Sam wakes up confused.

     His face is irritated, and the taste in his mouth makes him gag a little. He vows right then and there to stop drinking before bed without brushing his teeth.

     Bed. He is definitely not in a bed. Sam turns his head and nearly gets a mouthful of hair.

     Which is disorienting. Especially since now that the bloods flowing his hangover's starting to rage and he's getting the spins. He lifts himself onto an elbow and it's Sage. He knew it would be, but it still nearly sends him flying to the floor. Sage's head is close enough for him to take a bite out of it.

     There are voices in a room nearby, maybe the kitchen. They're coming through in a way that sounds like they're trying hard to be quiet. Which means whoever it is knows he's asleep, or was asleep, on this couch with Sage.

     Sam's still tired and wants to lie back down, but all of this is kind of fucked up. Too much for him to just casually ignore and go back to sleep. He thinks about last night. They'd fallen asleep during the movie, but they'd woken up at some point and Sam had—

     Shit. Sam had said something truly stupid.

     We aren't enemies, are we?

     What was he thinking? He wasn't, clearly. Drunk and sleep drunk, maybe he thought he was still dreaming when he'd asked it (ugh does that mean he was dreaming of Sage again? The dude needs to get out of his head.)

     Sage had said no. Sage didn't think they were enemies either. So that was good, right? They were on the same page. The not-hating-each-others-guts-anymore page. Or maybe just hating each other's guts a little less.

     Sam vaguely remembers dozing off again and Sage reaching over to touch his forearm. "We should go upstairs," he'd said.

     "Uh uh," Sam had grumbled. "I'm staying right here."

     The idea of hobbling up the stairs offered no appeal. He was warm, he was cozy, and sleep was a sandbag on his chest keeping him down. No, he was definitely not moving.

     "We can't sleep down here," Sage mumbled.

     "Maybe you can't but I can," Sam had responded.

     Sage had gotten quiet. When Sam had opened his eyes, Sage's were closed. Sam slugged him in the shoulder and Sage jolted. "You can't sleep down there," he'd said.

     "You're sleeping there," Sage had muttered pointedly as if to say if you can do it, why can't I?

     "That is the floor. This is a couch. There's a difference. Get off the floor," Sam said. And Sage had—Sage had listened, pushing himself up onto the couch so he was sitting on the cushion closest to Sam. He made an odd noise then and Sam thought he was going to throw up.

     "Your ankle," Sage muttered.

     Sam was quick to say, "It's fine."

     "No, the thing." Sage waved at his foot that was no longer elevated. Sam had pushed whatever thing Sage had given him to the floor. Decidedly, sleeping with his foot elevated was too uncomfortable and if his foot fell off, oh well.

     "The thing," Sage said again.

     Sam didn't know what he was talking about but then he was a little drunk and maybe so was Sage. He was just going to ignore him, closing his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. But then Sage stood up, leaning over him. He placed a hand on Sam's thigh and Sam went still. Okay, he definitely went rigid.

     Sage was hovering over his body, the room was dark, and he was clearly not sober. This was exactly what he didn't need. His dick was, of course, getting ideas. He was going to ditch the appendage soon. It had a mind of its own and Sam was tired of toting around wood for a guy he was supposed to hate.

     Sam sucked in a breath and held it as Sage's fingers ran down his shin. He was unwrapping the bandage the EMT had put on earlier.

     Right. He wasn't supposed to sleep in it. Sage moved slowly, and his hand was all over his skin, lingering and leaving bolts of electricity that conducted across his leg hairs, shimmying up his thigh to hit him in the groin.

     It was something ridiculous how he responded to it. When Sage was done he said, "You're not supposed to sleep in it."

     "Right," Sam agreed his one word both breathy and breathless. He turned his head into the throw pillow, his face hot, even though Sage surely couldn't see in the dark.

     "I should get us water," Sage had said and Sam had huffed.

     "Forget the water. Just go to sleep. I'm so tired. I can't keep my eyes open anymore."

     It wasn't a lie but he was also so turned on he couldn't see straight.

     "Are you drunk?" Sage asked.

      "Nearly but not really."

      "Yeah, same."

     "Can you go to sleep now?"

     So that's how Sage ended up there, less than an arm stretch away from Sam.

     Sam is about to shove Sage awake. Falling asleep on the couch together had felt like nothing last night in a dark room with alcohol on board. But now that it's morning (or maybe it's the afternoon?) and his family is roaming the first floor, it's definitely not nothing.

     He doesn't get that far, though, because Calla surfaces carrying a glass of green juice. There's a clear straw in her mouth and she locks eyes with Sam, sluping loudly. "Good morning," she greets, her tone sprightly for how shitty Sam feels. She's already dressed for the day in cream slacks and a chunky brown sweater. It's a bit much for a meal at home.

     Sam makes a nervous noise and punches Sage in the shoulder. It's not hard but it's enough to jolt the boy awake. "Wake up," Sam hisses, his gaze darting anxiously from Sage to Calla's, who's looking at them both amused.

     "How's your ankle?" she asks like none of this is concerning.

     Sage sits up onto his elbows. His hair's matted and messy and he squints as he looks around with a deep frown on his face. Is that regret? Sam wonders. What could he possibly regret, they didn't do anything.

     "What time is it?" Sage asks.

     "Ten," Calla says. "Aunt D and B are here. They're in the kitchen with mom."

     Sage nods and then turns his head to look back at Sam. "You good?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

     "I need to go upstairs," Sam says his tone pitched.

     "Can you walk?"

