Sage shows up at Sam's door holding two cups of coffee. Sam's eyes track to the white one, with the green logo and he's having a Pavlovian response, mouth filling with saliva. To the coffee. Not Sage.

     The other cup in his hand is notably not from Starbucks. It's a robin's egg blue with a white logo. Sam recognizes it because it's the coffee Sage brings with him to class all winter. Bluestone Lane. Which is in the opposite direction of the Starbucks.

     Sam steps out of the way to let Sage in. When he'd walked home this morning, it'd been in the low fifties and nippy out. Sage is dressed for the cold in light wash jeans and a black cable knit. Underneath, he has a patterned collared shirt, the collar and the tail visible. Sam would expect no less.

     "You went to two coffee shops?" Sam asks, his tone ridiculing.

     Sage holds out the Starbucks cup to Sam. "I went to one coffee shop and a Starbucks. That conglomerate doesn't count."

     "Alright, you coffee snob," Sam says but his tone is deflated as he takes the cup and tries not to think about all the implications of Sage going out of his way to bring him Starbucks. Particularly when.... "I got us breakfast," he says. "Well, stole it technically. Bagels."

     Sage follows Sam over to the little breakfast nook in his kitchenette. "Did you bake them?" Sage asks as he takes a seat on the stool across from Sam.

     "Why?" Sam asks. "Afraid I'll poison you?"

❧

     Sage sometimes thinks Sam could be flirting with him.

     But then probably it's just his imagination. Yeah, it's that. It's being in Sam's apartment on a Sunday morning, with the light streaming in, bouncing off all his odd furniture. It's the scent of coffee under his nose and Sam in grey sweats with damp hair, and the hot bagel he's folding back the tinfoil on.

     It's not that Sam is flirting with him. It's just that the situation feels very morning after. Feels like a breakfast date, which Sage reserves for only the most special people.

     Sam picked him up an everything bagel with Taylor ham, egg and cheese. Sage limits himself to one of these sandwiches a week so he guesses this is it.

     "I put salt, pepper, ketchup because if you don't eat it that way, you're a sadist," Sam says glancing up at Sage with his sandwich hovering by his mouth. He takes a bite after he's done speaking and ketchup spills onto his chin.

     For a hot second Sage imagines—nothing. He imagines nothing because he's not an idiot. And Sam swipes his finger across his face, slipping it between his lips so he can suck the condiment off. And Sage is back to imagining things.

     "A sadist, huh," Sage muses with a soft laugh trying to get out of his head where bad (delicious, dirty) things are happening. He picks up half his bagel and starts eating. He makes a noise, content, forgetting just where he is and who he's with momentarily. It's a bit natural, sitting here with Sam, having breakfast, that Sage is halted, staring at Sam who's eyes are half closed as he eats.

     "That's not Taylor ham," Sage notes after too much staring. Enough staring to notice the usual dark circles under Sam's eyes. His eyebrows are growing in and slightly unruly. And he's flushed, probably from his shower.

     "And this is not an oven," Sam responds with the last of his bagel in his mouth so his words are sort of muffled as he taps the counter they're eating at. "Are we done stating the obvious?"

     Sage rolls his eyes but it's more playful than anything. "Why?" he asks.

     "I don't eat pork," Sam responds running his fingers along the lid of his drink. It's an anxious movement, the way he taps at the edge, moves his hand down so he can lift it and then sets it back down, changing his mind.

     "It's a religious thing," he adds before Sage can respond.

     Sage says, "You're religious?"

     "Not anymore, really. I'm religious enough."

     "Religious enough? Like you won't end up smited on the spot if you walk into a mosque?" The question leaves Sage sort of stilted. He's fairly certain Sam is Muslim. But he wonders if it's more or less presumptuous to say mosque instead of church.

     Sam smiles. "Smiting is your god's thing, I think. We mostly just pray a lot and try to convey our most solemn apologies whenever we do something that's considered haram."

     Sage thinks back on Friday night and goes, "Like drinking alcohol?"

     Sam makes a face. "Yes, drinking alcohol would be considered haram."

     "Huh," Sage says. "So what else is there?"

