tells them he’s changed his mind, he wants to look again. Is Spencer around?
Spencer is around, of course Spencer is around. Spencer’s standing in the other end of the store, pretending to be a stand-up bass. Ryan had said he smells like wood. He’s trying to capture the essence of that.
Brendon tries to charm him, too, with his purple colored suit and full-toothed smile. His black hat in hand, fingers curled in perfect curves around the brim. Again, Spencer is taken by how knobbed and worn his fingers are. Perfect for hiding things in, money and tricks.
Brendon makes a lot of noise of Bryar’s kit and then he sits, kicking a beat on the high-hat.
“My stomach doesn’t hurt as much today,” he tells Spencer, bright and happy.
“Oh,” says Spencer. “I guess I didn’t put as much shoulder into it as I should have.”
“It’s a good thing,” Brendon assures him. “And hey, we’re having a big celebration on Saturday. You should come.”
Spencer doesn’t mention that he has already caved to Ryan. They are attending service every day that weekend, and every day the weekend after, and every day until Brendon gets bored and the whole troupe clears out. He hopes it’s not forever, but he hopes for Ryan that it isn’t too soon.
He’s currently arguing with Stump for Thursday off to take Ryan to the city. Doctors will fix Ryan. Doctors can fix anything.
“Celebrating what?” he says instead.
“The love of the Lord,” says Brendon, solemn as he switches to a cymbal. “Also, it’s Sisky and Butcher’s birthday.”
“Twins?” says Spencer, eyebrow raising.
“No, Butcher forgot his birthday, so Sisky offered to share.”
Spencer puzzles over a man who forgets to celebrate his own birthday while traveling with a camp of people so desperate for an excuse for revelry. Or did Brendon mean Butcher forgot the date? Spencer puzzles over that, too. He frowns, touching his chin.
“You should totally grow a beard,” says Brendon.
Spencer frowns and drops his hand. “What? No.”
Brendon smiles.
“And,” says Spencer, struggling for control, “Sisky is not going to want me there. I might punch him in the stomach again.”
“Sisky forgives,” says Brendon, careless. “He forgives and he loves.”
Spencer is willing to contest that, just not to Brendon.
“But maybe you should bring him a present anyway,” says Brendon. “Just in case, you know?” He grins. “They’re unpredictable, sometimes.”
Spencer crosses his arms and taps his fingers against his elbow. “Yeah.”
“Come on,” says Brendon, “and bring Ryan, okay? Let him get to know my family. I know you think he’s crazy, but I like him.”
Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Wholesomely,” Brendon adds, winking. “Not like you, Spence.”
Spencer does know what to say to that. But Brendon’s grinning at the end of the tirade, jacket lapels wrinkled from Spencer’s fists.
They’re standing too close again. Spencer lets him go, stepping back.
“See you Saturday,” says Brendon, stepping out the door into the main room. Spencer smiles at him, and then frowns. Brendon laughs and gives a little wave. Spencer frowns deeper.
;;
Spencer blackmails Stump into letting him take Thursday off and drive Ryan to the city to see a doctor who thinks Ryan’s symptoms sound familiar.
Ryan makes it half way up the steps to the hospital before he faints. He is rushed into urgent care and kept overnight.
Spencer does not feel as though he has accomplished anything at all.
;;
Spencer sleeps in the lobby, on the hard plastic chairs. He feels like shit in the morning.
“He’s incoherent,” the doctors and the nurses tell him. “We want to keep him for observation until Saturday, at least.”
This is nothing Spencer has not already heard from a priest, a minister, a pastor, a therapist. Spencer calls Stump’n’Bryar from a payphone.
“Stump’n’Bryar’s,” says Stump when he answers the phone.
“They’re keeping Ryan overnight again,” says Spencer. “I have to stay with him.”
“Smith,” begins Stump.
“I’m sorry,” says Spencer. “But Ryan. I’m not leaving him.”
Stump breathes in, starting on a lecture, but then there’s a muffled yelp and Bryar’s on the line. “Take Friday,” he says. “And the whole weekend if you need it, and Monday.”
“Thanks,” says Spencer, leaning his head against the metal covering of the payphone. “Thank you.”
“We need you on Tuesday,” says Bryar. “Because the middle school’s coming in to rent instruments for the parade.”
“Damn,” says Spencer.
“See you on Tuesday,” says Bryar and he hangs up before Spencer does.
Spencer spends the day and the night in the lobby. He is allowed to see Ryan once. Ryan is on his bed, hooked up to many unnecessary machines. He looks like an idiot in his hospital gown. That shade of baby blue is not a flattering color on him.
Ryan stares up at Spencer from his hospital bed and shakes his head. He’s curled up and looks near tears. His hair is mussed. He’s the palest Spencer has ever seen him. Spencer bites his lip and ignores the way his heart clenches. Ryan closes his eyes and sighs.
He puts out and hand and Ryan takes it. Spencer squeezes Ryan’s hand and is ushered out by a nurse who smiles like he understands anything at all.
Spencer is uncomfortable from sleeping on plastic chairs in clothes he’s been wearing since Thursday. He lashes out at the nurse and falls into a plastic chair, impatient and exhausted.
The doctors make many unnecessary notes about Ryan’s incoherency. In the morning, Spencer tells them he’s taking Ryan home, and takes Ryan home.
At first, Ryan is still. He examines the pinholes in his arms with great interest. He then climbs between the seats to the back. He nearly kicks Spencer in the face and Spencer nearly drives off the road, but then Ryan’s curled up in the back seat, sound asleep for the first time. Spencer turns the radio louder and drives faster. They might just make it home by nightfall.
;;
Goddamn, but the tent is on fire and the fairgrounds have never, ever looked so alive.
;;
“Spencer,” says Ryan. “The tent is on fire.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. They have both stopped in their tracks, awed and appalled. They should have known from the lanterns scattered across the old fairgrounds. They should have known by the multiple bonfires spread out around the tent. They should have known by the way Brendon said “Sisky and Butcher’s birthday.”
