Sam fucking jumps.

     Sage is fuming as he slips his skis off and commits to the most undignified run of his life. Trying to run through snow is ridiculous. His adrenaline is throttling, forcing the blood to his lungs, so he's panting against the sharp air.

     He swears if Sam's not dead, he's going to kill him himself.

     And Sam's not dead. He's struggling to get to his feet, using the poles as leverage. Sage wants to push him over he's so annoyed. "You're an actual idiot," he snaps, throwing out a hand instead. Sam knocks it away and loses his balance, face planting back into the snow. "Idiot," he repeats, even more aggravated.

     "Shut it, Sage," Sam gets out, his words strained.

     "Did you break anything?" he asks, the concern creeping in. He tries to use his anger to push it back, but it's not working. It's too much, the feeling in his chest. It makes his jaw ache and his lungs constrict painfully.

     He steps over the back of Sam's thighs, straddling them, and then bends over, hooking his arms under his armpits to help him up. Sam makes this hysterical sound and Sage almost lets go, sure that he's hurting him.

     But then Sam goes, "I can stand on my own!"

     So he knows it's not pain but humiliation. He doesn't stop lifting until Sam's back on his feet. Or foot. He keeps one off the ground. Sage stares at it.

     "You're hurt," he says finally.

     "I'm fine," Sam says, deliberately placing it on the snow only to wince and have to lift it again.

     "Are there any more idiotic decisions left in you or have you blown through your supply for the day?" he asks, his tone sharp. He glares at Sam, who's face is flushed.

     Sam huffs but doesn't say anything, which is good because Sage is pissed off enough. They both stand there, silently fuming, until Sage caves, sliding his arm across Sam's back, hooking it around his waist.

     "Come on," he says and Sam doesn't fight him this time, placing a hand on his shoulder. He uses Sage's weight as a crutch, hopping back towards the lift. They wait on a short line to get on and when the lift chair swings behind them, nailing them in the back of the legs, Sam goes down clumsily, nearly falling off again.

     Except he didn't fall off the first time.

     "I can't believe you jumped from that height," Sage mutters licking his lips that are starting to chap.

     "The snow was supposed to cushion my blow," Sam responds.

     "And how'd that work for you?" Sage rolls his eyes. Stubborn, idiot boy. He could've broken his neck. Or any other bone for that matter. And they would have had to airlift him off of the slopes and they'd have spent the holiday in the hospital.

     "I don't understand why you're pissed," Sam says after a quiet moment. The lift is moving swiftly and the air whistles around them nearly drowning out Sam's words. "I'm the one that's injured here."

     Sage bites his lip, turning to look away from Sam. You could've died, he thinks but doesn't say.

❧

     Sage is right.

     Sam's an idiot. His ankles not broken. He broke his leg as a child. Knows what that pain feels like and this isn't that. But it's absolutely throbbing, and honestly, having it suspended in the air isn't helping. Sam wants to get this boot off and prop it up so the blood can rush down his leg and maybe some of the pain will go with it.

     Sam has to swallow and he's never given it much thought before but he understands the lack of appeal. He's swallowing his pride in spoonfuls. Has to let Sage help him off the lift chair and lets him support his weight as they walk over to a First Aid building.

     They step inside to a welcoming warm gush of air and Sam feels his face crack, starting to thaw. His cheeks tingle as the feeling returns to them. There's a girl sitting at the front and Sage leaves Sam's side to walk up to her, speaking lowly.

     She glances over at Sam, eyes trailing down his leg, before she steps around her desk and says, "Can you help him over to a cot here?"

     Sage returns to his side, placing his arm on Sam's back without hesitation. Not that there should be hesitation. It's not a big deal. And with the thick material of his ski suit he can't even really feel it. Sage's hand is a phantom touch. He realizes it's these exact fixations that have gotten him into this mess and tries to shake it. But now he's thinking about the delicate way Sage steadies him.

     Sage lets him go when they're near the cot and he hoists himself back onto it.

     "An EMT will be over shortly." The desk girl walks away.

