Calla is fine.

     The ER nurse runs her bloodwork, and the doctor comes in to say they found traces of pseudoephedrine, guaifenesin, and amphetamines in her system on top of the alcohol. He says it casually and Sage can feel his heart like it's sitting in his palm. The doctor must notice the way all the blood has drained from his face because he quickly adds that he's not concerned. He says it looks like she drank something that was mixed with Adderal, Sudafed, and Mucinex.

     "Harmless substances when they aren't being abused," he'd added unhelpfully.

     "Well, she wasn't abusing them," Sage had responded. "She was given it without her knowledge."

     "Right," the doctor said, clearly not caring either way. "Once her IV's finished, she'll be discharged."

     Calla wasn't reckless. He knew that. She'd made a mistake. It was why Sage hadn't called his parents. He'd cover for her this one time.

     So when they come to discharge her a few hours later, he hands over his credit card for the ER bill and doesn't say anything when Calla looks at him curiously. She's still groggy, but she slept through her IV, which seems to have helped with the sleepiness.

     "Did you call mom?" she asks, rubbing at the crook of her elbow where the nurse has just pulled her IV.

     "I didn't," Sage responds as he runs through her discharge paperwork. There's nothing useful in it, just the suggestion of rest and rehydration.

     She reaches out, touching his forearm so he turns to look at her. "Thank you." He nods and she says again, "I mean it, Sage. Thank you."

     He puts a hand on hers. "You scared the shit out of me, Calla."

     "Well I scared the shit out of myself," she says. "I'm so stupid. I should've known they were going to pull something like that. First rule of drinking is never take a drink you didn't watch get made."

     "I'm just glad you called me when you did and nothing worse happened," Sage says. He kind of wants to agree that she was stupid but that's not really helpful. These things happen. He wished they didn't but you can't protect someone from all the bad in the world without protecting them from the good, too. He just hopes this was a lesson learned and she'll be better prepared for college where he won't be able to protect her as easily.

     Once billing is handled, Sage helps Calla out of the hospital and they take a taxi to his apartment. Its nearing five in the morning when they get in. Calla wants to shower so Sage gives her a towel and some clothes and changes for bed while she does.

     "I can take the couch," Calla says when she reenters the room. Her hairs damp and dripping down the back of the grey shirt she's wearing, leaving dark spots.

     Sage gives her a look. "Take the bed," he says grabbing a pillow and bringing it over to his couch. He tosses it at one end and goes to shut the curtains.

     "Okay, but like who has been in these sheets?" Calla says pinching the duvet and pulling it back suspiciously.

     Sage rolls his eyes. "Nobody," he says. "Now go to bed. It's late. Or early. Or both, I guess."

     It was true. Sage hadn't taken someone to bed since the semester had started. His last partner had been in Montauk. An older guy. Ramiel. It'd ended badly and Sage needed a breather from complicated. And most of his free time was consumed in his work, anyway. He had to break up his time between classwork, Olekev's research and his own work. He'd spent the last three years of school prioritizing economics. This summer was the first time he'd invested real time into himself and it'd paid off. It was still paying off.

     On a night he was celebrating a big commission with Calla she'd asked him why he wasn't committing to this fully. No, she'd actually said, "why are you wasting time with economics when you're clearly meant for something else?"

     Was he? Sage didn't think so. There was passion projects and then there was work. Sage didn't think he had to pick between the two, but if he did, he was always going to choose work.

❧

     Sam has a hard time sleeping. He's still reeling from the whole thing with Sage's sister. He doesn't have a FaceTime scheduled with his sister but when he wakes he texts her to see if she's around. It's seven here, so it's four p.m. there. She answers promptly.

     7:03 a.m. sorry brother I'm out with friends! How about tomorrow morning?

     Sam types back a response. Sounds good.

     Sunday morning for her is Saturday night for him. Sam rarely has Saturday night plans as it is and because of his work schedule he's better at staying up late than he is at getting up early. It's too early now to do anything useful. Sam has a sort of keyed up energy, the kind of anxious buzz he likes to agitate with caffeine. His mom would say he's a glutton for punishment.

     He doesn't do that now. Instead, he changes for the gym and walks to the school's facility. If he hits the weights three times a week Sam generally feels good, feels sated. Working out is both the ticking of a box and a momentary bandaid on his wavering psyche.

