Sam sleeps in.

     He doesn't mean to, and he normally doesn't need an alarm to get him up on time, he just naturally wakes. He does naturally wake, but when he checks his phone, it's nearly ten in the morning. His stomach spikes acid, until he remembers it's the day before Thanksgiving and the American holiday grants him half a week off from classes.

     He lays there, enjoying the feeling of being rested, of waking without anything looming on his schedule. He doesn't have anywhere to be but here.

     The peace lasts all of five seconds before Sage throws open the bathroom door. Actually, it's less of a throw and more of a tentative ease. Still an intrusion. The bedrooms dark, the curtains still drawn, and Sage is back-lit by the bathroom light, looking a little too angelic for the early morning.

     He peaks his head into the room, and Sam watches him, mildly amused, while he squints trying to check if Sam's there, or awake maybe.

     "Do you always stare into people's bedrooms like a creeper, or is that just something you reserve for me?" Sam calls out to him.

     Sage makes a face, which is more comical given the fact his toothbrush is in his mouth. He removes it as he steps backwards into the bathroom. Sam hears the sink running and then Sage returns.

     "Come downstairs and have some breakfast," he tells Sam. It's not an offer of breakfast, not a suggestion or even a request. It's a full command. Sam doesn't argue with him only because he's hungry.

     He slides out of bed, leaning towards the nightstand so he can turn on the lamp that's there.

     "You could say please," he mutters as he gets up and pulls the sheets and comforter back.

     "And miss out on getting that look from you? It's what jumpstarts my morning," Sage retorts as he steps back into the bathroom. Sam hears a door shut and assumes it's the one to his bedroom.

     It's a good morning for Sam. One of the better ones. He feels the most rested he's felt in a while and he's as soft as the sheets he slept in (seriously, rich people go all out on their bedding.)

     He's quick to wash up but then he's not sure if he's meant to meet Sage at the kitchen or if they're going down together. He's uncomfortable with wandering Sage's home without him, so he pushes the door to his room open and walks in on Sage changing.

     "Fuck, sorry," Sam says turning swiftly and nailing himself on the doorframe. He bites down on a groan as he tries to get his body far enough into the bathroom to close the door behind him.

     But Sage has turned towards him, shrugging a shoulder as he says, "It's fine. You ready?"

     Sam is most definitely not ready. Now has the image of Sage in dark gray briefs, bending over, hamstrings fucking pulling like violin strings down the back of his legs, ingrained in his head. And that thing that was so gratefully soft when he woke has just pulled a swift U-turn.

     No because seriously he's not going to get hard at the sight of Sage's legs. This is ridiculous. Yes, the man is beautiful. That's always a been fact and it's been a fact Sam has lived with for three long years without it ever being an issue. It isn't going to be one now.

     "Yeah," Sam says squaring his shoulders as he steps back into Sage's room. "I'm ready."

❧

     Sam is staying in Hudson's room. And Sage hasn't stepped foot in that room since the funeral. And now there's a living, breathing body sleeping in the bed Hudson used to sleep in and Sage didn't get an ounce of sleep last night. He's been stuck in a loop of memories.

     He remembers when Hudson came home for Thanksgiving his sophomore year. Sage was a junior in high school and got out of school early. He was home alone and no one was supposed to be home for hours. His parents were in the city. Calla had play practice.

     So Sage had a boy over. He'd been experimenting for a bit but hadn't come out yet. Hadn't really known what he was going to come out as.

     Hudson didn't catch him with the guy in his bedroom, which was great because that would've been fucking embarrassing. He caught him after, when they were standing at the front door and Sage was kissing him like he was on his last breath and it was life preservation. Hudson had walked in on that, which, still embarrassing, but less embarrassing than what he might've stumbled upon upstairs.

     Sage had just stared at his brother, wide-eyed and speechless. And the boy who's tongue was just down Sage's throat seemed to have lost his ability to use his tongue for any other purpose. So they were all staring in silence.

     And then Hudson said, "Hey, I'm Hudson."

     "Diego," the boy responded, shaking Hudson's outstretched hand.

     "It's nice to meet you," he had said next and then side-stepped the two. "I'll give you guys some privacy."