     "Can you sit down? You're giving me anxiety," he says glancing at Sage who's hovering beside him. He still looks pissed and Sam doesn't get it.

     Sage relents though, sitting down beside Sam on the cot. After some thought Sam says, "If you're mad about not being able to ski, you can go. I'll be fine waiting here."

     Sage scoffs loudly. Okay, so he's really mad apparently.

     "You're a fucking idiot, Sam," he says right before the EMT walks up. Rude, Sam thinks giving Sage a pointed look.

     They introduce themself to Sam and then ask what happened. Sam waits to see if Sage is going to say anything before he says, slightly embarrassed, "I fell off the lift."

     Sage makes that sound again. The noise equivalent of a you're an idiot Sam. Sam gets it okay? He is dumb. He was clearly not using all his brain cells when he made that decision. But in his defense! In his defense close proximity to Sage as of late has been muddling his brain and his feelings and—

     And he is going to get it together. He is. He's going to fix this. He just needs some time to figure out how to fix this, which probably should start with some space from Sage. Kind of hard to get when you're a guest at his house, though.

     "Did you hit your head?" they ask. "Did you lose consciousness?"

     "Nope," Sam says. "Just landed wrong and rolled my ankle, I think."

     "Any medical history? Are you taking any medications?"

     Sam hesitates and everyone notices. Sage is staring at him questioningly. Sam's nervous, can feel the sweat under his arms, uncomfortably slick. He should lie, right. Because it's not really pertinent information to his ankle injury.

     He doesn't have to say anything because the EMT goes, "I just need to know if you're taking aspirin or a blood thinner."

     "I'm not," Sam says quickly. He's still sweating and he can feel Sage's gaze on him.

     He's on medication for his pinch of depression and the heavy handed anxiety he has. It's mainly for anxiety but his doctor says his anxiety works in tandem with his depression. He's been on the medication for so long that it's not something he ever talks about. It's apart of his life the same way brushing his teeth and getting his haircut are.

     "Okay, good. I'm going to take your boot off so I can have a look."

     Sam lifts his leg out to the EMT and then clenches at the edges of the cot as they undo the laces and jerk the boot towards them. They keep saying sorry as they force the boot off of his foot. He has on thick wool socks. Initially, they'd been a little big but now they're stretched over the swollen ball that's his ankle.

     Sam purses his lips at his foot. It looks worse than it feels, he thinks. But then it feels pretty bad.

     "It's huge," Sage says breaking the silence rather unhelpfully. "Are we sure it's not broken?"

     "It's not broken," Sam grumbles.

     The EMT says, "The only way to know for certain is to go get an x-ray."

     Sage looks over at Sam, meeting his gaze. Sam shakes his head. "Absolutely not. I'm not spending the day in the ER for them to tell me it's a bad sprain."

     "Can you wiggle your toes?" the EMT asks and so he tries and he can. It's so painful that he has to actively not pass out. He's starting to feel nauseous. The pain radiates from the inside of his ankle and up his shin.

     "Press down on my hand," the EMT instructs. "Good. Press up against it. Did that hurt? It did. Okay. Well, I really don't think it's broken. But like I said, you'd have to get an x-ray to know for sure. You know your body, though. If it feels off, you should get it checked out. Either way, you're going to need to stay off your foot for the rest of the day. Ice and elevate."

     Sam nods his head. Nods, nods, nods as the EMT wraps his foot, says something about taking the wrap off before he goes to bed. Bruising is normal but if his foot turns black he needs immediate emergency attention. Loss of mobility or sensation also requires emergency attention.

     After he's all bandaged up, they ask for his information and have him sign a waiver that says he's not going to go to the hospital with them.

     "If you drove here," the EMT says as they're about to walk away. "You can bring your car up to our front doors. Make it easier for him."

     "Great, thank you," Sage says nodding. He stands up just as Calla appears at the end of the cot. She's dusted in snow and her cheeks are bright and rosy, the same way Sage's get. She's grinning as she glances between Sam and Sage.

