"So then," Sage all but screams. He takes a breath and his voice deflates. "I left."
Ruthie is resting her face in her palm, leaning on the table with her wide eyes focused on him. It's a quiet afternoon in Bluestone Lane and Sage has rather vocally told Ruthie about last night. He barely slept, and he's got three shots of espresso to add to his gusto.
She lifts her head, heaving a breath. "Wow. Okay, first off, fuck those pretentious assholes. Like, seriously fuck them. I'm annoyed and I didn't even meet them."
"I know," Sage agrees, his stomach turning at the memory of their judgement of Sam. He'd felt bad even repeating what they said. He knows Ruthie relates more to Sam than she does to him in this situation. Her parents live over the bridge in Perth Amboy but the rest of her family is back in Guam. Ruthie doesn't come from money, but Sage knows even if she did, she'd never relate to the assholes he'd been in a room with last night.
"I know we don't like Sam, but I have newfound respect for him," she says and again, Sage has to agree. She raises an eyebrow coyly. "Although. Do we not like Sam?"
"I don't know," Sage mutters. "Is it bad to say I like the drunk version of Sam? He's so much less guarded. Maybe even a little vulnerable. And honest. I like the honesty."
Ruthie laughs and then shakes her head. "I don't think it's that you like drunk Sam. I think it's that you like the Sam who's not pretending to hate you."
"Sam isn't pretending," Sage says like an automatic response, like an away from my desk message scheduled in Slack.
Ruthie eyes Sage critically. "You both are pretending. It's kinda cute in like a tragic way."
"I don't want to have this conversation anymore," Sage says after a thoughtful moment.
"That's fine. We can pick it back up in a month. I'm sure you'll have made progress by then."
"Progress in what?"
"Getting close to Sam."
"Am I getting close to Sam? Because I don't think I am."
"From where I'm sitting it kinda seems like you are. You know he has a sister. You know why he works so much and that he sends his family money. Which is really just like. Like who expected that from Sam? My heart is all warm."
When Sam had said it last night, Sage had felt everything in him lock up. Felt the distinct urge to touch Sam, to hug him, to have him close. He felt compassion but also desire. Family is important to him. He'd always just assumed Sam was estranged from his, that that was why he never went home for his summers.
Sage goes next, "So in the name of full disclosure there's something else. I did a thing. And I don't want you to overreact because it really was just me being nice, okay?"
Ruthie mumbles an "oh lord" and waves her hand, encouraging Sage. So he tells her how before coming there, he'd gone to Alton Lane and after much persuasion he confirmed that Sam had purchased the suit from there. He was already fairly certain since he'd seen the tag. And after confirming the purchase, he told the cashier that if the suit were to be returned, he'd like for them to give the suit to Sam, anyway.
The clerk had looked at him like he was crazy. He was sure that he sounded as such. "I'm going to pay for the suit," Sage had said. "But I want you to process the return and then insist Mr. Kaan keep it. Make up a lie like the suit would end up in the trash, anyway."
"I see," the clerk had said. "You don't want me to make Mr. Kaan aware that you are purchasing the suit?"
"Correct. Can you do that?"
It turns out he could not, in fact, do that, but he was willing to, anyway. "It's possible," he'd said. "That the suit was being recalled for a manufacturers issue. For which, Alton Lane was immensely apologetic and would like to offer Mr. Kaan a refund, and she should he wish, he could keep the suit."
So Sage paid for Sam's suit, tipped the clerk for his discretion, and left the store feeling deeply pleased and utterly confused because what the fuck was he doing.
Which is what he asks Ruthie after he's finished telling her. "No, really, Ruth, what am I doing? Cause I don't even know at this point."
"Uhm, well, do you want the response that'll make you feel better or the brutally honest one?"
"Both?"
She smiles softly like the turn of her lips will soothe Sage's anxiety. "You were doing a nice thing for someone you've spent years being mean to with no real cause. It's a good turn for your karma. I can already feel an upswing in the wind."
Sage is tense because if that's the response that's meant to make him feel better, he's not sure he can handle the brutally honest one.
Ruthie's expression is gentle, no judgement in it, just consideration. "Sage, babes, I think you may like Sam. A little bit. A little bit a lot."
Sage stares at her, stares at the stitch in her full brows and the purse of her lips. Ruthie is all familiarity. Sage can draw her from memory. Knows every wrinkle, every dimple, every curve and slant of her face. He holds onto that because every feeling inside him now is foreign. He doesn't recognize it, doesn't know where it came from, doesn't know what to do with it.
