Each time he swears will be the last. He doesn't know what it is that draws him to Sam. He doesn't want to think it is anything more than physical, that it could be anything more than Sam's good looks and brilliant smile that draw Toby in, his vulnerability and the natural charm of youth which make him so appealing. He would rather it be that; he would rather come to terms with the fact that he could view another human being that way, with no regard to anything but his own physical desire, than believe his attraction to Sam stems from anything more tender.
He knocks on the door of Sam's cabin. It's been hours since they finished the day's work and Camp David's only light comes from lanterns along the dirt paths and the yellowish window-lights of the cabins spread out between tall temperate trees. The night sky hangs above him, her stars more visible than he's ever seen them, and crickets chirp unseen among the bushes. There is movement beyond the sheer curtains of the cabin's window. A moment later Sam opens the door.
Some days he finds himself unable to stay away. He has only felt this need for another human being twice before in his life, and never for someone like Sam. He is young—not as young as he seems, but still young—overconfident in his beliefs and sometimes outspoken, but he has a doubt in his own abilities that appeals to Toby, that did allow him to know, when he closed the blinds in his office and locked the door and forced his mouth onto Sam's, that he would not resist; at least not at first, not while his mind was still processing what had happened, the shock of being taking advantage of by one's boss, the uncertainty of how to respond. Toby told him to get out, leave, go home, and Sam did, and when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand he told himself that was the last time.
It has never been his goal to intimidate or manipulate Sam, but the power in their relationship has always happened to be in Toby's favor: Sam's eagerness to please those he works for, his high esteem of Toby, his helplessness when it comes to disappointing someone he admires. With these factors in mind and the knowledge that Sam will always be there when he is wanted, Toby is unable to resist.
Lust begins in the pit of his stomach and along his thighs; there in the agitation of his fingers and the tension of his upper arms. He tries to terminate the thoughts that then enter his mind. Most times he is able to put them off, but when Sam looks at him with that innocuous gape that can't help but be read as an invitation for a kiss, those pretty blue eyes searching for something they cannot find in Toby's countenance, the indecent thoughts come rushing back to him and he is unable to concentrate until he can once again have Sam's body underneath his.
Sam knows why Toby is here before he even says a word. He can see it in his tightened lips, his eyes darker than usual, his lack of words, his hands on his hips (an attempt to appear practical and businesslike), the effort he has put into making himself appear desirable after three taxing days of rain and humidity in Maryland's wooded hills (clean shirt, freshly showered, a trimmed beard).
Sam lets him in and stays silent as Toby crosses in front of him. He keeps his hands on his hips; he doesn't know what else to do with them, how he might not appear childish or frantic by placing them anywhere else, so he keeps them there, neck stooped, thumbs digging nervously into the back of his waist. Sam shuts the door behind him.
They have never been careless enough to have sex in the office, though they have come close on more than one occasion. Toby prefers to bring Sam to his apartment than anywhere else. He is only forced to rely on himself that way and the evening will proceed as he wants it to. He is more comfortable having Sam in his own bed, and it doesn't feel wrong that way, not as wrong as sly kisses behind the closed door of his office, because on evenings when they lie in his bed together, Sam is the only differentiating factor that from any other night.
He took some convincing the first time. Sam came to Toby's on a Friday night under the pretense of work. Papers scattered across the coffee table, no light but that of a dim floor lamp. Toby poured him a drink but Sam never touched it. He kissed his neck first, and his mouth not long after, and pulled his shirt from the grip of his belt. Sam was afraid of what might happen, worrying and overthinking, taking into account what ramifications their actions might have beyond that night. Toby felt him tense with every touch and received the message Sam wanted to send, but he was not looking beyond the night or the following morning, not thinking of anything but his own desire. Sam couldn't say no if he tried; he's always worshipped Toby, for whatever reason, has always wanted his approval and praise and because of this, and being who he is, Sam would not turn down an expression of favor, even one so aggressive.
Sam is wearing short-sleeved pinstriped pajamas that Toby finds ridiculous. He's never seen him wear them before and thinks perhaps Sam has bought them with this trip to Camp David in mind, anticipating that he might be caught in his sleepwear at one time or another. It takes him a moment to realize that the clothes are unfamiliar because the only pajamas Toby has seen him wear have been his own.
The first thing he says: "It's warm in here."
