1 Day of Dating

     Sage wakes and it was all a dream.

     He's sure of it, even though Sam's head is buried in his bicep and he's snoring softly. Sage closes his eyes, thinking about it. About last night. Sam showing up at his door and Sam declaring — everything. All of it. He'd laid everything out on the table and so had Sage and neither of them were walking away from it.

     At least he doesn't think they are. Everything's always a little different in the morning.

     Sage holds his hands up in the air above him. He counts down slowly, bending each finger as he does. He heard somewhere that when you're still dreaming you'll have an extra finger or a finger missing. Not somewhere—Sam. Sam had told him that.

     His are all there. He's awake. This is real. Sam's real and really here, too.

     "Can you stop moving?" he grumbles, tucked underneath Sage's bicep now, his voice mostly muffled by the bed.

     Sage drops his arms, embarrassed, and says quietly, "Sorry."

     "Why are you up? It's early. Go back to sleep."

     "I think it's almost eleven actually," Sage responds, trying to crane his neck without moving so he can see the clock on the stove. The numbers are a smudge in the distance. His vision's getting worse with age.

     Sam shifts beside him, lifting his head and setting it down on Sage's shoulder cap. Sage hasn't looked but he knows Sam's gaze is on him, can feel his hot breath against his face.

     Sage doesn't say anything because he's afraid if he does it'll crumple this whole thing like a house of cards. Instead, he reaches out for Sam, fingers grasping the back of his neck so he can pull him in and kiss him. Kissing him because he's sure last night was a fluke, was a mistake, and he won't be able to do this again.

     Sam pulls away, reaching for Sage's hand on his neck. He doesn't pull it away, just hangs onto his wrist. Sage's stomach plunges because he was right. It was a mistake and Sam's about to say so.

     Only, he goes instead, "I have morning breath. Like worse than usual morning breath. You'd think all the alcohol would've killed the bacteria in my mouth."

     Sage lets out an uneasy laugh. He's panicking for nothing. Sam's here, he's in his bed, he's not going anywhere. Except, maybe...

     "Do you remember last night?" Sage asks, letting go of his neck so he can go back to staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are drawn and they're blocking most of the sunlight in his apartment. The little slivers are bright white. He thinks it might have snowed this morning.

     Sam makes a confused sound. "Uh, yeah? Why wouldn't I? I really wasn't that drunk."

     Sage nods and mumbles, "Oh okay."

     "Why are you being weird?" Sam asks pointedly.

     "I'm not," he insists quickly.

     "You really are," Sam says and then he's pressing his elbow into Sage's arm so he can prop himself up and hover over Sage. "What's going on?" he asks, looking down into his eyes.

     There's really no light in the room and Sam's face is all shadows, including the stubble that's grown in. It looks like it's been a few days since he shaved.

     Sage swallows his nerves and asks, "Was last night real?"

     Sam falters for a second, his eyebrows stitching together. His eyes move left to right like they need to pay focused attention to each side of Sage's face to find out where's the disconnect.

     "Of course it was real," he says sincerely. And then he smirks and adds, "As real as those paintings are under your bed."

     Sage is flooded with relief, and grins before he recognizes Sam's jab and pushes him over so he's lying beside him again in bed. "Laugh it up."

     "I'm just saying," Sam responds teasingly. "I'd like a cut of the commission on those pieces, thank you."

     "I'm not selling them."

     Sam gasps dramatically. "That's rude. I bet they'd make a lot of money. I've got Greek god features."

     "They're mine," Sage says possessively. "Nobody else gets to have them."

     "So what you're saying is, I'm for your eyes only?"

     Sage hears his question. Does not miss a single word. They're not just talking about the portraits he's painted. He turns onto his side so he can really look at Sam. Sage wants to say so many things. He wants to throw it back at Sam. Do you want to be for my eyes only? He wants to deflect. He wants to be coy.

     What he wants is to be anyone but himself right now because the best he can do is be honest when he says, "Yes. My eyes only."

     Sam turns, too. His eyes are brown in this light, hiding from him. Even though the bags under them say he needs more sleep, Sam is wide awake when he asks, "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

❧

     Sage looks embarrassed. Even a little nervous. Which is nice because Sam's spent the last five months being the nervous one. It's a good change of pace. Even though last night feels like a fever dream, Sam feels more grounded than he has since he met Sage. He feels like he knows his truth finally.