     Sage, for what it was worth, had managed to school his expression but he was still in a state of shock that kept him quiet. Diego said, "Actually, I was just leaving." He spared Sage a long glance, maybe to see if he would say anything. But he didn't. He just stood there. Confused and embarrassed and a little nauseous.

     Hudson closed the door behind Diego and then turned to Sage, raising an eyebrow questioning.

     "I can explain," Sage said quickly.

     "Okay," Hudson had responded, leaning back against the door.

     Sage was hot all over, feeling sort of dizzy. And he did not have an explanation.

     "Well, can I say something since you're not going to?" Hudson asked. Sage didn't move. Didn't breathe. "He dresses better than you."

     "What?" Sage said with a big breath, confused. "He really doesn't," he added as an aside before saying, "Wait—that's all you have to say?"

      "What else is there to say?"

     "I don't know. You just caught me. You just caught me...well, you know what you just saw."

     Hudson stepped forward, getting into Sage's space. He was shorter than Sage but by no more than a few inches. "Sage. You're my brother. And you're my best friend. I've known you longer than you've known you, okay? Because I remember years of your life you were too young to remember. So while I know you're still figuring things out, there's nothing you could do that would actually shock me."

     "What if I killed a person?"

     "A strong what-if. The sight of your own blood makes you pass out but yeah, if it happened, I'd bury the body and be your alibi."

     "So what you're saying is you knew I was gay."

     Hudson laughed. "But you're not gay, are you? Not fully."

     Sage stood there, thinking and feeling like he had all the room to figure it out. That his brother would believe whatever came out of his mouth next and there would be no judgement and no hate. "I think I like both. I'm attracted to women but I'm also. I'm also attracted to men."

     "Okay," Hudson had said nodding. "So what's Diego, then? Just attraction or are there feelings involved there?"

     "I like Diego. A lot."

     Hudson smiled, clapping Sage on the shoulder. "Then you should probably text him and apologize for getting all weird just now."

     Hudson had always been like that. The best brother to Sage and to Calla. Sage worked to fill those shoes but he often fell short. He wondered if Hudson would've let Calla go to that party, if things would've turned out the same if he'd been around.

     Having Sam in Hudson's room digs up memories that he's spent three years trying to keep buried.

     Sage has been unprecedentedly quiet on their way to the kitchen so he asks Sam in a neutral, almost cordial tone, "Did you sleep okay?"

     Sam side-eyes him. "Yeah, why? Was I not supposed to?"

     "Well, no I just." Sage frowns. It's just proprietary to ask that as a host. And Sage is trying to be a good host. God. Why does Sam make everything so difficult? "You've got dark circles," Sage says finally.

     Sam touches his face with the tips of his fingers, tracing underneath his eye. "Yeah, I think they became permanent after third semester when I didn't sleep for three months straight thanks to fucking—"

     "Cofsky? His class nearly ended me."

     Sam flails, throwing his arms in the air. "Right? The only class that genuinely made me contemplate switching majors."

     "Cause he explained nothing, assigned literally whole textbooks for readings, and then gave you absolutely no clue what was going to be on the exams, of which there were only three for the whole class."

     "Literally set us up for failure. That first exam. I never studied so hard in my goddamn life."

     Sage is laughing now as they walk into the kitchen, thinking back on that class and that semester as a whole. "It's funny cause I really thought you had it. You were always answering questions in his class."

     Sam shoots him a questioning look. "Me? I was convinced you weren't even breaking a sweat for the class. I don't think I ever hated you more."

     "Not at all. I'd resorted to attending the other class by—"

     "Timsen? I went to her office hours. And she was like are you even in my section? And I begged her to help me make sense of that shit. Cofsky taught business like it was organic chemistry."

     "Orgo probably would've been easier to understand," Sage says with a shake of his head.

     "Sorry to interrupt," Sage's father calls out to them from where's standing at the stove. "But I've got omelets going. Sam, why don't you come over here and tell me what you'd like in yours?"

     Sage goes over to the coffee bar and puts a pod in the Nespresso Machine. "Where's mom?" he asks his dad as he gets a mug and drizzles some mocha syrup in it.

     "I think she's on the patio with her paper."

