I was thinking about posting this in the random fandom book instead since it takes place after chapter four of a certain killing game, but it is a ship short.

Now I'll focus on getting the request done with (I had brain rot for this plus this song kept getting stuck in my head).

Triggers: mentions of dead bodies, period-typical homophobia (not in detail, just implied).

Pairing: Norman Polk x Sammy Lawrence

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  Sunday mornin's were your favorite.

I used to meet you down on Woods Creek Road.

The memories were cloudy from before the studio. But as he sat in the newly opened music lab, he could remember the old music director's favorite day of the week. Even if he wasn't a devout Christian, Sundays brought an excuse to have a day off from work.

And, in a place like Joey Drew Studios, you took any chance you could to have a single day off.

You did your hair up like you were famous

Even though it's only church where we were goin'

Sammy loved his hair, just long enough to need to be pulled back, just the right kind of thickness and oh-so-wonderful. Any chance to get out of work would always be a day that he took at least an hour to make it look nice.

He must have known how much Norman enjoyed his hair with the amount of time he took to make it look just right before they went on dates.

Each excursion was risky- their relationship wasn't something that would be accepted. But each of them was memorable.

Now Sunday mornin's I just sleep in

It's like I've buried my faith with you.

I'm screamin' at a God I don't know if I believe in.

Cause I don't know what else I can do.

The music lab was open....it hurt that Sammy wouldn't be able to truly make these lifeless instruments shine. Part of him wanted to leave the instruments untouched, to pay respect to the maestro who'd never play them.

But that's not what Sammy would have wanted. If he closed his eyes, Norman could almost hear him, all those years ago, after he fired a musician who had only been working for three weeks.

"I am an artist, Polk," he had snapped. "But not a miracle worker. Without my instruments, without the band, I am nothing."

At the time, the words felt...harsh. Extreme, even. Now it made sense.

If Sammy failed to maintain his instruments, then the studio would have no music fit to use for its cartoons.

"I don't have time to waste babying anyone who doesn't take great pride and care in their instruments," he had said. "Mister Drew has no right to be as careless as he is. I'm a music director, not a miracle worker."

I'm still holding on to everything that's dead and gone

I don't wanna say goodbye cause this one means forever

There was a desk in this room, stacks of blank music sheets scattered on its top. Sheets that would never be filled with Sammy's genius.

The weight of his loss was not foreign. But...seeing Sammy's lifeless, inky body within the morgue shattered the illusion. The hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for them to both survive. To make it from this hell and to a better life together.

Now you're in the stars and six feet's never felt so far

Here I stand alone between the heavens and the embers

Oh, it hurts so hard, for a million different reasons.

He wanted to stay in this chair, stay in this room, and lock the doors. He wanted to see if he could coax the ghost of Sammy to strum one final melody. He wanted to let Sammy go. But he couldn't find the strength to do anything.

Instead, he decided to look through the contents of the box.

Biting back a gasp, he couldn't believe that this desk held rough drafts and scrawled writing-from Sammy's songwriting days.

You took the best of my heart and left the rest in pieces.

Each of them was crumpled up like they'd been picked out of the wastebasket. In this place, it was certainly possible.

"Look at this, mister Lawrence," Norman chuckled. "You...you were a master."

He hadn't meant to start crying, but the papers caught small teardrops as he began to weep.

Diggin' through your old birthday letters

A crumpled twenty, still in the box

Hastily wiping away his tears, Norman continued reading the papers, biting back sobs when he realized that...they were love songs.

Written for him, from however many years ago.

I don't think that I could ever find a way to spend it

Even if it's the last twenty that I've got.

Some of the words had notes to go along with them; so the music director had been able to get some of the notes done just right.

But...from the looks of it, these were done after the machine-after Norman was helpless to watch as the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with was consumed with the ink and overcome with unholy desires. Before he lost the love of his life, the other part of his soul.

Were the words still true? Or had the Prophet well and truly destroyed any remnants of the man he once knew?

For a man who once saw everything, it was overwhelming how little he truly knew.

Was Sammy ever truly in love with him?

Was this person truly his friend?

I'm still holding on to everything that's dead and gone

I don't wanna say goodbye cause this one means forever

He fell; overwhelmed by feelings of hopelessness and guilt. How could he bear to face them again knowing the things he did? Could he stand seeing another cold, dead body if the information he had was true?

This was a burden he would have to bear alone; similar to the projector head. There would be no relief for this; no seeking out old or new friends for any kind of relief. These lifeless instruments around him lacked sentience, and were unable to truly help.

Now you're in the stars and six feet's never felt so far

Here I stand alone between the heavens and the embers

Oh, it hurts for a million different reasons.

One of the pages fell to the floor; one of the same pages he'd been reading earlier. A small footnote at the bottom read "you ain't the best at playin' strings old friend. But maybe this'll be more your speed. Better not play this within my earshot."

A gift....from Sammy beyond any understanding. A miracle.

Yes...before everything, Sammy had been teaching Norman how to play the banjo. Even if it was just plucking strings at the moment.

There was one in this room. One strum confirmed that the instrument needed to be tuned as soon as possible. So he did his best to remember how Sammy had shown him decades before. The result wasn't likely what would be ideal, but it worked.

The papers were propped onto a music stand, and he strummed the strings, stirring memories of how his hands should be positioned and how he should sit.

"You took the best of my heart, and left the rest in pieces."

He didn't know if Morbius was going to knock or come straight in. The lights were as dim as he could make them without struggling to see, which was...very dim, actually. Just one result of being a projectionist.

"I'm still holdin' (holdin' on), holdin' (holdin' on), holdin' (holdin' on) on,"

"I'm still holdin' (holdin' on), holdin' (holdin' on), holdin' (holdin' on) on."

"I'm still holdin' (holdin' on), holdin' (holdin' on), holdin' (holdin' on) on."

Had Sammy been reading the future? Or had he simply known the exact words to describe how Norman would feel should he lose the music director?

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the rest of the musicians playing and singing around him. The ghosts of the people who had once been whole strengthened the weight of the song.

I'm still holdin', still holdin' on

But it strengthened him. Granting him a brief reprieve from the pain that constantly plagued his body and the crushing weight of the secret he held.

"I'm still holdin' on to everything that's dead and gone,"

"I don't wanna say goodbye 'cause this one means forever."

The tears burst forth like a waterfall, choking up his words and blurring his vision. There was nobody to seek comfort from this crushing weight, no relief to be found in this place.

"Now you're in the stars and six feet's never felt so far."

He'd seen Sammy's body, laying cold in the morgue. Even though in life he was more humanoid ink monster than man, he still had life within. His soul had been there. He'd been whole, more or less.

But even though he'd been able to gently touch Sammy's shoulder as a final goodbye, Norman had the feeling that the man who'd once serenaded him into going back to bed was miles away, across time and space.

"Here I am alone between the heavens and the embers."

"Oh, it hurts so hard for a million different reasons."

The ghostly choir in his mind's eye vanished, leaving him alone in the final lines of the song. But...Sammy had never managed to finish this song. The last two lines were blurred out as if the writer had been frustrated with the lack of ideas.

Words had never been Sammy's strong suit. Perhaps they never would be. Norman respected that but felt the song needed a conclusion. So, picking up a pen, he did something he never, not in a million years, saw himself doing.

Norman Polk wrote the last two lines of Sammy's final song, doing his best to use the same notes and words as before to not complicate the song more than it had to be.

"You best be proud of me," he chuckled softly. "Not like anyone could ever finish this song as you could. Like you would if you'd only had the time to cast your magic on it."

You took the best of my heart

And left the rest in pieces.