     Seeing as he doesn't really have any type of life outside of his school work and his work work, he's at the gym way more often than his allotted three days. And based on the way the desk girl, Kimberly, greets him by name, he thinks he's maybe there an obsessive amount. Sam is one of those people who picks his thing and fixates on it.

     He likes to train full body, likes the feeling of every muscle being stretched thin, likes the way he's unraveled like a ball of yarn sliding to the ground and rolling across it. He likes feeling like he left something at the squat rack. He leaves the gym lighter. He's clear headed. And the anxiety has loosened itself enough that he's comfortable feeding it some cold brew.

     He knows he's a regular at Starbucks. He doesn't need the baristas, who he knows by name — Jenni, Miguel, Huascar, Amin — to confirm it. But they like to, saying things, like "bright and early today, huh" and "your usual, Sam?" Sam doesn't think he's a creature of routine until these moments occur.

     Which is maybe why he goes off script. To prove that he can. Because twenty minutes later, with half his coffee ingested and a second wind of anxiety, he's knocking at Sage's door. He almost leaves when he gets no answer after exactly thirty-five seconds. But then the door opens and there's Sage in sweat shorts and a tee shirt with bed hair and dark circles under his eyes so that the blue is sharpened like an icicle.

     Sage furrows his brows and opens his mouth to say something, pausing like he can't put the words together. The whole thing is reading as confusion, which Sam gets because he's confused why he's there, too.

     "Your sister okay?" Sam asks trying for casual but his heart is doing jerky shit. He definitely shouldn't have gotten the coffee in retrospect. He's also become keenly aware of the fact he's sporting eu de ball sweat. Fuck going off script. He's sweating on top of his sweat now.

     "Uh, yeah," Sage says slowly. "You didn't get my text?"

     "No, I did," Sam responds quickly. "I was just...double checking. Okay. Cool."

     Sam pivots and makes quick work of the few feet between Sage's apartment and his own. He knows Sage is watching him from the doorway while he fumbles with his key and lets himself inside. He doesn't know what that just was but he's going to blame it on sleep deprivation and confusion in part by their momentary truce.

     Because Sage and him? Not friends. So him caring about Sage things? Off book and totally wrong.

     Sam thinks he'll feel better about the whole knocking on Sage's door thing after a nap but he doesn't. And then he thinks he'll feel better after some Chinese take-out because that's his favorite comfort food but he doesn't. And then he's certain eating Nutella from the tub while he watches le Casa de Papel will do the trick. Sam's obsessed with the show and Nutella has been a long-reigning food group in his life since he first had it when he was eight.

     So it should, for all intents and purposes, make Sam feel better but one of the characters on the show looks just like Sage and it is an acute reminder.

     Sam knows he's overthinking it. He tries to reason that Sage has probably forgotten about the whole thing. Probably didn't blink an eye to Sam just showing up at his door, showing concern for his sister. But then Monday morning he's in the elevator and Sage has just stepped out of his apartment. They lock eyes and Sam isn't even thinking when he reaches out and hits the close door button.

     The thing is. The thing that he doesn't factor into the moment. That he is ill equipped to handle is Sage. Booking. It. Down the hallway.

❧

     Sage nearly loses an arm throwing it between the closing elevator doors. He's just sprinted for it because Sam. Sam, asshole that he is, has tried to shut the doors on him.

     Sage has spent the weekend confused. And this moment hasn't clarified anything for him. Sam going with him to get Calla was unexpected. Sam punching one of her classmates — even more unexpected. The fact it was a solid punch, too, like Sam knew how to throw one, was even more shocking in a way that also excited Sage. Which was even more confusing.

     And then Sam had shown up at his door Saturday morning checking in again. Yeah, no, Sage was utterly perplexed by the state of things. Easier, he thought. When they were just simply enemies. The boundaries were clear. Now that they had this truce he didn't quite understand what was and wasn't allowed.

     Evidently they were still closing elevator doors in each other's faces. Or trying to, at least.

     Sage steps in now, glaring at Sam who's expression is impassive. He looks like he's a blink away from whistling like he's a cartoon trying to convey nonchalance.

     "You're kidding me right," Sage snaps because he has to say something.

     "What? How was I supposed to know you wanted the elevator?" Sam responds just as easily.

    They stand beside each other in silence. The elevator moves painstakingly slow. Sage decides he can't take the silence and says, "I finished inputting the data yesterday and sent what we have to Olekev this morning."

