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The summer sun is high in the sky, and Sam is enjoying his time out and about Las Nevadas.
He still hasn’t decided when he’s going to leave, and honestly, he feels that it’s better to stay. The Mourning Island is a grief-filled place, and one that does not particularly feel like home. Tommy’s tower is very visible from that spot, and one day, he plans to head to the Exile area just to tear the damn thing down. It’s threatening him and his heart, and he hates to think about the implications of his boy, feeling so lost, that a tower with such purpose is his only way out.
The unfortunate truth, though, was that as long as Dream was alive, Tommy would never escape.
Tommy and Eryn had took Fran out to play; it delighted Sam that Tommy and Fran had gotten so close over these past four months. She was getting the exercise she deserved (although he did have to remake her old food and water bowls, which was a little annoying).
He passed the fountain, briefly observing where him and Tommy would sit on the nights they felt restless or irritable. Their routine of screaming at the heavens was interrupted when Quackity told them he could hear it, and they were waking everyone up. Instead, they’d find other ways to get out their anger.
One such way was Foolish’s idea to build a gym in the area. It was multi-purpose, though, and Sam’s primary reason for going was the punching bags that had been hung in one room. He needed to work on his upper-body strength, because his core was still sore from surgery and maiming, even after it had healed to its fullest extent. Healing potions sped up the process, but even a good doctor would recommend to ease off healing potions unless absolutely necessary. The body needed to repair itself, for the most part, and forcing it to do so was terrible on the mind.
He’d broken a few of the punching bags, unfortunately. It was easy to get stuck in his own head, a loop of thoughts, or a dog chasing the tick on its tail. Obviously, he’d helped to repair them, and Foolish would ‘tsk’ at his destructive habits. On the flipside, Puffy sang praises of it.
“You’re not self-destructing,” she’d tell him, during one of their many sessions. He’d actually gotten quite comfortable rambling about his thoughts, because the positive had started to clear the fogginess in his brain. “Which is a good thing. Redirect that harmful energy elsewhere, you know? If it means a few broken sandbags, then so be it.”
As of now, Sam walked barefoot across the sand, avoiding the heated pavement like the plague. He’s sweat a bit under the sweltering sun, the scent of gunpowder heavy in his nose. He couldn’t really help it, although he had washed more and more often in order to keep Tommy from being upset about it. So far, Tommy hadn’t actually said anything, but he could tell on nights when he returned from the gym, or whenever he got back from a morning jog, and Tommy’s nose did that twitch, twitch, twitch that he could smell it and he was dutifully ignoring it.
His prosthetic was holding up nicely over the past month, all things considered. He’d only had to tweak the weight slightly, and he had to make some manual adjustments after a few jogs that had worn out some of the parts- but otherwise, it worked wonderfully.
Sam glances up at the sky again, vision dotting through the glare of the sun, and spots distant stormclouds on the horizon. He’d have to get back to his suite soon, although a bit of rainwater across his skin wouldn’t hurt. He’d grown to love the rain- anything that had to do with the outdoors, really. The sand, the grass, the dirt, the wind, the rain, the clouds, the sky- it was all beautiful, in his eyes. He’d never hate anything nature had to offer him, never again. Even the evil night-creatures that emerged from the depths of darkness weren’t despicable, not to him. A cycle of life, really. He’d only cut down those monsters because Tommy didn’t like wearing his armor at any given time. Sam had grown to hate wearing his own, but at the same time, the itch of paranoia made it difficult to function without it.
Puffy advised him to take it slow, if he wanted to be comfortable not wearing something protective. So, he was doing that right now. No armor, just rolled-up shorts and a black, thin, sleeveless turtleneck. It helped air out his skin while covering up one of his deepest insecurities, at the moment. A cruel reminder of how much of a failure he was.
Foolish told him that he should leave Ponk alone today, all things considered. A certain ugly anniversary was upon them, and Sam knew very well that Ponk- even after their talk and the olive branch that the prosthetic arm had become- wasn’t handling this sudden change well. Ponk was an enigma, certainly; she should’ve left Las Nevadas entirely a while ago, but she stayed. Sam didn’t have it in him to ask why.
He walked, toeing dampened sand and listening to the waves against the shore. He’d ignore the oncoming rainstorm, just to enjoy the peace yet bustle of Las Nevadas around him. Not many lived here, but they definitely knew how to keep themselves busy.
