AN: Another one for my OF 100, 39: Dreams. I don't think there is anything in here to confuse anybody; this is just intended as a bittersweet romantic thing, with more emphasis on the sweet part. Also, this is boy-boy love. So if you object to saccharine and boys kissing, click back now.

Sam looks away as Agamemnon puts his hands on his hips. He knew that he would get this kind of reaction when he showed up at Ags's apartment, but he also knew it would have been worse if he skipped out on their weekly poker game and Agamemnon saw him like this the next day. "You got beat up again," Agamemnon announces. His voice is partly disgusted and partly exasperated, but Sam can still hear the undertone of worry in it, and despite himself, he smiles.

"Eh, what can I say?" Sam shrugs. "I just love it when people start beating the crap out of me. Turns me on, like."

Agamemnon rolls his eyes and points at the table. "Sit." Sam raises his eyebrows. "If you sit on a chair, I'll have to bend over to help you, and that'll just make me crankier."

Sam's smile widens, and his lips split open again. "Ow," he mutters, obliging Ags. He swings his legs and prods his developing black eye. Yep, still sore. He knows that there is a cut on his forehead because the blood got in his eyes when he was fleeing the bigger boys, and there is a terrible, sharp pain in his wrist that he'd really rather not think about. At least it's his stupid hand.

Agamemnon returns with a wet washcloth and a first-aid kit. He has the most lovely hazel eyes, Sam thinks, and they're never quite the same color twice. Right now, they are mostly green, because he's concerned, but there are flecks of brown throughout because he is angry. His hands are shaking a little with it. Agamemnon sets his things down and takes in a deep breath. Most of the brown fades out of his eyes, and now his hands are steady.

"It's really not as bad as it could be," Sam points out. "At least they didn't break anything." Sam tries not to think of his wrist- he really hopes he's not lying, but he wouldn't know. It hurts too much for him to see if he can move his hand.

"I hate how you can say that." Ags scowls and picks up the washcloth. He scrubs the crusted blood off Sam's forehead. It stings a little, but Sam doesn't mind; how on earth could he, when Agamemnon is close enough that Sam can feel his body heat? Besides, Ags is gentle. That's pretty much all he's ever been to Sam.

"Well, they didn't dump me in a trash can, either. That's definitely a plus." Sam tilts his head a little, and Ags lightly swats his shoulder.

"Hold still." Ags moves the washcloth down to the ripped sleeve of his shirt. He is even more careful with the long, jagged cut there. "It's only a plus because it means that I didn't have to pull you out of it," Ags grumbles. "There's no such thing as a plus when it comes to this kind of crap. Why do they think it's their business who you like to sleep with, anyway?" Agamemnon took some bandages and disinfectant from the first-aid kit, rolling up Sam's sleeve.

"Just because you don't believe in looking on the bright side." Agamemnon makes a face at him, but he doesn't look up from Sam's arm. Sam focuses on the way Ags's brown hair parts naturally down the middle and his clean smell of soap and teenage boy. Tending the wound hurts a little more this time, but Sam sits placidly. It's easy because it is true what they say about first love; Sam has never felt such complete trust and affection for anyone in his life, not even his sister.

Ags finishes with the wound on his arms. "The bandages all right?" he asks, glancing up into Sam's face for a moment. Sam nods, just smiling. Ags frowns. "Are you sure they didn't give you a concussion? You seem awful happy for someone who got the shit kicked out of him an hour ago."

Sam blushes a little, but he's still smiling. "No, no, my head's too hard for that. It's too hard for them to bring me down, either."

Agamemnon looks at him for a moment, and then he smiles back, shaking his head. "Yeah, I guess you're right. They're not worth it." He frowns suddenly and puts the washcloth to Sam's lips.

Sam thinks that Ags said something after doing that, but he's concentrating on not shaking or bursting into flames or something. He can feel the light pressure of Agamemnon's fingers through the thin, ragged cloth as he wipes away the blood, and he thinks it might drive him crazy.

Then Ags pulls the cloth back and looks at the blood on it; the color of his eyes is swirling, but neither of them notice. Ags can't feel it, and Sam can notice nothing but the sudden absence, how much he misses that slight touch.

It was like this when Sam realized he was in love with Ags. Sam can remember nothing of that day except the argument that led to Ags touching him- the taller boy had slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up. It was pretty effective, too. Sam could think of nothing to say in the face of the wave of heat that touch sent through his whole body; even when Agamemnon dropped his hand, Sam could only grasp at straws against the closeness of their faces.

He had been bitter then. He knew that Ags was in love with someone else- even if the silly boy wouldn't admit it- and he knew that it would not end well for himself. And he thought he was smarter than that sort of thing.

Now, though… well, it was such a lovely feeling. It was hard to stay cynical and angry for him anyway; he let the feeling buoy him up and decided to enjoy it while he could. It wasn't like Agamemnon would ever notice.

Ags sighs, and, for a wonder, he brushes the hair out of Sam's face. "God, dude," he mutters, expressing a wealth of friendship and platonic love in those two words. Even as Sam nods, he knows that's all he hears.

In another life, this is not what happens to him. In another life, he can indulge his natural reluctance to never look ahead and live for the moment; in another life, he has no responsibility greater than his own happiness; in another life, he is free to love as he chooses without fear of repercussions or pain later on.

In another life, Sam does not hear that platonic edge; in another life, Ags is suddenly looking at him with the same quiet but so-goddamn-strong affection, and Sam wonders why he's never seen it before as he reaches one trembling hand (his good one; his left wrist still sits in his lap, throbbing) out to rest in Agamemnon's hair. His hair is soft for a boy's; it feels wonderful between his fingers.

In another life, Agamemnon smiles and rests his forehead against Sam's, shrugging a little as if to say, Who knew? Sam nods. He thinks he should say something, but Ags cuts to the chase. His lips are soft and taste like cinnamon-

But this is not another life; this is the one he lives now and has to deal with, and a sudden burst of pain snaps him back to it when Ags touches his left wrist.

"Thought so," Agamemnon mutters grimly. "Can you move it?"

Sam feels a flash of that same bitterness he felt when he first acknowledged his feelings, but then he looks down at his wrist and decides to concentrate on that for now; it was a pretty dream, but that was all, and this is what he has here to deal with.

Besides, Agamemnon is resting one hand on his shoulder now.