Sage doesn't always want to cry this much, it's just an as of late sort of thing. And airports during the holidays are bleak. They're packed with people, it's cold out, the windows are frosted, he's wearing too many layers inside, so he's sweating, and Sam's leaving.

     He's coming back. He knows that. But he's also leaving, and Sage has to pretend that he's fine, that this is nothing, that he's not going to miss him. And he doesn't know if he should kiss him before he goes, or if they can hug, or what's the protocol because they're not dating, except for when they're around his parents, which they aren't right now. They're alone and Sam's leaving.

     Sam shifts his bag and glances behind him. He doesn't say anything. For an unbearable second, Sage thinks maybe he's going to miss him, too. But then Sam says, "There's a time difference, so just keep that in mind if you wanna reach out about any research."

     What does that even mean? Sage thinks. The research? They're caught up till the semester starts. Unless Olekev sends out any early tasks. But that hasn't happened yet, so why the preemptive consideration? Unless Sam is saying something else. Unless Sam is giving him permission to talk to him while they're apart.

     Apart. They've spent summers not seeing each other before. Before Sage knew what Sam tasted like, what he sounded like, what he felt like under him and over him and inside of him. Yeah, before. Maybe he always missed Sam. He just didn't know what he was missing till now. It was a silent missing that he's suddenly turned the volume up on; the bass vibrating through his chest, disrupting his heart's rhythm.

     Sage nods. It's been too long and Sam's flushing. It's warm in the airport soit must be that. "Yeah, okay, no problem."

     Sam blinks. "Well thanks again. For the tickets. I'll see you when I get in, I guess."

     Sage is thinking about it. He is thinking about grabbing the collar of his coat, and pulling Sam in, kissing him hard, pushing his breath into his mouth like an airbag, like a three-car pile up, chaotic and maybe even deadly.

     He's thinking about it and thinking about it and willing himself to just do it. Fuck the consequences. He needs something to cling to while Sam's gone and he's decided on his mouth because it's the closest he can get in an airport.

     "You're gonna meet me, right..." Sam is saying, sounding confused. "When I get in?"

     "Yeah, no, yeah," Sage says quickly, snapping out of it. Fuck. He is full of wanting and he's been staring at Sam's mouth for too long. "JFK Monday morning."

     Sam nods, looking uneasy. Sage says, "You're coming back."

❧

     To you, yes, Sam thinks. Because I'm not exactly finished with you just yet, Sage Decourt.

     There's a moment before Sam turns and walks away that feels incomplete. He says goodbye but he's also saying I'll see you soon and I'm going to miss you and don't forget about me and I hope you feel it, too.

     I hope you feel it, too. That one. Sam hopes he feels the same sinking desperation, the wanting and yearning for something bigger than just goodbye, for one last taste of his mouth, hot and wet and open so Sam can slip his tongue across his palate and they can share one last secret before he goes.

     Sam doesn't know what this feeling is but it's blooming in his chest, unfurling like a cat, clawing at his ribs like it may slip between the cracks. He feels hot all over, black spots cutting his vision. He is a ghost moving through the airport. Finds himself at TSA with no memory of getting there.

     The woman patting him down asks him if he's okay. He always get the pat down and the sweat drenching the front of his tee shirt probably isn't helping.

     He finds her gaze, unnecessary concern in her expression. "I hate flying," he says because it checks out.

     She nods and mumbles a you'll be okay.

     Will Sage be okay without him? What if he meets somebody, creates something real in this small amount of time they're apart. What if Sage decides what they're doing, whatever it is, isn't actually doing anything for him anymore.

     Sam wants more but he's afraid Sage will want even less.

     He goes through the process of waiting, and then boarding in a daze, checking his phone a ridiculous amount of times like Sage would have anything to say, any reason to text him. He should be excited. He's going home. He's going to see his family whom he hasn't seen in too long. But he already misses Sage.

❧

     Sage will be spending the whole weekend thinking almost exclusively of Sam, and Sam only. The is just the sort of hell he'd be condemned to.