     "I don't know," he answers before putting his feet on the floor. His ankles are the same size but there's a lot of bruising. It feels tender but when he stands he's able to bear his weight.

     "Looks alright to me," Sage says.

     Sam nods, avoiding Sage's gaze. "Yeah, I think I'm good."

     He turns, then, and starts walking out of the room without waiting for Sage. His hearts beating fast and fluttery. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine, he keeps thinking over and over, a mantra and a prayer. Because it is. Everything is totally fine.

❧

     Sam is not fine.

     Sage figures that out two seconds into waking. His anxiety is bouncing off of him like loose ions. He wonders if it's about what he said last night. Sage doesn't think it's a big deal. Without saying it, he would've come to the conclusion anyway. Enemies don't invite each other over to their homes for the holidays, even if it is because they've got work to do.

     Sage watches Sam leave the room and then looks over at Calla. "Don't say it," he mutters, his tone gruff. He's parched. If he doesn't get water in him fast, he's going to start dry heaving.  

      Calla throws a hand up. "I wasn't going to say anything."

     "Can you get me some water?" he asks kind of dreading seeing his Aunts while he's hung over and grungy.

     Calla grins deviously. "Get it yourself."

     "Come on Call," he begs.

     "Have fun," she says over her shoulder as she turns and walks out.

     Sage rubs at his temples, and then scrubs his face, pushing his hands into his hair. It's a mess. He's a mess. He's kind of embarrassed Sam saw him like this.

     He needs the water so he gets up, dragging himself down the hall towards the kitchen. He can hear Aunt D talking. Delilah. His dad's younger sister. You're not supposed to have favorite family members, but Delilah is Sage's favorite. Delilah's partner, Bea, pulls a close second but nobody can really compete with the bond he has with D.

     He tries to act casual when he walks into the kitchen even though the three women immediately stop talking, looking to him as he crosses the room for the cabinet with glasses in it.

     "Good morning Sage," Bea says breaking the silence.

     He shifts his body so he can look at everyone as he fills his glass with ice from the front of the refrigerator. "Morning," he says carefully. "Hi."

     Delilah's smirking at Sage, one eyebrow raised. "Who's the boy on the couch?"

     Sage uses drinking from his glass as a distraction, drawing it out. Delilah always sees through him. He says finally, "That was Sam. He's my research partner for one of my classes."

     "Research partner," she repeats back.

     "Sam? Isn't that the one you always complain about?" Bea asks.

     Nora nods. "That's the one."

     Delilah is still staring and still smirking like she knows something. And honestly, she probably does. She may not be the most intuitive person out there, but she can read Sage better than anyone.

     Aunt B looks at Sage curiously. "And now you're sleeping on couches together?"

     "It's not like that," he says quickly.

     "Right," Delilah mutters mostly under her breath.

     "It's not," Sage insists.

     "Go shower," Nora interrupts. "Your father's waiting for you in the studio."

     "What about Sam?" Sage asks.

     "Bring him with you," she says with a shrug.

     "You know I can't do that," Sage says irritably.

     "I follow you on TikTok," Bea says. "And honestly, Sagey, it's a sin not to own what you're doing. People want to know who you are. Don't hide it."

     "I'm not hiding," Sage says, flushing. "I like the anonymity. And it's what I built my socials off of. Revealing myself now — it would ruin the whole thing."

     Sage feels not embarrassment exactly, but something adjacent to it. His family has always supported his artwork, which has always felt like a whim to him. He doesn't know why he can't — why he doesn't want to see it for what it is. No matter how successful he is online, no matter how many people commission portraits from him, no matter how much of his father's respect he earns from it, he just can't get it out of his head that it's not a serious thing. That it's not a future.

     "Let him be," Delilah says. "I'll hang with your Sammy boy while you're with Dash."

     Sage comes down, taking a breath. God bless Aunt D. "Okay, yeah. But he's not my Sammy boy. Or Sammy, at all. Just call him Sam."

     Delilah throws her hands up, palms out. "Not your Sam. Got it."

     Sage goes upstairs to his room in a mental fog. He shouldn't have drank last night. The morning after is always a downer. And it does't help that it's another holiday without Hudson. He feels off. Feels sad. Just wants to crawl into bed and sleep the day away.

     He can't do that, though. He has this long-reigning tradition with his father. They always work on a painting together on Thanksgiving. He can't miss it.

     Sage is distracted as he pulls his shirt off, tossing it into the laundry basket. He gets his sweatpants off and sets them on the back of his desk chair figuring he'll end up back in them before the day's over.

     His parents don't really expect him to dress up for the holiday. Calla always does, making the dining table her runway. But he gets messy with his dad, who's preferred medium is acrylics so he has to wear something he doesn't mind getting paint on.

     He hooks a finger in his briefs as he opens the bathroom door, ready to push them off his hips. And that's when he remembers his bathroom isn't just his this break. It's Sam's, too.

     Sam, who has just stepped out of the shower. Sam, who is very naked, brown skin still wet and dripping. Lots of skin, lots of water. Sage drinks it in like he's been parched all his life. He shouldn't, he knows. He shouldn't be looking. But he can't stop.

     Sam's collarbones, he knows. Knows how the bones jut sharply. Even knows the round caps of his shoulders. His pecs aren't huge but they're tight muscle. He has dark brown nipples, no chest hair, a distinct line down his stomach, each ab defined even unflexed. High hip bones.