He began walking past the bridge of flowers- a wedding venue, Quackity had told him during a tour long forgotten- and noticed someone standing with their arms folded across the wooden railing, staring off into the distance with a strange look in their eyes.
Sam shouldn’t approach. He’d strictly been told not to approach, that this was the worst day to approach, and yet-
Carefully, he stepped onto the bridge, the scent of nectar reaching his nose almost immediately. Ponk blinked away from his haze of thoughts, turning over his shoulder to the trespasser, and immediately rolled his eyes before returning his gaze to sky.
Sam, hesitantly, took a few steps closer, wood creaking under his weight. Ponk only seemed to grow more tense as the moment dragged on, and Sam hadn’t even uttered a word yet.
He stood next to her, resting his forearms on the railing, and stared out at wispy clouds and the distant crows flying through the air.
The tension in the air was thick, and felt like it could be cut with a knife, but Sam was used to this kind of suffocation, or the constant feeling of drowning.
To his surprise, Ponk spoke first.
“What are you doing here?”
Sam turns to them, and Ponk doesn’t look happy at his presence. In fact, it is very much the opposite of happy, with a furrow in their brow, although their face was hidden under the mask they wore. Sam could tell Ponk was frowning.
“Just… wanted to stop by,” he says, and it’s honest.
Ponk makes a disgruntled noise. “You know what day it is, don’t you? Here to taunt me, or something?”
Sam has one hand on the railing, nails picking at the wood- a nervous habit. “No, of course not. I was on my afternoon walk, and saw you by yourself. And-” he swallows, voice dropping in pitch. “-of course I know what day it is. How could I forget?”
The wound was still fresh. A year later, and the wound was still spilling with red, angry blood. Sam didn’t think it’d ever scar over, that it’d never heal, that nothing would ever heal.
“You should go. Seriously. It’s taking every muscle in my body from not decking you in the face with my new robotic hand,” Ponk grits out, turning his head away from Sam entirely.
“You can,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “If you want to.”
It only takes a second for Ponk to reach into her inventory, the Warden’s Will suddenly appearing in the aforementioned prosthetic hand. It gripped the enchanted netherite weapon with an anger that had settled deep into Ponk’s bones, and she slowly raises it to Sam’s throat.
“I want to,” Ponk answers, staring carefully at the enchantments glinting off the weapon. “God, do I want to.”
The stormclouds are getting closer. Sam swallows, feels the blade against his adam’s apple, and shuts his eyes. He wouldn’t mind losing this life, really.
A life for an arm. Fitting.
The sword lowers, and Ponk’s breathing falters for a moment, allowing the weapon to rest by their side. “I still hate you,” they spit, “I hate everything about you.”
Ponk takes his other hand, rubbing it against the metal of his bicep, under the sleeve of his rolled-up hoodie. He stares at the ground, a glint of malice in his eyes. “But I can’t kill you,” he ends up sighing, returning the sword to his inventory. “I couldn’t kill you. Learning to live with yourself is worse than death, and I know you’re very much aware of that.”
Sam’s head dips low, a weak little whistle-hiss at the base of his chest. He shakes his head, hesitant to reach and hold onto Ponk like he’s wanted to for over a year now.
He doesn’t act on his urge, instead just staring longingly at the person before him; an old love, something he destroyed, with two murderous hands and a cold, empty heart.
There’s a rumble of thunder overhead, and Sam glances up at the flowery canopy overhanging the venue, and an idea pops into his head.
Sam stares at the prosthetic arm, his ear flicking as his eyes trace up to Ponk’s face again. He splays his fingers and his palm, pulling back his slightly slouched posture into something more upright.
“Dance with me,” he says, and Ponk gives him a weird look. “Do you remember when we danced in the rain together?”
Ponk crosses her arms. “I don’t want to dance with you. Not today, of all days. Seriously. Leave me alone.”
Sam smiles lightly, and he watches as Ponk’s eyes visibly soften.
Ponk scowls, and takes Sam’s hand, but Sam shakes his head.
“No, no. The prosthetic one. Let’s test it.”
Ponk recoils a bit, looking particularly perplexed by such words. “I’ve been testing it plenty already, stoopid-”
Sam barely flinches, this time. His droopy smile widens further. “Please?”
Ponk grumbles, takes Sam’s hand- the metal against his skin, but that's alright- and Sam pulls them close.
