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Sam really isn’t sure why he just agreed to go along with this.
All he really wanted was to sell his car. It had no value to him anymore, and with the money, he could buy himself a nicer one. He’s had his eyes set on that sweet little skyline for some time now— although it needs some repairs. He’s not even sure how he’s gonna do all of that. But this guy just keeps talking and talking— is his old civic really worth that much?
“So you’re gonna use it as a project car?” He lights up the other end of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke before eventually exhaling it. He looks at the way this weirdo— it’s the only way he can call him really, since the guy didn’t give him his name— looks over the motor of his car. He seems like he knows what he’s doing, so Sam lets the man have his fun looking. “It runs fine as if. ‘don’t think you’d need to change anything.”
The other man giggles, and his white hair follows the shape of his face as he turns to face him. “Yes yes— I’m sure it runs just fine. But it could run even better with a few swapped pieces!” He’s still a bit uneasy about not seeing the man’s eye. It’s weird, why hide them behind sunglasses? The sun has set hours ago.
“Okay— so, are you buying it?” It’s not that he’s getting annoyed, but being so close to the car after the events that unfolded recently leaves him a bit on edge. He’d much rather be inside his apartment with a new budget for this skyline.
“Geez,” The white-haired sighs, looking back to the car and closing the hood of the engine. “chill out a bit will you? I’d like to know why you’re parting with it though. It’s in very good condition, and could run for a bit more years…” Bringing a hand to his chin, the man thinks, and looks at the white civic in front of him. Sure, it’s not one of the newest models but it’ll do just fine.
Why is it so important to him anyways? They’re just strangers trying to strike a deal, but a bit of talking doesn’t hurt he supposes. “I just… I needed to get rid of it.” He omits the details of why and instead brings attention to his new plans. “With the money from the sale, I’d get enough budget for a skyline that has been taunting me for a bit.”
They ended up talking for about an hour, before parting with each as a new phone contact.
✦✧✦
They got along because of their shared interest in cars. Then, they had a few drinks together, and they spent more time together. The next thing they knew a friendship had begun.
It bloomed like neither of them would have thoughts. In just a mere few months, they had become the best of friends. They hung out all the time— and Monsoon had even proposed for him to join this group he was in.
(Sam had neither accepted nor declined, he just needed some time to think about it.)
It’s late into the night, a bit past midnight as Monsoon shuts his car’s door. The air is nice, less stuffy than it is during the day, although maybe a bit too cold. He starts searching for a key, walking into the now-familiar apartment complex. He opens the door to Sam’s place with a little trouble, sliding inside and looking around for his friend. Monsoon takes off his shoes and jacket, then goes to sit on the couch next to Sam.
“You shouldn’t drink this much.” He sighs softly, taking the bottle from Sam’s hands, who doesn’t make any effort to stop him. It’s a pity sight, his friend looks exhausted, slumped over himself, and nursing a whiskey bottle— well that was until Monsoon took it away. “Bad for your health.”
Sam chuckles, but it’s not there. Gone is that cheerful tone from his usual Sam, instead he slurs over his words. “It’s a special occasion.”
Monsoon frowns, wraps his arm around Sam and brings the other close, trying to give him physical comfort. There are still many things his friend has kept from him— but he doesn’t blame him. Not in the slightest. There are also a lot of things he hasn’t told him. “It’s not an excuse for you to drink this much.” He looks at the small amount of liquid left in the bottle and sets it as far as he could, out of reach. “You smoked?”
“Yes.” Sam answers like he’s a child being scolded, his head hanging low in a sort of shame only Monsoon has witnessed. “I don’t feel too bad.”
“You will soon. Let’s get you changed and in bed before you throw up everywhere.” As he stands up, Monsoon tugs at his friend for him to do the same. It takes some time and effort, but eventually, Sam stands up, heavily leaning on Monsoon.
They walk (see Monsoon actually dragging Sam as he stumbles over his own feet) to Sam’s room, and Monsoon makes Sam sit down on his bed. He sees the moment when his friend regrets all of his past actions, suddenly feeling nauseous. “Phirun—”
He hands him a bucket just in time as Sam proceeds to empty his stomach, panting slightly as his body rejects some of the alcohol he has drunk. “Fuck.”
“Told you that you’d feel bad, c’mon now you big baby.” The way Monsoon cares for him almost makes him feel guilty, but Sam is too far gone to even start and comprehend those feelings.
He wishes he could help him. Wishes he could be here before Sam starts drinking his night away, or what could be a triggering factor. Help him not drink as much, and combine drugs with alcohol.
