The unfortunate truth of Sam's reality is that he can only exist in the present moment. He can't go back in time and even if he could, he's not sure where he would go and what he would do when he got there. Would he go back twelve hours, when he had his mouth on Sage's neck and his hand on his dick.

     Would he look at the portraits of himself and say, "I love them, Sage."

     Would he look at the portraits of himself and say, "I love you, Sage."

     Or maybe he'd go back only ten minutes further, before he'd reached into Sage's pocket and taken out his keys. Maybe he'd have said, "I need to shower first." And maybe Sage would've said, "I'll join you." And they'd have ended up in Sam's apartment, under a stream of water and the illusion that their feelings for each other weren't what they are.

     He could go back even further. Three years and five months ago. Maybe he would have stood next to a pretty girl in that seminar instead. He would've noticed her beauty, but it wouldn't have meant anything — he wouldn't have done anything. Would the tether never have formed at all or would it have just been delayed, waited till the beginning of classes when they found themselves fighting for the same seats and the same attention from their professors.

     What Sam wants to know is the inevitable ever evitable. Is there a version of Sam out there that isn't in love with Sage? And if there isn't, is there at least a Sam who isn't afraid and hasn't fucked it all up?

     He wants to know if love is a stoppable force.

     Sam's no stranger to lack of sleep so it's a surprise when he barely has the energy to shower and get ready for class. The bags under his eyes are bagging and he hasn't been able to stomach any food all night. He's churning acid, kind of wishes it'd back flow up his throat and choke him. He doesn't even want to die, he just wants to not be Sam for a little while. To not be the guy who loves something and is so afraid of destroying it that he destroys it.

     When he steps into the hallway, it's only right and holy that Sage is leaving, too. Sam deliberately looks at him, trying to gauge just how badly he fucked up yesterday but Sage doesn't spare him the slightest look, not even a withering glance, he just turns and walks down the hallway, business as usual. The elevator opens when he hits the button and he steps in, turning around, finally at Sam who hasn't moved from in front of his door. Sage reaches an arm out and—

     Holds the elevator for him.

     Holds the god damn elevator.

     Sam very nearly keels over, absolutely gutted. This is bad. Worse than bad. Because all of that cruelty between them had been an expression of something else, something bigger. If Sage had closed that door on him, there might've still been a chance. Fighting with Sam often felt like Sage was fighting for Sam. But this was resignation. This was the end. Not enemies, not friends, not lovers, just neighbors, classmates, soon to be forgotten. 

     Sam doesn't want to get in that elevator with him but he has no choice. He sucks in his breath and closes the distance between them, stepping in beside Sage. He stares at the side of his face, willing Sage to look at him. To acknowledge his presence at all but Sage doesn't budge. He has hickies all over his neck. Hickies Sam put there. And you know what, no, this can't be the end. He can't not ever do that again. He made a mistake. It was a hiccup. It didn't mean anything. He has to fix this. He already misses Sage and he's standing right here.

     "About yesterday," Sam starts, his voice trembling. He didn't script this, has no idea how to even explain himself. "We can just. Forget, I guess, I saw it. Saw anything. We could just forget it."

     "No, Sam, I have no interest in forgetting actually," Sage says, his tone tempered glass, absolutely translucent, nothing there to read into.

     "Okay," Sam responds confused and slightly distracted by the hickies. The marks are kind of doing things for him. Terrible timing, he knows, but totally out of his control, too. "We don't have to forget it, I guess. It can just be a thing we move on from. It doesn't have to change anything."

     Sage's jaw clenches and the elevator dings as it opens on the first floor. He walks out and turns back to look him in the eye as he says, "You can live in your state of delusion by yourself." A long breath, tired, too tired to fight. Sage isn't waving a white flag. He's just waving. "Goodbye, Sam."

❧

     Sage is not standing on his feet. His feet are gone and now there's just raw, bleeding stumps that ache with each step in their place. These aren't his lungs, either. They're bricks, with no porosity, just dense concrete trapping oxygen on one side and carbon dioxide on the other, the weight of it dragging his chest to the ground.