❧

     Sam's crying before he's even passed the threshold and is in his mother's arms. And she's saying, "I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming," uttering the words like a prayer, like she wishes she was. In a dream anything can happen. You can be anywhere. A minute can last a moment and a moment can exist forever. Dreams are unbound by relativity and time. Sam's dreaming, too.

     And he hasn't in a long time. Dreamed. He hasn't wanted anything besides the necessities, the most tangible of wants, things well within his reach except maybe the one thing. Except maybe two things, now, actually, he thinks and then swallows it. One thing. A job in the states to keep him there. He has learned not to ask the world for more than the least he can accept. Ask for very little and hope when the hand pours it can fill that one demand.

     "How are you here?" Sam's mother asks in their native tongue. He hasn't spoken Azerbaijan in too long that it feels more foreign than native when he tells her it doesn't matter, I'm here.

     His mother is a short woman, a frame composed of long, soft strokes. Everything within the lines is sharp. Her pointed nose, and slanted eyes, thick dagger-like eyebrows. She is round hips and thighs, and an even rounder chest, shoulders hanging low. Her hair is black and cut blunt past her ears, parted down the middle, and tucked behind the ears she wears dainty, dangling rubies in.

     She reaches up and cups Sam's face between her chubby hands. He can feel the calluses on her palms. They're citrus-stained and make his eyes water. "You're too thin," she says immediately. "Come. Come inside. Your sisters will be home soon."

     "Where are they?" he asks. "I'm not too thin," he adds.

     "You're not eating enough," she says shaking her head. She's pulling him into their kitchen. It is as cozy as he remembers and smells of fresh linen. There's a balcony off of the room. Floral sheets flap in the wind, hanging from her clothesline. "They're at the market. Come, sit."

     She pulls a chair out at the kitchen table, and then raises the plaid towel draped over a ceramic bowl. Honey rolls. It is not a request to eat, Sam knows and takes the seat, reaching for one. He could gorge himself on these rolls and has. They're baked from scratch, a recipe his grandmother passed down to Zahar.

     She sits down across from him and grabs his free hand, holding it between hers. She turns it around and pats the back. "My son," she says, choked up.

     "I missed you," he says earnestly. "I've missed you very much."

     She leans down, kisses his hand and then squeezes it. "How are you here, Sam? Truly."

     "Classes are on a break," he says. "I had some time off from work."

     "Was it very expensive? The flight?"

     Sam swallows too large a bite, and inhales, hocking the chewed piece back up and then gulping it down again. "It was a gift," he tells her. "From a friend."

     She looks at him sincerely. "That is a very large gift."

    "Hm," Sam says with a slight shrug. "I doubt he saw it that way."

     "Who he?" she asks. "You never speak of friends."

     "He's not really a friend, I suppose," he responds and then stops because he's not sure what Sage is to him anymore and even if he thought he knew, he can't tell his mother that.

     There's something warm against his cheek and it's his mother hands, her palm pressing into the hollow as she tilts his head up to look at her. "Why are you crying?" she asks. "What is it, Sameer?"

     She drags her chair closer, close enough to pull Sam towards her. He is a giant in comparison to his mother, but she cradles him to her chest like an infant, rubbing his back. "Tell me what's wrong, Sameer. Tell your mother."

     It's the permission he's been needing and his words release from him like a bubble, wet and ready to burst, "I love him." She stills and he pulls away quickly, saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I know and I'll stop,"—he pushes the tears away from under his eyes, wiping at his face—"I'll stop."

     She shakes her head. "You can't stop. That's not how it works."

     "I would stop for you," he says, pleadingly.

     "Why would you do that for me? I would not ask that of you."

     "Because," he says but has to pause and swallow down all of his saliva. "Because it's wrong."

     "Is that what you think?"

     Sam's cold all over but his palms are sweating and he's wondering why his mother has not collapsed yet. Her only son — in love with a man. But she sits tall, her question settling between them.

     "No," Sam says firmly. "But you do, don't you? It's haram."

     She reaches out, taking both his hands and holding them between hers as though they both might pray together. Pray for a new son, Sam thinks. A better one.

     "Sameer," she says hoarsely. "My sweet, sweet boy." He's crying again. Only his mother can do this him, summon tears like rain in a drought. "You can do no wrong in my eyes. You can do no wrong in my eyes."

