Archive of Our Own

Sam Dickinson was asleep.

Thank fucking god for that.

He wasn't, like, Sleeping Beauty or anything. Sam would say that he had perfectly normal feelings about resting at night, which were that he liked it, and then he woke up, and then there were other things to do that were more fun than sleeping. Like playing hockey. Or watching wilderness survival videos. Or bothering the people who were sleeping beauties, like Michael Misa, by forcing them to interact with him before eleven o'clock.

Oh, the horrors.

But there were, of course, moments when even Sam's battery started running out. Hockey was one beast of a sport. It ate up every ounce of your energy, and then got you high as hell on adrenaline, and then had you passing out on the couch at three AM when the excitement finally wore off.

After days like that, slipping between some bedsheets and knocking out for twelve hours straight was exactly what Sam needed.

Which was why right now felt so damn sweet.

-

There was nothing quite like the first roadie of the year.

No matter what level of hockey you were playing, from juniors all the way to the show, it was universally accepted that this trip was gonna be weird. Everyone was still trying to fall back into the rhythm of the season, to make space for the guys who were new, to fill space for the guys who had left. Half the team was still tan and clinging onto the last of summer break. The other half was so dialed in that you'd think they were months into the season already.

So what better to do than take all of those guys, freshly bulked and bursting with way too much energy, and stick them on a charter plane for seven hours straight?

Now, usually, Sam was all in for team bonding on a flight. His typical spot from last season was at the card table near the back, whooping and hollering alongside Reavo and Goody while they wiped the floor with whatever poor soul tried to challenge them at poker. Will and Mack still owed all three of them money, by the way.

Then, when Sam got sick of that, he would go find Michael up in the front of the plane, where sleepy time section was. Sam was still waiting on the trademark for that name, thank you. Mikey'd get mad at him for waking him up, and Sam would call him an old lady in eighteen different ways, and then Mikey would punch him in the shoulder, so Sam would put him in a headlock, and then finally they'd settle down and watch YouTube videos together. Michael was easier to please than he seemed.

But this road trip specifically, it seemed like Sam had been set up for failure. The AC in his San Jose apartment had crapped out over the summer, which hadn't mattered because he wasn't even there. When he'd gotten back for training camp, it had felt way too close to the fall to worry about it, so he'd just put it off until next spring. Unfortunately, the Cali weather was coming back to bite him in the ass.

He was attributing sweltering in his bedroom every night to why he hadn't been sleeping very well, lately.

So when he'd boarded the plane to New Jersey, Sam hadn't even bothered with the card table. He'd just gone straight to the front with Michael, who'd given him a weird look but stayed quiet, and settled in for a nap. Unfortunately, the plane-ful of energized hockey players did not want him to take a nap. Between Eky challenging the Swedes to impromptu karaoke, Mack and Will old-married-couple arguing about what restaurant they were going to later, and the poker match apparently having a rampant cheating problem (Sherwood), Sam didn't get a wink of sleep.

Oh well, it wasn't like they had a hockey game tomorrow—

Wait a second, yes they did.

And being on the road again meant sharing a room with Michael for the first time since last season. Michael, who'd apparently decided this fall was the perfect time to start sleep-talking even louder than normal. Sure, whatever. Wake Sam up in the middle of the night yelling about losing his shoulder pads, why not.

So they played a game in Jersey. Lost a game in Jersey. Took a charter bus across the bay into Long Island. Won a game in Long Island. Took another charter bus across the East River. Had one single day off in Manhattan, which Sam spent cramming in as many cool New York activities as he possibly could, because screw being tired when you could watch Hamilton instead.

Unfortunately, watching Hamilton didn't stop Sam from being even more tired afterward. After three straight nights of being woken up by his roommate yapping in the early hours, preceded by a couple weeks of dying in the evil Pacific coast weather, Sam was about ready to kill someone. He was groggy. And grumpy. And kept falling asleep for a few seconds at a time while standing up, which was not convenient for anything, ever.

While brushing his teeth that night, before their last game of the trip against the Rangers, Sam was really considering it. What if he just put a pillow over Michael's face? Or, like, cut air holes in a pillow and then just covered the rest of his face? Maybe it would be more convenient to put some tape over his mouth, kidnapper-style. Hockey tape was soft enough to not hurt, surely.

Just as he was really starting to visualize this plan, calculating how long he'd have to wait until Michael wouldn't wake up to the sound of tape ripping, the man himself appeared in the doorway of the hotel bathroom.

"Dude," Michael said, frowning. He leaned on the doorframe with one arm above his head, already dressed in his pajamas. As usual, they were a giant t-shirt and flannel pants that barely even fit him, hanging loose off of his body. Mouth full of toothpaste, Sam raised an eyebrow.

Micheal was silent for a moment. Then: "I feel like I've been sleeping like shit the past few nights."

Sam choked on a scoff. Then, he actually started choking on toothpaste, and folded over the sink to cough it out. As he spat up the last bits of foam, dunking his toothbrush into the running water and sucking some of it up, he leveled Michael with a flat look.

"No, really?"

The sarcasm flew right over Michael's head. He kept frowning down at Sam, unsympathetic. "Yeah. I keep waking up in the morning and feeling like I only slept, like, two hours. But I know I am sleeping."

"No, really?" Sam said.

Oblivious, Michael continued, "I mean, sometimes this happens when I'm tossing and turning a lot. Or, like, I'm talking more than normal during the night." Completely genuine, a hundred percent deadass, he looked at Sam and asked, "Have you noticed anything?"

And Sam couldn't hold back the laugh. "Have I noticed anything?" He turned the sink off and put his toothbrush back on the counter, turning to face Michael instead. "Meese, you've been, like, performing slam poetry this whole trip. Yeah, I've noticed."

"Oh." Michael blinked at him. Slowly, realization dawned in his eyes, and a light pink color dusted across his cheeks. "Uh. Is that why you've been so tired lately?"

Walking the line between annoyed and amused, Sam leaned back against the counter, bracing his hands on the edge. "No shit, dude. You've been saying some fuckin' nonsense, too. Like, murder, and torture, and demons, or whatever." He really hadn't, but where was the fun in that? Smirking, Sam said, "No one told me I'd be rooming with Freddy Krueger this year." He held his fingers out, mimicking claws, and took a few swipes at Michael.

