Special Episode: Golden Age (Part I)
This episode is part of a larger story, Soft Touch. If you haven’t yet, you can go back and read it from the beginning right here.
Spencer is standing alone behind the counter in his bookshop.
It’s very late, and the closed sign in the door has been facing out for a while. No customers will come in. He doesn’t know what he’s doing down here.
He puts his elbows on the counter, leans into them, and stares blankly at the wall across from him.
All these years later, he can still so clearly remember that night.
Trying to get back to his apartment as fast as he could, blinking back tears, keeping his head down in the crowd. Telling himself over and over again that yes, he had made a huge mistake, an awful mistake, but everything would be okay as soon as he got there and explained everything to Floyd. It wasn’t what he thought, it fucking wasn’t. As soon as he knew the truth, it would all be okay, there was a chance it could all be okay…
Floyd wasn’t at his own apartment, which meant he must have been at Spencer’s. That was the only other option. He had to be there. Spencer would find him there and explain everything, and maybe it would even be like that crushed, heartbroken expression in Floyd’s eyes had never happened at all…
But deep down in his heart, Spencer was truly beginning to panic.
He started walking faster and faster, until he started running, shoving his way past people on the sidewalk, the wind flying through his hair. He dropped his work bag halfway up the stairs of his building, because it was slowing him down. Nearly fell in the bad lighting, provided only by the moonlight. Almost broke the key in the door in his rush to get it open.
He still remembers what it felt like when he stepped into his apartment and saw that Floyd was gone.
By that point Floyd was staying over at Spencer’s place so often that they’d been talking about him giving up his own lease. There should have been signs of him all over the place - his clothes, some of his books, the food and water bowls he kept for Nellie there, her leash hanging up on the coat hook, one of his joints sending up smoke from the ashtray.
None of it was there.
The only thing left of him was that the radio was left switched on. As always. Floyd never remembered to turn it off, never.
It was softly playing Tommy Roe’s Crimson and Clover to an empty apartment.
Spencer stood there and felt the ground fall out from under his feet.
Eventually he sank down on the unmade bed and sat there shivering uncontrollably, with his whole body. Making strange, strangled little noises, like a sick thing.
The room became a blurry, spinning vortex of moonlight and emptiness and quiet music bouncing off of the walls. He curled up like a ragdoll in the rumpled sheets, wrapped his arms tightly around himself.
Some time later, he was drawn out of his haze by the painful sound of someone crying like each jagged sob had been ripped out of them. Someone choking out an endless, repeated whisper of - “No. Please, please. No…”
Spencer remembers that he looked up at the ceiling, as if it might be coming from the upstairs apartment, before he realized it was coming from him.
There was what he had called heartbreak before, and then there was that.
It was so long ago now that Spencer would have thought time alone could have made the pain fade. That he could eventually put it behind him. Close that book for the final time.
Admittedly, he hadn’t been able to do it yet. But he had to think it was coming soon enough. One of these years, right?
Then Floyd just - showed up at his bookshop, today.
And when he said he was leaving, Spencer wanted to seize his arm, beg him to stay at least just a little bit longer.
After he left, Spencer went back upstairs and shut the door after himself. He leaned back against it and pressed a hand over his heaving chest, struggling to breathe, to get the room to fall back into focus.
He walked around his apartment for a while, crying noiselessly, wringing his hands so tightly that they hurt afterwards. He wanted to get into bed and bury his face in the pillow, but that meant unfolding it from the couch. His trembling fingers did such a bad job trying that eventually he broke down, sank down wretchedly onto the rug, and sat with his head on his knees.
Now he’s feeling exhausted, raw. Thoroughly worn out, and he still hasn’t even begun to wrap his head around what happened today.
The hot shower helped a little.
He’s not sure what’s guiding him now. He’s just standing behind the counter, after all, in the half-light of the closed bookshop. It’s silent, aside from the very faint sound of music from the radio Spencer left on upstairs. Most of the light comes from the glow of Naomi’s heat lamp.
The air is very still, this late at night. So late. The sun is probably going to come up soon, but Spencer is wide awake.
Someone knocks softly on the door of the shop.
Spencer had been leaning into his elbows, his head lowered, one hand pushed into his silver hair. He lifts his head in surprise, prods his glasses back up his nose so he can see what kind of customer he might have at this time of the night.
Then he freezes, his heart coming to a complete standstill.
Floyd slowly, nervously lifts a hand in a tentative wave from outside.