They can’t help staring though, at the way the tent has been painted in oranges and reds and yellows, amplified by the firelight. Or the way there is now a hole in the top and sparks are shooting out of it. Or by the sheer din coming from the tent.
Spencer does not smell alcohol on the premises at all. This troubles him.
Ryan takes his hand and squeezes. “You brought presents,” he says.
Spencer did. He brought one of Ryan’s less used and less loved aubergine overcoats and one of Ryan’s straw hats, from his straw hat phase a couple months ago. For his part, Spencer gave them both unused drumsticks.
They push open the flaps of the tent together and are greeted by a packed crowd who are screaming and cheering and singing. Brendon is stalking the stage in front, arms wide, leading them all.
They stand in the back, stunned by the noise. Spencer turns to Ryan, to ask him if he wants to leave when Billy, of all people, Billy-from-down-the-road, takes Spencer by the arm and drags him into the middle of the crowd, Ryan in tow.
“I knew you’d come,” Billy says. He grins and hugs Spencer. “I’m so delighted, truly. I’ve never been more glad to see you.”
“Oh,” says Spencer.
“It’s been the most wonderful service,” says Billy. “Preacher has changed hearts.”
Spencer spots Sisky and Butcher, finally. They are dancing on the side of the stage to Brendon’s singing.
“Even if you are late,” says Billy. “You almost missed the entire thing.”
“We were driving from the city,” says Spencer. “Long drive, uh.” He’s distracted. The noise has quieted and Brendon has stilled on stage, eyes wide open. He raises a hand and points to Ryan. “Come here.” He puts his hands out, palms up. “Stand up and come.”
Billy puts a hand to his mouth. “Ryan,” he says. “Oh my god.”
“What?” says Spencer. “What? Ryan, no. Don’t, Ryan-”
Ryan stands up and clambers onto the stage next to Brendon. He scrutinizes Brendon, lips pursed. He looks unhappy. “You’re not pink tonight,” he observes. “You know, that shade of green is not your color.”
Brendon’s wearing a black suit, but Spencer thinks he might know what Ryan means.
He touches Brendon’s lapel, lightly. “You ought to hang up your coats, this one is wrinkled.”
“Oh my god,” says Billy again, eyes wide. He reaches for Spencer’s hand and clasps it.
Brendon shakes his head and puts a hand on Ryan’s cheek and murmurs something to him. The crowd falls desperately, terribly still. Brendon leans forward and rests his head against Ryan’s.
Ryan’s eyes are bright. And then he falls forward into Brendon’s arms.
All is quiet for a minute. And then Brendon and Ryan breath in together. Spencer sits up a little straighter.
Ryan wrenches away from Brendon and stands on his own, shaking. “Where the fuck am I?” he says. He sees Spencer. “Spencer, where the fuck am I?”
;;
Ryan pokes at Spencer’s plate with a plastic fork. “I can’t believe I talked you into taking me here,” he says. He eats a carrot.
Spencer tries very hard not curl around Ryan, tries not to be obvious about how he’s protecting Ryan from well-wishers and believers. He tries even more not to be obvious as to how he is never letting Ryan go ever again.
Ryan’s leaning against his chest and stealing carrots off his plate though, so Spencer thinks Ryan might not want to let him go either, at least not until the shock’s worn off.
“You were insistent,” says Spencer. He lowers his voice, grinning a little. “You refused to wear clothes.”
Ryan chews on his carrot. “I don’t remember that,” he says.
“What do you remember?”
“Colors,” says Ryan. “Everywhere. And tastes.” He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.
Spencer jabs his fork into a slice of meat. He’s in great danger of spilling his supper all over his pants, and of course he is, because who else would serve stew on a plate but Brendon’s band of idiots.
“It was kinda lonely,” says Ryan. “Thanks for sticking with me.” He smiles, sort distracted. “I remember that much, thanks.”
Spencer sets his stew down very, very carefully and hugs Ryan so tight that they fall back into the dust. “You were crazy,” he says in Ryan’s collarbone. He’s lying half on top of Ryan and it’s awkward and he doesn’t care. “You were so, so crazy.”
“I’m getting that,” says Ryan, who pats his back.
“You also got fired from Madam Asher’s.”
Ryan shoves him off and sits up. “I did what?”
“You told her she was tangerine,” says Spencer sitting up as well.
Ryan runs his tongue across his teeth. “She was.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow.
Ryan shrugs. And then he smiles.
Spencer picks up his plate. “You can go apologize to her on Monday, I don’t know. Whatever you want.”
Ryan blinks, looking heavy, tired of all sudden. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”
Greta whirls past them, kicks Spencer in the hip. He twists to look up at her and she sings, “I told you so, didn’t I?” and rushes off.
“What,” says Ryan. And he frowns, and says, “you really came here for me? You kept on coming here with me?”
“Uh,” says Spencer because when Ryan says it like that, it sounds like a sacrifice, like Spencer gave up hugely important hours of his life to watch a bunch of well-meaning nutjobs twirl around on stage. It wasn’t really a sacrifice. Not usually. “I, uh. Yeah.”
Spencer’s sort of confused, now that Ryan’s said it like that, so he settles for hugging Ryan again. Ryan curls up against his chest, yawning.
Butcher and Sisky drop down in the dust next to them, twin movements sending up clouds of dust in the red-orange light. “Thank you,” they say.
“Happy Birthday,” says Spencer.
“Is that my jacket?” says Ryan.
“No,” says Sisky, pulling it tight around him. He looks good as he preens. “It’s mine now.”
“It’s nice,” says Ryan. “Happy Birthday.”
Butcher tips his hat at him and taps his drumsticks together against his knees. His rhythm is impeccable.
“Don’t be a stranger,” says Butcher.
Ryan’s eyes are half-closed and he’s dropped back against Spencer, settling between his legs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “won’t.”
Butcher makes a ridiculous ‘shhh’ noise and him and Sisky jump up and tear off in the same direction Greta went off in.
“Spencer,” says Ryan, putting a hand on his knee. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“You,” says Spencer helplessly, but despite the noise and the dust and heat from the fire on one side and the cold from the night on the other, Ryan appears to have dropped off to sleep.
