#Oversharing In The House Tonight. Everybody Just Have A Weird Time

[columboscreens]

[spencerquinnofficial]

Wounded | August 2017

This is set around a month or two into his return home to Massachusetts in 2017. TW: mentions of underage sex & grooming. None of this is graphic - all just alluding.

Impulse control isn't and never has been, as one might imagine, one of Spencer's strong points. A touch is never just a touch; a glance never a glance. If ever he's tried to dip his toes into any water, he's wound up coughing and spluttering and soaked through to the bone.

Sometimes Spencer opens his mouth to say one thing, and a million other things fall out. Other times, the opposite.

"No, Spencer. Sweetheart, wear the navy one -- with the pattern." His mother is a blur over his shoulder in the reflection of his mirror. She's been hovering there for a couple of minutes (hovering in general for days) but is only now making herself known.

Downstairs, his brother is watching the TV; the sound of a live audience's laughter echoing up the stairs as he waits for Spencer and their mother to reappear or for their dad's car to pull back into the drive. He was meant to be the designated driver tonight but had convinced their father to take over the title only minutes into arriving. He's probably a beer in by now.

Spencer shakes his head, having already begun buttoning a plain blue shirt up. "I like this one, it's new," he tells her, finally turning to catch her eye without the added distance in the mirror. "You don't like it?"

His room feels so much smaller now that there's a double bed where he once had a single. 'I like the floor space,' he'd said back then. Why would he need a double bed when he was the only one sleeping in it? How terribly lonely that would feel.

His mother perches on the edge now, smiling kindly as she tells him, "I do, but I've always loved the navy one. I'm sure it'll still fit you."

"It's old." He folds his arms over his chest, already peeved. Mothers and their nostalgia.

"It's a nice gesture," Anne insists. There it is, he thinks. She knows just as well as him that-- "Oliver would love seeing you in it."

"He won't even remember it!"

She looks hurt. Lord knows why; she's not the one that bought the damn thing - he is. Just before Spencer’s eighteenth birthday along with black shoes and slacks. It wasn't a gift really - wasn't a spoil like half of the other shit he did for Spencer. No, it was for a funeral he never went to.

He takes a breath then - hadn't meant to snap at her but, God, she can be so... Fucking clueless. She's no idea what she's doing -- what his father is doing, inviting Oliver over for dinner like their reunion is worth getting dressed up and celebrating. She'd looked so pleased when she told Spencer he'd be coming, smiling like it was priceless.

Just wait until he arrives and Spencer gets a hold of him. Wait until he spills his guts and tells his family every gruesome detail of the relationship he had with Oliver. Do they know that the last time he wore that hideous navy shirt, Oliver was the one taking it off him? Now that's priceless.

"Fine," he grits, undoing the pale blue buttons hurriedly. "I'll wear the one he bought." He waits for her to say no, it's okay, not if you don't want to - wear what you like, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... But some things have changed over the past few years, and her lenience is one of them. Twenty-three years old and his mother is telling him what to wear.

They hear the front door open then, as he's shrugging off his shirt, and a sudden sense of urgency has him rushing to find the other in his wardrobe.

"That'll be them," Anne announces, standing from the bed and heading towards the door again. "Don't be long, will you?"

"I won't," Spencer mumbles. He finally finds the old shirt and pulls it off its hanger. He begins putting it on with his back to his mother, although he hears the floor creak beneath her feet as she returns to her position, lurking near the door. Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer asks, "what?"

But the door's already opening behind her, Daniel stepping into the room with a bottle hanging by the neck from his fingers. Spencer’s not sure if he and his mother just argued or if he’s the only one pissed off, but Dan mustn’t realise either way as he plops himself down in the spot Anne had just stood from. “Dad and Ollie are downstairs.”

Dan never used to call him that – Ollie. It’s not really a fitting nickname for a fifty-year-old man if you ask Spencer.

“Don’t wear that, wear your new one,” Dan says, and suddenly his mom is rambling about preparing drinks, and slipping out of the room before Spencer’s even got his shirt fastened all the way up.

“I’m old enough to dress myself, thanks,” he says, crouching now to slip his shoes on. Why on earth he needs to wear shoes for a dinner at his own house, he doesn’t know. Dan stays silent as he ties his laces, watching him in the same way that everyone seems to watch him since he came back home. “C’mon,” Spencer says as he stands again. “I’m done, let’s go.”

They leave the room together, and Spencer starts practising his speech in his head, about how every bad thing that ever happened seems to loop back around to him. How Oliver ruined his life so long ago that Spencer’s not sure he even remembers it happening. Dan’s hand squeezes his shoulder before he overtakes him to walk ahead and descend the stairs as Spencer’s mind trails off to all the times Oliver made him feel like he was mature enough to make the dangerous choices he made, whilst secretly pulling the strings. He’s not a kid anymore – he’s said it a thousand times but this time it’ll be true, and—

“Spencer!” The familiar voice pulls him from his thoughts, and Spencer’s at the bottom of the stairs somehow and Oliver is smiling wide like he just might cry. “Gosh, you—” Everybody’s watching, smiling and maybe he should bite his tongue but then Oliver laughs, and Spencer thinks fucking priceless. “You look good.”

Impulse control isn't and never has been, as one might imagine, one of Spencer's strong points. A touch is never just a touch; a glance never a glance. If ever he's tried to dip his toes into any water, he's wound up coughing and spluttering and soaked through to the bone.

Sometimes Spencer opens his mouth to say one thing, and a million other things fall out. Other times, the opposite.

"Thanks." This time is the opposite.

“Wine’s on the table,” he hears his father say like this is nothing. “Dan, another beer?”

