Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lyle really, never ever, in a million years, intended to go this far. It still didn’t even feel like he was , as the toddling progression to this point felt so… natural… like riding a bike. But of course, when he thought too hard, too long about what he was doing, he’d feel the vertigo of his choices like a fucking anvil on his head…

He was still a good person, right? 

It’s not like he’d ever hurt anyone. Especially not s.. 

Sam. 

It felt wrong to even say his name for so long, because it wasn’t like he’d ever… introduced himself to Lyle. But it wasn’t – they were coworkers. He saw it on the schedule sheet all the time. On his nametag.

Maybe… Maybe that meant he knew Lyle’s, too?

No, probably not. 

Coworkers don’t usually care this much about each other. Not unless they’re, like, friends. But Lyle really began to like Sam more like a… TV show than a peer. 

Oh, geez. That sounded terrible. It wasn’t like that. 

He’d recently been promoted to supervisor when Sam was onboarded. They worked different store hours– only one person really needed to be on the register in front, but Lyle technically worked with him pretty often. It’s just that, while Sam was out serving customers, Lyle was in the office doing booking, or cleaning, or…

…Avoiding, um, interacting with any customers, or coworkers. 

But it wasn’t like he didn’t know anything about them! A pretty convenient part of working in the back was the small CCTV display. The building at large may have had its own security system, but the store was still a private business, and monitored their own footage. Which, technically wasn’t Lyle’s job, but the live feed was free to watch as long as he worked.

And, it wasn’t like they let them have their phones, or earbuds, or anything. 

People watching was a very common hobby. 

He was just killing time!

And he worked with Sam… like, a lot?

It wasn’t until later that he found out they both lived in the building, making them the most eligible for strange hours. 

It felt kind of… weird, that he and Sam hadn’t interacted by that point? But, thinking about it, Lyle hardly saw Sam interact with anyone. When the guy was on his phone (Which– Lyle should’ve been reporting, as his supervisor, but, well, Sam was good at his job! probably…) it was never to text, or even post– just scroll. 

He lived in a little bubble, almost. The cameras didn’t have audio, but he could see the way the most talkative customers would sort of… give up, midway through speaking to him.

So, Lyle found himself not taking it personally. Sam was just… reserved. Just like Lyle! And even if they didn’t speak, he felt a silent comradery whenever they would pass by one another. 

He understood. You couldn’t be judged if no one knew you existed.

Lyle was different, though. He would never judge Sam. They were one and the same. It kept the small fantasy alive in Lyle’s head that if he ever did talk to Sam, he might… get to be his friend, or something.

Not that he would ever risk such a rejection. Hah! But, well, it was nice to imagine. 

And, well, for the time that they worked together, Lyle was rather content with things as they were. He sometimes felt a little weary, with how much he ended up… watching him. But, it was just his job. He didn’t set up the cameras in the one place he could sit. And Sam knew Lyle had access to them– just like any other supervisor would! 

It wasn’t creepy.

…But then, one day, Lyle came in and found a tall, light-haired teenager at the counter instead of Sam. 

And the next day. 

And the third day– well, Sam didn’t work Wednesdays, so that was fine… 

But, the fourth day, another new employee had taken the slot, and Lyle was really suspicious.

Had Sam… quit? 

He didn’t know why the thought made him feel so… 

Rejected? 

His hands were doing the low blood sugar shuffle as he tried to fit the key in the hole to lock up the store that night. 

Even if he did quit, it had nothing to do with him. 

Knowing this did not stop the amalgam of memories surfacing, building a list of reasons Sam might’ve quit– all of them, coincidentally, being Lyle’s fault, somehow. Despite not even knowing the man.

He was a real pathetic piece of shit for caring this much, wasn’t he? He just needed to get a real friend. One that wasn’t obviously disinterested in the very idea of socializing. 

“Hey.”

Lyle yelped, and the ring of keys went flying into the air– and, before he could process, right back down again, hitting him smack in the face.

“Oh, shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“NO- No, I’m fine! I’m t - totally good, haha,” Lyle grabbed the ring of keys from where it had landed on his chest, stuffing his obviously trembling hands into his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he could do this. 

“Are you sure…?”

Lyle turned around quickly, realizing he was still hiding his face– which, thankfully, appeared more as a symptom of pain than of embarrassment.

“Ye- eah - ahem. Uh. Yes. I’m… I’m good as gravy.”

What the fuck was he talking about? He forced a chuckle, peering up at Sam. 

He looked so… worried. For Lyle.

For… For Lyle? 

“What’s uh, what's up? I missed y– y-” He bit his tongue on that freudian slip.

“aah, didn’t, see, you, I mean. M-missed you coming in, If you were here. The past couple days.” 

Sam’s lips pressed into a long, flat line, and he exhaled slightly sharply through his nose.

“Yeah, they sacked me on Sunday.”

“Wh- what?!” Lyle’s eyes widened a little. He hadn’t heard anything of the sort! He was immediately indignant (for himself? For Sam? It was one and the same by now), but reigned it in, instead just frowning sympathetically. 

“That’s terrible! Did.. did they say why?”

“Uh… Complaints,” Sam responded, shuffling slightly. “Didn’t mesh well, I guess. I’m just here to pick up my last paycheck.”

Lyle creased his brow. He hadn’t seen anything like that. Usually, they put paper checks in the safe, and Lyle counted that out every night. No envelope addressed to Sam. No loose papers at all, actually. Just neat stacks of cash and rolls of coins.

“Oh… I-I didn’t see it when closing, I’m sorry,”  

“ Fuck off…” Sam grumbled, obviously to himself as he angrily smothered his face with his hand. Even so, the shift in tone made Lyle recoil guiltily.

“Y- you live here, right? I could bring it, to you,” He suggested quickly, wanting to reconcile Sam’s distress somehow. “I know it… must’ve been awkward, coming back. You don’t, uh, have to do it again, that way.”

Sam’s brows lifted slightly, lips pursing, before he shrugged. 

“Well.. Okay, sure. That’d be really cool of you. Just, like… drop it off in my mailbox, even? If I’m not home.” 

Lyle nodded, eagerly. He gripped the keys in his pocket hard, tight, feeling the teeth dig into his palm. He didn’t want them rattling- he didn’t want to reveal how badly his hands were trembling.

“O- of course!” He responded, too quickly, then paused. “...And, u-um, which mailbox would that be…?”

Sam tapped himself on the forehead. 

“Duh. uh.. I’m in 33.”

Lyle nodded again.

“Got it! Y-yeah! Totally!” 

Sam smiled. Just a little- creasing the wrinkles beneath his eyes slightly. The fluorescent bulb above bathed him in white like a halo. The dark shadow of his brown skin highlighting his lips. His nose. His jaw. 

Those eyes.

Lyle had never, ever, so desperately wanted to take a photo. 

“Thanks, man,” He said, giving Lyle a single, friendly pat on the shoulder. 

“Heh…!” 

Lyle watched Sam leave, watched him all the way to the elevator. He could’ve followed, sequestered more of the man’s time from him, but he was rooted to the ground. His shoulder was tingling. 

Sam touched him.

Lyle twiddled with one of his locs, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

Maybe this was a little more than people-watching.

But having a little, eensy crush wasn’t evil. And he and Sam had actually talked, now! 