     "What happened?" she asks, sort of breathless. Sam watches as she takes her gloves off and shoves them into the pocket of her coat. Her nails are long and white.

     Sam realizes he's still stress sweating, perspiration dripping down the sides of his ribs. He desperately needs a shower. This isn't the kind of attention he likes. The kind that makes him helpless. And now he's going to have to explain to Sage's perfect family how he wasn't paying attention, missed his chance to get off the lift, and made the conscious decision to jump, instead.

     "We went to blue square," Sage says before Sam can answer. "Another skier ran into him."

     "Ooph, that sucks," Calla says. Sam barely hears her. He's busy staring at Sage. He imagines several different scenarios in his head, all of which end in Sage's death. Decidedly, he has to die. Because Sam can't live like this for much longer. He's going to explode holding this much shit in.

     "Can you bring the car around?" Sage asks holding out his keys. Calla takes them mumbling something about how she's driving home and they're stopping at Starbs. Sam feels his spirits lift a little. Coffee isn't going to fix his Sage problem but it'll make him feel better about it, at least.

❧

     "Stop looking at me like that," Sam snaps.

     Sage doesn't know what his face is doing because he doesn't know what his mind's doing. It's running all over the place.

     "Like what?"

     "Like that," Sam hisses.

     Sage scowls, and then snaps, "I'm not looking at you in any sorta way."

     "You really are," Sam says rolling his eyes. "And it's nauseating."

     Sam's mood swings are giving him whiplash. Sage's patience is short circuiting. And Sam's hurt, fell right in front of his eyes, and he's so fucking frustrating. Sage could really punch him in the face. And he really would if they weren't home for their break and in a first aid building. He'd probably end up arrested and would have to explain to his parents why he punched Sam.

     And what would he even say? Because mom and dad, Sam is so freaking infuriating I want to tear his clothes off and have my way —what the actual fuck.

     Seriously, what the fuck.

     "Alright, well that looks even worse. Why do you look like that?" Sam asks and this time Sage does school his expression. He is most definitely not imagining Sam naked because that's, that's inappropriate.

     "What do you take?" Sage asks deciding his safest option is to move the spotlight.

     "What're you talking about?" Sam asks. His pitch is off. He's nervous.

     Sage shrugs. "It's not a big deal, whatever it is."

     "I mean, that's really not for you to decide," Sam snaps. "I could have cancer. Or an autoimmune disease. Or, I don't know, hepatitis."

     "So I guess I can rule all three of those out, then," he says.

     "It's none of your business, Sage, so drop it," Sam snaps and his voice is startlingly harsh. Sage does drop it, feeling bad for even bringing it up. He's still insanely curious but he knows he's not getting it out of Sam. Not unless Sam wants to tell him, anyway. And why would he? He can barely tolerate Sage.

     Sam's tense as Sage helps him up and supports him to the car. His whole body's rigid and he's doing his best to not use Sage. Enough that Sage eventually mutters the emts said you need to keep your weight off your foot so Sam gives a little, letting Sage hold him up.

     It's a painfully quiet ride. The only time Sam speaks is when they stop at Starbucks.

     When they get back to the house, Calla parks in the garage and Sage gets out, pulling the backseat door open to help Sam. They've barely made it through the back hallway before Calla's divulging the tale to his parents.

     "Yeah some loser knocked into Sam and fucked his foot up," she's saying as they hobble past the kitchen.

     Sage can feel Sam go tense again. He hates this. He knows he does. He just doesn't know which part he hates, the people worrying over him or him feeling weak, or all of it. For as long as Sage can remember, Sam's never had anyone around to help him. He's never seen him with friends, or a girlfriend, and his family's never visited. Sam's been on his own for the last three years.

     He remembers sophomore year Sam got insanely sick. And he came to class, anyway. He had this dry cough that sounded like pebbles being shaken in a can. It rattled all the way up his chest. He sat in front of Sage for one his classes and the hair at the nape of his neck was damp and stuck to his skin. He reeked of Vicks vaporub.