"Fuck," he says finally. "Fuck, I'm fucked."
"Not necessarily," Ruthie says quickly. "I mean, not unless you want to be. By Sam. I think he's into you, too."
"Sam is—."
❧
Most definitely not.
Dreaming of Sage. He isn't. If anything, it's a Sage adjacent dream. Sage is definitely there, and Sam is, too. Okay, fuck it, so he's dreaming of Sage. That's how he wakes Saturday morning. Hungover, hot, and sticky, with a taste in his mouth that would be lethal if something hadn't already died on his tongue. And Sage on his mind.
He lies there, staring up at the ceiling that's lit by the sun coming in his windows. He didn't draw the shades last night. He evidently only got as far as unbuttoning his shirt and removing his trousers, too. He sits up, reaching over towards his nightstand where Sage had left him water.
Sage had been in his apartment, had seen him sloppily half-undress, had enough ammo to send Sam to his grave.
He didn't have it in him just yet to fully encompass his embarrassment. So he laid back down, tucking his legs to his chest as he turned on his side and let his thoughts of yesterday build his anxiety till it was un-ignorable.
Sam didn't dwell on much. He liked to think he didn't, anyway, but he couldn't stop fixating on the way Sage had walked over, slid his hand along his back, tucked the tag of his suit in for him. "I didn't do it to embarrass you." Which meant Sage had done it to protect Sam from others' scrutiny. That was worse. Sam sorta wishes he had been trying to embarrass him.
And, anyway, whether he was trying to or not, Sam was embarrassed. Ashamed, really, of the whole night. That Sage had witnessed it. So Sam doesn't leave his apartment all day, afraid that the moment he surfaces he'll run into Sage. Because what would he say?
Something like, hey, sorry, I got drunk last night it's just that you touched the back of my neck and it was a bit much for me.
In the name of not leaving his house, Sam scrounges for ingredients in his place to make dinner. He ends up frying up two grilled cheese's, shoves a couple slices of apple in between the two slices of bread and finds it's surprisingly tasty. He does that a lot, finds odd uses for his leftovers. The saying waste makes haste plays a lot in his head.
In the morning, he deigns to leave early, too early to risk a run-in with Sage. Not early enough, it seems, to avoid running into Sage's hook up of the night. This one's a girl, tall and dark with a short afro and a pointed chin that only emphasizes the feline in her features. Sam holds the elevator door for her because he feels bad, which is maybe a little sexist.
She gets in, saying, "Thanks" as she offers him a shy smile.
Her voice is accented but Sam can't tell from where, exactly. He's good at identifying people, is caught between Nigerian and Senegalese for her. She doesn't look like a student, not at NYU at least.
As the elevator comes to a halt, Sam asks, "Do you model?"
She startles slightly, glancing his way. Her makeup has remained perfectly intact, a dusting of gold on her eyelids. The berry color on her lips isn't even smudged. Does Sage not kiss his hook ups farewell? Does Sage not kiss his hook ups at all? Sam could see it. Could see Sage as one of those people who's got hook up rules. No sleeping over. No exchanging numbers. No kissing. No intimacy. Just sex.
The woman nods, saying, "I do, yes. Editorial. Are you looking for models?"
"No, I just — was wondering, I guess."
Sam steps out of the elevator quickly, rushing out of the apartment building. It doesn't surprise him, not really, that Sage pulls models. And it doesn't hurt him because he doesn't care. And he'll die on that hill if he has to, to prove it. He doesn't care, not one bit.
❧
Sage isn't certain Sam is avoiding him (again) until Sam steps out of his apartment and sees Sage and then proceeds to unlock his door and go back inside in the most un-casual of ways Monday morning.
They have Olekev's class together in the afternoon and Sam shows up just before the class is supposed to start and instead of taking the seat beside Sage, he sits two rows back. Sage didn't need the confirmation but this definitely confirms it. That Sam is avoiding him.
He decides to do the mature thing and confront him after class because they still have to work together all semester and this isn't conducive. Naturally, because Sage has decided to be mature, Sam is going to be the opposite. He books it out the classroom when Olekev dismisses them and Sage has to run to keep up. Sam disappears into the stairwell and is already a flight below when Sage gets there.
"Sam, will you wait a minute? Jesus Christ."
Sage nearly brains himself taking the steps two at a time, hopping the last few. He gets to Sam and to stop him, he grabs his shoulder, swinging him around and shoving him up against the banister.