Hand on hips, another gripping his shoulder, he takes a step back-
they spin, across the wood, letting the overgrown flowers and leaves tickle their skin. Simple footsteps, what with Sam’s prosthetic leg that he was still adjusting to. The phantom pains were rough on his brain, but it wasn’t the worst of what he’d experienced. Not at all.
“I don’t want to dance with you,” Ponk says, as they twirl again. Sam has a firm grip on her hip, steps slow and easily digested.
“Then let go,” he returns, and Ponk stays silent.
They let the breeze be their music. There’s more thunder, rolling through the sky, and Sam can hear the rain pattering against the water in the distance.
Sam brings his hand up, intertwining their fingers, allowing Ponk to spin out of his grasp. They twirl on their feet, and Sam brings them close again, a nuzzle into Ponk’s forehead as they spin away from each other once more.
“You’re unsteady!” Ponk calls, dancing to the rustle of leaves.
“Your grip is too tight!” Sam huffs, stepping along to the tumultuous beat of his heart.
They approach each other again, stepping close, intertwining their fingers and pressing their bodies close. Sam’s gotten better at dancing, even with the prosthetic; he’d never been very good at waltz’s, though. His bulky frame just didn’t allow for him to enjoy such an activity.
He can hear the notes of a piano in his mind, and another drum of thunder bangs above them, and the rain suddenly begins to pour.
Sam can tell Ponk is smiling. He doesn’t really know why.
Ponk gives Sam a look, and he knows what’s coming, and there’s the rush of approaching footsteps. The leaves in the overhang cannot stop the sudden, fat droplets of rain, but it does slow them down. Sam catches Ponk by the waist and lifts with no effort and twirls them above his head, and Ponk-
Ponk laughs.
There’s no music, only the rain, and Sam feels something in his heart swell and burst. He hasn’t heard Ponk laugh in so long, and he can’t control the swelter of emotion that suddenly overtakes him.
Sam ends up laughing, too.
Carefully, he sets Ponk back down onto the wood, watching as raindrops settle onto the red fabric of his hoodie.
Ponk bounces back a little, adjusting their clothing and rocking the weight on their soles.
Suddenly, though, there’s a distant look in her eyes, and Sam doesn’t get closer.
Ponk’s shoulders fall, and there's anger there. “Why are you like this?”
To Sam, the rain has suddenly turned into tears. The sky cries above, but it is not for him. It is because of him, that it weeps. His filthy hand destroys everything that it touches, and he knows that he has ruined yet another thing good to him.
“I can go,” he murmurs.
Ponk screws his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose in an exasperated way. “That’s not- ugh. I don’t understand you. I don’t understand the way you think anymore. Are you venomous on purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What do you- ugh. Ugh.” Ponk throws her hands up, perplexed and confused and spilling over with hurt. “I don’t understand you. I don’t know who you are!”
“My name is Sam.”
Ponk growls. “I know your name. Define ‘Sam.’”
He doesn’t answer.
Ponk paces in a circle, briefly, grinding their teeth as they pull their mask off their face. Their skin lightly glints of sweat from their dance together.
“I’ll define ‘Sam,’ then. Ugly, stoopid, green, wicked, mean, evil, cruel, awful, disgusting, horr-”
“I wanted to marry you.”
Sam doesn’t know why he said that. Ponk flinches like she’d been hit.
“...what?” It’s a soft reply, barely noticeable over the rain. Sam can hear. Sam can always hear.
He ducks down a bit, taking Ponk’s left hand into his own. Ponk’s glaring, but he’s used to it.
“This hand,” he says, and his large hands engulf theirs. “I was going to put a ring on it, some day.”
White, fluffy hair drifts into Ponk’s eyes. He looks…
Sam doesn’t want to describe how he looks.
“I hate you. I seriously hate you.”
Sam smiles. “You should.”
“I will. Forever and ever.”
“I’m awful, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you are. It’s in the definition of ‘Sam,’ ‘Samuel,’ and ‘Awesamdude.’”
They stare at each other, for a long while, Sam not letting Ponk’s hand go. He studies the heat of it, the way he can feel the gentle rhythm of their heart, and he wants to dance to it. He wants to dance with it, kind and tender and so full of love, but he’d already stomped all over that option. He’d already poisoned it with venomous thoughts and hands and eyes and everything else.
“He ruined me,” Sam whispers, and Ponk shakes her head.