     He lets her hold him again, lets the knitted shawl dry his eyes, feels no shame in any of it. Godly how his mother can do that, too.

❧

     It has been sixteen hours since Sam's left and not that Sage is counting the hours or anything, but he's managed to do nothing particularly productive except incessantly check his phone. Which is not productive, per say, but he's edited a few videos and posted them to his account and responded to some comments. But even that's an effort.

     He's home and his apartment feels empty because he knows Sam's apartments empty. His apartments empty by extension. It's all a bit ridiculous when he thinks about it. He's being ridiculous.

     He orders take out but the act only reminds him of Sam, reminds him of the night they sat on the floor eating Chinese and Sam pressed up against him and kissed him. Reminds him of Sam climbing into his lap, grinding down on him. His mind jumps. Sam just a day ago, bent over, moaning absolutely indecent while Sage fucked him so slow the feeling had enough time to settle in his bones. It's still there now, so potent he's hard and hardly has the self control not to touch himself.

     So he doesn't not touch himself, reaching for his phone, running the first porno that seems passable as he gets his hand on himself. His thoughts, memories, have keyed him up and he knows this isn't going to be very good, or all that satisfying, so he's making it a quick thing, thrusting up into his fist, rubbing his thumb over the top to move his precum down his length. He could use some lube but he's not about to reach for it and draw this out further.

     He's coming when he gets Sam's FaceTime call, and that inconsequential orgasm is suddenly this big thing, hitting him like a wave. He misses him. He misses him so fucking much and it's been a long day. There's still more days like this to go.

     He's made a mess but he's not about to not answer Sam's call, so he tugs his sheets over himself, the fabric clinging to his wet dick, and wipes his hand because he's going to have to change them now, anyway.

     He answers, biting back a grin. Its Sam so clearly on the other end, messy brown waves in need of a haircut, bright green eyes, bloodshot so even greener, with dark shadows under them so even brighter. Sam is all contrast. Sage wants to take a screenshot and paint this photo of him.

     "The timezones got me fucked and since you're the one who sent me here," Sam's saying before the calls even fully started. He pauses, finally looking at Sage and goes, "Oh, I really woke you."

     "Huh? No, I was up," Sage says, shifting to sit up a bit. The sheet slides down some and he's reminded of how wet things are under it. His dick twitches, ready for a round two.

     "You're in bed," Sam says and then lower, "and you're naked."

     Sage flushes, because he is but Sam can't possibly know that. "I have pants on," he says pointedly.

     Sam eyes him. "Prove it."

     "Alright, fuck off," Sage snaps and Sam laughs, loudly, before he covers his mouth and stifles it.

     "Everyone's asleep," he says as explanation. "I'm in the kitchen."

     "Let me see," Sage says, moving a pillow behind him so he can sit up. His pecks are taking up most of the screen and if he's noticing it then Sam's definitely noticing. He reaches for the throw blanket at his feet and drapes it over himself.

     Sam whines in protest and says, "I preferred the other view."

     Sage flushes, rolling his eyes as a cover. "Let me see your kitchen."

     "Weird kink but okay." He flips the camera and circles the room.

     "Too fast," Sage says so he turns the phone back and goes again, slower.

     There's an empty chair across from Sam, with a shawl draped over it. Glass doors and a balcony, macramé curtains he thinks were handmade. He can see the break of dawn, the sun lighting the tops of houses. Dark cherry wood cabinets and an ornate tile backsplash of yellow and blue. Large basin sink, lots of fruits, some hanging from underneath the cabinet.

     "Had enough?" Sam asks, flipping the screen back.

     "Not nearly, show me your room," Sage responds.

     "I don't have a room," he says. "I stay on the couch."

     Sage nods. "Your sister took it when you moved here?"

     "I was always on the couch. My sisters share one room, moms in the other. It just is, Sage, so please don't look at me like that."

     "I'm not looking at you like anything," he says and he means it. If Sam's reading anything in his expression, it's a projection of how he thinks Sage should be reacting to this news. "Is that why you have such terrible posture?"