     "I could've helped," Sam says and his tone tells Sage he's actually, genuinely, agitated that he wasn't able to. If the roles were reversed, Sage would be grateful Sam had done the work for him. A small reprieve. This wasn't a senior slack-off semester for him. He was taking a full course load and had spent yesterday doing a litany of assignments.

     "Yeah, well, since I was the reason we couldn't finish Friday I figured I owed it to you," Sage says as the elevator doors open onto the first floor.

     Sam steps out, turns slightly to Sage but avoids his gaze when he responds, "You didn't."

     He starts to walk off but they're heading in the same direction so Sage follows him, jogging to catch up. "Most people would probably just say thank you," Sage says, annoyed.

     Sam shrugs, glancing at Sage, before widening the space between them. "Yeah, well, I'm not most people," he mutters.

     "Oh, I'm well aware."

     Sam bristles. "Why are you following me?"

     Sage can tell Sam's agitated but has no idea why. He's confused because the last time they'd been together, he thought things had gone okay. Neither of them had drawn blood or tears.

     "I'm not," Sage responds, keeping his tone cool. He decides Sam's attitude goes beyond him so he's not going to take it personally. "Should I book another study room for Friday?

     Sage is watching Sam, watches the movement in his expression, can't tell what he's thinking but knows he is definitely thinking something.

     Sam goes, "You really want to give up your Friday nights for research?"

     He furrows his eyebrows, looking away from Sam. He'd already given up two Fridays. He figured that set the precedent that Fridays would be their night. Their night for research, that is. Not like their night like date night or something.

     "As opposed to?" Sage muses.

     Sam snorts. "Your riveting social life."

     There's condescension in his tone and Sage can't tell if Sam is judging him for having too much or too little. Knows he's being judged, though. Sam's good at making you feel sized up and small.

     He tries to keep his voice calm when he says, "You don't know anything about my social life, Sam."

     "I certainly know enough," Sam sneers. "Have seen enough, too."

     Sage has no idea what Sam is talking about and at the next corner he has to turn. Seen enough? As far as Sage knows, Sam's never seen him at a bar or a club before. Because Sage doesn't frequent them all that often and he's pretty sure Sam doesn't frequent them at all.

     "Okay, well, I figured Fridays were the only night we were both free. Unless there's another day this week you're not working?"

     Sam says, "Tuesdays. But that's generally when I do all my work for the rest of the week."

     Sage frowns and says before he's given it much thought (and pulled the concern from his voice), "You only have Tuesdays and Fridays off?"

     They're at his corner so he stops walking. Sam gets a step ahead before he realizes and halts, too. "I'm off Saturdays, too. Surely you don't want to give up your whole weekend to research?"

     Sage wonders when Sam sleeps. If the bags under his eyes are any indication, it's never.

     "Let's stick to Fridays. My last class is at two, so if you want to start earlier, we can that way you're not working all night."

     There's that worry again, so evident in his tone Sage decides he needs to have a sit down with himself and unpack what the hell is going on. He's never actively worried about Sam before and he doesn't understand why he suddenly is now.

     Sam stares at Sage for too long. They're standing in the way and people jostle past them. Sage turns his head, troubled when Sam doesn't respond immediately.

     "It's weird," Sam says finally. Before Sage can ask what is, he goes, "Us not being at each others throats. You being nice." He says it like the very concept blows his mind.

     Sage kind of wants to say that he's actually always nice, it's just with Sam when he's not.

     But instead he goes, "Do you prefer it when I'm not?"

     Sam tilts his head, taking a step into the crosswalk, that's counting down. "Honestly, I think I do."

❧

     Professor Olekev responds to Sage's email and Sage forwards it to Sam. 

     This is good stuff.

     It's not an esteemed review of their work, but it gives Sam that jolt of pleasure. Makes him feel good for a hot second. But then he remembers that Sage sent their work in for him and that sours it just right.

     Olekev sends them both a google invite to meet on Tuesday at four-thirty. Sam's last class of the day finishes at two so he gets there before Sage and Olekev. He's even got a coffee in hand. Feeling very accomplished with himself he sits outside her room waiting.

     Sage walks up before Olekev. Sam hasn't seen him all day (not that he really cares.) None of their classes overlap on Tuesday's. They share Olekev on Mondays and Wednesdays, and they're both in Market Institutions and International economics on Wednesday and Fridays. And then there's their honors thesis discussion on Thursdays.

