sam and will and iowa
Hi. Remember me?
Part of this story.
***
Will feels the storm before he sees it, a coolness to the day, a prickling on the back of his neck. He feel the emptiness that surrounds the house, the void that storm clouds and rain are going to slide into in a few hours time. The sky is still blue, but it's fading out to grey and he can tell, the way he's been able to tell for dozens of Iowa storms before, that the sun won't last much longer.
"It's going to rain," he tells Sam at breakfast, still, after all these weeks, futilely trying to fill the silence with anything to distract him from the desperation and loss in Sam's eyes.
"I know," Sam says, stirring idly at his cold cereal. "I'm not sure how, but I do." He doesn't look up, and Will swallows back the chatter that's building up on the tip of his tongue, an endless cascade of facts about barometric pressure and humidity and cloud formations and human bone structure. He doesn't even finish his coffee, just sits at the table until Sam puts him bowl in the dishwasher and Will finally allows himself to escape to his office, to bend over his computer and start his daily ritual of breathing heavily and cursing himself for not taking the first step.
In addition to his four door sedan and a trunk full of boxes, Sam brought with him an entirely new definition of yearning. Will thought he knew what the word meant before, when he and Sam were standing on the tenuous edge of something on the California coast, when he was in DC and Sam was in LA, Chicago, New York, when he was alone and letting his mind drift back to someone who had opened the door to everything he wanted in life but never let him all the way through it. That was nothing compared to this, though. This was a whole new kind of yearning, one that spoke of living in someone's back pocket and being afraid to touch them, of doing their laundry and being unable to carry on a breakfast conversation, of seeing evidence of them everywhere, all around you, prevading your every thought and movement. Will thought he wanted Sam before, but none of that was even close to the feeling that overtakes him when he stares out his window and sees Sam sitting on the hood of the car. It's like wanting to die, or maybe wanting to live. It's something he never would have thought could be new at forty-five, but here he is, so overcome he can't move, not even when the clouds slide in, the heavens open up, the rain comes down, and Sam stays sitting where he is.
Will snaps out of it.
The rain is whipping into his face, big, fat drops that aren't doing nearly enough to break the heat and humidity as Will runs out the door, one hand holding his foggy glasses to his face.
"Sam?" he calls. Sam doesn't turn around, so Will jogs across the driveway, sloshing through quickly forming mud puddles until he can put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam?" he repeats. Sam blinks and turns to him, nodding and sliding off the hood of the car.
"Sorry," he says. "I was just. Sorry."
"Nevermind," Will says. "Just... come inside?" He takes Sam's hand before he can talk himself out of it and tugs him towards the house. Sam goes willingly, and Will wonders if this is the life he's doomed to lead, pulling Sam around by the hand, taking care of him during the day and sleeping alone at night.
Once they're inside, Sam disappears into his room and Will collapses onto the couch, not even bothering to change out of his damp clothes. He figures this will be the last he'll see of Sam until dinner, another long day of sitting on his own and straining to hear even the smallest signs of life from the other room.
He's surprised, then, when the door reopens a few minutes later and Sam reappears wearing dry clothes and toweling off his hair. He sits down on the couch but doesn't say anything or do anything further. Will very slowly sits up, his need to fill Sam's uncomfortable silences rising to the surface once more.
"The power might go out," he says. "We should, you know, get some candles or something." Sam only nods. "The power goes out a lot in these storms," he continues, hoping that he doesn't sound as frantic as he thinks he does, words pouring out to fill the silence that feels heavy all around them, or maybe that's just the humidity. Maybe it's a sign that their own storm is on its way and for all Will's careful posturing, they absolutely cannot go on like this for much longer.
Sam just nods again, shifts a little, and suddenly they're sitting thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Will reaches out before he can think better of it and lets the tips of his fingers graze the side of Sam's hand, some back part of his mind hoping that this is what it will take to break the stifling silence, the heat.
It doesn't, but when Sam threads their fingers together something shifts and Will thinks that maybe they'll at least be able to get through another day.