❧

     Sage seems genuinely interested so Sam tells him. Tells him about salah, how they wash before their prayers (wudu) and what it's like to fast for Ramadan. Sam doesn't do his prayers the way he did when was living at home, particularly during those few years his grandmother lived with them, but he does fast during Ramadan still.

     "People think fasting is just not eating," Sam is saying, slightly distracted by Sage who's taking apart the other half of his bagel. Sam watches him separate the egg from the Taylor ham before he eats the deli meat.

     "But it's not?" Sage asks when Sam fails to continue his train of thought.

     "No, we abstain from drinking, too. And tobacco. Sex."

     Sage really doesn't react but Sam reads into his non-reaction and goes, "Yes, yes, we abstain from sex for a whole month. It can be done."

     "I don't doubt it."

     "Though I'm sure it would be a hardship for you," Sam says and he's not joking but he's not being mean, either. If he looked like Sage he'd fuck around a lot, too. He doesn't actually need to look like Sage to fuck around. Sam pulls ladies. He just can't get out of his head long enough to have sex. Has tried and failed and hates failing more than not having sex so he just doesn't have sex.

     "You don't know what you're talking about," Sage says and where Sam had made his observation of Sage's sex life casually, Sage was responding to it seriously.

     "No? What about the model? From last week? I mean, she's beautiful so I can see the appeal. The douchey one from the week before, though. Not a stellar choice." Something passes over Sage's expression. Realization, Sam thinks. "Yeah, you should know I run into most of your hook ups when I'm coming back from work, so." Sam shrugged as if to say do with that what you will. Sam doubted Sage cared he basically got a front row seat to his sex life.

     Sage pauses, his expression clouded with anguish. And then he goes, "We should start working so you can go to sleep."

     Sam frowns, thrown by Sage's sudden change in attitude. "Yeah, okay," he says quickly trying to hide his hurt. "Yeah, let's do that."

❧

     Sage hates the lying. Hates that Sam has this idea of his sex life — would hate it if anyone had that idea. But he can't tell him that it wasn't what he thought it was because it's certainly how it looks and he'd have to explain why people leave his apartment in the early hours, which he's not prepared to do.

     So Sam gets to think Sage fucks around a lot more than he actually does and Sage gets to wonder why he needs Sam to know that he isn't fucking around with anyone at all.

❧

     Sam thinks that in another life he and Sage could have been friends.

     Because they get along when they're not not getting along. The problem is they just happen to not get along more than they do get along. Not that it matters. Sam doesn't really care if Sage decides to play nice. Whether they're being nice to each or not, they still get their work done for Olekev. And they're doing good work together, better than he expected and certainly better than Olekev expected, too.

     She says so in an email she sends Halloween weekend with some additional work for them do.

     They start working more at Sam's place and less at the library mainly for the convenience. It's getting darker earlier and colder, and who wants to actually leave their apartment if they don't have to, Sam reasons.

      And they start doing this thing where they order and rate different take-out while they work. It's a 1-5 scale and the criteria's as follows:

     1. Taste (obviously)

     2. Ease of eating (Sam rated pizza a 5 because you can single hand it and pasta a 2 because his spaghetti kept slipping off the fork)

     3. Messiness (Again pasta got a 1 because Sauce. Everywhere. Sage rated it a 5 because pasta is his favorite) (Sam rated Sage a 1 because he can't keep his bias out of the rating system)

     4. Energy effects (decidedly everything they've ordered has received a 1 because he almost immediately needs a nap after eating and they also very rarely get any work done after they eat)

     They start getting comfortable working around each other and eating around each other and generally not killing each other. Enough that it becomes:

     do you mind if I take twenty minutes to finish this assignment for Kaufman?

     Which then becomes:

     I already took that class, I'll email you my notes

     And then it's:

     Do you wanna quiz each other for Olekev's exam?

     So they end up spending a lot more time doing other work together and then its just them spending time working together on other work. And it's actually way easier, Sam thinks, having an alliance with Sage because he has a sounding board for his thesis and someone to force him to actually focus on his work and he's been eating great lately.

     Sam thinks he could live with this all the way to graduation. Is kind of kicking himself that it all started in their last year. Is kind of considering Sage to be his friend. His only friend.