     Sage is not Sage. Feels like he's stepped outside of his body and is watching it function, and poorly at that, drifting through his classes, avoiding interactions with Sam, dodging texts from Ruthie and his sister. Sage is wandering, dragging, doing the best he can with feet that aren't there, and lungs that don't work until the day's over and he can crawl under his covers.

     Maybe it'll be better tomorrow.

     It's not so he stops trying to get anywhere, at all, deciding to hurt alone in his bed. It's the only place he can truly agonize over what happened, what happened just feet away from his mattress, right there by the door. He tortures himself with reruns of that night. The way Sam's gaze sliced into him. Death by a thousand cuts.

     He'd forgotten about the paintings but then he thinks maybe he didn't. He'd kissed Sam outside the airport and Sam had kissed him back. So maybe he thought things had changed. It was a hope more than anything else.

     Sage wanted it. He wanted it so badly he thought the feeling would tear through his skin and eat Sam alive. It was a monster, the feeling, insatiable. A wicked fiend for Sam — his Frankenstein. The person who'd created this feeling and given it life.

     Sam had snuffed it out, too, with just a look. Built and broke Sage in an instance.

     Sage is ignoring a knock at his door. At first it's a normal knock but after some time waiting the knock becomes a bit incessant, followed by a, "Sage Decourt I know you're in there."

     He gets the door for Ruthie, not opening it wide enough for entry. He lifts an eyebrow. "What's up?" he asks.

     "What's up?" she repeats shoving past him. "What's up with you? You've been dodging me all week." She glances around his apartment. There's several bags of take-out on the counter. It's not messy but it's not the way he normally keeps his apartment. "Have you gone to any of your classes this week?"

     "Tuesday's," he tells her honestly.

      "What's going on?" she asks, dropping her purse on one of the barstools. She starts consolidating the garbage. "Are you okay? Did something happen with your family?"

     "No," he says. "Nothing happened. They're fine."

     "Is it a bad mental week?

     He shakes his head, watching as she shoves all the garbage into one large plastic bag and then moves to his sink. It is a bad mental week and his apartment looks like it. He hasn't made his bed all week, hasn't run the dishwasher, or washed his laundry. It looks like depression. Maybe it is depression. He feels dramatic for categorizing it that way. Hudson had been depressed. Hudson had killed himself. Is Sage trivializing his brother's experience by being upset over what even?

     He wasn't dating Sam. He hadn't been cheated on or lied to. Things were just over. They wanted different things. They felt differently about each other. There's no crime in that. Sage has no reason to be this sad, he just knows that he is.

     "What is it?" Ruthie asks, staring at him, reading him better than anyone. "Something's happened. Is it Sam? It's Sam, isn't it."

      He nods and says, "That's over."

     But she's just not going to accept such an oversimplification of what's gone on with them. He resigns himself to reliving the night again, taking Ruthie through every mortifying moment.

     She doesn't say anything while's talking and offers very little perspective once he's done. She doesn't to justify Sam's behavior, doesn't sugar coat what could've just been a miscommunication. They climb into his bed and start binging That '90s Show. And he's glad she doesn't try to make him feel better or worse about it, just lets him think and feel what he does.

     Sage is surprised when he starts dozing. He hasn't done anything to be this tired and yet he is. He hates that, how physically draining being emotionally hurt is.

❧

     Sam has a script memorized.

     Sage, I'm sorry.
     Your paintings were very nice. (Nice? No, lovely. No nice, who says lovely. Okay, fine beautiful. He'll say beautiful.)
     Your paintings were very nice beautiful.
     I should've said that. I shouldn't have just left.
     I understand if you want to just go back to being research partners. I can handle that. I cannot, however, go back to being enemies. (Sam can't actually handle being just research partners either but he will certainly pretend.)

     Sam knocks at Sage's door and waits. He doesn't actually expect him to answer on his first or second civil knock. He may need to result to banging. He knows Sage is home. He's been scouting his apartment all week. Sage hasn't been to any of their classes, hasn't left his apartment as far as he can tell except to get his take-out. He knows he's home.