     Sam's mouth gapes but only for a moment before he barks back, "My posture is excellent. You're the one always slouching." This is why Sage had said it. An insult will always return them to normalcy.

     "I do not slouch."

     "You're right," Sam says nodding. "You laze in a very French model sort of way."

     Sage bats his lashes. "You think I look like a model, Sam?"

     "Alright, fuck you, you know what I meant."

     "I really don't. Tell me more about how I look like both greek statue and god."

     "That isn't even close to what I said."

     "But it's what you meant."

     Sam rolls his eyes but he's smiling. So is Sage. "Enough of you. Bye."

     "Goodnight Sam," Sage says no longer grinning, no longer anything but earnest.

❧

     Sam had stopped crying and had cleaned himself up in the bathroom before his sisters got home. He was hovering in the doorway, out of view, as they came in, carrying bags into the kitchen. Their mom was at the stove with several dishes in the prep work.

     "What's with all the food?" Laila had asked, dropping a paper bag onto the table.

     Faizal had felt the shift, looking at their mother curiously. "What is it?"

     "Say hello your brother," she said flippantly over her shoulder, turning chicken breasts on the stovetop.

     "Sam?" Laila had said, confused and then Sam had stepped into the kitchen, catching his sister as she threw herself into his arms. She kissed both his cheeks. Sam had caught Faizal's eye over Laila's shoulder. They hadn't spoken since he came out to her. She pointed a finger at him and mouthed I love you, brother.

     He had let Laila go and embraced Faizal, holding her close, breathing in her smoky scent, like she'd been born in fire. "I'm glad you're here," she'd whispered in his ear. "I do not like how we left things."

     "It was a heavy thing to drop on you," he had told her and she'd pulled away, holding him at arm's lengths.

     "Not heavy," she said definitively. "Never heavy. Not when it comes to you. I would carry all your secrets. I would carry the world for you."

     His sister, it seemed, had received the same power his mother had over him, opening floodgates he didn't even know were brimming. He'd brushed the tears away hastily, not wanting either of his sisters to see him like that.

     "What secrets?" Laila had asked behind him. "What does she know that I don't?"

     "Nothing," Sam had said instinctively. It was instinct to hide, to deny these parts of himself. Something he'd done for so long he didn't even know he was doing it.

     "Tell your sisters, Sameer," his mother said, still not turning away from the stove. She was shoving a tray in the oven now. "You let too much weigh on your soul. You'll end up stuck."

     "I don't know what that means," Sam told her genuinely.

     "It means if you were struck dead right there you wouldn't ascend to heaven," she responded and Sam laughed, muttering, "Well that's morbid."

     "Tell your sisters your truth," she said again.

     "Yes, Sameer, tell us," Faizal said smiling encouragingly.

     Sam was flushing when he said, "I—there's someone. A boy."

     Laila interrupted. "You mean Sage?"

     "Is that his name?" his mother asked, finally turning to look at them.

     "Does mom know that you...?" Faizal asked.

     "You like him, don't you," Laila said. "I totally called that."

     "How is it that you all managed to come out for me in this conversation? And how did you 'totally call that'?" He'd made air quotes.

     "Because he's allll you've talked about for three years," Laila responded. "I was just waiting for you to figure it out."

❧

     Sage has spent the day painting Sam. Will spend most of the night painting Sam. May not stop painting Sam till he sees him again, because this, he thinks, is as close as he can get to him right now.

      This is the closest, he thinks. He'll be to him ever.

❧

     Sam has one day at home and then another day of traveling to get back to the city Monday. He wakes to his mother in the kitchen, the counters covered in fragrant dishes — ful medames, a sort of stew with fava beans and chickpeas with diced tomatoes and herbs on top, shakshuka, Laila's favorite, falafel drizzled with spicy tahini, and a large bowl of hummus topped with olive oil and za'atar with fresh pita. Breakfast was always a big meal but Sam knows his mother has gone a little overboard for his arrival.

     "Eat, my child," she says in their native tongue as she dices big chunks of watermelon and tosses them into a bowl with pomegranate seeds. Sam's mother always said she had eyes behind her head and he still believes it true.