Michael promptly swatted his hands away and crossed his arms instead, scowling.

"Okay, dick." Somehow, Sam got the feeling that that was not his nickname. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I mean. Didn't think I needed to. Surely you knew."

Michael scowled even harder. "How, bro? How would I know? I'm asleep."

Sam shrugged, holding back a smile. "You were just at home for a few months. Your parents didn't point it out?"

"I didn't do it while I was at home!"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so it's just for me, then. The Sam Dickinson special."

Like a hissy cat, Michael huffed. "Shut up, you're not special."

Sam's eyebrows shot up further. "Ouch."

He watched in real-time as Michael paused, then realized exactly what he'd just said, then realized that Sam was going to be annoying about it. Too late, he started scrambling for an explanation like he could get Sam to stop.

Silly man. Nothing could stop Sam from being annoying when he wanted to.

"It just happens—" Michael said, gesturing with his hands.

"Hurtful," Sam interrupted.

"And then sometimes it doesn't—"

"Dare I say outright mean."

"And whether you're there or not has nothing to do with it—"

With extreme disapproval, Sam shook his head. "And here I thought we were friends."

Michael punched him in the shoulder. Hard. Sam absorbed the hit, and gave it right back just as hard, grinning. If it weren't so late at night, he would be totally down for a full-blown wrestle right now. As it was, Michael took a massive step backwards, out of Sam's range—almost out the bathroom door—and Sam was just about too tired to do anything about it.

"Dude." Michael scolded. "Literally whatever. I'm taking melatonin tonight, anyway. You shouldn't hear anything, so, like. Enjoy your break from my disturbance."

No way. Sam's entire body lit up with excitement. He was actually going to get to sleep tonight, fucking awesome. Of course, he couldn't let Michael know how grateful he was for that. So, he teased, "As long as you don't sleep through your alarm again."

Michael rolled his eyes. "That was one time."

Sam pulled a face, motioning a so-so in the air. "Eh. Definitely at least four."

"Oh my god— I'm going to bed." All hissy like an angry cat again, Michael turned around and stalked out of the bathroom. Sam waved at him as he left.

"Sweet dreams, Mikey. Happy murdering."

"Fuck you," was what came shouted in response.

And in the privacy of the now-empty bathroom, Sam couldn't help but smile. For real, this time. Because this was one of his favorite versions of Michael. When he was all huffy and defensive and pink in the face, and he ran out of words to keep arguing with Sam so he just left, like that was somehow a valid point. It came in just behind the version of him that was a smokeshow on the ice and the version that rested his head on Sam's shoulder when he was sleepy, nuzzling his nose into the joint of Sam's neck. Those were pretty great. But it was a close third. He loved it when this crazy talented hockey player revealed himself as a total dumbass off the ice.

Fuck, his friend was just so endearing. Even when he'd been keeping Sam awake for the past three nights. Maybe especially when. In these moments alone, where he didn't have to do any posturing or chirping or ragebaiting, Sam sometimes thought about how he had never really felt like this about any of his teammates before. Who else did he let get away with any of the bullshit that was so frustratingly likeable when Michael did it? Not Beckett, certainly. Definitely not Denver, or Easton, or anyone else from the London Knights. No one from the Sharks, either. Just Michael.

And that probably meant something. Like, probably something super important. Something he should really, probably think about.

Or maybe not.

It was late at night, and Sam was super tired, and going to bed sounded way better than thinking about anything.

He'd get around to it at some point.

Probably.

-

Sam was totally lighting up this game.

The arena was loud. The fans were chanting. The bench was going crazy. And, yeah. It was all for Sam. Because he was awesome.

They were playing against… uh. Well, it didn't even matter who they were playing against. Sam was kicking their asses. He cut off his opponent's shooting lane, lunged and stole the puck. Ducked another forward, braced toward the third, and took the guy's legs out on his way by. He moved so fast the ref didn't even see it.

Hah. I'm so cool.

Pumping his legs, Sam broke out into the neutral zone. He was flanked by… his linemates. Sharks players. People wearing teal. People with faces that he definitely knew, yeah. For sure.

But that also did not matter. They were Sam's teammates, so they were automatically awesome too, by association. And now that he was really looking at them… Was that… Connor McDavid? And Nathan MacKinnon?

Sam checked around him to see who was most open for a breakout pass.

Sidney Crosby?!

Oh, hell yeah. This was about to be the coolest goal the NHL had ever seen. Dickinson to Crosby, over to McDavid, spun around by MacKinnon, back to Dickinson. And Sam was lining up for it already. His stick was up for the one-timer. His legs were locked down. He watched, and he waited, and a screen flashed in front of the goalie, and like magic, the shot opened up.

This was going bar-down.

In slow-motion, MacKinnon made his pass. The puck slid cleanly across the ice, through the defender's legs, through another defender's legs. With a whip-sharp snap, it hit the blade of Sam's stick and went flying.

He didn't even have to think about it. Didn't have to adjust at all. The puck was just sailing through the air, right about to hit its mark; cold iron, straight into the net.

And then the toilet flushed.

-

What?

Sam opened half a bleary eye. It was dark. Only the faint glow of streetlights and billboards through the blinds gave the slightest hint of shape to the hotel room. In the shadows, he caught the blurry shape of someone walking. Then, the rustling of bedsheets, shifting and sliding around, before they finally settled back into silence.

Oh. Just Michael going to the bathroom.

Sam's eyes slid shut again.

-

He was back on the ice.

The arena was still roaring, the energy high, the team buzzing. This was a different game, though. Or at least a different moment in the game. What had happened to his goal earlier?

Oh, well. It didn't even matter. Sam was on the penalty kill now. And he was absolutely tearing it up. Making block after block, highlight reel move after highlight reel move. He was straight-up Makar on this ice, everywhere he needed to be at once, and no one was safe from his incredible defensive capabilities.

On one block, the puck deflected up into the netting, and the play was blown dead. Sam drifted into the middle of the zone to meet up with the rest of the PK unit and talk strategy. And, oh, hey! As they got into a huddle, Sam smiled, because he actually recognized these people.

"Dickie, you're so good at this," Collin said, patting Sam on the head.