     The door opens a crack and then just big enough for Ruthie to slip past and shut it gently behind her. "Sameer Kaan," she accuses, hands on her hips. She is accusing Sam of his name. His name, he notes, that she pronounced perfectly.

     Sam knows Ruthie but doesn't like know her. He knows what he's seen and what Sage has mentioned. Knows Ruthie is Sage's best friend and therefore probably hates his guts and wants to cut his dick off or something.

     So he greets her with, "I'm sorry."

     She tilts her head, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "You even know why you're sorry?"

     "Because I hurt your best friend," he says rather plainly.

     She takes a moment to absorb that and then crosses her arms. "So how do you plan to fix it?"

     "I had a speech prepared," he says confidently. A speech is a bit of exaggeration but he thinks Ruthie won't accept any less.

     She looks at Sam pointedly. "Well let's hear it then."

     He was not prepared for that. He clears his throat and decides to stick to the script. He thinks it's a good apology. Acknowledges what he did wrong. Compliments Sage's work. No, it's definitely good. He's actually—

     "—an idiot," Ruthie is saying before he's even finished. She definitely just called him an idiot. "What are you expecting to get from that? Because you're not going to get Sage back."

     Sam doesn't say anything. Uh yeah, he was expecting to get just that — Sage back. A return to their normalcy. He was expecting to have a friend again.

     "Sam, I'm gonna do you a solid because you're looking and sounding especially emotionally constipated and it feels like my civic duty to shove a laxative down your throat. So here it is straight for you. Or gay, actually, very gay. The point being there isn't a doubt in my mind that you have real feelings for Sage. Real feelings that have absolutely nothing to do with sex. I think you like Sage, not just fucking Sage."

     He goes to respond but she holds up a hand. "Nope, not done. Your guys' fucking and pretending not to feel anything thing has run its course. It's dried up. Cat is out of the bag. You don't spend holidays with someone's family without their being some emotional recourse. This was the inevitable progression of things. Only you fucked up because when it came time to say it with your chest you got scared, right? And you ran instead."

     What else can Sam say but "yes." Because she's right and Sam's starting to understand why Ruthie is his best friend. She doesn't mince words. And she sure as shit is going to stand up for Sage. She's whittled it down to the root. Sam has feelings for Sage. It's not just sex. It's not just for research purposes.

     "You have very little window to fix this. And the only fighting chance you're going to have is if you're absolutely brutally honest with him. Which means you have to be absolutely brutally honest with yourself. Figure out what you want, Sam. Who you want. Because Sage isn't going to wait for you. I'm going make damn sure he doesn't. He is the best person I know. He deserves better than to be used for sex."

     Ruthie gives him a long look, hard but soft, too. She doesn't hate Sam. But she loves Sage. She is going to pick him, be there for him, and put him first, always. Sam wants that for him. Ruthie's the kind of friend Sage deserves.

     She opens his apartment door quietly and steps back in without another word. Sam stays, reeling. Emotionally constipated. Sounds about right.

❧

     Sage stirs in his empty bed and sits up, watching Ruthie creep back inside. "Who was that?" he asks thinking Sam before she even answers.

     She makes a face and goes, "Who do you think?"

     "What'd you say to him?" he asks.

     "Shit or get off the pot," she says simply. She hangs back by the kitchen, not returning to his bed. "I have to go but I'm going to say something to you, too."

     This, he thinks. This is what he expected from her when he told her earlier about Sam. She'd been quiet and quietly supportive, keeping her own opinions out of it. But that was about to change.

     "Don't go back to fucking him," she says. Unexpected advice. "He is very pretty and I know you love him and the combination of those two things can convolute reality."

     "And what's reality?" Sage asks.

     "The reality is you deserve more than someone who just wants to fuck you in secret," she says firmly. "You deserve someone who can be honest with you and themselves."

     "You're right," he says thinking about what Calla had said to him about deserving more. He let Sam play touch football with his feelings and he got hurt.

     "Damn right I'm right," she says with a tut. "And now for my final act I'll be back here Monday to drag your ass out of this apartment and to your classes come hell or high water. So you have the rest of the weekend to wallow. You're not ruining your last semester over a boy."

