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Sebastian thinks about Sam, sometimes.
He really shouldn't though, he knows. Especially not with these familiar sorts of bittersweet feelings that make his chest ache until he thinks his heart has fractured.
He's got a new life to call his own, now; a life that he signed up for in every right - an amazing wife who is the pillar of their little community, a bright-eyed toddler that claims his lap as her throne and demands attention when Sebastian's focus lingers too long on the programming work he does here and there, just to convince himself that he plays a role in making ends meet. He isn't stuck in Robin's basement anymore. He has his own family, lives together with them - in their house, their home.
Except it doesn't really feel like it's their home. Sure, he's brought over parts of his old life along with himself - his bike, comic books and board games that haven't been touched since the marriage, rickety furniture littered with stains and scars whose stories he can't seem to forget because they have too much to do with Sam and silly teenage shenanigans. They're vestiges of lost possibilities and times that can never return, and they haunt Sebastian like unshakeable ghosts.
On some days, he is struck with the urge to change his furniture, as though that would help change who he is; help him feel that he belongs on this farm, surrounded by fragrant flowers and crops that sway in the breeze - in this cozy home his wife has toiled so hard to build. But he can't. He's too afraid and doesn't know how.
Sebastian is finding that he doesn't know a lot of things, actually.
Why he got married. Why he thought he wanted kids. Why he's here. A missing piece of a puzzle that is impossible to complete, the emptiness is a tangible weight that rests on his shoulders, seeps into his heart, gnaws at his bones. It pervades every aspect of his existence until the scarlet summer poppies and thickets of lush green trees outside the too-large bay windows seem nothing more than haphazard sketches done in black and white. And Sam's sweet smile and gentle laughter are no longer here to lend them colour.
One rainy day, - the kind of day his wife liked leaving early to fish and mine and let nature tend to the farm - Sebastian had gathered his willpower to change the wallpaper of their house. He thought he'd get some reaction; a smile would be welcome, but perhaps even anger would be better than nothing - an acknowledgement of his independent being, a means for him to feel that he had worth beyond existing as a complacent accessory.
And yet, for all his efforts, silence was the reward he received. That night, having stayed up late, waiting for feedback with apprehensive butterflies only to be left hanging, Sebastian blurted the words before he could comprehend what he was asking. She had said yes, and it had felt good; a foreign feeling that he was appreciated, - needed - a sense of belonging that had become unfamiliar since they married and she ceased to shower him with his favourite gifts.
He had made tender love, then, and for a brief time, the emptiness had faded.
But it hadn't disappeared, no. It returned with renewed vengeance when the baby was born, when Sebastian least expected it; persisted so that he has come to accept its company - thinks it will plague him like a shadow stitched to his soul until he dies and the remnants of his body are buried in the small graveyard near Sam's childhood home.
Missing. It's an emotion that shouldn't exist because it is void by definition. Yet it must; for it crawls through Sebastian's veins like a thousand spiders, nestles into the spaces of his mind, takes over to create cobwebs that erase the slivers of hope he had once held, fragile. It's there during the nights, when he wakes covered in cold sweat at pre-dawn hours to realize that darkness no longer comforts him like it used to. He pours himself a mug of black coffee that's hot enough to burn his tongue, and wonders if maybe, that's because Sam had been his sun.
It's there during the days, when he's left home alone with a needy child and a whirlpool of bleak thoughts that steal the air from his lungs, even though the farm is sprawling and has oxygen abundant and pure. Sebastian thinks about Sam as time seems to coalesce into a smudged blur with neither beginning nor end. He remembers how easy it was to be together; how Sam teased smiles from his unwilling lips, and laughter, though it never escaped his mouth, was always on the tip of his tongue.
But the seasons change. If there's anything Sebastian has learned after moving to the farm, it's this. And, he's sure, the last of his timid happiness withered away like crops on the final day of autumn the moment he had said "I do". Sam had left for the city the very next morning, and Sebastian had been powerless - he could not stop Sam, nor could he accompany him. He had simply watched Sam leave, guitar case slung over his shoulder, without waving goodbye or bothering to return his wavering smile.
Sebastian tries not to think about Sam, he really does. But Sam is everywhere - memories of him are littered across the town's winding pathways and the abandoned hangout spots they lead to, engraved in the synthesizer that sits untouched in the corner of his room, waiting in vain for lyrics to a song that will never be finished. The memories are rooted within Sebastian's heart, so dense and deep that he wouldn't be able to weed them even if he wished to.
It can't be helped, then, that as the baby grows older, Sebastian's meandering walks lengthen and lengthen, until he's gone - lost in time and a clouded haze of reminiscence and unfulfilled desire - for hours at a stretch. His wife, busy bee that she is, wouldn't notice, anyway. He wanders from place to familiar place, drifting like a ship devoid of both anchor and sail, no attainable destination in mind.
Often, Sebastian follows his feet to the shallow banks of the river that flows, unhurried and unchanged, past the yard of the house where Sam had once lived, many seasons ago. From afar, #1 Willow Lane still looks the same as it had then - Jodi does an impeccable job maintaining it, after all. But Sebastian's eyes see every new spot where sky blue paint chips off to reveal weathered wood.