     "I'm saying I don't want to fuck around with anyone else," Sage says. His words come out clearly. "And I don't want you fucking around with anyone else."

     "Okay," Sam says simply. He feels Sage's breath of relief. "But I don't want to fuck around."

     That stills Sage and he looks panicked when he asks, "What?"

     "Look, I love fucking you. But I also just love you and I want other things." Sam's not exactly finished but Sage rolls onto him, pinning him to the bed so he can kiss him.

     Sam is not to be distracted though, and turns his head away as he says, "So I'd like some time, you know, spent not fucking, too. Like dinner. Movies. I don't know, a pasta making class."

     Sam looks back to gauge Sage's reaction. Sage is staring at him. His eyes have sucked all the heat up in the room and are trying to set Sam on fire with it.

     "So dates," Sage says his mouth hovering over Sam's. He's wearing a small grin, clearly amused. "You want dates."

     "Yes, I want dates. I've never been on a proper date."

     "I'll take you on a proper date tonight."

     Sam grins, now, too, and asks, "You'll get me flowers?"

     "I'll get you flowers," Sage agrees.

     "And try to feel me up after?"

     He smirks. "I've already felt you up."

     "Pretend you haven't," Sam says with a laugh. Sage laughs, too, and nods. He drops his head on Sam's chest, his whole body coming to rest on Sam. He could fall back asleep like this. "Can I tell you a secret," Sam asks drowsily.

     "Mmmm," Sage mumbles affirmatively.

     "It's my secret and it's embarrassing so you can't laugh."

     "If I laugh, it's not at you," Sage says.

     Sam takes a deep breath and here goes nothing. "Remember that night I got locked out of my apartment and stayed over?" Sage nods. Sam continues. "Well when I woke up. I—I kind of had some morning wood."

     "Is that the embarrassing part?" Sage asks when Sam stops there, waiting.

     "No. The embarrassing part is when it wouldn't go away and I had to jerk off in your bathroom while you were sleeping."

     Sage laughs so loudly he breaks into a fit of coughs and has to roll off of Sam to catch his breath.

     "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Sam says but he's laughing too.

     "So that's why you walked out so panicked and asked if I'd heard you," Sage says between his fits of laughter. His eyes are watering and he wipes them with the neckline of his shirt. "For the record, I really didn't hear you that time."

     Sam balks. "I'm sorry that time? What time did you hear me?"

     Sage takes a long pause. "Don't freak," he says next. "But I heard you Thanksgiving night."

     Sam being expressly told not to freak does not actually stop him from freaking. He practically flails off the bed. "Shut up. You're fucking with me."

     "Did you not jerk off that night?"

     He remains quiet. He'd been drunk. He'd seen Sage's dick for the first time. And he was ridiculously pent up. So yeah, he had jerked off that night. He never would have thought Sage had heard him, though.

     "Well that's embarrassing," he says finally with a deflated laugh.

    "It was hot actually," Sage admits, abashed. "Truth be told, I jerked off listening to you."

     Sam may learn how to fly in this bed, because he's flailing so damn much. He can't believe his ears. God, he wants to go back in time to that night. He imagines in an alternate universe, Sage walks in on him and they do it together, instead.

     The thought has him rising to attention. "Alright, change the subject," he says not at all deftly.

     "Why, Sam? Are you feeling some type of way?"

     Sam huffs. "Yes, Sage, would you like to hear how this conversation is making me hard?"

     "Well, I can help with that," Sage says reaching over. Sam is tenting in his briefs and Sage slips him out threw the slit, sliding his hand over him. He lets go suddenly. "Oh wait, I should stop, right? Cause you have morning breath."

     Sage laughs and Sam shuts him up with his mouth.

1 Week of Dating

     Sam didn't know he could feel this full. He didn't know all the ways he'd been empty. But now it's a Wednesday afternoon and he's sitting in Bluestone Lane with Sage and Ruthie, huddled in the back so they're away from the draft, and he's so full he's afraid he's splintered open and all of his loneliness is pouring out of the cracks, fleeing him.

     Ruthie had welcomed him like they were long time friends, bringing three coffees over to the table without Sam having asked for anything.

     When she'd handed him the drink she said, "Based on what Sage said is your typical order, I think you'll like this. However, if you don't, steal Sage's coffee."