     "Heard," he says with a small grin.

     "Thank you chef." She turns to leave but stops, turning back. "I love you, Sage."

     Which is exactly what he needs to hear. Sage is too choked up to say it back. He waits till Ruthie's left before he starts crying. 

❧

     It's Saturday afternoon and Sam is prepared to go to Sage's. He is prepared to fix this by any means possible. He is only mildly prepared to be the level of honesty required of him to do said fixing.

     He's changed three times. Jeans, slacks, back into jeans. Button up, no button up. It's not like he's proposing to Sage. He's just. What is he even doing.

     Hey Sage, so the photos were nice and you know sucking your dick has been pretty nice to but I think I'd like to not suck your dick sometimes, too, you know. I think I'd like to take your dick out to dinner is what I'm saying.

     He's not going to say that. He will probably end up saying that. But he's definitely not going to mean to say that because it's a bit absurd.

     No button up, jeans, sneakers, and a black tee shirt. Casual. He had his hair cut earlier. He touches it up with some pomade. Applies a crest white strip and brushes his eyebrows with a spooly. While he's waiting, he checks his phone.

     It'd be easier, he thinks, if Sage reached out. Sent up a little life line. A simple hey, for instance. He could do a lot with a hey.

     He has some emails. He sees the word Decourt and opens it with vigor. It's not a text but he will totally take an email. A bit detached but still a form of communication. Only. The email is not from Sage. It's from Nora.

     Hi Sam,
     I spoke with Sage and I was so happy to hear you want to work here next year. I'm sure you've had your pick of places by now. I'd like to get your on-boarding started, though you obviously won't begin until after your graduation. What with the visa paperwork, it'll be good to get ahead. What's your schedule look like? I'll need you to come into my office one day during the week so we can meet with HR and discuss the position and compensation.
     Hope your first week back went well.
     Nora

     Sam sets down his phone. So Sage is not talking to him, and not closing elevator doors in his face, and is still setting up a job for him with his mom. Because what had he said that night? Right, that he'd tell her it was over between them and there was no bad blood. She wouldn't hold it against Sam. But Sam holds it against Sam.

     So he leaves.

❧

     Sam shows up at his door shortly after his phone call with his mother, shortly after she reached out to Sam he's sure. Sam knocks and says, "Open the door, Sage."

     For whatever reason, he doesn't. Not whatever reason. Because his resolve sucks and he misses Sam, okay. He misses him. He's been sad and the sadness has kept him in bed but he's mostly been cutting class to avoid Sam because he's not sure he'll be able to stay mad if he sees him.

     "I know you're in there, so just open up. Cut the shit."

     Sam sounds kind of mad, which is really just, you know, sage, considering he walked out on him. Considering Sage is the one who was rejected. Considering Sage is the one who loves him even as he hurts him.

     "Honestly, fuck you Sage," he says next. "You think you can just, you can just avoid me all week and then you send." He stops and it sounds like he's coughing. "You have your mom offer me a position. You're fucking unreal you know that. Unbelievable. You stubborn freaking mule just open the door."

     Sam's kicking at the door now and Sage's resolve is out the window. He's prepared to give it all up. He promised Ruthie not to go backwards but fuck it. He can't be mad at Sam and he knows, he knows he's going to open the door and he's going to forgive him and accept less than he wants, less than he deserves, because he loves Sam and he can love him from afar. He can try.

     Only, he gets to his door and Sam's already gone.

❧

     Sam is drunk.

     And while he's been drunk before, never quite like this. Never on hard feelings, feelings he can't digest, feelings that may just regurgitate themselves across the bar. And the bartender keeps refilling his glass like he actually needs that as he laments about his life. And how unfair it is to love a boy you cannot have.

     He's at a low point, talking to a stranger about his life because he doesn't have friends. Which he should rectify. He's going to rectify that soon. But first he has to rectify things with Sage, which means he needs to get Sage to see him. Because this can't be over. He refuses to let this be over.

