Billy was twelve when he heard Spencer sing for the first time.
He'd been sneaking into Spencer's room occasionally since their meeting two years earlier, even though Spencer seemed comfortable enough to follow him around the house when he wasn't watching movies or sneaking things from the fridge. Naturally, his mother could never know; Spencer's rooms was still something to be avoided. Although Billy used to think she was kidding when she said Spencer was a ghost, Billy now suspected that she was genuinely spooked by the room and all it meant for their family. It wasn't especially unusual, he guessed. He'd been scared, too, before he'd actually met Spencer.
He was laying on Spencer's bed, kicking his feet around and flipping through one of Spencer's countless comic books. Behind him, he could hear Spencer cleaning up in his closet; it was too hot to go outside, July in full swing, and Billy was getting bored with his games and toys. Thus, he'd decided to pay Spencer a visit, since the ghost had been cooped up in his room all day anyway.
A few minutes in, Spencer began to hum softly; just a little, under his breath and smothered by the sounds of his efforts, but Billy caught it on the air. He decided not to say anything, to see where this would go, and after a few minutes, Spencer was singing.
Billy recognized the song, it was old. He didn't really know much about music, but he listened to it ravenously, even when he was really little.
"Blackbird singin' in the dead of night..." Spencer sang, soft and distracted, but Billy had to admit; he had the nicest voice. It wasn't anything like his usual tone, which was usually tinged with scorn and disinterest. Billy mostly thought he was just grouchy about being a ghost, but it was hard to tell. Spencer was a person with a lot of layers to him, and with every one Billy peeled away, the director seemed to only complicate further.
Billy was humming along with him after a few moments, lost in the soft sound of Spencer's voice. It was normally pretty boyish, the same way he had a face too young for his years, but he had a range that colored a rich, gravelly timbre beyond Billy's young, underdeveloped vocal capacity. But if he kept his range managed, Billy found, he could harmonize prettily with Spencer.
After a while Spencer finished the song and went quiet. Billy felt eyes on him, and turned around, only to find the ghost hovering just above him.
"Aah!" He leapt back, startled. "Don't do that to me, dude!" He breathed out through a soft, relieved smile.
"Don't call me 'dude,' this isn't the Jersey shore." Spencer groused, eyeing him in a peculiar way. Billy frowned at him. The ghost was wearing a button up and a tie today; his outfits seemed subject to his whim, able to change at an instant's notice. His tie dragged along Billy's chest like the head of a snake as he slid to Billy's eye level.
"Jeez, Spence, you sound more and more like an old man every day." Spencer gave him a hard look. Billy grinned. "Are you old a bitter?"
Spencer cracked a wry half-smile, a rare commodity. Spencer didn't smile a whole lot, but Billy always felt a swell of pride when he could make Spencer flash those pretty pearly whites. "A little tart, I suppose." Spencer floated down to lay beside him on the bed.
"You can sing pretty good." Billy commented.
Spencer stiffened visibly, jaw tensing, but then calmed. "Yeah, I used to sing a little, back when I was a bit older than you. I wasn't big-time good, though. Just 'mediocre' good."
Billy looked up at the ceiling. He didn't understand how someone could make music and not fall in love with it, how they could do it and not try their hardest.
"How can you make music, and not never give up? If I made music, I'd try as hard as I could." Billy said, turning to look at Spencer, surprised to find the man already turning to look at him.
"I wasn't good enough, you know? You make money doing what you're good at." Spencer said. "Besides, movies were my passion." He paused, a glint in his dark, intelligent eyes. Billy grew suspicious; he knew those eyes now, and he knew that glint meant that Spencer was on to something. "What are you good at, Billy?" The director asked.
Billy paused; that one kinda stung.
"Nothing. I mean, my grades are okay, I guess. But I'm not really good at anything, I'm just..." He used the word 'okay' pretty loosely. He made mostly Cs.
"Consistently average?" Spencer filled in.
Billy laughed. "Yeah, I guess. I used to wanna be a cowboy when I was little, but that's a dream for babies."