Spencer stares at him in blank disbelief for a second, then moves without thinking, rounding the counter for the door. He slows down as he gets closer, as he realizes what he’s doing.
Calm the fuck down, he begs himself desperately, trying to coax some air into his lungs.
He pulls open the door and looks down at Floyd, who has to tip his head back to meet his eyes.
Spencer used to love that with all his heart. The way Floyd’s bright, eager face was always lifted to him.
“Hey,” Floyd says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” Spencer answers numbly.
“I…” Floyd shrugs his narrow shoulders anxiously. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late. I’ve - been sitting in my car for a while.”
Spencer lifts his gaze past Floyd to his car - parked a little way off down the street - then swiftly drops it back to Floyd again. He can’t shake the sense that Floyd might disappear if he takes his eyes off of him for too long.
Spencer hesitates, blushing deep with confusion and nerves. He has no idea what Floyd is doing here, but he’s afraid to death of saying something wrong, something that might make him leave. And he heard the rough, hoarse rasp of his own voice. It always gets like that after he cries. Floyd knows that.
Floyd winces, then drops his gaze from Spencer’s face, smooths one hand over his flyaway curls. Now silver, but just as wild and uncontrollable as they were when they were blonde.
Spencer’s heart floods with molten affection before he can even attempt anything to stop it.
“I was thinking,” Floyd says, very slowly and gingerly, “That it’s a nice night...”
Spencer stares at him, at a loss.
“Nice night to - take a walk with my best friend,” Floyd finishes quietly, then looks up at Spencer again. “If he wants to.”
There’s a tentative, hopeful expression in his eyes.
Spencer keeps staring down at him blankly. His heart is going wild in his chest, screaming that some miracle is happening, but his brain is struggling helplessly to understand. He gives a few seconds of consideration to a series of increasingly wild explanations until some voice shouts in his head:
He.
Means.
YOU.
Spencer stares at Floyd for a long, incredulous moment, then shuts the door of the bookshop.
Floyd blinks hard, drawing back. He doesn’t look surprised, but his expression crumbles as he turns away, takes a few steps in the direction of his car.
He stops and lifts his head sharply as Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, pulling his jacket on over his sweater. He jogs a little to catch up to Floyd, but it’s not really necessary. One of his steps is worth a few of Floyd’s.
Now Floyd looks surprised. He stares up at Spencer with very wide eyes, then breaks into a big, slow smile.
All paths in Port Sitka can lead you to the ocean. Floyd and Spencer set off in the direction of the water, leaving some space between them, walking together through the dotted glow of the streetlamps.
Spencer is wondering if maybe he fell asleep at the counter in his shop. Dreaming, that would explain everything. Only he feels so, so awake.
Every deep breath of cold, salty air he takes goes straight to his head, clearing away the haze of thoughts he was swimming around in before. He sees and feels everything around him with sharp, crystalline clarity. He can hear the rush of the sea, even from here.
And he’s very, very aware of Floyd walking at his side.
Dawn is breaking softly around them. Barely perceptible at first, but the tint of the air is beginning to lighten as they make their way down the quiet sidewalk.
They go in silence for a long time, not looking at each other. Spencer keeps his eyes firmly on the ground, and Floyd keeps his turned up to the starry dawn slowly growing overhead.
“Jamie and Aiden, your new friends,” Spencer finally says, burying his hands deep in his jacket pockets. “Your new best friends, I thought?”
Floyd drops his gaze from the sky to Spencer’s face, then sighs softly.
“They’re each other’s best friend,” he says, looking off to the side. “I guess I don’t really have - oh, unless…”
Spencer shuts his eyes, a burst of burning jealousy tearing through him. “Who is it?”
“Ida, if she counts. My dog.”
“Oh.” Spencer lets out a pained, weak little laugh of relief. “Oh, let me guess. She’s a Rottweiler, and almost as tall as you.”
Floyd laughs in a busted kind of way, sheepishly shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve got a soft spot for them, alright? They don’t get enough love, traditionally. Not as much as they deserve.”
Spencer glances down at Floyd, then looks away hastily again.
Why the fuck is he suddenly almost in tears?
It’s just… at some point long ago he had given up hope that he would ever again have the opportunity to just walk with Floyd. To just talk to him, without the anger raging between them.
And it sounds like the space that Spencer occupied in his life has been left empty, all this time.
Spencer is relieved to know he’s not the only one. That space where Floyd once stood has always and only been for him.
They walk in silence again.
