barely-writings

[barely-writings]

Woe, WIP be upon ye

just needed to document this version and see if I like it or wanna change it to second person.

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Girl Crush

“I want to taste her lips / Yeah, 'cause they taste like you”

December 10th, 2019. 12:17 PM

A navy blue tie laid out on a half-made bed, a recently ironed blazer draped over stiff shoulders, and a steady stream of tears outlining pale cheeks.

There were few things Spencer regretted. He lamented over decisions he made on the job. He resented the people who hurt those closest to him. He pondered what his life would be like had he gone down a slightly different path. Yet, he never regrets. Not even when he was forced into a drug addiction, not even when he believed one of his closest colleagues died, not even when his girlfriend got shot in front of him. However, there was one thing Spencer kept locked away in the back of his mind. Behind shelves of statistics, folders of obscure historical facts, and stacks upon stacks of psychoanalytic material laid a small truth. A name, nothing else. With that name, naturally, came data; date of birth, eye color, hair color, the timbre of a voice, likes and dislikes, occupation, relationship status. That name had been holding the key to his heart for the better part of eighteen years.

He looked at the fancy invitation currently placed against his dresser, the flashes of white, gold, and blue making a mockery of him. Detailed cursive, golden in color, outlined a greeting and a proposal. He could barely read the imprints on the paper, tears clouding his vision as they flowed like a waterfall down his face. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t true, that he’d simply imagine the words he had been obsessing over for the past two days.

The golden words stayed, persistent.

We cordially invite you to celebrate the union of [M/N] [L/N] and—

Regret started to reel its ugly head in.

In a not-so-distant life, maybe he’d be the one at the altar with [M/N]. Maybe he’d get the luxury of hushed giggles, gentle touches, and stolen kisses. Maybe he’d be crying over vows–not out of melancholy, but out of delight. 

He smoothed out the blazer, an action he had been repeating periodically, before grabbing the forgotten tie off the bed. He almost dreaded finishing the knot, as if he was signing a scam with the very action of stepping foot into the wedding. He supposed he should be grateful for even receiving an invite to the wedding. He hadn’t talked to the groom in a while, not after everything that had gone down between them. He knew the other man well, knowing how prideful he could get. If he had to guess, this invite was the work of the bride—a woman Spencer had met before very sporadically. She was kind enough, with rosy cheeks and the sort of smile that made strangers strike up a conversation with her. She must’ve been very persuasive too, if she got a man so stubborn to invite him to their wedding, even if he was the last person on the planned guest list. He can’t be mad at her—and, paradoxically, that infuriated him. It would be easier, even if not logical like he’d prefer, to dump the blame on the scheming vixen that stole away the love of his man. It was significantly harder to admit he simply lost him to time, and time brought him to the arms of a loving woman while Spencer rotted away in his feelings.

A white handkerchief is pulled from his blazer pocket, dabbing at his cheeks. Hopefully, the rosiness of his cheeks would be excused considering the occasion. Folding the piece of cloth back into a perfect square shape and placing it neatly in his pocket, he stepped out of his hotel room and began the small journey towards the ceremony. He passed by nameless faces, each blurred, though he swore he saw hints of pity in the myriad of eyes around him. Nevertheless, he made it past the sea of people and past those imposing doors.

The venue and ceremony were breathtaking. The bride’s touch complimented well with the groom’s—Spencer remembered the late nights they’d spend discussing flower arrangements for a hypothetical wedding that never came and had to blink tears out of his eyes—and the soft beams of sunlight shining through the huge windows gave it a finishing touch only seen in movies. A guide, a man no older than thirty-four with a lean physique and light blonde hair, approached him, a smile on his face as he asked for his name.

Being guided to his seat, Spencer had the time to soak in the beauty of it all. The perfect wedding that would never be his. Not how he wanted it, anyways. For a moment, as he saw him waiting for his bride, looking so enamoured with the mere implication of her, he felt strange. He almost wanted to be competing for her affections, to understand what was so great about her that she was the one who got to marry him. Was it her hair color? Her eyes? The fact she was a girl? Was it because she’s less complicated than him? Because she held significantly less baggage than him?

He knew he’d never get that closure—that satisfaction of having something concrete to blame. All he could blame was time, and even then it didn’t feel enough.

The guide maneuvered through tables, chairs, and more tables, pointing towards a chair near the front. A perfect view of the wedding, his own torture chamber. Soon, people began to sit down and the gentle sound of a piano began to fill the area. He zoned out for a good majority, until the couple was ready for their elusive kiss. Cheers erupted once their lips touched, signifying the beginning of their life as a married couple. He could see the love in [M/N]’s eyes as he gazed into his new wife’s eyes, could almost picture the way his posture relaxed once he cupped her cheek. He saw him mouth an ‘I love you’ and, for a split second, Spencer tricked himself into believing it was directed at him.

He clapped, a trail of wet, desperate tears cascading down his face.

