Who could have predicted that avoiding Nathaniel Quinn would have been more exhausting than dealing with him?

In hindsight, that was Sam’s fault. He should have seen it coming, the endless flailing. He anticipated the withdrawal symptoms, as well, when the first week passed around them with little to no mishaps. Their detention periods were long and dull (a perfect time to do his homework), while Nate slept, looking at peace with the world in a way that annoyed Sam to no end.

Sam, out of habit, still prepared himself for Nate. Panicked when he thought he heard his voice, which rang clearer in his ears than it did anywhere else. Done something that would have tried to turn back the clock. He mentally prepared for the goads and the retorts and the pranks that would have made his hairs stand on end.

Midway through their week of detention, Sam thought, with apprehensive relief, that Nate had understood the message that he never wanted to talk to him again.

Certainly wishful thinking on his part, but still. All the signs pointed to it.

And then their second week began.

Again, Sam prepared for Nate's withdrawal. Just not for the intensity of it.

A detention notice arrived, signed by Principal Hanford. Sam, baffled, went to the man himself, asking what he had done, which only confirmed his suspicions that Nate hadn’t learned anything. Another week of detention fell in Nate’s lap – for impersonating a member of staff, and forgery. Sam had to resist the urge to roll his eyes when the principal reasoned it to him.

Their time apart started shrinking again. Desperation started oozing from Nate the same way cool nonchalance once had, starting with undertones and then becoming profuse. He began outright belittling Sam between periods. Swapping his textbooks for children’s books was brought to the attention of the administration, immediately (though Sam was, admittedly, impressed that Nate had managed to slip them into his bag without him even noticing); he had to remind himself not to be impressed when he, somehow, managed to decorate his old locker with candid pictures of him (collected from who knows where) with the caption “SMILE, DARLING” – all of that was thrown out when he saw it first thing in the morning; the mock-award congratulating him for “Being The World’s Biggest Toddler” was unnecessary and thrown out without second thought; decorating his advisory room’s door lacked the tact that Sam had come to know from him (he still told the administration about it).

Sam promised himself he wouldn’t rise to the bait.

God, did he want to. He wanted that familiar tinge of warmth that came from winning an argument against Nate, or the resigned expression he wore when Sam managed to outsmart him. He wanted that. Sam wanted him in his orbit, again, a nuisance but at least one that could be pushed back.

That didn't change the fact that Nate had crossed a line; he hurt his sister, and that was unforgivable regardless of what he said or did. He had to remind himself that this overworked muscle needed a rest. Or to be killed. Whichever came first.

Sam promised himself to hold firm. That it would get easier, like a blade dulling through constant use. All he had to do was maintain his glossy stare whenever Nate was around, hum a Sam Cooke song in his head whenever Nate tried talking to him, and that would be that. Nate would fade into the background like movie extras. He didn’t care that the student body were waiting for them to snap back like a rubber band, nor did he care that Nate kept apologizing in his halfhearted aloof way he treated everything serious.

He had to pay for what he did.