His brother makes a pleased noise and pats Oliver’s shoulder fondly as he passes him, following Mr Quinn into the kitchen where his mom calls, “from a glass this time, Daniel!”

“Well, can I get a hug?” Spencer must have stopped walking because Oliver is the one approaching now. He says yes because if he didn’t, well, it’d be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? For everyone. And he suddenly feels so conflicted because Oliver’s arms are around him. Spencer can’t stand awkward hugs – but there’s nothing awkward about it.

His hands are shaking but he’s hugging him back. There’s nothing dark or dirty or dangerous about it. It’s fine.

Oliver turns his head and for a second Spencer thinks he might kiss him – can feel his breath on his neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles instead.

For what? Which part? All of it? Unlikely. Spencer would guess it was just the ending he was sorry for. The argument they had before he left Oliver’s house and walked himself to the nearest bus stop with no money, as the pieces of his phone lay scattered across the man’s bathroom floor.

“I know.” He nods.

He’s twenty-three – not a kid anymore. What good would it do anyway, giving a big, dramatic speech about the hell he put him through? And his family are in the kitchen; the only ones that really need to hear it, because Lord knows Oliver is aware of it all.

He wonders if anybody even knows the man is gay, or if he’s still sneaking around in the dark, ashamed of himself and too scared to even tell Spencer’s father – his best friend of thirty years. It's almost pitiful.

“Come on,” Oliver says as he steps back. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

***

Oliver’s always been opinionated – overly so. It’s something that Spencer used to resent; anything he said was matched with a snarky remark – something to make him feel small and stupid and immature.

“Spencer, come on now. Your knife.” These days it’s his father’s role. He nods down towards Spencer’s place, where he’s prodding his food with his fork, knife abandoned as his other hand is occupied with holding his head as his elbow sits on the surface of the table.

“You seem tired,” Oliver chimes in, watching as he reluctantly picks up his knife, compromising the position he’d gotten comfortable in. “I bet it’s strange, isn’t it? Being back home.” He speaks in the same tone as he always did in front of Spencer’s family – sometimes when he’d realised he’d upset him too. Tonight, he’s still trying to secure his place, Spencer thinks – still trying to win him over.

Oliver’s words could be so fucking hurtful back then, but then there were these other times that Spencer, conveniently, had allowed himself to forget. Times like right now, where Spencer’s not upset at him, but at something else, and Oliver would use this tone and suddenly it all felt rational. Because when Oliver could understand his sadness, it usually meant it was valid.

He just hums, glancing around the table full of faces that all watch him with the same look, curious and concerned as if the answer isn’t obvious. “It’s so quiet,” he offers, and they all nod solemnly. He used to have to go to these group therapy sessions where he'd talk about his issues while everyone would nod and smile and pretend to care about his problems as much as they cared about their own. “It’s weird not having Arthur around. I used to—”

His father’s giving him this look. This we get the point look; this you’re oversharing look. Spencer ends his thought with a shrug and goes back to cutting up his food. He supposes they expected to hear ‘I’m just so happy to be back!’ Well. He’d expected as much.

The first few weeks at home were comforting if a little suffocating. Spencer welcomed it for a while - it was like nothing had changed until they all realised he had. He’s a worse fit now than ever. The only familiar thing he’d felt since that realisation is Oliver’s foot nudging his ankle under the table. Now that’s a laugh.

“Your boyfriend?” The man looks pleased, and Spencer’s not sure if he noticed Mr Quinn’s 'that’s enough' glare, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “When will we meet him?”

“Soon.” He nods, a side-glance to his father who’s now trained his eyes to his own plate. “I think he’s moving out here before we find a place.”

Dan scoffs. Anne tsks at her oldest son. Oliver just keeps smiling as he says, “that’s amazing. I look forward to meeting him.”

Spencer would never have anticipated that he, of all people, would be the one to make him feel comfortable again in his own home. It’s pretty fucking tragic, really, that he’s now finding himself wondering if he should have spent more time talking about his uptight father, smothering mother and overprotective brother in therapy than he did some guy he used to hook up with on school nights.

It’s easier though, isn’t it? To tell yourself somebody is a horrible person because of the things they did, rather than admitting they simply weren't who you wanted them to be.

Each time his father frowns or his brother scoffs or his mother reverts her eyes, Oliver smiles at him and Spencer wishes he could eat up every bad word he ever said about Oliver to people the man has never even met.

That’s why he agrees later on in the night to go out for a drink with Oliver some time; because he’d been so nice and apologetic and so… Normal. Oddly normal. He knows better than to find closure in words; he knows that seeing someone change holds more weight than hearing them say that they will. Maybe they both have some proving they need to do to each other – because Oliver was just his Godfather once. It feels like the right thing to do.

***

“The right thing to do? For who, Spencer?”

He’s back in his bedroom by then, laying in his big, empty double bed, staring up at where a poster on the wall above his head peels up a little in the bottom corner. There's rustling from Arthur's side of the line that sounds like he might be getting comfortable in bed, causing the quality of his voice to dip in and out.

Oliver’s gone and whatever spell he’d put on Spencer to ground him in front of his father’s judging eyes is gone. He’s not sure if he wants to crawl out of his skin or the nearest window. It really would be so easy to book a flight and get out of there.

“Sorry,” he scoffs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Dan’s on the landing then, calling down the stairs to their mother. Spencer whispers, “I feel like I’m stuck here again. Already. I feel like I’m juggling all these lives that aren’t allowed to… Meet.” He reaches up to pick absently at the old poster. A couple of lines peak out from beneath the paper when he pulls it away from the wall. “Will you be here by Christmas?”