Loving Sam Lynch

 By Skylights

I wrote this story rather quickly, if you must know. It started off as a short story that just invaded my mind and soon the personalities jumped off the page, the story became too big to finish quickly, and in one sitting, I'd written over forty pages ( I think :P). Then within about 19 or so days of occasional additions, I finished the story and it ended up being a lot longer than I'd intended. Currently, I'm still tweaking it up and occasionally writing more. I don't know if you'll like their story but I grew to love these characters as I wrote them, despite their shortcomings, and I hope you'll enjoy them too.

I know I said, if you read my previous story: Sparkling Combustion, that I wasn't going to be posting on here anymore. However, I also realize that this was where I started and gained most of my readers here and I will be posting it here.

***

Chapter 1

           "Sam, why did you punch my boyfriend?" Max asked, releasing a weary puff of breath as he came to a standstill in front of his best friend. Sam was seated in his room, on his bed playing some monstrosity of a video game on the slim hand-held device. His dark head was bent over it as he gazed with apt attention, his fingers moving at lightning speed.

           He paused, fingers slowing their movements, and looked up. "A perfect ten score, Max! Can you believe that? I'm freaking fantastic." The natural light coming in through the wide-open window brightened the room, making it look airy. It made Sam's dark hair look a Chestnut brown it normally wasn't.

           Max didn't even smile but maintained a neutral expression, despite his sudden urge to lean over and see if he'd managed such a good score for real. The game he was playing was supposed to be killer. "Don't ignore me." He flicked his wayward blond hair off his face.

           "I'm not, chill." Sam said cheerfully, fully intending to get away with anything because he knew the devastating effect he had on just about everyone, him included. Although he knew some things he could not get away with in regards to Max because of the fact that they'd known each other since they'd been five years old. Twelve years later, after having grown up together, had a way of making you blatantly aware of a person's every facet. Or at least that was how it had always been with them.

           Having had enough by now, Max was ready to attack. He waited a slight breath before, quick as a bullet; he reached over and snatched the game from Sam's hands.

           "Oh, man!" Sam exclaimed, up on his feet already. He was ready to argue, but seeing the expression on Max's face, he paused and grinned. "You have that look on your face again. Am I in big trouble?" He winced.

           Max tried not to smile. The boy was naturally charming, and too aware of the fact! "Shut up." Max said, the words sounding a little odd to his ears. He didn't shout...until Sam provoked him as no one else could!

           Sam frowned. "I'd prefer it if you told me: `Please refrain from speaking at this moment.'"

           Max felt his lips twitched and gave in. "I don't have a British accent." He felt the need to point out.

           Sam snorted and threw a navy-blue pillow at him, which Max deftly deflected. "You might as well."

           "Don't stereotype. British people aren't prudish and overly-polite, although that can hardly be a bad thing..." Max grinned.

           "Aha! But you admit that while the British aren't, you definitely are." Sam smiled and fell down rather dramatically on to his bed, stretching widely. His long, lean frame catching Max's eye. His bedroom walls were stark white, and his bed-spread was a blue that looked entirely too good framing his dark head.

           "Whatever." Max waved a hand. "You're distracting me again. I asked you something."

           "Why are you still standing? Jeez do I have to `allow you to take a seat' or something?" Sam peered up at him. Max sighed and sat down beside Max on the bed. "That's better. Now shoot."

           "Why do you do this every time, Sam?"

           "Do what?" Sam craned his head to look over at him. He looked legitimately confused. "What am I doing now?"

           "Why'd you punch Andre, Samuel Lynch?" Max asked for the second time.

           Sam grimaced. "Jeez you scare me more than my own mother when you use that tone...Maxwell Newman."

           Despite the fact that Sam had yet to answer him, Max felt a smile warm across his face. "Why are you more frightened of me than Renee?" He wondered, slightly amused.

           "Renee is...Renee; she's like a child at times and not at all like a parent. Then there you are, so icy and frozen sometimes that you scare me. Especially when I've been bad..." He added on a complaining note.

           Max couldn't hold back his laugh. "W-when you've been bad?" His voice shook with mirth.

           Sam scowled. "Well don't look so happy about it, will you? Now I feel really great." He rolled his eyes. "It's just that you look so scary, all unreachable like that. You're not usually like that around me you see..." But he was around others, was the unspoken part, which Max didn't deny.

           He just wasn't the social being that Sam was. Sam was his best friend, although many people often wondered how that came about, considering how different they were. Max was cool, calm, composed and entirely focused on his academics; he was amazing with numbers and computers. Sam was charming, alluring, warm, and athletic and had amazing linguistic abilities. He was good with words all around, and picked up languages easily. Max may manipulate his words differently, but Sam had a far better grasp of them.

           "Say something," Sam said, sounding annoyed.

           "Oh, well, I get it. You just hate it because you know that if you can't bring me round', I won't talk to you." Max laughed openly.

           "Get lost." Sam said, although he sounded amused. "Well, that one time, you didn't talk to me for a whole week." He added after.