"Yeah," Delly agreed. "How do you do it?"

Muhk added, "Is incredible. Your play is like fighting bear." The young Russian stepped in closer, looking for all the world like he was about to throw his arms around Sam and give him a bone-crushing hug.

Sam cut him off before he could. "Woah, woah, guys." With a sleazy grin, he leaned further into the huddle. "I can only give out so much advice, so—" Suddenly, there was a great thump. Sam frowned. "Did you guys hear that?"

"Hear what?" Collin asked.

The thump sounded again. It didn't sound like it was coming from the air, nor the arena around them. It almost seemed like it was coming from the floor. Like, under the ice.

"That," Sam said.

Another thump. Another, and then another, until they were constant, repeating in a steady rhythm.

Footsteps, Sam realized. They sounded like footsteps.

And he was yanked swiftly out of the game.

-

Sam waited a moment. He laid there, listening to the heavy footfalls crossing from one end of the room to the other. They stopped.

Reluctantly, Sam opened his eyes. Both of them, this time, although they stayed fuzzy and squinted. Blinking slowly, he looked over at Michael's bed. Empty. No one there. Bathroom, again?

I should probably look, Sam thought through the cotton mush in his head. Just check where he is. To be sure.

But, then again, his eyelids were super heavy. Like there were ten-ton weights attached to both of them. It wouldn't hurt to indulge the pull of gravity just for a second, right?

Sam sank back down into the gray, fuzzy void of his dream.

Then, a moment later, the thought emerged like a cloud floating by.

Wait. I'm supposed to be looking.

He peeled his eyes back open, and when they focused on the other bed, there was a Michael-shaped lump curled up in the blankets.

How the… what? Sam thought. It's the fucking… It's the ghost again. From Buffalo. I knew New York was haunted. Fuck-ass state.

"Hmm… Im'a talk to… gotta talk to Coach," Michael abruptly said to no one, quiet and mumbly. Sam huffed. And so much for the melatonin, huh?

Whatever. At least he wasn't yelling anymore.

With the call of sleep pulling him down again, Sam turned over to face the wall—so the ghost couldn't bother him, obviously—and sighed into his pillow.

He was back under the surface in no time at all.

-

The Sharks were at practice.

Something had happened to their practice rink, though. Sam couldn't tell if it was construction, or damage, or some other nonsense, but the facility was not in good shape.

He was trying to concentrate on the passing drill he was doing with Mario. Really, he was. It was just a little distracting when all of the arena lights were flickering, and there was a stench of smoke and stale mold in the air, and half the plexiglass panels had massive cracks down the center.

That can't be safe, Sam thought, losing the puck again and having to circle back around for it. He got back to the drill for approximately thirty seconds before he glanced up absentmindedly.

There was…

Holy shit, there was a hole in the ceiling. With jagged steel beams, and sparking wires, and loose concrete hanging precariously from the ripped edges of the hole.

Frantically, Sam looked around at the rest of the team, who were completely unaffected.

Am I the only one seeing this shit?

"You need to focus, or I'm going to have to bench you."

Sam jumped at the sudden voice.

It was Warso on the ice, standing right behind Sam. He was just there. All angry and shit. But when Sam turned to face him fully, maybe to snap back that how was he supposed to focus, did he even see the state of the roof, his coach's presence moved with the turn. Sam blinked. Warso was behind him again. He turned again, and Warso stayed behind his back, constantly moving, in his peripheral vision, just barely not in full view.

A shudder crept up Sam's spine.

There was someone behind him.

-

Sam woke up with a jolt.

Except not really, because he was only half awake. Maybe one-quarter. Maybe even less. God, he was tired.

He was just awake enough to be confused, though. And to feel another shudder run through his spine. What a weird fucking dream. He yawned, and shifted around until he was facing the rest of the room again. Then paused. Squinted at the darkness.

Only the fogginess in his brain stopped him from jumping a mile high at what appeared from the shadows.

It was Michael. Standing in the gap between their beds, perfectly still, sleep shirt rumpled and hanging off of one shoulder. The faint streetlight caught the whites of his eyes. He was staring at Sam.

Sam yawned again. "Meese, buddy," he mumbled. "You seein' the ghost, too?" Before he could get an answer, his eyes fell shut in a long, exhausted frog blink. When he forced them open again, Michael was gone.

Or, not gone. Curled up in his bed just like last time. Without a trace of noise or movement at all.

Oh, shit, Sam realized. It was the ghost. And the ghost was pretending to be Michael.

That thought probably should have distressed him more. Like, what if Michael was being possessed right now? What if his body had been replaced by a ghost and his soul was being tormented in the spirit world? What if he woke up tomorrow and there were two Michaels in the room?

And Sam did care, of course, if his friend was being haunted. But, like. That was also a tomorrow kinda problem.

Tonight was time for sleeping. You hear that, Michael? Or… ghost-Michael, or whoever?

Just sleeping.

-

This time, Sam's dream took a sharp left turn from the start.

He was in a haunted house. By himself. No clue why. He just knew that he had to keep walking through the long, winding hallways, occasionally interrupted by bloody horror displays and jumpscares.

Except, he was slowly realizing, all of the scare actors in this haunted house were his teammates. Just the guys he played with, wearing increasingly ridiculous costumes and makeup. And that really took away any scare potential for Sam. Like, entirely.

Toff as a zombie bride came stumbling across the room. Nice bloodstained dress, Sam thought, while snorting with laughter. It suited him. Collin as a vampire burst through a doorway, hissing and clawing at the air. Honestly, Sam could see that. He was definitely pale enough for it. There was Zack as the Chucky doll. Gauds as a demon. Ooh, Mukh as a killer clown. That was fun.

Sometimes, he could hear doors slamming, and wind howling through nonexistent windows, and the faint sound of music through the walls. Maybe that would've been creepy if he hadn't caught several glimpses of Sherwood disappearing through secret passageways, white mask gleaming and cape flipping dramatically behind him. Wasn't the point of the Phantom of the Opera to be a phantom? And, like… not be seen?

Whatever. Sam had never seen the show.

So, he kept trudging through the house. The lights flickered on and off. A rotted scent filled the air. The wind kept howling, now paired intermittently with the deep rumbling of thunder, and Sam huffed, amused. Way to hit all of the tropes, guys.

