For Research Purposes | ✔

CHAPTER ELEVEN

     Sam wakes up confused.

     His face is irritated, and the taste in his mouth makes him gag a little. He vows right then and there to stop drinking before bed without brushing his teeth.

     Bed. He is definitely not in a bed. Sam turns his head and nearly gets a mouthful of hair.

     Which is disorienting. Especially since now that the bloods flowing his hangover's starting to rage and he's getting the spins. He lifts himself onto an elbow and it's Sage. He knew it would be, but it still nearly sends him flying to the floor. Sage's head is close enough for him to take a bite out of it.

     There are voices in a room nearby, maybe the kitchen. They're coming through in a way that sounds like they're trying hard to be quiet. Which means whoever it is knows he's asleep, or was asleep, on this couch with Sage.

     Sam's still tired and wants to lie back down, but all of this is kind of fucked up. Too much for him to just casually ignore and go back to sleep. He thinks about last night. They'd fallen asleep during the movie, but they'd woken up at some point and Sam had—

     Shit. Sam had said something truly stupid.

     We aren't enemies, are we?

     What was he thinking? He wasn't, clearly. Drunk and sleep drunk, maybe he thought he was still dreaming when he'd asked it (ugh does that mean he was dreaming of Sage again? The dude needs to get out of his head.)

     Sage had said no. Sage didn't think they were enemies either. So that was good, right? They were on the same page. The not-hating-each-others-guts-anymore page. Or maybe just hating each other's guts a little less.

     Sam vaguely remembers dozing off again and Sage reaching over to touch his forearm. "We should go upstairs," he'd said.

     "Uh uh," Sam had grumbled. "I'm staying right here."

     The idea of hobbling up the stairs offered no appeal. He was warm, he was cozy, and sleep was a sandbag on his chest keeping him down. No, he was definitely not moving.

     "We can't sleep down here," Sage mumbled.

     "Maybe you can't but I can," Sam had responded.

     Sage had gotten quiet. When Sam had opened his eyes, Sage's were closed. Sam slugged him in the shoulder and Sage jolted. "You can't sleep down there," he'd said.

     "You're sleeping there," Sage had muttered pointedly as if to say if you can do it, why can't I?

     "That is the floor. This is a couch. There's a difference. Get off the floor," Sam said. And Sage had—Sage had listened, pushing himself up onto the couch so he was sitting on the cushion closest to Sam. He made an odd noise then and Sam thought he was going to throw up.

     "Your ankle," Sage muttered.

     Sam was quick to say, "It's fine."

     "No, the thing." Sage waved at his foot that was no longer elevated. Sam had pushed whatever thing Sage had given him to the floor. Decidedly, sleeping with his foot elevated was too uncomfortable and if his foot fell off, oh well.

     "The thing," Sage said again.

     Sam didn't know what he was talking about but then he was a little drunk and maybe so was Sage. He was just going to ignore him, closing his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. But then Sage stood up, leaning over him. He placed a hand on Sam's thigh and Sam went still. Okay, he definitely went rigid.