     Sage had corned him after class. He remembers the exchange. Sam had sneered at him but it had very little of the bite Sage was used to and Sage had snapped, "The fuck are you doing here, Sam?"

     Sam had played dumb. "What are you talking about? This is my class. I've been in this class with you for five weeks, Sage."

     He'd rolled his eyes at that. Obviously Sage knew he was in this class. "You're sick. You've obviously got a fever. You should be home."

     "Need my notes."

     "Fuck your notes, Sam. Go home, take some Nyquil, and sleep whatever god-awful thing you've got off before you get everyone around you sick."

     "Is that what you're worried about? That I'm going to get you sick? Because I'm not that lucky."

     They'd been walking down the hallway as they argued and Sam had halted abruptly, throwing a hand out against the wall to brace himself. It was the first time Sage had ever helped Sam. "Look, I'll photocopy all my notes for the rest of the week," he'd said. "Now stay the fuck home and get better."

     He hadn't waited for Sam to agree. But the next day he'd left a folder of his notes outside his door and Sam didn't attend any of his classes for the rest of the week.

     Sage doesn't know why he's thinking about that now. He hasn't thought about it before. It's not like the moment had changed anything between them. Sam got better. They were still enemies. Earth remained fixed in its orbital.

     Sage halts in front of the couch in their TV room, gesturing to the lounge section. "Sit there," he says. "And I'll get some pillows to elevate your foot."

     He leaves the room and goes downstairs into the basement where they have a small gym set up. There's this foam thing Calla bought that's the perfect height. When he brings it upstairs, Sam is sitting on the edge of the couch, his head dropped in his hands. He's rubbing at the side of his head.

     "Headache?" Sage asks as he walks over and sets the foam box down. Sam sits up, glancing at the thing before looking up at Sage.

     "Headache, foot ache, whole body ache," he says lifting his leg up onto the couch. He props the one leg and leaves the other one on the floor. That can't be comfortable.

     "You should take something," Sage says and turns, leaving, before Sam can say otherwise.

     After Sage returns with water and tylenol, he leaves Sam convalescing in the living room. He finds his mom in the kitchen, where she's prepping the turkey for tomorrow.

     "Is he okay?" she asks, glancing up at Sage with her hand literally up and inside the Turkey.

     Sage grimaces, walking around the island to scrounge for food in the fridge. He frowns at the empty shelves. "He's...disgruntled," Sage says after a moment.

     He turns and his mom's there, giving him an accusing look. "Did you actually push him?"

     "What? Why would I push him?" he asks, surprised his mom would even suggest such a thing.

     "I know how you two are. You've told me how you two are."

     "I wouldn't push him," Sage says finally. "He jumped. From the lift."

     "He did what?" she asks, shocked. "He could've broken his neck. Can you imagine that conversation with his mother? I'm so sorry your son came to stay with us during break and well, now he's paralyzed."

     "It's not like I told him to jump," Sage says defensively. "He just did it. I don't know why he does the things he does."

     "Uh huh," she says, disbelievingly.

     "I don't," Sage insists. "He's a conundrum."

     She makes a noise, one he's not used to and can't tell what she means by it. "What?" he asks when she doesn't follow it up with any words.

     "Order some take-out," she says finally. "Your father's in the studio."

     Sage's father is the predominant chef of the family, handling most meals although his mom tackles the holiday feasts. She doesn't like the commitment of casual cooking, but can steal herself to follow age-old family recipes. But if his dad's in the studio, it's unlikely anything will pull him away before he's finished what he's working on.

     Sage has been craving his favorite pasta from Buzzoni's so he orders a few family platters of their usual before returning to the living room. Sam's lying there, staring up at the ceiling. The pose is very why me.

     "You can watch tv you know," Sage says as he rounds the couch. Sam makes a sound that Sage can't interpret. He sits down at the other end, and they're in a weird silence until he asks, "Why'd you jump?"

    "Because I'm an idiot," Sam says, his tone miserable.

     "You said it," he responds quietly and Sam shoots him a look.

     "I don't know," he says after a moment. His voice is low. "I wasn't thinking logically."