"Maybe you should make music, then, since you like it so much." Spencer suggested, a sly look slipping from beneath his eyelashes. Everything Spencer said seemed to linger on his tongue like he was tasting the words. It was like it had a purpose, like he was about to serve an idea like a dish to a guest. Billy laughed a little.
"I'm not any good at it." Billy said, clicking his tongue on his crooked teeth.
"Then get good. Everybody starts somewhere. Don't you want to make something you love for other people to enjoy?" A smile quirked the side of Spencer's mouth, a subtle narrowing of his eyes.
Those words were like poison. Billy bit his lips, closed his eyes, and wondered what it would be like. He could feel Spencer smiling, somehow, like a fisherman reeling in something big.
Slowly, Spencer seemed to care less and less about a lot of things. It worried Billy a little, like it was part of Spencer's decay. He was afraid that the ghost would rot with the corpse, a thought unusually morbid for a person as typically up-beat as Billy. Spencer talked like he didn't have any intention of withering, though.
"Hey, Spence?" Billy asked, knocking on his bedroom door. Despite having no earthly gravitation to the place, Spencer spent most of his time there. It seemed like there wasn't anything outside that interested him especially, and he generally kept to himself.
Spencer phased through the door, something Billy always thought was cool, and gave him a despondent stare. "It's three in the fucking morning." Spencer stated flatly. He didn't sleep, but he liked to pretend to keep a schedule, if only to set boundaries for exactly how much time he would spend with Billy. Billy understood it; Spencer was an adult, and he was dead, and he didn't seem to care about much beside himself and movies. It was strange, because he seemed like such an aggressive, ambitious person when Billy could get him talking. Billy wondered if he was more like that when he was alive.
"Yeah, I know, my mom's out cold. You should come watch tv with me or something, since she's not walkin' around in the house." Honestly, Billy just couldn't sleep. Although he did have other friends, Spencer was the only person he ever really spent significant time with. He bounced thoughts of of Spencer like a person bounces thoughts off of their own brain, it was such a constant, honest stream of connection.
Spencer regarded him sharply. "I want coffee." He said finally.
Billy's brow furrowed. "Coffee?" When Spencer ate from the kitchen, it was usually just junk food.
"Yeah. I used to like it a lot when I was alive." He said it like everything about him was past tense, even things like what he enjoyed, parts of his personality. Did he not think his personality existed any more? Billy didn't want to think too hard about the implications of that. "If you make me some coffee, we'll watch tv together." Of course it came with a stipulation. Spencer never seemed to do anything for free. Billy initially wanted to chalk it up to greed, but that wasn't it at all.
Spencer was a jerk, but he was a fair jerk. Ever since Billy met him, he'd been so give-and-take. He was annoyingly objective, Billy found. It wasn't something he, as a person driven mostly be emotional impulses, found understandable.
Billy shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Lets go." He led the way down the stairs and Spencer floated languidly behind him.
He reached the kitchen and flicked the light on. He didn't totally understand the fancy coffee machine that perched on the counter, but he could press a button well enough. It produced a precious cup of bitter brown liquid.
"How do you want this?" Billy asked Spencer, who was adjusting his tie and looking petulant. "Cream. No sugar. Heavy, heavy on the cream."
It turned out that Billy actually had to pour out some of the coffee to fit in the amount of cream Spencer wanted, but it was worth it when he saw Spencer's normally tense shoulders relax as he sipped it. Spencer hummed contentedly under his breath.
"Can we watch tv now?" Billy asked. He didn't want to push Spencer when he was in a good mood; he liked when Spencer was in a good mood. It made him feel a little brighter, a feeling tucked somewhere under his guts. He wasn't sure what it meant, but it made him shift uncomfortably.
"Oh, yes. You can go start up whatever you want." He looked at Billy suddenly. "I have something for you, actually. I had intended on giving it to you later, but since you want to stay up all night, I guess it won't matter. Be back in a minute." And with that, Spencer sailed out of the kitchen, handing his empty cup to Billy, who put it in the sink.
Billy put in a movie and Spencer came back. He was carrying two boxes, both quite huge, lifting them by some ghostly miracle, Billy could only assume. He placed them on the floor as the movie started up, the volume low as not to wake Billy's mother.
"What's all this junk?" Billy asked. Spencer threw him a short, tepid look.