     And then Sage is staring at his dick. It's — god, it's good. It's not something he'd overlook. And he wonders if it's better because it's Sam's dick. There's smooth skin, that throws Sage. He didn't really expect Sam to care about hair removal. It's unexpected. And then he wonders how much he actually knows about Sam. Maybe Sam's been seeing someone. It's presumptuous of Sage to think he's not.

     "Fuck Sage," Sam screams, literally screams, scrambling for a towel.

     Sage looks away, but it's delayed, too delayed for it not to be obvious he was staring at Sam's dick. Big, not huge, better in width than length, brown and pink at the tip, hanging heavily between his legs, hiding his balls. Oh, Jesus, Sage is not soon to forget it.

     The floor's wet, Sam's already got a weak ankle and he turns too fast, twisting painfully so he goes down. Sage hears the impact of his face on the door handle. Leave it to Sam. Sam, who's now face down on the floor. Sage is gonna die in this bathroom. Sam's ass is phenomenal.

     Sage is frozen up until that moment. Skin. So much skin. Holy fuck, too much skin. But he pulls it together enough to rush towards him, crouching down. He places a hand on Sam's upper back.

     "Are you okay?"

     Sam's face is in the floor and he doesn't lift it when he says, "Get. Out."

     "I didn't see anything," Sage tries next.

     "Fuck you, Sage," Sam snaps. "Seriously. Just get out."

     Sage sighs heavily and then stands up. He should definitely leave because he's getting hard and it's kind of fucked up to be turned on while Sam's injured on the floor.

     "Don't be weird about this," he says next, a bit frantic.

     This is not how it ends for them. Over some awkward bathroom incident. He's clinging to the hope everything will be fine but he feels like he's one false step away from being catapulted to four months ago when they weren't even on speaking terms.

     "It's not a big deal," he says next.

     Sam turns on his side only enough so his chest is off of the floor and he can look at Sage. Sage grimaces. His eye is already bruising. "You don't get to just decide what is and isn't a big deal, Sage. So fuck off."

     His whole face is red. And. Sage swallows hard. There's tears in his eyes. He has fucked this one up. He feels bad about it, too. The last thing he wants is to make Sam uncomfortable.

     Which is why he takes the band of his boxers and pulls them down his legs.

❧

     Sage is going to be the death of Sam.

     He's completely naked, hovering above him, and Sam's dick has come to full attention, pressing into the cold tile, waiting for the okay to finish. Sam is fairly certain if he said to himself go ahead he'd cum just like that without even having touched himself.

     Sage is beautiful. And he's known that for a really long time. He wishes he would stop having to acknowledge it. But now he's acknowledging it in a different way. Because he's beautiful but he's also fucking hot as shit.

     He holds his arms up as if he's the messiah, reigning down on Sam. He has a long stomach and his chest hairs are fair and sparse. It looks soft. They're there below his belly button too, marking a path down to his. Yeah, that's his dick. Fuck. Sam's never looked at someone's dick before and been like that's nice. But...that's nice.

     Sage is doing a full circle, saying, "Fair's fair. Now we're even."

     Sage has strong thighs. His skin's a golden peachy color, but Sam thinks if he pressed his hands down on his legs they'd redden under his fingers. He has skin that wants to be marked.

     "Fair's fair," Sam agrees, his voice hoarse. "Can you get out now."

     Sam cannot move until Sage does because he's completely hard. His dick is in actual agony, trying to find space to expand against the floor.

     "Hurry up, I need to shower," Sage says as he backs out of the bathroom. He closes the door and Sam heaves a breath. A second one. A third one as he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

     What the actual fuck.

     His heart is beating fast and he has to clench his fists to keep from touching himself. He shuts his eyes in an attempt to get the image of Sage, completely naked, out of his head. He should...he should go into Sage's room, right. He thinks about it. He thinks about it a lot.

     Just walk into Sage's bedroom and what exactly? He doesn't know what happens next. He doesn't know what he wants to happen next.

     So he gets up and grabs the towel he'd been going for, wrapping it around his waist. He has a black eye. He's leaving the weekend battered and bruised apparently. He's leaving this weekend fucking confused.

     He goes back into the bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind him, slamming it so Sage will know he's done. He's not jerking off, he's decided. He is a man of control. And he is enacting control right now. To prove that Sage does not have any sort of hold on him (Sage, does in fact, have a hold on him, Sage has his balls in a vice grip.) (Sam thinks let go Sage, please let me go because I'm confused and I'm scared, none of this makes sense.)

     It takes a good ten minutes before he's fully flaccid and able to dress himself.

     Sam doesn't know the protocol of Thanksgiving, has never celebrated it before, but he saw Calla this morning, dressed all nicely, and figures to follow her lead. He packed some clothes in case this happened.

     Once he's dressed, he sits and waits for Sage.

❧

     He told Sam not to be weird, so Sage can't be weird, either right. Even if he did just bring himself to a mind-numbing orgasm in the shower to thoughts of Sam. (Fucked up, he knows, but he couldn't help it.) 

     It's not weird. It's just a body. Sage sees naked bodies all the time. He can be professional about this.

     He imagines dropping to his knees, pinning Sam's hips against the bathroom door, taking the full length of him into his mouth, sucking until Sam's hard and pressing against the back of his throat.

     He cannot keep it professional, apparently.

     Sage knocks on the Sam's bathroom door and then waits for Sam to say something. Sam is silent, but then he pulls the door open, standing directly in front of him. Sage's breath quickens as they stare at each other.

