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It’s hot in the wintertime here. He used to dream about it, the long, slow nights. The drinking and the girls and the desert heat. He used to stay up, wishing. Hoping. Now it just makes him sad that he wasted so much time.
It’s been years since he went home. At least three. He keeps making up excuses, reasons upon reasons why holidays need to be spent in LA, a video or a promo or a meeting about this that or the other. He hates himself for it.
Colby’s just about the only person who keeps him around anymore. Keeps him from losing himself, from spiralling too far into the deep end. He’ll pull him back from the metaphorical ledge with soft words, kind eyes. With brushes along his back, the sides of his face.
Sam shakes in his sleep, now. He can’t remember when it started, but he wakes up freezing all the time. He wishes it were at least cold, then there might be a reason for it.
No amount of sun, or running, or protein shakes in the sharp morning light can fix him. He’s broken, simple as that. Month after month, video after video, he hides from the ugly truth. It sneers at him, flapping its jaws in mocking laughter, pushing him further into oblivion.
Sometimes the thoughts get so bad he scares himself. So he sits on the floor of his bathroom, back to the mirror on the door, and wishes and wishes and wishes. Go away. Go away. Go away.
His family has always suffered from depression. His mother did, her mother before her, and before, and before, and before. Generations worth of illness, stacked like dominoes that tilt and fall, crashing into him with the force of a thousand suns.
Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but it feels the same. He can’t get out of bed if they aren’t filming, and even then. Even then.
He misses his Mom. He misses her frankness, the hard edge that always lined her words of comfort. She never lied to him, not once. They discovered the black ink that dripped through him at a young age because of it, and for that he’s eternally grateful.
He doesn’t have to live not knowing. He can know, and be certain. Above anything, that, at least, is a comfort.
Sometimes he feels like he’s lying to everyone, and the irony smacks him so hard across the face he stumbles blindly with it, mouth working. The eager, glib motivation. The positive words, keep going, keep exploring. Maybe once he believed what he was saying, but he hasn’t since. Not for a long while.
Colby watches him out of the corners of his eyes. He watches intently, so focused and sincere that Sam has to close his eyes, pretend to sleep. Colby is worried. Colby is always worried these days. It takes a great deal of effort not to hit himself for being the cause of it.
“Up,” Colby says, lifting Sam’s arms. He can’t remember the last time he showered. “I’m not asking twice. Up.”
Sam turns over.
“Brother, come on. You need a haircut. And a shave. I’ll do it for you, just--come on.” He coaxes with his hands, fingers light and cool. Sam wants to follow them, wants to chase the comfort but he can’t.
It makes him want to cry. But he can’t do that, either.
Colby runs his fingers through his hair, which is greasy and lank and filled with knots. He expertly avoids them, keeping his touches soft and calming. If only Sam could thank him, if only he could speak, could feel, could understand the rotting, stinking numbness that subsumes him. If only.
Colby begins to sing.
It’s something new, something Sam’s never heard before. His voice rasps over the words, catching and stumbling and falling back into place again.
Oh, I’ve been wrong
Heart under the gun
Look how far we’ve come,
Think I’ve finally won
It draws a rare smile onto his face, and he curls his body into the sound. Colby keeps smoothing down his hair, his voice rumbling through the space between them. Sam wants to get up. He does. He wants to shower, he wants to shave. He wants more than anything to hear Colby laugh again, to see him smile so wide and big it blinds.
He wants to, but he can’t. That hurts more than anything.
Even when I’m not with you, I’m still with you
Even when I can’t see you, I still feel you
Even when I can’t touch you, I pretend to
Even when I’m not with you, I’m still with you
Colby knows he’s listening. He knows the tempo of his breath, the steadiness of his heart. He knows the sounds he makes when he’s sleeping, and the ones he makes when he’s awake. Colby would know if he were in pain, if he were dying, if he were happy.
Colby always knows.
Sometimes he hates that he’s known. Sometimes it flays him open, leaves him sat shaking in his bed, all of his skin peeled back and blood pouring out. Sometimes he’s so eternally grateful he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Colby’s touching his face now. Tracing the line of his nose, the sunken shadows of his cheeks. His hands are light, an attempt to be comforting. Sam feels nothing. It’s as though someone else’s face is being carressed, as though someone else lay supine on the bed, praying feverishly, feverishly.
It’s not until the song finishes that something begins to worm its way through.
It’s good to know that I’m
The only one who can cut you further
What is love besides
Two souls trying to heal each other
The final words cut into him, squeezing so tightly that a tear finds its way down his face. He’s shaking with the effort of holding it back, holding it in, so it stays with him. He wants to hold onto this, this feeling.