     He hasn't had a homemade meal in years. He fills a plate, not waiting for his sisters, before he tucks into it.

     "Laila sleeps in later and later," she says with a tut. "Always misses breakfast."

     "She's a teenager," he tells her, mouth full of tomato and egg. He shovels another mouthful of eggs and then reaches for the pita, spooning it through the ful medames. He's set to have his stomach explode at this rate.

     "Here," his mom says shoving a cast iron skillet between them in one hand and a spoon in the other. "Have some liver." She scoops some up and tries to drop it on his plate.

     "Oh, I'm good," he says quickly, shifting his plate away from her reach.

     "It's good, it's good for you. Don't be a baby."

     "That is very pointed, mother," he says just as his older sister walks in. "Faizal wants some. Give it to her."

     She holds her robe closed at her neck, shuffling towards his mom in her slippers and picks a piece of the meat out of the skillet, popping into her mouth. "Delicious."

     His mother gives him a look like see. "Hard pass," he says going back to his plate. "So what can I do for you today? Give me a list."

     "No," she says sternly. "No list. Bond with your sisters."

     "I know there's things to get done."

     In the past when he'd visited, few and far between, he'd spent most of the time home repairing leaks, patching mice holes or fixing the roof, doing maintenance on the laundry machines downstairs. He didn't mind doing it, actually wished he was home and could tackle them when the problems presented. He hated that his mother and sisters had to live like this without him.

Check toilet, lots of noise
The electricity, half of mom's room won't turn on
Kitchen sink leaking in cabinet
Dryer not drying

     Sam spends the afternoon tackling the list. 

     The toilet's an easy fix. The water's running because the chain's unhooked from the flapper, so he drains the tank and reattaches it. The base needs new caulking, so he does that, too, and since he's in the bathroom he runs a snake through all the sinks. Both Faizal and Laila have very long, very thick, wavy hair. He's unsurprised when he pulls up birds nests from the pipes.

     He has to go to the hardware store to get a new breaker for the electrical box and some washers for the kitchen sink. He takes the family car, a beaten-up thing with a ridiculous amount of miles on it. He gets oil, transmission, and windshield wiper fluid while he's out. Spends the rest of the afternoon under a jacked car doing maintenance on it. When he's certain the engines not going to seize on them, he checks the tread on all the tires and then fills them.

     His last task is the driers, which is easy enough. The vents need to be cleaned out. The fuzz sticks to his sweat-slick skin. By the time he finishes he feels like he's been tarred and feathered. Faizal and Laila trail him through these tasks so he tries to teach them the basics as he works.

    They bring him a large glass of iced tea with lemon slices and mint leaves courtesy of his mom. He misses lunch, insisting he'd rather work and get everything done. He doesn't hear from Sage through his whole day so he welcomes the distraction.

     Dinner is a sad affair, his departure looming over them. But no one says I wish you would say. They don't even say I wish you could.

❧

     Sage hasn't slept, not properly, since he dropped Sam off at the airport. At first it was the missing Sam but now it's become the painting Sam, an outcome that directly correlates to missing Sam. He's hit inspiration jackpot, with two finished canvases propped against the window drying, another finished on an easel and a smaller piece he's certain he can finish before Sam's plane lands.

     Except Sage almost always loses track of time when he's painting, even worse when it's Sam because its a deeper act than just painting, like cutting open his palms and pressing what's in his heart onto the canvas, a certain exaltation.

     When he checks the time, he is disastrously late. Later then he even thought he could be. He's banking on a delayed landing, banking on customs to do what customs does best, as he grabs his coat and rushes out the door. It isn't until he's settled in a taxi on his way to the airport that he realizes he probably should've changed.

     Maybe Sam won't notice, he thinks. So of course it's the first thing Sam notices when he walks out of the terminal doors and catches sight of Sage leaning against the taxi. Sam stops, dragging his eyes down Sage's body in a very obvious, very provocative way. It ignites something under his skin. His heart does a flourish, a plié, a little performance at the sight of Sam sizing him up.

