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"You wrapped that yourself, right?"
It's three in the morning, and Sam Seaborn is on his couch. Sam Seaborn has been on his couch many times in many different contexts - this one is new, though. This one has him wrapping gauze around Josh's hand with the fetal severity of a fawn. His long fingers catch on the fabric and jump, as if frightened to make impact. As if frightened to see what Josh might do next. Because Josh has lost it. There's a blood spot quickly staining on the cushion between them.
After the window, the wind-up, Josh had stood at the edge and found he had no energy left. He barely made it to the couch, let alone the bathroom cabinet. He tripped on his feet staggering backwards and almost cracked his head on the coffee table. So, Josh stopped moving. The blood did not.
He managed to hit the speed-dial button on his landline without triggering any emergency. Sam picked up after two rings and showed up after fifteen minutes.
"Traffic was bad," Sam said as a greeting, barely remembering to yank his spare from the lock.
"Merry Christmas," Josh replied. He was cradling his hand with the other in a warped prayer.
Now the two of them were sitting knee to knee, not speaking. Josh turns the cut hand back and forth. Admiring his handiwork. A draft from the shattered bay window catches the hair on the back of his neck.
"Josh." Sam is quiet, and Josh can see his eyes without looking. When he shuts his own, shutting out the whole sad scene, it's Sam's eyes meeting him on the other side. "Josh."
"Don't say my name like that," Josh inhales sharply, and turns his head towards the window. He can feel blood rushing past his ears, panicked by thoughts left behind. Not left behind, left unsaid.
Sam's hand curls around his elbow, pulling him back down.
"Hey," He says, "it's the next day."
That gets Josh to open his eyes and laugh. Just a little one out the corner of his mouth. Sam's responding smile is more than enough for the both of them.
"Are you sure about that?" Josh asks, scratching his forehead with the uninjured hand. Sam's coaxes its way down his arm, wraps around his wrist, and takes hold of the cut one. His touch is still feather-light as he presses his pointer against Josh's palm.
"Even in Honolulu."
Josh hums as Sam traces a tiny face. The pressure feels different when he shifts from gauze to bare skin.
"I've never been to Honolulu," He points out, needlessly.
"Neither have I," Sam agrees, "but I've heard it's quite nice. Excellent waves."
"You can take the boy out of Cali…" and then that gets Sam to laugh, despite the cold and the drying blood. He shakes his head as he chuckles, astonished at the both of them. Mostly, at Josh. "You know, earlier - when I said Merry Christmas. I meant mozoltov. It's a Jewish thing, the glass. Breaking glass."
Sam's eyes are so sad, they nearly turn a different shade of blue. He rocks forward slowly, cautious.
"Please - please." Josh isn't sure what he's asking for. When Sam's lips press to the corner of his mouth, he has to choke back a sob. Everything else, and a kiss is what makes him almost cry.
"It's time to go to bed," Sam decides, squeezing Josh's hand one last time before standing up. He gets as far as the hall entryway before realizing Josh didn't stand with him. He's still on the couch, staring at his hand.
"I think I'll pass tonight," Josh murmurs, flexing his fingers.
After a moment, he feels Sam's hand on the top of his head. He ruffles Josh's hair in a motion that might, had it not been This Night, seemed inconsequential. But his fingers are against Josh's skull. His hands are everywhere.
"Three days without sleep, and you're at risk for organ failure," Sam says, scratching behind Josh's ear in a particularly canine-fashion. Josh thumps his foot, like the dog he is.
"That's the spirit."
"Come to bed," Sam's voice is barely above a whisper, and yet it breaks through all the sirens and symphonies roaring in Josh's mind. His hand, again in his hair, pulls the tide back in. "Or, I'll get cold."
"You're like a furnace when you sleep," Josh replies, accusatory tone disappearing as he finally stands and turns to face Sam, unable to resist the soft coat. Sam smiles, keeping his eyes pointedly above Josh's waist. The offending hand - the black mark - lays there limp.
"Well, somebody broke his window," Sam says. "It's a little colder in here than usual."
"You know I never turn the heat on," Josh defends. Sam's hand slides down to grab at his skewed white bowtie and tugs it, playing. He nods his head towards the hallway. Josh lets himself be led around the couch, down the darkened hallway, into bed. Sam's hands are on him the whole time. They need to make sure he's still there.
In bed, Sam takes off Josh's loafers. He arranges them neatly beside each other, ignoring haphazardly tossed sneakers and slippers. He takes off Josh's bowtie and sets it on the nightstand. Beside his own, they look like flowers.
"They look like flowers," Josh says. The bed creaks as Sam lies down next to him. Their shoulders bump like passing ships.
Josh turns out the light. The room is cold, but they're warm. Getting warmer.
"Josh," Sam says, again.
Any fight left inside Josh has been scared away by shadows. When he goes to respond, all he can do is breath. Sam nudges his head onto Josh's chest, ear pressed by his heart. The only thing Josh can make out in the dark is Sam's hair, his exhales ruffling stray tufts.
"Yeah?" It takes Josh a few minutes to muster even that. Sam is pausing to hear his heartbeat. His cheek burns a hole through Josh's ruffled dress shirt.
"Go to sleep," his cold nose to Josh's burning collarbone, "and stay here."
Finally, Josh comes back. He tucks the damaged hand around the back of Sam's neck and holds tight. He holds on.