For Research Purposes | ✔

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

     There is a brief moment when Sam wakes, and Sage is clinging to him, head on his chest, leg looped over his, with morning skin so deliciously oven-baked, the perfect side of toasty—

     There is a brief moment, just in the midst of waking, that Sam feels so good he wants to go back to sleep. He wants to never wake again. He wants to die here in this bed with Sage so they can stay together.

     And he wonders if they can, if that's in the cards for them. And it's not, he knows it's not, knows it even more when Nora opens Sage's bedroom door, singing, "Merry Christmas my darling — OH my god Sam!"

     Sam stares, horrified, caught, caught in the worst way. Nora looks equally as horrified, frozen in the doorway until Dash comes up behind her, crying, "Ho-ho-ho, Merry Christ-christ. Oh."

     Nora slaps Dash's chest, not taking her eyes off Sam and Sage is rousing too damn slowly, leaving Sam to handle the situation. He's ill-equipped to do so, starting with a trembling, "Uhm."

     He looks down at Sage, who's still lying on his chest and he has to repress the urge to toss him out of bed because they're both naked and his parents probably wouldn't love Sam manhandling their son. So he snaps instead, "Sage, wake up."

     He kind of really needs it to be Sage's problem, explaining what his parents are currently seeing.

     What are his parents even seeing, Sam thinks, glancing at the blankets. They're up past his hips, so nothing too bad. Just his naked upper half and Sage's naked upper half that is sprawled over his. Okay, so yeah, pretty bad.

     "We're just going to," Nora says finally clearing her throat. "We'll um."

     "Right, sorry bout that," Dash says and is he totally holding back laughter?

     Sage is awake now, sitting up looking so confused that in any other circumstances Sam would've found the expression cute enough to kiss. It's most definitely not cute now with Sage's parents backing out of the room, several shades of red between them.

     "Mom?" he mumbles, staring at his parents as they retreat.

     Sam looks at Sage, waiting for a reaction. A bad one, he thinks, which isn't what he gets. There's a burst of laughter that seems to surprise them both, before Sage goes, "Well shit." He laughs again and then he turns to Sam, frowning. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

     Sam tries to keep his tone neutral when he repeats, "You're sorry?" Because he can't tell what Sage is sorry about or how he feels about being caught.

     "Yeah," he says shifting over, putting space between them. Sam wants to make a grab for him. He doesn't. Instead, he focuses on his headache because it's an easier pain to acknowledge. Rejection. He is being rejected. This sucks.

     "I know you didn't want this to be a thing," Sage says next, slow like he's thinking of how to word this. How to word a rejection. This doesn't exactly sound like a rejection. "I'll talk to my parents so they don't make a big deal about it. Tell them it was just the one night."

     Sage stares up at him hopefully. Hoping what, Sam wonders. What are you hoping for? Sam wants to ask. He wonders when he ever said he didn't want this to be a thing. It's been a thing since the first time he saw Sage, before he even actually met him. Saw him. Which was, notably, not in class but at a Freshman orientation mixer for the business majors four years ago.

     Four years ago — god, it's like no time and all the time has passed since then. Sage wasn't wearing his infamous button-ups just yet and he hadn't filled out, either. He had that high school lanky thing going on, further emphasized by his fitted polo and cuffed pants. He looked like a douche honestly, so when Sam had been halted by him, had turned back to look again, yeah, he probably should've known right then.