     "Do you see what you're wearing?" he asks, gesturing with a finger to his paint-stained wife beater and ratty sweat pants. He's in crew socks and ugg slippers. He looks like he could've rolled out of bed but also maybe brushed up against a wall with some fresh street art. He's a mess.

     But he really doesn't care because it's Sam, he's here, right across from him, and Sage has missed him.

     Sam steps closer, reaching out to open his coat and further examine him. "Okay, 8 mile," he says teasingly, grinning.

     So Sage does the thing he couldn't do before, when he was leaving Sam at the airport and not picking him up. He steps away from the taxi, into Sam's space, leaving nothing between them, and when Sam doesn't immediately move back, he ducks his head and kisses him, something light, something that could just be mistaken as hello again.

     Sam leans into it, reaching his hands into Sage's coat so he can cradle his ribcage. Sage opens his mouth, a request, a could you press a little harder the slots between my ribs were made for you (don't be afraid to dig out the cartilage Sam, don't be afraid to hurt me.)

     He bites down on Sam's lip and that's the secret password. Sam cracks with a moan, sliding his tongue into Sage's mouth, drawing it back like the little tease he is. Sage is working his hand up the back of his neck, trying for a handful of hair when the taxi behind him honks. He jolts, jumping away from Sam.

     "Your meters running," the guy calls through the open passenger window.

     Sage can't stop staring at Sam, at his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. He just did that. He just did that in public with absolutely no explanation. He has no explanation for that.

     Sam steps up to him, whispers, "Your chubs showing," followed by a biting kiss on the side of his neck, right under his jaw. He brushes past him, reaching for the door.

     Sage turns and grabs his arm, stopping him. "It's not a chub," he says earning a surprised sound from Sam. He takes his duffle bag from his hand, walking around to the trunk. The driver pops it for him and he drops it in before joining Sam on the other side.

     Once he's seated and they're driving, he notices Sam's gaze hasn't lifted from his lap. He clears his throat, quietly and then a little louder. Sam startles. "We're going to have to take care of that," he says simply, before turning towards the window.

     He furrows his brows at the back of Sam's head. Sage is—

❧

     Hard. Sage is hard and he's here, sitting beside Sam. How's a man supposed to focus with that sort of distraction. Freaking 8 mile showing up in grey sweats and a skin tight tank top, all paint splattered like he'd literally walked from an art studio to the airport. Fuck if Sam wasn't a little hard, too.

     The whole ride he's trying not to think about it. Trying not to think about the bolts of excitement that zig-zagged up his spine as he got off his flight, made his way through customs, and found Sage outside waiting for him. The currents of electricity that sizzled across his skin when Sage pressed his chest up against his and kissed him, all chaste like they'd never done it before. How it was both muscle memory and an outer body experience to put his tongue in his mouth, taste the cool mint of his toothpaste, feel his blood filling his lips and heating his face.

     He's trying not to think about it because it's making him hard. But the outline of Sage's dick in his sweats is burned in the front of his brain. It's all he can see, and think about, and even though it's been the longest flight of his god damn life and he desperately needs a shower, he has to get under Sage first before he can get under a stream of water and some soap. Priorities.

     Sage grabs his bag for him when they get to their apartment and its domestic. It's so damn domestic and doing very little to help with the situation in his pants. They're silent as they wait for the elevator.

     Sam hits their floor, angling his hips mostly away from Sage's eye-line because he is fully bricked up now. Sage clears his throat and says, "Was it weird? That I... I mean we've never really. I'm sorry if I crossed a boundary kissing you like that in public..."

     Sam has no idea what Sage is going on about. His brain is both on fire and melting. And he thinks the only thing that can put it out right now is Sage. He turns to him, pushes himself up on his toes so he can kiss him. Sage is surprised, pulling away, so Sam holds his face and kisses him again, hard, losing his balance. He falls into him. Sage takes a grounding step back and then another, using the wall as support. Sam follows, will always follow, kissing him and kissing him, hands roaming again, down his chest, to what is yes, definitely still hard.