     "Ah," Sage says knowingly and then gets another mug, making his mother's coffee. He grabs creamer from the fridge. She takes straight almond milk in hers but he likes the sweet cream almond creamer.

     Sam's hovering near the island when he finishes and he passes him the mug. "It's for my mom," he says. "Can you bring it out to her? She should be out there." He nods with his chin towards the short hallway off the kitchen where the enclosed patio is.

     "You want me?" Sam asks holding the mug away from him like it's something greater, and bigger than coffee.

     "Yeah?" Sage responds with an easy tone. "I'll make your coffee while you do."

     "Oh, now I'm allowed coffee?"

     He says it just as he's exiting so Sage can't get a response in edge-wise. His dad laughs down at the skillet where he's flipping an omelet.

     "I really am glad I can finally put a face to the infamous Sam," he says sort of to himself.

     "He's not infamous," Sage mumbles as he makes another cup of coffee. He knows Sam isn't picky about the flavor but he only takes a splash of creamer. Knows it because he's seen the sticker on the side of his cups before and not because he pays attention to that sort of thing.

❧

     Sam makes his way to the patio, doing everything in his power not to spill Mrs. Decort's coffee. The patio is more of a sunroom, facing the backyard but enclosed with floor to ceiling glass panes. Mrs. Decort's seated at a bistro table, dressed in the same satin set Sam had seen her in the night before. She has glasses balanced on the end of her nose and she's squinting at the paper in her lap. She reminds him of Sage in this moment. They both do that squinty thing.

     When Sam steps out onto the porch, the floorboards creak and she startles, looking up and over at him before she smiles in greeting. "Morning Sam," she says sitting up. She folds her paper once and sets it on the table. "Did you sleep well?"

     "I did, thank you," Sam says, his tone reserved, as he walks over. "Sage made you coffee."

     She hums, reaching out for the mug. For the briefest moment Sam imagines accidentally spilling it on her. His brain plays out the scenario. Coffee so hot she gets a bad burn, like that woman who burned herself on McDonald's coffee and sued. She'd end up in the ER and Sam would be blacklisted from Wallstreet.

     "I'm sorry we didn't get to properly meet last night," she says as she sets the mug down in front of her.

     "No, no, it's okay," Sam says quickly. "It was late and you were busy, obviously."

     "I don't normally work that late," she says and it feels like a comment not meant for Sam. Sam isn't apt to believe it, considering she runs her own company and he understands (and respects) the amount of work that must take.

     "No?" he asks curiously.

     "Well, I prefer not to, I should say," she rectifies. "It's important to have work-life balance. I keep telling Sage this but it means nothing if I don't practice it myself."

     "But what if your work is you life?" Sam asks before he's thought it through. A bit candid, he thinks.

     She smiles softly at Sam. "You're exactly as Sage described."

     Sam frowns and responds, "That doesn't sound good." She laughs, tipping her head back. It's not Sage's laugh. It's unreserved, belting from deep within her chest.

     "It wasn't bad," she says when she's dwindled it down to some sparse noise. "You're passionate. Sage says you're an unending tank. You never hit empty."

     Something catches in Sam's throat. He doesn't know what it is. A cluster of feelings. Sage has complimented him to his parents? He doesn't know what to do with that.

     Mrs. Decort is staring at him, reading him like he's not a person but a set of numbers she can rearrange and rework to find the answer. He tries to hide it but he doesn't know what he's hiding. If he knew, he could maybe put it away.

     Her expression softens and she says, "So how were your midterms? Sage was a wreck last week."

     "Was he?" Sam didn't think so. He'd been with him a few days last week. They'd attempted to hack at the last of their Olekev assignments but they'd mostly spent it studying and sleeping. Sage never looked wrecked. His eyes were always bright and sparkly, just like the rest of him. Sam wanted to see this wrecked version of Sage. Wanted to be the one to do the wrecking.

     "Oh, you boys are funny," Mrs. Decort says even though she doesn't laugh this time. She says it quietly, like an aside. Sam suspects he's not really meant to hear it all.

     He decides to ignore it. "Midterms were stressful but I kind of enjoy it."

     "Enjoy being stressed?"

     Sam nods. "Gives me something to focus on. I like having an endgame."

