return

Sam had started the drive from Westchester to Connecticut quietly, shifting between X-related rumination and affection for Oliver. He would drift away on some thought or memory or other (a softball game, a funeral, a moment with a student, playing chess with Charles) and then return back to reality -- back to Oliver -- and reach out to him with some topic of conversation or other.

But as an hour turned into two hours, Sam was feeling more solid. His shoulders loosened, the knots in his muscles gradually uncoiled, and he found his smile more frequently. He even, at one point, sang along to the car radio. It was good to be going home, to be chasing a tricky Scott moment with a positive Sam one.

And now it was time for Oliver to meet the Scotts. When they arrived (they had pulled over to cast critical eyes over their appearances; Scott had changed his shirt and combed Oliver's hair), it was like stepping into a sunny patch of day, even though it was getting late.

Sam had grown up with just his mom and his aunt. His mom had bought the house when she was pregnant with Sam; they had lived here his whole life. It had never been weird that he raised by his mom and her sister; they loved him like parents and loved each other like best friends, and they were fun, outgoing, loving people. They were women quick to laugh, women who played board games like they were the coolest thing in the world, women who owned a karaoke machine and who still, even without Sam, hung out at the piano in the living room and sang songs together.

When they arrived, it was all a happy blur. Sam's aunt ("Call me Sarah", she had ordered Oliver with a hug and a kiss on each cheek) had greeted them with cocktails. Well, more specifically, a cocktail called "The Oliver," which was minty and zesty and disturbingly accurate. She was talkative and friendly, and she managed to take Sam and Oliver on a tour of the house -- excluding Sam's room -- in which she lovingly made fun of Sam in every single room. (If Oliver had been nervous about fitting in with this family, maybe this introduction would make him more relaxed).

And then Sam's mother had arrived home from work, and Sam, who now remembered a life where he had lost a mother in a horrific way, hugged her a little too hard and too long. But he was comfortable here at home, and he held Oliver's hand under the table at dinner and laughed as he accused his mother and aunt of cheating at a brisk game of monopoly (Oliver had been given first pick of player piece, because he was the guest).

Finally, though, they were alone again, and now, Sam could show Oliver his room. It was exactly as it had always been: neat and orderly, clean, a slate of neutrals. There was a Top Gun poster on the door, of course, and a keyboard stand and guitar stand next to it in the corner (the keyboard was in New Orleans, the guitar was exactly where Sam had left it). His bookshelf was stacked with books and model planes, and a few model cars; there was a framed photo of Sam, his mother, and his aunt on his desk (his mom must have kindly removed the photo of Sam and his ex that used to sit beside it). There was a corkboard with old pennants, photos of Sam in baseball uniforms or costumes, an invitation to a wedding he'd attended with his ex, his college acceptance letter, little slices of his quiet little life. The room was an oasis from the colour and happy noise of the rest of the house, and it was here that Sam leaned against the wall, finally fully loose-limbed and comfortable, and watched Pietro-Oliver meet baby Sam through his things. For once, there was a free and uncomplicated smile on his face. "So this is it."

Being away from Oliver was difficult; at some point, maybe, a 24, 36 hour separation wouldn't ache. But right now, it did, and maybe that was because it was new love, or co-dependency, or any number of reasons, but it was one thing Sam didn't really wish to rationalize. Sam (and Scott, especially Scott) were prone to rationalization above all us.

With Oliver, he tried just to feel.

Sure, they had already seen each other again after Sam's overnight -- Sam had stopped by Oliver's studio as promised, for a quick hello and a kiss and a cup of coffee -- but a quick, public moment like that couldn't replace the moment they were both at home together, alone, with nothing to do but be with each other. It was the only company Sam wanted.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, was a pang of guilt for not devoting his spare time to solving their 'situation' -- but they really didn't appear to be in danger, and the situation could wait.

Right now, Sam was coming home to the man he loved, who promised to wait by the door for him. To test that theory, he knocked on the door rather than opening it himself.

Sam knew he sounded like a creep; Sam knew that Caleb had every reason to be wary of that random man requesting an emergency meeting.

But Caleb had called Sam Scott; on some level, Caleb knew. On some level, Sam had known. And he had felt a connection; hopefully Caleb had too.

Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he stood near the building and scanned passersby for Caleb's face, but aside from that, his expression, his posture, it was all classic Cyclops. Man on a mission. To get his brother back.

Sam had been getting the headaches for at least a week now. Sam had always been prey to migraines -- the rare, crushing pain felt kind of like a psychic hangover for past events he couldn't remember -- but regular headaches weren't normal, and this week, this otherwise quite good week, had been marred by them. He'd been a little more distracted and forgetful, which probably wasn't noticeable to anyone other than Sam himself, but it frustrated him.

He'd scheduled an eye exam, but it was days away, and now, tonight, the headache he'd been building for a week roared red over his brain. He felt like everything he looked at was coated with a ruby veil. The pressure building up behind his eyes was enormous.

And then there were the dreams. They had been getting worse all week too: all flame and fire and death and a weird strain of lust. All, the end of the world. All, loved ones dying. All, Sam alone struggling with the greatest threat in the world.

When he woke in the middle of the night, having drifted off well before Oliver came home, it was with a choked, genuinely terrified cry. It wasn't a feeling Sam was used to, and his head hurt so much, and the soothing qualities of the cool dark weren't working in those first frantic seconds. Rather than bolt upright, caricature-style, he curled into himself, covered his head.

Okay, typing out his feelings was one thing. Dealing with the reality of them -- the reality of Oliver -- was something else entirely. But the hard part was over, right? The words had been said. Now all that was left to do was live with them.

Yes, a million things could go wrong. A million things had already gone wrong. They frequently misunderstood each other. They were often not generous with each other; they seemed to never give each other the benefit of the doubt.

But Oliver had shown his hand, as it were, so what choice did Sam have but to lay all his cards (as it were) on the table? It was right and fair to meet in the middle. It was right and fair to be honest. It was a sign of integrity, and Sam believed himself to have integrity.

And now that Oliver had called Sam his big adventure, what else could Sam do? No one had ever seen him as anything close to an adventure. But deep, deep in the places where Sam could barely stand to look, he wanted that more than anything in the world. And he understood the feeling. Oliver thrilled him.

Sam opened his bedroom door and stood right inside it; when Oliver appeared, he reached out a hand to draw him close. "You big adventure?" he asked, because his brain was only thinking You're my big adventure, okay? over and over and over.