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Henry had been standing in the doorway of the music department’s recording room for a couple minutes before Sammy finally noticed him, startling badly enough to press a bevy of piano keys to make quite the cacophony. Laughing, Henry set his axe down, leaning the handle against the wall.
“You shouldn’t be here yet,” Sammy complained as he approached. His mask sat atop the piano, and Henry felt all warm and fuzzy inside when he didn’t scramble to put it back on like he used to.
Henry shrugged, grinning. “I didn’t feel like doing the scavenger hunt.”
“And so you thought to give me a heart attack instead?”
The way he obligingly scooted to one side of the bench belied his irritation.
Henry sat down beside him. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” he claimed, and from Sammy’s dubious head tilt, his amusement was too audible. “I just wanted to visit you without the script being a nuisance. Is that so wrong?”
“You broke it again?” For me went unsaid, but it was so, so obvious in Sammy’s pleased, nearly shy tone.
“Sure did,” Henry said proudly. He knocked their shoulders together, a quick nudge, then swayed closer so he was just barely leaning against Sammy. After a moment, Sammy met him in the middle. Henry closed his eyes with a sigh of contentment, allowing himself to relax. It wasn’t often he was able to let his guard down so thoroughly, especially beyond the ground floor. “Will you play something for me?”
Trailing his fingers over the ink-stained keys, Sammy hummed contemplatively. “Hm, I could, but I find my heart has yet to recover from that scare.”
“Me, scary?”
Sammy sniffed, playfully indignant. “You try looking over your shoulder when you believe yourself to be alone and instead find a man with an axe watching you from the shadows.”
Henry laughed, as he often did with Sammy.
These times when the script was shorted out and scrambling to reassert its puppet strings on Henry, these moments when they could all just be themselves, were so wonderful yet bittersweet. Sammy was the most like his old self, the man he was before the ink, and it was with great fondness that Henry remembered their friendship back then.
It’d only been a handful of loops since they got their acts together and stopped waffling. He wondered sometimes if they would have grown beyond friendship without being trapped in this world.
Ducking closer, Henry said, sly and smug, “So I got your heart racing is what I’m hearing.”
Sammy sputtered, “That—that is hardly what I meant!” Oh, if only ink could blush.
“And I wasn’t even trying. But that can change,” Henry said, winking for good measure. Chuckling, Henry faced forward and shuffled through the music sheets propped up on the piano stand, not that Sammy really needed them. “C’mon, what’s one you haven’t played in a while?”
When Sammy remained silent, Henry looked back at him. It was hard to read facial expressions in any of the ink creatures, save Allison and Alice, but Henry liked to think he’d been getting pretty good at it with Sammy. His face was slightly more defined than the Lost Ones’ and lacked all the dangling, dripping ink. Instead of glowing eyes, though, he only had shallow pits where eyes should be.
Sammy’s head in general was nearly reminiscent of a skull—just, one very thoroughly covered in thick ink—though Henry kept that comparison to himself. He had no nose or ears, but he did have a mouth.
(Henry tried not to actively wonder what other human features he did or didn’t have.)
His face didn’t allow for much variation in expression, admittedly, but Henry knew what hesitation and resignation looked like on him.
“Hey,” he said softly. He leaned a little more firmly where their upper arms were pressed together, but he also carefully made sure he didn’t totally encroach on Sammy’s personal space. “Too much?”
Sammy sighed. “I just don’t…” He fell quiet, the self-conscious and nearly self-loathing type of quiet, but Henry forced himself to wait patiently. Pushing—confrontation—would only make things worse. Sammy’s insecurities were far from new, and some days, they dug their claws deep into him, drawing his doubts to the surface. They haunted him as much as the whispers in the ink did.
They’d been going slow since their mutual confessions—Henry genuinely didn’t mind; they had an eternity, after all—and Henry did his best to balance lightheartedness with interest, not wanting to pressure Sammy but also not wanting to give the impression that he was bothered by Sammy’s inkiness.
His appearance, Henry knew, was the source of the worst of his anxiety. “I know it’s pointless to hope for reciprocation,” he’d said, visibly and audibly frustrated with himself for daring to want, “given the repulsive state of my body. But I—”
Henry had stopped him by reaching out to take his hand. “I don’t think there’s anything pointless about hoping,” he’d argued, gentle but fierce. And then, because Sammy had still been caving in on himself, he’d said, “For the record, I like-like you too.” And even though it felt silly to say it in such a childish way, Sammy’s laughter had been worth the middle school flashbacks.
“I know what I look like, is all,” Sammy finally said, and Henry hated how diminished he sounded. “You don’t have to pretend.”
Raising an eyebrow, Henry asked, bewildered, “You think I’m pretending to like you?”
“No. Yes. I mean…” He huffed. “I can accept that you find my winning personality attractive. That’s hardly a surprise.”
Henry smothered his chuckles into his palm.
“And our banter—we’re clearly well-matched in wit and humor.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“And I know you’re kind, Henry. Too kind, perhaps. But you—you don’t need to pretend that you find me…” Sammy looked away, slouching. “I know our… relationship cannot have a physical aspect.”
“It can’t,” Henry echoed.
Sammy nodded.
