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The whole day, people have been giving Sammy pitying looks. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.
He knew that people didn't tend to like him, let alone feel sympathy for him for any reason. Nobody had before, anyway.
Except for Henry. He had always treated the musician kindly.
The thought of the artist made Sammy's nerves settle instinctively, before rushing back to life again with a blush and a tight feeling in his gut once he thought about him for more than two seconds. For better, and for worse. It made him think back to the night it had changed.
.
"They push you too hard, Sammy."
"You think so? You don't think that it's the other way around?"
"Nah, I don't."
After a particularly bad day at the studio, Henry decided to invite him out for drinks. Sammy was happy to oblige—well, as happy as he could be about anything, really. It was difficult to make him break his grumpy facade; typically only done by for the likes of Jack Fein, or occasionally Susie Campbell.
But Henry was something different. His eyes too kind, his smile too warm. His hand lingering just a little too long on Sammy's shoulder.
"You're in the minority, then," Sammy snorted, taking a long swig of his drink. He'd had such a stressful day that Wally Franks, the buffoonish janitor, could have invited him out and he would have accepted.
"I wouldn't be shocked if people thought it was my fault the studio is going the way it is," he shook his head nonetheless, more amused with his reputation than anything. After all, rude or not, he still got the job done. "Mean old Sammy, yelling when someone gets a chord slightly wrong and sulking in the band closet when he gets told to change the same sheet of music three times by Mister Joey Drew."
Henry grimaced at Joey's mention, before quickly shaking his head. He gave Sammy another sympathetic pat on the shoulder—(the alcohol must've been working, cause Sammy's face was really heating up now)—and chuckled heartedly.
"You're not that old," he decided to say, unable to fully rebuke the claims that the band director was mean or scary. He spoke with a smile, and Sammy couldn't help but lean into the bit, and his touch, a bit.
"I'm 34. May as well be just skin and bones at this point," he said, completely serious with his words, though a trained eye could see the slight smile at the corner of his lips, "Perhaps that's why I'm so.."
"Grouchy? Stubborn? Prone to yelling at the young janitor?" Henry snickered, having yet to have removed his hand. If Sammy were sober, maybe he'd have been worried about people seeing him, but he couldn't be bothered to care for the moment. Not with the lights blaring above him, and the warm man in front of him. And partially wrapped around him.
Did he realize how hot it was in here before?
"Not my fault he can't keep track of his keys," Sammy shrugged, not really as upset as he pretended to be, and desperately trying to ignore the heat, "If someone doesn't tell him he's made a mistake, he'll never learn. I don't yell at him for no reason after all. Mostly."
"Something tells me he's not the only one who never learns," Henry grinned, raising his glass in a mock-toast before finishing it off, "Judging by how you pick fights with almost everyone you know."
"Hmph," Sammy hummed, though his eyes were filled with fondness, "Almost."
He ended up walking Sammy home that night, despite not being too sober himself. However, despite his insurance that he was fine and could walk home by himself, he still leaned heavily on Henry, his head resting on the other man's collarbone.
Hell, he couldn't even tell if he was doing it intentionally at this point. But something drew him to the warmth of the other man.
In their silence, it gave the music director time to think. About himself, about Henry.
He always knew he was a bit... different, than others. Where other men saw beautiful women, he just saw more people to potentially aggravate him. He knew he wasn't attracted to them. And he also knew that that attraction happened to go the other way.
He had always just ignored it. He never figured anyone would like him like that anyway, so it mostly never was an issue. Sure, sometimes he stared too long, but people typically assumed it was out of judgement. Not attraction like it could have been.
Henry, he'll admit he's always had a crush on the man. It wasn't subtle, either. He figured that most people in the studio would have guessed by now. Even Jack had managed to catch on—encouraging him to try and act on it.
But the lyricist was an idealist, Sammy knew. Sure, Drew was known for hiring out of the box people, but there's no way any good could come out of his attraction to the artist.
But, tonight was starting to change his mind. He wasn't sure he'd felt this light or relaxed in years. Maybe they could...?
"Ah, looks like we're here, Sam," Henry started—(when had he started using that nickname for him? Sammy hoped he'd keep saying it)—pausing in his tracks.
But despite his words, it was hard to snap the musician out of his little trance. He looked up at Henry, noting the light stubble on his chin and the way the moonlight reflected in his hazel eyes.
"Y- yes, it appears to be that way," he acknowledged, slightly pushing himself off the shorter man—who to his credit was doing a pretty good job of holding Sammy up.
Sammy straightened, still holding his hands on Henry's chest. He felt the artist's heartbeat through his shirt, and that burning in his chest and face again that he couldn't fully blame on the alcohol.