     The bartender says dude please chill the fuck out and he is all how does one chill when Sage looks like this and looks at me like this and Sam's prepared to risk everything. She's all go tell him that not me. She might have said only wait till you're sober but that part came too late.

     So he's here, outside Sage's door, knocking not at all quietly for how late it is. Crooning his name. "Sage, come on, open up. I'm not leaving until you do."

     Sam has no idea how long he's been standing outside his door knocking, only knows that it feels like it's been a long time.

     And Sage finally opens up, yanking the door away so fast Sam's fist hovers between them. He's tempted to drop his palm against Sage's chest but he's apparently sober enough to know that's a bad idea.

     "You're drunk, Sam," Sage snaps. "Go home."

     Sam ignores the icy tone and then he does put his hand on Sage's chest, just long enough to give him a good push so he can step inside.

     "Hey," Sam says tipping his head back to look up at Sage. Sage is angry but he's trying hard not to look it, so his expression is bored. And that hurts more, Sam thinks. Sage looks deeply uninterested and even if Sam knows that's not true, he feels unwanted and that makes him reckless. "Hi."

❧

     Sam is in his apartment and he's drunk and he's supposed to be mad at him so Sage should definitely not kiss him.

❧

     Sage is wearing pajamas pants, not sweats. Baby blue plaid pants and a white v-neck, loose and worn with a little hole in the shoulder, revealing chest and collar bones. His apartment smells clean, like lysol and lemon. His bed's made and there's an easel up near the windows, only the sketch of what he's about to paint on in it.

     Sage does not look like he's been hurting or missing Sam.

     He looks at Sam now like he's never seen him naked, neutrally, like he's Switzerland. And Sam's a war. Sam was born a war, always fighting, conquering land only to have it taken back from him. Sam wants to win one. Wants to win this one.

     Sage asks, "What are you doing here?"

     "I need..." To talk to you, is what he should say. But ends up with, "You."

     Sage makes a noise, a pfft. All disbelief. All fuck you, Sam.

     "I know you're mad at me," Sam says next, grappling for a life raft. Something to get him back to shore. Something to him back to Sage.

     Sage shrugs. "Why would I be mad?"

     He sighs heavily. "Not going to make this easy, huh?"

     Sage steps away from Sam, backing up till he's leaning against his couch. He crosses his arms. "Why should I? You don't."

     "Look I — I shouldn't have left, okay? But in my defense. In my defense, I don't have a defense."

     "What a wordsmith," Sage says rolling his eyes.

     "You know what, I do have a defense. It was much easier when we weren't friends."

     "Are we friends now?" Sage asks.

     "Don't do that," he snaps, his words quick and cold, lashing out at the immediate hurt. Of course they're friends and for Sage to pretend otherwise is just cruel.

     Sage heaves a breath, exasperated and goes, "So that's your defense then? It was easier when we were at each other's throats? When you were closing elevators doors on me—"

     "Hey, you closed them on me, too."

     "And why do you think I did that?"

     Sam doesn't think about why Sage does anything. Doesn't think about the cosmic clusterfuck that is this boy, who sat beside him on the floor surrounded by cold take-out boxes and let Sam kiss him under the pretense of research.

     Sam has taken too long and Sage looks at him, drained, says, "Go home, Sam."

     Sam is thinking about how the last time they were in bed together Sage said his whole name, a whisper and an offer and a command all at once. "Sameer." And Sam was wrecked. He couldn't tell if Sage was saying his name or praying to it. He wants to go back. He wants to go back to that night when everything felt possible. When it felt like they had a chance.

     Sam steps up to the couch, close enough that his knees are touching Sage's shins. Sage doesn't flinch but his Adam's apple bobs. Sam stares at it, stares at the length of his throat, thinks about his own throat, thinks about the fat red marks Sage has left on him before. He wants to stake his claims, wants to mark Sage as his territory. Wants to get his mouth on Sage. Just wants. God, always wanting.

     He feels alone in that and alone in it often. If he hadn't seen the paintings, he'd honestly believe that Sage was just going with the motions. Convenience. A dick and a wet hole. For research purposes. Whatever. Sam has felt far more invested in this than him the whole time. Until the paintings, because Sage is an artist and even if he doesn't say much, his paintings do. And Sam read it all loud and clear. It's why he ran.