And despite her best efforts, the one thing Jodi has never been able to maintain is the close-knit family that she has always wanted. Kent rarely returns from the front lines as the war continues with no end in sight; Sam writes long letters but visits the Valley once in a blue moon, and Vincent, who has chased his brother's shadow since childhood, declares that he'll join Sam in the city as soon as he can. Sam's old room is his, now. He makes out with Jas in there, everybody knows - small towns hold no secrets.
That's right. Vincent is the same age Sebastian had been when he started smoking, sneaking into Cindersnap under the cover of late night with Sam at his side. He would light blunts and stare at the star-speckled sky, painfully aware of Sam's body heat and sweet scent and how he let their knees brush. They didn't speak much in moments like this - didn't need to. The silence was comfortable and the darkness a blanket that wrapped around their overlapping existence. It felt so very close that Sebastian blushed, even though all they did was huddle for warmth and watch midnight fade into dawn.
Sam was the first person he ever took for a ride on his bike, too. Sebastian had thought about asking long before he garnered the courage to do so, the words clogged in the back of his throat for weeks until a misty Friday evening found them sharing space, sprawled on the floor of his bedroom. Their legs were tangled under a downy comforter - they had no choice but to share because it was the only one, and plates of half-eaten pizza and Solarion Chronicles were somehow forced to fit on the little coffee table.
Sam had sighed, made a show of stretching, then leant against Sebastian's shoulder as if that was natural - not something he was doing for the first time, trying on a boundary for size. His hot breath tickled Sebastian's ear and his heart skipped a beat. His fingers dug into his jeans, skin-tight and acid-washed, as he searched for his voice.
Um, Sebastian had stated.
Um? Sam repeated.
Uh, Sebastian confirmed, licking his lips and feeling his face grow warm. Wanna go out for a spin on my bike?
They had raced through empty country roads as though they were racing time itself; fueled by nameless fears of a future brought closer by each passing second, chasing blurry outlines of rose-coloured dreams. The cold March wind stung his cheeks and seeped through his thin leather jacket, but Sebastian could focus on nothing but Sam - the strong hands wrapped around his waist, the broad chest pressed flush against his back, the full lips curved into a wide smile and buried in the crook of his neck. Sebastian almost wished the road would never end.
When they reached the cliff at the edge of the Valley, Sam bubbled with giddy laughter. Sebastian suppressed his own smile; his fingers shook with so much nervous excitement that he could light a joint only on his third try. They bumped shoulders and didn't move apart, listening to the breeze rustle tall grass as they gazed at the distant city skyline.
After a while, once the fog cleared and a bright moon peeked through the clouds, Sam confessed that he planned to return to the city, someday - he was serious about making music his career; wouldn't mind busking or working odd jobs to scrape by till his band made it to the big stage.
Sebastian confessed he had no idea what the fuck he planned to do with his life - thinking about the future made him anxious. But, he'd said, a band sounds pretty cool. I'd be down for that if you want me in.
The words were impossibly less than the surging tide of emotions he was too afraid to convey, but Sam must have understood. Because his eyes twinkled like the stars, and he drew Sebastian in for a tight hug that lingered until pink blossomed across their cheeks and their hearts beat in frantic synchrony.
That night, Sebastian had dreamt of striking out for the city, and spending the rest of his life with Sam.
It's much too late to do that, anymore. Now, he paces the farmhouse with heavy feet and a heart like lead, watching buzzing bees smash themselves against the thick glass windowpanes. He attends his child, tries to please his wife, and wishes every so often that he were dead. Sebastian would pray for a second chance instead, but he has never been that naive. Sam's already out there, beyond the limits of Sebastian's horizon; beyond the lines he had been too scared to cross.
Occasionally, Sam sends him pictures. It isn't anything special - Abigail and Penny receive them as well. He's always smiling in the photographs, always with someone - a pretty woman who shows off her body, a tall man who leaves his shirt unbuttoned to reveal intricate tattoos. Sebastian wonders if they are Sam's bandmates, then reconsiders; he doesn't quite think he could handle the other answer. There must be plenty of people like himself after all, drawn to Sam's sweet soul like butterflies to a flower.
Sam's eyes are still blue like the summer sky and just as inviting, but he looks older, matured. There's something about the way he stands; unspoken confidence written in the lines of his posture. It's good. Sexy.
One day, Sebastian finds two tickets in the mail - for him and his wife - along with a short note. Our first real concert, would love to see you there. He stares at Sam's messy handwriting until he can't because his eyes brim with hot tears and his heart twists into throbbing knots. Sebastian rides to the cliff later, in the midst of a raging storm. The cold rain pours, endless as if it will drown the entire world, and soaks him to the bone.
He hasn't made any progress at all, Sebastian realizes. He used to be trapped in his parent's basement; left it just to trap himself on a farm, chained to a wife he married on a whim - a family he created to avoid the possibility of failure that would go hand-in-hand with chasing his dreams.
In the distance, the city's twinkling lights could pass as stars, if only stars were visible during the rain.
Yes, Sebastian thinks. Sam has changed, but he is exactly the same.
Except that he feels so much emptier than he used to, sometimes.