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SAM ❜

he’s bent over, hands on his head. and TIRED. she can see the weariness dripping off of him like tar, pooling on the floor, encasing his feet – his legs – his torso – his head. at his words she starts. only a little – after all nothing comes as a surprise anymore to her, not r e a l l y. not after everything. SCREW BOUNDARIES, warm hands grip broad shoulders, spinning him to face her. and then they’re on his face, thumbs working circles into his cheekbones slowly, fingertips touching their twins found on long tan limbs. sam quickly, quietly, swipes a tear out of his left eye with the nail of her thumb as it threatens to leak down his cheek. she catches it. she holds it. she doesn’t let it go.

❛ it’s hard. ❜ breathing is labored and shaking. ❛ oh god, it’s so hard, josh, but p l e a s e . please don’t give up, okay ? ❜ sam wasn’t going to let go of any more washingtons. not now, not e v e r . ❛ we can do this. both of us. together. just talk to me, josh. ❜ it wasn’t enough, but she didn’t know what else she could do. sam was tired too. the weariness was trying & tore at her painfully, but it would not stop her from being there for him when he needed her.

— she would always be there.

And what shall a man do when a part of him has died? Factions and facets had already been conscripted, taken the measure of unmade graves in stride; he feels little else, hollow echoes of a past he cannot change. He was loathe to be beheld in such a vulnerable, worthless light: COILED in frailty; feeble and wont to passions heretofore cloistered and bounded in the most sacrosanct of nutshells. Warmth of fingers glissading over span of tense form invokes nought but tentativeness; it’s a gesture fraught with fragile certitude, a stiffness ascribed to his actions therewith. Palms press to slender wrists, fingers snake ‘round forthwith: there’s security in grasping like this, clinging to her as though she were some adamantine anchor beset by stalwart stone.

Eyes squeeze shut, heavy brows furrow: there’s pain painted over flesh worn ragged by fatigue and dolour; tremulous sigh is exhumed through narrowly parted lips, precluding any eloquence likely to surmount ( as if he were capable of it in the first place ). He fumbles for words; every step results in falter and folly, incredulity lines the horizon. Gait is marred by pitch and blighted haze; clouds of shame, remorse, aching damnation, shroud the skyline: there is only abyssal nothingness beyond its bourne ( he knows this; that self-same vacancy is lodged within his heart, too ). Hands fall to his sides gingerly; it’s only now that he can bring himself to look at her, silently condemning himself for weakness that threatens to exude through fissured guise.

❝ I dunno what to say, Sam. ❞ And fuck he can hear the sob welling in his throat. ❝ How am I supposed t ❞ ( How do you keep living when you’ve lost everything? ) Tongue runs over lower lip; he shakes his head, tries to blink tears away with no avail. ❝ What do I do? ❞