Monday morning, Nate was anxious. He gave Sam space, left him alone for the last several days, giving him space, but the silence gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Halfway through the weekend, irritation had won out, and he’d sprung into action. He arrived at school early and rigged Sam's locker to spray shaving cream the moment the door opened. It was an easy setup, the kind of prank that had always been part of their back-and-forth.

Nate settled on the floor across from Sam’s locker, tackling a few pages of homework he’d neglected the night before. A few early bird students joined him, which provided a great distraction. He started tapping his foot with restless energy, and Nate sighed, glancing at the janitors as they finished their morning rounds. Teachers and students started trickling in, eyeing him with a degree of suspicion and bated breath. No doubt everyone wanted their back-and-forth to begin, again.

Sam arrived shortly after, looking more put-together than Nate expected. His bruises were fading, his uniform pristine, and his movements as steady as ever. His gray eyes flicked briefly to Nate but didn’t linger.

Nate felt the slight deeply. He tried not to let it show on his face. “How are we feeling today?” he asked casually, rising to his feet.

He didn’t respond. His fingers worked the combination lock with practiced ease.

“Are you still mad at me, darling? Come on. I said I was sorry?”

The lock clicked open. Sam stepped to the side with a sigh and pulled the door wide, stepping back as the shaving cream erupted in an arc of white foam. The hiss of the can drew an eager crowd of students. Phones were whipped out, pictures snapped, and murmurs spread like wildfire.

But a split second later, Nate realized their tone was wrong. There was no laughter, no delight in the endeavor – once the initial excitement elapsed, all that remained was muted whispers and awkward glances. They lacked the glee Nate had expected, lacked the excitement that usually came when they did something like this.

Now, Sam held Nate's gaze, staring with indifference, boredom. Exhaustion. Something Nate could have easily interpreted as pity. His gray eyes were lucid, distant, as the cream splattered the inside of his locker and the floor around it.

That irked Nate – how dare he look through him, as if he were any other face at school? Wasn't their five years of back-and-forth absolutely worth it to him?

When the can finally emptied out, Sam unlatched the simple mechanism that triggered the spray, and left the locker door opened. No textbooks were shoved onto the shelves, neither were there any pens and pencils. No extra spiral notebooks or the stupid erasure calendar Sam had on the back of the door. The locker had been cleaned. Not even a speck of dust left behind.

Nate's stomach started falling. His face twisted in agitation (painful as it was), and he stepped – and slid in the shaving cream – and clicked his tongue, recomposing himself with an easy smile and sliding his hands into his pockets. “Come on, darling. Don't make me beg.”

Sam stared at him. Through him. His hands reached out, fingers curled gently towards his palms, and Nate flinched, swatting his hands away; Sam gently pressed them away so he could grab Nate's tie and tighten it. He slid it until his shirt began to crease, so tight that it felt like Sam was trying to suffocate him with his school-regulated uniform.

“I don't like sloppiness,” Sam whispered, more to himself than anyone else, his voice calm and measured.

Suddenly, Nate felt hot. He scanned Sam’s face, searching desperately for something. Up close, he reminded himself that Sam was good looking (not as good looking as him, though) and his freckles were kind of stunning, but that stoniness he knew was front and center; under it was pain. Clear, unbridled hurt that lingered like the bruises after a punch. Sam’s ever-moving fingers brushed against his throat, and Nate shuddered.

Sam dropped his hands and offered something akin to an apologetic smirk (not to Nate), glancing over his fellow students. “Let me set the record straight with everything that's happened, recently. I did attack Nathaniel Quinn at Family Night.”

Nate bristled at the indifference his presence seemed to not provide. His shoulders tensed.

“My apologies to everyone who enjoyed our...” He grimaced at the choice of words on the tip of his tongue. “...sportsmanship –” Which he said more like a question than definitive. “– I suppose you'd call it, but I do not want to present myself like how I did. My energy will, henceforth, be focused on working to better myself as well as school while I remain. Whatever Nathaniel Quinn chooses to do is entirely his responsibility, and not mine.”

The finality of his words hit Nate like a slap. He knew Sam would've taken that personally, but he didn't expect him to take it so seriously. Rolling his head to the side, agitation dancing in his fingers, he plastered on his easy smile and hissed through his teeth, “I said I was sorry. Jesus Christ. Debbie Downer, much?”

Sam said nothing. Not even a cursory, dismissive wave. Sam met Nate's stare for a moment – a sliver of a moment where his glare narrowed, and his lips turned down, and the hurt was on full display – and turned, starting his walk to his first period without glancing back. His new book bag was bulkier, sturdier, and was probably so organized he could find anything he needed in the pitch black darkness. Sam Watson, Nate realized, would never use a school locker ever again.

The collective grumble of the students that remained around him were dissatisfied, uncertain of this seeming final word. They wanted a reaction, a continuation of the drama – but Nate had nothing of substance to give them.

Nate didn't do anything serious. He didn't hurt anyone.

He shrugged, forcing a smile that felt brittle. A part of him hated the insincerity of the gesture, but knew he had to supply something. “I guess he just needs a bit more time to chill out,” he offered easily, turning his eyes back towards Sam's receding form.