He wasn't sure who kissed who first. All he knew was that in a matter of moments he was pressed against his door, holding Henry tightly with his hands in his hair and his lips on his.
If they were sober, maybe they'd have gone inside first. But the kiss that they shared was raw and passionate, the catharsis of the tension they'd been sharing all night.
Sammy hoped the feeling would never end. Truly, he hadn't felt this light in years. Being held with firm, yet delicate hands that only an artist could truly have. His eyes fluttering shut, too lost in the feeling to stay open.
And then waking up in his house, alone on the couch with a blanket tugged over him and a nasty hang-over.
He'd wish Henry hadn't left—then he supposed they could have talked it out like rational adults. Hah, as if. Sammy mostly just wanted the company back; the feeling of being held. He had never felt a rush quite like it before.
He hoped to have that again. He'd hope to have Henry in his arms like that again.
But little did the music director know, that day would never come. The next day at work, Henry showed up as normal, showing no signs that last night had even happened at all. He was friendly, but stayed at a comfortable distance.
No more too-long shoulder pats. Just a warm smile that didn't reach his eyes, and kind words that had nothing to do with their little 'incident'.
Well then. Maybe he was just taking his time? Maybe he wasn't like Sammy, and he didn't know his whole life that he liked men.
That was fine. Sammy could give him time. And if he was a little more snippy, and quick to anger in the meantime while waiting, then that was his problem. No one else's.
.
Two weeks and three days. That was how long it took for something to change in their little stalemate. Sammy has showed up to work a little later than usual, coffee in hand and a glare already on his face. He had been worked too late into the night. Again. Writing scores he was sure Joey would ask him to rewrite.
When he came in, the studio seemed to be in a buzz. People whispering among themselves, huddled in corners and avoiding any actual work. That wasn't strange; if anything, he'd be shocked if people were on task for once.
No, what's weird was the stares. The pitying looks. The hushed voices as he passed in the halls. People tended to talk about him, but sympathize? Unheard of.
He tried to do his work in peace, and ignore the people around him as he normally did, but today was different. What set him off is when he overheard a conversation between two members of his band.
They were on a quick break, and hadn't hushed up in enough time before Sammy walked by them.
"Well Henry and him were close like that. How do you think he took the news, if he's heard it yet?"
"Poor thing'll be devastated. He's been pining for years—"
They both quickly shut up, having the sense to look down in shame when they caught their director's sharp eyes on them. He sighed, rubbing his temples. This couldn't go on like this—they'd never get anything done.
He decided to seek out the one person who always seemed to know what was going on at the studio—love him or hate him, if you could find him, he had answers.
"Damn it, Norman, I know you're there!" Sammy shouted into the otherwise quiet darkness, the subtle sounds of a film reel played around him. "Quit the weird 'I see everything' schtick for a moment and tell me why everyone's being weird around me today! Well, weirder than normal."
A sigh echoed in the darkness and the old projectionist stepped into the light, looking somewhat exasperated. Though he seemed apologetic, Sammy felt his shoulders relax when he saw that his eyes lacked the pity that everyone else's seemed to have.
"Norman," Sammy greeted levelly, his eyes narrowing, "What's happening? I know I was late today, but I refuse to believe that people all of a sudden feel that bad for me because of it."
Norman shook his head, seeming somewhat reluctant to give him the answer. Like he knew it would set the already temperamental music director off.
"You haven't heard the news I take it?" He prompted, hoping for the slim chance to get out of this conversation. But at Sammy's firm shake of the head, the southerner supposed he had no choice. He was never good at letting someone down gently, anyway.
"Sammy, Henry's getting married," he said finally, bracing himself for an explosion of anger from the other man. "Nice lady named Linda. From Vermont, I hear. Sweet gal; he brought her around the studio this morning. She left right before you got here. That's why everyone's pitying you. Cause you weren't very subtle with your.."
He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to Sammy, who was standing there blankly. He looked shell shocked, like he'd been hit over the head by someone he couldn't see. Mouth slightly agape, skin paler than normal.
Norman clicked his tongue, patting Sammy on the shoulder once in an effort to try and comfort him. He wasn't all that good at emotional support, but he supposed no matter how abrasive the musician could be, maybe today he had a good reason to be.
"Why don't you go talk to him, Sam?" He recommended, his southern drawl rumbling in the back of his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Could make you feel better."
Sammy finally showed a small sign of life again. A furrow of his brows, paired with a deep frown forming. If looks could kill, Norman was sure that he'd already be dead—which made him very grateful that today he wasn't on the other end of Sammy's rage.
