"You're burning your eggs," Calla says and Sage glances at his pan where his eggs are crackling and then back at his phone. There's no way she could know they're burning (they aren't) since she's in Montauk and currently watching him through her iPhone.
"I'm not burning them," he says. "And how would you know? You can't even see them."
"Because you always burn your eggs and I can see how high the heat is," she responds. Sage glances at the oven and reduces it just a little. He can cook alright. It's not anything to write home about. But he's never really mastered eggs.
He leans down into frame and waves the spatula at her. "Stop backseat cooking," he says.
"So tell me what's up," she says. "You've been avoiding the point of this call for the last twenty minutes."
Sage shovels his eggs onto a plate and takes his phone with him to the island. His apartments dark. He didn't turn on any lights when he came in, so the only thing illuminating him is the overcast skies streaming through the large windows across the room. Calla is bathed in sunlight, sitting outside by the pool of their summer home. Montauk's not all that far, but the weather's clearly holding up better there.
"I got offered the RA position for Olekev," Sage says as he forks some eggs and takes a bite.
"Well, that's amazing, right? Why aren't you thrilled?" Calla asks. "You've only been talking about Olekev for the last three years of your life. I feel like I know the woman."
"That's because she's absolutely brilliant."
"Still doesn't explain why you're giving me sulky Sage vibes," she says. Sulky Sage is not a thing but Calla's insistent she's going to make it one.
"She offered the position to someone else, too. A joint RA thing."
Calla sits up, making a face. She pushes her sunglasses up into her hair so she can really look at Sage. "Someone as in Sam?" Her tone changes, all insinuation when she says his name.
"Yes, Sam," Sage mutters.
Calla erupts into a fit of laughter, which only makes Sage glare harder. "Wow," she says. "Oh wow. That's gold."
"It's really not funny," he says.
"Enemies fated to work together to defeat the magical, mystical economic research," Calla says wistfully.
"You've been spending too much time on booktok," Sage responds and Calla laughs guiltily.
"Honestly, what does economic research even entail..."
"It's actually really interesting," Sage says and Calla makes a face like she's going to tune him out if he continues so he doesn't. In actuality, the work Olekev's intending to do is right up his alley. He'd been following the US's occupation of Afghanistan for a few years now, particularly when Trump started talks of pulling them out.
"But wait—," Calla says suddenly. Sage looks up from his food, meeting her questioning stare. "You accepted the position, right?"
Sage has just taken a bite and is chewing when Calla repeats, "Right?"
He nods. "Yeah, no, yeah. I did. Of course I did."
"Okay, good. Because turning it down just to avoid working with someone is ridiculous. And childish. And you're like way too old for that," she says.
"I'm not old."
"You can drink legally. That's like super old. Oh speaking of, can you score me alcohol for this party I have coming up?"
Sage's brows furrow. "No," he says sounding closer to a parental figure than he would like. "And you shouldn't be going to parties that have alcohol." Yeah, that wasn't any better.
Calla rolls her eyes. "Ugh, I thought you were gonna turn twenty-one and start being cool."
"Not that cool."
"Fine, fine, I'll just use my supplier."
"You're what?"
"Oh my god, I'm kidding. Chillax, dad."
"Cal," he says seriously. And then he stops.
She stares at him, looking bored mostly like whatever he's going to say is going to go in one ear and out the other. Having a little sister is a lethal thing, Sage thinks. Having a sibling, in general, is lethal. You're raised around this person, and you love them before you even realize your own propensity to love. You love them with a strength that winds you. You didn't ask for it and you certainly can't stop it.
Sage couldn't imagine a world without Hudson in it. And then he didn't have to imagine it. Now he has to live it. He prefers to not think about the things that can happen to Calla. The ways in which she's at risk as young woman in this country, attending school in the city, attending parties in the city. He wants to protect her but maybe he comes on too strong. He remembers what it was like to be young.
So he says, "I'm willing to provide alcohol but only White Claws and in exchange you have to keep your location on and call me if anything happens."
Calla eyes Sage disbelieving. "Make it Truly's and you got a deal."
❧
"We should exchange numbers," Sam had said when he'd walked out of Olekev's class with Sage behind him. He'd stopped short and Sage had almost run into his back. He smelled good, like leather that had warmed in the sun.
"What?" Sage had asked.
"If we're going to be working together for Olekev, we're going to need a way to communicate," Sam responds. "However you may feel about the situation, I don't really care. I need Olekev's recommendation."
Sage had glared at Sam as if to say I do too, which he didn't say aloud. Probably, Sam thought. Because he doesn't actually. Not when he has his mother. Sam would like to point out he has his mother too, who he's proud of, who has always inspired him. But can't really do anything for him back home in Azerbaijan.