     Sage gets that handful of hair he was looking for earlier, tipping Sam's face upwards so he can suck his bottom lip into his mouth. Sam moans, eyes rolling, and Sage likes that, dragging his mouth over his chin, the scruff of his jaw searing the soft skin of his neck as Sage plants a wet kiss in the hollow of his throat and Sam moans again as the doors open on their floor.

     He circles them, maneuvering Sage in front of him and out of the elevator, kissing him as he does. Sage nearly trips as he back pedals. Sam stops at Sage's place. His apartment comes before Sam's and is therefore just more convenient at the moment.

     Sage is pressed up against the door, and Sam's between his spread legs. He's pushed his coat open more and dragged his mouth down his neck to the center of his chest visible from the widely scooped neckline.

     Is it bad, he wonders in this weird corner of his mind. Is he giving myself away here? That he couldn't even wait till he was properly settled and showered—

     He doesn't care. He laps at the skin above Sage's collar bones, where his scent sits, where skin and sweat and pheromones linger. He wants the taste of him burned into his throat.

     In his exploration he finds Sage's keys in his pocket, right next to where his dick's sitting against his thigh very much hard and ready for Sam. Sage has gone slack against him, whining every time Sam's mouth touches his skin. Sam gets the key in the lock in a display of magical blind skill, pushing Sage back with the door so they step in together. He's pushing the coat off Sage's shoulders as he backs him into his apartment, wanting no clothes between them as quickly as humanly possible.

     He wastes no time slipping his hand past the band of Sage's sweat pants and he isn't wearing anything under them, which is just even fucking hotter honestly. He tugs at the waistband trying to get them down and his dick out at the same time. Precum's dripping down the side and Sam drags it along the length with a loose fist as he jerks him off. He kisses his neck and then bites down on that meaty junction before his shoulder.

     Sage groans, moaning his name. Sam. And that's, that's what he's looking at, over Sage's shoulder, into the living room. There's two of him propped against the window. Another on an easel. Sam goes still. There's five of him here in this room right now with a god.

     Sage is — not of this planet, Sam has decided. Because he can replicate likeness from memory, from sheer force of will and some mental conjuring. Sam's gone still because he is shocked, shocked stupid. Sage is so far beyond his league. Painfully fucking beautiful, absolutely fucking brilliant, charming and thoughtful and kind, and a goddamn artist. Sage wins. Sage fucking wins.

     And Sam, he can't handle this.

     That feeling that's been blooming in his chest since Sage left him in an airport, since before the airport, before Sage had filled him whole, before all the sex actually, and before the ski slope, before all the late night research sessions, and the take out rating system, and the slamming of elevator doors, and stealing of favorite seats, and since that very moment. That moment almost four years ago when they'd stood shoulder to shoulder at the front of their business seminar and Olekev was the guest speaker. That moment when she waved her hand across the staff behind her and then across the room and said:

     Trust that the people you meet here in these next four years will be pivotal in defining and altering the course of your lives. Make every second count.

     And that's exactly what Sam didn't do.

❧

     Sage was sure he had fucked up when he kissed Sam outside that airport. Somehow, by the grace of god, it'd been the right move.

     But now Sam's looking at him like he's seen a ghost and Sage can't turn around, knows exactly what's behind him, what he forgot to put away before he left because he'd left in a hurry and they'd come back to his apartment in an even bigger, sexually charged, hurry. He'd been distracted. Distracted all weekend.

     And he'd let the truth slip out without ever having to utter a damn word. Wear your heart on your sleeve? Nah, not Sage, he'll just paint it across every blank canvas in his apartment instead.

     Sage raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for something, an acknowledgement or reaction or repulsion, something. Maybe Sam can reason their way through this for them. Is this because I said you were like a model? So you made me a model, too, right? Good one, Sage. Cue the shoulder punch. Cue the just research bros.

     But Sam does none of that. Gives nothing away. Just steps back, looks Sage right in the eye as he backs out of the doorway. "So that's it?" Sage asks and the words split his throat open. He's going to fucking cry fuck.

     Sam is looking right into him, seeing the deepest part of him, the most vulnerable part of him, and walking away from it. It makes sense even as it hurts, even as his eyes well and he can't see the blurry outline of his empty doorway.

     This whole thing was for research purposes anyway.