Then, at the end of a dark corridor, emerging from seemingly nowhere, there was Mack and Will. Their hands were clasped together. Plasticky smiles clung to their faces. They wore identical dresses; light blue, high-collared, and frilly. Oh. The little girls from The Shining, Sam realized.

Not a second later, he realized, Oh. That's actually a little freaky.

The sound of high-pitched giggles bounced off of the house's musty walls, an echoing, haunted version of what he was forced to listen to in the locker room every day. Mack and Will didn't move or open their mouths. Sam could tell the sound was coming from them, anyway.

The pair's blank eyes and hard smiles followed Sam as he pushed past them with a shudder. Man. He did not like that.

It threw him off enough that when Sam came finally to a dead end, the only thing in front of him a closed door, he actually hesitated a little bit. It was just a door, he told himself. He was a fully grown hockey player. He wasn't some kind of wimp.

Still, as he reached out for the doorknob, his hand shook. The brass squeaked under his sweaty grasp. Gently, carefully, he pulled, and the door began to come open. The wood groaned. The hinges squealed, a long, dying scream of worn-down steel. Nothing but pitch black darkness could be seen in the gap beyond.

Sam's heart pounded in his ears.

He pulled a little bit more. A little bit more. Just a little bit more, just so the light could reach in.

Because, again, he wasn't a wimp. He just wanted to see…

What was in the unknowable void behind this door…

And a clawed hand shot out from the darkness.

-

"What the fuck?"

Sam flinched, twisting away from the fingers that grasped at his arm. He rolled to the other side of his bed and sat up quickly, back pressed against the wall, chest heaving. He grabbed a pillow and held it in front of him, preparing to do… what, exactly?

Ghosts, Sam's brain was telling him. And zombies and vampires and creepy doors. Gotta fight the ghosts. Protect Mikey. Get the ghost away from him.

A split-second later, Sam realized, wait. That's fucking stupid. Ghosts might be real, but they definitely couldn't touch him. That was, like, Ghost 101, he was pretty sure. Someone had deadass just grabbed Sam, so the ghost theory was kinda out the window.

He would never admit it, but that thought reassured him greatly. No ghosts. He took a deep breath, and his heart rate started coming back down.

And then it spiked right up again, because, hold on, someone had deadass just grabbed him.

Sam blinked the last dregs of sleep out of his vision and peered into the darkness once more, clutching his pillow tight. He waited with bated breath for his pupils to adjust. His feet, still tangled in his blankets, were majorly sweating.

Well. If he wasn't fully awake the last few times…

There went his uninterrupted night of rest. Not that it was really shaping up to be peaceful in the first place, between the dreams and the sleeptalking and the everything else of it all—maybe New York wasn't haunted, but it was for sure cursed for Sam specifically. He was deciding, right now. It wasn't possible to spend a single good night here.

Of course, he had much more pressing issues if someone had broken into their hotel room.

He blinked some more, and slowly, the room faded into dull color. Sure enough, there was a shape there in the blackness. Darker than everything else. Looming over the other end of Sam's bed. And when the light became just bright enough, and the room came back into focus—

"What the fuck?" Sam repeated, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes just to make sure. But the picture didn't change.

Because, once again, it was Michael. Standing in the gap between their beds, just like the last time, except now he was also leaning down with his hand stretched out. His eyes were open, and he was looking at Sam. With his other hand, he clutched his phone.

Uh oh. In lieu of ghosts, break-ins, or anything criminal, a small pit of dread formed in Sam's stomach. Was this some kind of media disaster? Was Michael waking him up to tell him that some terrible photo had dropped at ass-o'clock in the morning, and now one of them was being canceled?

"Meese, dude, what do you want?" Sam asked. Michael did not respond. But he also didn't move at all. He was just frozen in that pose, arm lazily outstretched, shirt riding off of his shoulder even more. "Meese?" Sam tried again, raising his voice a little bit. Nothing.

Okay, what?

Slowly, Sam put his guard pillow down and untangled himself from his blankets. He pushed himself up onto his knees, waiting a tense moment to see if Michael would react to the movement. He did not. Letting out a breath, Sam shuffled closer toward him.

"Misa Misa?" he tried, just for the hell of it, putting on a goofy voice. When that also got nothing, he dropped all of his pretenses. A sliver of concern crept into his tone as he shuffled on his knees right up to Michael and poked him. "Mikey. You good, man?"

For a few, long seconds, nothing happened.

"Hrmmna go getta th'cart," Michael said.

And then he turned around and walked away.

"Hey, wait," Sam protested. He lunged over to the nightstand between their beds and fumbled around for a moment before hitting a lightswitch. A lamp flicked on, illuminating the room, and Sam hissed at the brief flash of blindness. Just as quickly, though, he got his legs underneath him and scooted off the bed. "Mike. What was that? Where are you going?"

Unsurprisingly, Michael did not respond. He stepped around his own bed, started meandering toward the bathroom, and then stumbled and walked straight into the wall instead.

"Holy shit," Sam whispered, as it started to dawn on him. He caught up to Michael, placed a gentle hand on the other man's shoulder to both steady him and turn him around. The look in his eyes was the same as before—open, but completely blank. No recognition. No tracking. Sam waved a hand in front of Michael's face, just to be certain, and Michael kept staring off into the middle distance. "No way." Sam felt hysterical. He wanted to laugh, but almost couldn't. "You're actually— you're sleepwalking."

And then he really wanted to laugh.

Because they'd literally talked about this. They'd talked about this with Cat on her podcast, joked around about freaking Stella out, and waking up Toff, and Cat kicking Michael out of their house if he started wandering around at night. It had made Sam shudder, made him turn to Michael after the cameras were off and say thank fuck you havent pulled that shit around me. And Michael had said the same thing he had on the podcast, which was swearing up and down that Sam didn't have to worry about it. That he hadn't sleepwalked in years. That he'd stopped when he was a kid.

Clearly, that was a lie.

Oh, Cat, Sam thought, grinning. Do I have a story for you.