           "And you positively died from withdrawal, did you? That's not what Nancy Lee would have said." Max brushed Sam's fore-arm with ease. Sam had skin-privileges, no one else. Besides Andre, he supposed.

           "Well, I didn't die! Nothing that dramatic...I hated it though. You won't understand because I never did that to you." He accused.

           "No you didn't, because you can't bear not talking to me. Seriously, though, Sam, don't you know that I hated it as much as you did?"

           Sam grinned. "Of course I do. I don't think you realize how much though. You see, where as I can release my frustrations vocally, you just withdraw into yourself."

           Max smiled wryly. Of course Sam would know that about him. "And where as I like to ask you questions, you try very hard to evade them," He said softly.

           Sam groaned. "What do you want me to say? The guy was asking for it!"

           "Why? What on Earth could he have done that you had the nerve to punch him while I was in the bathroom last night?" Max asked.

           Sam scoffed and sat up on his elbows, his grey eyes pleading with him to understand.  Max hardened his resolve, telling himself he wouldn't give into the look in Sam's face. "He ratted me out, did he? What are you, his daddy, going to make sure I never hurt the poor wittle baby again?"

           "Actually," Max said rather coolly, "He didn't. I made the connection when I went over to see him today and found him sporting a black eye."

           Sam frowned. "Well I didn't think I hit him that hard..." He said. Only Max could make him behave this way. Most of the time, no one made him feel bad and no one certainly had the nerve to tell him he'd done something completely wrong to his face.

           "Oh, and please don't say that it must be his terribly fragile skin. I've heard that one before." Max alleged, matter-of-fact.

           "You should dump him." Sam said simply, shrugging and lying back down. He grabbed a ball off his bed-side table and tossed it up in the air, catching it with his agile fingers.

           "Give me one good reason why? He's a great boyfriend." Max said.

           "He's not good enough." Sam said blandly.

           "I think I'll ignore you." Max decided.

           "Thank you for announcing that. Oh, you can feel free to announce your exit too." Sam rolled his eyes. Max only smiled, not taking it seriously. He reached over and ran his fingers lightly through that those thick black curls.

           "Don't do it again." Max said only.

           "I'll do whatever I want." He threw the ball in the air. "To whomever I want." He caught it.

~*~

Five years later

           Frustrated, Max knocked on Sam's mahogany door, but there wasn't an answer. He waited several minutes but the guy was probably sleeping like a dead weight, he decided. Where had he put his spare key? It wasn't like him to lose things.

            "Open the door, Sam!" He bellowed. He was really furious this time and he wasn't going to let Sam get away with it. He now pounded his fist against the door and was a little surprised when the door suddenly opened and a sleepy Sam stood on the other end, clad only in a pair of grey boxers. His gently tanned skin and brown nipples caught Max's eye before he forced his gaze up, so it wouldn't follow the light trail of hair into those boxers.

           "Oh it's you. You're lucky because I'm so damned tired I was going to punch whoever was behind this door right now." Sam said. He merely turned and walked into the kitchen of his apartment, courtesy of a trust fund set up for him by a great-aunt. It was open and airy, with two bedrooms (one was empty because Max refused to move in with him), huge windows and a spacious kitchen. Sam wasn't a slob either, so he kept it clean.

           "You really like doing that don't you? Punching people. Since it's the first thing that comes to mind, you brute!" Max shouted, shutting the door after him and following Sam into the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, taking in the immaculate counter-tops and fresh fruit on one surface. Sam didn't seem like the type to bother with domestic chores, but he was a great cook, cleaned up after himself, and happened to enjoy beating his boyfriends up. He was also English major and a writer to boot.

           Sam turned, his chocolate eyes wide, his one hand in his hair while the other scratched his face confusedly. "Uh, Renee said hi. She said she'd talked to your parents. They're enjoying their cruise..."

           Max groaned, realizing how demented he probably sounded. He rarely got angry, and almost never shouted!  "You infuriate me, Samuel Lynch." He punctuated each word with a jab to the chest, aware that they were the same height now. Five years ago, they hadn't been. "And I never get angry, do you know how much of an accomplishment that is? And don't you dare evade this by asking me if I want coffee!" He'd seen Sam's eyes catch sight of the coffeemaker.

           "Jesus, how do you do that?" Sam scratched his head, thoughtful. "How about if I say I had real incentive?" His voice was bereft of any telling emotion. Smart. He knew Max wouldn't buy it if he pleaded. Sam charmed the pants off most people but somehow, without Sam even  being aware of it, Max always wormed things out of him.

           "That's what you said last time..." Max reminded, sounding more like his calm self now.

           "Michael is an asshole." Sam said, as if that made everything alright. He stared directly into Max's very blue eyes, unflinching.

           "You'd certainly know, wouldn't you?" Max asked, his voice deadly, lethally frozen. He saw Sam stiffen at the tone and knew it had the desired effect. It lasted a moment, and then he merely smiled.

           "That's not entirely true, or you'd be punching me all over the place, wouldn't you?"