It wouldn’t go any further. It couldn’t - Lyle couldn’t sit and watch him anymore, and that was… Good! It meant maybe they could have a… a normal friendship, maybe!

The next day, Lyle texted his boss.

Hey! I know we let Sam go a few days ago. Did we get him his last check yet?

It took him a while to draft the short message, doubling back on his wording at least thrice before deciding it was cordial enough.

Should be in the lock box under the register. I dropped it off yesterday morning.

Lyle flushed. Oh. 

Sure enough, pawing open the small, second safe– there was Sam’s check. 

Well, that made Lyle feel a little scummy, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t lied to get Sam’s address or anything!

But now he had it– and the check…

So he could… Go there.

If he wanted. 

He clutched the envelope with him as he left that night, thumbing over Sam’s name– impersonally scribbled on the upper fold. 

He didn’t really consider until he was already on the third floor that it was… late. 

Very late.

Sam was probably up though, right…? They’d both worked nights often. And he had been at the store yesterday at about the same time.

He made his way down the hall, one hand in his pocket and the other on the envelope. He stared at his feet for a minute. Sam’s doormat seemed handmade. 

Finally, he found the nerve to knock. 

He waited… probably a stupid amount of time before knocking again. Checked his phone a few times– not that there was anything new to check . 

He stepped back from the door after a minute, studying the hallway awkwardly. He almost yipped when he knocked over the potted plant behind him, and the (now obviously plastic) stem popped right out of the ceramic dish.

Lyle hissed and bent over, grabbing it and hastily shoving it back into the container.

…His finger brushed something cold.

He grabbed for it it and lifted it into the air, inspecting the small piece of metal he'd taken. It was a key, with a small tag, labeled 33. 

Ah. 

Lyle looked between the door and the key in his hand, identical to his own room key with the exception of the number.

When the door opened, he didn’t have enough time to drop it back in the plant– and instead shoved it into his pocket.

“HEY- haha! Sam! Sorry- for bothering you so late, I just…”

His heart contorted, squeezed, surely making balloon-animal shapes in his chest at the sight of him. 

He’d only seen him out of his uniform a handful of times, usually wearing a sweater or a thick, dark colored graphic tee. 

It was a monumental effort not to stare– like he was so, so used to getting away with. Of course, with the best view of Sam, came the need to act… normal.

Which he was. 

But, uh… Maybe less so, than usual, seeing Sam’s pajama pants– a flash of skin through the hole in his knee, the strain on his waistband… 

He wasn’t looking. 

“I got your- your paycheck! A-asked the owner, if they had it, and-”

“Oh, you, uh, didn’t need to do that for me, man,” Sam blushed.

Blushed? 

He blushed. 

Lyle was, of course, in the middle of explaining his mistake when Sam interrupted. He floundered for a moment.

“W- Well, of course I did! They can't hold your paycheck from you, a-after firing you for no reason!”

Sam rubbed the nape of his neck, and Lyle’s stomach twisted in joy at the sight of him so bashful. At the opportunity to defend Sam to his face– even if, well, the scenario he was defending him in was…

…Sort of made up.

“It wasn't no reason, c'mon… I mean, you're the shift supervisor, I'm sure you've had to say something about me at some point. I'm kind of…”

Lyle could think of a million ways to finish that sentence, none of which filed into the self deprecating tone Sam had set. 

“N- no! I never heard.. any complaints. And I never- made any either.”

Sam looked at him skeptically.

“I was on my phone all the time.”

“Wh- who isn't? Haha…”

“I stole food, like, every other day.”

Lyle rubbed the back of his neck. His manager had told him to keep a better eye out for shoplifters. And Lyle may have… snuck a few dollars in the safe, every time he saw Sam pocket something.

“I… didn't notice?”

Sam gave another one of those– amazing, world-ending smiles, just a small quirk at the corner of his lips.

“Sure. Well, uh… thanks, Lyle. I appreciate it.”

The sound of his name in Sam’s voice struck him like a fork in an outlet. 

“Y- yeah! Yeah, of course, S.. Sam! I'll see you.. around?”

“Sure thing.”

Lyle shouldn't have stared and smiled the entire time Sam shuffled the door closed– but he couldn't let the sight of Sam like this disappear into his apartment without even a second glance.

He sighed softly to himself, relief and guilt and exhaustion all in one.

The whole way back to his apartment, he was stuck on all the beautiful candid looks he’d seen of Sam that day. 

He was so, so much more incredible up close.

and Lyle’s clumsy mind was shit at trying to recreate the sight of him. 

The way that his hip had squished into the door frame. The damp, freshly showered look of his hair. All the little, personal, unprofessional features were escaping him. He lost more detail every time he tried to picture him.

He closed his apartment door behind him, sighing softly. He reached into his pocket for his keychain, and pulled out…

The room 33 key.

He should not have that.

He'd completely forgotten, and now the sight of it in his hands made him almost jump in real time.

What… What did he do about this? 

Put it back, obviously. 

But it was so late, and he'd just gotten home…

And he sort of loved having it in his hand, just to hold…

He let out a small whine to himself, dissatisfied with his own choices, as he slid the key onto his key ring.

Just so he wouldn't forget it.

Just so he could put it back.

And maybe… when he did, he could ask Sam for his social media? 

Just to see if he had a picture somewhere.

Chapter Text

“N- no! I never heard.. any complaints. And I never- made any either.”

Sam looked at him skeptically.

He had to be frank… 

Sam had always gathered the impression his shift supervisor hated his ass.

But he also had to be fair. He made that assumption of many. It was a formula crafted on lots and lots of experience, and it hadn’t failed him yet. 

It had taken him a while to notice the signs, as a child and even a teen. What disabled child didn’t live with an invisible wall between them and their others? 

But as he matured, his mind filled them in everywhere. Pasting the impression of animosity onto his peers. 

Not to mention his superiors.

Looking at the man now– for the first time as a neighbor and not his boss… He was…

Underwhelming?

Embarrassing?

He felt kind of bad, and judgmental. Those weren’t the sort of thoughts he voiced, or even really followed up on. Not something he… intentionally believed. Lyle seemed nice.

But Lyle also seemed weird.

So many little social faux pas’ that Sam put up to before as the man simply disliking him. Now he just felt guilty. He was clearly… severely anxious. And maybe in need of some speech therapy.

The angel and demon on his shoulder were chasing each other's tails.

“I was on my phone all the time.” He countered, halfheartedly. He was… slightly lost in thought. He was tired – and just a little bit high from stopping by Vincent’s earlier. 

“Wh- who isn't? Haha…”

Lyle looked like he was really struggling to maintain eye contact. Another point that Sam had subconsciously written off as the guy not liking him. Now it seemed… so obviously self-motivated. Was he stupid or something?

Maybe. But the problem here was that he was self absorbed. It’s not like he had many chances to talk to Lyle, but he had never taken any of them. 

“I stole food, like, every other day.”

Lyle rubbed the back of his neck, looking kind of guilty. 

Sam, for all that he didn’t care for the store’s $4 loss in profit (considering how little they paid him), felt a little… bad. For having made him an accomplice to his stealing. 

“I… didn't notice?”

The guy was… not an artful liar. 