Far down the stretch of road, the water rushes against the sand. A little closer, a light turns on in the second-story window of one of the quiet apartments. A breeze sends stray leaves skittering down the cobblestones with a papery whispering sound. The bakery has already started work for the day. Toasted warmth drifts in currents from its doors, following Floyd and Spencer for a ways as they walk.
They reach the end of the avenue, and, without speaking, cross to the wooden boardwalk lining the beach. They make their slow way up the stairs and stop on the raised wooden deck, looking out at the Port Sitka bay.
The ocean is a dark, grey-blue in the growing dawn. The foam on the waves sparkles softly, like crushed amethyst. The rugged beach greenery beneath the boardwalk is rustling in the breeze. A solitary little bird flits through the blue dawn air at a peaceful pace, high up in the sky, wings spread wide. Another flits up to join it, calling out, wings working hard.
Floyd leans his elbows into the wooden railing, and Spencer presses his palms into it beside him. They stand there taking deep, long breaths, avoiding each other’s eyes. Dawn fog quietly gathers into a hazy blanket over the water as they watch.
Spencer’s pulse is going like a runaway train.
Slow down, he tells himself desperately. Think for a second. For once, be realistic. Be realistic before you get yourself crushed again. This is probably about… closure. This is probably the last time you and him will ever…
Spencer doesn’t get to the end of whatever that thought was before it makes him go completely, utterly cold. Like he fell headfirst into an ice bath. Shivering, he starts to lift his hands to put them back in his pockets. His fingertips brush against Floyd’s, which were loosely laced together, hanging over the railing.
Floyd blinks very fast behind his glasses, startled, then catches Spencer’s hand in his.
“Jesus, Spence,” he says softly, folding his warm fingers around Spencer’s. “You’re frozen, you…”
He breaks off, having looked up and caught the expression on Spencer’s face. He stares up at Spencer, then swallows hard, squeezing his fingers.
He turns and begins to walk slowly down the wooden pathway. Without letting Spencer’s hand go. Pulling him into movement, too.
Spencer lets him, half in a daze.
They walk hand in hand in the light, early breeze. The shiver and rush of the water to their left, the sleeping town to their right. One or two lights are on, squares of warm orange light against the indigo air.
Spencer knows from experience that he’s the only one feeling the restless, sweet electricity burning up his arm from the place where he and Floyd are holding each other. But that’s never bothered him before, and it doesn’t bother him now.
If there are some things you’re not doing for my sake, then there are some things I can do for your sake.
That was what Floyd had said to him, the first time he let Spencer kiss him.
Was that really just for my sake? Spencer had asked afterwards. You seriously didn’t f-feel that?
What do you mean, man? Of course I felt it.
I m-m-meant, you didn’t feel that? The - the -
Are you alright, Spence? You look like you’re going to pass out.
Am I alright? Yeah, I’m… what are y-you f-feeling right n-n-now, Floyd?
I’m - happy that you’re so happy?
And you’re not f-feeling weird about it at all? You promise? That was okay? Because you don’t have to -
Honestly, it doesn’t really make a difference to me. I just don’t see why it’s some big thing. Why is that any different from any other human contact? ‘Cause our faces are so close, or…?
No, because - oh my god, Floyd, I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I d-don’t know if it’s something that can b-be explained.
Sweet, Floyd had said brightly, stepping back with a big smile turning up his lips. I love things that can’t be explained.
The freedom to hold Floyd’s hand when he wanted was another sweet, perfect gift that Floyd made to Spencer. But that gift was lost to Spencer a very long time ago.
To have it back suddenly… he can barely breathe.
His fingers have been stiff and rigid in Floyd’s, but now he softly enfolds Floyd’s hand in his own. All thoughts of how this ends evaporate from his mind. All he can do is look and listen and feel, breathing in the Port Sitka dawn with Floyd’s hand in his.
He tightens his grasp on Floyd’s fingers just a little bit, savoring the warmth of his palm. His heart is singing happily, a song from so long ago it should absolutely have been forgotten by now.
“I had a question about something from your blog,” Floyd says abruptly. “It was in the third paragraph of the post about three weeks ago, the one about Stonehenge. Just after the bit about how such large stones were quarried.”
“Oh, my blog that you occasionally spite-read sometimes?” Spencer laughs, still in a daze. “Sounds like you’ve been reading more carefully than you let on, Floyd.”
“Shut up! I wouldn’t have used the word ‘impartial’ where you did in that same paragraph, by the way, but I wasn’t going to say anything!”
“If you listen to yourself, you’ll realize you’re proving my point.”
“Can I ask my question, or not?”