     So Tuesday is the reprieve.

     And Sam needs it because being civil with Sage is exhausting. It takes everything out of him to both be nice and then not let the being nice confuse him on everything else. Like right now.

     Sage is walking up, looking down at his phone, and he's wearing these loose beige trousers. The waist is high, which Sam can see because Sage has tucked a short sleeve button up into it. This ones olive green. He looks like he should not be in this city. He should be in a city but definitely not this one. Maybe Milan, Sam thinks.

     Which is not what Sam's first thought should be when he sees Sage. That he looks like he's a model. No, it should be some kind of snarky remark about how his arms barely fill out that shirt. But that would be a lie. The cuffs of his sleeves sit snuggly against his biceps.

     "Hey," Sage says like he has no idea about Sam's internal turmoil. "She's not here yet?"

     Sam shakes his head, lifting his cup to his mouth and drinking till he stops thinking about the tops of Sage's feet, which he can see because he's wearing these canvas loafer-slippers. Sam is distinctly dressed for comfort in shorts and a crewneck. And he has a haircut scheduled for Thursday, which he desperately needs because his hairs hanging over his forehead, getting into his eyes and the fade on the sides is fully opaque now.

     "Sam?" Sage repeats when Sam fails to respond.

     "Yeah, no, she's not here yet," Sam says quickly.

     Sage takes the seat beside him on a bench outside her door. It's a small bench and they're close enough that Sam can smell his cologne. It's strong, overpowering Sam's senses for a second. Not because Sage has drenched himself in it, but because it's the kind of cologne that makes you acknowledge it once before it melts away. It hits heavy but then dissipates into something sweet and floral.

     It's not a scent Sam's not used to. He's pretty sure Sage has always worn this same cologne. But every time Sam smells it, it's like smelling it for the first time. But then if he catches it anywhere else, it's almost instantaneous how quickly it makes him think of Sage.

     Olekev is down the hallway and waves at them as she comes up. And thank god for that because Sam's getting drunk off of Sage's scent.

     She mutters a winded hello as she unlocks her office and flips the light switch, stepping inside. Her office is a cluttered mess, with lots of books and plants everywhere. She has two very worn in arm chairs on the other side of her desk and the shades over the two windows in the room are drawn up high so that sun makes the dust particles in the air shimmer as they dance.

     After Sage and Sam have seated themselves in the surprisingly comfortable old armchairs and Olekev has righted herself at her desk, she wastes no time delving into the work they turned in. She turns her desktop screen so they can see it as she rolls through her notes. Which are extensive.

     Sam has to reel in his defensiveness so he can take in and absorb her commentary. It half feels like a pop quiz because she'll make a comment like these numbers don't really line up, do you think there's significance in the percentages you missed? And Sam can't tell if she already knows there is or if she genuinely is just posing the question.

     "I know I'm nitpicking," she says after she's finished. "I'm going to email you both all these notes so you can go over everything. But so far, this is strong work. You're on track. You're actually farther than I thought you would be, which has helped me tremendously."

     Sam preens. A psyche major would say words of affirmation is his love language and they wouldn't be wrong.

     Olekev says, "I think we can postpone the next check in. Not this Sunday night but send me what you get done next week. And instead, why don't you guys free your Friday night. There's a benefit I have to show my face at. You both can join me. Most of Wall Street will be there."

     Her words cause an immediate cold sweat to break out on Sam's skin. It's Tuesday evening, so most shops are closed, which gives him the next two days to either rent a suit or find something in a thrift store that doesn't look like it's been thrifted that also fits. Or if he can find something tomorrow he may be able to rush to get it fitted.

    Sam has been going to these events since he was a Freshman and he thought about buying investing in one expensive suit but his body has changed so much in three years it wouldn't have mattered if he had. He's gained weight, lost it, redistributed it. So it wasn't feasible to own something expensive. But he's survived this long off of thrift purchases. Because he usually has more than three days notice.

     Olekev pauses, her gaze locking on him. "Sam, you look horrified. You're not excited? This'll be a good opportunity for post-grad employment."

     Sage turns to look at Sam questioningly, so he neutralizes his face and says, "Yeah, no, this is great. I'm looking forward to it."

     It is great and he is looking forward to it. He may have to show up naked but come hell or high water he's going to be in an attendance. Because the alternative would be letting Sage possibly secure a job before him. And yeah, he'd rather blow all his savings on an expensive suit first.