     "His coffee's like ninety-nine percent sugar, one percent coffee," Sam had responded, giving Sage a look.

     Sage had rolled his eyes and said, "It's why I taste so sweet."

     Ruthie had scrunched her face and said, "TMI!"

     The same time Sam had said, "Not that sweet."

     Classes are in full swing and he has the exact schedule Sage has, which hasn't happened since their first semester of college. It's a full circle moment. Makes Sam even more hopeful that this is going to work.

     A lot has changed since that first year. He's gotten a handle on his mental health, and his physical health, actually. He's excelled in his classes, and he feels, for the first time, certain he'll be able to stay in this country. That would all be enough for him, enough to make him happy. But now he has Sage, too, has people to meet up with after classes, who want to sit and do homework together.

     It's something he could get used to, that he'd like to get used to. He hopes it all can last.

     Ruthie heaves an exasperated sigh as she crosses out some numbers on the scrap paper she's working on. Sam watches her curiously, wondering why she's doing Stats in pen.

     "Do you want some help?" he asks finally, hesitant.

     She looks up at him with her big doe eyes and says, "Oh my god, would you? Yes, please."

     She scoots her chair closer to Sam and angles her laptop so he can see the work she's trying to do. "I so stupidly left stats till the end because I hate it. And I am reaffirmed in hating it."

     Sam actually love stats, but it's also just easy for him. Much like how algebra and calc were. Numbers, no matter their formation, make sense. And he likes applying statistics to his everyday life.

     Sage glances up from his iPad at Sam and winks, obviously warmed by Sam connecting with Ruthie.

     Sam thinks about how the percent likelihood of getting laid at the end of his day has gone from ninety-nine to one-hundred.

❧

     Sage is finding it impossible to work, distracted by his thoughts. His thoughts that keep running in the same circle. He loves this, he really does. Having Sam this close. Sharing him with Ruthie. Sharing Ruthie with him.

     When they'd finally pulled themselves out of his bed their first day together, Sage had asked Ruthie to come over not a second after Sam had left. He'd worded it a little too urgent and she had shown up not even an hour later.

     He had stripped his bed by then, running it down the hall to the laundry room, and was freshly showered, sitting at his island looking up ideas for his date that night.

     She knocked and he called it was open, not moving his eyes from his laptop screen. Sam had specifically asked for pasta making and Sage was going to make it happen.

     "Oh wow, its so clean in here," Ruthie had said as she walked in. "Ooh, you're washing your sheets, too. And we've showered. Look at you."

    "Sam and I are dating," Sage said rather bluntly.

     Ruthie stilled, her eyes widening, and then she grinned. "Well I love that for you both." Her response was surprisingly contained and her smile was a little manic.

     "What is that face?" he asked.

     "I'm trying not to overreact," she explained.

     "Permission to overreact."

     She threw a fist into the air. "Freaking finally. God. Thank God. I really didn't want to have to kill him. And you guys are just so in love. It was ridiculous how long you were able to pretend you weren't. This is amazing."

     Ruthie throws herself at him, hugging him and almost knocking him off his barstool. "I'm happy for you," she says. "Oh, god, wait is that why you're washing your sheets? Did I just enter the den of iniquity?"

     Sage laughs loudly. "Sam was here, yes, if that's what you're asking."

     "Okay, but like walk me through this because last I'd checked Sam was trying to pretend nothing had happened."

     And so he walked through the whole night. Pulled apart every detail with her. Sam, drunk at his door. Sam declaring his love for him. Sage declaring it back. He showed her the portraits. She'd never seen them before. She didn't even know the extent of what existed under his bed. It'd been a secret he'd kept solely to himself and he was glad it was out now.

     The last seven days are playing on a loop in Sage's mind. Sam and him are dating. Sam and Ruthie are becoming friends. He gets to see Sam all the time and kiss him all the time. He doesn't have to lie to his family anymore.

     When they finish at Bluestone, they part ways outside the door. Ruthie's apartment is down Bleeker and they're heading back up the street. It had snowed last week, and then again a few days later. The ground is slush, and it's treacherously cold out. Sage's face is chapped from the sharp winds.

     Ruthie hugs Sage and then she goes for Sam, who takes it like a champ, even though Sage can tell he's uncomfortable. "See ya later boys," Ruthie calls, lifting her hood and ducking her head as she starts walking.