“I guess…” Spencer lets out a helpless laugh, officially all he can find left to do. “Yeah, go for it.”
“Okay, so the theory about Stonehenge being used as one big astronomical sighting tool…”
Floyd and Spencer find themselves in a long, long talk as they make their way down the wooden boardwalk.
It’s strange how it happens - so easily. Things should be different now, so many years later. But Spencer may as well be having this discussion with the blonde-haired young junior reporter sitting on the edge of his desk, tired dark circles around his smiling eyes, left there from staying up all night making corrections.
Before long, Floyd and Spencer are arguing eagerly, both of them laughing. Caught briefly in heated debates, then on a tear of agreeing with each other, then disagreeing and arguing, both of them speaking at once, then dissolving into groaning laughter again.
Their two voices rise up above the otherwise silent and deserted boardwalk, swept away on the breeze. Heard only by them.
Spencer is more and more elated and euphoric as it goes on. He forgot just how good these talks with Floyd felt. Somehow both challenging and effortless. He always had the sense of getting drunk on it, somehow. It’s just as intoxicating now, and in that warm, cozy way that Spencer remembered.
He forgot how good Floyd is at controlling his eyebrows, how he’ll arch one all the way up and drop the other low and flat to express his dissenting opinion of one of Spencer’s theories.
Spencer forgot just how much he loved that.
He never forgot for a second, though, how much he loves the richness of Floyd’s mind. His way of thinking is hypnotic, his gestures wild and full of conviction, his eyes full of faith and wonder. Sharp and intelligent, even when he’s saying things that would sound like insanity to anyone else.
Spencer drinks in every word he says, in a trance. Thinking in a vague, giddy way that he could happily do this forever.
“I hate that I love your bookshop so much,” Floyd grumbles suddenly, hanging his head.
Spencer blinks down at him, then lets out a startled laugh, his heart taking flight at that particular compliment.
“Really? You do? I thought I saw you looking at it with real hate in your eyes.”
“Yeah, but not because - that’s - because…” Floyd lets out a sigh, then looks up at Spencer with heavy eyes. “It’s like you said, Spence. It was supposed to be our bookshop.”
Reality makes a sudden, painful, brutal return. Spencer flinches and quickly turns his gaze out to the ocean, his heart tumbling down from the high-up place where it was soaring.
“I just…” Floyd’s voice sounds rough, all of a sudden. “I fucking hate that it’s not our bookshop. I hate that it’s - too late for us.”
Spencer’s footsteps slow down, and come to a stop. What Floyd just said sank in very slowly, then struck him like lightning.
It changes everything, if it’s true.
Spencer stands perfectly still, staring down at Floyd with very wide eyes, speechless.
His words come out in gasping breaths. “D-d-do you m-mean that?”
Floyd looks up and meets his gaze, nods sadly.
Spencer struggles to breathe, stunned. It takes him a few seconds to find any words, and when he does, they escape from him before he can think about them at all.
“Why is it too late f-for us?”
Floyd blinks hard, then draws back, startled by the question.
“Because - I don’t know. Look at us, Spence.” He gestures helplessly to Spencer’s silver hair, then to his own. “We wasted all that time. We got old.”
“S-so what?” Spencer asks, desperately and earnestly, taking Floyd’s other hand in his own. “We’re not that old! Clearly n-neither of us is out of energy just yet! And I always s-said I’d still l-love you when you inevitably turned into a crazy old m-m-man, didn’t I?”
Part of him can’t believe what he’s saying out loud right now, right to Floyd’s face. He wouldn’t be saying any of this if Floyd hadn’t said what he said first.
He’s terrified, more terrified than he can remember being in ages. Shivering beneath his jacket, breathing fast. He knows that it’s very possible he’s making a fool of himself, right now. He knows he’s putting his heart out there to be crushed all over again.
But he knows that he would never forgive himself if he didn’t leap at this chance. His one, last chance.
“What are you saying, Spencer?” Floyd is speaking slowly, incredulously, searching Spencer’s eyes with his own. “You - you want to do our plan? It’s too late.”
“Says who?” Spencer blurts out hoarsely. “Says fucking who?”
“What-? Are you serious? You already have your bookshop all set up, your whole own life set up, you’ve had it for decades, and I’ve got mine-”
“Floyd, would you say you’ve got a big, dedicated customer base at your bookshop?”
“I… well, no, I can’t say that.” Floyd winces a little, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “It’s been better since the billboard went up, but… no.”