Someone touches his shoulder, just briefly, as he stares down at Ryan. Spencer looks up. Brendon’s running away from him, to join Sisky, Butcher, and Greta at the other end of the site.
;;
Spencer and Ryan make it home late in the evening and go back to bed and wake up the next morning and they both wash up and eat a proper breakfast for the first time in weeks.
Ryan doesn’t go home.
next
“Heard you went to see that guy last weekend,” says Bryar. Spencer winces.
“Yeah, Ryan really liked him.”
“Did he cure Ryan?” asks Bryar. He looks concerned.
“No,” says Spencer. “He’s a fraud, come on. And we never made it up to see a doctor either, so I don’t know what I’m gonna do-”
On cue, Madam Asher, sweeps into the store, towing Ryan behind her. She’s mammoth today, in blues and pinks. Ryan’s still wearing his dusty clothes from the day before and he looks serene.
She deposits Ryan in front of the counter and leaves, hissing. “He said I was orange.”
“I said,” Ryan explains to the silent, startled shop. “I said, she was tangerine.”
There is silence. Spencer counts to five and uncurls his hands.
“It’s a sweet thing,” says Ryan, helpless.
Spencer puts his hands on his hips. Spencer crosses his arms. Spencer puts a hand to his forehead, breathing deeply. Spencer says, “can I go on my lunch break?” and Stump’n’Bryar nod, dumbfounded.
It is a short, silent walk home. When Spencer unlocks the front door, Ryan pushes past him and straight to Spencer’s bedroom. Spencer ignores him and goes to the kitchen. He calms himself by banging around making himself an angry sandwich. He doesn’t know what he’s angry at. Ryan for being crazy. Himself for wasting time all weekend. Fuck it all, he decides. Fuck Ryan, fuck Asher, fuck Bryar, fuck Billy and most of all, fuck fucking Brendon and his band of aubergine overcoat coveting thieves.
Satisfied, he takes the plate into his bedroom. Ryan is pressed against the wall, knees to his chest. His shoes are on the floor, neatly perpendicular to the bed. He looks like he knows he’s in trouble, which would be a good thing, if that meant anything at all.
Spencer sits down on the chair across from the bed and starts to eat his sandwich.
Ryan wraps his arms around his knees and sighs, ghostlike. He stares at Spencer’s mouth.
Spencer breaks his sandwich in half and offers it to Ryan. He hates his best friend. He really does.
Ryan takes the sandwich and chews.
“Madam Asher doesn’t want you to come back to her place,” says Spencer. “So. . .I don’t know. You can stay here. I don’t think Stump’n’Bryar want you hanging out at the store.”
Ryan chews.
“And. I don’t know.” Spencer stares at his sandwich. “You need to see someone, Ryan. Like, someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”
Ryan chews, swallows.
“You’re not possessed,” says Spencer. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Ryan chews some more. Then he does something that surprises Spencer; “sorry.”
Spencer stares. For a brief, beautiful second he sees clarity and normality in Ryan’s eyes, and then Ryan wipes up mayonnaise he spilled on the bedspread with one finger. He pops his finger in his mouth and sucks.
Spencer sits back, counts the minutes until his lunch break is over and thinks that he is in for a very long evening.
;;
As much as Ryan does not like churches, he does not like being forced off of Spencer’s bed and out of his only clothes at Spencer’s house. At least, thinks Spencer, he’s easier to undress when he’s unconscious. And all that sitting around, doing nothing, has made Ryan paper-thin and easily deposited on the living room couch.
It is a little uncomfortable that Ryan’s so naked, but he shouldn’t have gone so crazy on Spencer either. Spencer strips his bed of its sheets, and picks up Ryan’s clothes. For good measure, since he’s already in the washroom, he strips down to his shorts as well, and dumps his clothes in the washer. He goes back out into the living room to see if Ryan’s conscious yet. Ryan is not, or is. Who knows. His eyes are open, but he’s staring at the ceiling, frowning, ignorant of the goosebumps on his skin. Spencer tugs a blanket off the couch and lays it over him. Ryan doesn’t even blink.
Maybe they’ll both sleep well tonight. That would be a nice change.
Spencer stares down at his best friend. He’s not used to playing a parent and certainly not to the most independent man Spencer has known since he was five and Billy made him eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce.
Of course, the doorbell rings and Spencer’s so lost in thought that he answers the door in his shorts, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Brendon freezes on the doorstep. “Uh,” he says when Spencer opens the door. “Is this a bad time?”
Spencer is embarrassed so he crosses his arms and glares. “What do you want, Brendon?”
Brendon steps back a little. “Nothing,” he says, looking a little downtrodden. “Nothing, nevermind.”
Spencer is not going to let him go.
“What,” he says, reaching out and grabbing Brendon by the wrist. “What do you want?”
Brendon says, “I just wanted to-”
Ryan stirs from the couch with an “ow, fuck, Spencer.” He, of course, drops the blanket to the floor and walks across the living room to Spencer’s bedroom, completely and unrepentantly naked. He is muttering to himself, and touching his head, wincing. Spencer knows, because Spencer turns around at the first sound of Ryan waking up, and watches the entire act with equal amounts of concern and horror.
Brendon says, behind him, “oh, I totally called it. You’re such a liar.”
Spencer whirls on him, yanking his wrist and pulling him close. They’re flush up against each other, only an inch of dead air between them and Spencer is fucking pissed. “You’re a fucking good for nothing, low-down, lying, stealing, robbing, fake-fucking-preaching dirtbag and my best friend is sick.”
They’re so close Spencer can feel Brendon’s chest rise and fall in irregular beats. “Fucking sick, you asshole,” Spencer says again and grips Brendon’s wrist tight. He breathes. He lets go Brendon and steps away. His eyes are warm so he shuts them and leans against the door frame. “Fucking get out of here. You’ve done so much damage already.”
Brendon doesn’t move. Spencer opens his eyes and Brendon moves closer and says, “I want to help him.”