     Sage nods. It's not really an explanation but maybe there just isn't one. Shit happens. "Do you wanna work on our research? I can go get your laptop."

     Sam heaves a loud breath and nods. "Yeah," he says finally. "But I really want to shower first. Can you help me upstairs?"

❧

      Sam thinks that if there is a hell, it's full of close-proximity-to-Sage situations. He's folded into Sage's side as the boy helps him up the stairs. Sage smells thick and heady, smells like he usually does only stronger. Like he baked his scent into him. Sam holds his breath the rest of the way up because it's distracting and the last time he got distracted is the reason he's got his arm around Sage.

     Sage actively moves them towards his bedroom door, away from the room Sam is staying in. Sam's put it together that it's his late brother's room and Sage doesn't really like going in there. Sam lost his dad before he was old enough to fully capacitate the loss. He knows he's missing something but he can't liken the feeling to what he's sure Sage feels.

     He didn't get a good look at Sage's room before so he takes it in now. He has a large bed that's been made. The blankets are a cool taupe shade. The duvet looks extra fluffed and inviting. Sam wants to sink into it. It'd be like burying himself in Sage's scent, though, which is starting to make him think stupid things. Like how easy it would be to turn and put himself in front of Sage, press his chest up against his, take his mouth in his.

     The more stupid he thinks, the harder his dick is getting.

     "I can take it from here," Sam says, tone sort of urgent, as he turns half away from Sage in the bathroom.

     "You sure?" Sage asks delaying his departure.

     "Yes, yes, I'm good," he insist, putting a hand on the door. He tilts his head as if to say get out.

     "I'll just wait out here I guess," Sage says. "Just — call me if you need help. You don't want to injure yourself more."

     "Yep," Sam says and then promptly shuts the door behind Sage and locks it. He heaves a deep breath. Apparently an ankle injury won't hinder his dick from rising to the occasion.

❧

     Sage is lounging on his bed waiting for Sam when he thinks to himself Sam's naked on the other side of that door.

     He can hear the shower running and closes his eyes, thinking about it. Enthusing the idea just for a moment. Sam's dark hair lying flat against his forehead, dripping water into his eyes. The slope of his shoulders and his smooth chest, the cut of his hip bones. Sam's fit. Fitter then Sage. Fit in a way that is intentional and specific.

     Sage has always admired Sam's frame from afar, never up close so that he could never be caught. When Sam's next to him in class, wearing sweats or shorts, Sage does a purposeful job of not taking notice. But when he'd seen Sam coming out of the fitness center one afternoon, still sweaty, in a shirt that stretched across his biceps and his chest—he didn't just look, he absorbed the image, stored it away for safe keeping, painted it for safer keeping. Sage does a very purposeful job of not thinking about the painting. The painting that has gotten out of control as of late. 

     So it's not hard for Sage to draw up a very naked Sam in his head and now that he has, he's feeling a pressing urge to touch himself. Which would be bad, he knows. Sam's on the other side of that door and he'll be done with his shower and they're going to do their research. So Sage is going to enact some control and not touch himself. No matter how desperately he wants to slip—

❧

     A finger.

     Sam has never tried it before, has never felt the urge to try it, but he's braced one hand against the wall of the shower, the waters raining down on him, and he thinks why not, letting a finger slip past his balls. He knows the logistics of this, that he needs some sort of lubrication and water's not going to cut it, so he really doesn't attempt anything. Just kind of teases at his hole and.

     Wow. It works. He cums fast and hard, groaning before he can catch himself, before he can slap a hand over his mouth.

     He turns his head into the crook of his elbow, breathing heavily. He bites down as he pants. His legs are shaking and he jerks on the last of his orgasm. "Fuck," he whispers, stepping under the water so he can rinse himself off.

     And then he's crying, tears scorching his eyes that he blinks against. He does't know why he's crying, just that he is, and it feels like a necessary release. Crying because he's stressed and anxious and has no idea what to do about Sage and his feelings, feelings that he maybe has for Sage.