"The AC's not working in a few of the cabins," Sam replies.
There is an electric fan in the corner near the open door of the bathroom. It's unplugged. He expects Sam to ask what he came for, why he stopped by, and tries to come up with a good excuse, but Sam never asks—only stands there, watching Toby—not visibly nervous, not confident or accusing.
Toby slips his hands into his pockets as if they aren't warm enough. The window behind Sam is open, letting in warm air and the nightsong of crickets and cicadas and the trace of a breeze. Its sheer curtains will not hide anything that goes on inside the cabin, especially while lit from within. Toby takes one hand from his pocket and places it at his side.
"Close the curtains."
Without a word, Sam does as he says. Toby studies the back of his neck, above the folded collar of his pajama shirt, tinted pink from the sun they stood under all this morning and afternoon. His hair is grown longer in the back. Toby imagines running his fingers through it.
They played tennis on the second day at camp. It was no one's idea but Sam's, and it came after a unanimous decision that basketball wouldn't be very interesting between the four of them, without Charlie or the President, and with the odds obviously in the favor of Josh and C.J., who were sure to team up against the two lesser players. Sam was the only one among them with any kind of experience in tennis, so naturally C.J. took the first opportunity to pair herself with him, leaving Toby with Josh.
Sam wore a pair of seersucker shorts and a white polo that made his skin glow, absurd-looking choices beside everyone else's T-shirts and gym shorts, regardless of the hot weather. After Sam and C.J. annihilated them three sets in a row, Toby took him back to the cabin to kiss him, to tell him how beautiful he was and how good he looked, but Toby was called away to business before they were able to get anywhere.
He thought of Sam's exuberant smile each time he scored against them, his hair tousled with sweat, the sight of his shirt rising to reveal his abdomen when C.J. high-fived him. He remembered watching him bend over to retrieve one of the many yellow balls littered at either end of the court, running a hand through his hair to the back of his scalp as he rose, aiming a smug smile at Toby when he served.
Anyone else like that, anyone else in a polo shirt with a ridiculous tan and Waspish blue eyes, Toby would hate. And although he did have some inclination to slap that arrogant smirk off of Sam's face, his confidence ultimately made him that much more appealing to Toby. He could tell Josh was frustrated by Sam's incessant smiling and C.J.'s jeers, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of him the entire day.
Toby lays on the bed, too warm to be under the covers, one hand holding up his head. Sam lays on his back close beside him. He reaches a hand up to Toby's face and strokes his cheek with the back of his hand.
"You trimmed your beard."
"It needed a trim," Toby says. It sounds like a defense.
Sam turns his hand over and caresses his face. "You don't usually trim it this short." His fingertips trace Toby's jaw to his chin, and Sam presses them gently against his lips.
Toby leans over to kiss him. He thinks this is what he's asking for, but Sam is stiff, unresponsive. He brings his head back up and in Sam's face is everything about him that Toby finds enticing.
Sam is unmistakably handsome, a beauty that anyone can see, not like those whose beauty is difficult to recognize at first, and becomes obvious only after getting to know the individual, after one begins to associate their face with all the qualities that are found within. This has never been the case with Sam: his beauty has only been reinforced. There is nothing to ever detract from it and nothing that could ever make him any more beautiful than he already is; aside from this look that Toby is occasionally lucky enough to receive.
He is curious; not afraid, but apprehensive, eyes wide and clear, mouth opened slightly. Toby has seen this look many times before across his desk, over the rim of Sam's glasses. He loves it for its innocence.
Sam lifts his fingertips again to Toby's lips, presses them against his bottom lip, traces them across the top. "Are you going to make love to me?"
They have been sitting here for some time, longer than Toby has ever taken to make the first move.
"Are you asking me to?"
Sam's eyes fall away from his. "I don't know."
The room is warmer now, the closeness of their bodies becomes uncomfortable. Toby can feel perspiration where his arms touches Sam's shoulder. He wonders if he feels warmer to Sam than Sam does to him. His belt is already laying across the armchair by the window. His shoes, muddy from the walk here, have been kicked off at the side of the bed. He leans over and kisses Sam.