When his father died, unexpectedly, his mother, Zahar, had to support Sam and his two sisters. She'd moved them into the basement of a friends home and worked long hours doing house keeping until she could afford a place of her own. She rented an apartment over a dry cleaners and had purchased the store two years ago. Her and his older sister, Faizal, manage it now.
Sage gave Sam his number and then walked off so fast it was actually suspicious, like he was trying to get away from a crime scene. Maybe Sam's the crime scene. Maybe Sage is going to kill him.
Not if Sam kills him first, he decides.
He's thinking about it, all the ways he could ruin Sage, while he works his night shift. It helps kill the time and keeps him awake. He doesn't love overnight shifts but they're the most feasible for his schedule. He works midnight to six four days of the week. It's an easy enough gig and he scheduled his classes this semester so that his earliest is eleven, giving him a little time to nap before then.
And he gets to spend the night baking bread, which he enjoys because it reminds him of home. It reminds him of mornings with his Nənə, waking up to the scent of tandir baking in her clay oven. She didn't teach him how to bake but he'd watched her many mornings and must have picked up something because he took to making bagels like a fish in water.
Every night there's a clipboard waiting out for him with the next day's inventory. When he first started working at The Bread Company he'd breeze through the inventory list, trying to go fast as physically possible. He soon learned he can't do anything actually productive at four in the morning other than sleep and he's not aloud to sleep on shift. There's a camera in the corner that makes sure he doesn't.
Now Sam takes his time, rolling out plain bagels, going through the motions in a way that he doesn't anywhere else. This is the one place he lets himself slow down.
Tyrell comes in to open the store at five-thirty. He greets Sam friendily, albeit a bit groggy, and Sam helps him get the inventory out in the display before he leaves. He takes a cinnamon raison bagel with heaps of butter with him. He likes eating something he made from scratch. Feels full circle.
When the elevator doors open on Sam's floor, it's to a guy breaking into Sage's apartment. Sam's eyebrows furrow and he's ready to bark a command when the guy looks at him, wide-eyed as he eases Sage's door shut. He has one sneaker on and the other hangs from his fingers. They're white Nikes.
He throws it on the floor and toes it on as he raises a hand to Sam. "Can you hold it please?"
Sam half-hears him, stuck in the doorway staring at this man who's just slinked out of Sage's apartment before seven a.m. He's dressed casually, but still nice. Yesterday's clothes, no doubt. Tailored beige pants that are cuffed at the ankles so that Sam now knows he thinks it's cool to match his socks to his sneaker brand.
He looks like a douche so Sam steps out and the doors start closing. The guy goes, "Hey, come on."
Sam is glaring the whole time he passes him. Glaring at his dark hair that fades toward his hears, that are pierced. Glaring at his faint beard and nose that upturns at the tip. Glaring at the scent of him, something heavy. Sam knows it. Right. Fucking Dior Sauvage. Sam rolls his eyes and forces his key into his apartment door.
Sage has the worst fucking taste in men. Sam's never been a fan. Women he picks a bit better, but not by much. Sam's always catching them, either when they're leaving or when they're arriving. His work shift falls perfectly on the edges of a booty call. He prefers catching them when they're leaving, prefers seeing them all embarrassed and sex-rocked. Sage isn't with them when they're leaving but he's almost always with them when they arrive. Such a thoughtful host, meeting them at the door. Or maybe he wines and dines them first. Sam doesn't know nor care.
It's not like he has an issue with Sage's sexuality. Which makes it sound like he does. He definitely doesn't. He has an issue with the frequency of which he's reminded of Sage's sexuality. Which is to say he has an issue with how much sex Sage is having. It's not his concern, he knows that, but since it's constantly being thrown in his face it kind of is his concern.
What Sam really wants to know is how Sage keeps up with him when he clearly spends most of his time having a social life. Possibly that's an exaggeration. It's not like Sage is bringing guests over every night. It's more like once or twice a month, which is once or twice more than Sam.
Sage is fickle. That's the real problem, Sam decides. He can't seem to settle on a person. Does he even like the people he's with, Sam wonders. And how can he be sexually attracted to so many different people. Sage never sees the same person twice. Sam knows this because he's never recognized a single face of Sage's suitors.
Sam is decidedly the opposite of fickle. Sam is steadfast. It's a growing problem he realizes.
The first thing Sam does when he gets inside his apartment is shuck his shoes at the door and move towards the bathroom to wash off the outside. He wants to go to bed but he can't until he's clean. The idea of street clothes on his bed freaks him out.
He sits on the toilet waiting for his shower to warm and scrolls through his email. Olekev sent over an information doc on their RA position with paperwork he and Sage need to e-sign and send back. In the body, she's provided their first assignment.