❧

     Sage is waiting outside Sam's door. Has been waiting for a few minutes now, but is also refusing to knock. It had only seemed logical for them to Uber together since they're both going to same place uptown and in the midst of a high-traffic hour.

     Sam pulls the door open and Sage startles and then Sam startles and they both stand there. Staring. Neither of them saying anything, just sizing each other up.

     "Ready?" Sage asks quickly, flushing, wondering why it sounds like he's taking Sam on a date. Sam who's dressed head to toe in black, in a suit that's been tailored for him. There's a gold collar pin at his neck, this thin bar connecting the two starched edges, while a thin chain scoops below it.

     "Uh, yeah, that's kind of why I opened the door," Sam remarks easily, stepping around Sage. His door slams, knocking Sage out of his daze, and he turns following Sam down the hallway.

     It's not the first time Sage is seeing Sam in a suit. They've been attending events since Freshman year but this suit is expensive and fits Sam in a way even Sage can't ignore. Sam's hairs been cut, a fade on the sides and the top's swept back with product that makes it look wet and wavy.

     If Sam were someone else, Sage would tell him he looks good (because he does) but he's not someone else. He's Sam. So Sage says nothing, getting into the elevator with a resigned sigh.

❧

     Enclosed spaces with Sage are becoming increasingly problematic for Sam. Especially a freshly-showered Sage who smells so good it hurts. Sam thinks it wasn't this difficult when they were at odds but now that he can't rest on his hatred there's nothing but un-hatred left, the opposite of hatred, the thing that teases at his throat, the thing that bobs in his chest saying I want, I want, I want.

❧

     The event is at a hotel in Midtown. It's not far but the traffic tacks on ten minutes to their drive. Ten extra minutes in an Uber with Sam who's been disconcertingly quiet, who keeps fidgeting with his suit like he's not used to wearing one, checking the sleeves, pressing at the lapels. It's very distracting.

     So finally Sage goes, "Can you stop?"

     "Stop what?" Sam snaps, his tone finding an edge like it's bred there.

     "Fidgeting."

     "I'm—," Sam pauses, looking down at his hands that are futzing with the button on his jacket. "Shut up."

     Sage has never noticed Sam acting nervously before. Admittedly, he's not a great socializer but he does okay. Sage can tell it's an act, has seen the veil drop into place, knows exactly what to say to get it to lift. If he's really thinking about it, then, yeah, he gets to see probably the realest version of Sam. No, wait, not a version. He gets the true Sam, and everyone else gets a version of him. He does it with such ease that Sage never thought about the nerves that must have forced him to start.

     Sam says, "Do you think you put on enough cologne? Or did you bring the bottle with you for touch ups?"

     "Fuck off, Sam."

     "Gladly," Sam snaps. "But I fear I may suffocate before we get there and get the chance to."

     Sage hasn't forgotten how well animosity fits them, but he certainly didn't need the reminder, either.

❧

     Sam can't split off from Sage soon enough. They get there and they find Olekev, who introduces them to some big names — a market analyst from Bloomberg, a recruiter for JP Morgan, and a senior associate at Oracle. The market analyst, Fiona, is immediately taken with Sage and escorts him to the bar. Olekev makes this face but doesn't say anything. It's fine because Sam likes his odds with two opportunities and does his best schmoozing when Sage isn't there watching him.

     The room is full of important people and rich people and pretty people. And mostly white people. Sam has never felt more out of place than he does now. He always feels out of place at these sort of events. This isn't school-orchestrated, though. So the stakes are higher, the people more influential, and he's starting to feel like the diversity invite.

     He circulates the room, nursing something bitter in his glass. The alcohol has taken the edge off, made it easier for him to grin, to say funny shit he'd never think of sober. People are leaning into him, cackling at his jokes. A guy from Merkle gives him his number so he's definitely got at least one possible interview in the works.

     Everything's going great till he and Sage's paths cross. Sage creeps into his group slowly, and he's got the kind of magnetic energy that immediately turns the tide towards him. Everyone kind of shifts to let him in and give him their attention. Everyone, except Sam, who turns to glare at him.

     Sage is beside him but is deliberately not looking at him as he shifts closer, his arm pressing against Sam's. Sam frowns, wanting to move away, but he's stuck because there's someone to his right and a senior investment banker from Moelis is telling a story about how he accidentally sold shares that doubled his client's bottom line. He's telling the story in a way that leaves you hinged on every word and he's got a flow that Sam's not about to break, not even to put some space between him and Sage.