     "And what is the endgame?" she asks her tone actually curious. It's a serious question.

     "Honestly?" Sam asks. "Endgame is secure a job before graduation that'll sponsor a work visa."

     "You're from Azerbaijan," she says, pronouncing it perfectly. "And your family's all there?"

     He nods. "They are, yeah."

     "That must be lonely for you," she says. "It's remiss this is the first time you've come to stay with us."

     "Well Sage and I aren't exactly—," Sam halts and Mrs. Decort raises an eyebrow curiously. He was going to say friends but now he's not entirely sure that's true. Are they friends? "Well, we weren't exactly—," he stops again.

     Shouldn't she know this? he thinks. Hasn't Sage told his parents about how much he hates his guts.

     Her mouth quirks like something he's said is comical. "You and Sage are in the same boat, I see," she says finally.

     He feels like he's missing something but also that Nora Decort is not missing a thing.

     She tilts her chin, looking past Sam. "Speaking of, morning Sage."

     "Speaking of?" Sage calls as he walks up behind Sam. Sam can feel the heat of him but he doesn't move, doesn't flinch, because Sage's mom is still staring and she knows something. Or she thinks she does. Sam isn't ready to put words to it, doesn't think he'll ever be, and decidedly prefers to live with willful ignorance. Which he can't maintain when Nora Decort is staring at him like that.

     "All good things," she says with a wink at Sam.

     He feels like he's having an outer body experience. Mrs. Decort and him have an inside joke, apparently, one which he's completely missed. She's teasing him. That's an overtly friendly thing to do with a stranger who also happens to be her son's arch-nemesis.

     Sage leans into Sam's side and that's not helping. He has to clench to keep himself from doing a whole body flinch. Sage swings his arm around his chest, holding a mug out in front of him.

     All the while, Nora's staring at them, watching the whole exchange. Sam has no choice but to take the mug and his hand overlaps Sage. If this was happening in either of their apartments, he wouldn't really think anything of it. They've broken the touch barrier. Brushing hands doesn't have a huge effect on his heart rate anymore.

     But Sage's mom is watching it happen and he wants to jump away, put a distance between them. He wants to make a snarky remark. He's a dog feeling cornered and he needs to bite. He doesn't quite understand why he feels cornered, or why Nora's expression concerns him, just that it does.

     "Thanks," he mutters finally, pushing the word out in a huff.

     Thank god for Mr. Decort who steps out on the porch, loudly pronouncing, "Breakfast is served."

     He's cradling a platter on the palm of one hand like a server. There are plates and cutlery in the other. Sage turns toward him and takes the platter, walking it over to the table his mom's seated at.

     "Where's Calla?" Sam asks as he glances around everyone.

     "Sleeping no doubt," Nora answers. "I heard her up all night watching Grey's Anatomy."

     "A timeless classic," Dash remarks as he sets out the plates. He uses a fork to drag one of the omelets onto a plate and then turns towards Sam. "Here you are, Samwise."

     Sam takes the plate, his expression confused. "Samwise?" he asks, moving towards the seat next to Nora that she's gesturing for him to take.

     "Lord of the Rings," Sage says with an inflection in his tone. Sam tilts his head, still confused. "You've never seen Lord of the Rings?" Sage asks next and then looks to his father. "He's never seen Lord of the Rings."

     "Oh lord," Nora says quietly, sending Sam a look that says sorry.

     "Well I guess that's the Thanksgiving mission," Dash says sitting on the other side of Sam. Sage takes the seat across from him and its a strange dynamic. He thinks it would probably be strange sitting next to Sage, too, but this somehow feels worse. He's acutely aware of every inch of his body, folding his legs, one over the other and trying to take up as little space in the chair as he can.

     "Is that a movie or something?" Sam asks, hating that he doesn't know. Hating that Sage knows. Hating that Sage is winning this one.

     But what he hates the most is that Sage realizes it. And is actually swooping in to save him.

❧

     Sam looks distressed and Sage knows he's made a mistake.

     He's put it together kind of slowly, that Sam must be uncomfortable being in his house and being around his parents. Especially his mom, who Sam highly regards. He knows Sam likes to be in control. Being a guest in his house puts him at a disadvantage. Sage should make it easier on him.