"It's very old, mostly. Help me open the boxes." Billy slid off the couch and did as he was told.
One contained a record player. The other was stacked full of records, precious vinyl. "Wow." Billy muttered. "Where'd you get all this stuff?" Spencer shrugged.
"It's for you. Well, technically you owned it, but it's from my private collection and I considered it still mine, and that's all that matters." He pulled out a record and flipped it delicately in his hands. Spencer had long fingers, long and thin, like spiders legs. They were sort of strange sometimes, but they looked pretty precise and pretty when they twirled the thin disk so deftly.
"Why are you giving me this?" Billy asked. Spencer's eyes flashed.
"You like music, right?" Billy grinned.
"I love it!"
"Then that's why."
Billy looked through them later. They were of all different genres, but all classics, ranging from Beethoven to the Beatles. In the years to come, they would become one of Billy's most well-loved possessions. Spencer was a lot kinder than he let on, Billy discovered. In a subtle, significant way.
"Alright broham sandwich-"
"Do not call me that, Billy, I'll slap you off of that bike this instant." Spencer barked back, but there was a hint of a smile hidden in the dip of a dimple that formed in his cheek.
"Whoa, somebody's grouchy. Anyway, get ready!" Billy grabbed the handlebars of his new bike. Spencer just looked incredulous, floating there, but Billy could see the dark smile in his eyes. Spencer was somewhere between enjoying Billy's company and enjoying the prospect of Billy falling and busting his face in. Billy was beginning to suspect that most long-standing friendships worked like that on some level.
Spencer held the camera and pointed it at Billy, giving him an approving thumbs up. "All right!" Billy said, looking forward and taking his feet off of the ground. Before him was the patch of land just behind his house, outside of his fenced in yard. It was a dip into a ravine next to small, polluted stream, and it was worn down with bike tracks. Billy had been wanting to take another spin at it all week.
"Billy, if you get hurt, I can't call an ambulance." Spencer warned. Billy rolled his eyes; yeah, 'be careful' says the dead guy. What a hypocrite.
"Just because you can't handle my mad skills doesn't mean I cant." Billy said smugly as he began to roll down the hill.
Billy woke up in the hospital with a cast on his leg. He and Spencer watched the video of his crash later, and Billy kept it as a trophy, even though it was kinda scary to watch.
Spencer was actually pretty cool during his first few weeks Billy spent with his cast on. At first he made fun of Billy for doing something stupid-it made Billy's cheeks and chest burn-but then he spent time in Billy's room with him, something pretty rare. He brought comic books to read to him, and some days, when it was especially hot outside, they'd just lay on Billy's bed and listen to the records Spencer gave him.
Billy's mother, of course, was in a tizzy. His bike had been taken away, and she spent a lot of time checking in on him and taking his temperature.
"Baruch, what am I gonna do with you?" She'd sigh, handing him pain killers.
"Don't call my Baruch, mom, its such a weird name." He'd grunt, and she'd roll her eyes. Kids.
"Billy, Here, I think you'll like this one." Spencer put on what Billy had grown to recognize as Tchaikovsky. It was beautiful, no doubt. Billy closed his eyes.
Confined to his bed, music was like a door to another world, like Narnia or something. He could lose himself in it, which was fantastic, because being so bedridden might have driven him crazy otherwise.
"Next, we'll listen to something from the European invasion, I should think. Good change of pace. And then something in the rap genre, since we haven't listened to any recently." Spencer said, more to himself than anything. Spencer had a good talking voice, Billy noticed, lying there with his eyes closed. It was so much easier to hear when his vision wasn't distracting him, and he'd spent so much time with Spencer's voice he'd assumed he'd known it perfectly. But it had a hidden timbre, its surface smoothness like the grating of resin as a bow passed over strings made from cat gut. But it's grind, that low, sparking part of it that was too masculine, and that came out when Spencer spoke too earnestly; that was more like the vibration and twang of a bass guitar, low and abrasive. Spencer felt acute deja-vu.
What a good voice.