           Max would not smile. He would not. He couldn't, because Sam was really like a child and if he smiled, it would only reassure him and they'd never get anything accomplished. "Sam, this is the last time I'm going to ask you not to hit my boyfriend."

           "I don't like the look in his eye!" He held his hands out helplessly. "Am I supposed to just stand there and watch? He gives me the creeps."

           Max softened, relaxed, and reached out to touch Sam's fore-arm. "I know." He said simply. Because it was always the same story, the same tale, the same excuses with no true justifications and Max could no more stay angry at Sam Lynch than he could bite off his very own arm.

           "How much damage did I do?" Sam asked, deciding it was time to make himself useful. He took out a carton of eggs. Sam hated eggs, but Max liked them. He took out apple-juice, which Sam hated, but Max liked. Sam would have everything he liked, Max thought.

           Sam seated himself at a stool and sighed. "He told me not to call him again, that me and my freaky neurotic friend could go shoot ourselves." He said with a perfectly straight face.

           "He said that to you?" Sam turned and his anger was evident. "I'll just--."

           "No you'll not `just' do anything, alright?" He took the glass Sam gave him and sipped at the juice. "He's history."

            Sam grinned. "You sure get over them fast. Still, if I see him again..." He muttered darkly.

           Max shrugged. "Nothing to get over," He said honestly, surprising Sam.

           Sam stopped his movements. "What do you mean? You're always so defensive about them." He said `them' with a frown. There was a long list of `them,' Sam realized. Although he wasn't surprised. There was something about Max's cool personality and long lean build that seemed to make gay boys fall at their knees for the guy. Max sure didn't complain.

           "Sex is sex, Sam." Max said pointedly, then shrugged. "Nothing to get worked up about. It's not like I love any of them."

           "Not even close?" Sam asked, his curiosity was piqued. They'd never discussed this in detail. Max was as collected about his love-life as he was about everything else. Something about that icy veneer made it easy to believe he had such a cynical outlook on the matter, but Max knew he could thaw that ice. He was probably the only one, he admitted.

           None of the guys Max ever dated were good enough for him. Most of them looked at him with such disgustingly obvious desire.

           "Come on, even I can say that if you let yourself, sex can be an emotional experience. I find myself getting attached at times. No big deal." Sam shrugged as he placed a plate of eggs in front of Max and they seated themselves at the small dining table.  He took a sip of the strong coffee alone for himself.

           Max took a forkful of egg. "Perfect. Just the way I like them." Then. "You're talking about Annabelle." Sam merely shrugged as Max had known he would. His best friend was pretty gentle beneath that tough exterior, despite what he led people to believe.

           "I didn't love her if that's what you're asking." Sam said, knowing that's what Max had really been wondering about. He made a face when Max offered him a forkful of eggs.

           His Sam was a sweetheart, Max decided. He was so entirely male and confident but had a sort of beauty that belied Max's own cynicism.  The reason for that very cynicism was this dark, masculine guy who sat before him. Because he'd long ago accepted that he would never love another human being like he did Sam, so really what was the point in getting attached to a bit of mindless sex?

           "I know you didn't." He finally answered. "Something never feels right, huh?" Funny how he knew what that off feeling was. Too bad Sam wouldn't ever realize he was practically in love with him too. He wasn't a simpering idiot and he had no qualms about anything in his life. He knew he could be awfully rude by his iciness, he knew he was too beautiful, and he knew Sam Lynch was crazy about him.

           "Yes, that's a good way of putting it. Something always seems off." Max shrugged. "Enough about me though. How've you been?"

           Max smiled. They'd spoken only yesterday. "I've been alright. I'm glad it's summer, though. I think I'll head home for the summer."

           Sam thought about it. "Stay with me." He said.

           Max shook his head. "I've got a few weeks before I'm out for good. I think I will go home though."

           "Blah, summer will be boring then." Sam said sullenly, getting up and carrying his cup to the skin.

           Max laughed. "I love how you actually believe that. You're not twelve anymore, believe me you'll be fine." He assured him. You'd think that the guy would realize he couldn't function without him and accept what it meant, but he fully knew it and didn't see it for what it was. Max wouldn't ruin his disillusionment, because Sam was so obviously content with his life, so why spring something like that on his totally straight best friend. Sam would never be content with just him, and Sam definitely wasn't gay.

           He couldn't live without Sam, point blank. So he kept it shut—his mouth, that is.

           "It won't be the same though. Still, you're right. I'm twenty-two years old, I'll live." He winked at Max and stood. Max forced himself to be neutral, tamped down any sexual desire that popped up at the sight of that long, sinewy body stretching, light black hair leading into boxers that concealed what he knew to be a sizable package. He stared straight ahead and thought of eating cardboard. It had the desired effect.

           "I'm gonna go shower, buddy." Sam announced. "I'll only be fifteen minutes. We'll go out and do something."

           Max nodded, content do anything with Sam. If Sam had wanted to go Jump off a bridge and he somehow couldn't stop him, he'd probably jump off with him, cursing him the entire way down to their deaths though.

~*~

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