“No, Sam, you ruined yourself.”
Sam swallows.
“You keep- you- all you do is wallow in your own pity! You annoy me. This is what annoys me about you.”
Sam stares ahead, body tense, jaw set. He is the Warden. He ruined himself, as the Warden.
“You always do this, you- you make it seem like it’s the fault of the world. Have you, for once in your life, thought about the fact that it’s your fault that everything is like this? Have you? Seriously, have you?!”
“I have,” Sam answers, but it’s not really there. He’s not really there.
Ponk grabs him by the shirt, pinching his skin and lighting up the healed scar etched into his chest.
IDIOT!
IDIOT!
IDIOT!
The words ring in his ears.
THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE!
His breath stutters, and he can’t help the tears that leak like the rain from the clouds overhead.
“I can’t tell if you’re lying,” Ponk’s grip tightens on his clothing, and they sound shrill. “Are you just messing with me? If you had the opportunity, right now, to cut off my arm again- would you? Would you take my other arm? Would you build me another one, for the sake of guilt and apology? Huh? Would you, Sam? Would you?!”
Sam blinks. He feels stone under his feet, the heat of bubbling lava, and he listens to the screams.
He has not healed. He will never heal, not as long as people continue to hurt.
He doesn’t deserve it.
“I don’t know,” he answers, and the world crashes around them into terrifying clarity.
Ponk shoves him back, and Sam barely stumbles. There’s tears cascading down his cheeks, but that’s normal, he’s used to it.
“You would,” Ponk mutters, and it’s laced with venom of the most poisonous creatures on this planet. “You would, after everything, you would!”
It’s disbelief. It’s like, the second Ponk had given him a chance to grow- one step forwards- he leaps backwards, into the deep end of an ocean of lava, and he drowns.
“I’m drowning,” he says, and it’s a gurgle. Suffocating and dying.
“Yeah,” Ponk agrees. “You’re drowning yourself.”
Sam brings his eyes upwards, towards the flowering canopy, and he breathes in the scent of nectar and pollen. “How do I stop?”
“I don’t know, Sam. You tell me.”
Sam tilts his head forwards, huffs a heavy breath, and he sobs. His shoulders shake with the weight of his cries.
Ponk doesn’t get closer. Sam has scared him away.
He scares everyone away.
“Here you go again,” Ponk continues on, waving her prosthetic hand in a swift motion. “Wallowing. That’s all you do- wallow, wallow, wallow! Stop crying! You’ve turned into such a baby!”
Sam doesn’t stop. It’s not okay.
There’s a longer stretch of silence, and Ponk huffs, heavy breaths in their chest as they try and figure out what to do. Sam wants to drown, for real. A life, an unnecessary life- that is his own. Not necessary. He wasn’t necessary- not in this world, or the next.
Ponk steps close, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and shaking him to get his attention. Sam blinks through tears and clumped eyelashes, and Ponk takes a thumb to wipe said tears from the taller man’s cheekbones.
Sam leans into it. He’s starving for it.
“I miss you,” he mumbles, saltwater and spit on his lips.
“I know.”
He grits his teeth, ignores the way the metal is cold against his skin and tugs slightly against the blunt scars in his cheeks.
“I can’t heal,” Sam breathes out. “I don’t know how.”
“You do,” Ponk answers. “You just won’t.”
A beat of a heart.
“I don’t deserve it. Not until you are better.”
Raindrops splatter against painted wood.
“That’s the thing, Sam. I’m never gonna be better.”
Sam blinks, pupils anywhere but Ponk’s face, and Ponk just squeezes his cheeks and forces him to look.
“Look at me, Sam. Look at what you have done to me.”
Sam looks.
Ponk releases his face from their grasp, instead pressing the button on his arm- it clicks, releasing pressure, and falls onto the wood with an unsatisfying clank! that makes Sam flinch.
Ponk raises the missing stump of arm, pulling back the hoodie to reveal the rough, unclean scar.
“Now listen,” Ponk instructs him.
Sam listens.
“You’ve hurt me. You’ve hurt so many people. And- and for what? Nothing? You’ve done all of this for nothing!”
Sam hurts.
“I-” he begins, swallowing excess saliva that has gathered in his mouth, behind his tongue. “I made the hard decisions. When it came down to it, I did the things nobody else could.”
“Why?”