Sam awkwardly flashed a grin– or… tried, and ended up just sort of pursing his lips at him. Emoting was not one of his strongest suits. (He’d been there for that complaint. An older woman with an expired ID was, reportedly, not a fan of Sam’s “attitude’’.)  

“Sure. Well, uh… thanks, Lyle. I appreciate it.”

“Y- yeah! Yeah, of course, S.. Sam! I'll see you.. around?”

“Sure thing.”

What a weirdo.

If Sam had known Lyle was so strange, he might’ve… 

Talked to him sooner?

It was awkward, but Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever had a relationship of any kind that wasn’t. At least he felt like he… got something out of that. 

Well– He literally got paid. 

Whatever.

Sam was just exhausted with the scrutiny of… existing . The dog show he played to make up for his unforgivable, innate strangeness. 

Lyle…

Well. Lyle seemed kind of preoccupied just trying to make it through a sentence. 

Sam slid a palm under his shirt and scratched his stomach as he shambled to the kitchen, paycheck clutched in his other fist. 

It really couldn’t have come a second sooner. Sam’s kitchen was… ransacked. He didn’t even have ramen left. 

The freezer had half a loaf of bread, which was a pleasant surprise, so… a sandwich before bed to wash his meds down would work just fine.

He popped two slices in the toaster, and made an overcorrected turn back towards the fridge, wobbling a bit on the misstep.

His bed was beckoning him like a rocky cliff face invited nautical tragedy. Harpy-cooing softly every time he blinked for too long.

What did he even have to make a sandwich out of? Meat and cheese would be nice… 

The fridge had a small array of sauces (no mayonnaise, though, because Sam was never so lucky) , and containers of leftovers his mother sent him home with… far too long ago for them to still be healthily eaten. 

He grabbed for one container, once a cottage cheese tub, and pulled it open to find it…

It… was cottage cheese. When the fuck did he buy this? This was the trouble of living above an all-hours convenience store. Weird cravings were just an elevator ride away. 

And it was the only cheese in the fridge. Sam paused, before begrudgingly setting it on the counter and returning to his rummaging. 

He pried open each and every container, much to his disdain– oftentimes just putting the lid back on and dropping it into the bin.

Finally, he pried open a package only a few weeks old from his father’s birthday dinner, full of ice cold pulled pork.

This was going to be the saddest sandwich Sam had ever eaten.

He slapped it in the microwave, slathering his two slices of white bread in barbecue sauce to try and dampen up the certainly bone-dry meat he’d be making the star of this sandwich. 

He had a number of options, when confronted with the whole… unemployment, thing. He was really grinding his gears about it now, faced down with one of the brokest meals he’d eaten in the past several years. 

Moving back with his parents was the most cost efficient one, but he was begrudgingly eating the first of many, many reasons he didn’t want to subject himself to that ever again.

He qualified for unemployment now, probably. He was… pretty sure that was how that worked. Disability too, which had kept his lights on through some rough patches, but that's about all it could do. 

The obvious next step was looking for another job…

One that wouldn’t make him stand for nine hours a day, receive repetitive abuse from neighbor and stranger alike, and ultimately drain his life force away until he was nothing but a checkout machine for people to insert their debit cards into.

He just didn’t want to think about it. Jobs, rent, any of it, for just… just one day.

He could deal with it later.

Later.

The next day, Sam, for the first time in a… well, an amount of time he was embarrassed to disclose– left his apartment building. 

He was a man on a mission, as he often was when he ventured out into the world. Never purposeless. Never pleasurable.

It wasn’t like he didn’t ever go out for himself, for a drink or a movie or whatever. It happened, sometimes. 

It was just the getting there that was tough.

Though it had not happened at his expense in a very, very long time– and never even to the degree Sam dreaded… Sam had seen enough videos of unhoused people and dementia-afflicted elders, and commuters stopping to make a scene of it. 

One wrong conversation, and that could be him. Never mind that Sam hadn’t struggled with… delusions of that caliber since he was trying to get certified in pediatrics. 

Having no job could be just as stressful as having one, though, he was learning. 

There were old goosebumps beginning to rise again, pressing on the scar of paranoia that had been branded in his mind long, long ago. 

He just felt… eyes , crawling, tickling. Buggy legs and pincers on his skin when his mind raced a little too fast. 

It was bad enough inside his apartment.

…He needed to run his check to the bank, though. 

So here he was, on the city bus. It was, much to Sam’s reluctance, full of people… But he eventually found a seat next to a squat, round fellow in a black hoodie. He nodded to him, and the guy nodded back, hand on his headphone as though waiting to see if Sam would say something.

He didn’t. 

Sam… was sort of envious of the guy. He didn’t listen to a lot of music, and if he did, he normally didn’t have to moderate his volume beyond not blasting it at odd hours. But the few times he did go out, he found himself longing for the… Privacy of a pair of headphones.

And maybe it would make him look less like a tweaker , skitterishly glancing around the bus every few minutes like he’d never been on one before. 

The breaks squealed, and Sam watched his seat-neighbor shuffle to his feet. He did the same, squeezing into the aisle to let him go first, before following behind. 

Stepping out into the open, downtown area made Sam’s blood go a little cold. Damnit, he was a thirty-six year old man. He could go to the bank by himself.

His heart was in his throat, and his stomach ballooned up in his ribs. 

Nobody was watching him. His mantra began in his head, and he even managed a few more nods to passersby as he went.

After stepping into a particularly open clearing, he felt his paranoia plateau, fighting the urge to look around wildly and make sure no one was staring at him.

They were all just people. People too absorbed in their own lives to pay any mind to Sam.

Actually, despite the large flow of pedestrians, Sam felt… a little at ease. 

It seemed like there was some event going on. A road further ways down was blocked off, booths and a few food trucks going down in two rows. Tons of people just strolling around, aimlessly, pointing at displays and eating and making ruckuses amongst themselves.

Sam blended in just fine. No reason to feel… Itchy, or scrutinized. 

It was fine.

Nobody was watching him. 

Lyle really, really needed to get his mind off of… 

Things.

He woke up with raw, red notches in his palm from clutching the room key in his fist all that night, arm shoved under his pillow and tucked beneath his head. The damning ‘33’ was imprinted into his wrist. 

It just played, and played, and played at his head. Talking to the man in person had only heightened Lyle’s fervor for him. 

He needed him. Every step in his routine that morning was dashed with the thought of Sam. What did he look like, rolling out of bed? Eating breakfast, brushing his teeth…

Showering…

He needed to…

To…

Calm down. 

Lyle needed to chill out. 

He was honestly relieved that he had something planned that afternoon, something to string him out of the apartment. He needed to tend to the little shrubs of “outer life” he still had remaining.

Maybe that was part of what drew him to Sam, too… Lyle wasn’t too extroverted, but he was a hobbyist, at least. He knew people. Made connections– talked about his portraits and took tips from others. He even did a little freelancing. 

Who did Sam know? What did he do ? There had to be something he was concealing, however small. He had to have people or talents to enrich his life.

He frowned to himself and shook his head, finding his camera’s case and slinging the strap up to rest on his neck. 

All roads lead back to Rome, huh? 

Lyle’s Roman empire just so happened to be his depressed, unemployed neighbor…

He stepped into his slides and exited into the second floor hallway, making his way down the hall. 