❧

     Sage is sitting across from Calla Saturday afternoon and he knows he shouldn't say it, that it's the worst question, and you never really get a straight and honest response but he goes anyway, "Are you okay?"

     Because she doesn't look okay. It's not that he thinks Calla needs to be wearing makeup or do her hair to be okay, but the fact she hasn't done either, knowing who his sister is, concerns him. Somehow with her here, out in the daylight, her messy hair and bare face looks different than it does at home during a late night movie-athon.

     Calla sighs long and heavy and stops twirling the paper straw in her glass to look up at Sage. When she doesn't say anything Sage says slowly, "Are you...working through stuff about the party?"

     She flinches. "What about the party?"

     "Well, you were drugged, Calla. It's understandable if you're feeling anxious about being violated."

     "I'm not," she says. "I feel lucky nothing happened."

     "Okay, so if it's not about that, then what's going on? You're not yourself."

     "I'm just tired," she says. "Things at home are tense. You know how mom gets around the holidays."

     Sage did know and he avoided it as best he could. Maybe that wasn't fair to Calla. No, it definitely wasn't. "You wanna stay at my place for a few days? Get a break from her for a bit?"

     Calla shakes her head. "She went back home this week to get the house ready for the holidays so I have a small reprieve. When are you coming home for Thanksgiving?"

     "Monday's my last day of classes so maybe the Tuesday before?"

     "Okay, same. We can take the train together."

     After lunch, Sage walks Calla to the subway. Their parents have an apartment on the Upper West side and it's where Calla and their mother stay during the week. Their father generally stays in Connecticut, though if he hits artist's block he'll come into the city to get re-inspired. He makes random house calls to Sage's apartment sometimes, under the guise of seeing what he's working on and offering his artist's eye critique but Sage knows he's also just checking in. Started doing it more often after Hudson.

     He hugs his sister tight, rubbing her back in a way that he hopes is soothing. "You've got me worried, Cal," he says in a tight voice.

     She laughs quietly, pulling away. "I'm okay. Seriously. If I weren't, I would tell you."

     "Would you, though?" he asks because he thought the same about Hudson and he couldn't have been more wrong.

     "Yes," she insists. "I love you, okay?" He nods, mumbling the words back almost incoherently. They're hard for him to say. "But we really gotta go, because it's gonna pour and I didn't bring an umbrella."

     "Same time next week?" Sage asks hopefully.

     "But of course," she says with a smile that's real. He clings to that knowledge. The smile is real. She's okay.

     By the time Sage gets back to his apartment, it's raining. He makes it inside just before it starts coming down heavily. His apartments dark and damp, so he cranks the heat up and considers working on some pieces but decides without any natural light it's just not worth it.

     That's the real reason he chose the cheap apartment. That and he does pay for it himself. And while his business has become fairly lucrative, he thinks it's stupid to burn through his income on a fancy apartment when he could just go to any one his parents homes.

     This is close to school and it has windows so large he very rarely turns the lights on when he's painting. His father likes that about him, that he's finicky about lighting. Will not force art if the elements are working against him. He likes it because it makes Sage just like him. For the longest time, Sage hated having this thing in common with his father.

     He wanted to be like his mother. Ambitious, good at numbers, practical and logical. And he was but it wasn't the natural fit. He had to push at the corners to stuff himself into that mold. Unlike Hudson, who was his mom replicated.

     He embodied her likeness with the same strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, sharp nose and cut of his jaw. Same spit-fire personality. Hudson was intense, could never turn that off or even down a few notches. Everything was a competition or a lesson or a drill, for him. Hudson kept every fire in him burning hard until one day there was no oxygen left and they just burnt out.

     Sage didn't know why he was thinking about it. But he was running with his thoughts now. Thoughts of Hudson. He sighed. The holiday season. That was doing it. That always did it. Loss always feels more potent during the colder months.

❧

     Sam is standing outside of Sage's door.

     He's never been in his apartment and now that he's thinking about it, Sage has gone to lengths to keep it that way. He knocks once, decides fuck it, and then keeps knocking because he doesn't care, and he's simply not taking no for an answer. Not when his clothes are sopping wet and his hairs dripping water into his eyes.