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December 10th, 2001. 8:47 AM

He was grateful for his scarf at this moment.

The chill of the winter wind poked at his bones, pushing him towards the nearest source of warmth he found. Today was shaping up to be a good day. He was making real progress in making it to the FBI, having met some people who could help him along the way. Just last night, he had finished memorizing the last bit of knowledge he needed for the program, it’s not like it was hard for him anyways. He was a bit skeptical about the physical evaluation, he knew his lean physique and somewhat scrawny build wouldn’t do him any favors. Either way, he showed promise–and he held those words to heart. If there was even the slimmest chance that he could make it, he’d hang onto it with all his might. According to Gideon, the man that had taken him under his wing ever since he managed to outsmart one of the agents training possible new recruits, it would only be a few more years until he could officially become an agent. Granted, the older man did allude to having to “pull some strings”, whatever that implied. Not the best feeling in the world, but he’d take it.

For now, he’d reward himself with one of his favorite things in the world: a sweet cup of coffee and a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles. He walked into the nearest café, just a couple of blocks down from the subway that took his route home. The warm, home-y atmosphere only heightened his elation, a small solace to the otherwise hectic world of academics. While he adored learning and had the skills and talent for it, respite and relaxation were practically void—especially when training for a position as prestigious as a profiler. He knew first-hand how destructive that world could be. His ex-turned-good-friend, a man just as dedicated as him by the name of Ethan, looked for comfort in the bottom of multiple bottles. He used to say it was just temporary, that once he stepped through those bureau doors he’d quit, but they both knew it was a lie. Maybe that’s why Ethan called it quits, focusing his mental energy on being okay enough to continue with the job. Spencer couldn’t exactly fault him, but it still hurt. They both cared deeply for each other, but the relationship meant something more to Spencer; more than simply two people sharing feelings. 

A part of him wanted it to last, as proof that all his complicated feelings hadn’t been for nothing. It wasn’t a failure on his part—he wasn’t equipped to help Ethan through his turmoil, and it wasn’t fair to expect him to carry that for the both of them. Yet, a part of him felt like he had failed his shot at being gay, as weird as that may seem. Somewhat free from the shackles of his childhood and out into ‘the real world’, Spencer had a lot of time to think. To reflect. He had never been good with girls, that much he knew of, but the thought of dating a man hadn’t occurred to him as a possibility. In highschool, where most teens would be coming to terms with their sexuality, he was busy making the honor roll and acing college level classes—and also twelve, he wasn’t quite at that stage yet.

Now college was a different story; well, not quite as different. Still no luck with women, but he had finally reached that age where he felt compelled to figure himself out. Granted, a lot of the guys around him were significantly older, but it’s not like he was going to try and approach them anyways. What would he even lead with? “Hey, I can recite obscure literary works by memory and explain in-depth the intricacies of Star Trek. Let’s date.”

Yeah, no.

With Ethan, figuring that stuff out was easy. He listened, really listened, to him. He remembered stuff Spencer didn’t even remember himself—even with his eidetic memory. Stuff he found insignificant, Ethan remembered. He offered a helping hand, a shoulder to lean on, the comfort Spencer hadn’t known for a while. Maybe it was a combination of all these things that pushed him towards Ethan. That…and he was a very attractive guy. Spencer was in denial, not blind. A good-looking guy that cared for him in a way he didn’t feel he was worthy of? It was worth a shot.

Unfortunately, that shot crashed and burned. Wait no, he was being dramatic. That shot struck, then broke off after a while—so it wasn’t a total failure. A small comfort that he’d take, for his own mental well-being. He was twenty now, he didn’t need another sexuality crisis so close to his big break. Relationships between colleagues were strictly forbidden anyways; statistically, he was safe. He was getting off track, too into his own mind right now. He was supposed to be getting his coffee and doughnuts and some much needed relaxation. With a sigh, and barely glancing at the menu, he walked up to the counter and waited his turn.

“Hello, welcome to Coffee Cove. What can I get you?” The barista’s somewhat bored tone made him clear his throat, running through his order one last time. He had learned his lesson years ago, when he spent a good five minutes bumbling like a fool because he forgot the simple order of everything bagel with cream cheese. This time, he would actually communicate like a functioning human being.

“One chocolate frosting donut with sprinkles and one coffee, five sugars. Please.”

The barista shot him a look, almost like she was judging him for deciding to add five sugars to the already sweet coffee they offered. She looked like she wanted to question Reid about it, figure out what could possess a man to willingly ingest that much sugar, but she dropped it after giving him one last scrutinizing eyebrow raise. She let out a sigh, one that clearly told him she’d save this interaction in the back of her mind, and nodded, pressing some buttons on the tablet in front of her and before addressing him again. 

“Your total is $6.54, will that be all?” “Yes, thank you.”

“Cash or credit?”