     Moelis finishes his story and someone in the group, a girl from Wharton asks him what he would have done if he hadn't made a profit. While she's speaking Sage shifts, running his hand up Sam's back. Sam flinches, going rigid, but doesn't say a word. Doesn't break his gaze from the Wharton girl.

     Sage's hand is at the back of his neck now, and he feels the scratch of paper. His heart hammers in his chest. Sage's fingers run along the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. He tucks the tag back in without a word, removes his hand like it was nothing, turns his gaze and follows up with a comment to the Wharton girl about risk or reward or something that Sam doesn't hear.

     Sam's whole head is on fire. His whole head. He tries to put it out but there's nothing but a sip left in his glass. He manages one, two — exactly seven seconds before he excuses himself, stepping back and out of the circle.

     Mortified. He's mortified. That's what the feeling is. Coupled with what, the ghost touch of Sage's fingers? He's never felt that before. He never wants to again. (He wants to again.)

❧

     Sam is avoiding Sage. Sage is sure of it.

     When they got there, after putting in the obligatory time with Olekev, they'd split up to do their own thing. It didn't feel like Sam was avoiding Sage then. It felt like they were just giving each other space to make their impressions without one of them stepping on the other's toes. But Sam is definitely dodging him now. Every circulation around the room that brings them into the same group, Sam finds a reason to duck out.

     Sage has also noted he's nursing his fifth or sixth glass. He's seen Sam drunk before, knows how it looks on his face, how it warms his eyes. They go from looking like the moss to the bark on the same tree. This gradient effect that if you watched close enough you'd catch transitioning like the sun sinking into the skyline. This thing that you know happens gradually but if you look away for an instance you can miss.

     Sage wasn't trying to... He wasn't trying to hurt Sam when he'd walked over. He'd been standing a few feet away with an Emma from Columbia and a Guinevere from Princeton and a Yates (yes, a Yates) from Harvard.

     If Sage hates anything, it's that he has to be around people like this and pretend to like it. Pretend to enjoy their company. Pretend to sympathize when they lament the current administration and the proposed taxation on the higher tax brackets. If Sage hates anything it's being liberal in a group of shameless rich assholes.

     Which is why when Guinevere bursts into laughter and points across the room at Sam before she says, "Why is his tag fully hanging out of that jacket?" Sage has to actively remind himself where he is and how he's supposed to be acting. But the disdain and judgement in her voice makes him bristle.

     "Oh my god," Emma mutters covering her mouth. "You don't think he's going to like...return it, right?"

     Yates laughs loudly. "He looks like a scholarship kid. So probably."

     Guinevere says, "Affirmative action will get you the education but not the wardrobe to match it."

     Sage has never felt boiled down rage like this before. This isn't even a reaction Sam's unearthed in him and Sage likes to think Sam exclusively is the only person who can get under his skin. But evidently he's wrong. Except maybe they haven't gotten under his skin. They've gone somewhere deeper, somewhere he didn't know existed in him.

     So when he says, "I hope you realize how fucking disgustingly pretentious you all sound" he doesn't even recognize his tone of voice. So cold, so hard, it's like his lungs are full of freon, icing his words as they pass through his mouth.

     Guinevere makes a face of shock like how dare Sage call her out on her bullshit.

     Sage steps close, lowering his voice as he says, "But on the chance you can't hear yourselves with your heads so far up each other's asses, this is me letting you know. And while I'm being candid with you, should any of your applications come across the desk at the Decort Group understand that they actually didn't."

     It's not enough but it's something.

     He turns but then he remembers something else and looks back over his shoulder. "Oh and Yates? You completely butchered your use of perfunctory earlier. Fucking embarrassing."

     Sage had gone over to Sam to save him. Something he admits begrudgingly. And then he has to save him again on the next hour, when Sam's nearing the point of sloppy. He calls their ride first, while doing a round of goodbyes, keeping a close eye on Sam, who's found a table and is slumped in a chair.

     His phone lights up letting him know Antoine is outside waiting for them. He walks over to Sam, thinking he needs to word this just so to avoid a fight with him.

     "Sam," Sage says quietly and Sam looks up and over at him, eyes drooping sleepily. "I got a ride. You coming?"