     Sage watches her for a moment before he turns. Sam's standing close to him and he wants to take his hand as they start walking. He doesn't because he's nervous, still, about how this works. Is afraid of moving too fast for Sam. 

❧

     Sam snatches Sage's hand like he owns it, and honestly, yeah, he kind of does. It's his like the rest of him. And holding hands is a dating thing and he intends to reap all the benefits of dating. He watches Sage's profile, sees the wrinkle in his cheek from his grin.

     "So, dinner?" Sage asks.

     "What about it?" Sam tries to keep his face down as they walk. The cold air is making his eyes water, which is making the corners burn from where his skins started peeling. Winters brutal. He hates being outside in this weather.

     "Wanna stop somewhere?"

     "I don't know," Sam says, slowly.

     "You're not hungry?"

     "I am but I'm not really in the mood for takeout. Ya know? It's like I can only eat so much dare I say it."

     Sage huffs on a laugh, but then he's distracted looking at his phone. Sam huddles closer to him as they walk, for warmth, of course. Sage goes, "Okay, I have an idea."

     He steers Sam towards 4th Street and then ducks down into the subway station. Sam's confused and when they get on a train going uptown, he asks, "Where are you taking me?"

     "To get dinner," Sage says simply.

     Sam has no idea where they could be going but he's excited about it. He loves this, that this is what dating is, going places with someone instead of alone, trying new things.

     Sage had taken them to make pasta on their first date like Sam had asked. He'd just thrown the idea out because it was constantly showing up on his For You and he'd wanted to try it. He thought it would be something Sage would enjoy, too.

     But Sage had shown up at his door with flowers. He said, "Put these in water later, I don't want to be late."

     There was car waiting outside that took them to the Upper East side. Sage had gotten them into a class at Aunt Jake's. There were four other couples, and they served wine and beer throughout the whole thing. They learned how to make Mafalda pasta. Sage had paired his with vodka sauce (shocker) and Sam had gone with the roasted garlic pecorino.

     Sam didn't know it could get better then being Sage's enemy. And then it did get better because they started fucking. He didn't know that he would want more, that he was allowed to want more, and that he'd eventually have more.

     And it's a lot, okay. He's the cup that runneth over so fulfilled he has to carry the excess in his pockets. 

     Sage leads the way outside the subway, only a few blocks away before they're walking up a brownstone and Sage is pulling out a key to let himself in. Sam watches the action, slow to process it, until he realizes this is Sage's house.

     Sage gets the door open and Sam freezes in his spot.

     "We're at your parents? Are they home?" Sam asks, his voice pitched nervously.

     Sage tilts his head. "They are, yes," he says. "You've been around my family plenty, Sam."

     "I know but..."

     "And they already thought we were dating. Nothing's changing."

     "I'm not dressed appropriately for this," he says looking down at himself. Jeans, his winter boots, scuffed leather and worn treads, and a sweatshirt under his old bomber jacket. This was school casual. It worked for school. It did not work for seeing Sage's parents.

     Sage tilts his head even more. "We don't have to," he says finally. "I don't want to push you."

     Sam flushes and sputters on his next words. "No, I just—tell me what I'm wearing is fine."

     Sage bites back a smile and says, "What you're wearing is always fine. It'll always be fine to me, and it'll always be fine to my family."

❧

     And then Sage crowds Sam against the door,

     He wants to tell him that he never has to impress him. And that he'd never judge him for his wardrobe. It makes him think of that night, with the suit and the tag. It makes his stomach hurt, that Sam could be traumatized from these kinds of experiences. How many of them has he had?

     "Sam," he says earnestly. "Please don't ever be anything but who you are with me."

     He dips his nose into his neck, presses his lips to his skin, kissing him first before he gets carried away and starts sucking. Sam pushes him away, holding out a warning finger. "Alright, I'll concede to seeing your parents dressed like this but I will not show up for dinner with a fresh hickey. Not happening."

     Sage grins, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Sam tracks the movement, and groans. "Fuck you, man."

     "What?" Sage asks with a shrug.

     "You know what. I'm hard as a fucking rock right now."

     Sage steps back into his space, laughing as he looks at Sam. His voice drops when he says, "I could sneak you into my room if you want."