     It's why he's back.

     Sam is an idiot and he can't really change that. And he doesn't really know why he thinks this is the move but he looks up into Sage's gaze that is so heated and intense it guts him, halts him momentarily, before he puts his hand on his hip and says lowly, "Fuck me."

     Sage practically recoils. It would certainly be a recoil if the couch weren't behind him. He grabs Sam's hand and lifts it away from him. "No."

     "Please," Sam begs. He is certain if they fuck it will fix everything. Because he can't put it into words but he can say it with his body. He can open for Sage in this way. He can let him in this way. He can give all of himself over this way.

❧

     Sage is fuming. And he's clinging to his anger and his pain because god, he just wants to give into Sam so bad. So freaking bad.

     He's here and he's saying things. And Sage doesn't know who he is without Sam. Hasn't had to know in nearly four years. His whole collegiate existence has revolved around Sam. But that's changing. He won't have Sam anymore and soon he won't have college, either. He hates change, god he hates it so much.

     And Sam is looking at him with pretty hazel eyes, saying, "fuck me, please," and Sage wants to smash his head through a god damn wall. Anything to stop himself from making a mistake here.

     "No, Sam, I'm done fucking you," he snaps and its harsh. He knows it the moment the pain registers on Sam's face. The rejection reading in the stitch between his eyebrows. So he adds, "I wouldn't while you're drunk, anyway. So No. And don't ask that again."

     "Why? Afraid I'll wear you down?"

     Sage knows it's fake bravado. Can still hear the hurt in Sam's voice. He doesn't want to hurt Sam but it's starting to feel unavoidable.

     He sighs before asking him, his voice quieter now, "What do you want, Sam? Really? Why are you here?"

❧

     Sam hesitates, thinking about it. He thought he had come here to make things right. He's here because he misses Sage and he's going to keep missing him if he doesn't fix this. So what he wants is Sage. He wants Sage however he can have him. But Sage was right, he's not a wordsmith.

     "Before there was you, there was nobody," Sam says instead.

     "I'm aware," Sage responds.

     "Not just men, Sage," Sam clarifies. "There was nobody. Not like this. I didn't think I could — I didn't think I was capable of — And I liked that. It made me focused. And, and impenetrable." Sam looks at his hand between them, still wrapped in Sage's and wiggles his fingers. Sage doesn't let go. "It was a lot. The painting."

     Now Sage lets go, like Sam's just burned him. He turns his head away from him. "Well you weren't supposed to see them. You forced your way into my apartment, I didn't bring you here."

     "I'm glad I saw it," Sam snaps cutting him off. Sage's head cuts back to look Sam in the eye as if he needs to see if he's being serious.

     Sage rolls his eyes and Sam knows it's defensive, it's not Sage trying to hurt him. It's Sage trying to keep himself from getting hurt. From getting his hopes up. "Yeah, that's exactly the impression I got."

     "I shouldn't have left but I was overwhelmed. Because I didn't know. I didn't know, Sage. I thought it was just me. And when it was just me I could pretend... But if it's us, then it's real and. I didn't know because you don't say anything and I thought you were just going along with it."

     "You didn't know?" Sage says and now he does sound angry. His expression is anything but bored. "You're maddening, Sam. Absolutely fucking maddening."

     "Well you don't say shit, Sage. So how would I know?" Sam's getting mad too. This isn't going how he thought it would. He's not sure what he thought would happen but he kind of thinks he'd be naked in Sage's bed by now. Why can't he just say what he means to?

     Because he doesn't know how, he realizes. He's never been wrong before.

     "Paintings," Sage says, the word bursting out of him.

     "What?" he asks confused but Sage is moving, pushing him away so he can walk over to his bed. He leans down and pulls out a pallet that's on wheels. It's sheeted, looks like a miniature bed until Sage pulls the sheet back and starts picking up the paintings stacked on top of it. He sets each one against the base of his bed so it's facing Sam.

     Sam stares at himself.