“Okay, I d-don’t either,” Spencer stammers breathlessly, trying to stay ahead of his terrified heart. “And we’re d-definitely pulling from each other’s already p-pretty small customer base. When we both wish w-we had a shop together, instead. And I’m not particularly attached to my apartment. I’d love one that could fit a real bed, for one thing, with more room for Naomi to roam-”
“Spence.” Floyd squeezes Spencer’s fingers, staggered. He looks like his head is spinning, like the gravity of the whole world just changed on him. “Are you being serious? I honestly can’t tell.”
“I am, Floyd! And it’s not just about the b-bookshop, it’s not even mainly about the b-bookshop, it’s…” Spencer takes the deepest breath he can, then forces himself to look down into Floyd’s eyes, even as his voice fractures. “Didn’t we have a perfect life together? B-before…? Even with our s-stories getting axed left and r-right, I was happier than I’d ever been in my l-l-life, Floyd…”
Floyd drops his gaze, swallows, and stays silent for a moment.
“I was, too,” he says, so quietly and hoarsely that Spencer almost misses it.
His chest lights up with internal fireworks, almost dizzying in their force and power. He tightens his grasp on Floyd’s fingers again, draws in a trembling breath. Hoping so hard that he’s almost panting.
“But - aren’t you still furious with me?” Floyd looks up again, an agonized expression rising in his eyes. “I’ve been furious with you.”
“Maybe…” Spencer takes a shuddering, nervous breath, then blurts out - “Couldn’t we just - forgive each other?”
Floyd freezes for a few seconds, then draws his head back sharply, astounded. “You’d be willing to do that?”
His eyes turn shocked when Spencer nods earnestly. A fair enough reaction, given that Spencer profoundly shocked himself with that, too.
“I know it’s b-been forever, Floyd,” he stammers on, gathering his courage to himself. “But I miss you. I’m so much happier b-being with you, even just right now. That hasn’t changed. If anything, I can see m-more clearly n-now than ever all the reasons I fell in l-l-love with y-you in the f-first place.”
Floyd stares up at Spencer with unreadable, enormous eyes, standing silent and motionless.
“I know it’s harder for us to make b-big changes like this, these days. But it’s w-worth it to me, if it’s worth it to you. I can forgive you, if you c-can f-forgive me.” Spencer’s hands are trembling in Floyd’s, his voice trembling in his throat. “I still w-want our bookshop. I still w-w-want y-you.”
He blushes furiously as he says it, stumbling badly over the last few words. But he thinks he got it out clear enough to be understood. Floyd could always understand him, no matter how bad the stutter got. He was the only one.
Spencer drops his head, blushing painfully, too afraid to look at Floyd. He understands the scope of what he’s asking. It’s no small thing. Even if somehow all his lucky stars came up at once, the odds that Floyd would say yes to this…
Spencer had to ask, or he’d never forgive himself for not trying. But that doesn’t make this any less of a breathless, terrifying moment, simultaneously filled with hope and fear -
Floyd lets go of Spencer’s hands and wraps his arms around him. Pulls him into a close hug, his warm body leaning against Spencer’s.
Spencer stands motionless for a moment, thunderstruck.
As if in a dream, he slowly folds his arms around Floyd and bends over him, holding him closely and tightly. Feeling his warmth, their two hearts beating together. Letting the feeling sink right into his soul.
He doesn’t know what this answer is. But if it’s a last moment, he wants to make it count.
Floyd draws back a little, and Spencer tries not to cry, fighting down the instinct to tighten his arms, not let him go - but Floyd stops, tips his face up, and looks at Spencer. Expectantly, waiting for something.
Spencer blinks down at him with questioning eyes, confused.
“This seems like one of those times when you’d want to kiss me,” Floyd explains.
Spencer freezes. The whole world, even the ocean at his side seems to come to a complete standstill.
“Is that - can I?” he hears himself ask, in a rasping voice.
“If you still want to.” Floyd wrinkles his nose at Spencer, laughing a little. “Even now that I’ve become the crazy old man you always said I’d be.”
The sunrise comes spilling out across the horizon as Spencer bends down and Floyd stands up on his toes, spreading a hand on Spencer’s chest for balance.
Pale golden sunshine touches the clouds, and the light begins to break through them. It scatters and breaks in glittering sparkles on the ocean. Crests the very tips of the towering Sitka spruces on the rocky clifftops, painting them gold. All the plant life is vividly, intensely green from the heavy spring rainfall, and the sky is turning a paler shade of blue behind it, still spangled with lingering stars. The new sunlight diffuses in the dawn fog and softens everything, making it all gentle and hazy.