“That’s it,” Colby shushes. “That’s it. It’s okay. I love you, man. I love you.”
Sam whines, keens, tries to breathe. His chest is aching with so much sorrow he can’t see straight, but it’s better than the dull nothingness that usually resides there. He shakes and cries and clutches Colby’s wrists so tight they begin to grind beneath his grip.
“Let me hold you, up--up, that’s it. Come on.” Colby lifts his torso, pulling him forwards. He goes, because what else can he do?
“Sorry,” He whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”
“I know,” Colby hums. “I know, Sammy.”
They sit like that, two souls, until the sun dies and burns to life again. Colby doesn’t try to get him to shower or shave yet, but he does make him drink water. Sam chokes down two mouthfuls, groaning. It feels like molten lava down his throat.
Everything hurts, but that’s good. It means he can feel again. It means he’s going to get better. He forces himself to stay awake, to be conscious and alert, to take advantage of the burning, blurring life that wells within his chest. He opens his eyes and looks, watches in turn as Colby takes care of him.
Sam pushes, and pushes, and pushes, until he feels himself give.
“Thank you,” He rasps. “I’m sorry. God, I--I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Listen to my voice, man, it’s alright.”
“Colby,” He says. He’s so scared. “Colby, it hurts. It hurts so bad. I don’t know what to do.” He loathes himself. His hatred runs so deep it nails him to his bed, the floor, the earth. He is weak, and sad, and pitiful. He hates it.
“Shh, I know, Sam, I know.” Colby’s crying now. He hates it. He hates it. He hates it.
He wants to crawl inside Colby’s sternum where it’s warm and safe and beating, where he can live forever, pushing love and blood and pounding life into his veins. He wants to become him, to encase him, to cover him so completely they both disappear.
“I love you,” He says. “You’re my best friend, I love you. I’m sorry, I--” Everything in any place at any moment is false, is so unfathomably ugly. Except for this, because he knows it’s real. He loves Colby, this bleeding heart, this eternal friend.
“Sam, look at me. I love you. Stay with me, stay with me now. I love you, brother. You’re worth that, alright? You are.”
Colby hugs him so tightly he struggles to breathe. He feels free for the first time in months, held down like this. He is loved, he is loved, he is loved. He knows. He’s always known, but he really feels it this time, sat here, hunched and curled together.
They lay for a long while, crying into each other’s necks. It’s cathartic, messy. He catches Colby’s tears with his ratty shirt, and Colby catches him as he falls apart. They get up to piss, and to drink some more water, and Sam stumbles the whole way.
His legs feel rigid, bloated with lack of use. His arms are heavy, swinging like logs by his sides, but Colby holds him together like something precious. He leans on Colby while he empties his bladder, all semblance of embarrassment gone from his body.
Colby’s seen him worse, anyways.
After some time, Colby ushers him into a chair, and they tackle his hair. Armed with detangling spray and three combs, they work through the mess. Pain tugs at his neck, behind his ears, but he welcomes it gladly. It grounds him, peeling him back from a floaty edge.
Colby hums lowly while he works, fingers sure and solid. He keeps sliding them down Sam’s neck, like he’s making sure he’s still awake, and for good reason. He nearly falls asleep three separate times.
“No sleeping,” Colby chides. “I need your help, okay?”
“Mm,”
“Here, hold the spray. I’m gonna get some scissors.”
“Mmm.”
When he comes back he swipes his fingers through the fringe that reaches below Sam’s eyes, pulling the hair from his forehead. It’s damp with detangling spray, and still greasy with oil and sweat. Colby doesn’t seem to mind.
“I watched a tutorial,” He starts, chewing his lip. It pulls a weak smile from him. “But I’ve never done this before. If I butcher it, I'll blame Youtube.”
“No one’ll see me.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm.” He closes his eyes. Colby’s still combing his fingers through his hair, and it feels nice.
“Okay, here goes.”
He snips away at Sam’s hair for about half an hour, getting tufts everywhere, scattered all around the floor. They float in the air like dandelion seeds, tickling his nose and the wells beneath his eyes.
It makes him chuckle a little, and the grin he sees on Colby’s face at the sound is worth all the itching. Afterwards, Colby helps him into the shower, holding his arm the whole way through. They shower with boxers on, until Colby runs a bath.
He helps Sam slip into the steaming water, using an old mason jar to tip water across the expanse of his back. He feels like he’s thawing for the first time since July.
While they’re there, he grabs some shaving cream and a safety razor. Sam lets him shave the majority of his beard, only taking over with shaky hands at the hard angles.