He gave the woman a ten dollar bill, which he immediately regretted as he watched her forehead crease with what he assumed was annoyance. Some people really didn’t like having to count out change, huh? She mumbled some curse under her breath, too indescriptive for Spencer to pick up, yet it still made him melt further with shame. He should’ve just ordered something else, brought the total up to a nice, whole number. He could feel the line forming behind him, the beginnings of rush hour creeping in through the periodic ringing of the doorbell’s chime. He almost wished he could make the lady go faster, to be as good at math as he was for the two minute period it took to count change, but he didn’t have that kind of power. All he could do was put on his best face and pray the other customers wouldn’t mind waiting a little. Finally, after what felt like hours but was instead two minutes and forty-seven seconds, Spencer had his change and his food. The sweet treat and even sweeter drink were in his hands, change shoved unceremoniously in his pocket. Life was good. Life was great! Life was–

A hiss broke him out of his positivity, a wet stain ruining a shirt that looked recently bought.

Somebody, kill him now.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see where I was going. That coffee was hot and I just spilled it on your shirt and—do you need first aid? The stain should be relatively easy to get out with the right detergent, though, which I can totally help with if you need—” He stumbled his way through apologies and semi-helpful advice, too occupied with his shame to even look at the man whose shirt he had just ruined. He hadn’t even made it out of the coffee shop, for crying out loud! His dignity was in shambles by now, no amount of saving face would help him.

A chuckle stopped his worry like a bullet breaking glass.

“It’s okay, it’s just a shirt. Besides, I’ve dealt with way worse things than a coffee spill. Wasn’t even that hot.” The stranger laughed, his voice unnecessarily melodic to Spencer’s ears. He dared to glance up—up, because he had somehow found someone taller than him—at the man, eyes widening in disbelief immediately.

Not only had he spilled his coffee, and subsequently lost $3.45 in the process, he had spilled his coffee on a very attractive man. Great. Peachy. His non-existent chances were definitely ruined now. The tips of his ears and nose were turning red, the embarrassment prickling at his skin like a nagging kid who had one too many invasive questions. Seeing his obvious embarrassment, the hot-stranger-man just laughed, raising a brow in amusement.

“Really, it’s no problem. In fact, here,” he took out a five dollar bill from his pocket, handing the green paper to Spencer, “Go get yourself a new coffee. My shirt sorta drank your old one.”

Spencer stumbled out a laugh, relieved the man was taking this so well. Not many people took to ruined clothes kindly, he knew that first hand. His clumsiness got him in uncomfortable situations, to say the least. With a shy, grateful smile, he took the money from the stranger’s hands.

“Thank you—and again, I’m so sorry about your shirt. I guess there’s a lot on my mind today; the human brain has been shown to only be able to process one cognitive task at a time. Attempting to go beyond this limit exhausts the brain, making it less efficient when processing informa—”

Huh, that’s the longest he’s gone without someone interrupting him. No snide comment, no judging look, no diverted attention. This stranger was…actually listening? Even with a wet patch in his shirt, the other looked intrigued. Still, he had no business dumping this information on a stranger. He laughed sheepishly, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. He was about to apologize for his unwanted ranting when the stranger spoke up again, clear interest in his tone.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? We think we know so much about the human mind, when we actually know so little.”

Spencer agreed. While the relative cellular biology of the brain was understood clearly enough, scientists still had no idea how the brain actually functioned. Talk of electrical signals and waves was widely accepted as a close truth, but the research had yet to show a definitive answer. He was quick to voice his agreement, citing a myriad of studies that put forth theories of how this organ functioned. The man reciprocated with his own questions, prompting Spencer to go on tangent after tangent, until the original point of the conversation was completely lost. What started as an apology over spilled coffee devolved into twelfth century economic fluctuations. He’s gotta admit, he’s never had this much fun in his life. While not as knowledgeable as Spencer, the man currently in front of him challenged him. He asked questions—more like he demanded answers, with his tone being eager and his voice being somewhat gravelly—and subtly leaned forward, his chin being propped up by the palm of his hand. They had, somehow, transferred to a booth during the conversation, Spencer’s coffee quickly forgotten and his doughnut growing colder.

By the time he realized he had stolen this stranger’s morning, the clock on the wall now nearing twelve in the afternoon, he clasped his hands together and cleared his throat politely. He should’ve felt embarrassed, but something told him the other man didn’t mind.

“Ah, time went by so quickly! I’m sorry I kept you for so long, but I’ve never had such an interesting conversation. It’s time for me to go, I really enjoyed talking to you.”

With a smile, the type that looked like he was sucking in the corners of his lips, he bid the stranger goodbye as he stood up from the booth. He bit into his doughnut to ward off a bit of the hunger that was starting to creep in, the flavor somewhat dissipated after the sweet had been left out for so long. He didn’t care, though, as he found something else to brighten his day today.

He had no coffee, a disappointing doughnut, and an encounter that’d keep him going for the rest of the week.

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, it was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise, doctor. Call me [M/N].”