Six Seconds - 4. Four

When they had finished their midnight snack, they poured themselves each a cup of hot chocolate and stretched out on Sage's fat Ikea sofa, dragging the radiator closer. Most of the lights in Sage's apartment were dysfunctional, so they turned on the TV and watched the Discovery channel in silence.

Callen bit his knuckles and looked over at his friend. Sage's vision was fixated ahead, his eyes half open. He looked at peace, sharp jawline illuminated in blue lighting, one hand clasping his mug. His pale bicep stretched against the hem of his T-shirt, and Callen could see the fringe of a long white scar, snaking out from under his arm and into his shirt like a centipede.

Callen reached forwards to touch it but Sage deflected his hand, redirecting it into the sofa.

And that movement, gentle and casual as it was... it stung.

Sage turned and looked at Callen, and Callen stared back, frowning. The six inches of space between them could have been a kilometre and it wouldn't have made the slightest difference, because Callen felt like he was painfully detached, painfully far away.

Sage looked like he was on the verge of speaking, but he remained silent for the next minute. Biting his lip, he turned back to the screen. Callen knew what was going through in his mind, and what he wanted to ask. Do you remember anything now? Do you know why you're here? And he couldn't – he didn't want to – answer either of them.

Because when he started to think about those questions, his whole body would get cold, and the breath would stale in his throat. His mind would fill with fog and with pressure, and then it would speak.

You have six seconds, Callen.

Make them count.

Callen looked at his hands, and started. His skin had morphed in texture. Wrinkles spread across his fingertips, and they looked like white prunes that were submerged too long in a bathtub. He touched his fingers together, and realized they were wet. The smell of sea salt reached his nose, and he felt an uncontrollable tremor shake his body.

"Callen?"

The voice sounded distant to his ears. He blinked as Sage stared at him, now with obvious concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Callen shook his head, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stood up so fast his head swam with dizziness.

"Hey," he said, "wanna go out for a walk?"

Sage's concern turned into disbelief.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Outside? You nearly got hypothermia and I just warmed you up!"

"Hey come on, we used to love the snow. We can have a snowball fight and we won't be cold anymore."

"No."

"I'm feeling spontaneous.”

"No shit," Sage said flatly.

Callen crossed his arms, frowning. He seemed unable to recall the last time Sage had been this uncooperative.

"Come be spontaneous with me," he said, taking hold of Sage's arm.

Sage pulled back and shoved his friend backwards. Callen stumbled, nearly tripping over the radiator. Regaining his balance, he straightened himself and was about to continue with his persuasion, but one look at Sage's face and the words died in his throat.

Callen wasn't sure what he had been expecting. It had been five years since he had last seen his friend, and they didn't exactly leave things on good terms back then either. And although Callen felt comfortable and wonderful and right even amidst such a confounding, amnesiac sort of reunion, it was stupid to think that Sage would welcome him with open arms. It was stupid to assume that he would be feeling just as happy about this obviously agonizingly inconvenient situation.

Judging by the look he gave Callen, so expressionless yet so apparently full of disdain, it was clear that Sage didn't even want to be anywhere near him.

Callen swallowed.

I'm an idiot.

"I'm sorry." Throat tight, Callen headed towards the door.

He took about two steps before he felt Sage's hand on his arm. Surprised, he looked back. The gritting of Sage's molars against each other reached Callen's ears. He waited as patiently as he could as his friend stood there, deliberating.

It was a good minute of silence, filled with tension and brooding stares, before Sage's expression finally cleared.

"Actually," Sage said softly, "that walk sounds pretty good just about now."

Callen couldn't stop himself from releasing a huge sigh of relief. Sage didn't acknowledge it.

They threw on three sweaters each, a scarf to cover half their face, and thick black bomber jackets. Callen thought Sage looked like a giant bowling ball and told him just that. Sage pushed him out the door and they descended the stairs.

The iciness of the outdoors enveloped them, but Callen breathed in deep. They walked without exchanging words, retracing their steps towards the lake. Once in a while, Sage would look at Callen, as if waiting for him talk, but he kept his quiet. After awhile, Sage broke the silence.

"You know this isn't how I envisioned meeting up with you."

Callen eyed his friend and then feigned disbelief. "Oh, what, me running naked through the snow screaming your name?"

Sage's eyes crinkled. A smile hidden beneath his scarf. "You weren't screaming my name."

"I was trying to but I was shivering too hard."

Sage snorted and pulled out a Marlboro, lighting it. The smell of anti-carcinogenic tobacco filled the air, and bits of ash fell onto the snow as they walked.

"So how did you envision our reunion?" Callen asked.

Sage puffed on his cigarette and considered the question for a moment.

"I would be walking through the airport," he finally said, and then paused. “I would look good. You would be the first to see me. Just passing by. You'd be like: 'hey, Sage?' And I'd turn around and look at you like you were from outer space and say, 'who the fuck are you?' And you'd give me this confused look, and I'd be like, 'sorry dude I don't remember you. You must not have been that important.’"