The arts & crafts festival was a perfect opportunity for him to get a few shots downtown, the street done up top to bottom with chalk murals, and communal canvases. One of his favorite shots of the two years past was when his M&W group went together and Jeanne sprawled out on the ground, playing dead, before a massive crayola painting of a dragon. 

This year he would be going alone, but he preferred it that way. He never remembered to take photos when around people– and when he did, he always felt too awkward to disturb the group’s flow. 

Finding parking was familiarly hectic downtown, but he squeezed his little Kia Soul into three fourths of a parking spot in a parking garage not too far off.

His camera was out, now, weight familiar and steady in his hands and on the nape of his neck. 

There were some really impressive projects– more sculptures than last year, and Lyle found himself boldly walking up to a few booths to ask if they’d let him take a photo.

It was a few hours before the exertion started hurtling for him, and he found a spot at a bench to catch his breath at.

He had a good haul by that point, and a good amount of exercise by his own standards. He’d even bought a small pin along the way, attaching the generic d20 design to his camera bag with a smile. 

The evening light scattered over the main chalk and washable-paint mural, a hundred little hands from the elementary school students. It was… perfect, right where Lyle was sitting on the bench. He peeped at it again through his lens, shimmying a bit as he tried to find an angle without too much glare. 

The day was so satisfying on its own that Lyle had almost completely forgotten about S…

Sam!

His eyes widened, probably bulging a little as they magnified through his coke-bottle glasses. That was Sam, clear as day, head craned down and hands stuffed so deep into his pockets you’d think he was shoplifting, if not for the fact that he was walking around outside, ways away from any booths.

Lyle started, his camera still clutched in his hands, and bit hard into his lip. What was Sam doing out? Clearly not enjoying the festivities.

Lyle scanned his movements, following him away from the mural as he stalked down the street. He zoomed, strained, leaned his weight to one side of the bench to keep him in his line of sight.

Click .

Oh–

Lyle hadn’t meant to take that, and it was surely a blurry mess. But once the neuron fired that he could be taking photos, the shutter was a blur, until Sam was far out of frame, and Lyle was left sitting there, breathless and sick-feeling.

He… He shouldn't have done that.

He always asked permission before taking a photo, even if he had no intention of sharing it. It was just professional etiquette. It was how any photographer should operate.

He clutched his camera case close to his chest as he made his way through the lobby of his building, as though dropping it might result in those shameful images spilling out of his hands.

But that wasn’t possible, he had to develop them first.

Wh… which he shouldn’t do.

He wasn’t going to.

(they didn’t look that good anyways- he could do better…)

He anxiously eyed the 3rd floor button as he entered the elevator, Sam’s spare key still dangling from his keychain.

He still had to return that…

He jammed his finger into the 2 button, watching it light up with a nervously relieved noise. He couldn’t go now, not with his camera sitting like a black hole against his chest. 

He hadn’t felt this much adrenaline since skipping class in highschool. He was holding something precious. Something stolen . 

When he closed his apartment door behind him, he leaned his back into it with his hands outstretched, sighing loudly.

Oh, Sam… 

He wouldn’t hate him for this, would he?

The thought made Lyle’s world wobble.

Oh, oh, he certainly would. 

Lyle couldn’t let him know. 

Ever .

The finality was a little… comforting, almost. 

It was okay. Sam wasn’t going to find out. 

Because it wasn’t going to happen again. 

There would be no more evidence.

Lyle weighed his camera in his hands. The key poked his hip in his pocket.

As for the evidence he… had .

Well.

Sam… wouldn’t know about that either. 

It was basically the same as it not happening at all. 

It wasn’t like Lyle was hurting him.

Chapter Text

“--So, yeah, I think the whole thing’s really starting to come together!”

Lyle had spent the past… one to two minutes? maybe? In a slight daze, his mind wandering since entering the elevator and eyeballing the button for floor 3. He had walked in with Jeanne, each of them with a laundry basket in hand, and sometime before his brain shut off he had eagerly asked what she had been up to. 

And, he had quite intended to listen! Honest… 

But, somehow, more and more and more lately, he would be… off somewhere else. He’d see something that reminded him of Sam, and all of a sudden he was back in that moment, envelope in the air between them, a breath away from him and his home.

He caught himself just in time, though, giving a soft– practiced, very kind, very engaged laugh.

“That’s great! Wow, it seems like you guys have really had your hands full…” something about her bike, surely.

“Sure have. It hardly feels like work, though.”

The elevator pinged and whined slightly as it stopped on the ground floor. The two of them squeezed to one side and shuffled by a mother with a stroller, before Jeanne went on.

“Speaking of, how’s the in- convenience store been treating you lately?”

“It, uh..” Lyle shuffled, shrugged, and tried to avoid glancing for onlookers. “It’s been ok. Kind of bummed- my, uh… f- favorite coworker isn’t working there anymore.” His voice tapered off halfway through his sentence, petering out until he was mumbling.

Jeanne fawned softly, and Lyle felt his neck go hot. 

“Aww. Lyle’s famous favorite coworker… I'm so sad to see the saga end!” 

Lyle really wished she wouldn’t talk so loud. What if Sam was down here…? What if someone who knew Sam was, and who Lyle was, and figured out that… 

He glanced behind him.

They were alone as they entered the laundromat. He let out a small sigh.

“Do I finally get to know who they are now?”

Lyle smiled sheepishly. “Uh.. heheh….”

“Come on! I can help you find them online. I know you hate making profiles for that sort of thing.”

Lyle really, really did. It was why he hadn’t been able to see Sam’s Facepage, or Queddit. 

“No-, I, really don’t want to.. Be creepy or anything,” Lyle doubled down, turning away to set his basket on top of one of the machines.

He didn’t want to be creepy. But he was - oh, he was. 

“Pfft,” Jeanne tossed her net bag of clothes into the washer, closed it, and turned it on, before walking over to sit next to the one Lyle was operating. Her legs dangled next to him.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s public information! You’re just showing some initiative.” 

Lyle tittered slightly. He shouldn’t let Jeanne encourage him.

“they wouldn’t… appreciate it. It's better for, uh… for me to move on.” Lyle paused, then after a moment, added quietly.

“...b, but, then again, they did invite me to their place…” 

Jeanne’s eyes bugged, and she grabbed Lyle by the shoulders. He blushed, feeling a little embarrassed to omit the details that lead to such a half-truth. But it… wasn't entirely wrong. Sam had given Lyle his address.

“Lyle! Reach out! Get some!” She shook him slightly. “You're officially out of the coworker zone. It's not creepy when they've already told you where they live . It's not the end of the world if you google their name.”

His ears burned, and he waved her off slightly, clearing his throat. Her words rolled around in his head, balming his paranoia and making him grin internally. It peaked out onto his face as he continued.

“Yeah.. okay, maybe. I don't want to tell you yet, though.. sorry.”

She sighed, obviously disappointed, but dropped it. “Well, anyways, geez, did I tell you how hard it was to get a hold of the shop? I get that they had to order out, but the ETA was weeks ago, right?”

and she was off again, letting Lyle nod along as he finished dumping the contents of his hamper.

Not creepy. 

Not creepy. 

Not creepy. Not creepy not creepy not creepy!

It wasn’t fair for Lyle to hold Jeanne’s reassurances like a mantra. He had lied, no way around it, and if she knew the whole truth she’d surely retract her encouragement. But even before he had slipped that little line into conversation…

He was just… taking the initiative. Sam… had given him his address. 