     Sam's wearing slacks and a button-up shirt. It's form-fitting, stretching across his chest and over his biceps. The buttons at his neck are open. He looks hot as shit. Sage could punch him in the face for it.

     Sage, on the other hand, is wearing old jeans and a stained tee shirt. Sam looks him up and down and then goes, "I thought you guys dressed up for this thing."

     "Calla does," Sage says. "I've gotta do something with my dad that's messy so."

     "I should change," Sam says taking a step back.

     "No, it's good," Sage says quickly. "You look good. Stay in that."

     Sam squints at Sage. "I'm sorry — did you just compliment me?"

     "Don't change," Sage says definitively.

     Sam looks back at his suitcase longingly and then turns to Sage. "Okay, fine. I won't change."

     Sage steps into the room hesitantly. "So my Aunts are here. I've gotta do something with my dad. It's going to take a few hours, but you're welcome to hang with them. They're chill."

     "Yeah, okay," Sam says making his way to the door.

     Sage is surprised by how easy that was. Maybe now that they've seen each other naked things will be different.

     Sage finds his Aunts in their reading room playing pool. Calla's in an armchair on her iPad. She glances up at the two of them when they enter and then goes back to what she was doing. His Aunts stop their game and Sage says, "Aunt D. Bea. This is Sam."

     "Nice to meet you," Sam says holding his hand out. Bea takes it first, shaking gently as she smiles at him. Delilah hangs back, looking him over.

     "So you're Sage's research partner?" Delilah asks. Sage shoots her a look and she steps forward to shake Sam's hand.

      Sam shifts nervously, and nods. "Uh, yeah, we're both working for Olekev this semester."

     "How is that going?" Bea asks when Delilah doesn't follow up.

     "It's good," Sam says and starts talking about their work. He does this well, Sage thinks. If the question is straight forward, Sam can hold his own. And if it's school-related, even better. Sage doesn't feel like he has to rescue him from the conversation.

     His mom filters into the room, hanging by the doorway until Sam's done speaking. He turns to greet her and she gasps, rushing forward. "What happened to your face, Sam?" she asks, reaching up to touch his cheek. He flinches and his eyes dart towards Sage.

     "I slipped in the bathroom," he answers.

     "You need ice," she says. "Come on. Your mother's going to want me dead. I'm sending you back to school in pieces."

     Sage knows there's no stopping his mother. She's going to mom Sam back to health. He gives Sam a pitying look but doesn't say anything as she pulls him out of the room.

     Once he's gone, Calla goes, "I thought it was a sex injury. I wasn't going to say anything."

     Bea laughs, stifling it with her hand. Sage rolls his eyes. "It's not like that."

     "What's it like, then?" Delilah asks looking at Sage.

     "It's like nothing. There's nothing there."

     "Bullshit," Delilah says.

     "Come on, I thought we weren't going to," Bea says quietly, making a face at Delilah.

     Sage looks from his Aunts to Calla and back. "Were you guys talking about us?" He groans. "Come on."

     "He was your mortal enemy," Delilah says as a sort of explanation. "And now he's spending thanksgiving with you? And you're sleeping together?"

     "We fell asleep on the couch. We were watching movies. It's not that deep."

     Calla makes a noise of disbelief. "Methinks you protest too much."

     "This is ridiculous. I'm going to the studio. Do not say any of this to him. I'm serious. Just don't."

     Sage walks out before anyone can get another word in edgewise. He thinks it's over but Delilah chases after him, linking her arm through his as they make their way to the backdoor. His father's studio is on the property but in a converted barn. It faces the sun, with windows on all sides. He designed it this way so he'd be able to work under natural light as much as possible.

     "Don't be upset," she says quietly. "I'm just curious what's going on."

     "Nothings going on," Sage says indignantly. He thinks of Sam's dick. He's gotta stop doing that.

     "So then tell me about your love life. Are you seeing anyone? The last time you introduced someone to the family was the summer after high school. What's up, you're not into exclusivity?"

     "School keeps me busy," Sage says. "I haven't had time to commit to getting to know someone."

     "Bulllllshit," Delilah sings.

     "Stop calling bullshit on everything I say. It's true. I feel like the last four years of my life have been nothing but work."

     "Well do you regret that?" she asks after a moment.

     "No, not at all. I just. It'd be wrong to try and get close to someone when my first priority is school. Shouldn't the person you're seeing come first?"

     "Not necessarily. It's about balance. And you should have been balancing work with your social life this whole time. How's miss Ruthie? I'm surprised you didn't bring her to Thanksgiving."

     Its brick outside but Delilah's dragging her feet, extending the walk to his dad's studio. "She's good. Great, actually. She just got a job opportunity for post-grad to do content creation for a size-inclusive wellness company.She's in Jersey for the holiday with her family."

     They're coming up to the door so Sage stops and says, "I only invited Sam because we have work to do for our research thing. It's easier to work in person than over zoom."

     "Right," Delilah says nodding. Sage gives her a look. "What? I'm agreeing with you."

     "Please don't make any comments about it in front of him. He's already — he's not going to like it and I don't want him to feel uncomfortable."

     "Uncomfortable because you guys haven't talked about it yet?" Delilah asks.

     "Talked about what? There's nothing to talk about. Uncomfortable because he doesn't feel that way. I don't even think." Sage pauses. It's not really fair to discuss Sam's sexuality with anyone, even if it is his aunt. But he's not sure—he doesn't know where Sam falls on the sexuality scale.

     "Rightttt," Delilah purrs with a laugh. "Alright, have fun with your father. I got first dibs on whatever you two put together. We need a piece for our dining room."