     Sage answers the door, opening it only wide enough for his body to fit between it and the frame. He rakes his eyes down Sam and its dirty, almost, the way he checks him out. Sam lets him, not moving an inch, until Sage's questioning gaze meets his.

     "I locked myself out and fucking Jerry won't be back till tomorrow," Sam says. Sam is nearly certain if it was Sage who'd locked himself out Jerry would backflip his way here from the Bronx to open the door for him.

     "Unfortunate," Sage responds.

     "Let me in asshole," he snaps with a roll of his eyes. He's not standing outside his door for his damn health obviously.

     "Don't you have friends?" Sage asks instead, raising an eyebrow tauntingly. Sam knows Sage knows he is the definition of friendless. And he's not going to shame him for it because that was a choice he made and he has no regrets. Except like right now because he really needs a change of a clothes and a place to sleep.

     "It's pouring outside," Sam responds instead, like it should be obvious. He's soaked. It is obvious. "Look, I don't care if you're hiding several dead bodies in there or a my little pony collection or whatever thing it is that makes you treat your apartment like Fort Knox."

     Sage stares at him for an uncomfortable amount of time and Sam thinks he's going to slam the door on him.

     Sam frowns and then says most meaningful, "Please."

     Sage huffs loudly. "Hang on," he says and then he does slam the door in Sam's face. But he returns eventually (Sam is starting to chafe and getting irritable.) He opens the door enough for Sam to step inside.

     "Don't touch anything."

     "Yeah, you know, I was bursting at the seams to run my hands through your underwear drawer."

     Sage is behind Sam, close enough that he bristles. It doesn't help that his voice has dropped when he says, "If you want in my pants, Sam, just ask."

❧

     Sage was cleaning when Sam knocked on his door. Or he was finishing up cleaning. The TV was on, the Office playing lowly in the background, and the only other light on was over the oven. He thought it was his take-out, figured the Doordasher had managed to get into the apartment building without needing to get buzzed upstairs.

     So when he opened the door and it was Sam, he was confused and surprised and a little bit excited. The excitement, he reasoned, was just because he enjoyed bantering with Sam. And banter wasn't indicative of anything.

     Sam was dripping wet and locked out of his apartment. He looked like a drowned cat. He looked cold. But he'd never been in Sage's apartment before and Sage made a point of not letting people in here. Because he was almost always in the middle of a project, which he was not at the moment.

     He'd closed the door on Sam and did a once-over of his space, sticking his supplies in his closet with one of the pieces he was working on. It's where he'd put his easel and canvases earleir. His finished pieces were under his bed, tucked away out of sight. He looked around his flat again, just to be certain, just to be on the safe side, before he let Sam in.

     "Don't touch anything," he says, not that there's anything for Sam to touch. His apartments actually barren once you remove all of his art.

     Sam rolls his eyes and says, "Yeah, you know, I was bursting at the seams to run my hands through your underwear drawer."

     Sage comes up behind him and says, "If you want in my pants, Sam, just ask."

     He's made comments like this before to Sam but it's different when they're in his apartment and he hasn't got any lights on and Sam's dripping water all over his wood floors. He steps around Sam so he can look at him and Sam visibly swallows, the muscles in his neck moving with effort.

     "Can I have a change of clothes?" he asks quietly, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

❧

     Sam is wearing Sage's clothes. They smell like him and he keeps dipping his nose into the collar of the sweatshirt. Can't stop. Really needs to get a handle on it before he steps out of the bathroom. Really needs to get a handle on himself.

❧

     Sam is wearing Sage's clothes. And they look good on him. Sage can't stand the sight but also can't look away. His clothes are just a little too big for him. The sleeves of the sweatshirt extend past his arms and the sweatpants trail. Sage is going to look away. He has to so he can get a handle on himself.

❧

     Sage says, "I ordered food."

     And Sam says, "Oh,"

     "I ordered enough—," he pauses. "There's more than enough."

     That's how he and Sage end up at the kitchen island, in near-darkness, eating chicken francaise and sharing a huge container of penne vodka. Sage is fixated on his food, sprinkling grated parm on each forkful, and Sam is fixated on Sage, has never seen someone add cheese to every bite.