Augh! It spun around in his head like film on a reel. He couldn’t settle himself. 

He already knew what would expunge his guilt, at least mostly. Every time he brushed that damn key, it would electrify him with thoughts of what he could- shouldn’t , do with it. 

He just had to put it back. It didn’t matter how much he liked holding it. It hurt like a toothache, punishing his indulgence. 

But it was so sweet …

He waved Jeanne off as she journeyed through the foyer, turning around and shuffling back towards the elevator he’d come from. 

He wasn’t going home yet, though. One of his neighbors above him had recently (okay, it was months ago, but, you know how it is) obtained a piece of equipment Lyle had been itching to try out. 

No, he was on his way up to the third floor, and his last trip there certainly hadn’t left his mind. Not at all. Not even when he really wanted it to. 

And he did want it to happen again, truly, but the thought of bumping into Sam on his way there had paralyzed him for a bit. Even if he had an excuse, he still felt wrong visiting Sam’s floor, like he had– like he would – violate the sanctity of the space with his existence. 

So, knowing how late Sam tended to stay up, Lyle hopped on Jeanne’s early-blooming routine, even if it meant waking with only a few hours of sleep. Even with such reassurances in place, though, his fingers trembled lightly against the elevator button.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong. It had nothing to do with Sam at all! But true as it might’ve been, it wasn’t entirely. The underlying intention rooted through him. The only reason he had motivated himself to finally go request the lens was the promise of proximity to Sam.

And the chance to drop that damn key off…

“...Are you, uh, getting off here?”

Lyle yelped softly– How did Sam keep doing that to him? –and darted his gaze forward, towards the elevator doors. They had evidently been open for at least a moment while Lyle had been… lost in thought. 

Sam stood between them, dark brows gently creased. He was somewhere between holding and avoiding eye contact, his gaze sliding off Lyle, away and around behind him, before drawing back. Had Sam always been so fidgety? 

“Oh, haha, yeah –” exactly what he’d been afraid of, staring him in the face. Scurry off now, risking looking like a weirdo? Or rush into explaining and seem overly defensive? He couldn’t win.

“You visiting someone up here?”

It wasn’t accusatory, but it made Lyle shrink slightly anyways. The two of their bodies, neither a size considered on its own when building this doorway, brushed as they passed by. Lyle’s fingertips curled into the air, into his palm, and gripped himself to keep from reaching out and grabbing Sam. To keep himself from turning and sprinting away.

“Yeah, sort of! Edwin in, th- thirty one, just… checking out some of his, photography, stuff,”

“Oh, cool. Tell him I said hi.” Sam nodded to Lyle, and peered down at his phone in hand as the elevator doors closed. 

Oh. Hey…

That… wasn’t so bad. 

Lyle smiled and nodded, waving Sam off as he went down. He should’ve asked what Sam was up to so early, uncharacteristically so of him, but he had been so preoccupied defending himself, and so caught off guard when he hadn’t needed to. 

He made his way down the hallway, slipping the key between his fingertips. It was subconscious as it occurred, but he became hyper-aware of its teeth between his fingers soon after. He felt like he’d memorized its grooves by now, and could count the notches off in his head. 

Had he stopped walking? He glanced to his left, Sam’s apartment door staring him down. The plastic plant he had found the key in sat to his right. 

One move and this was all done, tucked away, and Lyle wouldn’t have to feel like such a… freak anymore. Just drop it, and keep walking.

The worst part of what was to come, to Lyle, anyways… might’ve been that he never even turned his head. 

There was deliberation, for a moment, but the gravitation Lyle felt to his doorhandle was magnetic. There was nobody in the hall, not a soul. Lyle only felt the lightheadedness of holding his breath after the lock clicked. He inhaled sharply.

Not creepy. 

It was, it so was, but Jeanne’s voice soothed his trembling fingers. He giggled nervously, a little louder than he had meant to, and the door creaked open.

It was only once he was inside, door closed behind him, the thrill of risk eliminated from the hall, that Lyle had a moment to wonder what the fuck he was doing. But his reservations (droning, reminding him how truly, irreparably messed up this was) didn’t stop his footfalls, pressing more and more dents into his shag carpet. 

Good god.

Sam’s apartment was a mess .

Lyle chewed on his finger as he stepped over recycling, piled by the door– intended for the bin, but never journeyed far enough to reach. 

Lyle was already smothered with the urge to turn the place around and inside out, clean it top to bottom. He stood, still, in the middle of Sam’s living room and gnawed his knuckle into a raw, red indent. Surprising Sam with a clean apartment, watching his face screw up in that cute, embarrassed way it had when Lyle had offered to bring him his check.

What would it look like with Sam sitting in the center of the couch, beckoning Lyle to sit, arm over the back cushions? Lyle giggled again, smothering the noise into his palm, and dropped into the side, smushing his weight into the arm of the couch. Gravity drew him down, to the middle, where Sam– and whoever might’ve owned it before –had worn a dent into the seat.

Sitting here with him, oh, it would be inevitable for them to end up hip-to-hip…

Lyle felt absolutely drunk. He gathered himself and stood, careful not to knock anything over, and toddled past Sam’s television and shelf. His hand caressed the doorknob to his bedroom. 

Hnng .

No . He couldn’t go in there. That , somehow, was too far. He recoiled, an oppressive heat settling on the back of his neck, as he wandered towards the door on the opposite side of the wall.

Lyle knew it was his bathroom before he went in– what else could it be? But he wasn’t sure what he was… looking for before he went in. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for coming in here, anyways. Just scraps of Sam, wherever he could snatch them.

He hadn’t been intending to snoop too hard. He avoided his room for a reason. He wasn’t rooting around in his cabinets. He really wasn’t, it wasn’t anything like that.

But when he spotted the slim orange bottles lined up on the sink, he was just… astonished, by the quantity. All different colors and sizes inside the containers, in different increments with different labels. 

Lyle… 

Lyle felt bad, but knowing about Sam’s condition… it only really served to help him, right? Another person out there who would know, if something… bad happened…

Lyle couldn’t honestly justify it, okay? He was just curious. He lifted and scanned a few containers. Ambien. Lithonate. Fluoxetine (hey-! Lyle too!). Duloxetine. The names blended together at a point. 

He had… always assumed Sam’s distance was symptomatic of a lack of intervention. He didn’t know how to feel, knowing he had been so wrong. 

He reached, tentatively, for Sam’s toothbrush, and rubbed the grooves on the handle with his thumb. He put it back quickly before his mind could race too fast with it in his hand. 

So many things Sam must’ve done in this room before, so many times, all by himself.

 Lyle bit his lip and scurried out. Out the bathroom, out the apartment, and only just barely remembered to lock it behind him as he rushed down the hall.

The key didn’t leave his keyring, which slid, guilty, back into his pocket as he knocked on Edwin’s door. He felt so dizzy, convinced he was one wrong step from puking all over himself, but by the time the door opened, he had gathered himself back into some semblance of normalcy. Or at least, enough to present such a mask to his neighbor. 

Lyle was much better at keeping himself together for other people, rather than himself… Sometimes he wondered how much his spiraling actually slipped through, and how without it, to others he must seem…

Standoffish? Rude?