     "You ever gonna invite me over to your place? Kinda rude I've yet to see it," Sage remarks playfully.

     "As soon as it's all furnished. We'll host a very glamorous house warming dinner. We'll even invite Sammy boy."

     "Please don't call him that to his face. He'll freak."

     "Give him some credit," Delilah retorts as she turns around. "He may like it."

❧

     Sam's doing fine. He is doing just fine.

     He's in a room with Sage's aunts and his sister. He has seen Sage completely naked. He has not jerked off. And alcohol is being poured. Yeah, no, he's in a great spot. Really, just great.

     "You're sweating," Calla says. "You good?"

     "Yeah, no, yeah, I'm fine. It's just, it's hot in here is all," he says quickly.

     Sam's distracting himself trying to figure out Sage's aunts. They're obviously together. Married, he thinks, based on the complimentary rings on their fingers. The same style and shape but Delilah's is a black diamond and Bea's is an opal. Bea is a gentle counterpart to Delilah, seems to keep her in check when she's getting heated. She's soft, in the face and frame, with wide hips and ample chest. Her hair is long and wavy, a mix of blond and copper. She kind of looks like someone who lives on a farm and churns butter. Sam doesn't think it in a bad way, though. She just looks wholesome and earthy.

     And Delilah looks like Dash, on the shorter side with a sharp, dark brown bob that hangs around her chin. The two front pieces are a bleached blond. She has high cheekbones and a large nose that she wrinkles when she laughs, always loudly and with her head thrown back.

     Sage's two aunts are like night and day. That's what he can't get, how such opposites can work. And they work. Without being all over each other, he can tell they've got a long-sustained love. He can't stop watching the way they interact, how they move around each other like a dance. How Delilah always looks at Bea when she's talking, always acknowledging her, even if Bea's across the room talking to someone else.

     If Sam's jealous of any aspect of Sage's life, it's his aunts. They have the kind of relationship you can look up to and want for yourself. Sam never really had that growing up. His grandfather had died before he was born, and his father had died shortly after he was born. He knows strong female figures. But he doesn't know romantic love, has no idea how to express it.

     Not that that's important or something he's even thinking about. He has no reason to express love. Because he's not in love. It's not a thing. It's not even close to a thing.

     Sam gets through a few rounds of pool and few rounds of drinks. Calla is horrifying at it, and he's getting progressively sloppier with each drink (Bea makes a mean mule) so they keep losing. Sam's about to suggest they trade partners when Bea excuses herself so she can see if Nora needs any help. Calla is more than happy to call it quits, exiting the room.

     "So Sam," Delilah says leaning on her pool stick. It's almost as tall as she is.

     "So Delilah," Sam drawls back. Oh yeah, he's a little tipsy. He's been filtering water between drinks but he hasn't eaten today.

     Delilah grins at him. "Is Sam short for something?"

     That's...not what he expected. "Yeah," he says. "Sameer. Nobody calls me that here, though. I'm actually registered for school as Sam." Oh boy, why is he talking so much.

     "Sameer," she repeats, pronouncing his name the exact way he had. "That's pretty."

     "It was my dad's name," Sam says.

     "Oh, so you're a junior then," she responds.

     "Well, my dad's dead."

     She frowns and says, "It still counts. How'd he die?"

     Sam swallows and then goes, "He was beaten to death. I guess some guys wanted his wallet. My mom says he never carried one, though. Straight up refused to. She'd buy him ones and he'd find some random use for it. She said he kept one on their nightstand, sitting upright with a photo sticking out of it. He kept photos in his wallet and his money in his boot."

     Delilah's staring at him intensely so Sam shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. He never talks about his dad. He doesn't have memories of him, he only knows what he's been told. "Anyway. I guess they asked him for his wallet and he kept saying he didn't have one."

      "I'm sorry, Sam. That's—that's really awful."

      "Oh, it's alright. I don't...it happened when I was young. I really don't know a life where I didn't have my dad, you know?"

     "And your mom?" Delilah asks after a moment.

      "She's good. She's back home in Azerbaijan with my sisters. My older sister and her run a dry cleaning business. They do alright."

     Which is a lie. They scrape by and it kills Sam daily not being there, not helping them. Even though he sends every bit of money he has to them.

     "Do you normally go home for your breaks?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

     Sam shakes his head. "No, not really. I went home my first Christmas here and I visited for a week a couple summers ago. Flights are really expensive."

     He misses home but he hates going back there. Feels like the cord that holds him here in the states will snap if he ventures too far, too deep, into his other life and he'll be stuck there. Afraid he won't be able to leave if he sees his family, that he'll feel obligated to stay. He often feels obligated to return and has to tell himself no, that by staying he's helping them in the long run.

     Sam has a plan and he just has to stick to it. Graduate college, secure a job and a work visa, bring his sister here for college, earn enough to live comfortably, figure out how to get the rest of his family here, finally rest.

     Delilah nods, thinking and then goes, "Do you pay for school yourself?" Sam nods back and she says, "That's tough."

     "I get a decent amount of financial aid, though," he tells her. "And I've got a flexible overnight job. I work a lot during the summer and save so I don't have to put in as many hours during the semester. Got it down to a science, I'd say."

     "You're very smart, I understand," she says and she's not making a joke of Sam's intellect. She means it.

      "I do alright," he responds, abashedly.

      "Well you keep up with Sage, and he's very smart."

      "He is," Sam agrees and means it, which appears to surprise her.

      "He know you feel that way?" she asks finally.