Spencer does not hesitate even though Brendon is almost as tall as him. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. He punches Brendon in the stomach and slams the door shut.
;;
“Hey,” says Stump. “This dude in front is asking for you.”
It’s a Tuesday morning. Spencer is sitting in stock, staring at shelves of fakes, and feeling bad about himself. He’d kind of like to wallow. “What does he want?”
“Dunno,” says Stump. “He looks like a big spender though.”
Spencer stands, dusts off his pants and follows Stump into the showroom. It’s Brendon, twisting his hands. He’s wearing a full suit, vest, tie and all.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” says Spencer. And he refuses to apologise, he absolutely refuses.
Brendon moves toward him. “I’m interested in purchasing a set of drums.”
“Okay,” says Spencer, and he still refuses to apologise. He wants to ask why Brendon can’t just steal some drums, but Stump’n’Bryar are leaning against the counter, watching them. He’s not interested in losing his job.
“Okay,” says Brendon.
Spencer frowns.
Bryar clears his throat. “Would you be interested in trying some kits out?”
Spencer stares at Brendon.
“Oh,” says Brendon. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Spencer leads him into a side room with three kits set up in varying sizes and styles. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed.
“Cool,” says Brendon, looking less nervous in the presence of noise-making instruments. He even smiles a little. “Which do you suggest?”
The drum kits are really just set up according to how Spencer, Bryar and Stump like them. Spencer points. “That one’s got more for jazz. That one’s a bit more rock. And the stripped down one’s better for vaudeville, ragtime.”
Brendon doesn’t speak, just runs his fingers along the edge of a cymbal.
“Seriously,” says Spencer, because he wants to see Brendon do this. “Go ahead and try.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’re sure,” says Spencer. “You’re the one buying.” He lowers his voice, “you had better be the one buying.”
Brendon cocks his head with a smile and sits down at Stump’s tricked out kit. He can keep time pretty well, it turns out. He’s not great, not as good as Spencer and Bryar, or even as good as Stump, but he’s got a good sense of time. Probably comes from being a pianist, thinks Spencer. The good ones have a developed sense of rhythm.
Then he frowns because Brendon is not a pianist. He is a liar and a fake and wearing too many clothes for mid-April in the back of Stump’n’Bryar’s music shop.
Brendon drops a drumstick and bends over to pick it up, grunting, face screwed up in pain.
“Sorry,” says Spencer and, fuck. Maybe Brendon didn’t notice. That wasn’t a real apology anyway.
Brendon leans against the back wall, twirling a drumstick. “Apology accepted.”
“I had it coming,” says Brendon, “anyway.” He grins. “A low-down dirtbag like myself. I had it coming. Couldn’t expect to stay unmolested forever.” He kicks the bass drum at a steady beat. “Congratulations, Spencer. You were my first.”
Spencer stares at him. “Uh.”
He just wants to leave. He wants to go home. He doesn’t care if Ryan’s still pissy from the clothing incident and has refused clothes altogether today. He wants to go home.
“You like that one?” Spencer forces himself to say. “A real bargain.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Brendon. “I dunno. It’d be a bit of a hassle, moving around all the time like we do. And no one really knows how to play.”
“Huh,” says Spencer. “Yeah.”
“You play?” says Brendon, getting up with some difficulty. He tosses the sticks to Spencer and Spencer catches them out of habit. Brendon grins. “Yeah, you do.”
Spencer sits down at his own kit and plays some rough fill, heavy on the cymbals.
“Nice,” says Brendon.
Spencer feels a bit braver sitting down with a tom between his knees. “Why are you here?”
Brendon sticks his hands in his pocket. The action makes him look unbelievably cool. “I want to help Ryan,” he says, again. “And I wanted to say that someplace where you couldn’t hit me in the stomach and shut a door in my face.”
“Ryan lost his job yesterday,” says Spencer, by way of explanation.
Brendon raises his shoulders high. “I know how to help him. I can.”
“I’m kind of done with you,” says Spencer. “Since all you’ve done is stolen Ryan’s shit, guilted me out of money, wasted hours of my weekend, and insinuated that we were lovers.”
Brendon raises four knobbed fingers and counts down. “Sisky stole Ryan’s shit and I didn’t even know he was on a run that day. You didn’t have to give us any money. You didn’t have to come. And, Spencer, come on. He was naked. You looked well-fucked.”
“Well,” says Spencer, sputtering. “I wasn’t.”
“Bummer,” says Brendon, smirking.
“Huh,” says Spencer.
“You should come next week,” says Brendon. “I can heal him. I’ll make him better. He’ll be normal again. Won’t talk in colors and tastes.”
“The hell you will,” says Spencer. “You’re not going to see us again. I’m taking Ryan to a doctor this weekend.”
“That’s a shame,” says Brendon, “because I could.”
Brendon walks out of the shop without a word more to Bryar, Stump, or Spencer. Spencer slouches out of the drum room and leans against the doorframe. He watches Brendon leave through the shop window. His trousers are cut professionally, flattering his figure without making him seem girlish. His coat-tails bounce as he walks. His hands are still in his pockets as he walks away, and his posture is not entirely straight. He slouches like a teenager, shoulders raised.
“What happened?” says Stump.
Spencer touches the door frame. “He was just fucking around.”
;;
Ryan is sitting on the unmade bed when Spencer gets home that evening. He had skipped lunch, couldn’t stand the idea of going back and seeing Ryan right now. He had figured Ryan won’t mind. Ryan never eats anymore. It wouldn’t really matter.
Ryan watches Spencer undress from his work shirt and slacks. He’s sitting on the bare mattress, legs folded underneath him.
“You couldn’t have at least made the bed?” says Spencer, dropping his coat on top of the dresser. “I was out all day.”
Ryan watches him. He’s still naked.
“Brendon came to the music store,” says Spencer. He unbuttons the top four buttons of his shirt. He frowns at himself in the mirror. “He’s got stupid ideas about us.”
“He sees us see each other in pink,” says Ryan. He scratches his temple. “Blood pulsing.”