     Sam feels like he's short circuiting. It's being here, being around Sage, not knowing or understanding or wanting to even address all the things he feels, feelings that he thinks are foreign but also kind of thinks have been existing inside him for a long time. He didn't consent to that and finds it kind of rude.

     He wishes he knew how to silence it all again.

     Had hating Sage been the silencer all this time? Did this mean he didn't hate Sage — that he never hated Sage and it'd been something else completely? He knows he doesn't. He could argue, and not very well, that he dislikes a lot of aspects of Sage but after spending the semester in close contact with him, Sam can't pretend that they aren't on okay terms now. He doesn't know what they are or what they're doing but they're certainly not enemies.

     Which sucks. It was easier when they were.

     Research is helping.

     It's familiar and Sam finally feels at ease, which is maybe also because of the shower and the cumming and the crying. The crying was a little weird, actually. He's never done that before but maybe it was pent up from his injury. He hadn't cried then because he didn't want to look like a little bitch in front of Sage. He's also pretty sure his tear ducts had been frozen solid.

     Sam focuses on the work and it's a good distraction from all the freaking out he wants to do. He'll do that when he gets back home. Maybe find a way to put space between him and Sage without obviously putting space between them. He should ask Sage what classes he's signing up for next semester. Maybe if he's lucky they won't overlap with his and he'll only be forced to see Sage once a week for Olekev.

     He asks. Sage answers. Sam thinks this is my hell. Was he hitler in another life? Is this his reckoning? He can't catch a break.

    "Why?" Sage asks after Sam's gone silent over his answer. They're taking the Exact. Same. Courses. And while Sam likes to think there's hope they'll be in different sections, there is no hope. Hope is gone. Hope has flown the coop.

     "Just wondering," Sam says quietly.

     Sage gives him a weird look but then his phone rings and it's enough to distract him from asking. The food's here so Sage excuses himself.

     Sam's lying on the floor with his back pressed against the cushions, and his one leg propped up. His other's bent and is where he's holding his laptop as he works. He's hungry, and his energy's depleting. He knows he's not going to be productive any longer, so he closes it and pushes it onto the couch behind him.

     When Sage returns, he's carrying two plates. "I did a little of everything," he says setting them down on the coffee table before he pushes the table closer to Sam.

     "That's good," Sam says not liking that Sage is trying to accommodate him. His chest has a hot acidic feeling. He's going to blame it on not eating all afternoon.

     Sage walks out wordlessly and Sam wonders if he's offended him. Sage has been overly nice — has hosted Sam at his house, has let him borrow clothes, and made him coffee, and helped him walk around with his bum ankle. Sam should be nice back but he's confused and that makes him want to bite, to bring back the normalcy.

     "Drinks," Sage says when he returns, two high noons in his possession. "I didn't think you'd like the beer we have in the fridge. These are my moms."

     "S'fine," Sam mumbles, taking the drink from Sage's outstretched hand. He opens the can and starts drinking, a bit too heavily, maybe, because Sage gives him a look.

     "If you say anything about this food that isn't an esteemed review, it'll be grounds to kick you out," Sage says after he's sat down beside Sam.

     Sam doesn't think he's going to have anything but an esteemed review to give. It looks amazing. And even though he's eaten his fill of Italian food thanks to Sage, and all of the pasta has been filling him out, he digs in.

     The food's hot and he huffs to manage it and then he groans without meaning to, catching the sound and clamping his mouth against it. Too late. Sage has taken note and turns to give Sam an amused look.

     "Alright, so it's good, shut up," Sam snaps.

❧

     Sage laughs.

     He's been laughing all night. It took food and three high noons but Sam's not tense anymore, and whatever animosity that's boiled between them all day has finally simmered down. They've retired the research and have started the LOTR movies, at Sam's behest.

     Sage wanted to say something, a remark on Sam having never seen the films but he'd caught himself and stopped, not willing to ruin the peace they'd finally found. It was Sam who had actually commented on it, saying, "I didn't watch a lot of TV growing up. In Azerbaijan."

