This is the worst thing that could happen. The absolute worst. And how selfish is that, he wonders, his thoughts slow and indistinct, as if they've had to push through molasses to reach the surface and the thick syrup has left their edges soft. How selfish to think that this is the absolute in tragedies when he knows what has happened to other people, what has happened to himself even.
Spencer feels like a cold egg, straight out of the fridge, that's been dropped too quickly into a pot of boiling water. At first there's just the sudden shock of his world being ripped away from him and returned completely different from how it was, then he feels the crack beginning to form. It's tiny at first, a mere hairline fracture, but as he sits there, unable to tear his eyes away, he can feel it widening. All too soon there's a whole network of fine, spiderwebby lines and he's falling apart, coming undone. Except that he's not. Except that he's still sitting there, perfectly calm with his hand hovering over his bishop and his face blank, not betraying the fact that his very being, his innermost core has liquefied and is seeping out of him. It's not a perfect metaphor-so few truly are-because if it was then he'd already feel himself starting to harden, but he isn't. Instead, he's getting flimsier, less substantial with every stuttering heartbeat.
The cracks are gaping wider and wider now, and he clings to his selfishness with both hands, because why shouldn't he? When has he ever been allowed to be selfish? He's spent his entire life doing things for other people, and it's a pattern he knows he'll only ever break when his mind deserts him. So here, in the privacy of his misery, why shouldn't he be selfish, if only in his thoughts? So, it's the worst thing that could happen. He thinks that to himself, embraces it, uses it as an anchor so that he doesn't slip out through the crevices completely.
A breeze ruffles his hair, carrying the scent of newly mowed grass and hot dogs and sunshine, and he can hear the boy he's been playing with-he should know his name, he should what with all the hours they've spent together here in this park, but it's unimportant and slips away from him like water through a sieve-say something, but there's a bubbling roar in his ears that the words can't break through. He can't look away, though it wouldn't matter if he could because the scene is so perfectly etched behind his eyelids. His eyes and lungs burn, and he can't remember the last time he blinked or drew breath. His hand is still in the air, poised to move his bishop to f5. The comfortable weight on his legs disappears-his book slipping from his lap to the ground, a small, still working corner of his brain supplies-but he's incapable of pressing his palm down just a little harder against the open pages to stop it.
How could he not know? How had he not seen the clues? If it was someone else, someone other than him, and someone other than Morgan, then maybe he would understand a tiny fraction better, but how had Spencer missed this? He knows Morgan. Knows that he takes his coffee with cream and no sugar. Knows the way his jaw goes slack, almost but not quite enough to part his lips, when he sleeps. Knows the pattern of the crows feet that spring up warm and friendly around his eyes when he laughs. Knows that he eats his ham sandwiches with relish and mustard. Knows how his lips tighten and his brow tenses when he's angry. Knows the scar at the inside of his elbow from when he played football. Knows the exact feel of his hard body colliding with his own. He knows and knows and knows, but he's obviously never stopped to think, because there must have been some clue, some miniscule hint that he would have caught if only he'd paid a little more attention. There's no other explanation, because how could he have known all that that without knowing that Morgan's in a relationship?
It's not one of his one night stands or a flirtation. The body language is wrong, as is the way they look at each other. Too intimate, too tender, too caring. She's important to him, then. Spencer sees that in the way he places his hand at the small of her back and automatically puts his body between hers and anything that his subconscious mind identifies as dangerous and brushes her hair away from her eyes before he bends to kiss her. Spencer can't help but see it and watch it and want to scream, because she's smooth and whole and lovely, while he's broken and oozing with no way to stop.
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