Spencer wrinkles his nose at his reflection and musses his own hair. “He won’t leave us alone. It was a mistake, going to his freak show.” He turns around. “I’m gonna call a doctor tonight, one from the city.”
“But he sees you in pink,” muses Ryan. “He’s odd. Stupid, and odd.”
“He’s very stupid,” says Spencer. “Hey, you want to put on some clothes? Yours should be dry now, they’ve been hanging up all day.”
Ryan frowns at him. “Yes, okay.” Then he says, “I want to go back this week.”
“No,” says Spencer.
“Then I don’t want any clothes,” says Ryan. “I don’t need them.”
Spencer feels like crying. “Ryan. What-”
“Your words are yellow too,” says Ryan. “You taste like beef today, what’s with that?”
Spencer sleeps on the couch that night.
;;
Brendon does not come back to the store next day, but Greta accosts him in the market just after his shift. Spencer does not appreciate the sudden intrusion of a short angry blond in his blessedly sane hours away from home and work.
She steps in front of him so quick that when he’s about to reach for a loaf of bread, he ends up with a fistful of blond curls. “You’re wrong,” she says.
Spencer drops her hair and takes five steps back. She’s angry, and even though she’s shorter than him, she does not look like she would have any qualms about punching him in the stomach. In fact, she’s in prime position.
He takes a sixth step back and attempts to stare her down from six steps away.
“You’re wrong about Brendon,” she says.
“What?” says Spencer. “That he’s a thief and a liar and he can’t heal my best friend?” He laughs, short. “No.”
“Yes,” she says. And then she says, “well, no, he is a thief and he is a liar, but he-”
“You could already talk,” says Spencer. “And that guy with cancer, you hired him.”
She takes six steps forward and they end up chin to nose. She tilts her head up, and Spencer is afraid. Spencer is very afraid of this small blonde woman. He needs to get away. Hell, he needs to get out of this town.
“But I couldn’t,” she says.
Spencer sidesteps her and grabs a loaf of bread. “Yeah.”
She follows him down the aisle. He needs more eggs. Ryan’s been preferring eggs lately, hardboiled. He cracks them on the counter and leaves the shells everywhere, but he eats most of his egg, and sometimes half of an apple as well. It’s an improvement, at least.
“I was mute until I was sixteen,” she continues. He picks up a carton of eggs and examines them. “I was. I couldn’t speak. No one knows why. I don’t even know why. The doctors had no idea, my parents had no clue.”
“Psychological trauma,” Spencer remarks. He makes a move to put the carton in his basket but Greta stops him, pointing one fine finger at an egg in the corner with a crack. He nods at her and sets it back on the shelf. He picks up another carton and they examine it together.
“Yeah. No one knew, that was it,” she shrugs. He puts his carton of eggs in his basket and wanders off towards produce. She stays in step with him. “And then one day, Brendon, he, uh. Sets up his tent on my daddy’s back lot.”
“Really,” says Spencer, skeptic.
“Yeah,” says Greta, “really. Daddy was a spiritualist, we had all kinds of crazies setting up camp in the backyard. Brendon was one of the best, he was well-behaved. And he was just standing around one afternoon, out in back with Butcher and Daddy told me to go give them some water.”
Spencer picks up a few carrots and places them in his basket. “And he turned it into to wine.”
She knocks him on the forehead with a stem of broccoli before putting in his basket. “No. I hand Brendon a jug of water and he looked at me and he says-”
She’s choked up. She’s actually getting choked up as she sorts through string beans with him. Spencer stares. She blinks and touches her throat, swallowing. “He says, in this deep voice I’d never heard him use before, he says, ‘you can speak.’”
“What,” says Spencer. He’s not even sorting string beans anymore, just standing with them bunched in his hand.
“‘You can speak,’” she repeats. “And my right hand, I sat down and I sang.”
“You sat down,” repeats Spencer.
“I sat down and I sang ‘Amazing Grace.’” She huffs and drops green beans into a bag. “You ask Butcher, he was there. He saw it all.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. He moves towards the front counter. The manager nods at him, bored and familiar. Spencer likes the manager of the grocery store. He’s young man, only a little older than Spencer, with no drive or ambition. Spencer sees him in the music shop sometimes. He’s a nice guy. No gumption.
Greta trails after him, singing. Spencer puts his things on the counter.
“Spencer,” says the manager in greeting.
“Hi,” says Spencer.
“That saved a wretch like me,” sings Greta.
“Who’s she?” says the manager, without even looking up from the register.
“No idea,” says Spencer. He pulls out his wallet.
“Was blind but now I see,” carries Greta. She looks up from her shoes. “Hey, you know Sisky? He used to be colorblind.”
“Huh,” says Spencer.
“Sometimes he stills feels a little bit gray,” she confides. “That’s why the tent is so bright. Reminds him about colors. Reminds him that it’s all good.”
“I really,” says Spencer, “don’t know if I believe that.”
“It’s true,” she insists.
“Fifteen thirty-seven,” says the manager and he puts Spencer’s groceries in a bag, yawning.
“What about Butcher?” says Spencer, digging around in his pockets for pennies. He must have left them all at home.
“Butcher,” she says fondly. She opens up the clutch she’d been carrying and hands him seven cents. “Butcher’s just crazy.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. He hands the manager money. The manager hands him a receipt and a brown paper bag. “Thanks.”
“See you,” says the manager, half-asleep.
“Bye Spencer,” says Greta. “I’ll see you. You owe me though.”
“Seven cents,” says Spencer, hefting the bag in his arms. Greta eyes him.
“No,” she says. “I don’t want seven cents. Something else.”
“Sure,” says Spencer. He has no clue what she’s asking him for but he’s sure it’s nothing he currently possesses. “Okay.”
“Good,” she says. She smiles, bright and beautiful at him for the first time. He nearly takes a step back again. “Goodbye.”
“Huh,” says Spencer, and he walks home alone.