Sam’s eyes close, and he imagines the Warden’s armor. He imagines his first day, he imagines the access cards in an unwanted hand, and he imagines the redstone dust that stained underneath his fingernails for months after the prison’s completion.
“I had to.”
“No, Sam. You didn’t. You act like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. You- You aren’t Atlas!”
Sam’s brow furrows. “But- if he got out, because of someone I hired- because of someone helping me-”
“He did get out.”
Sam doesn’t answer.
“He got out because you failed.”
Sam’s eyes flutter open, and he feels like spilling his guts all over the ground.
“Am I like Dream, Ponk?”
Ponk stares at him funny, but he thinks for a moment.
They shrug lightly. “I’m not answering that. What do you think?”
Sam ignores the way rain has gathered onto his shoulders and dampened his hair. It’s slick against Ponk’s forehead, too. He wants to kiss it away.
He ends up staring at his feet, uneven and wrong.
“I am, aren’t I?”
It’s an admission that hurts, but Ponk hums, the sound scratchy in her throat.
“I’m tired,” Ponk starts with a sigh, “Of telling you what you are. Aren’t you supposed to know that?”
Sam lifts his heavy gaze, and the smile engraved into his face displays the opposite of his true feelings, right now. He is not the pretty man he once was. He doesn’t think he was ever pretty, at all.
“I don’t know.”
Ponk taps his foot, not putting the prosthetic back onto his body. Instead, he reaches to take Sam’s hand into his own, pressing at the squishy pads of his palms and fingertips, etched with scars from accidents and battle alike.
“Did you forget?” Ponk asks, tugging Sam’s arm downwards. They both sink to the ground, settling onto crossed legs and tender muscles.
Sam nods, eyelids drooping.
“Here’s what I remember…” Ponk starts, squeezing at Sam’s palms as she talks, likes he's charting his life through stress lines and old wounds. “I remember, a funny, silly man. Who was- compassionate. That’s what I’d describe you as. You- well, you just did things. You built things because it made you happy, you would work at redstone for hours and hours and hours just because you wanted to. You learned how to bake pumpkin pie because you wanted to impress me. You’d hand out stacks and stacks of steak and other foods to anyone who needed it. You’d follow Tommy around to make sure he was safe. You built a robot to help him with his hotel before letting other people use your robot, too. You… you’d dance in the rain because you didn’t want to stop spending time with me. You’d jump off a cliff into freezing ocean water because I asked you to. You’d carry me home and we’d laugh and share soup because we knew we’d both be catching a cold when the morning came. You accepted the job as Warden to try and keep everyone safe, and yet…”
Ponk’s gaze hardens, and she stares up at Sam’s watery eyes, leaky with tears bottled up over a year of torment and wickedness.
“You thought you couldn’t self-destruct, but I knew better. You thought you wouldn’t self-sabotage, and you did, anyways. You-”
They stop, turning to look at a butterfly drinking nectar from a nearby flower. It must have gotten caught in the rainstorm, and had nowhere else to go.
“You thought you were a flower, maybe. Blooming into a role that you thought you were forced into. But instead-”
Ponk turns, with startling precision, and snaps the butterfly up in one hand.
“You’re just the venus fly trap. You’ve gotten so caught up in this sense of duty and grandeur that you’ve forgotten who you are. Now, you're just- you're gobbling up all the people who are trying to invest themselves in that sickeningly-sweet nectar, or... or something. Something like that. The nectar is fake-protection. I'm good at metaphors!"
Ponk opens his hand, and the butterfly flutters away, narrowly avoiding fat droplets of rainwater as it finds another flower to relax onto and wait for the storm to pass.
“Am I right, or am I right?”
Sam’s eyes have shut again, and he hisses, but it’s deep and low and contemplative.
“I got so lucky, with you,” he says, a whisper on the wind.
“I know,” Ponk murmurs, tugging at Sam’s hand again- crooked fingers, healed after getting ground into obsidian- and presses it to the side of their face. Sam holds them, and pretends that they are okay.
“I’m sorry.”
More thunder.
“I don’t forgive you.”
It sounds peaceful.
“I know.”
It is peaceful.
Sam brushes a thumb across Ponk’s cheek, watches the way his skin molds to the touch; he studies the white of his eyelashes, the curl of his hair, and the sad fondness in his eyes.
“How do I fix it, Ponk?” He asks. He’s begging, and if his answer is life or death, he wouldn’t mind. “How do I fix myself?”