What is it about him? Does it have to do with power? He knows Sam has affectionate, genuine feelings. He is not one to be afraid of emotion, of closeness, and Toby thinks this is because he has never been hurt by it. There was Lisa, he knows about Lisa, but the way he's heard Sam talk about her, he thinks the two of them were never truly in love. He may be mistaking anger for lack of affection, but Toby can recognize love in someone's voice, especially after it's been lost, in the way the tongue forms an ex-lover's name, and he does not hear this pattern in Sam's voice when he talks about her.
"This will be the last time," Toby says as he takes his mouth away from Sam's.
He remains above him, stroking the hair behind his ear, watching his eyes as they stare up at him. Sam closes his lips but they separate again, in the natural way a jaw hangs open when one lays their head back. "You say that every time."
He says it each time because each time he genuinely believes it, genuinely believes that this time it will be enough; after this one last time, he will at last have his fill of Sam and all lust for him will be vanquished. He believes he can only have him so many times before his body gets bored, before he finds someone else, goes back to Andrea or C.J., and this need for Sam will be only a memory.
Is it the availability? Sam is always within reach, willing, in his adoration of Toby, to do anything for him. A few months ago, on a night in early spring, when the winter was still thawing and snow remained in piles of gray slush between cars, they stood outside Toby's apartment, and before Toby could tell him not to, Sam said that he loved him.
The wind bit at his face and nose and at the back of Sam's head. He held Sam's hand in his own, feeling the warmth through his leather glove, and now let go of it.
"No, you don't."
Sam was startled—heart-broken—but he tried not to let it show. "I do," he insisted.
"You don't," Toby repeated. "You're not allowed."
"Not allowed?"
"We're not allowed."
"To have feelings? We can sleep together every time you feel like it, but expressing actual human emotion is off-limits?"
He didn't want to tell Sam that love is what makes affairs like theirs dangerous, not only for themselves but for others around them, dangerous to everyone they work with, their job performance, the President. He couldn't bring himself to say that even if they feel these things they can not admit it, they can not put these feelings into words, can not let them become tangible. He did not apologize though he knew Sam expected him to, and after a week they both forgot about the incident, or perhaps Sam began to understand the meaning of Toby's words.
This is only the second time they've been together since then. Sam isn't wearing anything underneath his pajamas; his clothes come off easily and he is naked before they turn off the lamp beside the bed. The quilt they've been laying on top of is too rough and so they kick it off, using the softer sheets below as partial cover. It starts to pour outside. The curtains are closed but the window is left open, letting in the gentle rush of rainfall, white noise behind their moans.
The rain cools the room but neither of them take notice, trapped inside the heat of their moving bodies, enough to make them sweat. Sam is soft like always, sweet and gentle, his breath hot against Toby's neck and mouth. They move slowly at first, Sam's legs wrapped around him, then quickly, holding on to each other, grabbing at each other's skin. Toby has to clamp his hand over Sam's mouth to keep him from crying out, not willing to risk someone hearing them.
The downpour continues even after Sam has fallen asleep. Toby holds him, his head cradled between his arm and chest, and is unable to close his eyes. He sits up, his head rested against the bed frame, his neck held up by pillows, and looks toward the window, able to see outside through a narrow break in the curtains. The outside is not much lighter than it is in the room and he can only see the illumination of two lanterns some distance away. He thinks of Andy, of calling her before they return to Washington tomorrow.
Sam repositions his head closer to his chest and Toby looks down at him. He is entangled in the sheets, the white fabric wrapped around his legs like a Greek sculpture. He knows that this will not be their last time. He has betrayed himself too many times to believe the lie anymore. He may tell himself that it is, but he is only bound to repeat this mistake, and Sam is bound to let him. It is a cycle, a pattern, that he is afraid will never end. Someone will put a stop to it someday, he tells himself.
He slips out of bed and dresses himself in the dark. He is tempted to kiss Sam's forehead before he goes, but he won't allow it. He lifts the quilt from the pile it has formed on the floor and places it over Sam's body.
Outside, it has stopped raining. Pools of muddy water reflect the lanterns along the path to his cabin. Leftover raindrops fall from the trees onto his shoulders and head, and more fall from the roof over the porch of his cabin. It is late now, hours past midnight, and Toby is glad that the camp is asleep and unable to see him. He stands at the door of his cabin before he goes in, staring across the campground, the lanterns fixed on each post along the paths, an endless pattern of golden light.
posted originally on AO3, 2015-07-15 ( /works/4345193)