     That's why he changes the subject. Because it's what a good host would do. Not because he particularly cares for Sam or Sam's feelings.

     "So you wanna take the rest of the morning," Sage says directly not answering Sam's question. Sam gives him this funny look but doesn't say anything about the non sequitur. "And we can start working at like two, I guess?"

     "What do you mean start working?" Dash asks glancing between Sam and Sage. "It's your break."

     Sage's parents are both big believers of balance. They've always been like this, emphasizing that one shouldn't make their work their life, but after Hudson they'd cracked down on Sage, constantly monitoring his behavior with school. If Sage said got tired and complained about school, they were quick to tell him to take a semester off if he needed it. He appreciated where they were coming from but sometimes he just wanted them to acknowledge how hard he was working and tell him to keep going.

     They were never going to do that. Not after Hudson. They hadn't held Hudson to the standard he'd held himself, but they hadn't stopped him, either. Sage thinks they'll always carry that burden, the blame, even if its undeserving. You can't stop someone from self destructing.

     Sage offers them an easy-going grin, hoping to convey it's fine, I'm fine, I'm not overdoing it. 

     Before he can answer, Sam goes, "We've just got a little work for Olekev to finish up. It's why I'm here."

     Dash and Nora both look concerned, glancing between the two boys. Sam lifts his gaze to Sage's across the table. "Didn't you tell them that?"

     Sage starts to speak but stops. Dash rubs at his head, mulling over what Sam's said. It's Nora who brings things back. "Olekev's certainly working you two hard."

     "She is," Sage agrees quickly. "But she wants to move into the second phase of her research next semester, so everything we've been working on needs to get wrapped up."

     "So you're working through the holiday," Dash responds frowning. He stares at Sage and they exchange some silent remarks. Sam watches the way the color creeps up Sage's neck.

     "Yeah, but not the whole break," Sam quickly interjects, swooping in to save Sage for reasons he's actively choosing not to examine. "I need to see what this Lord of the Rings business is about."

     "You should take him up to Bear Mountain," Nora suggests pointing her fork at Sage.

     Sam's eyebrows go up. "You said you didn't hunt," he snaps at Sage, kicking him under the table.

     "Hey, ow." He winces, pulling his legs out of reach. "We don't. It's a ski slope."

     "Oh," Sam says, voice deflating. "Huh. I don't know how I feel about escapading through the snow in an area that's got bear in its name."

     "They've got bunny hills," Sage says most unhelpfully.

     "Yeah, great, a bear's favorite snack," Sam mumbles.

     "So it's settled," Nora says, ignoring the exchange. "Wake your sister. I'm sure she'll join you."

     Which is how Sage ends up driving thirty minutes to the ski slopes he's frequented all his childhood. Calla's taken the backseat, situating herself before Sage had even gotten outside. He'd had to unearth ski clothing for Sam. There was only a few boxes of Hudson's clothes left in his closet. When Sage had lifted the lid, he'd been hit with potent olfactory memory. Underneath the stagnancy was Hudson, his cologne or body wash or just natural odor. It had winded Sage.

     And Sam had noticed, glancing at his rigid body. "You okay?" he asked quietly. "Cause I can go in jeans."

     "You'll freeze," Sage had said coming back to himself. He'd made quick work of going through the box, unearthing some ski clothes.

     Now Sam's beside him in the passenger seat, smelling like Sam, warm and peppery, and faintly of Hudson. And Sage is white-knuckling the steering wheel. Trying very hard not to be emotional. it's been three years. He's gotta move on. He's gotta be okay with his memories by now.

     And because Sam is Sam, he shoots Sage a withering look and goes, "Surprised you even know how to drive pretty boy."

     Sage makes a face, but Sam's comment puts him at ease. The criticism in his tone is welcomed. "So you think I'm pretty?" Sage asks his tone too flirty for their current company of Calla. But he needs the normalcy of fighting with Sam.

     Sam huffs, shifting his body towards the passenger window. Yes, Sage thinks smiling out against the open road in front of him. This is exactly what I needed. He resigns himself to letting Sam's presence ground him.