***
More later.
Part of this story.
***
Will feels the storm before he sees it, a coolness to the day, a prickling on the back of his neck. He feel the emptiness that surrounds the house, the void that storm clouds and rain are going to slide into in a few hours time. The sky is still blue, but it's fading out to grey and he can tell, the way he's been able to tell for dozens of Iowa storms before, that the sun won't last much longer.
"It's going to rain," he tells Sam at breakfast, still, after all these weeks, futilely trying to fill the silence with anything to distract him from the desperation and loss in Sam's eyes.
"I know," Sam says, stirring idly at his cold cereal. "I'm not sure how, but I do." He doesn't look up, and Will swallows back the chatter that's building up on the tip of his tongue, an endless cascade of facts about barometric pressure and humidity and cloud formations and human bone structure. He doesn't even finish his coffee, just sits at the table until Sam puts him bowl in the dishwasher and Will finally allows himself to escape to his office, to bend over his computer and start his daily ritual of breathing heavily and cursing himself for not taking the first step.
In addition to his four door sedan and a trunk full of boxes, Sam brought with him an entirely new definition of yearning. Will thought he knew what the word meant before, when he and Sam were standing on the tenuous edge of something on the California coast, when he was in DC and Sam was in LA, Chicago, New York, when he was alone and letting his mind drift back to someone who had opened the door to everything he wanted in life but never let him all the way through it. That was nothing compared to this, though. This was a whole new kind of yearning, one that spoke of living in someone's back pocket and being afraid to touch them, of doing their laundry and being unable to carry on a breakfast conversation, of seeing evidence of them everywhere, all around you, prevading your every thought and movement. Will thought he wanted Sam before, but none of that was even close to the feeling that overtakes him when he stares out his window and sees Sam sitting on the hood of the car. It's like wanting to die, or maybe wanting to live. It's something he never would have thought could be new at forty-five, but here he is, so overcome he can't move, not even when the clouds slide in, the heavens open up, the rain comes down, and Sam stays sitting where he is.
Will snaps out of it.
The rain is whipping into his face, big, fat drops that aren't doing nearly enough to break the heat and humidity as Will runs out the door, one hand holding his foggy glasses to his face.
"Sam?" he calls. Sam doesn't turn around, so Will jogs across the driveway, sloshing through quickly forming mud puddles until he can put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam?" he repeats. Sam blinks and turns to him, nodding and sliding off the hood of the car.
"Sorry," he says. "I was just. Sorry."
"Nevermind," Will says. "Just... come inside?" He takes Sam's hand before he can talk himself out of it and tugs him towards the house. Sam goes willingly, and Will wonders if this is the life he's doomed to lead, pulling Sam around by the hand, taking care of him during the day and sleeping alone at night.
Once they're inside, Sam disappears into his room and Will collapses onto the couch, not even bothering to change out of his damp clothes. He figures this will be the last he'll see of Sam until dinner, another long day of sitting on his own and straining to hear even the smallest signs of life from the other room.
He's surprised, then, when the door reopens a few minutes later and Sam reappears wearing dry clothes and toweling off his hair. He sits down on the couch but doesn't say anything or do anything further. Will very slowly sits up, his need to fill Sam's uncomfortable silences rising to the surface once more.
"The power might go out," he says. "We should, you know, get some candles or something." Sam only nods. "The power goes out a lot in these storms," he continues, hoping that he doesn't sound as frantic as he thinks he does, words pouring out to fill the silence that feels heavy all around them, or maybe that's just the humidity. Maybe it's a sign that their own storm is on its way and for all Will's careful posturing, they absolutely cannot go on like this for much longer.
Sam just nods again, shifts a little, and suddenly they're sitting thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Will reaches out before he can think better of it and lets the tips of his fingers graze the side of Sam's hand, some back part of his mind hoping that this is what it will take to break the stifling silence, the heat.
It doesn't, but when Sam threads their fingers together something shifts and Will thinks that maybe they'll at least be able to get through another day.
***
More later.