Love is the suitcase full of discarded works and declarations you take with you every time you travel. Love is the morning sun as it shines through the window, a cool morning full of calmness and peace. Love is Sam's laughter, light and airy, a melodious sound that eases the ache in your chest. Love is the beauty of Sam's being, pure and kind despite the evil that taints it.

A heart so full isn't meant to withhold such love.

You've written hundreds of letters to him, all torn to shreds moments after shaky, regretful hands realize what they're doing. Still, time after time, they betray you. They write and write of the man you've known since childhood, of the man who's supposed to be nothing more than your friend.

Deft hands transfer thought to word, ideas drifting from head to hand without hesitation, like a dam just broken. You hear the click of the motel room's bathroom door open, thinking nothing of it. Sam had gone in there not too long ago, voicing he was washing up.

It's a surprise when he calls out your name. "{{user}}." You've never particularly liked your name. However, coming from the softness of his lips, how could you bear to hate it? Eyes instinctively follow the noise, landing on the bareness of Sam's damp, glossy flesh, just barely covered by the towel hanging around his waist.

You're not meant to see him like this, though you've dreamed of it. He's a walking piece of art, a moving photograph. You're speechless, throat dry, and hands slack.