"Yes.." he mused, a thin and broken smile appearing on his face, "How about Henry and I have a little.. chat, hm? Thank you, Norman."
He wandered away, leaving the projectionist somewhat worried for the safety of the lead artist. Though he supposed that it wouldn't be too bad—as far as anyone knew, neither of them had made any moves on each other.
Maybe if he knew otherwise, he'd know the true reason that Sammy was as upset and betrayed as he was.
.
As Sammy stormed into the art department, each footstep louder than the last, as the studio quickly became aware that he had heard the news. People left quickly, not wanting to end up at the brunt of the musicians rage.
Everyone left except one man, sitting lone at his desk with a pen in hand. Henry wasn't dumb—he knew the storm that would come the moment he announced his marriage. And he was not looking forward to weathering it.
What he wasn't expecting was the quick slap to the face that he earned the moment he turned his head to look at him.
Though he wasn't sure what hurt more—the painful slap, or the look of hurt on the musician's face.
Henry held his hand to his cheek, wincing slightly. But he knew better than to speak first. He wasn't even sure what he'd say.
"Congratulations on your marriage," Sammy spat out, the word like venom in his mouth. Henry wasn't sure he'd seen him this angry before. Suddenly he was very grateful he told Linda to head home earlier.
"So you've heard," he sighed, having a similar exasperation to the projectionist that Sammy had gotten the news out of earlier. "Look, Sam—"
"Don't call me that," Sammy interjected coolly, the rage still apparent on his face despite the fact that he wasn't aimed to strike him again.
"Sammy," Henry tried again, his voice calm and placid, not trying to upset him further. Though he had a feeling it was an inevitably at this point.
"I'm sorry for not expressing myself clearly, and avoiding.. that night," he sighed, fidgeting nervously with his pen, the ink staining his fingertips. "It was.. great, really. Albeit unexpected. But I think we both know it wouldn't have worked out. We were drunk, and—"
"But it could have," Sammy insisted, taking a step forward in rebuttal, making the artist flinch a bit in turn. "You just didn't want to put in the effort, I bet. You just had to drop me at the first chance you got!"
"You don't get it, I did want to put in effort!" Henry argued back, starting to get frustrated himself, "But.. If people found out.. if my family did.. these things just can't happen! Maybe they should, but with the world the way it is now it sure doesn't look like it. I have to prioritize my own safety, Sammy."
He sighed again, trying to calm himself down. He knew why Sammy was mad, and he knew that maybe he didn't do everything perfect, but he had no choice. Didn't he get that?
"Linda's a sweet gal. She'll treat me well, and I know that I can be happy with her," he looked up at Sammy in the eyes, desperately trying to look unwavering though the guilt made his stomach churn.
"For your sake, I hope that you still feel that way in thirty years when you look back on your life," Sammy barked out brokenly, his form shaking and head faced towards the floor. He came in so angry and justified.. Henry could tell he was just barely holding himself together.
"Sammy—" Henry stood, trying to reach out before his hand was roughly smacked away.
"Get the fuck out, Stein."
"But it's my office—"
"Did you not hear me the first time, Henry?!" Sammy snapped, looking back up with tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. In that moment, he looked so sad compared to his usual grumpy attitude. Nothing like the usual man that he knew and for a hot moment thought he loved.
"I want you gone. I don't care where you go, just get out."
Henry quickly obliged, sensing that there was nothing he could do to help the musician. Before exiting he looked back on at the heartbroken man, wondering what life would've been like if he had stayed, before deciding there was no use wondering.
Soundlessly, he left the room, leaving Sammy to mourn a love that's sparks died despite how much he tried to fan the flames.
Sammy screamed. He wailes at nothing until his voice went dead, and until Jack found him on the floor, all the anger seemingly leaked out through his eyes.
Norman had warned him in advance what he was sure would happen, as Jack was the composer's closest friend in the studio. Perhaps his closest friend in general.
He sat down on the floor next to him, seeing the way the tears stained Sammy's cheeks and button-up. Jack wrapped an arm around Sammy's shoulder, opting to just hold him and listen instead of saying anything.
After all, there wasn't anything he could say to alleviate the pain his friend was in. But he could at least be a shoulder to cry on.
.
The official reason for Henry leaving the studio was a falling out with Joey, and a lack of any credit received for his artistic work. All of which was true.
Internally, Sammy wondered if he had any part in it. After all, it was only a few weeks after their falling out, too. Maybe it was self-centered to think that, but he couldn't be bothered to care.
He told himself he didn't care at least. Because for whatever reason, he still hoped that the artist thought about him. About that one perfect night. About what they could have been.
But hope never got him far in a place like this. He'd just have to pick up the pieces himself—even if it had all been shattered completely.