     He said it quietly, a note of shame in his voice, and Sage didn't know what to say. Felt like there was shame associated with the statement for reasons Sam wasn't giving away. Did his parents not allow it?

     Sage can see Sam growing up with strict parents.

     He wants to know what they're like. Sam's here in his home, has met his sister on multiple occasions now, and is sitting in the living room with his father watching movies. Sam is getting to know Sage on a personal level and he wants that, too.

     And that's...new. That's uncomfortable. Sage doesn't really know what to do with that. He's sitting on the floor still, back pressed against the cushions and Sam's sprawled on the lounge portion, his leg in the air. Sage's mom pops into the room periodically, first with snacks, and then with drinks. During the Two Towers, she sits with them for the Isengard fight. Neither of his parents can make it through the third movie, calling it quits a quarter way in.

     So then it's just Sage and Sam. Sam's enthralled, watching quietly, except for these little noises of surprise he gives every so often. And Sage is thrilled. He likes being the one to introduce something to Sam that he actually likes. When they try a restaurant he suggests and Sam enjoys it—yeah, Sage lives for that shit. Hits him hard and low, the pleasure of getting it right.

     Sam is the hardest research project Sage has ever tackled. He's the Riemann hypothesis — this thing that feels impossible to solve, even though he utilizes the theories behind it all the time. He can run its functions but if you asked him how he was doing it, he wouldn't have an answer. He just knows it without knowing how or why.

     Calla's the last one to make an appearance. It's nearing midnight and she looks very ready for bed, her face an oil slick. Sage is used to seeing her like this. Enjoy your premature wrinkles she'd retorted when he'd made a joke about it.

     Sage's ass has fallen asleep and his neck hurts from the lack of support. He's also had too many high noons that his stomach feels excruciatingly full. He's contemplating getting on the couch but feels like it'll break whatever ease has settled on them. That it would somehow be crossing a boundary.

     She breezes into the room, deigning to look up from her phone as she glances at the boys and then the TV. "Sick invite," she says with a quirk of her mouth.

     Sage rolls his eyes. "You're welcome to join us now."

     Sam shushes Sage.

     "Hard pass," Calla says. "I'm off to bed. This movies a snore anyway."

     "Blasphemy," Sam calls out, not moving his eyes from the screen. Sage bites down on a grin. He doesn't know if he's more entertained by Sam's interest in the film or the way he's taken to treating Calla like his own sister.

     "Tomorrow I'm choosing the movies. Sam, you ever seen Call Me by Your Name? Cause it is an absolute classic." She stares at Sage as she says it, her tone all insinuation.

      "Good night, Calla," Sage snaps quickly.

     "Or my favorite: Brokeback Mountain."

     Sam responds, distracted, "That first one sounds lame but I could down for the mountain one."

     Sage is flushing as Calla laughs. "I bet you would be," she says as she walks out.

     Before Sam can ask Sage about it, he goes, "You want another drink?"

     Sam does and it's an absolutely terrible idea. There's too much of a lapse between all the drinks that they're not getting drunk, but drowsy. And it's already late. It's not all that surprising that they're out cold ten minutes into the next movie.

     Sage wakes first, jolted by the TV practically blearing at them. He scrambles for the remote and his neck cracks. Every part of him is protesting the fact he fell asleep on the floor.

     Sage finds the remote under the couch and fumbles to shut the movie off completely. The living room darkens but the curtains are open on the windows so he can see enough, see that Sam's woken up and is looking at him.

     Sage stills for a moment. In the dim light, Sams eyes are just brown. But he knows them, knows how much green lives there. His eyes are a forest. Sage thinks he could fall asleep under them. There's the sun, there's the moon, and then there's Sam's eyes.

     Sage is drunk still, apparently. He relaxes back against the couch, not moving his gaze from Sam's. He watches him shift his chin upwards so his face isn't completely compressed against the throw pillow he's lying on.

     "We aren't enemies anymore, are we?" Sam asks softly. His expression gives nothing away.

     Sage has no idea what response Sam wants, so he decides to give the honest one and says, "No. I don't think we are."

     I don't think we ever were.