Billy was fourteen and increasingly frustrated.
Everyone liked him. It was a sort of easy thing for him to achieve, being friendly and outgoing, not to mention pretty talented. He was no savant, of course, but he could play the guitar and piano decently at fourteen, and his teenage peers were nothing if not easily impressed.
He was taller than most people in his class, with short black hair and sky blue braces hell bent on fixing his wonky smile. He got his first girlfriend-her name was Sara-about two weeks before spring break, and boy, she was pretty. Nice, too. So all in all, things were going well; he had plenty of friends, got along well with everyone, and was generally considered to be a cool, talented guy. This was the approval he'd always had to strive for as a child, the thing he'd always wanted most; to make people happy.
So why wasn't Spencer happy? Like, ever?
The ghost would take him into his room and help him play guitar, string his fingers over the notes, help him learn to plink away the piano. And Billy got better-it was so gratifying when he got better-but Spencer never seemed to be proud of him at all, just happy to have gotten it over with. Despite Spencer's passion for the arts, he seemed so far away and unreachable.
"You're still not good enough." Spencer would say, every single time. It made Billy so angry and embarrassed he wanted to punch the dark, smart eyes off of Spencer's chilled face. When Billy would challenge him, say he'd get better just to prove him wrong, something would appear in Spencer's eyes, just for a second. But then he'd just smooth it out, like swiping his hands over wrinkles in a sheet to flatten it, and all of the expression would fall from his face like water from a duck's back.
"You're mediocre, if I squint. You don't have innate talent." Spencer would say. "But if you give up, I guess you'll stay a nobody. Do you want that?"
Those words stung so much. It never changed, no matter how hard Billy tried, and God, did he try. His calloused fingers bled over guitar strings, voice sang till it was hoarse. All of his teenage peers thought Billy was some kind of genius, but Spencer never looked at him twice, even as he bent over his shoulder and lovingly pressed his fingers to ivory keys. It was all mixed messages and stony eyes, and Billy was growing impatient. He couldn't afford to wait for Spencer's approval, but he couldn't escape wanting it, either.
Billy gave up, Vivaldi playing in the background, on his third day of spring break. Spencer has chastised him for what he thought had to be the very last time.
He slammed his guitar down on his bed, the electric red of it stinging in his mind. He heard Spencer look up from his desk.
It was no secret that he practiced in here any more-his mother knew-but the place was still sacred. He was tired of treating Spencer like an idol, like the ideal he chased after when he was a kid, when all Spencer really was was unfortunate and mean spirited.
"Billy?" Spencer asked flatly. Billy's stomach burned and he thought he might cry. He was the sort who came to tears easily, a real crybaby, the kind who sobs even under the insuperable stress of minutia. But he wasn't about to give Spencer the satisfaction of conquering him, not like this. He was so sick of it. He loved Spencer, they were closer than anyone he knew, but it was all so one sided, so filled with barbs, so hard to navigate.
"You know, you could at least pretend to like me." Billy said. The words tumbled out before he could stop them; he was usually so good at holding his tongue when it came to Spencer, who read into words far deeper than Billy did, but he was so angry they just came out.
Spencer rounded on him immediately, eyes dark and sharp. Billy had awoken the kraken; he'd never seen Spencer angry, not really, not before.
"Excuse me?" Spencer said, his voice a low, boiling warning. Billy didn't take it, he was too far beyond the point where he could be warned.
"It's seriously like you just decided to wake up and torture me, you know? Every day, you pull this stunt where you treat me like a pet project and then tear me a new asshole every time I'm not exactly what you planned!" Billy wasn't sure when exactly it was he had thought these thoughts, but they were so true it hurt him physically to express them verbally. "I'm not perfect, so what, sue me! Maybe I should just give up, since I'm not getting any better."
Spencer's posture changed suddenly, and he floated up into the air. No, he didn't float. Float was something petals did down a stream, ducklings after their mother. Spencer ascended, weight moving with him, like the barrel of a cannon; dangerous. Billy could tell he was trying to scare this conversation away, trying to confront it without touching it, keeping his precious hands clean of nasty words. But Billy was sick of pretense.
"Billy, you're being rash. Sit down." Spencer said flatly.
"No, fuck you!" Billy shouted at him, hands balling into fists at his sides. "Stop treating me like a little kid!"
