- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Male
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Romance, Supernatural, Horror, and Thriller.
'It is not the end of the world,
'Forasmuch, the world is nothing but endings'
In the grand scheme of things, before the entire falsehood the world had taken as a permanent façade, had chipped and shattered, Spencer would have hardly considered himself as a villain, or an antagonist of sorts, but he also didn't think of himself as a hero or a protagonist. In this sense, he acted like a neutral party; neither oppressively good nor hideously evil. He sometimes did good things, and sometimes he made bad decisions, or sometimes he never did either of those things and simply just existed. With that all taken into consideration, with it all picked apart and laid bare before him, he could see now in retrospect that the wavering stance of his should have eventually tilted him more so towards one side. It never really happened, and due to his impartial constitution, he had to deal with more complications in his life than others. This, inevitably, brings him back to his current situation. There is a lingering odor of sweat, vomit, and stale alcohol permeating the air so strongly that his nose has involuntarily scrunched at the unpleasant smell, and when paired with suspiciously colored wallpaper and a rather depressing looking carpet, has his skin prickling in revulsion. In most cases, he'd never put himself through the disheartening act of putting himself in this specific house during a weekday, but this case was not like most cases. Spencer had only come over for a quick stop-by because his closest and only friend, Kit, had been rather sluggish in responding to messages and then complete silence afterwards. Which, was both an odd and normal occurrence, but had niggled in his brain until he had almost made himself sick with worry. And now the worry was growing tenfold as he watched the friend in question stumble over the handful of discarded trash that littered the floor, their long mop of brown hair dull with what looked like a weeks worth of buildup in grease and even something else he didn't want to think about.
"Butty, you sure you're alright?" Spencer finally asks when Kit almost slips again when their feet catch on an empty bottle of sparkling water, his face pinching in worry when their bleary gaze falls onto him. Whatever had happened in the last few days must have been really bad, because in all the meager five years he had known Kit, he'd only seen two occasions (and that was counting that time they had gotten a concussion from a failed skateboard trick and then proceeded to puke out their guts, all of which had happened in only a short span of five minutes while Spencer watched in implied horror) where they had been well and truly out of it because of sickness. An excellent immunity, he supposed. With a dismissive wave, they mumbled something incoherent under their breath and dazedly slumped into the crumpled mess of their bed. Which brings him back to the conflicting virtues of being neither a good nor a bad person. A morally upright person would have been concerned -he was- and would want to take care of their friend -he didn't-, and a bad person would have been irritated at being consulted on something trivial as a fever -he wasn't- and would want to leave right away -he did-. After lingering awkwardly at the threshold of Kit's bedroom for a moment longer than he was entirely comfortable with, he takes a cautious step back attempting to be as quiet as possible so that he doesn't wake the now snoring figure half-hidden underneath the comforter.
Despite the fact that Spencer was worried, he was also hungry, tired, and had work to attend the next morning. The odds of him being able to look after Kit as well as make it to work were against him. He slipped quietly through the mess to the kitchen, skirting trash and half-empty takeout containers; it was almost ironic that they lived in such an unkempt house. Within a few minutes he finds a bottle of pain meds that aren't likely to cause any side effects, and a cup among the piles of dishes that he has to thoroughly clean before it even looks like an effective drinking vessel. In one hand, he balances the meds and cup, and in the other, he seeks out a bottle of water in the overflowing fridge. Retreating triumphantly from the kitchen with the three items. With the same quiet approach he had taken while leaving, he returns to the room, moving the haphazardly placed glass bottles off the bedside table with his elbow, and arranging them on the only relatively empty nightstand. At this point, he was amazed to be able to walk without having to wade through more filth. He pours the water into the glass to make access easier, and he promises himself he will help Kit get back to a livable situation during the weekend. Because frankly, it was inhumane the way they were living, not that he'd ever grow the balls to say that out loud, at the very least though he could passively bring up the idea of cleaning and together they could work from there.
But for now, Spencer casts an indignant glance across the room, another less hostile glance at the empty bottle of antidepressants, and finally a lingering look at Kit's curled figure, so obscured by the thick comforter that only their brown hair and a sliver of their forehead can be seen. In the end, the significant disquiet he had felt earlier had mellowed down into something less disturbing, and he felt that, for now, he had done what he could. Having come to that conclusion, Spencer leaves the room again, omitting the kitchen and the bathroom. He heads straight for where he had haphazardly removed his shoes at the doorway. In the midst of slipping his feet into the worn soles of his yellow trainers, his phone abruptly buzzes to life with an inundation of texts that fill his once empty home screen, and upon pressing his most recent contact, his older brother Wesley, a strange sound emanates from where he just left Kit asleep. The sound itself is not necessarily something to be scared of. However, it still makes the hair on his nape stand up, and his hand twists so tight that it starts to pale significantly. His immediate reaction, as disastrous as it might have been, was to ignore the noise and leave the house as soon as possible. But when the sound echoes through the halls again, he loses all memory of it.
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