April 23rd | Hand | 539 words
CW: Panic attacks, The Killing Best Friend Prank
Platonic Solby
@sam-and-colby-microfics
Sam didn’t lie when he said the prank didn’t affect him that much. It was true, at the time, after the few days where his breath was unsteady—nothing seemed to have changed.
That moment in his life was put behind him, able to be joked about, even if the jokes made him slightly uneasy. It didn’t change his life. It just solidified how much Colby meant to him. And that’s a good thing.
It’s been almost ten years since the prank, since a bag was thrown over his head and he was secured in the trunk of a car, since he watched his best friend be shot and killed in front of him. Since his claustrophobia got worse.
It starts with a sound. A car exhaust, he knows it was a car exhaust. A backfire, the quick bang!
The sound startles him more than it used to, makes something in his gut churn. But he’s fine, and he doesn’t think much of it. But then, for a skit, a quick video, he’s bound and forced into a quite spacious back of a car. Not the trunk, but still the back.
The act of hands pushing him in, even though he can see, forcing his body with his hands tied and he can’t move—
Then they’re walking back to the car at night. It’s dimly lit, yellow, like the alleyway was. The wind is slightly biting, and they’re not high up, but the air feels the same and—
The world is dark and he can’t breathe. There’s someone speaking and he swears he can feel the metal chair digging into him as he tries to move.
“—am. Sam!” A voice calls his name. Colby? It has to be Colby. He’s there, he was taken too.
Sam tries to force his eyes open, but he can’t see, it’s all blurry. Is the bag still over his head?
Someone grabs him, and he jolts at the hands on his shoulders. He thinks he protests, and knows he moves, but they stay firm.
“Sam, look at me, it’s okay, you’re okay. Sammy please.”
“C-Colby—” Sam gasps out. “Are you okay? Colby. It’s gonna’ be o-okay.” The other voice pauses.
“Fuck. Sam, we’re not—I’m okay, we’re not there. Look at me.”
Sam tries to obey the voice, but it’s still so blurry, the best he can do is squint at the hands holding him. There’s something dark on one of the hands, and Sam focuses on the shape. It almost looks like a bird. Made of ink.
He blinks the tears out of his eyes, staring, trying to make sense of it.
Sam glances over to the man holding onto him, blue eyes staring back full of worry. But he finds his eyes tracing the shape on the man’s hand again.
It’s familiar. A Swallow, isn’t it? The tattoo.
Something clicks in Sam’s mind, and it snaps him into place. He can feel the concrete below him, how he’s sitting on the ground and not a chair.
Because the hand holding him has a tattoo. Colby’s tattoo.
And back then, on that rooftop, Colby didn’t have any tattoos.