"Then stop acting like one. Go practice, I'm busy."
"Busy? Doing what, rolling in your grave!?" Billy felt heat rise to his cheeks and boil under his eyelids. "You've been such an asshole ever since I met you! Since day one, you've just been so..." He lost his words, clenched his fists, gritted his teeth. Forget music, forget Spencer.
Billy would never normally talk about Spencer's death like that. Although Spencer seemed to confront it flatly, Billy always suspected that it hurt, that there was some unseen wound there. Spencer was the type to his his injuries. But Billy didn't care. He felt like he had the right to pick it open, to hurt Spencer in whatever way he knew how. He didn't have much leverage over the spirit, but what he did have were all pretty nasty tricks.
"I give up on this, I give up on you, you manipulative toolbag! All you do is sit up here in your room and yell at me, that's what your afterlife amounts to. Does that make you feel good? Do you get off on yelling at kids or something?" Billy shouted. He wanted to take a swing at Spencer, who was being so frustratingly quiet, eyes narrowed to menacing little slits.
"I hate you, and I hate your stupid bullshit. You can have this back." Billy picked up the guitar and threw it at Spencer, who caught it reverently, finally seeming shaken. Spencer had gotten it for Billy as a present a long time ago, and at the time, Billy had been so happy he'd actually cried a little. It was a gift he'd cried over once, and he was about to do it again.
Spencer looked at the guitar, and then up at Billy. He seemed lost and broken and small, all very suddenly. Billy felt his heart swell, getting some dark satisfaction from knowing he could hurt Spencer, that the wounding wasn't so one sided after all. The satisfaction would later be hounded by shame, but in the moment it glowed like a terrible, sharp ember.
"And you can have back your piano lessons, and your records, and your stupid movies. I'm out."
Spencer didn't move. He said nothing. His eyes darted around but didn't settle on anything. Billy watched his demeanor peel out from under him, slipping off and away. It was terrifying, in a sense, to see Spencer crumble. Like watching a unicorn bleed.
Billy had to force himself out of the room. He turned back in the doorway. Spencer wasn't fighting back at all, not like he'd expected. He'd wanted Spencer to get mad, to acknowledge him, but instead he just stood there, stoic and weak. It was disappointing, and Billy didn't want to look at him any more. It made him sick with guilt.
Spencer looked so dead, so blank, so far away that Billy just left.
He stormed out of his house as his mother asked worriedly what all the yelling was about.
"Baruch, what's wrong?" She followed him outside, her pretty blue bell dress enveloping him as she hugged him. He hugged her back, as hard as he could, and wondered what he was supposed to do now. Fix things? He wasn't sure if he could, and duelly wished for nothing more and hated the idea of admitting defeat. Let them stay? Was that even an option? Maybe Spencer would just forget it. But that little outburst had been building for years, and Billy was never very good at keeping things to himself.
"Mom, will you drive me to Sara's house?" Billy asked, voice hoarse from yelling.
His mother stilled for a moment. "Are you sure? Sweetie, are you alright?"
"Yeah, sure." he smiled, a little weakly and with a little too much enthusiasm to be natural. "I just really wanna talk to her, is all." he wanted to talk to anyone, really, anyone who would listen. Usually, he thought with a twang of guilt, that person was Spencer.
Sara wasn't much help. She was a sweet girl, with long red hair and pretty eyes, but Billy quickly remembered that he couldn't actually tell her anything. What would he say, that he'd fought with his best friend, who happened to be dead? She'd think he was crazy. He tried to start the conversation, but couldn't.
"Billy, why don't we go to the mall? My mom is going later, we should go too!" She suggested. Billy looked at her, a little distracted, but smiled. Yeah, he needed this. Sara was a sweet girl, it'd be fun and would take his mind off things.
He kissed her forehead, a little red in the cheeks, and she giggled, looking away. "Um, okay." she said, and held his hand. Sara was so pretty and so sweet; any dude would be lucky to call her his girlfriend. It was a warm, happy feeling that swelled in his heart, but.
But.
He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about the 'but' because what it meant was scary.
Billy wasn't totally sure he even liked girls. He felt terrible for what he wasn't even sure was a lie. It was all so confusing. He hoped it wasn't true, so he could keep dating Sara. She was too nice to hurt.