     Sam has figured out by now that Sage just eats really weirdly. Takes apart his food a lot, has strange quirks for his condiments. He's also learned that above all Sage loves Italian food, namely pasta but more specifically penne vodka.

     Sam has eaten more penne vodka in these last few weeks with Sage than he has in his whole life.

     "If you want to just cheese the whole container, you can. I don't mind," Sam says finally, looking at Sage and the pile of cheese forming on the counter with mild disgust.

     "I'm good," Sage says pinching the parm and then sprinkling it dramatically.

     "You eat like you have issues," Sam says after he's swallowed a bite of lemon chicken. Sage barked at him when he'd called it that earlier.

     "It's not lemon chicken," he'd said. "It's chicken francaise. And there's a difference."

     Was there a difference, Sam wondered, because it tasted like chicken that was cooked in some lemon sauce.

     "What kind of issues?" Sage asks wiping at his mouth with the corner of a napkin.

     "I don't know," Sam answers. "Deep-seated ones."

     Sage rolls his eyes and then pushes the container of chicken towards Sam. "Have the last piece."

     "No, that's okay," Sam says. "All you."

     Sage shakes his head, hopping down from the bar stool. "I'm stuffed. Seriously, just eat it."

     Sam isn't going to turn it down twice. Once was just a courtesy since it was Sage's dinner and it was Sage's apartment. Sam cuts the chicken into two big bites and then finishes it, standing as he chews. He grabs the empty container and scopes the kitchen for a garbage.

     "It's under the sink," Sage says from behind him. He's put the top back on the pasta and is sticking it in the fridge.

     Sam tosses the empty chicken container and then rinses his hands off in the sink. Sage comes up beside him and says, "Watch out," before he drops down below him. Sam stiffens but doesn't move, doesn't breathe, as Sage opens the cabinet and pulls out some Pink Stuff. That's the actual name of the product. It comes in a pink bottle.

     "Oh, I've seen that on Tiktok," Sam says when he gets his voice back. His balls feel like they've retracted all the way up to his bellybutton he was clenching so hard.

     "You're on Tiktok?" Sage asks as he sprays the island down.

     Sam turns to face him, leaning against the sink. "Everyone's on Tiktok. Don't shame me."

     Sage rolls his eyes. "I'm not shaming you. I just figured you were against anything that sparked joy."

     "School sparks joy," Sam says after a moment. "And anyway, I know how to have a good time. I just choose not to."

     "You choose not to have friends, too?"

     "Shut up."

❧

     Sage does shut up. Ruthie had said to him recently that there's a fine line between teasing Sam and actually being mean. For a time, his intention was to be mean. Which made it sound like his intention now was to tease Sam and it wasn't. There should be no teasing or being mean to Sam.

     Sage has resigned himself to the fact that the lines are an utter mess. I mean, Sam's here now, in his apartment. And he never has people over his apartment. Sam's in his clothes too, and they're getting on the couch to watch TV together. That's not a new thing for them, but it feels more intimate since it didn't start as them working on their research.

     Sam seems content with the Office so Sage keeps that on. He watches it every night before he goes to bed. It's like a lullaby. He should've realized it actually is a lullaby. Because it only takes three episodes before he's knocked out and so is Sam.

     That's where Sage wakes up a few hours later. The TV's gone off and its pitch dark and there's dead weight on his shoulder. Sage knows its Sam but he looks anyway. Sam's pulled his feet up on the couch and tucked them to the side. His heads on a harsh angle, pressed against Sage's shoulder. He's out cold.

     Sage thinks, for one very long second, that he could just shift down the couch and let the chips fall where they may, the chips being him and Sam, falling where they may being Sam on top of him.

     Nope, no, that's a bad idea. What is he going to do, spoon with Sam on his couch? After dinner and Netflix? Like a date?

     He gets up carefully, moving Sam so he's cuddling the back of the couch. He grabs a pillow and throw from his bed and brings it back to the couch, setting the pillow at the end and then maneuvering the boy up to it. Sam doesn't come to until after Sage has moved him.

     He blinks up at Sage, groggy and questioning in the dark. Sage drapes the blanket over him, pulling it up to under his neck. "Thanks," Sam says quietly.

     And Sage says, "Go back to sleep," so Sam does.