Their faces are close and he's breathing heavily. "Stop avoiding me," Sage demands.
Sam's eyes are wide. They're very brown in the dim lighting, so many shades of brown, like a cross section of a tree, the part that has all the rings.
"I'm not."
"You really are." They're close enough that Sam's breath is hitting Sage in the mouth. He licks his lips because he can't help it.
Sam shoves Sage back and Sage has to take a step down to catch his footing. It gives Sam the slightest height advantage and he takes it. He needs every advantage he can get. "Okay, so what if I am avoiding you? What's that matter at all?"
"It matters," Sage snaps. "Because Olekev has made it clear she wants us to work together. Which would mean you'd need to stop avoiding me to do that."
"We meet Friday. So I've got four days to do as much avoiding as I want."
Sage moves to the same step Sam is on, taking his height advantage back. "Why are you avoiding me, Sam?" he asks and his voice has dropped. He's serious. He gives him a chance to speak but when Sam says nothing, Sage goes, "I know it's because of Friday—."
Sam interrupts, snapping, "Okay, if you know it's because of Friday why did you even ask?"
Sage grits his teeth, feeling his pressure rise. "I don't care about anything that happened so you shouldn't either. But if it'll help, I will literally erase the whole night from my memory."
Sam lifts his chin, looking up into Sage's eyes. "It doesn't," he says sharply brushing past Sage to continue down the stairs.
"Seriously, Sam, what's your problem? I don't get it," Sage calls to his back.
"You're my problem," Sam says and it's the last thing he says to Sage all week.
❧
Sam likes to think he's a mature adult in almost every aspect of his life. He works two part-time jobs, helps support his mom and sisters back home, and he gets good grades. He maintains his apartment, and eats fairly well. Even exercises daily.
Yeah, no, Sam's a mature ass adult in every aspect of his life except that one little part that Sage occupies. When it comes to Sage, Sam is not mature at all. And he's not even entirely sure he's an adult. He often feels like a child throwing a temper tantrum when he's around Sage. But then...temper tantrums are usually acts for attention. Sam doesn't want Sage's attention, it just that things are more entertaining when he has it.
And since he's been ignoring and avoiding him all week, he's spent a week not having Sage to give him attention.
Maybe he's a little overeager to meet him at the library Friday night. He waits for Sage to text him their reserved study room number but when the evening hits and he gets to the library still unsure of what room they're in, he caves and texts Sage.
6:58 p.m.: What room are we meeting at
Sage's immediate response is: the number you have reached is not in service
Sam types back, fuck off I know that's not an automated text. Just tell me what room you booked
Typing bubbles pop up and then disappear twice before a response comes in.
7:04 p.m.: I didn't.
Sam stares at his phone screen, confused first, then frustrated, which quickly becomes downright annoyed. So he calls Sage and Sage answers, saying, "You know a phone call means you'll have to speak to me. With words. That are audible."
"What do you mean you didn't book a room? Where are we supposed to work?"
"Up until five minutes ago you weren't even talking to me, so why would I have booked a study room?"
"I told you—." Sam stops.
Sage continues, "What did you tell me?"
"You're such a freaking baby," he snaps as he turns around so he can find out if there's any available study rooms. He knows there isn't going to be. Private study rooms get booked fast. But it's in him to see, anyway, to know for certain before they move to plan B.
"I'm a baby?" Sage all but screams. "You're the one who got his feelings hurt and decided to play silent treatment for a week."
"I did not get my feelings hurt," he says as he waits for the guy at the front desk to acknowledge his presence. He's very pointedly not noticing Sam and staring hard at his computer screen. Sam waves a hand and goes, "Hey, can you check something for me?"
The library clerk looks over at Sam slowly, expression disdainful like how dare Sam ask him to do what's in his job description. The audacity of him.
Sage is saying something about Sam needing to grow up. Sam interrupts and goes, "Just shut up and hold on a second." The library clerk clears his throat loudly, his expression fully offended. "Sorry, are there any study rooms available?"
"No," he answers.
"Well, can you check?" Sam asks.
The guy stares at him, unwavering. "There are none available."
"Maybe someone—."
"They didn't."
"Okay," Sam snaps, tone haughty. "Thanks. You were extremely helpful."
Sage is still on the phone and has heard the exchange. He goes, "Was that Vincent? He's a prick."
"You're a prick," Sam snaps as he walks towards the exit. "If you'd just booked the room we would't be in this predicament. Now we've gotta go work at the Starbucks."