He went to the mall with her. They met some of his other friends there briefly, before they decided to see a movie.
"Which one do you think is good, Billy? I like the scary ones best!" Billy shivered. He didn't like them much; Spencer had totally ruined them for him, with how jumpy he made Billy, always trying to scare him. Billy drove his thoughts away from Spencer again, because they made him angry and hot with guilt.
"Man, its seriously like noon, we should see a happy movie while its nice and sunny out! Scary movies are for after dark." Billy said. It was a plausible excuse; everyone at school thought he was some kind of horror junkie because he was related to the famous Spencer Wright. His knowledge of horror movies was so extensive only because he forced himself to sit through them to spend time with an undead director, which wasn't a good explanation.
She made a soft, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "Hmmm...Alright, I think I know which one we'll see!"
The movie was good, and sitting in the dark among his friends was oddly therapeutic.
Sara's mom dropped Billy off at his house later than he'd expected. It was already getting dark out, and he could only give Sara a peck on the cheek as he climbed out of their car.
"Thanks for taking me to the movies!" he said to Sara's mother, who just smiled brightly and told him it wasn't any trouble at all, that he should drop by more often. Sara grinned at him and he kissed her cheek again.
They pulled away, and Billy felt like a shitty boyfriend. He didn't even kiss her on the mouth. He hated being dishonest with people, especially people he cared about, but he could never tell her that he dreaded the day when she'd want him to kiss her properly, or, god forbid, do-the-do. Not that he had much to worry about at fourteen, but it bothered him anyway. He felt like he had something to be ashamed of. He looked down at his feet and walked up to his door, the house key strung around his neck fitting into the lock easily.
He was suddenly apprehensive about Spencer, but when he locked the door and flicked the lights on, the ghost was nowhere in sight.
Billy walked into the living room; there was a note on the coffee table.
Baruch,
I got called into work suddenly, and had to take off. There's peanut butter and jelly in the fridge if you want a snack, but you'd better be in bed by midnight! I don't wanna come home and find all the lights on again!
-Love, Mom.
Billy sighed. His Mom's job had a weird schedule. To be honest, she didn't really need to have one, but Billy suspected that she felt unproductive without one. He didn't totally understand the sentiment.
He walked into the kitchen and got a jar of peanut butter, popping it open and spooning some out and into his mouth. It was really good, just like he remembered, and he calmed down almost immediately. He sat down at the kitchen table, licked peanut butter out of the spoon, and thought numbly about the events of the day. Everything made him feel sick and tired.
He then heard a thump up stairs. It had to be Spencer.
Billy slowly dragged the spoon out of his mouth. He knew he needed to apologize. Spencer was an asshole, that was true, and maybe he was a little rougher on Billy then he needed to be, but after yelling and letting his temper go, Billy felt like he'd been in the wrong. For being such a big jerk, Spencer had also spent countless hours gently tutoring him on how to play instruments, had babysat him when his leg was broken, had helped him work up the courage to ask Sara out for the first time.
"You can do anything." Spencer had said into Billy's ear as the boy stood next to her locker. "You can do it if you try." Spencer had even followed Billy school to give him a pep talk, to make him feel less alone. And when she'd said yes, Billy had been ecstatic.
Spencer contradicted himself a lot. He'd say things like "you can do anything" and then turn around and tell Billy how terrible he was. It didn't make any sense, Billy was missing something, some motive that he couldn't see behind Spencer's finely constructed wall of barbs and childishness. Billy was sure there was something behind it. It was never something he'd thought to unearth, but it seemed like he'd have to if their friendship was going to work.
He stood, resolute, and put the peanut butter back in the fridge. He'd apologize, and talk to Spencer properly. Part of him didn't want to admit he was wrong, but this was Spencer he was talking about. He could always be honest with Spencer.
He climbed the stairs, but with each step he began to feel cold. Dark, like a cloud had passed over the sun and a cold breeze had descended from the sky. He could hear music from upstairs, more of Spencer's records no doubt. It felt heavy, weighed on his back, a thick, stifling miasma. It was Vivaldi that drifted down the stairs in cold wafts. Billy felt his nerves prickle. He could hear movement upstairs.