      Sam's eyebrows furrow, confused. "That I think he's smart? I doubt he cares what I think."

      Delilah hums thoughtfully and then says, "Don't be so sure."

❧

      Sage knows he's distracted and he knows his dad can tell.

     He can't help it. The morning has been a torrential downpour of high anxiety situations. Between his aunts berating him, running into Sam naked, stripping naked for Sam, and more berating from his aunts, Sage is strung out. He wants to curl into bed and sleep this day away and put together a game plan.

     Game Plan: Act natural around Sam

     Game Plan: Stop thinking of Sam naked

     Game Plan: Don't scare Sam off

     "Where's your head at, kid? Cause it's not here," his dad says when Sage has gone still for too long.

      "I'm a little stressed," Sage admits because it's easier to be as close to honest as he can be with his parents. They are hyperaware of every subtle change in Sage and Calla. He gets why and he loves them, he would never begrudge them for caring, but it makes it hard to have a moment to figure out your shit first.

      His dad looks at him thoughtfully. "About your research project? Because you can leave it, you know. You don't need to be working during your break. You guys both deserve some time away from it all."

     Sage shakes his head, wonders how to be honest without being too honest. It's not that he thinks his dad would freak if he told him he was having not-so-friendly thoughts about Sam. It's that his dad would freak. He'd run with it. He'd start coming up with ship-names (Samage? Sagam?) He'd probably invite Sam to every holiday and birthday, just hand out standing invitations. He'd pencil lunches with the two of them into his schedule. His dad is anything but chill.

     "It's complicated," he says finally.

      "Are you happy?" his dad asks, the question feeling stilted and unexpected.

     "I'm not unhappy," Sage says quickly and it's true.

     He could probably be happier but this semester has actually been one of his best. His classes are going well, he's on speaking terms with Sam, and he's done more commission work in the last two months than he did all last year. He's grown his social media. He gets paid for posting. And people think he's a celebrity living a double life, their very own Hannah Montana just with a paintbrush not a microphone (the highest contender seems to be Timothée Chalamet, which, flattering.)

     "Not being unhappy, and being happy is very different," his dad says setting down his paintbrush. He leans back onto his stool, leveling with Sage. "What would make you happy?"

     Sage swallows, looking down at his hands that are smudged with paint. "I just. I think that not all areas of my life are as fulfilling as they could be?"

     "Because you dedicate the most time to school?" He poses it as a question but it feels like more of an observation.

     "I know that once I graduate things will be better. I'll have the time and freedom to really live my life. I mean, it's not that I'm not living now. But I just think I can't commit to anything else because I'm already committed to school."

     As he says it, Sage thinks back to what Delilah said about balance. What she said about Sage not dating enough. Sage doesn't date at all, really. Hasn't been out on a date since the summer, and he's not even sure drinks before fucking can really count.

     "Think about finding balance now," his dad says. "Even if you only scale back one hour of time dedicated to school a week to put somewhere else. It's almost your last semester and I'm not saying throw in the towel, but I don't want you to graduate and look back on these four years and only have grades to show for it."

     "Well, I have my art, too," Sage says hoping to steer the conversation back to something lighter.

     "That you do," his father agrees. "And if you ever—." He stops. This is a touchy subject between them. "You know that nobody would begrudge you if that's what you wanted to pursue. Everyone just wants you to be happy, Sage. And you're an artist, whether you like to tote the title around or not."

     Sage makes a face, and then gestures around his father's studio. "You're an artist, dad."

     "Sage, I'm saying this not as your dad who loves you and will always be your number one fan, but you are far more talented than me. I've got decades of experience now, but you — you're starting. Everyday I'm amazed at what you can do."

     Sage swallows something thick. He can't pinpoint the feeling but it's a knot in his chest. And his eyes are hot. His parents are so supportive and Sage just wants, he wants to do Hudson justice. And he wishes that. He doesn't know what he wishes. That his brother was still here, he supposes. He wishes that he were enough.

     He takes a shaky breath, trying to reign his feelings in. God, the holidays fucking blow. They really do. He loves his family but he absolutely hates coming home.

     "Alright," his dad says with a heavy breath. "Do you feel better talking it out?"

     "Not really, no," Sage admits sheepishly.

     His dad laughs. "How about we go get a drink? Dinner's probably almost ready, anyway."

     "We didn't finish," Sage says glancing at their painting. It is abstract by design, two halves that don't meet, that look like they're made from something similar but are not the same. Sage actually likes it. It resonates with him. He knows why it does, too, but he's actively ignoring that thought. (Is there a moment of this day where he will not think of Sam?)

     His dad's right. Calla's setting the table and Sage's mom is moving food into the dining room when they return. "Good," she says. "Go get cleaned up. We eat in ten."

     "Where's...?" Sage glances between his mom and Calla, eyebrows up in question.

     "Still in the study with Delilah and B. I think they're playing heads up. I also think they're drunk," Calla answers.

      Sage nods and ducks out of the room, rushing for the stairs. He doesn't think it would matter if Sam knew he was artistic. He might crack a joke or two about it, but it wouldn't be the end of the world. The thing is. Sam has seen Sage on TikTok. Or has seen Sage's TikTok, anyway. Sam's account @skaan features absolutely no videos but his instagram is linked where there is exactly sixteen photos, the most recent being from two summers ago with him and his sisters.

     Is Sage a bit of a stalker? Absolutely.

