Chapter Text
For what might be the first ever time in her life, Samantha Butler Black Britain's fingers hover over the “send” button on her phone’s flashing screen. She’s not usually one to hesitate or beat around the bush when it comes to texting or calling. In fact, her bold confidence is one of the most noticeable and, she thinks, loveable things about herself. She’s always got a smile ready, for better or for worse.
This, however, is different. And she doesn’t entirely know why. It’s just Evan! She’s just texting Evan! Why can’t she just text Evan, one of her best friends in this whole, messed-up world. The only person who seems to see her for her, not for her smiles or bravado, but for her soul, the deepest parts of her hidden away. She loves him, truly, she does. So why is this so hard?
Deep down, she knows the answer. She’s just not willing to speak it aloud.
The sound of the airport intercom startles Sam out of her reverie. A woman’s voice blares out of the speakers, announcing some flight out of some gate and Sam honestly couldn’t care less. Well, she couldn’t care less until she realizes that the woman is announcing her own boarding party for her flight back to London.
“Shit,” she hisses, standing up to gather her things. She’d checked her larger suitcase, thankfully, but that still leaves the various things she’d pulled from her carry-on bag during her wait. Not to mention the things her mom had insisted she take back with her after this little visit to Portland—random American snacks and various other items not found in the UK. “Shit,” she repeats, this time a defeated sigh. She’d never tell anybody, but she’s exhausted. Nothing tires you out like your family, she supposes. It’s been nice to be back in the states, she’ll admit. Nice to see her mom, her old friends from back home, too. But all she could think about, even when a whole continent and several time zones away, is where Evan might be, and whether he’s alright. It’s always a thought she keeps around, the hope that her friends are doing okay and if they need anything. But Evan is different. She knows he’d never tell her if or when he needed help.
Once she’s all packed and ready, she speed-walks to the gate as subtly as possible to join the boarding line. Despite her exhausted state and the liminal feeling that always comes with being in an airport, Sam can’t wait to go home. She misses her friends, she misses her show, she misses it all. She misses who she is there. She catches the eye of a young woman in line behind her who seems to recognize her. Sam just winks and plasters on her best smile, causing the young woman to blush and start furiously typing at her phone screen, no doubt texting a friend or posting on some Instagram story she’s sure to be tagged in later.
She’d never tell anybody that she’s exhausted, except for maybe one person. And she really does think he deserves to know. She’s been away from the UK for so long, and their text conversations have, unfortunately, somewhat died down. Evan can be tricky, sometimes. He has a difficult time reaching out to others for fear of being a bother. Sam had tried everything she knew to try and convince him otherwise, but some fears run too deep. Really, truly and genuinely, she loves talking to him. He brightens her day and he’s so kind to her. Not just because he thinks she’s the “greatest” or whatever. That’s just who he is: kind. Everybody needs their own Evan Kelmp. Somebody who, without placing you on a pedestal, believes in every part of you and never fails to be there when it matters. He’s her… best friend. She doesn’t want to think about the alternative title. She shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. Evan is still healing from a childhood of terrors. Learning that his closest friend in the world dreams about waking up next to him and touching his face, about kissing him gently (and sometimes, not so gently) and holding him close, about learning every single detail there is to him until there isn’t a single speck of Evan that isn’t hers to know.
No, he can’t know. Because that would be her taking advantage of such a wonderful person in her life who deserves nothing but genuine kindness. She has no proof that he feels the same way about her, and thus no grounds to confess on. If she did, and he didn’t feel the same way, she’s afraid she’d be trapping him into a relationship he didn’t actually feel anything for, just so that he could feel wanted. She’s loved him even before she started daydreaming about what the rough pads of his fingers would feel like on her skin. She’s loved him since Gowpenny, but truth be told, she can’t remember when that feeling of love shifted.
Again, she can’t bring herself to think about it. But she misses him dearly, and she’d never pass up an opportunity to visit with a friend. She doesn’t like the idea of him being alone, either. Everyone deserves reminders that they’re cherished, and Evan deserves it most of all. If she just dropped contact because of this, she knows he’d probably blame himself forever for something that was not his fault but hers. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
And, selfishly, she can’t imagine a life, her life, without him.
Briefly, she clenches her eyes shut. Memories of her and Evan flash vividly behind her eyelids, a home video of important moments. Her tear ducts well up and she tries, furiously, to blink them away. Then, before she can stop herself, she fumbles for her phone and hits send, turning it on airplane mode and stuffing it in her purse before she has time to regret the decision.
