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Spot isn't good at showing how he feels. It's built up after years of hardening his exterior, because if you showed emotion you could get gutted. It's left him with mile thick walls and a sharp tongue that doesn't care who it whips in its anger. He thinks as himself as a solid rock, unable to be ripped out of the ground he's covered himself in. He's impenetrable.
And then David fucking Jacobs showed up.
Spot remembers the day clearly. He almost wishes he couldn't, because then maybe this insufferable attraction would cease. But no, Spot can't forget, and he remains inexplicably drawn to this soft shelled family boy.
It had started out a regular day. At least, that's what Spot assumed. It's possible Jack had mentioned something about Kath bringing a friend to Tibby’s, or maybe he'd changed something up in his morning routine, but what had happened at the start of the day didn't really matter. What mattered was that Spot had barged into Tibby’s, late as usual, and had been greeted by the site of a curly haired boy wildly flinging his arms around as he ranted about the possibilities of the universe.
“What's this,” Spot said loudly, drawing the attention to him, “Some kind of walking mouth?”
“What's this,” David mimicked, “Someone with a stick too far up their ass to see the stars?”
There'd been a beat of silence before David started stumbling over himself to apologize, but it was too late. Spot had seen David Jacobs; undone, and he couldn't get enough of it.
Spot spiraled even further after that. David became a fixed addition to their group, and Spot was addicted to trying to push David over the edge, to get a glimpse of that scathingly sarcastic, unafraid David he'd seen that first day at Tibby’s. Half the time it worked, and Spot was left with his ears ringing and heart pounding as David tore into him in a way others were afraid to do. In a way David was usually too afraid to do.
The other half of the time, it ended in glares from Kath, Jack, Sarah, Race, whoever was closest at the time, and a gentle hand leading David to the other side of the room. The way they underestimated David made Spot simmer, because couldn't they see just how brilliantly David could shine?
Apparently not.
Somewhere along the line, Spot and David actually became friends. It wasn't enough for Spot, nothing was when it came to David, but it was almost good enough, especially when David fell asleep with his cheek pressed up against Spot's shoulder while they watched whatever shitty western Jack had insisted on.
Spot burned with envy at the casual touches that David and Jack shared, the way David leaned into Jack's touch and looked at him like he'd hung the damn sun in the sky. When Spot confronted him about it, David didn't splutter the way Spot expected. Instead, he just looked confused.
“Jack's my best friend. Hell, I'm helping him with his relationship troubles. There's nothing there.”
Shortly after that, Jack and Kath and Crutchie became Jack-and-Kath-and-Crutchie, all in one breath, like they were a single entity. Spot was envious of them, but he pretended not to be as he offered David a place in his apartment.
“You'll need somewhere away from the loving couple. Trio. And I've got space.”
(He had, ever since Race had moved in with Sarah. Some people thought they were secretly screwing, but Spot knew better. They were as gay as they come, and neither with the slightest interest in romance. They completed each other in the same as JackKathCrutchie, just by a different means.)
Somehow, Spot and David became Spot-and-David in the same single breath way as Jack-and-Kath-and-Crutchie or Sarah-and-Race but they were caught somewhere between romantic and platonic. It wasn't enough, but it would do. Spot would take any morsel of David he could get, clinging to them like a petulant child. It's pathetic, but Spot pretends not to care.
Their apartment is filled to the brim with books and words and yells because Spot can't give up pressed David to the point of showing off the bare, untapped sides of himself. He's like an addict.
But Spot realizes that David's sharp tongue isn't the most open part. No, it's when he lounges on the couch, out of his binder, feet in Spot's lap, reading a book for enjoyment as the TV plays quietly in the background. Spot stops needling David and starts recommending books and holding his hand instead. The soft smiles David gives him over the edge of his book is worth a million snarky comments. It's not enough, but it's good enough. It's good enough.