Birthday
Specs: Miscommunication
Jesus Christ, it's hot in here. I've been trying to avoid being here all night, and now it's got and sweaty and I really just want to get the hell out. I managed to kill awhile upstairs playing cards, but then Spot showed up and he looked like he had business with Race, and I do not want to get involved in Spot Conlon's business, and anyway, I was pretty much broke.
I hate parties. I hate them. I never fit in; I never talk to people, I never know what to say if someone talks to me. I didn't want to come, I really didn't, but everyone was going. And even then I'd have skipped out, but he had to ask me to come. His smile, his perfect hair, soft voice, gorgeous lips and Jesus Christ I need to stop thinking thoughts like that about Dutchy.
Just because he's the most beautiful person I've ever seen doesn't mean I should think like that. It's sick and wrong, even if it is fun, even if he is beautiful.
And he is. I can see him from my spot on the wall, and he's got a girl on each arm and he's prettier than either one. He's got the right look, and he just radiates… I don't know the word; it's that thing that makes you want to be friends with him, to be near him, even before you meet him. Like he glows in a crowd, like he's where the fun is, and people like me only get to watch him across the room because people like me don't have that thing that makes it okay to talk to the gorgeous, glowing blond with a girl on either arm.
I don't even know what that thing is. I just know I don't have it. Like, when he says hi to me in the morning and I choke trying to answer and can barely even say hi back. Let alone actually have a conversation with the guy. I'd love to; I bet he's got lots to say. I mean, he talks to everyone all the time, everyone loves talking to him. But I just can't. I don't know what to say. It's not that I don't want to, I just don't know how.
So I watch, and I wish he hadn't asked me to come. I knew I shouldn't have. Parties make me depressed, I always end up sitting out, watching and wishing I could be someone else, wishing I could be him, and hating him for it. Because it's just not fair that someone can be so popular and so good with people and so gorgeous and so fucking perfect.
The glasses even look good on him. On me, they just look awkward and awful, but on him they look like high fashion. They're an accessory, just like the girls. Those stupid fucking girls who fawn on him all the time, because he's glowing in the crowd.
Glowing? Okay, maybe not. Dutchy may be beautiful, but he's not glowing. He's not an angel, like I imagine to myself at night when everyone else is asleep. God didn't send him to make my life better, if anything he makes it worse. He makes me want him, and I can never have him. I can never even talk to him, what would I say? I'm just me, just Specs, the other kid with glasses, the one who follows behind the crowd but can't be part of it.
Goddamnit I want to leave. Why the hell don't I just leave?
I don't leave because he's still here. I don't leave because where would I go? It's either stand here with free beer and be depressed, but watch the most gorgeous man in the world, or leave and sit alone at home, depressed, without even something nice to rest my eyes on. So I stay. I stay, and I'm miserable.
I hate him. I swear to God I hate him. No one should be so confident. But I can't hate him because he's also so fucking nice. If he was mean–if he made jokes about my glasses or whatever–then I could hate him. It would be easy. But he has to be so damned nice to me whenever we talk. Whenever he talks to me. I couldn't ever just go talk to him because he's so fucking perfect I'd be ruining him just by standing next to him–
He's laughing now, at something one of the girls said, and his laugh is as perfect as the rest of him. Damn it all, this is just making me miserable.
Dutchy's gaze stops near me, and he tears one of his arms free and waves. I glance around to see who the lucky asshole he's waving at is, but don't know any of the guys near me, and I know all of his friends. I shrug to myself and lean back on the wall.
"Hey!" his perfect voice yells. "Specs!"
I stare at him for a second, and he keeps waving me over, so I decide I must not be imagining it and walk over to him. I don't know what he'd want with me, though. I can barely even say "hello" to him.
"Hey," he says.
"Uh, hi," I manage to say, and could just kick myself. I sound like such an idiot. Why the hell does he even bother to talk to me?
"How's your night?" he asks, or at least, I think that's what he asks. He's slurring his words together pretty badly.