Evan is fresh out of the graveyard shift at the petrol station when his phone buzzes. Without a second of doubt, he knows it’s from Sam. Not because of some silly “feeling” or intuition, no, that’s ridiculous. Rather, when Sam bought him this phone, she rigged her own ringtone and vibration to be different from the rest. Whether that was to be funny or annoying, he doesn’t know. But it’s appreciated nonetheless (and he can’t be bothered to figure out how to change it back). Stuffing a bite of an old pastry into his mouth with one hand, he unlocks his phone with another to read the message.
Sam: “Hey, Ev’! I’m just about to leave Portland for good old London. I’ve missed you so much, can we meet up when I land? I’d really love to see you. Tonight, my place?”
His hand trembles without his control. She’s coming back! Not only that, but she wants to see him! God, he’s missed her. He’s missed her so much that he can feel himself aching for her presence, for a hug, for the soft brush of her long hair over his knuckles when she turns her head too fast, or just… her. He’s missed all of them, Sam, K, Jammer. He’s so isolated out here. But he guesses that’s for the best. He’s never been the easiest person to be around, so it’s probably better that they’re not with him. It’ll let them have a good life, and if being absent is what it takes for that to happen, then he’s more than happy to oblige.
Still, his stomach does a little flip at the prospect of seeing one of the Pilot Program again. It’s lonely out here, and the little puff of his breath into the cold morning air isn’t doing much to help. He pockets his phone again without answering her, and kicks off on his broom. He intends to fly back to his dim apartment, but he can’t stop thinking about that text. What should I say? How do I respond? His brain won’t stop twisting and turning over all the possible outcomes. If I say I’m excited, will I seem desperate? I don’t want her to feel like she has to come and see me. But if I act not excited, will that make her mad at me? I don’t want Sam to be mad at me. Sam’s the best.
He snaps out of his head at just the right moment to avoid splatting into a tall building he apparently hadn’t noticed in his worrying. He huffs. Of course. Carefully, he swings backwards and repositions, centering himself on the broom and scanning the city below to see exactly where he’d ended up, which turns out to be not too far from his original destination.
He lands not long after, trudging up the stairs to his flat and undoing the five locks protecting the door from unwanted intruders. Slipping his backpack off onto his coat rack, he presses a button on his air mattress to begin inflating it. He then takes a quick shower, just long enough to scrub at his skin and scalp with soap and towel off. The air mattress is just shy of full inflation by the time he gets back to it, switching it off and flopping onto it on his back with a short exhale.
Evan knows he can’t ignore it anymore. He should respond to her. Actually, he should have responded as soon as he saw it. That’s what good friends do. Good friends don’t read the message and then ignore it, good friends are reachable and expedient. Fuck. He hasn’t even said anything to Sam and he’s already fucked it all up. Grabbing his phone out anyways, he clicks on the conversation with Sam and begins typing.
Evan: Hey Sam! So good to hear from you. I’d love to come over tonight, I can bring some pastries? I’m assuming you’re on the plane and I don’t think they give you very good food there. I haven’t seen you in so long, I miss you so much. Excited to see you.
Nope. Too desperate. She’s going to read it and roll her eyes, he thinks, deleting his words. She’s going to laugh and then groan because of course I can't be normal about this. I’m just Evan, and she’s Sam. She deserves better than this clingy mess on an air mattress. Blinking tears away, he tries again.
Evan: Oh hey. Wow, I didn’t realize it’d been so long since we talked. Good to know you’re okay. I think I can make tonight work if that’s best. See you then.
Whatever. That’s good enough. She’ll understand, he thinks. She’ll know what he means. Besides, knowing Sam she might not even check her phone until he’s already at her place. He hits send, and buries his face into his pillow, allowing exactly one tear to slip out under the guise of watery, sleepy eyes.
Almost immediately, the dread sets in. Why the fuck did I send that text? God, I sounded like such a dick. Why am I pretending like I haven’t missed her every second of every day? Like I don’t dream about movies on the couch with her, getting tangled in her hair when we try to move, making her laugh that beautiful laugh she has. How could I pretend to be better than Sam Britain? I’m Evan. Just Evan. Haunted and fucked up and desperate and she knows that. Now she’ll think I don’t like her, and that I’m too “special” to deign to spend time with her. God, now she’ll never want to see me. I fucked it up. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.
He lunges for his phone, hoping desperately that he can still unsend the message, that it hasn’t been too long. No such luck. The words stare at him from the screen, taunting him and leering, evidently reveling in what must be the destruction of Sam and Evan’s friendship.
Whatever is left of his restraint breaks, and he sobs into his pillow until his throat is raw and his head is splintering. And when that’s over, he deflates the mattress, grabs his coat and backpack, and marches out the door, heading for somewhere where he could forget his problems.