With another light chuckle, it occurred to Sam how easy it was to be chill about this. Like, surprisingly easy. As much as he had shuddered before, it was mostly because he'd never actually seen anyone sleepwalking. So when Michael had spoken it into existence as a possibility, yeah, Sam had been majorly freaked out, because it sounded creepy as shit. And it was creepy as shit. He would like to state, for the record, that he did not know getting grabbed by the sleepwalker was an option. He would very much appreciate it if Michael never did that ever again.

But at the same time—

And, maybe this was a little bit wrong to think. But Michael was kind of cute like this. All hazy-eyed and clutzy, muttering gibberish like he was drunk. Sam had seen Michael drunk before. He was sleepy, and clingy, and tended to just lean on Sam and zone out while whatever festivities carried on around them. Which, obviously, anyone with working eyes could tell you was adorable behavior. It wasn't weird for Sam to think it if other people agreed.

Really, the sleepwalking wasn't that different, was it? It was just Michael. Just another presentation of him being himself, and maybe Sam was the lucky one to be able to see it, when no one outside of his family ever had before. Like, a privilege, or something.

But that was a super weird thought to be having, so maybe not.

Caught up in smiling softly to himself, Sam almost forgot what was actually happening in front of him. That was until Michael began shifting under his touch, and his attention was immediately caught again.

Unblinking, Michael swayed, shuffling his feet like he was gearing up for another aimless wander around the room. Sam tightened his grip on his shoulder without thinking. Right as he did, though, Michael leaned hard to the side, and the thin fabric of his sleep shirt slipped out from under Sam's fingers. He was left bracing a hand on bare skin, palm spanning the distance between collarbone and neck. And, wow, Sam was not getting distracted by the definition of Michael's trap muscles at all. But his skin was so soft, and so pale, and so smooth…

"Sam," Michael said, and Sam almost jumped a mile high.

Shit, okay, he was still a little freaked out. In his defense: he wasn't expecting Michael to acknowledge him by name. He didn't really know how lucid you were supposed to be while sleepwalking—was this normal? And Michael's voice had been loud, much clearer than it'd been before. Wait, shit. Was he waking up? Why was there no manual on how to deal with your sleepwalking teammate?

"Yeah, bud?" Sam asked, uncertain.

A few seconds of silence passed. Then: "I needa get the… roast beef sandwich." Michael's voice was languid again, and he stopped struggling against Sam, falling back into a stiff, awkward stillness. "With mayo, an'… pickles."

Sam sighed, half disappointed and half, selfishly, relieved. "Okay," he decided. He clapped Michael gently on the shoulder and tried not to shudder at the skin contact. "We're going back to bed. Come on, Meese. Move those dancing feet."

Slowly, through a system of guiding touches, Sam managed to get them both moving towards the bed. Michael was extremely unhelpful throughout the whole process. Sometimes, he veered off in a completely different direction for no reason. Sometimes, he just stopped and refused to move until Sam kicked his ankles. At a certain point, it stopped being funny and started being a little concerning—if this wasn't waking him up, could anything? How deep asleep was he?

Michael was also keeping up a near-constant slurred ramble, going on and on about different foods. They'd had a huge team dinner last night at a restaurant near Broadway, and Sam had stuffed himself with a really fucking good seafood pasta and dessert on top, and he'd gone to bed in no way wanting for food. Still, somehow, Michael was starting to make him hungry.

"Bread. With th'… nuts," he said. "Chicken thigh."

"Wow," Sam placated. "Great grocery list, bud. Hope you have that written down somewhere." They finally reached the vicinity of Michael's bed, and Sam easily pried his phone out of his fingers, discarding it onto the nightstand. He pressed gently on Michael's back, trying to encourage him to climb into bed. "C'mon," he said. "Bed time, Meese."

But of course, it couldn't be that easy. Instead, Michael swayed forward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. Then, in one big motion, he fell onto the sheets like a straight wooden board. Face-first. Unmoving. Sam blinked.

His brain was caught somewhere between laughing and abject disbelief. Just one big, exasperated, huh?

And maybe, technically, Sam should fix this so Michael was more comfortable in the morning. Like, his legs were kind of hanging off the bed… and he was sideways. Or, diagonal, or whatever. Nothing about that looked enjoyable. And it would, technically, be the polite thing to do.

But the lack of sleep was starting to catch up to Sam again. The novelty of the situation was wearing off, and it was late as fuck, and he was really getting thinking again about the past few nights he'd spent laying awake in agony.

So, "Oh…kay. Sure, bud. If that's what you want."

Michael mumbled something unintelligible into the pillowcase.

Sam sighed and leaned over his friend, ruffling the back of his hair. "Gonna be a no on that one, Meese. Good night again. Have fun sleeping like a normal person."

With one more negative-sounding grumble, Michael fell silent.

Sam let his hand pull through the soft strands of hair one more time. No matter how tired he was, there was a small, weird part of him that wanted to stay here for a little while, and just, like, sit. Keep his fingers moving on Michael's scalp, watch over him until he was sleeping peacefully again. Let his eyes roam over all of this version of Michael, commit him to memory, make sure he wasn't alone in this vulnerable state where he could wander off, or hurt himself, or wake up scared and confused.

Sam wanted to keep him safe.

And it was that thought, more than ghosts, or sleepwalking, or his dreams, that scared him.

Maybe he had been lying earlier. Sam wasn't really that brave. Hockey was one thing—hockey was safe. When he had the guiding hand of his skates underneath him, and a puck on his stick, and nothing but open ice in front of him, things were easy. It was easy to be confident. Easy to trust himself. Easy to know exactly who he was, and what he wanted, and how he was going to get it. But outside of hockey?

Well. He was scared. Always was, a little bit, when it came to the people who really mattered.

Sam sighed. Quietly, he pushed himself up off the bed. With a reach around to the other side, he pulled the sheets up around Michael as best as he could. Then, he flicked off the lamp, trudged back to his own bed, and finally crawled under the covers.

It took him longer, this time, to fall back asleep. He distracted himself by thinking about his life, and the future, and all of the things that he wanted but could probably never have. Eventually, sleep came for him, and this time, there were no dreams to cushion the fall.

-

Sam woke up again.

And he was mad about it.

Like, fuming mad. The kind of anger that was instant, and fiery, and almost surprised himself with its intensity.

But it wasn't the morning. It was still dark out. Why was it still dark out? Why was Sam awake? Why was this the longest fucking night of his entire life?