"I'm not going to Starbucks," Sage responds and Sam can hear the eye roll in his tone.
"It's the only place open late," Sam says. He's walking in the direction of his apartment because he'll have to pass it to get to Starbucks anyway, and he's willing to drag Sam by his perfect hair if he has to.
"It's too loud in there," Sage says. "I can't focus. I won't get anything done."
"Sage," Sam all but screams. "We have to get this work done and I have to work tomorrow so all we have is tonight."
"I thought you were off Saturdays?" Sage is clearly not listening to Sam. Sam who is now letting himself into their apartment building.
"I picked up overtime," Sam says and he doesn't even know why he's telling him that. His schedule is not the priority. Getting this work done is.
Sage is quiet and then he goes, "I'll just do the work. If it comes from one of us it'll look cohesive and she won't know the difference."
"No," Sam barks. "No, you're not going to just commandeer the research. Stop acting like you have more seniority in this. We're equals."
"I know that," he says sounding exasperated. "I'm trying to help you."
"Well don't," Sam says. "Don't try to help me. Now open your door."
"Why?"
"Because I don't need your help, that's why."
"No, why am I opening my door?"
"Because I'm coming in so we can get this work done?"
"No, we can't work in here."
"Sage, I mean this most sincerely, I'm going to kill you."
Sam bangs on Sage's door and Sage says through the phone, "Sam, I told you we can't work in here. My place is a mess."
"Fine," Sam barks. "Then get your shit together and come over to my place."
❧
This is how twenty minutes later, Sage finds himself sitting uncomfortably in a cracking leather armchair the color of Werther's original with his laptop balanced on his knees. Sam's living room is furnished with all different styles of furniture. The couch Sam's reclining on is an olive green, and an awkward height to the oblong coffee table that you have to hunch over to work at it.
Sam had been hunched over for all of ten seconds before he charley horsed in his neck so badly he had to apply Vick's vaporub and now the menthol was all Sage could smell.
"This is the least conducive place to work. Worse than Starbucks, even," Sage says finally, shifting his laptop to the coffee table so he can stretch out his cramping knees. "How do you not have a kitchen table?"
"Fuck off," Sam responds. Sage feels like he's built an immunity to the word fuck when its coming out of Sam's mouth. He doesn't even flinch.
"Alright, I'm just gonna..." Sage slides off the chair, sprawling on the floor. He leans forward so he can grab his laptop and keeps his legs stretched out as he gets back to work.
Fifteen minutes later Sam goes, "Are you hungry?"
Sage thinks about it and then responds, "I could eat. Why? What do you want?"
"Pizza?"
He purses his lips and goes, "Depends. Where from?"
Sam gives Sage a look like he's ready for a fight and then answers, "Alberto's."
He brightens, saying, "Oh, he does the best—."
Sam interrupts, "Drunken grandma pie? Don't I fucking know it. I could live off of it alone."
Sage stares at Sam. Statistically, they were bound to have some things in common and sharing a taste for Alberto's pizza isn't even that revolutionary. Anybody with taste buds would feel the same. Alberto's is the best pizza west of Mulberry.
Sage has been staring for too long so he flushes and looks away, down at his phone as he says, "I'll order it."
Sam says, "Can you order a side of—."
"Fried mozzarella?" he interrupts. Alberto's best menu items go vodka pizza, mozzarella sticks, and then their fettuccini Alfredo. If Sam didn't want their mozzarella sticks, Sage would be concerned.
❧
Sam stares at Sage, one part disgusted and the other part...not so disgusted. "Who the hell pronounces mozzarella like that?"
"Someone who's not trying to butcher Italian," Sage responds.
"Why are you insisting on every letter in the word. Are you doing a Siri impersonation?"
Sage rolls his eyes and goes, "I'm not going to order any if you keep it up."
Sam stops because now that he's thought about mozzarella sticks he can't not have them. Even though now he's thinking about mozzarella sticks with a Sage accent.
"Should I order something to drink? Pepsi? Sprite?"
"I have beer in the fridge," Sam says sort of thoughtlessly because it's true. But he realizes belatedly the implication is drinking beers with Sage, which makes this dinner bigger, somehow, than them just fueling up to get more work done.
"That works," Sage says, sounding unbothered by the whole thing. Maybe Sam's overthinking it.
He's definitely overthinking the way Sage pronounced mozzarella. Stuck on it. Can't let it go. And it's making him wonder. "Do you speak Italian?" he asks.