Sam knows that Sage is asleep. Sage probably had a long exhausting night. Which is exactly his incentive.
❧
At first, Sage is doing a champion's job of ignoring his phone. But when the texts keep rolling in, he gets that creeping urgent feeling in his chest that makes him shoot up in bed nervously, thinking something bad has happened. That was how he found out about Hudson. His breath catches and then he's winded, shaking uncontrollably. It hits like that, the attacks. Not fully panic and only sustained by his unending anxiety. His vision blurs and he blinks back tears as his breath returns, ragged and painful.
He grabs his phone when he gets control of his extremities and blinks at the unknown number. Sixteen texts from an unknown number. Maybe it was the guy from last night. The guy, uhm, the guy—Gabe. Right, Gabe.
Sage opens his phone and it's definitely not Gabe.
6:56 a.m. check your email
6:57 a.m. hello, check your email
6:59 a.m. alright since you're clearly NOT going to check your email, I'll just fill you in. Olekev wants us to pull data from the last sixty years. The GDP for agriculture, construction, and mining and look for significant growth or declines and cross compare with major historical events.
7:01 a.m. This is kind of the first assignment and a major assignment
7:01 a.m. So a response would great
7:01 a.m. sage
7:01 a.m. sage fucking decort
7:03 a.m. Okay, she just sent a follow-up email and says she also needs enough data to establish a baseline pre-Taliban insurgence so she also wants an intensive socio-economic assessment before the IEA and then after the US intervention in 01
Sage's eyebrow starts twitching. It is too much for this early in the morning. It is too much before coffee and a shower and more coffee. He's about to put his phone on Do Not Disturb but then Sam sends over six more texts.
7:08 a.m. We need to start working tonight.
7:08 a.m. Is it possible you can get your head out of your ass to respond?
7:09 a.m. Sage
7:09 a.m. ANSWER
7:09 a.m. ME
7:10 a.m. Alright, well then you've got no input now. We're meeting tonight. My last class is done at five. I'll meet you at the library at like seven. Maybe six. This is kind of a lot of work.
As Sage reads, more texts come in. Any calm start to his morning he'd intended to have has gone out the window. He trips, tangled in his sheets, and almost face plants into the floor trying to get up. He's out of his apartment a moment later, banging on Sam's door with little regard for their neighbors.
Sam opens the door, looking mighty freaking put out for someone who wasn't rudely awoken with a slew of texts at seven in the morning. Sage is about to say so but the words catch for some reason and all he can do is stare at Sam angrily. Sam who's only wearing a towel, his chest damp like a flower with its morning dew.
Sam's hand hangs onto the knot at his hip, a precarious tuck of fabric that keeps the towel barely in place. He says, "Nice of you to wake up. Feeling like replying to any one of my texts in this century?"
"What were you texting me in the shower?" Sage asks with as much disgust as he can conjure in this moment. It's not nearly enough. Hardly reflects his sentiments on being woken up by Sam. "What is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me is we have our first assignment and your concern seems to be elsewhere," Sam snaps back.
Sage looks at him confused. "Elsewhere? Olekev just sent that email. I was sleeping. Like every other person who doesn't have to be up for an 8 a.m. class. The fact that I'm awake and standing here right now thanks to you is just." Sage stops, clenching his jaw. He raises his hand into the air between him and Sam. "Just — don't text me again or else I'm going to block you."
Sage points his finger warningly before turning away to go back into his own apartment.
"What about the research?" Sam responds, each word punching out of his mouth with growing attitude.
"I will meet you. At the library. At seven," Sage snaps, enunciating his words.
He slams his door behind him and then leans up against it, breathing hard against the heat in his throat. Sam is so — he doesn't know. There isn't a word for it. So frustrating, yeah that works, he thinks as he slips his hand into the front of his sweat pants. Only because he needs to relieve some tension. That's all. Nothing else.
Later, Sage isn't feeling any less tense but now he's three iced coffees deep and he's maybe said something incriminating because Ruthie, who he's met up with for dinner is looking at him funny.
"What?" he asks, stopping mid-story.
Maybe not mid-story. He'd basically told the whole story of how he'd woken up to a litany of Sam-texts (it wasn't exactly long.) He was explaining how Sam had answered the door, fresh of the shower, just to give him attitude like he was the one who'd woken him. Just because Sam worked nights and was seemingly nocturnal didn't mean everyone else was and it certainly didn't mean Sage was a let's talk shop guy at seven a.m. No, he was strictly a don't talk to me till I've had caffeine kind of guy. And when it came to Sam he was more don't talk to me at all than anything.
"Do you think..." Ruthie poses her question slowly, thoughtfully, which is how Sage knows he doesn't think, he definitely does not think at all.