Perhaps evidenced by how little he truly absorbed from his conversations with most people. He, admittedly, got very little of what Edwin divulged to him as he was ushered inside.

“I was, uh, wondering, if it's not too big a deal- would I be able to put a deposit down to borrow that zoom lens of yours?” Lyle cut in with a nervous grin. The tall man nodded, yes, why of course, and presented Lyle with the ledger first. 

The cost, frankly, seemed a little outrageous, but Lyle folded the bills into a crisp line as he forked them from his wallet. 

“Oh, uh,” he added, grinning slightly to himself. “Sam s-said, to say hi.”

“Ah, the fella next door? You two know each other, then?”

“Yes!” Lyle chirped, a little too enthusiastic, before proceeding with a little ahem . “Uh, we were coworkers. B… But we’ve been… Hanging out a little.”

Lyle twiddled his hair. Not lying. Not creepy. The way Edwin nodded, and smiled a little, like someone else could believe Lyle and Sam were friends… It was encouraging. 

“How nice. Seems like he could always do with a bit more socializing.”

What was that supposed to mean? Lyle pursed his lips and nodded, once. He tried not to stew on the tone the man had regarded Sam with, as he went to fetch Lyle the equipment he’d rented.

“Well, here you are, Lyle! Take good care of it.”

He smiled, nodded, and left on his way, box tucked under his arm. 

He reached out as he passed by Sam’s door, fingertips brushing his doorknob, and he tittered– feeling in on a secret of only his. Prideful, even, for having taken such an… initiative. 

Maybe Jeanne was right – even if she wouldn’t think so. 

Maybe she would think so. 

Maybe Sam would think so .

Chapter Text

“Oh, cool. Tell him I said hi.”

Sam had been… minorly caught off guard by the sight of his former supervisor, once more. It made him uncomfortable, initially. A squirming feeling not unlike one that he got as a kid, watching his report card in his parents’ hands.

It was really nothing against Lyle personally , it was just that the man’s silhouette inspired the sort of authority-associated dread Sam felt when confronted with… anyone , with any control of his life, or paycheck. 

But that wasn’t exactly fair, was it? 

The guy was barely a step up above him, and technically, (and it seemed to Sam, anyways) that he had tried his best to keep Sam safe from his own misdoings by reporting on him positively. 

No, Lyle was… cool. Right?

He wasn’t even here for Sam, evidently. 

He knew… of his neighbor to the right, Vincent had taken out his projector for some get-together he’d hosted that Sam had made his excuses not to attend. 

He’d seemed awfully startled to see Sam, despite knowing he lived here. 

Had he even forgotten, maybe?

That made sense. Sam was pretty forgettable. He did his best to keep it that way. (The only reasons people would have to remember him were traits he’d rather avoid exposing.)

He stepped out onto the ground floor of his building and, awkwardly, made his way to the convenience store. 

He avoided eye contact with the clerk, despite them clearly being new– and hardly paying Sam any mind in the first place. The fact that this kid had replaced him didn't make him feel much better about interacting with them. 

He set his groceries on the counter, slightly slim pickings to account for his gutted budget. He watched the price rising with each scanned item, chewing the inside of his cheek.

The frozen pizzas doubled the total. Sam clenched his fist.

“That’s gonna be 46.50.”

Sam unsheathed a twenty and ten dollar bill from his wallet, nervously. He set them down on the counter, and pretended to look for more.

“Uh, can I do half cash and half card?” He asked. Fuck him, why was he overdrawing his account for these stupid pizzas? 

The clerk grunted and punched in a few entries on the touch screen, and Sam slid his debit card from his pocket.

He tapped it to the reader, entering his PIN.

DENIED (Insufficient funds)

Sam’s unemployed, broke, loser ass… 

He glanced up, and smiled nervously.

“Shit, guess my check hasn’t gone through yet,” He lied, gritting his teeth. “Um, you can just… uh…” He glanced over his selection, trying to decide what to discard.

“You can just ring up the rest with my stuff!”

Sam jumped slightly and immediately shrunk to the side to make room for the customer next to him, who was setting a flat of beer on the counter. 

Vincent, the huge and friendly man who lived a few doors down from Sam, was unloading what looked like a party’s worth of junk food from his arms.

“Dude,” Sam chuckled, more familiarity between him and Vince than most of his neighbors. The guy had a fondness for sharing good bud and beer, and, well, Sam wasn’t opposed to handouts from time to time. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What’s it, like, fifteen bucks? I wipe my ass with fifteen bucks.” 

Sam watched, morbidly impressed, as the man tucked the case of two dozen beverages under an arm with ease, taking the rest of his bags in both hands. 

“Besides, now you owe me. Come hang!”

“Hang?” Sam groaned softly. “It’s seven in the morning!”

“Some people spent the night. Come on, have some breakfast, smoke a joint! Don’t be such a stranger.” 

he wipes his ass with fifteen bucks … yeah, well, fifteen was about as much as Sam made hourly at that damn store, so valuing his time accordingly, he owed Vince at least a bit of his time.

“You’re not gonna blackmail me to stay longer if I smoke your weed, are you?”

The larger man just laughed and gave Sam a conspiratorial look over his shoulder. 

“You have enough and I’m not gonna have to! Remember when you greened out last halloween?”

“Yes, okay,” Sam sputtered, shaking his head. “Just… let me drop my groceries off at home, cool?”

“Cool!” Vincent echoed.

Sam’s chest stirred with all the atypical feelings of being known and addressed, ranging from idyllic to downright mortifying depending on the trail he let his thoughts follow. 

The memory Vincent referenced kept popping into his head, dreading knots into his abdomen. 

The guy seemed to think it was funny. That was good, right?

Sam’s paranoid breakdown that ended with him cocooned in one of his neighbor’s duvet in his guest room had been funny, and not weird. If not both.

It was probably both.

Sam hissed to himself and slammed his fridge closed extra hard, the rattling noise rocking him from where he’d been wedged in his thoughts. 

He journeyed into his bathroom, taking a leak and collecting a small pile of his morning medication in his palm after he’d washed. He took them one by one, cracking open his new gallon of milk and swigging right from the lip of the jug. 

What? He lived alone. It was fine.

Steeling himself, he journeyed down the hall to Vincent’s apartment. He contemplated knocking, standing there awkwardly, but after trying the handle he found it emptied him without give into his neighbor’s living room.

Thankfully, by Sam’s judgment anyways, there weren’t a lot of people left from whatever gathering occurred. Three people sat on the couch, another next to them in a sleek-looking black wheelchair, and something sizzled deliciously from the kitchen.

“Sam! My man!” 

Sam sheepishly shuffled inside, lifting a hand in a static wave as the group in the living room looked to him. One was clearly still asleep, or close to it, his head concealed under a throw pillow he was clutching to his face. 

“Hey…”

“Nice to meet you properly,” grinned the man closest to him, arms dangling off the back of the couch.

Introductions went around, though regretfully, Sam wouldn’t be able to place a single name to a face in the room. 

The group was gathered to watch the girl farthest from Sam, reddish hair dangling behind her and the motorized chair, (did she even say her name, actually?) input string after string of numbers with the controller she was holding, making the fire and smoke and… burning bodies, on screen, grow in volume.

“What the hell are you playing?” Sam chuckled. He reached for the bong sitting on the end table, having watched it go unused long enough that he felt comfortable taking his turn.