     He stares at Sage and Sage prays that this will go easy. There's still some important faces around and he doesn't want to make a scene. Sam surprises him, sliding out of the chair as he says, "Yeah but."

     "But what?" Sage asks as he leads the way to the door so thankful he's cooperating.

     "But only because."

     "Because why?"

     "Because because," Sam says and Sage thinks yeah, he couldn't have waited a moment longer to get him out of here. Sam's steps are stilted and Sage has to grab his arm to steady him as they walk down the steps and get to the curb. There's a white Hyundai waiting for them in the line of cars.

     Sage opens the door and says, "For Sage?" Antoine grunts. Sage holds the door and ushers Sam inside and then follows after him. He leans over Sam and rolls the window down, pushing Sam's body up against the door with his shoulder.

     "Keep your head out the window," Sage instructs.

     "You keep your head out the window," Sam retorts feebly, following the instructions anyway.

     Sage laughs, forgetting and then remembering what drunk Sam is like. He thinks of that one night in the elevator, the way Sam had opened up to him.

     He regrets not opening up back. Wonders if he had if things would've been different. Instead of enemies, maybe they'd be commiserated classmates, students with similar interests and goals who studied together and complained about the workload they willingly tasked themselves with.

     It's a quiet ride back to their apartment. When the driver pulls over, Sage gets out and helps Sam out on his side, holding onto his forearm as he walks them inside, towards the elevator. When they step inside, Sam shrugs out of Sage's hold, hitting nearly every button below their floor till he gets to theirs.

     "Seriously, Sam?" Sage mutters.

     Sam leans against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. "Twas an accident," he mumbles.

     Sage's gaze hasn't left Sam, like he needs to watch him to make sure he's really there. It's a shame about the suit, he thinks. Because it's a good look, a good fit on him. Sage hesitates and then goes, "I didn't do it to embarrass you."

      Sam quirks an eyebrow.

     "Your tag was out. People were talking about it. I was trying to help."

     Sam is flushed in the face, which could be the alcohol but could also just be embarrassment. "It's fine," he says slowly. "Don't worry about it."

     "You're going to return it, right? That's why you left it on?"

     Sage knows that Sam doesn't come from money. Not because Sam has expressly said so but because he works like a dog. But he's also pretty certain Sam's on a nearly-full scholarship. Sam has spent every summer here, even though he's not from the city or even this country. He's drawn the conclusion that Sam is on his own here, financially and otherwise. But Sam also works like a dog so he wonders where his money goes. He's not saying he should be able to or even want to afford a suit that expensive. But he is confused why he can't.

     "It's almost 800 dollars so yeah, yeah I'm going to return it."

     "Where does all your money go?" Sage asks because he can't help it, he's curious.

     The elevator has made it to their floor finally, naturally, now that Sage needs more time in this tiny space with Sam. Sam steps into the doorway and stands there so the doors won't close.

     "I don't prioritize and budget for obscenely expensive clothes," Sam responds.

     "I realize that," Sage says quickly. "But Sam, you work a shitton and these apartments aren't expensive. So where does all your money go?"

     Sage is thinking drugs. Not like anything crazy. Aderall so Sam can outperform him in class, maybe even a little cocaine for all the late nights.

     But Sam says, "Home. My money goes home."

❧

     Sam's walking down the hall before Sage can even properly react. He gets to his door, drops his keys, picks them up and tries again, drops them again, goes for another attempt before Sage walks up and takes them away.

     Sam turns, glaring at the boy as he unlocks his apartment door for him and pushes him inside. Sam's apartment is cozy and eclectic. Everything he owns he has either thrifted, purchased through FB marketplace, or found for free on the street. Which means nothing matches. But its homey. It's his home.

     His bed is unmade and there's books in it but he doesn't care, kicking off his shoes at the door before he pads over, stripping as he does. Sage is still in the room, in his small apartment that feels even smaller with him in it.

     He drapes his suit jacket across the back of his couch as he passes it and takes the collar pin out, dropping it on his desk. He looks over when he hears running water and Sage is filling up a glass in the kitchenette. He brings it over, setting it on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. His gaze turns up to Sam, who's unbuttoning his shirt.

     "You good?" Sage asks swallowing so that Sam's eyes are drawn to his neck and his prominent Adam's apple.

     "Yeah, I'm good," he says and it's all he says. It's all he can say. Despite everything that's running through his head. Despite the fact that thing that bobs in his chest is saying stay, stay, stay.