Callen shook his head. "You're kidding. You're serious? That's so boring."

Sage frowned. "I didn't finish."

"Alright, alright! Go on."

"So then you'd be like, 'Sage, I'm so sorry for being such a shithead, I've always loved you, have you thought of me?' And I'd be like.... 'No.'"

Callen burst out laughing. Sage continued.

"So then you'd start crying, like bawling your eyes out and rolling on the floor, and then I'd look at you and decide to put you out of your misery. I'd take out one of these old fashion revolvers, with a single bullet with your name on it, and then I'd shoot you."

Callen wasn't laughing anymore. "Really?"

Sage coughed, and he lowered his chin. "Well uh, now that I've seen you..."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I don't really want to shoot you."

Callen laughed. "I'm just messing with you. Of course you don't."

He stretched a hand up towards the sky and traced Orion with the tip of his finger, following several other constellations after that until his eyes strained, and then lowered his vision to the light pillars instead. He recognized them for what they were in a travel guide to Alaska he had obtained some years back, but the ones here in New Seatrouver were very different from the photos. Green, turquoise, red, and magenta, they looked like needles pulled from a ribbon of aurora.

When Callen voiced a question that had persisted inside his head all night, his friend didn't seem the least bit surprised.

"So, Sage... why did you disappear?"

Sage looked straight on ahead. Then he grinned wryly. "I'll tell you when you 'remember' how you got here."

Callen groaned. "That is not fair man, not fair at all."

*  *  *

Sage and Callen graduated middle school together, tighter than ever, but things changed when they entered Carmel High. Almost immediately, Callen had much less time to spend. He picked up lacrosse, and during the season his afternoon hours were swamped with practice. Sage, irritated, occupied his time with new friends that he found, and ones that Callen didn't exactly approve of – ones that smoked too much tobacco and carried switchblades in their pockets.

Callen's friends were nothing Sage approved of either. At the top of the social hierarchy in the school, they tormented and ostracized, parading down the rows of lockers with gleaming red and gold varsity jackets.

"If you keep hanging out with those... freaks, then you better stop hanging out with me too," Callen had said one day. He had ambushed Sage at his locker after school, alone. He was now two days older than sixteen, his hair coiffed and glued in perfect spikes. He radiated youth, beauty, and expensive cologne.

Sage hated it all.

Shoving his trembling hands into pockets to hide them, Sage adopted a neutral pose and an expression that challenged.

"Okay," Sage said simply, watching as Callen's eyes widened in disbelief as Sage turned and walked off.

He could hear Callen muttering a string of curses.

"You know what?" he called after him. "Go fuck yourself."

Sage didn't stop walking, but he raised a hand over his shoulder to brandish his middle finger.

It was during the time when they stopped talking when Callen came to a few revelations. The first being, it became extremely difficult to function without his best friend there at his side. Despite the presence of his teammates and the countless potential girlfriends that flocked to him, he felt the loneliness in him swell. It wasn't that he couldn't talk to his acquaintances; it was rather that he didn't really want to. They listened when he wanted to talk about video games and tests and lacrosse, but ignored him when he wanted to talk about biology and quasars and quantum physics. They couldn't tell when he was happy, when he was annoyed, and when he was sad. When he was really sad.

And the truth was, he became sad all the time. Callen thought about Sage almost constantly, about his uncommon smile, his quick feet. He thought about their graduation road trip to the middle of nowhere to watch the stars. He thought about Cruz, Sage's mother, and he worried until sometimes he couldn't even stomach his dinner. Sage’s absence burned in the air when he was awake and plagued his dreams when he was asleep.

But Callen's pride stood tall and selfish, so he kept his silence.

About five months later, Callen realized, in the middle of a late night swim in his backyard pool, that there was more to his protectiveness of his friend than he initially thought.

There was, and always had been, this unusual degree of physiological closeness that he craved with Sage. That familiar warmth in his chest, looking at it in hindsight – there was more to it. He had always attributed it to possessiveness, jealousy even, but his feelings were, he realized, a little more complicated than that.

Because the last time they went swimming, and probably countless times before that, Callen had been noticing all sorts of things socially inclined, athletically viable young lacrosse players weren't supposed to notice in other boys. He caught himself staring at Sage's narrow hips, his pale skin and the dusting of freckles over his chest. The way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he smiled. And even those angry, twisted scars that tore into his rib cage and those shiny, circular burns that remained on his left temple... Callen thought it all looked great. And, whenever Callen helped Sage dry off, he would take a few moments just to run his hand down the side of Sage's face.

Sage never minded, always docile as a puppy, but Callen didn't know whether Sage had any sort of the same stirrings as him. He felt terrible for realizing these new feelings, as he was sure Sage had always looked up to him as an older brotherly figure.

Yet, his guilt didn't stop Callen from searching Sage's eyes whenever they passed each other in the hallway. Callen looked for something that implored, something that desired.

All he saw was blankness and anger.