Once the water starts to turn lukewarm, Colby unplugs the drain and grabs a fluffy towel, straight out of the dryer. Sam’s eyes sting with the amount of care pouring onto him like honey. He grips Colby’s bicep in thanks, tapping his forefinger twice. Colby tips their foreheads together, so he knows he gets it.
They sit on the floor afterwards, swathed in baggy clothing, and stretch together. Colby insists on it, and leads him through a low-impact routine that leaves him feeling achey and alive. In child’s position, he nearly starts to cry, feeling like something in him has begun to heal.
He’s exhausted by the time they’re done, and Colby knows it. He leads him to the couch, promising to wash his sheets while he sleeps. He reaches up, and touches Colby’s face. A silent thank you, a quiet brush of gratitude.
“For you,” He says. “I’m gonna do it. I’ll get better.”
“No, Sammy. Not for me. For you.”
“I don’t know how,” It sounds whiny, and petulant. Like a child.
“We’ll figure it out, yeah? Together.”
Together. Together. He can try that.
After hours of restless sleep, he turns on his side and sinks into something warm. The warm thing pets his hair, soothing him. He knows it’s Colby, but he pretends it’s not. He pretends it’s a huge bear, with thick, soft paws that cradle him. He pretends he’s six years old again, wrapped inside the cocoon of a blanket fort, listening to stories woven expertly by his mother.
He pretends that he doesn’t hurt anymore, that the only things he feels are the warmth from this big bear, and the soft down of the fur beneath his body. He curls himself, and dreams it all to life.
There’s no harm in a little dreaming, in a little play pretend. If life has taught him anything, it’s that reality is harsh, often too harsh to weather, and that lying to yourself will shut out the pain long enough to surive on.
So he lies and lies and lies, shunning the truth, wrapping the false comfort around him like wool upon his ears. Everything falls away, and he’s left alone. Unhurt, unharmed, but alone. The bear grumbles its displeasure, pulling him closer in.
Maybe he’s not alone, then. He reaches out, intent on touching the body behind the veneer. He’s met with flesh, bone, blood. A warm mouth, a solid hand. Sleepy eyes and a bleary head. Colby, awakening.
Sam stares because he’s lost the shame that came bred into him. He’s lost the need for caution at all, really. He doesn’t care anymore. If something is nice to look at, he’ll look, simple as that. And Colby is a nice thing.
Colby blinks at him and stares in turn. They lay looking, breathing, watching. It sets something alight, like a little burning flame somewhere in his belly. He tilts his head, unsure.
“Hi,” He says.
“Hi,” Colby replies. He doesn’t turn away. Instead he smiles, like the sun breaking through the trees, and it is so impossibly beautiful that it hurts. “Welcome back.”
He grumbles at that, even though he isn’t really annoyed. His throat aches, as do his eyes and legs and chest, but that's alright with him. He’ll take it all, if Colby would smile like that again.
“You should--do that more,” He says, because he’s stupid.
“Do what? Sleep?”
“No. The other thing you did.” Sam is being stubborn. It’s a good feeling. Familiar.
“Uh huh,” Colby says. His voice is laced with sleep, deep and gravelled. He sounds like a bear. Something tickles his brain, but he shakes it off. “And what did I do?”
“Smiled.” Sam murmurs. “You have a good one. Good smile.”
“Thank you,” Colby says, and there it is again. His eyes almost disappear, crinkling up, eyebrows falling down. Cheeks dimpled, white teeth on display, nose scrunched. Sam wants to map his face, feel each dip and curve with his hands.
His chest nearly caves. He forgot what this felt like, this burning, searching love. It doesn’t matter what it is, who it’s for. It exists, in all its forms, reaching for a counterpart, reaching for someone who will reach back.
If he knows anything, Colby always reaches back.
He takes his thumb, and makes good on his wish. He maps Colby’s nose with it, the dip of his brow. He brushes along his forehead to the wrinkles there, brushing away any loose hair.
“Hi,” Colby says, and he sounds warm. Content. All rumbly and low. It makes Sam feel crazy.
“Hi,” He says back. He lets a smile creep onto his own face, softening his features.
Colby looks so fond, so kind. He opens like a flower under Sam’s touch, basking and rolling and arching towards the sun. Sam touches his mouth, where his lips seam together, tracing the line with his fingernail.
They keep the apartment warm, but he shivers anyway.
“Sammy,” He says, face still open, still soft. He’s practically glowing.
“Mm?”
“You good? Feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He drops his hand to Colby’s chest, and turns in to face him. He wraps his legs more tightly, tangling them together so it’s impossible to tell where they begin and end and begin again. Burying his face into Colby’s chest, the skin of his neck, feels like waking up.
