The Most Normal Shaphead /s

Spamton picked up his fork again, ate a few bites of chicken, and had a sip of his own Bellini. He seemed to be carefully pondering what to say next. What came out was, “Have you t-talked to her at all today?”

“Nope. I was too much of a coward.”

“Huh.”

Swatch felt their lips firmly curving downwards into an involuntary grimace. They didn’t want to sour the night, but there was no way they were going to keep anything from their partner. “I know I’m going to have to talk to Moggy about this, but I was kind of hoping you’d be around for a talk like that. If I had had half a brain, the three of us should have talked this out before it came to this.” 

They lowered their head and devoted their attention to their food.  Spamton did the same with his slider and nachos. Almost ten minutes went by before a text ping from Swatch’s cellphone broke the silence.

“Speak of the devil herself. Do you mind if I check this?”

“G-Go right ahead.”

Swatchpulled out the phone and swiped to get their message. After reading it, they squinched their eyes shut and pushed the phone across the table so Spamton could see the one line “my new place” and the attached photos. They answered Spamton’s questioning look by answering, “T.M. has lost her marbles. She’s about to move into a broom closet.”

“She WHAT.”

“She went and rented an apartment. Not even an apartment, a bloody studio. It’s smaller than our dining room.”

They both looked at each other, trying to let this sink in. Finally Spamton said, “Um, n-not for me to - to judge, b-but that seems like she’s trying to run away from us.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“I think we three really n-need to talk. In person. Fast. Like n-no later than t-tomorrow.”

Swatch leaned over and kissed the top of Spamton’s head. “You’re a smart fella.”

“That’s what they c-call me. M-M-Mister Smartfella.”

Spamton was not being very subtle about keeping an eye on the decreasing level of the Bellini pitcher. He’d matched Swatch drink for drink, and there was maybe enough left for each of them to have three-quarters of a glass.

Swatch was enjoying having someone reining in what had been an unusual impulse for them. They were waiting to feel the effects of the alcohol; they had a sense of all-over physical relaxation, but that could have been the food and the company as well. But their mind still seemed clear, and they didn’t think they were slurring their speech.

They couldn’t tell how affected Spamton was. He’d mentioned blaming sangria for something that happened last night, but had he consumed more alcohol last night than he had tonight, or was it just that the Bellinis were weaker?

Hmmm. Maybe Swatch WAS starting to feel a bit tipsy, since they were starting to get more hyperfocused on petty details. 

Two nachos remained; the sliders and chicken fingers were long gone. Spamton seemed to know what Swatch was thinking, because he scraped one onto his own plate, the other onto Swatch’s, and then split the rest of the drinks between their two glasses. “Bon appetit," he said in an exaggerated accent.

“Tres bon, tres bon,” Swatch replied. 

A thought was starting to form in their mind as they finished eating.

“Is that bathroom as private as this lounge is?” They waved their hand towards the door Metthias had pointed out.

Spamton almost looked alarmed at the question, which gave Swatch the answer they’d been expecting. He asked a question in return, “Are you asking m-me what I - I think you’re asking?”

“Yes, if you are asking whether I want to ravish your lovely body. More accurately, I’m asking if you want to ravish me.”

“Is - is that the Bellinis t-talking?”

“No. This is what I want. I want you. Here. Now.”

Swatch twirled the ridiculously ornate bathroom key on the end of one finger. “You yourself said that sometime in the last few years, this place changed from a corporate hangout to something queer-friendly. No one’s going to even notice.”

They stood up, saying more quietly, “Knock five times, and I’ll knock back twice.”

They heard Spamton make a comment about “Shave and a haircut” when they were already halfway across the floor. They looked back quickly, just in time to see Spamton pull out some twenties from his wallet, and two more. 

That apparently caught Metthias’ eye, and the dark-haired waiter hurried over. Without even letting Spamton speak, he plucked the bills from Spamton’s hand. Swatch imagined Metthias was saying something like, “Go catch up with that big beauty, sweet thing. I’ll make sure no one takes your table”, and they grinned as they turned the key in the door handle.

Ten minutes later, in probably THE fanciest bathroom outside a private home that either of them had ever seen, Swatch found themself lying flat on a padded bench with their chambray shirt pulled out of their jeans and completely unbuttoned, Spamton kneeling above them and pinning both of Swatch’s hands above their head. 

On the subway ride home, Swatch listened while Spamton haltingly outlined his siblings' plan for him to split the summer between them. "If I hate it, I c-c-can crash with you, right? Wherever you end up living when - when you start work in June." "You most certainly can, my dear. Or maybe Ratfink Freddie will let you move back into Overlook early." By hook or by crook, Catechu had managed to get Spamton added back as his and Indigo's roommate for the upcoming Fall semester.  

"That c-c-could work."

Back at Tibbetts Avenue, Swatch made a point of drinking almost a liter of seltzer as they were looking over what they’d need for classes tomorrow, and they put a full glass of seltzer on Spamton’s night table by his side of the bed. 

