When ray was gone, and if he was single, would Johan be interested in starting a relationship with Sammy? He seems to rely on the composer a lot
(chucks a whole butt fic at you) Enjoy! written with help and input from @randomwriteronline <3 im lov u
ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31277393
Sammy is going to be Joey's, or rather the Ink Demon's, Prophet. He decides to start getting into character through method acting, but a bit too early, and a lot too zealous.
Joey was not exactly a stable person. That role fell to Henry. They were the rock and the river, and when the rock decided to sprout legs and walk away, the river was forced to keep rushing onwards, still searching and babbling for its rock, in that silent way that streams whisper. It was almost musical in a melancholic way, and to Sammy, that music was solemn… yet beautiful.
He listened quietly to the river's lonely longing lament, watery with tearstained resilience. He indulged in its melancholy silently, wallowing in doubt, wading in that cool and efficient, winding river - should he have tried to interrupt that wonderfully woeful solo concert? Should he have allowed him to wail his anguish as long as he needed to? The man was insane, he argued with himself, and there was beauty in madness, but he needed to keep himself away to avoid getting swept into the tide.
He talked about it with Wally and Thomas, who both told him that if he wanted to, he should at least try. Shit had already hit the fan, and with a reset on the horizon, he could do what he wanted with little to no consequence. After all, he was the Prophet, and Joey was the Demon, and his reverence should have a real source.
So, he agreed with them, and in that lucid dreamscape of the Bridge, he approached the source of the ink flowing through the world. Joey was working on the machine, agitated as he programmed the physics of the liquid, making sure that everything was functioning as it should.
“Joey,” he greeted, shocking the man, making him spin around, wielding a wrench as a weapon in his panic. Sammy waved at him.
“Ah, it’s you,” Joey exhaled in relief. “How can I b-be of assistance?”
“I was about to ask you that,” Sammy smoothly replied. Joey stared at him, and then shook his head. “What?”
“I don’t need any help,” Joey told him, and then returned to his work. Sammy blinked, and left. He was not going to press the man, not in that way at least.
He knocked on the door to his office.
“Come in,” was the answer, it always was. Sammy came in, with a coffee in hand.
“I got you a drink, Mr. Drew,” he offered with a smile. Johan’s mouth opened, about to protest. “I know you don’t like coffee, but this one is dairy free, and it’s my treat.”
“I see…” Johan accepted the drink. Sammy watched as he took a sip, gauging his reaction, reading deeply into each crease of his skin. “Thank you.”
His pen scribbled madly on the paper. Damn Drew and his idea that even though the world was on the verge of ending, they still had deadlines to meet and animations to make. And with those animations, came the music that had to go along with them.
What would have all this work been for once there was no more life to witness it?
Such was the question he posed when he came into the man’s office. Sammy smirked, feeling that he had the upper hand over the visual artist. He reasoned that Joey relied on him, but that feeling shifted a second later. Johan looked up at him above pink lenses, and then asked back, “You don’t really think life will continue on f-forever? You just see the ending as imminent-- and so you give up. But we should not use the end of the world as an excuse to do nothing, as then no one should do anything at all and mull endlessly in their own thoughts.”
“You think that the world will end beyond this?” Sammy inquired with widening eyes. Joey shrugged. Sammy’s eyes narrowed back to slits. “Mr. Drew, that sounds insane.”
Joey simply tilted his head. Sammy understood what he meant, and his own lips twitched.
Insanity was the man’s environment.
Sammy was starting to feel the bliss of madness, and something told him he would not be able to get enough of it.
He helped Joey often with his experiments and rigging the bridge on the furthest levels, watching his master with admiration for his craft. Sammy may not have been a rock in the river, but he was a reed by the bank, drinking in all it had to offer to him.
Joey was hunched over his work, and Sammy entered the room.
“Johan,” he greeted, and the man whistled in acknowledgement. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, not really,” Joey told him, sparing him a glance and a tired smile. Sammy set down a honey sweetened tea, having slowly worked his way to figuring out which type of drink he enjoyed without asking a single question, simply making and bringing new ones constantly with input from Wally and Thomas until he struck gold. “Thank you. Also, I, er,” he smiled sheepishly, and Sammy smiled in return, following the shepherd, “Do need a touch of help. I can’t pull the gauges right, cause, you know ...”
He trailed off, and Sammy did not have to look down to know why. He smiled wider, and adjusted the valves for him.
“Nothing, thank you,” Joey’s smile was radiant, enlightening. He gave a little laugh. “Thanks for being my right hand.”
Sammy took said hand, missing thumb and all, and beamed at his redeemer.
His arms were wrapped around Joey as he panted, sweat dripping down the taller man’s brow. Sammy could feel his tremors through muscle, holding him tight and whispering encouragement. Another shudder wracked through the thin animator, a groan escaping him. Sammy petted a hand through his sui generis hair, and eased him down onto the bathroom tile. Johan gave another tremble, limbs weak from the strain, and grimaced and cried at the taste of iron and bitter poison filling his mouth.
Sammy soothed him as he wiped away the blood and ink that was on Joey’s lips and hands. The bridge was nearly complete, and Sammy was in awe at the strength of the man; ill and weak of body, but mind impenetrable, method in madness.
“You’re alright,” he whispered to him, a wet, cool rag cleaning away sweat and tears. Joey mumbled that he was fine, that he needed no help, but Sammy remained by his side. The musician's arm was clasped around his bony shoulders, a hand rubbing his back. His eyes roamed over Joey’s face, and he could see the traces and toll of being the ink demon on him. He tilted his head upwards with his palm. “You’re more than alright. You’re… my lord.”
Joey’s brow creased as he was about to protest, yet Sammy merely closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to Joey’s, whose mouth opened in shock. Sammy kissed him further, the prophet in devotion to his lord, the familiar taste of ink intoxicating. Hands were on his chest, but he realized too late that it was not to pull him close, but to push.
“Sammy, what the everfrozen hell!” Joey barked, eyes wide, yet brow drawn. “What is wrong with you!? I just threw up blood and ink and you- you!”
His sputtering was cut off by Sammy reapproaching at the speed of a hawk on a dive, broken by a sharp gasp. Sammy’s pupils were dilated in zealous fervor, and Joey wracked his mind in an attempt to figure out how this started.
“I,” he breathed, his mouth a jagged grin, “Am your prophet. Your right hand.”
“You are behaving with the piety of an insane cultist priest,” Johan said, bewildered worry in his tone. “Like a m-madman!”
“As if you are not the epitome of insanity yourself,” he retorted, to which Joey had no response. “You’ve set me free with it.”
“I’ve done nothing,” Johan told him as he pushed weakly against Sammy, hands on his shoulders and keeping him pressed to the sink. A thousand scenarios flashed through his head, someone coming into the bathroom with them in this compromising position, Sammy continuing this lunacy and Joey being forced to kick him from the project. “Sammy, this needs to stop-”
The mad prophet heard nothing, and had come close once more to kiss his lord. Joey did not have the strength to push him away again, and Sammy did not even notice, so lost in his method delusion. There was ink on his tongue, the demon’s ichor, and it was familiar-- and that gave him pause.
Why on earth had he been drinking ink?
He pulled away sharply, a slew of apologies flying from his mouth. Joey waved them off, merely relieved that Sammy seemed to be coming back to himself.
“I guess that I got too caught up in the role,” Sammy muttered, mortified.
Joey only huffed an incredulous laugh, pulling himself off the floor and extending his hand for Sammy to take.
He did, grateful for the opportunity offered to him.
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