If only Sam would let him inside his guarded heart, just for once, it’s all he asks.
It’s usually in the morning after he drank that Sam feels at his worst, so that’s why Monsoon crashes on his sofa. He couldn’t just leave his friend with the aftermath of last night.
That and the killer breakfast Sam makes.
✦✧✦
Sam had officially met the members of this group Monsoon has been talking to him about. ‘Desperados’ they call themselves. He guesses they’re not half bad.
“I don’t know man, this lady gives me the chills.” He refers to Mistral as he takes a sip of his beer. They’re both inside Monsoon’s apartment, comfortably seated on his sofa and chatting away as they go later and later into the night. “And this guy too— not her boyfriend, ah shit man I’m sorry I forget names easily.”
“Sundowner?” Monsoon raises an eyebrow, looking over to his friend.
“Yeah, this guy. He’s got a really creepy grin.”
Chuckling, Monsoon takes another sip of his drink. He sits a bit more comfortably, his sunglasses somehow still resting on his face. “Yeah, he’s just like that I guess. But they’re nice— they just gotta warm up to ya! I’m telling you, just give it a few months and you’ll be part of the family. Heck, maybe weeks if I’m being honest.”
Yeah. He could give it a try.
✦✧✦
There’s been a few times when Monsoon gave Sam a scare.
Gibberish texts that were sent at late hours, asking him to please visit him, only to find him in a state far from sober. A few times when he’d end up staying with the other so he could help out in the morning. It’s only fair, after all Monsoon has done for him.
But this one night, something felt off, just not completely right— so Sam didn’t really hesitate, listened to his gut, and took his car to Monsoon’s own place. It’s somewhere that still feels slightly odd to him. Sure, he’s been there a few times, but not enough time for him to completely familiarize himself with the whole layout, of what is where, etc…
They both have each other's house keys. Something they did some time ago after drinking a bit too much together— but also something they never bothered to fix, because it had become so convenient. Because of situations like these.
The key slides in, and he opens the door easily.
It pains him to know he was right.
There was Monsoon, hyperventilating, sitting down with his back to the wall, his sunglasses long gone. Sam doesn’t hesitate, he closes the door quickly and practically runs over to his friend, getting down to his level.
His pupils are dilated, and he seems to be sweating way too much seeing the temperature his apartment is set at. He doesn’t actively register Sam, even though he’s standing right in front of him, and it scares him. “Hey hey— buddy— you’re okay there?” He gets a hold of his friend, both hands on his shoulders as he tries and brings attention to him.
Monsoon jolts as Sam touches him, and he regrets even making physical contact. His mouth opens and closes a few times, before he takes in a sharp inhale and tries to speak. It’s slurred, it doesn’t make any sense, and Sam has never seen his friend act like this before, not even when they got blackout drunk together. “G-glasses. My sunglasses—”
Turning around, he searches for the pair of sunglasses his friend adores. He finds them laid down on the coffee table, and lets go of him to reach out and grab the pair. As Sam gets a hold of them, Monsoon panics, and reaches out for his friend. “No— wait, d-don’t go— st- stay? Here, stay here—'' He's still hyperventilating, and he can tell it’s slowly getting worse.
Sam puts the sunglasses back onto their owner’s face and holds Monsoon’s face into his hands. He stares at him for a moment. “Listen to me, I ain’t going anywhere. Breathe with me, okay? Here,” Sam purposefully takes in a big inhale, that his friend tries to recreate, gasping like a fish out of water instead. He notices a tear roll down onto his right hand, but doesn’t give up. He exhales slowly, and repeats the action.
It takes some time, and Monsoon can’t seem to nail down the breathing patterns. Instead, he panics even more, taking a tight hold of Sam’s wrists. “Please— are— are you— what— ah—”
“Shhh, meu querido, just focus on my breathing. I’m here.” He’s trying his best. He doesn’t know what happened, but his priority is to calm down his friend. He’s probably just experiencing a panic attack, which got aggravated with whatever substance he took. He moves a hand away from his face, and rests it on Monsoon’s chest to try and feel his heartbeat.
Exepted the moment his hand makes contact with his chest, Monsoon throws a punch at his face. It’s enough to destabilize him, and he can taste blood at the back of his mouth, but now he understands that this isn’t just a panic attack.
Monsoon seems lost. He’s still hyperventilating, there’s sweat mixed with tears, trying to get further away from Sam. It breaks his heart.