He climbed the stairs and reached the hallways where his bedroom and Spencer's bedroom were. It was dark, save for a strange light emanating from below Spencer's door. It was a deep red, sunset red, angry wound red. Billy gulped. This was unusual, this was unnatural. There was a chill throughout the house. Billy could hear soft whispers from the room, some like slithering, softly and a distance away, like a dimension was hidden in there. Billy slowly opened the door.
Spencer was there, hanging in the air like a fine mist. He seemed to be suspended on the atmosphere like rising steam.
His room was trashed. The bed was slung into the opposite wall, cracks in the drywall spilling fine dust. His crates of movies knocked over, masks torn to shreds and spread about the room, his camera ripped from the tripod and flung to the corner. The record player scratched on, skipping occasionally. The red glow covered the room like paint. Billy's pendant, the one Spencer had put on him years ago, grew hot and heavy in the center of his chest, so much it almost burned him.
"S...Spencer?" Billy used his full name for the first time in a long time. The ghost was facing away from him, and suddenly he seemed to crackle and smear, bolts shattering out from his body in random succession, electrifying the air and making the hair on Billy's arms stand up. Billy's eyes widened and his pulse quickened. He felt fear set in like a cold stone in his stomach when he walked in, the door slamming shut and locking behind him, seemingly of its own free will. Billy screamed and scrambled back away from Spencer, who turned to look over his shoulder.
His eyes were dark, black in his eye sockets, like some great dark machine churned behind them. Billy could hear his tongue slithering behind his teeth, soft whispers escaping his mouth, his body seeming to shatter and rebuild itself with electric wires. It felt angry. It felt hateful, and sad, and mindless, like there was nothing left of Spencer at all.
The thing smiled, its teeth like tombstones, its eyes a pair of grinning black pearls. Something swam beneath the surface of those little tar pools, a shark beneath stagnant waters.
"Come on Spence, this isn't funny!" Billy shouted in vain. It turned on him.
Its teeth were shined to a killing gloss.
"Oh, hello Baruch." It said. Its voice was a metallic mockery of Spencer's. It was strung together from many voices, finely controlled into one sound.
This wasn't like in the movies, where the ghost knocks over some lamps or kills a goldfish. It wasn't jump scares or cheap screams. It was nothing like it. It was pure fear that bolted down Billy's spine, knowing that this thing could kill him, and God, it looked like it wanted to. It was Spencer on strings, some hateful, out of control part of him suspended in the air.
Billy was never brave. He screamed in the theater when he saw horror movies, and cried easily. He liked to take the easy way out, to make things as painless as possible. But this wasn't a time when running away was an option, when he could even consider giving up. This was Spencer, his best friend, the man who had taken him into his arms when he was ten years old and taught him to sing. He wasn't about to lose him to some ghost thing, some ethereal hate.
Billy stood on shaking legs. The Spencer-thing reacted, hot breath escaping its nose like a horse, debris from around the room lifting into the air by some unseen power and circulating around them. It felt like wind, pushing on Billy. It was so heavy and murky, a power so great it was trying to suffocate him. If he stayed too long, it'd crush him like the bottom of the ocean and he'd die. He could feel his ears began to ring, the pressure on his skull setting in. He gritted his teeth.
The Spencer-thing opened its mouth and spoke. It spoke in dreamspeak, a universally understood tongue, not a language but a firing of synapses, strung together on the fabric of reality. Billy could hear his voice. This thing wanted him dead. If his mother got home, it'd kill her too.
Was this what a haunting was really like?
He took a step forward. It was hard; the thing pushed back against him every time, its teeth clicking together, threatening to bite.
"Come on Spencer, this isn't you!" He had to squint, his head throbbing, his legs threatening to break. He finally reached the thing, its blood so bright, its skeleton electric.
He reached out to it, his fingertips hovering over its chest. Sparks of red electric yarn extended from its sternum and connected, stinging, to his sensitive fingertips. It burned as they laced into his arm and up his bloodstream, trying to break his arm from the inside. He knew that if he gave up, it would crush him like an insect, that smile on its face, those black eyes honed in on him like those of a shark. The warped, sickly sound of Vivaldi swam around him like poison.
Spencer heard the sounds of distorted piano playing, the noise of a baby crying, his vision flashing in and out. His palm connected with Spencer's chest, and it was so hot he felt his hand burn, felt his skin sizzle. He bit back a scream as his hand broke and distorted, becoming malformed and nonfunctional before him. He knew it wasn't real. Spencer would never do this to him.