"Uh," I say. "Okay. I guess." And my voice cracks. My fucking voice cracks. I could not possibly sound any stupider. I want to die. I want to slink off to a corner and die. Because he actually wanted to talk to me and I can't fucking talk without my voice cracking like a thirteen year old.
"You," he says slowly, and shakes a finger at me, then gets distracted by his finger, but eventually starts talking again. "You don't look like you'se having fun."
"I, uh, I'm fine."
He shakes his head a little and his hair does that thing where it flops in his eyes behind his glasses and he laughs and drops his other arm from the girl's shoulder and slings it around me. And I just about die standing here, and I'm almost shaking, because I've barely ever talked to the guy before, and now he's got his arm around me. I don't know what to do. I want to put my arm on his shoulder, too, but what if that's wrong? What if he realizes I like him? What if he starts laughing at me?
"He's fine. Isn't he fine?" he asks the nearest girl. "Fine," he continues, then laughs. "'Cause I didn't want you to come and just be you all night."
That probably made more sense in his head than it did to me, and I don't know what to say. But that doesn't seem to matter, since he continues.
"Because you always, always do that, right? He does," he assures the girls. "Where he goes out with everyone and then just stands off by himself all night and doesn't have any fun."
That made a bit more sense, but I still don't know how to react. I mean, it's pretty much true, but what am I suppose to say about it? "Sorry," I say lamely, and the girls start to laugh.
Yeah, go ahead. Laugh at me. Everyone else does. But Dutchy, not you. If you laugh at me, my fucking heart will break. (But if you laugh at me, I think I can hate you, so go ahead and make fun of me.)
"Hey," he tells the girls defensively, "that ain't nice. I bet he is sorry, 'cause no one's ever shown him how to have fun. No one's ever shown him a good time before, right, Specs?"
I just kind of nod.
"See!" he says, suddenly sounding triumphant. "See, so it ain't his fault. 'S mine, 'cause I made him come and then let him mope all night, an' that ain't nice of me." He turns to me and says sincerely–or I think it would be sincere if he didn't look like he was going to fall over any second now–"Sorry I'm an asshole, Specs."
Then he starts laughing so hard he doubles over, lets his hand slip from around my neck, then staggers a few steps and falls down. And I don't know if he's laughing at me or not. But he's not laughing any more, he's just lying there. Perfectly still.
Oh, shit.
I stare. Oh shit. I don't know if he just passed out from drinking, or if he hit his head, or what, but he's not awake. I kneel next to him, panic rising as the most perfect person I know looks dead, and shake him. He doesn't stir, even a little. I look up at the girls, but they look terrified, and people begin to crowd around.
No, that ain't right. He needs to breathe. I stand up and start elbowing people back. "Give him some room, damn it!" I half-yell. "Someone get some water, someone–call a doctor or–just get some fucking water!"
And someone presses a glass of water into my hand I crouch down next to him again, set it down, and reach for his head. I prop it up and his glasses slide down his nose a bit, and I try to pour some of the water down his throat. I don't know if it'll do any good, and it doesn't seem to, so I drip a little over his forehead.
He blinks a little and coughs once or twice, jerks up out of my arms so he's sitting, and then is really sick. He nails someone's shoes, and people begin to back away, which at least gives him some more breathing room. It smells foul, but when he finishes he downs the rest of the water, and I yell until someone gets him some more. The more water, the less likely he is to pass out again, and I can only handle one scare like that.
"You okay?" I ask as quietly as I can and still be heard, but it's a bit quieter now. I think other people got scared too.
"Fine," he says, then starts to laugh again. "Fine, like you." He wrinkles his nose from the scent and tries to stand. He doesn't get far and I catch him, and he keeps laughing as he puts an arm around me for balance, and I think it's about time we get to somewhere with some fresh air.
He staggers with me as I start to walk towards the door, and slips out of my grasp onto the wall of the building as soon as we're outside. "Hoooooo," he says, more or less. I sit on the steps next to him, suddenly not sure what to say or do anymore, now that he's awake. I want to ask him if he's okay, but I can't talk to him, the words catch in my throat.