“Monsoon, what the fuck was that—” Sam asks as Monsoon breaks down into sobs, his arms wrapping around himself protectively. He brings his legs closer to his chest, stuttering as he tries to speak, looking unsure of what is happening around him. Sam ignores the blood and raises his hands in front of him defensively, wanting to appear harmless. “Buddy, you’re really scaring me. What happened?”
He should have probably asked earlier, but Sam really isn’t the most qualified person when it comes to taking care of this kind of stuff. His friend keeps crying, and it’s like Sam doesn’t exist again.
He tries and pieces it together.
Surely, he must have taken some sort of drugs. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would be the first time it’s affecting him this badly. Was it a bad trip? Or maybe an overdose? He’d really rather it not be the latter option.
“Listen to me. Monsoon, please, I’m begging you— what happened to you?” He tries again when his friend stays unresponsive for a period he thinks is a bit too long for his taste. He sighs softly, and watches as Monsoon tries and regulates his breathing. He’d try and get closer but he doesn’t want a broken nose.
Looking at his friend, he notices him seemingly looking worse and worse, and he quickly gets him a bucket before he empties the content of his stomach on himself. He finds some tissues and wipes away at his mouth.
It’s fruitless. Monsoon’s gone too far, he doesn’t register what Sam says anymore. He can’t just sit here and watch as his friend slowly gets worse, so he tries the same approach as earlier, slowly holding Monsoon’s arms. It seems to have gotten his attention.
Slowly, he breathes in and out. He exaggerates it so his friend can follow along. And after a few painful minutes, it seems to be finally working, as Monsoon’s breathing slowly but surely regulates back. He’s still crying, but surely the fact he calmed his breathing will help.
“I’m going to carry you to your room, okay? And then I’ll put you on your bed, and we’ll get to sleep.” Sam narrates what he’s about to do before doing as he said. He slowly helps his friend stand up, and they walk to the bedroom, with Monsoon occasionally tripping over his own feet.
He lays him down on the bed, and doesn’t even try to undress him. Instead, he tucks him in and sits down next to him, before deciding to lie down too. They stay together like this until Monsoon falls asleep, and Sam slowly goes back to the living room to try and figure out what exactly had just happened.
He’s not the smartest, so he assumes from the wrappers he found that it was probably a very, very bad trip. He’s relieved to see that there weren’t enough drugs to induce an overdose, though he was probably close to one.
Sam awakes before Monsoon, and he’s not too sure if he should be making his friend food or not.
He’s also worried, because although he put Monsoon to bed pretty late, it had already started to get dark outside. He decides that if he continues to sleep in this much, he’ll try and wake him up himself. In the meantime, he occupies himself by tidying up around the messy apartment.
He starts with the living room. Throws away empty bottles and food wrappers, puts the dirty dishes in the sink, and uses his broom to sweep away crumbs and dust (he didn’t want to risk waking up his friend with a vacuum cleaner— he’s not too sure how long it’s been since he’s had a decent sleep.). It looks already nicer, and once done he goes to do the same to his small kitchenette. He washes the dishes when he’s out of things to pick up and tidy, leaves them to dry, and worries a bit when he sees that Monsoon has now been sleeping for over thirteen hours.
Taking a look through his fridge, he sees that his options are limited, but he’ll do with what he has.
He makes something simple, something he’s pretty sure his friend would like. But he only goes as far as to prep it all, it’d be a shame for the warm food to be cold by the time they taste it. He hums little tunes as he cooks, put the mixes in little bowls, and set them in the fridge for later.
When Monsoon does awake— a good hour after Sam had been done cooking and cleaning— it looks like he’s been run over by a bus. There are bags under his eyes that he can see even if he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, and even though he’s also slept a good fifteen hours if Sam were to guess.
It’s like all the worry from last night is here again.
His friend doesn’t look an ounce better. He might as well look worst. He sees how his clothes drape over his silhouette, a silhouette that’s thinner than he remembers. How his hair which is usually so well kept is messy and unhealthy. “You look horrible.”
“Then I guess I feel just how I look.” His voice is hoarse. It’s like he damaged his vocal cords in some ways. He sounds like when they’d get drunk and karaoke until the sun rose. Excepted there was no fun in what happened yesterday.
“Do you need me to drive you to a hospital?” Walking toward him, Sam goes to check for any fever but stops himself— he’s unsure of how he’d react, seeing what happened yesterday when he tried any physical touch. His hand eventually rests on his friend’s forehead after seeing no opposition from the other party. No fever. Monsoon shakes his head no in answer to the previous question.