      @skaan is not his biggest fan. He's selective with his likes. Sage has figured out that Sam doesn't like interpretive pieces. He likes art grounded in reality. Sage made a time-lapse watercolor of the city about to have a heavy downpour. The overcast morning blended into a dew that became torrential by late afternoon. @skaan had been a fan of that.

      Sam doesn't know or like Sage's online persona, but he engages with it every so often, shows his appreciation and maybe even respect for what he does, and Sage isn't ready to give that up.

     So he darts upstairs, ducking into the bathroom so he can wash off all the paint before Sam can see it. He changes into jeans and a white button-up that's oversized, leaving the top buttons undone the way he always does. When he wears shirts like this to class, he sometimes catches Sam looking at him and he wonders what's going on in that head of yours, Sam.

     Always wondering what's going on in that head of yours, Sam.

❧

      Sage hasn't looked at Sam through the course of the whole dinner.

      Which is probably for the best because Sam already feels naked without Sage's narrow, flirty gaze on him. Sage flirts with his eyes, with his long wispy lashes, and Sam doesn't need that right now. (Sage flirts with everything and everyone and so Sam's never taken it personally but now he wants to take it personally which is a problem.)

      Dinner goes over well and it's fully because Sam and Sage avoid each other like the plague. If anyone notices, they don't say anything. Afterwards, they move to the living room for dessert and drinks.

      Sam's going to be paying for the last two days, with all the alcohol and food. He's not a stickler about his diet, but he functions better when he doesn't excessively drink. Particularly because he's not really supposed to mix alcohol with his meds. He's like, one hundred percent certain it's why he always ends up sloppy drunk. His doctor sincerely advises him not to drink on his meds so Sam suggested not taking them when he's drinking but he was told he can't skip doses.

      It's not that Sam drinks a lot. Social settings bring that out of him. It's just easier to be around people and talk to them when he's drunk.

     Sage, he knows, doesn't have this problem. Sage is Mr. Charismatic. Sam's been stealing glances at him across the living room, where he's sitting on the floor next to an armchair Delilah's sprawled in. They're laughing and talking animatedly. And he's wearing one of his stupid shirts that's so open Sam can see all the fine hairs he'd seen earlier. He could count them if he wanted to and he does. He wants to count them.

     He should keep drinking until he doesn't.

     But drinking is making him sad. Sam misses home. Misses his sisters. He tries not to think about how long it's been since he's seen them. They FaceTime pretty regularly but it isn't the same. And his mom always cries when he gets her on video and lately that hurts more than he can handle so he's avoided video chatting with her.

     "So you survived Thanksgiving," Calla says propping herself against the back of the chair Sam's seated in. "Cheers to that." She holds her glass out to him and he taps it with his own. He's moved from the mules earlier to a sangria Nora made (10 out of 10 stars.)

     "Was I at risk for not surviving it?" Sam asks.

     "We all were, honestly," she says, keeping her voice low so only Sam can hear her. Her parents are wrapped up in some story Bea's telling about a bird rescue she's working with. Sam has learned she's a wildlife veterinarian. Her and Delilah live in old country New York, on what he is told is not a farm but is farm-adjacent.

     New age farm, Delilah had clarified. Farm girl but make it edgy, Calla had added.

     Whatever any of that means.

     "Why do you say that?" Sam asks.

     Calla shrugs. "I don't know. Holidays have always been tense since our brother." She stops, puckering her lips. He watches her bite into her bottom lip, brows hanging low over her eyes. "You know about Hudson, right?"

     "I do," Sam says slowly. "But not because. Not because Sage said anything."

     "Sage doesn't talk about it, that's why," Calla says softly. "You can't quantify loss, but it hit Sage the hardest, I think. Or maybe he just carries it around with him more than the rest of us do."

     "What, like he feels responsible or something?" Sam asks. "Because I thought he had." He doesn't finish that sentence or that thought.

     The story and life of Hudson was like a ghost whisper around the campus. People said stupid shit, comparing him to a star—burned bright and then burnt out or like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

     Sam admired Hudson's work ethic, aspired to be just like him, really (this was before he met Sage and subsequently cursed the Decort name.) He followed his footpath down to the very last class. Hudson had been interviewed in the school newspaper and there he talked about his keys to success, the rigorous four year plan he'd created that included becoming the youngest research assistant in their field study (first semester sophomore year) working with one of the greatest professors at NYU, Dr. Krieger.

      Sam never got to study under him unfortunately because he resigned after Hudson's death. He looked into it but there didn't seem to be a connection, at least none anyone was pointing out. Krieger was old enough that nobody questioned the retirement.

     So yeah, Sam knows about Hudson. Knows the tasteless gossip people still whisper at parties when they've got nothing else to say ("the Hudson was so frozen he didn't even break the ice, he just went splat" "isn't it ironic that the Hudson killed Hudson?" "Imagine bottoming out that close to graduation") but also knows the Hudson that was presented to the academic world — brilliant and charismatic and every bit the person Sam sees in Sage.

     "He had," Calla says quietly. "But it's a Sage thing to take responsibility for things he had no hand in."

     "Huh."

     "You can't repeat any of this back to him."

     Sam shakes his head quickly. "Oh, yeah, no, I won't."

     "I figured he'd never tell you. And well, you're here for the holidays so you might as well know why he invited you."

     "Uh," Sam says hesitantly. "He invited me because we have research to do."

     Calla makes a noise of disagreement. "Nah, he invited you to buffer the holiday. If it were up to Sage he'd never come for these things. Christmas, birthdays. The house, in general. He hates it."