;;
Ryan’s aunt wants to give Spencer casserole. It’s odd, Spencer thinks. She has no idea of the afflictions of her nephew, only that Spencer’s told her Ryan is staying at his house because Ryan’s roof has been leaking. Of course this is a terrible lie, and it hasn’t rained in months besides, but Ryan’s aunt seems to think it’s perfectly sweet of Spencer to put Ryan up and calls every three days or so for Spencer to pick up a casserole. She never asks after Ryan, or of his leaky roof. Only if they want a casserole, because she just happens to have made too much of this one and she knows how boys don’t eat right, now don’t protest Spencer, she’s watched him grow up, she knows him like he was her own nephew. Come get a casserole, you can warm it in the oven.
Spencer is, for once, glad of the mad relatives that populate his and Ryan’s shared lives who encourage the eating of casseroles. It might have been terrible at the age of eleven, but now he’s finding it quite useful. He hasn’t had to cook very much for the past two weeks, it’s been great.
He’s halfway to Ryan’s aunt’s house - and he does genuinely like Ryan’s aunt, she’s a sweet lady - at the edge of town. In fact, he’s just beginning to reach the edge of her property, a vast front yard entirely filled with flowers in no discernable order or pattern, when Butcher leaps out of a particularly thick growth of some birds-of-paradise. Spencer only screams a little, and he only takes a couple of steps back.
“Spencer,” says Butcher. “Spencer Smith.”
“What,” says Spencer, touching his chest near his heart. He thinks it’s still beating.
“I see you,” says Butcher, winking.
Spencer, having now become certain his heart is still beating at regular intervals, grows angry and suspicious. Why is Butcher in Ryan’s aunt’s birds-of-paradise, and what gives him any right to jump out at unsuspecting people such as Spencer. “What are you doing here?” he says. “Ryan’s aunt is inside. If you try to rob her, she’ll beat you up. She’s fierce.”
Fierce and likely to try to feed him some casserole, seeing as Butcher is very slight.
“Huh? Oh,” says Butcher. “No, only on Saturdays and Sundays, come on. No.” He grins. “I’m here for you.”
“Oh,” says Spencer. “I don’t need you, thanks.”
“Spencer,” says Butcher, shaking his head. “Spencer, you need us.” He takes Spencer’s arm. Spencer wrenches away.
“I don’t,” he says. “I really don’t need any of you. In fact, I really need to get rid of you.” He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know why you people keep following around.”
“Greta found you!” Butcher seems delighted by this. “She’s so clever.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “She’s a good storyteller too. Said she couldn’t speak ‘til she was sixteen.”
“That is true though,” says Butcher. “I was there. I was with Brendon at the time, just hitching a ride and helping him pitch his tent. He healed her voice. I saw it.”
“What about Sisky,” says Spencer, suspicious.
“Used to be colorblind,” says Butcher. “Picked him up in Chicago. He was trying to be an artist.” Butcher giggles. “And Brendon said to him, ‘open your eyes,’ and he suddenly sat down and started weeping.”
“Weeping,” says Spencer, frowning. He doesn’t believe Sisky has ever wept a day in his life.
“Weeping,” says Butcher. “It was so funny. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, he went around all day touching things.” Butcher pulls down his shirt to reveal a multi-colored tattoo high on his chest.
“He loved my tattoos,” says Butcher. He grins. “But sometimes he feels a bit grey. That’s why the tent is so bright, you know. For when he feels grey.”
Spencer crosses his arms. “Huh.”
“It’s true.”
“Okay.”
“You owe Greta, don’t you,” says Butcher, gleefully.
Spencer stares.
“He healed a little boy who could only speak in nonsense French,” says Butcher. He stretches his arms above his head. “And that kid was British, I swear. He was my upstairs neighbor and all day he’d just shout out the window about cats, or maybe dogs. And Brendon told him to stop and he started speaking English. That’s when I picked up with him. And then Greta, and she came along with us, and then Sisky.”
“So,” says Spencer, “what. You think I’m next? Ryan’s next? No. We’re not going back.”
“You’ll be back,” says Butcher. “Hey, so. Don’t forget Greta. I’ll see you around.”
He walks away, taking off his shirt and humming as he does. His skin is multi-colored, arms and back decorated. Spencer wonders if he got all that for Sisky as well.
Spencer shakes his head, grinning for all the wrong reasons. He pushes open the front gate of Ryan’s aunt’s house and wades his way through the poppies and the tulips and the morning glories to her front door. She opens on the first knock and gives him a warm afternoon hug. “It’s a lovely casserole,” she says. “Ryan’s favorite, cheese and potato.”
“Ooh,” he says, trying to look cheered by the idea of force-feeding Ryan something that isn’t hardboiled eggs. “He’ll love that, he’s always starving when he gets in from work.”
“I think you’re just the best friend a boy could have, Spencer Smith,” says Ryan’s aunt, “putting up our Ryan through his troubles.”
Spencer forces a smile and doesn’t laugh or cry like he kind of wants to. She pats his arm and leading him into the kitchen where she has put a casserole dish in a green-and-purple patterned dish cover. Spencer could swear that Ryan has a shirt that matches. Ryan’s family is so weird.
“Eat it all up now, you hear,” she says, “and call me if you need more.”
“Oh, I bought some string beans today,” says Spencer, “but thank you for the casserole. I’ll- we’ll eat it. We love it.”
“Boys cannot grow on string beans,” she admonishes him and pushes him towards the front door. “You give me a call, you hear?”
“Yes ma’am,” says Spencer, and he finds himself, once again, wading through the poppies and the tulips and the morning glories. Now loaded down with food Ryan won’t eat.
He remembers that he’s forgotten to buy pineapple for Ryan at the store. Damn.
;;
Brendon returns to the store the following day. He charms Stump’n’Bryar like proud fathers. He tells them he’s changed his mind, he wants to look again. Is Spencer around?
Spencer is around, of course Spencer is around. Spencer’s standing in the other end of the store, pretending to be a stand-up bass. Ryan had said he smells like wood. He’s trying to capture the essence of that.
Brendon tries to charm him, too, with his purple colored suit and full-toothed smile. His black hat in hand, fingers curled in perfect curves around the brim. Again, Spencer is taken by how knobbed and worn his fingers are. Perfect for hiding things in, money and tricks.