It wasn't until two days after Spring Break in grade eleven that they talked again. It had been one entire year. Callen had gone to school in a foul mood, having pulled an all-nighter to study for his pre-calculus post-spring break exam, when he saw Sage walk down the hall to exit the school. Although they didn't talk, Callen had memorized Sage's timetable – he had swiped a copy from his locker earlier in the year – so he knew that Sage was skipping class.

Callen noticed something was off right away. Sage's face was expressionless, but Callen knew that he had grown adept at hiding his pain. He was walking atypically cautiously, almost gingerly. A sudden rush of guilt and worry flooded into Callen, and he realized that, during the time that they weren't talking, he had no idea how his friend had fared at home.

Without a second thought, he strode to close the distance between them and stood in front of Sage.

Sage didn't seem to realize that Callen was even there at first. His eyes were glazed, and he seemed to stare right through Callen as if he were a spirit, but recognition sank in a few seconds later. Scowling, he stepped to the left, wordless, to pass. Callen stepped right, blocking him. Sage stepped to the side again, then paused when Callen mirrored his movement.

Sage growled, low in his throat. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Where are you going?" Callen asked, ignoring his question.

"None of your business."

"Why are you walking like that?"

Sage narrowed his eyes until they were slits.

"None. Of. Your. Business," he spat.

Callen ignored him again, walking closer and puffing out his chest.

"Come with me," Callen snapped. "We're talking."

He grabbed Sage's arm and dragged him into the nearest empty classroom as discreetly as possible, ignoring his indignant protestations. The door closed with a bang.

They stood in the darkness, Sage trembling with anger, and Callen with his arms crossed.

"Show me," Callen demanded.

Sage bristled, eyes wide, hands balled into fists. "Why the fuck do you care?"

"Answer my question. Why didn't you tell me when Cruz hit you?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Sage asked, shaking his head. "I don't have to answer anything. You're not my father. You're not my brother. It's been a whole year since we last talked, and you're not even my fucking friend, so what gives you the right to –"

Callen reached forwards and grabbed at Sage's waist, attempting to yank up his shirt. Sage yelled, struggling madly, and Callen thought it was out of anger until Sage crumpled to the ground and curled into a ball.

"Oh shit. Shit, Sage..."

He bent down, his hands shaking, unsure of what to do with them. He touched Sage's shoulder.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Sage... I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Fuck off," Sage whimpered in a small voice, eyes filled with pain. "It's not like you care." He shrugged off Callen’s hand and sat up gingerly.

Callen shook his head, and he lowered his hand to the other boy's cheek. Tension filled Sage's body, but he didn’t pull away.

Callen looked into those dark eyes, little fragments of fluorescent light from the hallway swimming in his tears like a million spinning stars, and he felt something deep within his heart change, something that cooled his anger yet ignited something else. It was something significant and mighty, something that pounded against the walls of his chest with frightening pain.

Fixating his vision on his friend's mouth, he leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Sage's.

Callen drew back when Sage held perfectly still, unresponsive, eyes inquisitive. Heart thudding with growing dread, Callen wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.

It came as a surprise when Sage leaned back towards him. The movement was hesitating. Uncertain. Far too slow. When their lips met again, Callen's breath hitched to the point where he could barely breathe. Goosebumps rippled across his forearms. Noise buzzed in his ears. His mouth was dry, his lips slightly chapped, but Sage's were soft and pliant. He tasted of cigarettes and saline.

They kissed for seconds that felt like lifetimes, two beings momentarily suspended alone in the universe.

But then Sage was hyperventilating, shivering, and then he was sobbing into the centre of Callen's chest, tears soaking the front of his shirt.

"You don't care," Sage cried between breaths. "And I hate you."

Callen stroked his friend's hair and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I care,” Callen whispered, his throat knotted. “I care, I care. I always have." And as he said it, it felt as if he had finally diagnosed the illness that had caused him so much insomnia and lethargy in the past few months.

It seemed like forever before they both calmed down. When they did, Sage agreed to let Callen lift up his shirt.

"Gently," Sage urged, and Callen agreed, swallowing gnarls of nervousness, preparing for the worst. When he saw the damage he felt close to vomiting.

In the dim light, all he saw were masses of broken skin and bruises. Congealed and ruptured cuts tore into the entire left side of his rib cage, stretching down into his jeans. His shirt stuck to flakes of skin. It looked as if he was beaten then dragged across a bed of broken glass.

Callen stood up, and despite Sage's alarmed protestations, pulled him straight to the nurse's office. The Vice Principle, a kindly old woman, brought Callen aside to ask questions, and the words poured out of him like a cataract held too long behind a dam. Out of sight from Sage, Callen couldn't stop the tears from pouring down his face. He couldn't stop crying, in part because he knew that Sage would never forgive him for betraying his secrets.

Sage agreed to stay over at Callen's that night. He was silent and unresponsive, even though Callen flitted constantly by his side. They went to sleep facing each other with six inches of space between them, but Sage was kilometres away, withdrawn into another world.

By the time Callen had wakened, Sage had left the city, leaving no note, no message, and no trace.