𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. sam uley

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

The thing is, he knew that it was going to be hard. Sam has heard all about how his ancestors lost their imprints and didn't live to tell the tale. He considers himself lucky, but maybe he's only lucky because reality didn't exist until he stepped back into Forks and Sage's smile didn't bring him home.

It feels like the tales now, the deep agonizing burn in his chest as Paul and Jared help him home, his mother's voice soothing in his ears. They're close to the reservation now, but home isn't somewhere Sam wants to be, not when he won't see Sage sitting hesitantly on the sofa, laughing with his mother. His eyes are burning. The exhaustion goes deep into him.

"You just need to get some sleep," his mother says to him, rubbing his back. "You won't feel one hundred percent, but sleep does help, Sam."

Sleep's not going to help the gaping hole in him, but Sam doesn't tell his mother that. Rain drips into his eyes, and it's then, that he realizes that his hair is almost down to his shoulders now, grown and thick against his neck. He shudders, thinks of how Sage would have pressed her fingers into it, moving strands until she was satisfied.

She would have loved it.

His steps are heavy onto the porch of his house. Thunder is rumbling in the sky, lightning flashing through the dense trees. Paul lifts up on Sam and pulls him onto the porch with Paul and Jared.

"You good, man?" Paul asks.

Sam nods. "Fine."

His voice is hoarse, unused.

His mother holds onto his hand when Paul and Jared remove their arms from around Sam's waist, letting him go. Sam leans against the porch's railing, so heavy he feels like metal--like if he were to go underwater, he'd sink into the ground and be forgotten, sunken to the bottom with this excruciating pain.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, because it needs to be said. "I shouldn't have--"

"Don't apologize," Jared says, rubbing Sam's neck. "Don't, Sam. I don't know--I can't even imagine what I would have done if it was Kim."

No. No, they can't. And maybe that's another problem. Sam just--he just found his imprint, and everything was falling into place. He had Leah's forgiveness, the packs were getting along, and Sage was finally--finally letting go. They were moving forward, but this feels like being shot backwards, and there's no way to turn himself around because the one person that guided him is gone.

He just nods. Sam misses the white wolf, the simplicity of being shifted and not worrying about anything except what he was going to hunt and when he was going to sleep.

Everything is a jumble of colors now instead of black and white, and Sam can't separate them long enough to understand what they mean.

He enters the house. It feels like there are shadows coming from the walls, spilling over the wallpaper like sludge, slow and languid as they crawl down and towards Sam. Walking feels like agony, so he heads for his bedroom, ready to lay down and sleep it off.

When he enters, he sees everything as it once was. His television is pushed up against the west wall, small and staticky as it plays Jeopardy, his bed pressed against the east one, tucked in the corner.

Sam stares.

She looked so beautiful that night, her eyes crinkling at the sides, showing lines that Sam didn't think vampires could even have. And how she shined--dazzled, even. He thinks, even now, that the moon was created to glow on her, to make her shine more than even the sun does.

She wasn't glittering like a diamond, but her essence was everything Sam had reveled in.

Or maybe it was them, together. Maybe it's the way she exhaled that night, a soft thing that reminded Sam of a human's antics. The way their lips collided and created an inferno between them, his hands on her waist, burning patterns up her legs--his nerves alight with something he had never experienced before.

He stares and thinks about that night, and how his bed isn't broken anymore.

Someone replaced it.

He sits on the edge of it. It's like that night never happened—like Sage didn't press him into the mattress, a sultry, sinful smile on her lips as she stole the breath from Sam and cracked the bed frame underneath them. This new frame is sleek, modern in its beauty.

Sam hates it.

His eyes are dry, irritated. He rubs them. Paul and Jared are standing in the doorway, his mother in front of them.

She looks heartbroken. Stricken.

"What can I do, honey?"

"Who bought the frame?" he asks, a sinking feeling admitting the answer even if the wry twist of his mother's lip didn't give anything away.

"Cullens," Paul states.

Sam's lips curl. Everything in him is telling him to take it off, to burn it and burn them and rip them in two. The fact that they let--that Aro was spared is the worst evil that exists in this world. The truce means nothing when the most innocent life was lost on that stormy day.

"Sam," his mom warns.

Sam sighs, shakes his wet head. He is dripping onto his bed. "I know," he tells his mom. "I'm sorry. I'm going to get some sleep, collect my thoughts. I'll--" He stops, because he had just been adjusting to get into a more comfortable position, and it shifted his comforter. Now all he smells is jasmine from the detergent, the faint scent of ash, and so much sage underneath that it makes him dizzy.

It takes him back to the night, to when she whispered, "It will always be you," and he had wanted to respond, but he never got cool in his room on spring nights and she was as cold as a winter's night, so he fell back asleep, her name on his tongue, a grin twitching on his face.

He can't now, but her scent, as faint as it is, clenches his heart--irritates his eyes. Sam rubs them again, beats the pillow out and with it the sweet, flowery aroma of her scent, tucked away in the threads of his pillow like a lingering kiss.

His mother's trembling hand touches his shaking back. Sam heaves in a breath, clenches his eyes shut, and lays his head on the pillow.

Sleep doesn't come for a long time.