"Specs," he says, then smiles. "Specs Specs Specs. 'S fun to say. Say it."
"Uh?"
"Come on," he badgers, and I shrug a little and mumble my own name, but I'm rewarded with a giant grin from him. "Specs," he says again, his voice serious like it was before he did his nosedive, "I'm sorry I'm an asshole."
And damn it, I still don't know what to say to that. "You–uh–you aren't," I stutter.
"No," he says insistently. "Because I made you come here and then didn't show you a good time. I shouldn't have–I shouldn't have made you come."
"It's okay."
"It's not."
"I wanted to come," I assure him, lying through my teeth.
"Nuh uh. 'Cause Snitch asked if you were coming and you said no, you didn't feel like it really, and I said, come on, you've gotta come and you paused for a really long time and finally you said you'd go. But you didn't want to."
Okay, so I didn't want to.
"And then I–I didn't say anything to you all night."
"It's okay."
"Nuh uh," he says insistently. "'Cause–'cause I meant to talk to you an' make sure you had fun. But then there were those girls an'..." He trails off and shakes his head. "So I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I repeat.
"Really?" he asks. "'Cause if I was you, I'd be pretty mad."
"I'm not mad."
"Why not?" he asks.
And what the hell do I answer? Because I'd do anything you asked? Because I'm pathetic, and queer, and I think I'm in love with you? "Because," I say and grope for words that'll work. "You didn't mean to," I finally manage. Four whole words. I think it's the longest sentence I've ever said to him.
"I didn't," he agrees. He reaches over and puts a hand on my knee, which is the easiest thing for him to reach from the ground while I'm on the stairs. "I wanted to–I meant to show you a good time. Help you have fun." He pauses and looks up at me, still very drunk but so sincere and so damn gorgeous. "You want me to show you a good time?" he asks. "I bet I still could. It's not that late yet."
"Uh," I say, and he squeezes my knee and I really, really don't know what he's talking about or what to say.
"I want to," he says. "I want to make you have fun tonight. You always look so serious, I want to see you smile. I want to make you smile."
His hand begins to move up my leg a little. "If you want me to," he continues, "I bet I could make you smile a lot."
I gulp. I think I know what he's saying, and his hand moving up my thigh like that is pretty hard to confuse, but it also makes it kind of hard to think, so I just don't say anything.
He stops. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I shouldn't have." And he drops his hand back to his side.
Damn it. I should have said something; I think I just lost my only chance to ever be close to him. Why can't I talk to him?
"I–" I start, then give up, because I can't talk to him. I can't tell him how I feel about him.
"Specs?" he asks quietly.
"What?"
"I'm really sorry. For making you come tonight and then ignoring you and then passing out and then… Just then. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I manage to say.
He shakes his head and looks down at the ground, and I wish he'd look back up at me so I could see his eyes. If you bother to look past his glasses, he's got gorgeous eyes–just like the rest of him.
"No," he says. "I'm sorry."
And he sounds so goddamn miserable. He sounds like I feel. Like I always feel around him, because he's so perfect and I'm just me. So I know how he feels, and I can't stand the thought of someone as perfect as Dutchy feeling like that, especially not if it's my fault. I should say something. But what do I say? What the hell do you say to the guy who's the most important person in your life, especially if he doesn't know he's so important?
"Dutchy," I say, quietly. He doesn't respond, and I'm suddenly afraid that maybe he passed out again. "Dutchy!"
His head jerks up and he stares at me.
"Christ, you scared me," I half-accuse. "I thought you'd fainted again." Nine words. I guess I do better when I'm scared.
"No, I just–" he starts, then raises his hand to his face, rubs his cheek with his palm, like he's rubbing something away. "I just wish I hadn't–I hadn't messed things up now." He laughs a little again, but this time it's a bitter laugh, not his usual, genuine laugh. "I–back inside, I had this whole idea about how I was going to tell you I wanted to show you a good time, and I'd make you laugh and we'd have fun and then, I guess, leave together, but if I was you I wouldn't even want to talk to me anymore. Not after what I just–Christ, you must think I'm sick."