Brendon makes a lot of noise of Bryar’s kit and then he sits, kicking a beat on the high-hat.
“My stomach doesn’t hurt as much today,” he tells Spencer, bright and happy.
“Oh,” says Spencer. “I guess I didn’t put as much shoulder into it as I should have.”
“It’s a good thing,” Brendon assures him. “And hey, we’re having a big celebration on Saturday. You should come.”
Spencer doesn’t mention that he has already caved to Ryan. They are attending service every day that weekend, and every day the weekend after, and every day until Brendon gets bored and the whole troupe clears out. He hopes it’s not forever, but he hopes for Ryan that it isn’t too soon.
He’s currently arguing with Stump for Thursday off to take Ryan to the city. Doctors will fix Ryan. Doctors can fix anything.
“Celebrating what?” he says instead.
“The love of the Lord,” says Brendon, solemn as he switches to a cymbal. “Also, it’s Sisky and Butcher’s birthday.”
“Twins?” says Spencer, eyebrow raising.
“No, Butcher forgot his birthday, so Sisky offered to share.”
Spencer puzzles over a man who forgets to celebrate his own birthday while traveling with a camp of people so desperate for an excuse for revelry. Or did Brendon mean Butcher forgot the date? Spencer puzzles over that, too. He frowns, touching his chin.
“You should totally grow a beard,” says Brendon.
Spencer frowns and drops his hand. “What? No.”
Brendon smiles.
“And,” says Spencer, struggling for control, “Sisky is not going to want me there. I might punch him in the stomach again.”
“Sisky forgives,” says Brendon, careless. “He forgives and he loves.”
Spencer is willing to contest that, just not to Brendon.
“But maybe you should bring him a present anyway,” says Brendon. “Just in case, you know?” He grins. “They’re unpredictable, sometimes.”
Spencer crosses his arms and taps his fingers against his elbow. “Yeah.”
“Come on,” says Brendon, “and bring Ryan, okay? Let him get to know my family. I know you think he’s crazy, but I like him.”
Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Wholesomely,” Brendon adds, winking. “Not like you, Spence.”
Spencer does know what to say to that. But Brendon’s grinning at the end of the tirade, jacket lapels wrinkled from Spencer’s fists.
They’re standing too close again. Spencer lets him go, stepping back.
“See you Saturday,” says Brendon, stepping out the door into the main room. Spencer smiles at him, and then frowns. Brendon laughs and gives a little wave. Spencer frowns deeper.
;;
Spencer blackmails Stump into letting him take Thursday off and drive Ryan to the city to see a doctor who thinks Ryan’s symptoms sound familiar.
Ryan makes it half way up the steps to the hospital before he faints. He is rushed into urgent care and kept overnight.
Spencer does not feel as though he has accomplished anything at all.
;;
Spencer sleeps in the lobby, on the hard plastic chairs. He feels like shit in the morning.
“He’s incoherent,” the doctors and the nurses tell him. “We want to keep him for observation until Saturday, at least.”
This is nothing Spencer has not already heard from a priest, a minister, a pastor, a therapist. Spencer calls Stump’n’Bryar from a payphone.
“Stump’n’Bryar’s,” says Stump when he answers the phone.
“They’re keeping Ryan overnight again,” says Spencer. “I have to stay with him.”
“Smith,” begins Stump.
“I’m sorry,” says Spencer. “But Ryan. I’m not leaving him.”
Stump breathes in, starting on a lecture, but then there’s a muffled yelp and Bryar’s on the line. “Take Friday,” he says. “And the whole weekend if you need it, and Monday.”
“Thanks,” says Spencer, leaning his head against the metal covering of the payphone. “Thank you.”
“We need you on Tuesday,” says Bryar. “Because the middle school’s coming in to rent instruments for the parade.”
“Damn,” says Spencer.
“See you on Tuesday,” says Bryar and he hangs up before Spencer does.
Spencer spends the day and the night in the lobby. He is allowed to see Ryan once. Ryan is on his bed, hooked up to many unnecessary machines. He looks like an idiot in his hospital gown. That shade of baby blue is not a flattering color on him.
Ryan stares up at Spencer from his hospital bed and shakes his head. He’s curled up and looks near tears. His hair is mussed. He’s the palest Spencer has ever seen him. Spencer bites his lip and ignores the way his heart clenches. Ryan closes his eyes and sighs.
He puts out and hand and Ryan takes it. Spencer squeezes Ryan’s hand and is ushered out by a nurse who smiles like he understands anything at all.
Spencer is uncomfortable from sleeping on plastic chairs in clothes he’s been wearing since Thursday. He lashes out at the nurse and falls into a plastic chair, impatient and exhausted.
The doctors make many unnecessary notes about Ryan’s incoherency. In the morning, Spencer tells them he’s taking Ryan home, and takes Ryan home.
At first, Ryan is still. He examines the pinholes in his arms with great interest. He then climbs between the seats to the back. He nearly kicks Spencer in the face and Spencer nearly drives off the road, but then Ryan’s curled up in the back seat, sound asleep for the first time. Spencer turns the radio louder and drives faster. They might just make it home by nightfall.
;;
Goddamn, but the tent is on fire and the fairgrounds have never, ever looked so alive.
;;
“Spencer,” says Ryan. “The tent is on fire.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. They have both stopped in their tracks, awed and appalled. They should have known from the lanterns scattered across the old fairgrounds. They should have known by the multiple bonfires spread out around the tent. They should have known by the way Brendon said “Sisky and Butcher’s birthday.”
They can’t help staring though, at the way the tent has been painted in oranges and reds and yellows, amplified by the firelight. Or the way there is now a hole in the top and sparks are shooting out of it. Or by the sheer din coming from the tent.
Spencer does not smell alcohol on the premises at all. This troubles him.
Ryan takes his hand and squeezes. “You brought presents,” he says.
Spencer did. He brought one of Ryan’s less used and less loved aubergine overcoats and one of Ryan’s straw hats, from his straw hat phase a couple months ago. For his part, Spencer gave them both unused drumsticks.