“Well, why not? Unless you don’t want that…?” Golly, if he’d been making Sammy uncomfortable this whole time with the more… suggestive flirtations…
But no, his worries were unfounded. Flinging a few drops of ink with the speed at which he whipped his head around to face Henry, Sammy blurted out, “Of course I want—but I, I refuse to make you endure… this.” He gestured weakly at himself.
Oh. Amused, Henry asked, “Much as I appreciate the concern… Sammy, are you really worried that I, of all people, will silently give in to something I don’t want to do?”
Breaking rules, going out of bounds, and otherwise proving to be as disobedient and uncooperative as possible was a large part of Henry’s self-appointed schtick in the loops. And when he wasn’t gleefully shorting out the script, he was loudly complaining, mocking, or criticizing it. He would surrender to passive acceptance of his own doom when hell froze over.
(Plus, his shenanigans eased Boris’s fears, amused Bendy, and aggravated the hell out of Alice, so it was really a win-win in all directions, as far as he was concerned.)
“But you can’t possibly just, just not mind that I’m—” Again, Sammy gestured at himself, this time with frustration. “I know you’ve said otherwise before, and your kindness does you credit, but—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Henry leaned up before Sammy could even realize what he was doing and gave him a kiss on his cheek. Actions speak louder than words and all that.
The ink of his body was about room temperature and smoother than skin. It had give, too, in an almost rubbery way, while firmly holding its shape. It was a curious part of the studio’s inhabitants. The ink of their bodies seemed to be distinctly different from the non-creature ink. The ink in puddles and pools and pipes was all fresh flowing liquid. The toons, every last one of them, were solid.
Overall, while unusual, if only for the newness of it, physical contact of a more intimate sort wasn’t unpleasant or gross or whatever else Sammy was sending himself into a tailspin over.
“I really don’t mind,” Henry said firmly, eyes crinkling as he watched Sammy reboot. “Because you’re Sammy. And that’s what matters to me. Not what you look like.”
Frozen and apparently rendered speechless—an impressive feat—Sammy only moved enough to raise his hand to his cheek. Henry pressed his lips tightly together to keep from laughing, not wanting to sound like he was making fun of him. He waited patiently. There was no sign of the script reestablishing itself over him yet, so they still had plenty of time.
“You…” Sammy finally said faintly, “you don’t… mind.”
“I more than don’t mind. You have to have noticed I’m always distracted during your ‘I’m going to sacrifice you’ monologue.”
A funny choked gargle burst out of him. “This?” Sammy looked down at himself. “Really?”
“Hey, watch it; that’s my partner you’re bad-mouthing.” Henry smiled as Sammy made a noise of pleased surprise. “In all seriousness, I’m attracted to you because you’re you, no matter what you look like. I fell for your charm; the rest is just a bonus.”
“And you really mean that,” Sammy said softly. This time, more than any other time they’d had some variation of this conversation in the past, Henry thought Sammy sounded like he actually believed it.
Henry reached out and took Sammy’s right hand with his left, lacing their fingers together. “Of course. Always.”
He gave Sammy a chance to really process and accept that, unhurried and simply enjoying the lazy sense of peace in the room. The studio was quiet around them. With the script thrown off, there weren’t even Searchers to worry about. It was the last moment of true calm he’d get for a while. Everything after the music department and the safehouse was a fight for his life. There would be no rest until the loop began again.
Someday, he’d find a way to change that. Henry swore it.
But for now, he leaned his temple on Sammy’s shoulder in response to a squeeze of his hand. After a second of hesitation, Sammy tilted down to press his cheek to Henry’s head.
“Thank you,” Sammy said quietly. He didn’t elaborate, but then, Henry didn’t need him to. All the things he could have continued with, Henry didn’t need to be thanked for.
He merely squeezed Sammy’s hand back. “So,” he said, sitting up, Sammy following his lead, “we’ve still got time. Your heart feeling calmed down enough to play something?”
Humming contemplatively, Sammy answered, “I suppose I could, if that’s what you want. Or…”
“Or?”
“Or I could show you how, with a bit of focus, I can manifest a tongue.”
A startled laugh of delight burst out of Henry. “Is that so? Well, in that case…” And they were in sync because even as Henry pushed up off the bench and twisted, Sammy let go of his hand to wind his arm around Henry’s lower back, guiding him into his lap.
The bench was thankfully sturdy as Henry settled with his knees on either side of Sammy’s hips. This was new. Giddiness bubbled up inside him; he hadn’t done something like this since college.
“Show me whatcha got,” Henry continued, eyes half-lidded, letting Sammy urge him closer.
Sammy chuckled. His hands slipped down dangerously low on Henry’s sides until his pinky fingers were teasing at his waistband. “Let’s see how well I can play you, hm? I may be out of practice, but as they say—”
Henry leaned down, touching their foreheads together for a moment. His happiness was a bright spot in his chest, and it was times like these that he knew Joey wouldn’t win. Couldn’t, since these small victories, these moments of joy in a world that was meant to be a source of unending misery, meant he’d already lost.
“Practice makes perfect,” Sammy finished after a dazed pause, and Henry could see his wonder plain as day.
“Better get to work,” Henry teased. “We wouldn’t want your status as a master musician to be questioned.”
He was promptly made to eat those words—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say Sammy ate them, along with quite a few gasps and curses and repetitions of Sammy’s own name that followed.