They didn’t think they were going to have a hangover tomorrow, but they didn’t want to risk it after their first actual drinking experience. 

They could faintly hear music from upstairs, where Spamton was showering… something jazzy. Swatch nipped into the downstairs bathroom, stripped and threw their clothes into the hamper. They gave themself a quick sponge bath and ran some dry shampoo through their hair with their fingers. Good enough for tonight, but tomorrow better be wash day. 

Swatch would miss a lot of things about this house… the way everything in it seemed to be suited for one short person and one tall person to live in harmony.

Could they find someplace like it elsewhere?

And if so, could they make it into a place for three people, equally comfortably? Swatch remembered the text exchange before Easter, about one enormous bed…

They went back to the bedroom and had just finished pulling on clean sweatpants when Spamton came in, one towel wrapped around his head, another one wrapped around his waist. The lower towel was almost big enough to use as a toga.  He took off the head towel first, tousling his hair, and then pulled out a t-shirt and boxers from the dresser drawer before dropping the other towel.

Such a difference from the modest fellow who used to change into full pajamas somewhere out of sight!

Swatch, smirking to themself, lay back on the bed and spread their arms out wide, and Spamton clambered up to lie next to them.

A drop of water ran down Swatch’s shoulder, from Spamton’s still-damp hair. “I’m g-g-getting your chest all wet,” their partner murmured apologetically.

Swatch laughed at that, shivering overdramatically, and hugged Spamton tight. “Like you didn’t get me all wet at the bar? With that delicious tongue of yours?”

Despite the locked bathroom door at The Cathode Ray, neither of them had felt comfortable enough in such a public place to do anything more than a prolonged makeout session. Both pairs of jeans had stayed firmly and regrettably on.

“Hey, you know what I m-mean,” Spamton protested. “And I’m t-too tired to do anything except - except lie here.” “Sounds good to me. Come under the covers, though.”

“You d-don’t need to ask me twice.”

Suiting action to words, they both wrapped themselves in sheets and blankets and huddled closer. As nice as the evening temperatures had been downtown, now that night had fallen it was chilly with the window open a crack.  A few weeks ago, Swatch had figured out how to pull down the screens that had been slid between the old-fashioned wooden frames with the double glazing. They’d come to appreciate over the winter how much the thicker glass cut down on street noise; there was a difference now in both air and sound quality in full-blown springtime. 

I wonder what this house is like in the summertime.  Or a house like this.

They decided to shelve that thought for a later time, and asked Spamton a different question. “So, successful date night? I’d give it two thumbs up.”

Swatch could feel Spamton’s smile against their bare arm. “D-definitely better than our first - our first date. Although there were a f-f-few similarities.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like visiting m-m-my old stomping grounds and laying old ghosts t-to rest.” “Huh. You’re right.”

“Thank God we d-d-didn’t have a staircase incident, though.”

“Amen to that.”

Spamton kissed Swatch’s shoulder. “I m-m-meant what I said back there, though. About talking m-more about your mom and your grandmother. T-Talking more about how and - and where you grew up. I’m n-not the only one who’s got ghosts to d-d-defeat. I want to hear your stories.” 

Swatch felt a warmth in their chest that had nothing and everything to do with the man curled up in their arms. “You’ve got a deal,” they replied.

T.M. found herself grateful that she didn’t have to make the first move in setting up a time and place for her to meet up with the other two. She’d felt cowardly enough when she had sent the photos of her new studio apartment to Swatch and had worried when she hadn’t gotten an immediate reply. She’d been sure that they’d be avoiding her for a few days at least. And she had no idea how Spamton would feel, no matter what Swatch might have said to him, before or after she’d jumped Swatch.

But first Spamton had texted her this morning, and then Swatch had called her in the afternoon when they knew she’d be between classes, and both had asked her to come over tonight. Swatch had even said, “I can hear your self-blame from a mile away, Moggy. And there’s no reason for it.”

God, talk about reading me like a book!, T.M. had thought to herself. She’d laughed and answered that she’d be there. 

Now the three of them were seated at the kitchen table at the townhouse, splitting several chicken-and avocado-on takeout entrees - chicken and avocado on flatbread - from Tin Marin. Because she’d committed herself to staying overnight at their place, T.M. had indulged herself in a six-pack of Presidente. Swatch had their usual flavored seltzers stockpiled in the fridge, and Spamton had a bottle of port wine in front of him, although he was still only on his second glass.

T.M. made a mental note to ask Swatch later about Swatch relaxing their personal rules about alcohol in the house. But for now she needed to pay attention to the matter currently under discussion.

Namely, living arrangements.

Spamton got the ball rolling. “Your n-new place looks - uh, c-cozy.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Don’t mince words, Short Stuff. You can say it’s tiny. I know it’s tiny. But the price is right, the neighborhood is right.  I can move in anytime after the first of May. GiGi’s already moved in with Leroux, so there’s not much keeping me on campus between now and graduation.” 

Too late, she realized how that sounded… as if Swatch and Spamton weren’t good enough reasons to stay around for.

