sometimes i get nauseous thinking about how sam wants to take care of misa. sam wants all of misa's problems to be his so bad, the sleeptalking, and the i need a ride, and the specific smoothies, and the twitchy hands, and the need to leave parties early, and the broken zipper pocket of his bag. he looks over at misa and has the completely totally all consuming embarrassing desire to coddle him. it's a real problem, even though misa never asks for things, sam's not even sure if misa can ask for things. he sits there fiddling with the zipper of his duffel for what seems like an hour until sam drops his conversation with delly and walks over to fix it. pushes misa's hands out of the way and jimmies the thing closed, hauls the whole bag over his shoulder too and pats misa on the cheek, c'mon, mis.
it’s ruining sam’s reputation and more importantly, it’s driving him insane. he’s watching misa fumble with all the shit in his hands and sam has to drop everything to go over there and shove misa’s headphones in his backpack for him. it’s a genuine struggle to leave misa to his own devices, sam feels it thrumming in his body as he forces down the urges to fix, fix, fix, do something fucking useful. misa never gets petulant, never accuses sam of being condescending even as he re rolls the sleeves of misa’s shirt. he’s so polite about it, says thanks and doesn’t point out how sam shoved his way through the locker room to get to him.
it’s misa who’s to blame really, big eyes, asking questions, open face, incompetent if sam is feeling mean. and it should probably be comforting to have that theory proven correct, yet it’s everything but when sam watches spence crack crab legs open for misa. sam could have done that. he could have done it better, without making misa lean back in his seat and wince when the shell broke open. normally it doesn’t matter when other people try to step in because toff is a judgmental old man, porter barely gets misa's attention and the guy is shit at taking care of him anyways, zayne is more content to watch, and everyone else seems fine to let sam obsess. but spence is right there, sitting next to misa in a stupid restaurant in toronto that sam didn’t even get a vote on. he was obviously the go to guy for misa before san jose, maybe only before saginaw, but sam doesn't want to touch the precarious spence-parekh dynamic at all.
sam wants it to be him on repeat, sam looking over misa's shoulder to check if he can put his linin shirt in with the rest of his wash, sam picking him up, sam flicking the light on and saying it was just a dream. seriously, sam wants it so badly, vibrates in his seat at the toffoli breakfast nook while misa cleans the blender less than carefully. he likes being put in charge of misa's life, weaving himself intricately around all the things misa worries about on a daily basis so he can turn his brain off and trust that sam will get them out the door on time. misa, who is so much smarter than sam is, won the bobby smith he wants to yell, and asks sam's all his pressing questions because he really believes sam has the answers. he does sometimes, but more often than not it's not about knowing the correct thing, or even googling it for him, it's about misa putting his whole trust in sam. it worries him nonstop, that sam is taking advantage, that he could say don't do that, mike, and misa would stop drinking water. it's not like sam would, he just worries about misa and his predisposition to say yes, okay, yes, sure, yes, over and over and over again, because he thinks it's easier, or more alarmingly when it comes to sam, because he trusts him.
that's the type of thing people take advantage of, get their fucking rocks off on misa's easy agree ability. but it's not about misa, or sam on a power trip. it's sam inexplicable urge to take the crab legs into his hands and break it over his leg so misa can lick out the fat or something. he wonders if that's what spence feels like, sitting there in his nice normal sweater with his nice styled hair and nice trim nails, still engaged in the table's discussion as he cracks open an animal for michael. probably not, maybe he's a power trip kind of guy, or maybe he looks over and still sees misa ten years younger walking around with skinned knees, maybe he doesn't think about anything in particular— nice normal guy. sam thinks about sticking his hands through the gaps in misa's ribs and rooting around in his organs to make sure everything is in place. doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter. misa is a smart guy, he can crack his own crab legs and his own ribs if he really wanted.
gta hockey boys, michael misa, malcolm spence, zayne parekh, beckett sennecke, denver barkey, the three guys sitting at the end of the table sam didn't even look at once. they're standing out on the curb, talking passively, big fuck off group of them in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting for one of them to drop the clue that their apartment is free to hang. misa, big eyes, twitchy hands, looking up at sam saying my stomach hurts. okay, sam can do that. beck gives him this disgruntled glance that makes him look more like his dad than it convinces sam to not swing his arm over misa's shoulder and say we're gonna head out. it's such a no brainer, quickest route back to sam's place already mapped out in his head, thinking about whether he put tums in his console or not. misa doesn't have to ask, he could have stood there silently and sam probably would have figured it out eventually, misa's delicate little gut. it was probably spence and his food handling, you can't trust these random hockey guys.
the thought of misa whining out please, sammy gets him hot and bothered, especially after sam's memorized the way misa looks when he comes. he gets all the right and wrong kicks in his gut when misa chokes up on need you, fuck, need you to... sam wants to do it, wants whatever it is. he doesn't know when he got this fucking soft, however soft it makes him to leave fingertip bruises on misa's skin and bite marks on his chest. it's the same when misa tears up, that's sam doing his job. misa saying please, misa asking for anything (never begging), misa on his knees for any reason, sam gets hard just thinking about it. he chucks two tums into misa's waiting hand and then licks the artificial taste out of his mouth because misa trusts him to do it. sam really wants to fuck him in the backseat and misa might let him if asked convincingly enough but misa likes the bed, likes a pillow propping up his hips and sam moving his legs to wrap around his waist. so no backseat, that's part of taking care of misa. no sex at all maybe because misa's stomach hurts.
sam drives slow, careful over the pot holes and in the bumpy parking garage of his apartment complex. careful up the stairs even as he keeps his hand on misa's waist, just because he can. sam keeps his back pressed to his bedroom door as he watches misa grab a hoodie off his desk chair to wear, watches him kick off his jeans and crawl across the bed to put his back to the wall. do you want me to rub your tummy? sam asks and immeaditly hates himself for it. holy shit, he's a loser. misa blinks up at him, smiley and unbothered, not laughing because sam didn't make a joke, and says okay, please. manners, the guy's got fucking manners. sam strips down to his boxers, gets in bed, and sticks his hand up misa's shirt, under his hoodie, to get to his skin. turn over, mis. and misa does it no questions asked, lets sam plaster himself to his back and kiss his nape as he rubs circles into the skin of belly. he's misa guy now, he doesn't know how everyone else isn't losing their minds and canceling plans to get to him.