     It's Sam in grayscale. Young Sam, a bright eyed freshman. It's Sam close-up with his wide eyes looking right at him. It's Sam in hues of blue and soft purples, the curve of his lip and his large crooked nose. When he looks at himself like this, through Sage's lens, he feels beautiful. He's always known he was good looking, in that sort of digestible foreigner sort of way. Foreign but white passing, too. It's maybe why he so easily kept people at a distance. Because that's not him. That's just a role he plays.

     But that's not how Sage sees him. Because Sage sees him.

❧

     Sam's crying.

     Sage looks over after he's set out a dozen or so paintings, not nearly all of them. And Sam is crying. "Fuck Sam," he says panicking. "I didn't—I'm sorry."

     Sam shakes his head, wiping his forearm across his face. "Shut up," Sam says sounding hysterical. "Just shut up for a second."

     So Sage quiets and Sam walks over, slow, glancing back and forth between Sage and the portraits of him.

     He stops in front of Sage, looks up at him. Sage is pink but his eyes are blue and clear and fierce. "I'm sorry I ran," he says very clearly and Sage nods once. "I want to say something else."

     "Okay," Sage says when Sam doesn't continue.

     "But I'm not going to say it tonight, because I'm drunk and you deserve to hear it from me sober. So I'm going to climb into your bed and you're going to get in it with me and in the morning when I tell you I love you you'll know it's the most honest thing I've ever said to you."

     Sage is shocked which makes Sam preen a little bit. The shock only lasts a moment before he's grabbing the back of Sam's head and pulling him into a kiss so hot it nearly boils the alcohol out of Sam's blood.

     Sam groans, pulling away just enough to say, "Keep kissing me like that and I'm going to ask again even though you told me not to."

     "Keep saying shit like that and I'm going to do it even though I said I wouldn't."

     "Well is that supposed to be a deterrent? Because it sounds more like a challenge and I love a challenge."

     "Sounds like you love a lot of things."

     "I've admitted nothing yet."

     Sage presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, into the hollow of his cheek, nips at his jaw. "Yet," he says teasingly.

     Sam pulls away, holding Sage back. "I'm going to say it you tomorrow."

     Sage nods. "Okay."

     "And then I'm going to keep saying it. Because I mean it, Sage. I really do. I'm sorry it took me this long to figure it out."

     He pulls Sam back in because he can't not kiss him when he's saying things like that to him. And Sam keeps pulling away. For someone who propositioned drunk sex, he's sure putting the brakes on their kissing quite a bit.

     "I told my mom about you," Sam says quietly.

     Sage goes still but his breath remains quick. He drops his head onto Sam's shoulder, feels the hot press of tears behind his closed eyes. Good tears. Heavy tears.

     "I love you, Sam," he says softly. A gentle admission and a giant relief.

     "Yeah, I kind of got that vibe there at the end. Paintings kind of gave you away, I'm afraid."

     "Oh the paintings gave me away, huh?" Sage asks but he's laughing. Sam's laughing, too.

     "We are kind of ridiculous, aren't we?"

     Very, Sage thinks with a shake of his head. Only they could have done it this way.

     "So is this the part where I take you to bed?" Sage asks, heart hammering in his chest.

     The earth he's known his whole life has just shifted on its axis. Nobody else felt it but he did. Knows that the world he exists in is changed forever. No matter what happens from here he'll always have a moment in time where Sam loves him.

❧

     There is so much uncertainty in life. So much uncertainty and yet Sam isn't scared anymore. There is so much uncertainty in life but here's what Sam is certain of, here's what he knows. He is alive. He is a good son. He has a family who would love him even if he failed, even if he had to return home. But he is also a good student and is deserving of that recognition.

     So when Nora Decourt hands him his hiring package two weeks later, he takes her pen and he signs his name. And here's what else Sam knows. His future in the states is secure. He is graduating in four months. His sister is moving here in eight months. He isn't alone anymore.

     Here's what Sam knows: he is in love with his best friend.

     Here's what Sam knows: they are going to have a long life together.

     Here's what Sam knows: he's never walking away again.