Sick? The most perfect person I know just hit on me–I think–and now he thinks I think he's sick? I need to say something. I need to. I can't let him think I don't like him. Even if there's no chance for anything else, I need him to know I don't think that. Not about him.
"I don't," I say softly, wishing I could make myself talk louder, sound confident. Like he always does. Except for now, when he sounds real upset.
"You don't?" he asks, and he sounds real surprised. He looks over at me, and his eyes are bloodshot a little, but he's starting to look… Well, not sober, but like he's less likely to pass out on me again. There's a quiet, and I realize he's waiting for me to say something. Again.
I open my mouth to answer, but trip on the words before they can even get out. I shrug a little and hope he understands it. He looks down again, so I don't think he did.
"Oh," he says. He sounds disappointed. He sounds like he doesn't believe me.
"I don't," I manage to say again, maybe a little more clearly. I wish I could find the right words; I bet if I could say something I could make him believe me. I bite my lip for a second, trying to find something to say, but words totally fail me. But I have to let him know it's really okay. I have to. So I do the only thing I can do; I reach over towards him a little, I put my hand on his shoulder.
He looks over at it, startled, then up at me again. He gives me a real faint smile, and I can feel my heart beat faster just looking at it. "Really?" he asks. I nod. "Specs," he says, then stops, and looks unsure. And that's real strange, people like Dutchy always know what to say. Don't they? He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then closes it again and shakes his head a little.
"Dutchy?" I ask.
"I'm sick," he says again, and now he's staring at his hands.
"No–" I start, and I might even be able to say more, but he interrupts me.
"It's not–it's not what you think. I don't care if I am queer." He pauses and glances up at me, and ads, "I am." I nod a little, startled–I didn't even dare dream that he was, not even in my happiest fantasies–but given what's just happened, not totally totally shocked. He continues, "It's just… I gotta lie all the time. I gotta act like, like I'm who I ain't. That's sick. You know? I'm not like you. You know who you are, you don't gotta pretend. You don't gotta mess around with people like me and Bumlets and the guys, you just do whatever you want and don't care.
"Like, like parties and stuff. When you don't want to go you just don't. I mean, like, tonight I didn't want to go. I mean, I wanted… I wanted to–well, I asked you come 'cause–ah, fuck it. But you know what I mean? You just don't worry about what people think."
I think I'm staring at him. Is that how he thinks I am? He thinks I don't care what he thinks of me? How did that happen?
And then I realize. And I almost start laughing. I shake my head. "Dutchy," I say. "I'm not–I'm not all that." I swallow a little. "I'm just…" I'm just me. I'm just the one who doesn't fit in because he can't fit in. There's nothing else about it. "…shy," I finish.
He stares at me for a second. "Shy?" he asks. I nod. "That… That why you don't talk to me when I try and talk to you?"
I kind of hang my head. He has tried to talk to me. I just never knew how to answer. I nod, and by the time I look back at him, he's smiling again.
"Too shy to tell a… a friend… if you liked them?" he asks, and I can hear him being real careful about not saying him or her.
I nod again.
"You want me to say it?" he asks, and I smile and nod. "Specs, I kinda like you." I grin, a lot. He reaches up and puts a hand over mine on his shoulder.
"I kinda like you too," I manage to say. That's a real understatement, but it's about all I can manage.
"Was that so hard?" he laughs.
"Yes." Which was true, even though I'm mostly joking.
He laughs again, and man, I love his laugh, and he scrambles up onto the stairs so he's sitting next to me. Real close to me. Like, practically in my lap close to me. I gulp a little and wonder how I got so lucky. I wonder if it's a dream, and any second now Kloppman is gonna wake me up. I hope not.
I stop thinking so much when Dutchy kisses me, though. And really, now, I couldn't talk if I wanted too. My mouth is too busy with other things.