“Listen, I…”
“Shh—” Before Monsoon could even try and talk, Sam walks him to the dining table, and sits him down. “How about you eat a little before?”
Staring down at the said table, he stays quiet for a moment before answering. “Can’t promise I’ll eat much. I feel like I’m gonna throw up my organs at any moment.”
They eat in silence, and Sam does the dishes as his friend goes to sit on his sofa. He joins him after he’s set them to dry.
“Sam.” The white-haired turns to him, staring at him through his sunglasses. He takes in a deep breath, his mouth opens but nothing goes out. He tries again, seemingly determined. “My— My real name’s Phirun. I’m sorry I hid it from you for so long but I didn’t really trust you I… I have some trouble with my identity. I’d rather hide it. But,” He takes away his sunglasses, and swallows some spit that was gathered at the back of his throat. “I trust you now. Actually— I think I might trust you more than anyone I’ve had in my life. I’m just— so grateful you’re here. And I know we’re both messes but— but this works out. And maybe if we continue to stick together it’ll keep working out.”
“Well,” He’s not really sure how to react. He wasn’t really awaiting a deep confession from his friend, but, here it is. “nice to meet you Phirun. The name’s Samuel. I’m glad you finally trust me, because I trust you too. I’m sorry I drink a lot, I usually drink whenever I think too much about my dad, he passed away when I was still young. I hope you can understand me now.”
Monsoon- Phirun nods. He smiles a little, and rubs the back of his head awkwardly. “Well— thank you for trusting me with this information Samuel. I take drugs because I hate myself, and would rather not be lucid when I think about attempting suicide.”
“Oh.” Sam pauses, seemingly a bit distraught. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s been getting better, I guess.” Phirun looks away. “Actually I’m not too sure but… You’ve been helping. That I’m sure.” For some time, they simply just sit here. The air is still a bit tense, and Sam isn’t really sure about what he should say now.
“I want you to know that I’m here if you need someone to talk to. That maybe instead of hurting yourself can talk to me first.” He eventually says, and his friend looks at him with a smile.
“I also want you to know that I’d rather you go to me first before deciding to empty out bottles. I don’t like finding you completely wasted on the floor.” Phirun chuckles slightly, wanting to ease out the air. Such a heavy weight has been lifted off each other’s backs.
He knows that’s not all. That there’s much more to be said. But that is enough for today, at least enough for them.
(He stays with Phirun for a few more days, until he eventually retreats back to his own apartment. But then, Phirun followed him. They couldn’t bear to leave each others alone after what had happened.)
✦✧✦
Ultimately, the driving scene does get boring after a while.
The excitement of joining Desperados has eventually worn off, and don’t get him wrong; there’s nothing better than racing against a friend, or a new person, but nothing has really been… exciting for him recently. No newcomer that meets his high expectation, or a new underground band that he doesn’t know about, racing against his friends over and over again gets boring.
Ironic, how what fills him with so much energy and dopamine gets him bored . What an antonym.
He can’t just go around and stay in bars forever, so he drives here and now, because it gives him money mostly— and without money, he can’t pay rent, pay for gas, for tires, and food. Without anyone new in their small little driving scene they have, the public gets also bored, so less money, and Sam isn’t really the kind of person who’d get a job easily.
It’s too hot for this shit.
Middle of summer. The air does get slightly better at night— and a good thing it is, since it’s when he’s mostly active— but it’s still too hot, way too hot for him and his mind. So, he stays inside, inside his poorly cooled down apartment, before he takes his car and does something he regrets to it or himself. He occupies himself to the best of his own abilities; he watches TV, plays some music on his guitar, and prepares a new circuit layout on some roads he’s been trying out, but fatigue won’t come at him. It just won’t come to him and he’s so hot.
There’s a knock at the door.
Sam doesn’t have time to go answer it before the person that knocked walks straight in, without any regard to privacy. But since when did his good old friend Phirun ever have a concept of privacy inside Sam’s own apartment?
“What are you doing here?” He asks absently, focused on tuning his guitar back to standard. His visits aren’t rare, and they aren’t unwelcomed either, he simply asks out of curiosity.
“Didn’t see ya at the usual meeting point, got worried you overdosed or some shit.” The door closes and locks, the key left inside the keyhole so that no one could even try and get in. He drops a bag near the sofa, where Sam is sitting, and joins him there. “Good to see you didn’t immediately go for the alcohol.”