It didn't take him long to answer why he was awake, at least.

"Sam," Michael was saying.

Sam smushed his face into his pillow. He didn't want to look up. He didn't want to get up. Maybe this was like dealing with bees—if he stayed super duper still, Michael would leave him alone. "Go back to bed, Mikey."

Michael either didn't hear him, or didn't care. "Sam," he repeated. "Sam. 'Mtryna… gotta get Sam."

Oh, god. This was not bees. Ignorance was not going to make it go away. So, groaning, Sam threw his blankets off, stood up, glared at Michael, and pushed him forcefully back into his bed. "Stay," he commanded. Like he was a fucking dog.

From his crumpled position on the mattress, Michael made a discontented noise. "Where's Sam?" he mumbled.

"Right in front of you, idiot." With no shortage of grumbling, Sam turned around and settled back into his own bed.

Not even a minute later, he heard the sheets rustling again. Sam was up before Michael could get a foot off of the mattress.

"Meese." He pressed Michael down by the shoulders. "Stop getting up. Why are you getting up?"

Nonsensically, Michael said, "I needa… call Sam."

Okay. Sam was diving off the deep end right back into murder plan. He was taking back everything he'd said before, actually; the sleepwalking was not cute. It was not creepy. It was only one thing right now, and that was fucking annoying.

"No you don't," he assured Michael. "I am right here. Now please. It is…" For the first time tonight, Sam looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red numbers blinking at him showed— "Jesus. It's nearly five in the morning, Mikey. Time to go to sleep. Or, like. You know what I mean." Not far from shameless begging, Sam said, "Just sleep. Please."

Reluctantly, he let go of Michael's shoulders and made his retreat, taking careful steps backwards like he was trying not to set off a bomb. He didn't even make it back to his own bed before Michael sat back up.

"Oh my god." Sam darted over and held down Michael's legs so he couldn't make it any further. "What do you want?" he pleaded.

Michael stared off at the room's opposite wall. "Gotta get… Sam."

And that was it. Sam was officially at the end of his rope. He grabbed Michael by the shoulders again, forced him to look in Sam's direction, forced himself to make eye contact with Michael's unfocused gaze. "I am Sam," he insisted.

A moment passed. Michael's eyes trailed just into the space over Sam's shoulder. Then, straight-forward and emotionless: "...No."

"What the fuck do you mean, no?" Sam cried. Michael started squirming under his grip, trying to move his legs over to the edge of the bed. "Holy fuck, stop getting up."

Sam didn't even think about it. Fueled by pure exhaustion, exasperation, and every other word that meant I'm so fucking done with this, he climbed onto Michael's bed, swung his hips over his friend's lap, and sat down firmly on his legs. Michael's thighs were trapped beneath his own. Sam squeezed to hold them in place. He kept his grip on Michael's shoulders, shoved him down into the pillows, used every point of contact to press him into the mattress. The twenty-pound difference between them usually felt like nothing, but here, on top of Michael, with his full weight pinning him down, it felt like a gap the size of the Earth. Nothing but the looping thought of stay, stay, stay, goddamnit, ran through Sam's head.

And finally, gloriously, Michael stopped struggling. His eyes fluttered shut, and his body relaxed, and Sam was no expert, but that looked something like regular sleep.

Holy shit, Sam thought. I did it. His chest was rising and falling heavily, breath quicker than it should've been for a really not that athletic feat. But he had done it. Through the sheer force of his body and will, he'd compelled Michael out of sleepwalking. What a fucking feat.

With a drawn-out exhale, Sam let his eyes roam across Michael's face. He felt nothing but compounding relief with every confirmation that his friend was actually asleep. He looked relaxed. He looked peaceful. And all it had taken was… oh.

Suddenly, some of the triumph drained away. Reality struck Sam like a thunderbolt. All it had taken was him straddling Michael's thighs. And pinning him down with his full body weight. And making it so he literally couldn't get up even if he wanted to, by, again, straddling him and holding him down forcefully. Which was weird. Like, definitely, actually weird. In a way that even Sam couldn't justify.

Except, and this was the terrible thing: he maybe could justify it. It was the only thing that had worked. The only way that he'd gotten Michael to stay in bed, after proving multiple times that he was determined to get up, no matter what. Maybe that logic wouldn't hold up in court, but it had to be worth something, right?

And with that line of thought came another terrible realization.

Shit. Sam's stomach dropped. Now I can't move.

Because this was the only thing that had worked. And if Michael had gotten up before, no matter how asleep he looked now, there was a chance he was going to do it again.

Sam dropped his forehead to rest lightly on Michael's collarbone, contemplating his life choices. Was he really about to do what he thought he was going to do? Was he really considering this? Was this really what it had come to?

But then he thought about the alternative. About going back to his own bed, leaving Michael alone, and then waking up just half an hour later to him walking around again. If he really was normal-asleep now, the chances that he was going to start sleepwalking again were low. They weren't zero. And when Sam weighed those odds in his head, the slim chance of getting woken up for a sixth time for something stupid like his roommate stumbling around drunk-blind made him want to put his head through a wall. Sam could do something to bring those chances down to zero. Maybe that wasn't court-admissable logic either, but it was logic. It worked.

So that was that, he supposed. He was staying.

Sam took one more moment to just hold himself where he was, hovering over Michael. The kid didn't snore, thank fuck. He did, however, tend to make these soft, snuffly noises with his breathing when he wasn't mumbling nonsense at night. Sam was a little ashamed to admit that he sometimes listened for those noises specifically when he was having trouble sleeping on the road—it was kinda like what Mack always talked about. White noise, or whatever. This trip, Sam had been missing out, kept awake by the endless stream of talking instead.

Now, Michael had started the noises back up again. Sam, selfishly, let himself listen closer than he ever had been able to before.

After what was only a few minutes at most, Sam could feel fog clouding up his brain. He was being soothed into that place right on the edge of slumber, ready to tumble off that cliff. He shook himself out of it momentarily. Taking a deep breath to remove the last of the what the fuck am I doing from his mind, Sam carefully moved his hands to the mattress on either side of Michael's body. He pushed himself up, just until he was sitting on his thighs again.