Billy opened his eyes. "Can I sing, Broseidon, king of the brocean?" Billy said, smiling at Spencer from across the room. For a change, Spencer smiled back, putting on some Bobby McFerrin with his long, nimble hands. "Don't worry, be happy." he lied about the European invasion, but Spencer was never good at following his own rules, only at making sure other people followed them.
"Don't call me that." Spencer said, and then considered the question. "You can if you want to. Do you want to?" Spencer asked. Billy sat up in his bed, leg immobile.
"More than anything, I think. Is it weird?"
"Not at all." Spencer said, floating over to Spencer.
Billy swallowed his pride, sucked in his lip, furrowed his brow. If it were anyone else, he'd do this without hesitation, but this was Spencer he was talking about. Spencer was very critical, blunt, and a person whose opinion meant the world to Billy, even if he'd never admit it.
"Spence, can I sing for you?" He asked, heart beating hard.
Spencer gave him a long stare. "Of course, by all means. What are you gonna sing?"
"Dunno. Can I sing along with this?"
"Sure."
Billy cleared his throat once, and then twice, and then a third time because he felt so nervous. Spencer didn't seem impatient, he simply sat at the foot of Billy's bed and stared quietly at him, expectant but not urgent. He had that calm, contemplative look in his eyes.
"Don't be nervous. It doesn't have to be perfect. You only have to try. That's all you can ever do." Those words seemed awfully serious to Billy, but he let it go, unsure of what to make of them.
Billy sang for him. He could tell that he messed parts of it up, but Spencer didn't cringe or reprimand him. He tried hard, though, as hard as he could, to get it right, and it felt good. He felt like he could say things-albeit clumsily-with tone and cadence that he couldn't otherwise, through simple conversation. It felt really, really good to sing, raised hairs on his arms, made time impossible to perceive. After a while, he forgot about Spencer completely.
The song ended. Billy looked up, and Spencer was still sitting there, staring evenly at him. Billy wasn't used to being nervous, but he was.
"You're not good." Spencer said.
Billy's heart fell. He felt like crying. "O-oh." His spit felt thick in his mouth.
"Do it again."
"Huh?" Spencer looked up.
"Do you hate what I just said?" Billy froze. Hate? He wasn't sure. He was disappointed, not angry. But it was a brand of hate a brand of cold ice in his veins, he realized. Just not the hate he was used to, not the kind of hate he felt when he got picked on at school, or when his mom would punish him.
"I...I guess. A little, I'm sorry, I mean-"
"Don't make excuses. Do you love music?"
"Yes!" More than anything, with every day that love grew, blossomed. He'd always loved music, but Spencer gave it to him so openly, he quickly became ravenous.
"Then don't apologize for your performance." Billy didn't understand what Spencer wanted from him. "Now sing again. Over and over, enjoy it until it hurts, and then a little more."
Billy wanted to, he found. He wanted to, so badly it almost hurt.
"I'm gonna change your mind." Billy said sharply, glaring up at Spencer.
Spencer gave him a warm, hard smile. His eyes flashed again, dark pupils widening.
"I look forward to the day."
Spencer put on Simon & Garfunkel, The Sounds Of Silence, and Billy sang until his throat burned up.
"Baruch, be careful." Billy's mother supported him on the stairs as he stumbled down them on crutches.
A couple of his friends from school had come over the previous day and signed his cast, and he was proud enough to be motivated by it. He decided to try out his crutches so he could at least move around his own house.
"If you break your neck, I'm going to murder you and bury you int he yard. No one will ever know." His mother threatened. Billy just rolled his eyes. Spencer was spotting him invisibly, so it wasn't as though he was in any actual danger.
Spencer floated beside him along the staircase, watching him carefully.
"If she murders you and buries you in the yard and I'm the sole witness, I will set your corpse on fire." Spencer said flatly. Billy kicked at him at his own expense, almost tumbling down the stairs.
Billy later discovered that Spencer could play piano. When asked why he never told anyone before, Spencer just shrugged.
"It was never relevant to my career." He said. Spencer seemed to be purely driven by ambition, less frivolous than Billy by far.
"Can you play for me?" Billy asked, almost feverishly, with enthusiasm he was too excited to be embarrassed about. Spencer gave him a genuinely surprised expression.