     "What am I buffering him from? Everyone seems fine."

     Calla shrugs. "I don't know. You'd have to ask him. But obviously don't cause then he'll know I ran my mouth, which I was expressly asked not to do so do me a favor."

     "I won't say a word. Promise," Sam says and means it. Calla smiles at him appreciatively. He wonders why she's even telling him all this to begin with, but he's also absorbing this information like a sponge, storing it away and letting it shape the version of Sage he knows.

     "And what about you?" Sam asks after a moment. "Are you okay?"

      "I love my brother," she says. "I'll always miss him. But you can miss someone and still live your life. Still find happiness in it. You have to try, at least, I think."

     "You do. You deserve to. You don't think Sage does?" Sam asks. His hearts beating fast because this feels scandalous, getting inside information on Sage when he's right there across the room.

     "I think Sage will always try to do what he deems is the right thing, which isn't necessarily the thing he wants," she responds. "I love him. But he's an idiot."

     "I concur," Sam says grinning because he kind of likes insulting Sage with his sister. It's something he could get used to doing. He wants to ask Calla if she has any embarrassing stories or baby photos. "About the idiot thing," he quickly adds.

     "You're kind of an idiot, too, Sam," she says standing upright. She's holding her glass in both her hands in front of her and looking at Sage with a stern expression. It's a little morally high for a high schooler he had to help rescue a month ago.

     Sam scoffs, not understanding how he got into the line of fire.

     "Figure your shit out. And don't hurt my brother." She points a warning finger at him before she walks away.

❧

     Sage has avoided Sam all night. And the night is finally over. He can curl up in bed like he's wanted to for hours.

     It turns out his aunts aren't staying over, so they called it a night early. Tradition usually calls for board games with his parents and Calla, but everyone's too tired. Sage is grateful as he heads upstairs. He let Sam get a head start in case he needed to use the bathroom, lagging around the kitchen helping his mom clean up.

     His bathroom door's open but Sam's is closed. Steam filters into his room letting him know Sam's showered. Sage isn't showering. He doesn't have the energy for it.

     He undresses slowly, too tired to move with any speed. He's got a habit of just walking around in his briefs, which has proved to be problematic with Sam just two doors away, particularly when his own bathroom door is still open.

     He doesn't care. Sam's already seen him naked. He does take the time to lock Sam's door though, before he uses the bathroom and then washes up at the sink. He didn't turn any lights on so he's moving slow in the dark, washing his face, then brushing his teeth. He's about done when he feels something stuck under his back molar.

     His aunts had bought kettle corn from this speciality place by them and Sage had indulged. He was sure it was a kernel stuck in his tooth, but it was under his gum, slightly, and starting to irritate him.

     He crouches down in the dark, knowing there's floss in a bin under his sink where he keeps extra toothbrushes and toothpaste.

     He's fumbling in the dark, going off of feel alone, when he hears something. He stills, staring in the darkness. His breath is getting in the way of his hearing so he holds his hand over his mouth, tilting his head. And.

     Sam's moaning.

     Sam is absolutely moaning on the other side of this door. Sage knew he was going to die in this bathroom.

❧

     Longest day of his life. Day from hell. Unending humiliation. Confusing conversations. Spotlights and family history. Sam could double his medicine and it wouldn't help (he's also not supposed to do that) but the point stands there's nothing breaking this feeling, like his body is trying to claw out of his body. He feels like two versions of himself that need to be one, but aren't clasping together the way they should.

     He's lying in bed, trying not to hyperventilate as he rubs at his chest, right above his heart, a hard and circular motion. It usually helps but it's not tonight. He rests his hand there, focusing on his breath instead. Nope, that's not helping either.

     His fingers strum against his skin, spreading across his pec before they circle a nipple and he gets a ripple of unexpected pleasure. His nipples aren't usually sensitive but maybe it's just the anxiety.

     Either way, it's helping so he touches them again, soft at first and then with more pressure, teasing and twisting. It's definitely working. His breath has changed, gone from frantic to staggered. He's panting, which is better than feeling like he can't get any oxygen at all.

     Sam's hardening so he lifts his hips and pushes his sweatpants down to his knees. He remembers that Sage knows what his dick looks like flaccid. Wonders what he'd think of it hard. Swallows the thought all the together and then spits into his hand before he touches himself. He hasn't gone slow like this since the whole Sage-fantasies thing started.

     He fucks up into his fist, hips thrusting with a lazy jolt. He hums quietly. That's good. When he closes his eyes, Sage is there. Sage is there and he's very naked. Sam's got every detail imprinted in his memory. Wide shoulders that make his waist look more tapered than it is. Sage isn't all muscle and where he carries fat is where Sam wants to drag his teeth. Latch on and find out what his skin tastes like.

     Fuckkkk. Sam just got loud.

❧

     Sage is not working under logical thought when he sits back on the floor and gets his dick out of his underwear. He is crossing so many boundaries, so many, and it's so wrong, and it's an invasion, right? Of Sam's privacy?

      He sounds so good. He sounds so good and this is so bad. But he can't stop. He is desperate for it, desperate for Sam.

     And he realizes that this, right here, in the dark, on his bathroom floor, Sam's soft sweet moans the only thing he can focus on, isn't going to end right here. This isn't enough, and is never going to be enough for him.

     But he lets it be for the moment. It has to be.

❧

     Fuck it, Sam thinks and decides to be loud.

❧

     Sage bites down on his wrist when he cums, thinking the whole time Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Wanting it so bad to be Sam.

     He's so fucked.