“Wizard’s Hell,” She responded, Sam’s laugh spreading infectiously. He watched, slightly endeared, as her left eye drifted slightly from the screen. Who exactly was this cute, wall-eyed neighbor of his? “It’s not for everyone.”

“Yeah, wizards, clearly.” 

Sam pressed his thumb into the bowl of the bong, tamping it down before slipping a lighter between his fingers. She laughed again at that, jamming the buttons. Sam hoped this wasn’t Vincent’s girlfriend he was ogling. 

He took a long drag, water bubbling in the glass beneath his hand. His eyes burned as he resisted the cough, holding it for just a moment.

 He was not gonna cough. 

These people would not see him cough. 

Sure maybe he hadn't used a bong since 2014, but that was only…

Oh, god.

That might’ve been too ambitious of a rip. 

He expelled the breath in the vague direction of the window, leaning over the back of the couch to avoid catching anyone in the face.

He didn't cough. 

He did hiccup a little, though.

The guy laying with the pillow over his face seemed to stir at the sounds of Sam smoking, and rose into a sitting position. He made a grabby-hand through the air, and Sam gladly rid himself of the evil, evil device.

His doctor probably wouldn’t be pleased about this dalliance, but what Sam didn’t think about couldn’t hurt him. At least, not more than worrying over it did. Stress would take him to an early grave far quicker than the occasional puff-puff-pass.

He sunk back into the couch, sucker punched with the effects. His fingertips and legs tingled.

The music from the TV changed when the pause screen popped up. Sam glanced over and caught the pretty redhead woman (who’s name he would ask, if he wasn't too embarrassed to, having probably missed it–) nudging the guy Sam had passed it to.

He coughed (haha!) , and when he passed it to her, Sam briefly wondered if she should be smoking, if…

Well… Sam chided himself. Pot, meet kettle. He definitely shouldn't be. He tried not to watch too obviously when her lips pressed into the rim. 

She glanced up, making eye contact with him, and he bristled instantly. Despite every nerve in his body tightening, he smiled, slightly, before meekly diverting his attention to the dancing imps idle on the screen.

“Food’s ready!”

Thank Christ. His neck was so hot.

Sam had to admit, his budget was thanking him just as much as his stomach for this breakfast. He really didn't deserve a neighbor like Vincent.

Friend, maybe? Were they friends? God, Sam could never tell.

The madman had made burgers, though for the high– and, seemingly hungover by majority, crowd issued no complaints.

Sam’s mouth hung open slightly as he stacked toppings onto his patty. The hashbrowns had been molded into convenient bricks of their own, sliding neatly on top of the disk of ground beef.

Yup. Yup, yup, yup. Sam was stoned.

The first bite felt like actual heaven, though it took Sam an embarrassing moment to become aware of the grease dripping down his chin. There was a small snicker across from him and he didn't even glance to her, just blushed and scrambled for a napkin.

“I still can't believe you got that big ass projector for your golf photos .” One of his neighbors was ribbing Vincent. 

God. Yeah. The real reason Sam was hesitant to call Vincent a friend, wasn’t it? 

He was joking. Mostly.

But, like, seriously. Golf?  

“Oh yeah, I haven’t even shown you guys!” Vincent lit up slightly. Sam’s heart dropped a little.

The real cost of the burgers and pot. 

At least the heavy meal had settled him a bit, both from the pot and the meds that had been rendering his stomach asunder. 

He was corralled into Vincent’s room with the rest of the group, and he tried not to immediately wield his phone and start scrolling. 

The device itself was honestly pretty fascinating, for what it was worth. Certainly more interesting than what it was displaying. Sam wondered why Vincent had bothered with all of this, though, if he didn’t even have the means to display it normally. Why not just take pictures on your phone like a normal person?

Sam nodded along anyways. This was starting to get overwhelming. He suddenly wished the group was larger, if only so he could Irish-goodbye and not have to explain himself. 

Whatever. Sam wasn’t above using the crazy card. It seemed like Vincent was done showing photos anyways.

“Hey, man, this has been really fun,” Sam smiled, nervously. “But I’m… actually up this early to catch an appointment. Do you mind if I dip? I’ve still gotta get ready…”

“Oh, dude, of course! Thanks for hanging out!” Vincent returned.

Okay, well, maybe the golf was worth putting up with a little. 

“Nice meeting you, Sam.” 

Sam glanced back to her, heart aflutter, and once again pondered asking her name. He deliberated for a bit too long, feeling for all the world like it was some big decision…

But the social ineptness had its claws in him. He had already run out of time. He just smiled.

“You too.”

The walk back to his apartment made him feel itchy. Something about the view of his hallway looked wrong from here. Had someone moved his doormat…? Or, maybe the plant?

He shook his head and slipped his key from his pocket, sliding it into the lock on the handle. He let himself in and tried to feel relieved, but even in the daylight, the shadows stretched a little too long.

He didn’t turn his light on, though he wandered to his wall, drawing his curtain as he made his way through the apartment. His shelf of games stared at him, dead ahead, and he sighed, only able to view them with little price tags in his mind’s eye. How long until he’d be forced to start pawning his things to get by?

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to pass. Sam just needed to start applying for jobs. It had been weeks now, wallowing in self pity, and he hadn’t even begun trying. 

He was ignoring it. Like a hole in the wall, it was just going to keep getting bigger and bigger, becoming more and more of a problem, until Sam couldn't ignore it. Until it had demanded his attention by and with all means. 

But he was still going to, he knew. For as much as chewing himself out over it stung, it didn't feel nearly as bad as actually working that fucking job.

Sam flopped down onto his couch and sighed, his weight sagging into the center and drawing him into a position that his spinal column was probably already complaining about. 

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, he fell asleep by accident.

Chapter Text

Sam really, really, truly, did not know how beautiful he was. 

Lyle had been concluding, ever since Sam got fired, that he hadn’t realized it either– not until he was without him. 

He had taken his access to Sam for granted, and now it was gone. 

Losing it hadn’t helped Lyle to move on, not one bit. He couldn’t believe he’d think such a thing… Didn’t he know how painful the withdrawals would be?? 

Every moment flickered back to his image. 

Lyle wasn’t– completely , obsessed. God. He still did fine at work. He focused, he communicated, he… he had a life still.

It was just a weird little… crush. 

An infatuation, maybe, that wormed into his head sometimes. But, that was normal . How many people get songs stuck in their heads, or draw the same celebrities over and over?

It was just… maddening, his lack of… resources.

Photography attracted Lyle from a very young age. 

His memory was unreliable, and his vision was horrendous. Photos brought things to scale, and froze them in time. They couldn’t change. Sure, you could color over it or cut around, but the fact of the photo remained. All you could do was obscure it. 

Trying to imagine Sam sent his mind swirling with hearts and daydreams but for the fucking life of him, his beautiful face was just… never right? 

And when it was, it never lasted. 

He did, eventually, find the nerve to make a few burner accounts and snoop around Sam’s profiles. He found… much more than he anticipated, doing that. But for all that he was willing to post on forums with an account associated with his public email!! …there were no photos. 

Lyle, in his scouring, did , eventually, happen upon a yearbook he featured in. 

The Sam inside, closer to Lyle’s age here than he was now, was so…

So sad.