They push open the flaps of the tent together and are greeted by a packed crowd who are screaming and cheering and singing. Brendon is stalking the stage in front, arms wide, leading them all.
They stand in the back, stunned by the noise. Spencer turns to Ryan, to ask him if he wants to leave when Billy, of all people, Billy-from-down-the-road, takes Spencer by the arm and drags him into the middle of the crowd, Ryan in tow.
“I knew you’d come,” Billy says. He grins and hugs Spencer. “I’m so delighted, truly. I’ve never been more glad to see you.”
“Oh,” says Spencer.
“It’s been the most wonderful service,” says Billy. “Preacher has changed hearts.”
Spencer spots Sisky and Butcher, finally. They are dancing on the side of the stage to Brendon’s singing.
“Even if you are late,” says Billy. “You almost missed the entire thing.”
“We were driving from the city,” says Spencer. “Long drive, uh.” He’s distracted. The noise has quieted and Brendon has stilled on stage, eyes wide open. He raises a hand and points to Ryan. “Come here.” He puts his hands out, palms up. “Stand up and come.”
Billy puts a hand to his mouth. “Ryan,” he says. “Oh my god.”
“What?” says Spencer. “What? Ryan, no. Don’t, Ryan-”
Ryan stands up and clambers onto the stage next to Brendon. He scrutinizes Brendon, lips pursed. He looks unhappy. “You’re not pink tonight,” he observes. “You know, that shade of green is not your color.”
Brendon’s wearing a black suit, but Spencer thinks he might know what Ryan means.
He touches Brendon’s lapel, lightly. “You ought to hang up your coats, this one is wrinkled.”
“Oh my god,” says Billy again, eyes wide. He reaches for Spencer’s hand and clasps it.
Brendon shakes his head and puts a hand on Ryan’s cheek and murmurs something to him. The crowd falls desperately, terribly still. Brendon leans forward and rests his head against Ryan’s.
Ryan’s eyes are bright. And then he falls forward into Brendon’s arms.
All is quiet for a minute. And then Brendon and Ryan breath in together. Spencer sits up a little straighter.
Ryan wrenches away from Brendon and stands on his own, shaking. “Where the fuck am I?” he says. He sees Spencer. “Spencer, where the fuck am I?”
;;
Ryan pokes at Spencer’s plate with a plastic fork. “I can’t believe I talked you into taking me here,” he says. He eats a carrot.
Spencer tries very hard not curl around Ryan, tries not to be obvious about how he’s protecting Ryan from well-wishers and believers. He tries even more not to be obvious as to how he is never letting Ryan go ever again.
Ryan’s leaning against his chest and stealing carrots off his plate though, so Spencer thinks Ryan might not want to let him go either, at least not until the shock’s worn off.
“You were insistent,” says Spencer. He lowers his voice, grinning a little. “You refused to wear clothes.”
Ryan chews on his carrot. “I don’t remember that,” he says.
“What do you remember?”
“Colors,” says Ryan. “Everywhere. And tastes.” He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.
Spencer jabs his fork into a slice of meat. He’s in great danger of spilling his supper all over his pants, and of course he is, because who else would serve stew on a plate but Brendon’s band of idiots.
“It was kinda lonely,” says Ryan. “Thanks for sticking with me.” He smiles, sort distracted. “I remember that much, thanks.”
Spencer sets his stew down very, very carefully and hugs Ryan so tight that they fall back into the dust. “You were crazy,” he says in Ryan’s collarbone. He’s lying half on top of Ryan and it’s awkward and he doesn’t care. “You were so, so crazy.”
“I’m getting that,” says Ryan, who pats his back.
“You also got fired from Madam Asher’s.”
Ryan shoves him off and sits up. “I did what?”
“You told her she was tangerine,” says Spencer sitting up as well.
Ryan runs his tongue across his teeth. “She was.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow.
Ryan shrugs. And then he smiles.
Spencer picks up his plate. “You can go apologize to her on Monday, I don’t know. Whatever you want.”
Ryan blinks, looking heavy, tired of all sudden. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”
Greta whirls past them, kicks Spencer in the hip. He twists to look up at her and she sings, “I told you so, didn’t I?” and rushes off.
“What,” says Ryan. And he frowns, and says, “you really came here for me? You kept on coming here with me?”
“Uh,” says Spencer because when Ryan says it like that, it sounds like a sacrifice, like Spencer gave up hugely important hours of his life to watch a bunch of well-meaning nutjobs twirl around on stage. It wasn’t really a sacrifice. Not usually. “I, uh. Yeah.”
Spencer’s sort of confused, now that Ryan’s said it like that, so he settles for hugging Ryan again. Ryan curls up against his chest, yawning.
Butcher and Sisky drop down in the dust next to them, twin movements sending up clouds of dust in the red-orange light. “Thank you,” they say.
“Happy Birthday,” says Spencer.
“Is that my jacket?” says Ryan.
“No,” says Sisky, pulling it tight around him. He looks good as he preens. “It’s mine now.”
“It’s nice,” says Ryan. “Happy Birthday.”
Butcher tips his hat at him and taps his drumsticks together against his knees. His rhythm is impeccable.
“Don’t be a stranger,” says Butcher.
Ryan’s eyes are half-closed and he’s dropped back against Spencer, settling between his legs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “won’t.”
Butcher makes a ridiculous ‘shhh’ noise and him and Sisky jump up and tear off in the same direction Greta went off in.
“Spencer,” says Ryan, putting a hand on his knee. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“You,” says Spencer helplessly, but despite the noise and the dust and heat from the fire on one side and the cold from the night on the other, Ryan appears to have dropped off to sleep.
Someone touches his shoulder, just briefly, as he stares down at Ryan. Spencer looks up. Brendon’s running away from him, to join Sisky, Butcher, and Greta at the other end of the site.
;;
Spencer and Ryan make it home late in the evening and go back to bed and wake up the next morning and they both wash up and eat a proper breakfast for the first time in weeks.
Ryan doesn’t go home.
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