"No."
"That Sam maybe has a little thing for you?"
Sage looks at Ruthie seriously. She's suggested more than once that Sage could potentially be harboring feelings for Sam, deep down, way down, so far down its like not even worth exploring. There's no oxygen down there. No one would survive trying to unearth it.
But Sam? For Sage?
"What are you talking about, Ruthie?" Sage asks finally. His pulse is ricocheting in his neck so fast he can hear the vibrations.
"I mean, you guys kind of act like second graders, picking on each other all the time. He purposely pushes your buttons. If I'm being really honest," Ruthie says and Sage cuts her off.
"Don't be," he says.
"If I'm being really honest, this all feels a lot like foreplay."
Sage grimaces. "Not at all."
"Whatever," she says with a shrug. "I'm calling it now so we'll see."
"Stop planting bombs, it's not nice," Sage responds.
Ruthie laughs and it's a sweet sound, one that makes Sage forget that they're talking about Sam, Sameer Kaan, having feelings for Sage. Which is an impossibility. Since the day Sage met Sam, Sam has hated him. Has wanted to throttle him. Ruin him. Bring him back so he could ruin him again. Sage didn't even do anything and Sam was down his throat, punching at his tonsils, stirring trouble.
And yeah, okay, maybe Sage was having a bad day that day. One of his professors had taught Hudson. He'd grabbed him after class to say "you look so much like him" and "what a tragedy, he was so bright." And hearing about Hudson from someone else, someone not family, had reopened something in him. It hurt knowing that other people were walking around with their own version of his brother. Maybe they knew something he didn't. He wanted to ask, did you know how unhappy he was? Did you see the signs?
Because Sage, Sage had missed them. Had missed every single one.
❧
Sam is never late. Despite how close he cuts it (and he cuts it close), if he has to dislocate his knees to stretch his legs farther while he's running, he's going to be on time. It may be exactly on time, but it's not late.
So he's standing outside the library promptly at seven and Sage is nowhere in sight. He refuses to text him. Despite his earlier montage, he's strictly opposed to having casual conversation with Sage. He was just trying to be a dick (he'd totally succeeded, Sage was fuming.)
Sage doesn't get there until twelve minutes later. Sam sees him across the street. He steps off the edge of the sidewalk and turns to hug his friend goodbye. Ruthie. He's always with her. Sam knows her from a few classes, sees her in Bluestone with her girlfriend sometimes. She seems like a good person, but then again, Sage is her friend, so.
Sage who apparently can't tell time.
"What's seven o'clock mean to you?" Sam sneers when Sage walks up. "Because in my world it means seven o'clock."
"Dinner ran late," Sage says as way of explanation, stepping ahead of Sam to get inside.
"That's twelve minutes I'm never going to get back," Sam retorts.
"I'm sure you'll survive," Sage says, shrugging. "It's not like you have a social life that'll suffer because of it."
"I have a social life," Sam goes and it doesn't even sound remotely close to true. "I have a social," he says again.
"Right," Sage says and Sam can hear the roll in his eyes. "I only have till nine, and then I have to be somewhere, so."
Sam stops and Sage, who was only a foot or so ahead of him, stops too, turning with a questioning expression. Sam rakes his eyes up and down him. He'd seen him earlier, in passing on the street. He'd been wearing a tee shirt and some sweatpants. Now he's in jeans, though, and a baby blue shirt that hangs low, showing off the start of his pecks and the fine blonde hairs growing in. It's distinctly not a studying-in-the-library-all-night outfit. It's not meant for a library at all.
"What?" Sage snaps when Sam says nothing.
"You know what? Fuck this shit. I'm going home," Sam says turning and walking away without another word.
Sage catches up with him in a few long strides, reaching out and grabbing his arm. "What is wrong with you?" Sage asks.
"No," Sam says yanking his arm out of his grip. "No, you show up fucking late. You put us under a time constraint. I'm not working like this. So fucking forget it. This was a terrible idea from the start."
"You're being dramatic," Sage says calmly, which only riles Sam up more. "We have more than enough time to get some work done."
Sam shakes his head, having decided already. "You know what, you can do your own work and I'll do mine."
"I don't think that's what Olekev wants," Sage says frowning.
"I really couldn't give a fuck at this point. Do the last sixty years GDP data and I'll do the pre- and post-IEA."
Sage shakes his head, thinking this is a terrible idea. "You're so stubborn. It's utterly ridiculous."
Sam doesn't respond, just sends a glare his way, right at the center of his chest, at the patch of skin that's glaring back at him, before he turns his back on him and walks away. Olekev was wrong, thinking they'd work better together. That they could produce anything of quality other than animosity. She was going to have to choose one of them. And Sam would make damn sure it was him.