"Come on, Spencer..." He pushed forward, other hand on Spencer's chest; God it hurt, God, it was scary. He hoped he would live to see his mother again, to talk to Sara, to apologize to Spencer, or maybe kill him.
He looked up at its face. A strange, inhuman thing stared back at him, face no longer a discernible body part. It was warped, mutant and undulating on Spencer's shoulders, black eyes always stationary, always looking. They reached into Billy's mind, clicking around like beetles in his head, pulling strings, making him see things.
"No." he growled, pressing his body against Spencer's. He couldn't hear it screaming before, but when their chests touched, he felt it. He felt it scream when he touched it, felt it sizzle and writhe, and he knew he had power over it. He had power over this thing because he had power over Spencer.
He reached around it, arms circling around its waist. He could feel it opening his skin, breaking his bones. He could feel his intestines stringing with Spencer's, bodies melting together, distorted and nightmarish, he didn't dare open his eyes, save to look into those two black orbs that stared down at him.
And then it stopped. There was a soft pop, and the pain disappeared, followed by a feeling of sudden motion. Billy realized too late that was was falling, broken glass suspended in the air around them. The cold night air bit his over sensitive body, his mind reeling. Spencer was in his arms, as human has he could manage, eyes closed, chest chilled. They fell through the air for what felt like forever, the night sky punctuated by bright pinpricks of light, stars on the horizon.
Billy saw Spencer's face; he looked so peaceful, like he was sleeping. His arms were still around the ghost, who sailed through the air, the sparkling lights of the broken glass flashing around them. Billy's hands and arms were fine, his body not broken and mutated but in its normal form, the illusion dissipated.
They hit the ground. Spencer's eyes opened and he took the most of the damage, sparing Billy possible injury from falling so far. It still knocked the wind out of him, vision flashing white. He lay there on Spencer, catching his breath, his heart beating so fast it felt like it was going to break his ribs. He gasped for air, the cold night air burning his lungs, searing his throat. He sat up on Spencer's waist and looked down.
Spencer was laying there, comatose, eyes barely open, peering up at Billy with those dark, pretty eyes, wreathed in thick, dark eyelashes. Billy smiled, and felt a giggle bubble up out of his throat.
"Oh God. Oh, thank God." he bent down and put his head in the crook of Spencer's neck.
The ghost coughed, and Billy felt a hand circle around and hold him. The he felt Spencer's chest have and shake, choked sob escaping his throat. He rolled over and curled his body around Billy, now on his side. Billy looked up; tracks of ectoplasm made their way down Spencer's face, his expression contorted in pain.
"Don't leave me..." he muttered, leaning in to press his mouth to Billy's forehead.
"Oh, brometheus, I'm so sorry..." Billy rubbed his back with shaking hands.
"I'm so lonely, and so scared, I miss my friends..." Spencer cried. "I wanna go home. I wanna die. Please, why couldn't I just have died?" Spencer drew back and looked at Billy. Billy could see how weak he was. This was a side of Spencer he was never supposed to see. He was only ever supposed to see the jackass who watched movies in his room all day, the untouchable director, aloof and far away.
"I'm so sorry, Billy. I thought...I thought that if I was your worst enemy, I could have control, you know?" Spencer sniffed. "I thought that if I could be your best friend and worst enemy, you'd be untouchable. But I'm not in control, am I? Obviously...I'm spiraling out of control..." Billy, eyes wide, just petted Spencer's back and let him talk. "But I'm a shitty friend, huh? Shitty teacher, shitty person. It's always been that way."
"Spencer, you..." Billy drew back and looked at Spencer, who suddenly looked tired beyond his years.
"I miss Rajeev and Shanilla. I miss my mom and dad. And Jessica." Spencer said. Billy didn't know those people, but he looked down, saddened anyway. "I miss making movies, I miss doing what I love."
"You're a shitty ghost, too, you know that?" Billy slapped his arm and Spencer laughed a little. "That was the first evidence of a proper haunting I've seen from you so far. Gotta say, gonna have nightmares about that for a while, though, lil bro peep." Billy admitted.