Luckily, Michael's latest collapse back onto his bed had only put him on top of the sheets, not the blankets. All of his movement from earlier had kicked them off towards the end of the bed, out of the way. That meant that it was easy enough for Sam to reach back, lift the blankets so that they were over his own shoulders, and then lean forward to bring them over top of Michael, too.

He had to pause for a few seconds, then, to just stare down at Michael and try to figure out the best way to do this. Eventually, he landed on a plan.

You're not allowed to complain about this in the morning, okay?" he whispered pointedly, getting into position with his hands on the bed again. "This is not my fault." Sam lowered himself into a cautious push-up. With almost painful care, he laid down so that his torso was on top of and just to the side of Michael's, and his head fell into a natural resting place on Michael's chest.

Insane, was what Sam was thinking, heart inexplicably pounding, as he settled into as comfortable a spot as he could. He tucked his arms in on either side of Michael and tried not to think about the warmth of his body, or how he could hear Michael's heartbeat under his ribs. Definitely weird. What the fuck am I going to say about this in the morning?

At that particular thought, Sam's personality kicked in. A million jokes spread out before him in his mind. An endless supply of what, you never cuddled with the homies before? and it's not gay, bro, you have socks on. Chirps that would be mindless in the OHL. Thrown out like candy, practically. But something about imagining it, actually trying to say those words to Michael tomorrow, made Sam's stomach twist. And he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he wouldn't do it. He couldn't.

What was he going to do, then?

God, he didn't know. Sam buried his face into the fabric of Michael's shirt and pointedly did not think about it. Another problem for the morning.

He was smart, he'd figure something out. And if he couldn't, he'd just bullshit his way through it and avoid Michael for the foreseeable future. That idea also made his stomach twist. But it was possible. Something tangible.

So Sam clung to the idea, and used it as an anchor to sink back into that gray, foggy place where all he needed to think about was that he was tired. And that Michael wasn't going to wake him up anymore. And that laying on top of someone was actually pretty comfortable, when you could feel the gentle rise and fall of their chest underneath you.

Soothed by Michael's breathing, and the hum of the vents in the hotel room, and the confidence that he'd have in the morning, Sam managed to find his way back to sleep once more.

-

There was light behind his eyelids.

That was the first thing that Sam noticed when his brain rose stickily from the clutches of the void. The second thing that he noticed was that he did not want to be awake—argh, his body was not happy. It felt like he'd been crushed against the boards about twenty times, and then dragged through drying concrete, and then left out in the California sun to bake. A general soreness, thick with both mental and physical fatigue, sat heavy under his skin and told him that he was in for a very bad day indeed.

But at least— At least it was finally the morning. Or something close enough to it. A time late enough for the sun to be rising, letting light spill in through the blinds, even if it wasn't super bright.

Which meant they'd made it through the night.

Way to fucking go.

Yawning, his eyes squeezed shut, Sam automatically moved to stretch out his aching limbs. He did still have a game to play later, after all. But before he could make it into any kind of stretch at all, he hit a very evident obstacle.

Oh, right. Michael.

They'd made it through the night, and, miraculously, Michael hadn't moved. Which meant that Sam could still feel the lines of his body underneath his own, held down by Sam's weight. It was hard to tell where one person ended and the other began. Their legs were tangled together. Sam's arms bracketed Michael's torso, head still pillowed on his chest. At some point during the night, Michael's hands had drifted up and were now settled on the small of Sam's back, trapping his arms to his sides and clinging right where the hem of Sam's shirt had ridden up. He was being held like some kind of giant teddy bear. Or, maybe not a teddy bear—Michael had history with those. Like a body pillow, then.

The part of Sam's brain that was awake knew that no matter what he described it as, this was probably, almost certainly, an embarrassing position to be in, and Sam should probably, almost certainly, move before Michael woke up. Weird, he remembered from last night. Really hard to explain.

Unfortunately, the other part of his brain, the part that was saying hhhhghgnnnnnnh I'm so tired and warm and cozy, was currently winning out.

And really, if it was time to get up yet, his alarm would be going off. It wasn't, so… checkmate, brain.

Forfeiting his stretch for now, Sam cozied in further. He indulged himself again in listening to Michael breathe, feeling the little noises he made through both his ears and through the drag and pull of the lungs under his cheek. This was another one of those things he wouldn't admit with a gun to his head, but Sam really liked cuddling. Hockey was full of casual touches, and hugs, and arms over shoulders, but it wasn't super common to just lay down with the boys and embrace. Sam wished it was more common. It was peaceful.

Unfortunately, it was also Sam's downfall. Just as he was starting to drift off again, lulled onto the edge of conscious and not, the cuddling meant that he was in the perfect position to feel the sudden hitch in Michael's breath.

And then movement. Tiny twitches, jostling motions, the undeniable signs of someone waking up. A small groan worked its way out of the body underneath his, curving up at the end into a question.

Still hovering on the edge of sleep, Sam really wanted to convince himself that he was imagining that.

He couldn't pretend to imagine what came next.

"Wha' the fuck?" Michael's voice was low in his throat, rough and groggy. He still managed a tone that conveyed absolute confusion. There was more jostling, more pushing and prodding as Michael seemed to test the limits of the position they were in. Then: "Dick, why are you in my bed? Why the fuck are you—?"

Sam moved before he could think about it. Reaching an arm up above his head, he slapped his hand around until he found Michael's mouth. He knew that he'd hit his target when Michael suddenly cut off with a surprised, muffled, "hhH?" Instantly, he started full-on squirming, trying to twist his face out from the grip over his mouth. Sam clamped down harder, not letting him escape. The muffled noises got increasingly more offended.

"Shhhhhut up," Sam mumbled into Michael's chest.

"Hhm?" Michael protested, still trying to wiggle away. "Hhm."

"Shh. Not allowed to complain."

"Hrrh—"

Sam couldn't even see right now, but he could sense in his soul that Michael was, in fact, about to keep complaining. Well, he supposed, it was the morning now. And it was time for Sam to deal with this. Officially.

So, going against every fiber of his being that wanted to stay still, Sam forced himself to pick his body up. He shifted his weight onto his hands and knees, groaned at the twinges of pain that echoed from his joints. With one hand still covering Michael's mouth, he leaned forward so that his head was directly over the hand, over Michael's face. Only then did he finally peel his eyes open.