Ponk sighs, leaning into the gentleness of Sam’s scarred palm, and she reaches to touch his chest. Tender, careful, like Sam would shatter if he was pushed too hard. “I can’t tell you that, Sam. I’m- I’m not fixing you. I’m not going to try. Not this time. You gotta do it. If you really care, you have to do it.”
Sam’s adam apple bobs as he swallows. “I’m trying. Can you tell that I’m trying?”
Ponk isn’t smiling. “Of course I can. But- do you think just trying helps anything? No, no. You have to prove it. You have to prove it to the people you’ve hurt.”
Sam thinks hard. Not even Tommy forgave him, but he’d never asked for forgiveness in the first place. He wasn’t ever really sure what he was asking for, from anyone. Acceptance, perhaps? A thank you?
There was still the hushed voice in the back of his mind, at the depths of his heart, that waited for him to die.
He was still drowning. Would he ever stop drowning?
“You’ve hurt me a lot, Sam. How are you going to prove it?”
Sam stares at the flowers surrounding them. They’re slightly blurry through the wetness of his gaze.
“You look so beautiful, right now.”
Ponk blinks slow before scowling, but there’s a faint hint of amusement there.
“Man, you’re good at burying your feelings, aren’t you? Maybe you need to work on that.”
Sam smiles lazily, for he’s cried himself into exhaustion.
“You’re going to smell like the flowers for days to come. When I see a flower, all I’ll think about is you, and how gorgeous you are.”
He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He can tell by the darkening of Ponk’s cheeks that they at least enjoy the compliments.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to think about me, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes close, and he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Ponk doesn’t lean away from the contact.
“I think about you all the time,” he breathes out.
“How awful of you. Seriously, how awful! You can’t do anything right!”
Sam grins, and it’s a little toothy. “I know I can’t. That’s why I’m here. I was destined to fail.”
Ponk muses in agreement, and they sit there, fingers intertwined. Sam can imagine a long-ago dance in the rain, of spinning around muddy, dirty puddles, and singing songs that only the birds could hear.
Eventually, Sam’s voice rises again, but it’s barely noticeable over the heavy patter of rain.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
Ponk doesn’t reply.
There’s another brief moment of silence before Ponk pulls away first, collecting their arm from the ground and sliding it back onto the scarred-over stump. There’s a click and then a ppssshhhh as air is released, and Ponk flexes the fingers of the prosthetic.
She stands, offering a hand for Sam to take.
Sam grasps the metal gently, pulling himself to wobbly feet.
He’s regaining his balance, adjusting to the sharp phantom pains of his missing leg, when Ponk moves swift and fast and he feels the heavy blow to his face.
His eye explodes in pain, and Sam stumbles back before falling onto his ass again.
Ponk laughs, it’s wicked and unholy but Sam can only define it as lovable.
Sam brings shaky fingers to his eye, and the skin is already raw and red from the swift punch to his eye socket. He sniffles and rubs at it with his palm.
“That’s what you get-” Ponk says with a haughty sneer, “-for cutting my damn arm off!”
Ponk rolls the sleeve of his hoodie back over his arm, and he’s grinning wild and crazy, but his eyes are shining with all of the amusement in the universe.
“Goodbye, Sammy! I’m all soaked in water and it’s your fault!”
Sam smiles after them, waving as Ponk skips off the venue on old, worn sneakers. They slip on the wood once or twice, and every time, Ponk calls back a sharp, “You didn’t see that!”
Sam’s a lovesick fool.
Selfishly selfless, as all things are. As all things should be.
He’d cut off another arm if it meant he’d keep all the people he loved alive.
He’d lose every life if it meant that nobody would have to suffer anymore.
He’d bear the weight of the world if it meant that people would still love him.
His eye has swollen almost immediately, but he’s not mad. He deserved it.
Sam notices a movement from the corner of his eye, and the butterfly that Ponk had caught previously flaps its silly little wings in an arc around his head. Sam lifts a slightly trembly hand, holding out a finger, and the butterfly flutters once, twice before landing on his scarred hand.
Sam tilts his head, studying it closely, watching the way it moves.
A blue butterfly with black-tipped wings; the antennas twitched. It stayed there, only for a moment, before taking off into the air again.
The rain has cleared.
He stands, he stretches, and he hopes that the love he is allowing himself to feel won’t once again be his downfall.