There is beer in his fridge, and cheap vodka in his cabinets, but he’s been trying to cut that out. It’s not a good alternative to whenever he feels down, it makes him feel even worse when he gets sober again, and cleaning up his own mess doesn’t feel too good either. “Mhm, been trying to limit it.”
“Glad you are.” He’s glad their relationship has come to this. How they went from we’re-simply-just-friends to not-sure-i-could-live-without-you, how they switched from sometimes checking the other’s garage to having a spare key to their places. When they started looking out for each other more, making sure the other wasn’t doing something overly stupid. When they started keeping each others company, when they just started getting so close. “It’s bad for your health anyways.”
“So is weed and tobacco, but you’ve heard enough from me about that.” Sam plays a few chords tentatively, checking if it sounds right, and if he tuned his guitar correctly. They’re both a mess they can’t seem to fix, at least not by themselves.
Cicadas are singing outside, there’s a car passing here and there, and Phirun’s laying down on his sofa as he plays a tune he doesn’t remember. He tries and enjoy the moment, tries not to let his brain bring the mood down, he plays the same chords again, a string is ever so slightly out of tune and he fixes it.
It sounds better this time, he repeats the chords again, again and again. It sounds nice against his ears, it’s relaxing, and seeing how Phirun watches him with such tenderness, it must sound nice to him too. They don’t talk, they just enjoy the moment. After a bit, Phirun hums a mirror of the tune Sam is playing. It’s entertaining. Cures the boredom.
He goes a little off track— stops playing mindless chords, and plays songs he knows instead. His fingers dance along the strings and the neck of this guitar, and whenever Phirun’s brain works out what tune is playing, he hums the lyrics softly, and Sam finds it compliments his guitar pretty nicely.
“I’ve got to say, Samuel,” Phirun breaks the silence, looking at his friend through his sunglasses. “your hands work wonders not only on your car’s steering wheel, but also on every instrument they touch.”
He can’t help it, a shit-eating grin appears on his face. “They don’t only work wonders on those two things you know—”
“Shut it!” He groans, annoyed— not really actually, because that’s just Sam being Sam. He elbows him a little as he decides to get up, turning off the light in the corner of his room. The moon is bright enough that they don’t need it anyways.
Phirun rarely takes off his sunglasses. Sam is the only lucky one that gets to see his eyes, eyes that are too soft he might melt into them if he keeps looking at them. He knows he keeps them on to keep some anonymity, because the eyes are the window to the soul. Yet, he looks at them whenever he can— because it’s a shame he hides them behind a pair of sunglasses. He’s hopeless, he distantly thinks.
Maybe it’s good they’re so close to each other.
Sam’s back to playing random chords again, playing whatever sounds right for himself, the music resonates out of his acoustic guitar and into his small apartment. Phirun lays back down on the sofa, this time closer to the brazilian. The music is relaxing, and they just simply stay there, with no one to bother them. His friend’s head is resting on his thighs.
“Maybe you could teach me, one day.” Phirun starts, his eyes closed. He listens idly to Sam playing, his hands resting on his stomach.
Sam chuckles, it’s soft, it’s lively. “Maybe, one day.” He remembers the many books on how to play guitar he has, and maybe he could lend them to him. Maybe they could sit here, and he’d teach him how to correctly position his hands around the guitar’s neck. He’d teach him basic chords, and exercise. They’d practice together. Maybe. For now he keeps playing.
When he looks back at him, he sees Phirun looking at his hands, watching the way they move and dance around the strings. He sees how he watches, fascinated. He couldn't break him out of it even if he tried. So when he stops playing, his friend looks at him with those eyes, filled with admiration and now slight confusion. Gosh, he doesn't know why he hides such a pretty pair behind sunglasses, he'd stare at them all night if he could.
Some time passes and neither says anything. They simply stare at each other.
“See something that you like?” Phirun chuckles, and something happens inside Sam. He doesn’t know what exactly it is, and he’s not too sure what to do about it.
He shakes the inappropriate thoughts away. “Sorry, zoning out.”
It’s not too long before both of them decide they’ve had enough, and actually try and get some rest.
It’s useless.
Sam’s restless. He can’t sleep. It’s too hot and the body next to him isn't helping either.
He can’t help it.
He gives a few glances to his best friend— his heart palpitates, and he feels odd. He knows he has already felt this before, but was it last week? Or last month? Did he ever feel it with any of the girls he had brought over?
He sits up.
It’s doing him no good. He puts his hand on his face and exhales— quietly, he doesn’t want to wake him up— and thinks. Was that what it was all about? He’s suddenly rethinking all of his feelings. Was he…
He stands up and quietly goes to the bathroom.