For completely unrelated reasons, Spencer knows for a fact that this is the most beautiful morning Port Sitka has ever had.
No matter how many there have been, and no matter how many more there are to come.
~~~~
Spencer’s entire apartment feels totally different, with Floyd there. Almost unrecognizable. The colors of the room are richer than they were before. The air more pure, more full of oxygen, more sweet.
The sun is coming up, but neither of them has slept, so it was agreed that Floyd shouldn’t drive all the way back to Greenrock. It might not be safe, with him so tired. And he had to make a trip out of Greenrock recently to visit someone, he explained, so he already had a duffel in his car with some clothes in it, anyways.
But the real reason is that neither of them wanted to split up. Floyd asked if he could stay over right as Spencer told him he thought he should, and they both stopped, smiling at each other in obvious, mutual relief.
Spencer is so used to being alone in his apartment, with the exception of Naomi. He can’t believe what it feels like to have Floyd here, in his pajama pants and soft t-shirt. Leaning over the table in the center of the studio, standing in the slow-growing sunshine, quietly thumbing through Spencer’s notebooks. Absorbing the information in them like a sponge.
A curl of smoke winds up from the joint tucked between his fingers. His eyes are focused and intent behind his perfectly round glasses.
Spencer watches him from the bed, his heart full of light.
Without taking his eyes off of the composition book he’s reading, Floyd drifts over to the bed. Turning a page as he walks, leaving a little trail of smoke. He gets into the foldout bed beside Spencer, who moves over to make room for him, then wraps his arms around him.
Floyd leans back between Spencer’s knees, settles his shoulder blades against his chest, and hands him the joint. Spencer hits it very gently, then sets it aside in the ashtray to go out for now. He doesn’t want to forget anything about this moment.
He slowly, lovingly unbraids Floyd’s hair, lets it fall down over one of his shoulders, and runs his fingers through it. Still as soft as it always was, he discovers, with a little sunbeam of delight in his heart. Just like Floyd, no less sweet for going grey.
Floyd lets him play with his hair, not really noticing. The old intimacy has gently fallen over them, like a soft and warm veil over everything. Spencer thought it might be difficult to find it again. But just like a lot of things with Floyd, it was beautifully, startlingly effortless.
The air smells like salt breeze from the open window, like coffee and weed and books from within the apartment. The street outside is beginning to wake up, the quiet noises of it reaching up to the window.
Spencer watches Floyd reading his research, blushing a little to have it before his eyes. He was always the only one whose opinion truly mattered to Spencer, when it came to his work.
But he thinks he must have done good in whichever notebook Floyd is reading. He can see from this angle that Floyd’s mouth is crooked up in a smile.
“I’ve had dreams like this,” Spencer tells Floyd quietly.
Floyd pauses in his reading. He tips his head back against Spencer’s chest and gives him a small, warm, smile, tinged with the tiniest touch of sadness.
“I wish…” he begins, then trails off, gives himself a shake. “Mmm. You know what? I don’t think we should carry any regrets. None of it matters now. We said we’d forgive each other, right?”
Spencer had been gently dragging his fingertips up and down the side of Floyd’s arm, but now he stops, something in his chest making him wince in pain.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, an old, deep ache seeping back into his heart. “It’s just - hard to n-not regret - you don’t know how much I wish I hadn’t f-f-fucked up the way I did… you d-don’t know how l-long I spent looking for you, after you left…”
Floyd suddenly goes perfectly still in Spencer’s arms. He twists around to stare at him, blinking hard and fast.
“What?” He’s staring at Spencer like he has no idea what he’s talking about. “What do you m-? Looking for me? Why?”
Spencer didn’t know what reaction to expect to what he said, but this throws him all the way off. He doesn’t even understand the question.
“The fuck do you mean, why? To f-find you, to explain myself, to - to try to get you b-back.”
Floyd holds very still for a moment longer, then sits up and turns around on the bed to face Spencer, his eyes huge.
“What are you t-? Spence, what are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” Spencer is so bewildered that he can barely follow this. His voice scrapes hoarsely over his words, which come out heavy with old agony. “You - you left me.”
“I-?” Floyd draws back sharply, with an expression like Spencer just stabbed him. “I left because you made it pretty clear that you were done with me, not because I wanted to! Of course I didn’t want to, that was the worst day of my fucking life, I had never felt so - so…”
Floyd trails off, swallowing hard, choking on his words.
Spencer stares at Floyd, astounded.
“What?” he finally manages. “Floyd - you - I - what?”
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