Spencer stayed quiet for a while, winding down from crying. "I get it, you know?" Billy said. "I get it now, why you were so rough with me. But I'm not some pet project, okay? I'm not..." Billy sighed. "I want you to trust me. I want us to be equals, even though I'm just a dumb kid and you're...well, Spencer Wright." Billy paused. "I want you to tell me when you're sad. Preferably before you go all exorcist on me." Spencer snorts in response. "Spinning head and pea soup and everything."
"I'm sorry for using you." Spencer murmured softly. Billy liked this voice, too. The one reserved only for him the one only he had ever heard. Spencer trusted him, and it made him smile, just a little, heart fluttering. "I love you, Billy." Spencer said, head on Billy's small shoulder. Billy's heart glowed, swelling to fill his ribcage and spilling over it. It was like running cool water over a burn, like tasting something sweet, like seeing a skyscraper or listening to the Beatles for the first time.
"Yeah, you too, broseph." Billy smiled broadly and put his hand on the back of Spencer's head, feeling his soft locks. The pendant Spencer had given him felt heavy on his chest, but it didn't burn, not any more. He felt like he could conquer anything.
Billy's heart burned, a shudder running from the crown on his head to the tips of his toes. He loved Spencer Wright so much it hurt, so much he'd fight that ghost, so much he'd lay in the yard in a pixie ring of broken glass and wait for him to be done crying.
Billy's mom was furious about the broken window, demanded to know what had happened. Rather than tell her he'd been in Spencer's room and has been assailed by a ghost, he told her he went outside and broke the window playing ball. She demanded to know why he was playing ball so late in the day, since he never played, but Billy kept it about as ambiguous as he could. It worked, and she chalked it up to Billy being rambunctious and in the midst of puberty. Billy didn't like lying to her, but her finding out the truth wouldn't be any better for her mental state than simply thinking her son was a bit loopy.
Of course, if she ever saw how trashed Spencer's room was, she'd be livid. Spencer himself was pretty furious when he saw it, apparently having no recollection of wrecking the place, and had, in a comfortingly familiar fashion, began tidying up.
He spent the next few days googling things about ghosts. He remained shaken for a while, and had a couple nightmares, but Spencer was as non-threatening as he could be. Softer than usual, even, though he remained stern and lofty. Whatever he faced when he was out of it, he was healthier for it; he referred to himself in the past tense less, and generally seemed to care more about things, even in small, subtle ways that only Billy noticed.
Billy wasn't sure what to type into the search engine next, and leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. Spencer sailed overhead, descending in a mist to float next to Billy.
"Try 'apparition' in stead of 'poltergeist.' Maybe that's different?" Spencer suggested. He wanted to know what was going on as badly as Billy, and they seemed to level with each other at least on this.
"Ugh, why don't you know this stuff about yourself, brosephone?" Billy asked, short tempered and tired. Spencer shot him a warning look, and he made a note to revise his mood.
"I don't make the rules, I just follow them. Like you wearing that stupid novelty pendant; if I had my way, you'd be able to see me without it. I don't know how it works, I just have to do it." How gloriously unhelpful, Billy thought, rolling his eyes.
"But you knew this was possible. I mean, ghosts freaking out and hurting people is common in movies and stuff." Billy said, trying yet another route on Wikipedia.
"Well, yes. But to be fair, you never asked about it, or did any research of your own." Spencer shrugged. "I had assumed that because I'm not exactly a vengeful spirit, I wasn't capable of..." Spencer trailed off. Billy relaxed; he could feel the shame on Spencer's breath. He felt genuinely horrible about what had happened. Billy had been angry the following day, but it became quickly apparent that the experience was as traumatic, if not even more so, for Spencer as it was for Billy. Besides, Billy could never hold a grudge. He was far too capricious for it.
"What are you talking about, I used to ask you about your ghosty stuff all the time!" Billy play argued.
Spencer shot him a wry smile. "Yeah, but most of your questions were things like 'do you poop?'" Billy laughed a little.
"Speaking of which, since you don't have blood or a cardiovascular system that functions, is it possible for you to..." Billy turned and gave Spencer a sly, middle school sort of look. "...y'know?"
Spencer gave him possibly the most unamused, flat stare Billy had ever seen, before floating directly upwards and through the ceiling.
Billy was just happy that things were back tot he way they should be; he and Spencer together.
idk how i feel about this one! its p bad hhhhh