He knows where it is, he doesn’t need to turn any lights on as he gets some cold water onto his face. He doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror, no, he simply waits for a few seconds for the water to drip off before patting his face dry. Heading back to his bedroom, he makes sure he isn’t doing too much noise.
But Phirun’s just laying there, looking at the door, waiting for him. “Something’s bothering you, big guy?”
He’s torn. He’s still not sure what exactly he was feeling, or what his heart was telling him. If his brain was trying to bring him back down to earth— then he didn’t even notice it. He feels his face flush, unnoticeable in this darkness, as he looks at the silhouette of his friend. Maybe it all made sense, maybe he’s too stupid to see it. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
Sam says it before he can even think about what it implied, but it’s too late to backtrack. He said it, and now he’s just standing there while Phirun probably goes through all the stages of grief. He fucked up really bad didn’t he? All he had to was just keep his mouth shut and he could just dwell on the issue later, but no, he had to let himself run on autopilot—
“Then what are you waiting for?”
It went by faster than either of them could have thought. As soon as their lips made contact, they were all over each other. It was addicting, how good it just felt when Sam pinned Phirun back down on the mattress. How Phirun’s hands felt in his hair— keeping it away from framing his face and ending up in between them, tugging ever so slightly whenever he needed air.
While Phirun's hands were in his hair, Sam's hands were on his body. Touching every spot of skin which was left bare, and slowly mapping out his thighs. He gives them a small squeeze just as he positions himself closer. Crotch to crotch— or in their case boner to boner.
A gasp and a moan, giving Sam the opportunity to slowly kiss down his neck. He kisses and bites at some points, it makes Phirun tug harder on his hair. He doesn't mind, he kinda likes it. Sam's sweatpants did nothing to conceal how painfully hard he was now, and Phirun's shirt was blocking the path his mouth was taking. His hands move from his thighs to the said shirt, giving it small tugs. He kisses next to his ear, whispering quietly. " Can it come off? "
" Yes— " He answers, almost begging. It comes off with a bit of a struggle— Sam couldn't stop kissing every piece of exposed skin— and gets thrown aside to be found later. He kisses him, bringing his lips to his skin and trailing all the way down to his chest. He looks up to make sure his friend is still okay, he doesn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable after all.
They spend the night entangled in each other, sharing bodily fluids as well as sweet nothings.
The tension is palpable in the morning.
They’re both awake, but neither has said a word since— Sam is sure that his friend must be at least a bit sore, he’ll volunteer to make breakfast in a few minutes.
For now, he tries and think about how to go about this. How to go about last night, something which clearly has to be addressed.
“Listen, about…”
“Last night?” Phirun finishes for him. When he tries and look at him now, he sees him wearing his sunglasses. That’s not a good sign.
“Yeah.” There’s apprehension in his voice. He’s scared he fucked up, scared he just lost his best friend over some horny thoughts his brain gave him. He almost feels the tears going up his eyes, it’s tingling.
“It was good.” The answer comes with surprise— he would have thought about anything else other than this. It’s so convenient, so just… Like they didn’t just sit in silent for 15 minutes straight. “You’re probably the first guy I did this with. You didn’t make me regret it.”
“You don’t regret it?” He hates how his anxiety can be heard when he speaks, because he truly feels like he’s about to cry. In Phirun he has a friend, a copilot, a heart-brother. He’d rather crash and never be able to drive again than to lose him.
“I do not.” There is is, that smile, that fucking smile that looks so warm with his white hair framing it and the sun behind. “Not a single bit.”
A sigh of relief can’t help but escape Sam’s lips. He stops looking at his friend, goes to look at his hands instead. “There’s a but, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He cannot see it, but Phirun is also looking away, probably at one of the many posters plastered around his room. “I’d rather we stay friends. This… Was a surprise for us both I think. But I do not think we’re fit for this.”
It’s painful, but it’s right. “Yeah,” Sam sighs, and finally finds the strength to get his ass up. “you’re right.”
“I am glad then.” There’s a shameful blush spreading over his friend’s face, as he goes back to lay in the softness of his bed. “Could you—”
“Make you breakfast in bed?” Sam completes, flashing him a grin. “You can count on it.”
A giggle, a smile, someone in his bed that isn’t a complete stranger.
He’s done it. He didn’t turn his life around like his father would have wanted him to, but he’s loved. He’s cared for. He’s not alone, rotting somewhere else. No.
It feels nice.
But maybe his life could use some more entertainment.