     Sam rolls his eyes. "No, no I don't want Sage. Of course I want. Stop with the sex eyes so I can get this thing under control."

     He can't stop laughing at Sam, and Sam is fuming, the most sexually-fueled anger he's seen from him since before they started dating.

     "Can you turn around please? You're not helping." Sam makes a twirling motion with his finger so Sage throws his hands up, universal sign for peace, and turns his back on him. It's a few minutes before Sam heaves a breath and says, "Alright I'm ready. But just keep your eyes ahead."

     "I love how reactive you are," Sage says. "Just a look gets you hard? A guy can do a lot with that."

     Sam groans. "I'm gonna kill you."

     Sage is still laughing when he takes them upstairs and lets them into his family's apartment. He can smell dinner in the hallway — kielbasa and sauerkraut, he thinks. His father's in the kitchen with an apron on, waves a spoon at them, and greets them with a hearty, "Samwise!"

     His dad's proclamation gets his mom's attention, and a second later she's bounding into the kitchen. Her reading glasses are on, and she pushes them into her hair as she comes over and hugs Sam.

     Sage watches, amused, because his parents have hardly acknowledged him yet. Which means Sam is basically family to them now.

     "This is a pleasant surprise!" his mom says stepping away from Sam to hug Sage. She smells faintly of vanilla and coffee.

     "It was Sam's idea," Sage says when they part. "We were looking for a home cooked meal."

     "You came to the right place," his dad says, turning back to the stove. "Dinner's just about ready."

     "Calla's here?" Sage asks, raising an eyebrow.

     His mom nods as she walks over to the fridge, puling out a bottle of white. "In her room. Do you boys want a glass?"

     Sage glances at Sam, who's stock-still, clearly assessing the room and overthinking his position in it. He quirks an eyebrow and repeats his mom's question quietly. Sam looks at him, holding his gaze like it's a life raft. Nods almost imperceptibly.

     Sage goes, "Yes, please," and takes Sam's hand, pulling him past the kitchen. His mom watches him do it, but it shouldn't sound any alarms. As far as his parents know, they've been dating for weeks now.

     He stops outside Calla's bedroom. Her door's sitting wide open and she's at her desk, writing in a notebook with some sort of math textbook open. "Oh hey," she says surprised, looking over at them. "What're you guys doing here?"

     Sam lingers mostly behind Sage, so he shifts over giving him space as he says, "Having dinner" like it should be obvious.

     "Yeah, but what are you guys doing here together?" she asks, suspiciously.

     Beside him, Sage can feel Sam's anxiety crashing into him like a wave. He gives his sister a look, hoping to convey a please reign it in.

     Calla does the opposite. "I'm failing to see why two people who are dating but not really would go to their parents for dinner?" She tilts her head, thinking. "Unless, of course, you're dating for real."

     "It's for real," Sage says simply.

     Calla covers her mouth as she squeals. "Do mom and dad know?"

     "Well they always thought it was for real," Sage tells her.

     "That's true," she says. "Wow, I didn't think you guys had it in ya."

     "Had what in us?" Sam asks, seeming to relax. He leans against the doorframe, and if it were a different doorframe and not the one leading to his sister's bedroom, Sage would step into his space, pinning him in place so the hinges would leave little indents in the backs of his thighs.

     "Honesty. The balls." Calla makes a face and then adds, "Well, I guess you guys had no problem with the balls, actually."

     "And on that note," Sage says making a grab for Sam so he can drag him down the hall.

     "Where are we going?" Sam whispers.

     "My old room," Sage tells him and Sam reacts quickly, coming to a halt. Sage raises an eyebrow at him curiously.

     Sam glances down the hall and then whispers hysterically, "I'm not going to your room!"

     Sage is standing close enough he can smell Sam and he wants. That's all. He wants and wants and wants. Wants so much and all the time. "Why not?" Sage asks, playing dumb.

     Sam points his finger at him. "You know exactly why not."

     Sage opens his mouth, ready to bite at Sam's finger, but his mother calls to them, "Boys, Calla, dinner's ready!"

     Sam gives Sage a look as if to say see and calls back, "Coming" as he turns back up the hall.

     Sage grumbles, "Not really but you could've been" which earns him a solid punch in the arm from Sam.

     He wants to grab his fist, bite his knuckle — there's a million ways to say I love you, he thinks. And he intends on spending his life discovering them with Sam.