Like Honey

     There’s a phrase stuck on his tongue.

     Barely a phrase, even. A triad of words, simple yet so intrinsically complex. Toby has said them before, but not like this, never like this. Not to someone like this, so utterly sweet, so gentle, so–

     “Earth to Toby?”

     Sam’s words make him jump, too caught up in his thoughts that he’s disconnected from his situation. Unfortunately for him, no amount of overthinking is going to solve his little dilemma– especially not when he’s right there, sitting right in front of the person he cares about the most.

     There is no mistaking Sam’s room as belonging to anyone else because everything in it is a reflection of his essence. There’s a bookshelf filled with comics and sheet music complications, right before Sam’s self-made stage. Inhabiting the room as much as Sam himself is a myriad of instruments, all old and ragged, all incredibly beloved. There are posters of Sam’s favorite movies plastered all across the walls. Toby recognizes every single one of them. For Sam, he’s watched them all.

     The two sit in Sam’s bed, small but comfortable, where they have made themselves backrests with blankets and pillows. Sam has his keyboard on his lap, absentmindedly toying with the keys. They’re not songs, per se, but they are pleasant little melodies. Toby could listen to him playing like that all day.

     In a way, he has been doing exactly that. They had lunch together, out in town, and had decided to eat dessert at Sam’s house, to make the most out of a rainy day. The ice cream was long gone by now, but with the rain still falling, the two had settled into a comfortable lull. It was always relaxing, when it rained. Toby was able to get all his farm tasks done early in the morning, and the rest of the day he could spend doing whatever he wanted.

     Which usually meant spending time with Sam. He does that way too often, these days.

     Earlier he borrowed some comics from the blonde, moved by his eager recommendation. An attempt had been made to read them, but he had failed pretty quickly, too absorbed in hearing him play. Sam’s process is fascinating because every note he tries for his music just makes sense. Toby admires how much of an ear for music Sam truly has.

     “Earth to Toby,” Sam repeats, seemingly amused by Toby spacing out. He pokes at the side of Toby’s ribs, and the farmer has to still himself before jumping again. He isn’t usually this skittish.

     “Sorry,” Toby blurts out, “Didn’t mean to ignore you.”

     “Penny for your thoughts?” His friend offers, taking his keyboard off his lap and placing it softly on the ground.

     “Just… thinking about the rain,” Is the best he can come up with. Every time he speaks, he can feel them again– that phrase, still stuck on his tongue. The words are stubborn, no matter how much he tries to swallow them down. They are stubborn, sticky, and sweet. Much like honey.

     “You sure there is nothing else in your mind?” Sam asks, voice softer than it has any right to be.

     Toby takes a deep breath, weighing the outcome of coming out and saying it. A future of his most treasured friendship and something more, something he has been looking forward to since first seeing those bright blue eyes. Sam is funny, he is sweet, he is skilled with his instruments, and all this and more sets Toby’s heart aflutter. He is a musician, the best one Toby has ever met– but at the same time, Sam is music. The possibility of ruining that music, that friendship. It feels like a pain too horrible to bear.

     That phrase can be stuck to his tongue a little bit longer.

     “Nothing,” Toby finally says, feeling himself shrink in utter defeat.

     “... Are you sure–?”

     “Something in your mind?” A bit of a desperate move, to change the topic, but overall not a bad idea. Yes. They can talk of something else, laugh this feeling off, soon enough forget all about it–

     Sam moves before he speaks. His body shifts in bed, weight leaning against Toby’s shoulder. His hand traces across the mattress to brush his pinkie with Toby’s own. Both of their hands are calloused, both for different reasons. The tips of Sam’s fingers are a testament to his skill with the guitar. The knuckles on Toby’s hands are scarred by farmwork. Even so, when their fingers touch, they feel soft against each other.

     “I love you, Toby,” Sam says.

     Suddenly, that phrase is not so stuck anymore,

     “I love you too.”