Lyle couldn’t look at it without wanting to reach back in time and rescue that boy from whatever made him look at the camera like it was a double-barrel.

Highschool photographers did just have that effect, though. Seeing the uniform rows of identical portraits was enough to set Lyle grinding his teeth thinking about it. Picture day was a good way to put a kid off the very idea of photography all together.

No, this wasn’t really Sam. 

Ever since snapping those candids, Lyle had found himself daydreaming of how he’d pose Sam, to capture the real him. 

Not that Lyle knew that of him yet, but photos had a way of bringing it out in people, when they were done right.  

It was just so hard. 

Lyle just wanted… one image of him, of how his Sam looked, so he wouldn’t forget. 

It only took him a few days to cave to the urge that had been gnawing at him the most. Honestly, longer than he expected of himself by this point– but it felt like such an impassable turning point. It was tangible evidence. The key was damning, but it had ultimately been an accident.

Nothing, absolutely nothing about those creepshots was accidental. Developing it certainly wouldn’t be.

So it was with much deliberation, and rationalizing, and reassuring himself, that Lyle prepared his work station, fingers trembling as he snapped on his gloves. Routine to him by this point, he nudged all of his equipment into place on the desk surface, reaching and finding the lightswitch next to him.

It was always here, in the truest dark Lyle could manage inside of his home– crack beneath the door stuffed, devices of all kinds left outside –that he found his spatial awareness mattered the least. Clumsy as he might be ordinarily, it didn’t matter now. 

He pinched the film off between his fingers, winding it into place carefully.

He didn’t know if it was simply the darkness that prevented him from noticing it– or maybe he was so focused on the task at hand that it stilled… but something about not seeing his hands made them feel so steady. 

His arm sunk into the tank, setting the reel against the bottom. He let out a sigh, the noise shuddering out of him, as he remembered what it was that was on that film… but his shoulder remained stiff. 

Click.

The lights returned. His hands were a gore-colored blur as he measured out his developer. What would Lyle even do , once those photos were finished? He couldn’t display them. He lived alone, but company was a real concern. He hosted Mazes and Wizards more often than not.

The liquid blend hit the bottom of the tank with a distant, trickling series of thuds. Lyle weathered his bottom lip between his teeth. 

They’d have to stay here. Or at least, return here, whenever Lyle wasn’t sure of his privacy.

They wouldn’t hurt anyone from inside here.

The development process played through a pinprick in Lyle’s vision, a tunnel forming around it. His mind was contracting around it, allowing so much space for his thoughts to occupy.

The conviction was that this could never happen again, but Lyle was betraying it already, imagining how he might justify his growing collection. 

These pictures would turn out shit , he already knew that.

Sam just.. Deserved better than that. He really did.

He didn’t even know how cute it was that he braided his hair in front of his face when he was bored. 

Or, how about how he always rested his foot on his opposite knee behind the register while taking orders? Like a flamingo.

Sam always glanced right to the camera whenever he was about to slip a pack of cigarettes or a roll of quarters into his pocket– a few minutes beforehand, usually, to gauge where it was aimed. The memory made Lyle hum a little aloud as he shook the stop bath around inside the chamber. 

The gesture never had anything to do with him, but it always made Lyle feel as though he was invited to Sam’s secret. 

He’d keep it safe.  

Sam valued his privacy. Lyle knew that, obviously. And it wasn’t without guilt that he invaded it.

But it… It was just different. 

Sam had more than enough cause to fear ostracization. The world was in a cruel stage. It was teeth first, everywhere you looked. Lyle didn’t have to know anything about Sam to know that. 

(But, oh, did he know about Sam… prescriptions, diagnoses, questions asked and answered on burners online… so much shame bundled up in one man.)

Time to rinse.

Lyle’s gloves were beginning to pool with sweat.

He sighed, grunting slightly as he peeled them off of his hands. He dried, lotioned, and dried again, before sliding on another pair. 

His whole body was sweaty, unbearably so, but his tactile input was dull on his nerves. The scent was obscured by the heavy chemicals. His body felt so hot anyways, thinking about Sam.

He tried not to let himself fall down those channels.

His admiration for Sam was comradery. It was a fondness. It wasn’t… it couldn’t be like that.

If it was like that, then Lyle would lose the last little ’at least it’s not…’ reassurance he had. 

At least he wasn’t a pervert.

(But even then, the reassurance stung, because he knew what he was en route to becoming. What he already was.)

His tongue poked out from the gap in his teeth as he pinned the film up, carefully, preparing to dry. However much guilt he may work up about the situation, the excitement rushed through him all the same.

Soon he would have Sam, all to his own, to hold and observe and imagine as much as he wanted…

It was enough for a while. 

Lyle wasn’t greedy. And they turned out so much better than he thought they would!

Well, one did. 

The rest might serve better as hamster cage shreddings than representations of Sam’s likeness, but Lyle couldn’t bring himself to discard them– So they were swept away into a shoebox on his shelf, the date they were taken scrawled on top.

After a brief pause, he added a small dash, signifying a span of time yet undecided. 

(Signifying more to come.)

The one, though.

Sam.

Lyle was so giddy, so excited, he couldn’t help it– when scrawling on the date, he circled Sam’s outline with his red marker– once, twice, thrice.

There he was. 

He tacked it up directly in front of his work station, after thoroughly appreciating its details out in the light of his apartment.

He didn’t even notice, back then, that Sam’s stomach was sticking slightly out the bottom of his shirt. 

Wasn’t photography so amazing? He never would’ve known.

His finger traced the curve, stilling as his fingertip crossed the visual threshold of Sam’s sweatpants.

A wet bead slipped down his chin. 

(was he drooling? God Lyle, gross, really gross…)

He wiped it away, brushing the smudge of saliva onto his shirt before reaching for the photo again. 

He couldn't corrupt it when it was the purest form of Sam he had access to.

(Right now, anyways… Another venture with his key would require much more deliberation–)

Another?

…

Another. 

He was already planning to break into Sam’s apartment again. 

How long did this have to go on before Lyle just accepted he was too far gone? 

These weren’t the actions a stable mind would commit to. He wouldn’t be able to justify it in any other capacity. In fact, the very thought of someone else doing this to Sam made him want to hurl.

He was sick for doing all of this. 

…

...

…

…Wasn’t Sam too, though?

Following the line of thought felt like sticking his hand in an oven. 

He was terrible. Sam wasn’t sick. Sam was amazing.

But Sam was also… historically unstable. From what Lyle had observed, anyways. Self reportedly, and judging by his prescriptions…

Sam had always made Lyle feel so much less alone. Someone else like him, someone who would probably– definitely , get it , if Lyle confided in him. 

If Sam was anyone else, they would probably call the cops on Lyle outright. 

Deservedly.

But the two of them understood each other, in a weird way. Lyle grew more and more sure of it by the second, the longer he stood with Sam’s picture clutched between his fingers.

Sam wasn’t anyone else … 

He stared at the photo until he was sure he’d committed it to memory, so hesitant to lock it up in his darkroom that each step away took minutes at a time. 

Already, he was growing frustrated with the lack of angles– the stillness of Sam’s face, the guarded way he moved.

It was hardly candid when the man seemed constantly convinced of his own surveillance.

It was enough for a while.

Lyle wasn’t greedy.