"You want to hear me play? It's not exciting." Spencer said. Billy put down the Xbox controller and stood up.
"C'mon, my mom's out shopping, you can totally get away with it." Billy said, eyes twinkling with joy. Spencer rolled his own eyes, languid and sprawled on the couch like a big cat. He was dressed in that shirt with the red monster on it again, a can of red bull perched on his chest. Spencer didn't need to eat or drink, but he did it anyway. He liked to indulge in things, and didn't seem to care much about rules anymore. He was too dead to fear consequences of anything, Billy figured.
"You're so impatient." Spencer drawled.
"Well, yeah, mostly because you're so slow!" Billy argued. Spencer floated up into the air and put the half empty can of energy drink onto the coffee table.
"Alright, alright, I'll play. What would you like me to play?" Spencer asked as Billy led to the way to the sitting room. It was big, and unused, and had a piano in it that nobody-besides Spencer, apparently-in the house could play.
"I don't, know, whatever you know how to play, I guess! If you get up there and plink out 'Mary Had A Little lamb', I'll laugh at you, though." Billy said, flashing a grin at Spencer, who rolled his eyes.
Spencer sat down on the dark, gleaming piano bench and flipped up the lip of wood over the ivory keys. They shone, glossy, and for a moment Billy saw Spencer seem to get lost. "You know, music was never my thing, not really. I wanted more than that. But..." He touched the keys. "...I always liked the piano." Billy had expected as much; Spencer was too good at understanding music not to be able to make it.
"Shit." Spencer whispered. "Give me a minute." He closed his eyes and placed his hands over the keys. They hovered there, wrists suspended as if cupped around bubbles of air, hanging there, fingers spread and softly curved over the keys. His fingertips hovered over them carefully.
Billy was suddenly aware that he was seeing an intensely intimate thing, something he almost understood, as an aspiring musician. It seemed sacred, private, like walking in on a lover's touch. Billy was very quiet, wanting to disappear and just listen to whatever Spencer might produce, making a face like that, fingers twitching like they were. Anticipatory, adoring, his eyes scanned over the keys. "I played when I was a kid, and into adulthood." Spencer said, as an afterthought. "I might be a little rusty, though."
In one motion, Spencer lowered his fingers, and began to play. It wasn't what Billy expected, though certainly beautiful.
It was lumbering and fierce, loping, heavy, and angry. It's rhythm was deep and simple, its higher notes tumultuous and unpredictable. It was beautiful, though Billy had no idea what it was. Spencer's fingers danced in ways that Billy could only envy, his long fingers moving quickly and perfectly, artful calculations streaming through his veins. Spencer's feet worked the pedals while his fingers worked the keys, eyes shut, dark, soot colored eyelashes fanned out against his high, translucent cheekbones. It was so fierce, so unexpected, so audibly rich, that Billy couldn't help his fixation on those fingers, on that sound. Spencer was good, unbelievably so; how had not told anyone, how had he not pursued a career in music? Billy didn't understand him at all.
When Spencer wound down to a finish, a rising crescendo melting into a deliciously rich and hateful melody, he opened his eyes and breathed out calmly into a room with a soundless, one person audience. It really was a shame that Spencer was dead, Billy thought.
"Teach me." Billy said, hunger seeping through his voice. He didn't bother to hide it.
Spencer smiled, wide and genuine, teeth showing, a gleam in his eyes. "Climb on."
Billy climbed on next to him, and then into Spencer's lap. In any other context, the contact would've been weird and awkward, but right then Billy couldn't think of a better place to be. Billy placed his hands on top of Spencer's two translucent, ghostly hands, and they began to move yet again, this time producing a much sweeter sound.
It was only one of the many, many things Spencer would teach Billy in the course of his life.
AN: Woowow ok holy shit, didn't think i'd actually keep working on this, but then i did? um
idk if its actually any good or not, spencer's taste in music notwithstanding, (since i sort of took a lot of liberties with spencer's character, mostly with the intention of developing him in a backwards sort of way. he's going to get more dickish and then a lot less dickish very suddenly, i promise. theres a reason.) so reviews r much appreciated! i cant rly write my way out a wet paper bag, so this is sorta for funsies, haha