❧

     Sam wasn't built for skis. Sage was though.

     It's a white thing, he thinks, to be good at skiing. Because Calla is, too. She's actually better than Sage. Moving through the snow like an angel gliding on air. If Calla were Sam's sister, he'd maybe have to lock her in a tower.

     Sometimes he's glad he's not around his own sisters because that urge to protect runs through him strong. And even though Calla is nobody to him, that hot streak in his chest that has him glaring at any guy that keeps his eyes on her for too long is burning on high heat.

     Because Calla, like Sage, is beautiful. In a very obvious, very universal sort of way. It's not something you can overlook. Especially now, in what Sam thinks is an entirely too fashionable a choice of clothing for skiing. He keeps looking at Sage as if to say do you see your sister? Her pants are skintight.

     But if Sage notices, he doesn't care.

     "Well I'm going up to the top. Have fun on the baby slopes," Calla says, slugging Sage in the arm before she turns away for the lift line.

     Sam has decided he cannot look at Sage in this lighting. The sun's reflecting off of the snow and Sage has the hood of his coat up, the fur lining his face like a halo. Stupid pretty Decort's. Sam's over it and the day hasn't even started.

     "So I have no idea how to ski," Sam says finally. It's tough to admit but there's no getting around that fact.

     Sage is staring at him and Sam's avoiding his gaze, looking down at his gloved hands. "Come on," he says finally and pushes past him, leading them towards a group of children. It's a ski lesson and Sage drops him off there like he's his kid, stepping back with the parents to watch.

     Sam is surprisingly adept. He's ice skated before, and while it isn't the same, he did pick that up easily. It helps, he thinks, that he's fairly active. It takes him a few lessons with the instructor before he gets the mechanics down and then he's able to take the small slopes with ease.

     Sage watches him the whole time, which only makes him try harder. If to prove some point. The anything you can do I can do better point. Sam thinks he'll spend his whole life trying to best Sage. And it'd be a good life. He would not regret his choices. (He does think that he could spend his life doing other things with Sage than besting him but he shoves that thought into the snow because just no. No.)

     "You're pretty good," Sage says when they finish the hill a fourth time. Sam can tell Sage is bored by it. He wonders why he's sticking with him when he could go off to ski with Calla. Sam has enough to skill to be on his own now.

     "Yeah?" Sam asks thoughtlessly looking up at Sage. They've both pushed their goggles out of the way and in this light Sage's eyes are frosted glass, so sharp and icy blue. It's too late to check himself, to pull back on the need for validation in his voice.

     If Sage notices, he doesn't give it away. Instead, he suggests they try the intermediate slope. "You're gonna have to drop onto it from the lift," he adds, an inflection in his words that asks is that okay?

     Sam might have just put on skis for the first time forty-five minutes ago, but he's ready to drop onto a hill and slide down it. Cause that's basically what skiing is, right. It's like sledding but you're standing. And anyway he's not going to back down from a challenge.

     "Cool, let's do it," he says and pushes ahead of Sage to lead the way towards the lift. It's the most stilted walk of his life. He hasn't quite figured out the mechanics of walking with skis on his feet.

     So Sam didn't actually think this through because now he's suspended in the air beside Sage. There's very little space between them, their arms and legs pressed against each other's and when Sam turned to look at him while they were talking a minute ago, he could see the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes. That's a level of detail he absolutely never needed.

     "We're jumping soon, you ready?" Sage asks blowing warm onto Sam's face. His breath is hot. Sam bets his mouth is, too.

    "Sam?" Sage raises an eyebrow as he nudges him.

     "Yeah, yeah, I'm ready," Sam says as they whiz past a sign that tells them to prepare to drop. Sage pushes their safety bar over their heads.

    Sage is saying something about moving out of the way after they drop but Sam's distracted himself with the whole thought of what his mouth must taste like and one second Sage is there beside him and the next he's on the ground and Sam was supposed to drop off, too. Sage is looking up at him, yelling something he can't hear because he's getting too far away. He's got his hands in the air, pressing them palms out. Sam thinks he's trying to say just stay there.

     Fucking Sage, man, this is all his fault, he thinks bitterly before he decides fuck it and jumps. Which is a terrible freaking idea.