He opens his mouth to say so, but forgets it all as Colby runs both his hands up Sam’s back, pulling him close, close, closer.
“Missed you.” Colby says. “While you were away.”
“I’m sorry,”
“No, no. Not what I meant. Just--let me hold you, yeah?”
“Yeah. Whatever you want.” He feels a kiss planted on the side of his head, solid and protective. He sinks and keeps sinking, content to fall back asleep.
“Can I ask you something?” Colby scratches at the hair on his neck.
“Mhmm,”
“Where do you--where do you go? When you’re gone?”
“I go in,” He says. “Inside. Where I can’t feel anything.”
“Okay,” Colby says. “But I can still talk to you, right? Like, you know it’s me?”
“I always know it’s you.”
“I’m not sure how much…better, that makes me feel.”
“It’s not supposed to make you feel anything, Colbs.”
“But like,” He shifts. “If I’m supposed to help you, and I can’t bring you out, then who will?”
“‘S not your job,” Sam says, voice muffled by Colby’s shirt.
“It kind of is, though.”
“Who says? Who told you that?”
“I mean, no one. But I’m your best friend, Sam, and I’m here.”
“I know that. Doesn’t mean there’s a job description. I bring myself out, when and where I want to. It’s me, it’s my job.”
“Do I even--does it even help?” He sounds so small, fragile. Sam lifts his head.
“Of course you do,” He breathes, resolute. “You help so much. Always.”
“But what happens when I can’t help anymore? Where do you go?”
“I’ll always come back. I will. You’re here, man, how could I not?”
“I don’t know,” Colby says. “I don’t know.”
Sam wraps his arms under Colby, bringing their chests together, heart to lung to heart. He can feel his chest rising, falling, shuddering. Colby’s eyes never leave his.
“I love you,” Sam says. “I love you so much it feels like I’ll fall over. Even when I’m in an episode, I still love you, that doesn’t disappear.”
“I love you too man, it’s just. It gets scary, when it doesn’t have anywhere to go. I feel like you--like you die on me, sometimes. Like I’m grieving you.” Colby immediately looks regretful, shame pooling his frame like water.
“I’m sorry--” Sam starts, eyes welling.
“No,” Colby interrupts. “No, God, no. I’m sorry. That was--that was a horrible thing to say. You’re not dead, Sammy, I know that. You’re alive and with me and breathing. I know. I know. I didn’t mean--”
“Colby,”
“You’re here, with me. You are. I don’t ever lose you like that, not even close, I don’t know why I said that. I lied, I lied to you.”
“Colby, it’s okay.”
“No, that wasn’t okay.”
“I get it. I do. I abandon you, how can I expect you to act like I’m still there? It doesn’t work like that. Life, love, it doesn’t work like that.”
“I love you.” Colby holds his face. “I love you and I want to hold you forever, like this. I love you. You don’t abandon me, baby, I swear. I don’t feel abandoned. I just feel love.” Tears stream down his face, dripping onto the couch.
“Okay,” Sam says. “Okay.”
He kisses him. He does it, and it doesn’t feel weird. He kisses him with lips on lips, full and real. Colby kisses him back, soft. Opening his mouth on an exhale.
It’s like a summer rain, wet and warm and comforting. They kiss for all the times they haven’t, they kiss for all the times they should have. They kiss, and kiss, and sip the love from each other’s lips.
“Sammy,” Colby says. “Sammy, I love you so much. I’m in love with you.”
“I know,” Sam whispers against his lips. “I’m yours, I’m yours forever.” He opens his mouth, feeling, touching, tasting. He’s flying, he’s sure of it.
They fall asleep like that, noses bumping, lips raw. It’s the best sleep Sam’s had in months. When they wake, it’s together, wrapped close and in love.
“Colby,” Sam whispers, kissing his cheeks, his chin, the tip of his nose. “Wake up, bear.”
“Mm,” He groans, stretching. “Does that make you Goldilocks, Mr. Golbach?”
“Hope not,” He grins. “She’s annoying as fuck.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Colby gets in a smile before Sam kisses it off his face. His heart beats, and beats, and beats.
He feels it all, rushing and running and flowing through him. Everything, everything. Love and hurt and pain and joy and fear and hope and kindness. Colby’s tongue wraps around his teeth and he sighs, opens his mouth.
Even when this goes away, when he retreats back into himself, even when they don’t kiss, or touch, for fear of the ugliness inside, he will always have this. It will always be, because it is.
“Even when I’m not with you, I’m still with you.” Sam breathes. Because what is love, besides two souls trying to heal each other?