Her bestie, however, swooped in before she could stick her foot further into her mouth. Cutting to the chase in time-honored Swatch fashion, they asked, “Does the timing of this have anything to do with Tuesday night?”

Damn. Busted.

Deciding it was better to tell the truth, she said, “Well, yes and no. I did really have appointments to see apartments this week… Desiree set those up. But I might have moved a leeeeeeetle bit quickly on grabbing one of them because I didn’t want to deal with you. Okay, let’s be honest. I didn’t want to have to deal with either of you.”

T.M. knew Swatch well enough to see, from the momentary way they stiffened up, that they were trying not to feel hurt. They disguised it well, but her heart sank a bit.

And Spamton’s next question didn’t help.

“D-d-did you think I’d condemn you? F-for spending a n-night with Swatch?”

She had to give that one a few minutes to sink in before she answered.

"If the shoe were on the other foot? Yeah, probably. Like if you'd jumped into bed with… I dunno, Catechu maybe? Or GiGi? Anyway, you jumping into bed with someone else without talking to me first. I mean, there’s no exact parallel—"

"Oh, Trez."

T.M. forged ahead. "I don't even know what you and I have, Spamton. Sure, I know what you and Swatch have. But I don't know where I fit in, other than being everyone's good time girl—"

"You were never that–"

"Oh, Moggy…"

Now all three of them were talking at once. 

But the sentence that came out clearest was T.M.'s, after everyone else finished their protests.

"Can I move in here? With both of you two? At least for the rest of the semester?"

Swatch’s jaw actually snapped shut at hearing that. 

She’d surprised herself with the request, but suddenly it felt like the most right thing she’d said or thought in ages.  She kept gong.  “Because I am excited about the new place, but I also am scared shitless of what it’s gonna mean when I can’t see either of you every day.”

Her bestie got up from their end of the table, walked to where she was tearing pieces of flatbread into shreds with her fingers, and pulled her into a standing, wordless hug.

"D-Did you think we’d try to t-t-t-talk you out of it?” was Spamton’s reply. “The new apartment, I m-mean.”

T.M. leaned forward so that she could rest her head on Swatch’s chest. “Kinda,” she muttered. 

“Well, don’t. And I c-can’t speak f-for Swatch, but I’ve been wanting you to m-move in with us for a hell of a long t-time.”

Spamton got up and wrapped himself against her back, saying, “So. You’re staying here t-t-tonight. That’s a start. Right, Swatch?”

“Indeed,” Swatch’s voice was a rumble, since they had ducked their chin to rest on top of her head.

And somehow everything was alright again.

While the three of them finished eating, T.M. laid out plans for what she’d need from storage in Queens, versus what she planned to thrift in her new neighborhood. Spamton actually had some recommendations, based on what he called “local knowledge from a bygone time”, doing his best Robert Carlyle imitation.

Swatch commented that they had checked with the HR department at Addison Cybernetics and, apparently, they would cover either a short-term rental or an extended-stay hotel for the first thirty days of Swatch’s internship, if their aunt Desiree couldn’t network something in Westchester County.  They looked meaningfully at Spamton while they were talking, but T.M. didn’t feel like following that yarn trail tonight.

The rest of the evening went by in a pleasant haze of beer, wine, couch cuddles, and Brendan Fraser, seasoned with delicious sprinkles of Oded Fehr, as the three of them watched the first two MUMMY movies. 

When it was time to call it a night, T.M. headed upstairs to the Eyrie, where Swatch had put her overnight bag. She’d half-expected Spamton to follow her, but it wasn’t until almost an hour after she’d crawled into bed that she heard a knock on the half-closed door.

“C’mon in, Short Stuff.”

She moved over and patted the covers next to her, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. He took her hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. With an effort, she waited for him to speak first, because he looked like he had a lot on his mind, even after the strides they’d all made in regaining their usual ease with each other.

Finally Spamton said, “I n-never wanted you to ever f-feel like you were ‘lesser’ to me than what I f-feel for Swatch. If I have, then I’m so, so sorry.”  

That was something T.M. had been feeling for a long time, and she said so now.  “But how do we fix this? Especially this late in the semester.”

He made a thoughtful noise before answering. “Well, something I - I realized that may be p-p-part of the problem is that you and I haven’t g-g-gone out on a date. We spend a lot of t-time together, but we haven’t d-done the usual couple things.” 

“Hey, you might have a point. And I’m sorry, too, if I ever made YOU feel that I only wanted you around for sex.”

“You never d-did.”

“Good.”

Spamton shifted his sitting position, and T.M. felt a new wave of fondness. “C’mere,” she said as she pulled the blankets out from under his butt. “Stay with me tonight.”

She was rewarded with a smile and the words, “Thought you’d - you’d n-never ask.”

When  he’d settled in the crook of her arm and put his hand on her hip in his usual way, he asked, “So where would you like to g-go on our date?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Is - is that okay?”

“Hell yeah that’s okay!  I usually get told, not asked.”

“Huh.”