Immediately, the light through the window almost seared them out. Sam blinked fuzzy spots out of his vision, and found himself glaring down exactly into Michael's bewildered gaze. Their faces were pressed close enough that he could pick out the amber accents in dark brown irises. Close enough that Sam's newly grown-out hair hung loose between them, just barely brushing skin. Close enough that Sam could feel his warmth—in the limbs underneath his own, in the sunlight in his eyes, in the damp puffs of breath against his palm as his fingers dug into Michael's cheek. Gruff with grumpiness and sleep, Sam cleared his throat. "I said you're not allowed to complain."

And, for some reason, Michael's eyes blew wide. The struggling stopped. All of his noises stopped. He was just staring up at Sam, a blotchy flush spreading across his face. Like he was embarrassed. Or mad, or something.

Sam frowned. He hadn't been expecting that. Trying to think of what could've possibly elicited this reaction, nothing came to him. His brain was still mostly offline. Like, yeah, Sam sitting on top of Michael was weird, but not, like, something to be mad about. Or, wait— damn. Was Michael actually just that pissed about being muffled? Sam put him into headlocks and roughhoused with him and shoved his face into the Toffoli's very nice carpets all the time, and he was never that mad about it. But it was the only thing Sam could think of, so. Maybe Michael was just in a bad mood.

That thought made Sam roll his eyes. You think you're so special, bud.

Still, he retracted his hand. He wiped the dampness off on the bedsheets, then looked back up just in time to see Michael lick his lips, tonguing at the places where his mouth had been covered. Sam tracked the motion automatically.

A little distracted, but still undeniably grumpy, Sam couldn't resist saying, "You wanna blame someone for this, don't look at me. Blame your own sleepwalking ass."

That, finally, startled a normal reaction out of Michael. His eyes went wider, somehow, and his face pinker. "Sleepwalking?" he almost squeaked, pushing against Sam to try to sit up.

Unfortunately, Sam was officially not awake enough to unpack that for him right now. A quick glance at the clock showed that it was only 7:30. Jackpot. They didn't have to be downstairs until 9:00, and on a day like today, Sam was grabbing for all the time he could get.

So, in a direct mirror of earlier in the night, he braced an arm against Michael, pushed, and said, "Shhhhh. It's not time to get up yet." Sam leaned down and pressed his forehead into the spot between Michael's shoulder and neck, nuzzling mindlessly into the pillow. The overwhelming desire to sleep washed back over him. And if it was also a desire to delay the inevitable weird conversation some more, well. Sue him.

Michael reached up, his hands landing on Sam's shoulders. "Bro. Dude, are you insane?" he asked, sounding strangled. "What do you mean I was sleepwalking? Why are you in my bed?" Trying and failing to struggle out of Sam's hold one final time, he groaned. "And why are you not moving, jackass?"

Maybe Sam was a little insane. Or just really, really, really tired. Or both. He flopped his weight back down, ignoring Michael's affronted oof, and settled into the position he'd woken up in. Turning his head so he spoke almost directly into Michael's ear, he murmured, "You're comfy."

And nothing happened. Well, nothing except for the full-body shudder that ran through Michael hard enough that Sam felt it. But there was no quip back, no furious protest. Not even another attempt to shove Sam off. Just a shudder, and then a whole lot of silence.

Sam didn't mind. He wanted sleep, and he intended to get it.

However, finally, after a full minute or more, Michael sighed. His hands slid over to Sam's back, loosely holding him in return. Sam felt him settle slightly.

"You're not getting out of this," Michael said. "You're explaining everything on the ride over to the rink. In so much detail." A pause, then: "Well, actually, maybe not the bus. I feel like the team doesn't need to hear about whatever the hell this is."

Hah. If Michael thought for a second that this information wasn't making it to the internet, much less the team, he was delusional. Sam had a story to tell Cat, after all. But he let Michael hold onto that nice thought for now.

"Sure," Sam agreed, voice muffled slightly by sleepiness and the pillow. "And you can explain that shit you said to me in your sleep."

Michael went completely still. Hook, line, and… "What? What did I say?" There we go, sinker.

"Crazy work." With a yawn that was only a little bit exaggerated, Sam murmured, "I don' think I was supposeta hear it, Mike." He buried his smirk into the pillowcase and closed his eyes.

Michael poked him hard. "Dickie. Don't fall asleep on me, what the fuck?" Michael kept poking, aiming for Sam's ribs, but Sam wasn't ticklish there. He remained, for all intents and purposes, asleep. "Dick, you can't just— aghh." Michael groaned, and blew air out from between his teeth. "Fuckin' jackass," he cursed.

But, noticeably, he gave up.

See, Sam wasn't actually that delusional. Weight difference or not, Michael was still a professional hockey player, and a damn good one, too. He'd been bulking over the summer. The vets had literally wolf-whistled when Michael had started benching during training camp, and Ned had committed to calling him Mi-so-strong for the rest of the week.

All this to be said, Michael could probably throw Sam off of him if he really wanted to. It wouldn't be easy, and Sam would put up a fight out of obligation, but he could do it. He could make Sam stop. But he wasn't. He was letting Sam do this, even though he was confused, and somewhat annoyed, and probably being crushed just a little bit.

And for the first time, it occurred to Sam that whatever this thing was that he felt about Michael, maybe it was reciprocal. Maybe, Michael was shaking his head right now, and maybe he was thinking about who he let get away with those little things that were both annoying and endearing. Maybe, he was deciding that Sam was an exception for him. Like the way Sam had decided that Michael was his. They were both exceptions for each other.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Sam didn't know. He was falling asleep again. For one, final time today, he just wanted to cling onto this bubble they'd created in their hotel room and relax into it, not have to face the real world and the undoubtedly disastrous game he'd be playing later.

So he let himself.

Let himself drift off, and be pulled under the surface by the weight of fatigue. Let his brain wander back into cottony static. Let himself go far enough than when he heard it, he thought for a second that it was a dream.

A whispered little world, barely there. Just, "Fuck." A few moments of silence. And then, so faint that it was almost lost on the edge of consciousness: the start of something. A sentence. "You're so lucky I l—"

But Sam was asleep before he could hear the rest of it.