Sage glances up from his phone where he's ordering on their online portal. "I do, yeah," he says dismissively before lowering his gaze.
Sam frowns and the expression quickly turns to disgust. Of course he speaks Italian. Sam bets that's not the only language he speaks, too. But because he's a masochist and he's evidently trying to make being in this room with Sage harder than it has to be, he goes, "Do you only speak Italian?"
"I speak English, too," Sage responds breezily, not looking up at Sam this time. Which is a good thing because Sam gives him the finger. "French, too, and enough Spanish."
"What's enough Spanish?
"Enough to not end up on a butcher's table with my organs on standby for auction when I travel."
Sam thinks about it. It's not that unusual that Sage can speak more than one language. Most of the kids here can, mainly because their parents spent their childhoods jet setting. It's also a leg up, to have another language under your belt. If you can't get the job you want here on Wall Street, you can try to work in one of their international offices.
Sam can speak Azerbaijani. It's his first language. He learned Turkish shortly after because it's so closely related and Spanish in high school. He's been taking Arabic for the last three years, though he doesn't feel any closer to becoming fluent in it.
Sam goes, "So I don't think I can focus on work now that I know food's coming."
"Honestly..." Sage trails, setting his phone down on the floor. "Same."
Sam tells himself not to overthink it. Tells himself it means absolutely nothing when he suggests, "So we'll take a break then and jump back in once the food gets here?"
And that's how they end up sitting on the floor with a box of pizza between them, several beers deep, watching Sam's favorite show into the late hours of the night. They don't end up returning to their work. And Sam doesn't even care (much) because "how have you never seen this?"
When Sage had told him he'd never even heard of le Casa de Papel Sam hadn't been all that surprised because Sage is clearly not a man of taste, but he also knew that it was his very duty to force Sage to watch it. For the culture. And since Sage could speak Spanish well enough, it worked out because Sam hated subtitles.
Somehow sitting on the floor beside Sage is less personal than sitting on the couch with him. Is allowable, in a grey area that he can live with. Even though there's six inches of space between their shoulders and both their legs are stretched out in front of them. Sam's foot lines up near Sage's calf and he doesn't know why he's comparing the length of their legs but he is. He kind of hates Sage for being taller than him. Makes him even more insufferable.
The credits roll on the third episode and Sage clears his throat. Sam wants to turn and look at him but they're too close for that and he feels like he can't move without breaking the spell so he doesn't.
"Your taste in beer sucks," Sage says breaking the well framed silence.
Sam turns at that because Sage is not just wrong, he's a liar. "Please," he says rolling his eyes. "And that's why you had three?"
Sage ignores him, saying, "Who willingly keeps IPAs in their fridge?"
"As opposed to what?" Sam asks. "Don't tell me you're a lager guy?"
"I'm not a beer guy," Sage says with a shrug.
"Oh? So what you're a wine guy?"
"I don't mind wine, but if I'm drinking it'll likely be some sort of whiskey."
Sam reacts to that, making a sound of disgust. "Hard liquor doesn't work for me."
Sage grins softly before he says, "Oh, I know."
Sam elbows him but not all that harshly. "Alright, fuck off, then."
Sage is laughing as Sam glowers and he thinks he needs to find a way to get Sage drunk. It's only fair that he should make an ass of himself in front of Sam. To even the playing field. First he'll need to get his hands on some fancy whiskey, which sounds expensive.
"It's a good thing we went back to work," Sage says after he's done laughing. It takes Sam a moment to realize he's being facetious.
"Yeah, fuck, we probably should've huh."
"We could just send Olekev what we have. She said we were ahead so maybe there's room to slack."
Sam frowns, not loving the idea of giving Olekev less than his best work. "What about Sunday? Or do you have church or something?" Sam asks.
Sage frowns. "Why would I have church?"
"I don't know. You're white. Isn't Sunday your day of rest?"
"Yeah, if I was Catholic."
"Are you not Catholic?"
"I mean, I am, but I'm not. Not in any type of practicing way."
"Okay, so then Sunday?"
"I thought you had to work."
"I do, but I can meet in the morning when I get back."
"And sleep when exactly?"
Sam startles from the — no, that can't actually be concern in Sage's voice. Sam's hearing things. He says, "I'll probably sleep at about two so I can stay up for work the following night."
Sage stares at him like he doesn't quite believe him. "Okay, so Sunday morning. I can come over again so you can go right to sleep after we're done?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, okay, that works."
Sage in his home again definitely does not work. But Sam's going to pretend it does.