He came to during study hall one day, realizing none of his morning and a few of his afternoon classes had settled with him. He couldn't even recall what day it was.

“– but Amy said she couldn't play Maria because of some religious thing which,” Marissa rolled her eyes, “yeah, okay. Sure. And your family celebrates Christmas after January first. Or whatever. Sure. But anyway, Amy said she couldn't, and then Henry Carter – he was one of the guards in Cinderella? Remember?” She looked at him expectantly, waiting for something, as she tapped the end of her pen on the tabletop.

Sam wrinkled his nose, eyes drifting away to scan the library. No Nate, though that was a good thing. The guy already took up way too much mental space for Sam to stand, so the lacking visual was a good reprieve.

“Were you listening to me?”

“Honestly, no,” he replied in earnest. Sam propped his head on his hand and glanced quickly down at the half-finish calculus homework and the untouched physics book in front of him. “Sorry. You're, just, boring as hell, today.” It wasn't even that. Sam was, just bored in general, like someone had sucked the energy from him before the day had even started. The kind of unbearable boredom that made colors run gray, and made music turn into static.

Analysis of that led back to Nate, and Sam hated that Nathaniel Quinn had managed to wreck his life by literally not being in it.

Marissa frowned, crossing her arms. Trying to do the whole “I-Am-Hurt-And-Offended” tableau that she knew didn't work on him. “Well, you could, at least, try to be slightly cordial with me.”

“Cordial?” he echoed, his eyes turning glossy. “I didn't realize I was doing anything but.”

She wrinkled her nose and tucked her curly mess of hair behind her ear and over her shoulder; it simply attempted to press back. “Just because your social life's in flames doesn't mean you need to burn down our friendship, too.”

Friendship. He was not friends with Marissa in that way; he talked to her because, during the production of Cinderella, she seemed to single him out. Sam did the musical for his academic resume, to prove he could (a bad decision on his part), but Marissa (who played one of the stepsisters) seemed to see something soft in him despite the lacking evidence for it. To call her a friend felt a bit far-fetched.

But he also knew that Marissa was on a short, short list of people who liked (or tolerated) conversing with him, so Sam swallowed back whatever exhaustion came from dealing with her to sigh. “Sorry. Just waiting for him to do something.”

Marissa cocked a brow. “Something worse than your second birthday?”

“Ha ha. Yes, something worse.”

“Like?”

“I don't know.” Like calling out the lingering feeling in his chest that dripped deep blue. Sam was terrified that Nate could see it, and was only playing the “desperate” or “hurt” angle to bide his time, or to play on the sympathies of the student body (which he definitely was). At times, it was subtle, this feeling, like waves crashing on a shore; other times, it drowned him with its weight. In the quiet sanctum of the library, he waited for Nate to blast an air horn in his ear. In the cafeteria, he waited for Nate to see him from across the room and flash a smile towards him. He waited for Nate’s voice to overtake the sound of the school, just so Sam could start mentally preparing every retort he could think of.

He hated it. He hated him. He hated Nate’s ease. He hated how he seemed to never try at anything, or how easily he felt entitled to dismiss people. He hated how Nate floated, how he always seemed to navigate every situation as thoughtlessly as breathing. He hated that Nate had this power over him, and he hated that Sam couldn’t shake it off as easily as he hoped.

“What's wrong?” Marissa sighed.

“Nothing,” he whispered, placing his head down on the table. “Just peachy.”

~

Nate slammed his hand on the cafeteria table, tossing his tray of garlic bread and chicken tenders to the side (specifically, three baskets of garlic bread and two of chicken tenders). His face was stony, trembling with attempted resolve, but Sam could see through it. “Look, man,” he started, his tone a dreadful mix of nerves and frustration, “I don't know if you need help untangling your panties, but this has gone on too long. I miss you, darling,” he pressed through his teeth. “I miss us.”

The display was nothing Sam hadn’t become accustomed to, but now it was pitiable.

He gestured to his loosened tie. “Look at this. Look at this. Sloppiness at its finest, right? What're you going to do about it?” He smirked, mischief in his eyes, but the taunt was easier to ignore. Why did he have to keep doing this? Why did he have to feel like a whirlpool, constantly wanting to drag him down?

Sam stared, biting the inside of his cheek. His appetite vanished. He just wanted Nate to leave him alone. He would never articulate how much Nate filled his life with the sound of fireworks and none of the pleasure from watching them burst. The thought of saying it to anyone crackled and blistered his tongue. He frowned slightly, and hated himself for it.

Nate groaned, his hands flopped at his sides in momentary defeat. “Jesus Christ, Sam. This isn't funny, anymore.”

“Just go away,” he wanted to say, lacking the conviction to do so; instead, he hummed and collected his half-eaten lunch.

Nate drew in a nervous breath, like this interaction (however substantial this was perceived as) would end the moment he stopped talking. “Sam, come on. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for your sister to get that. It was meant for you. You know that, right?”

He told himself not to look. He’d get sucked into the vulnerability perfuming his words, and Sam would smirk and laugh and use it against him.

Instead, he dumped his lunch in the garbage.

He wanted to be better. He would not sink.

Breathlessness overtook Nate in a way Sam never thought possible. The display was almost endearing – the “Golden Boy” of Brookfell Academy had feelings? Who could’ve guessed? – if it weren’t for the obvious ploy to gain sympathy from the student body around them. “I don't know what you want me to do, Sam.” He grabbed Sam's arm, fingers twisting and squeezing, begging for Sam’s attention.

It almost worked. Sam flinched and bit the side of his tongue until it tasted like cherry.

“Tell me what you want me to do. I miss us. I'll grovel. I'll fucking grovel right here. I'll do it. Just say – just say something.”

The sight was almost amusing. He wondered what Nate's beloved brother would think of the display, but spared it no more energy than that.

Sam tore himself away in one hard motion, hiding his trembling hands at his sides. Nate Quinn never worked hard for anything. He didn’t even study for anything. Everything came easily to him. Everyone loved him.

He would not play into Nate’s hands. He would not roll over and smile and offer his stomach like a docile dog.

This wasn’t just for him, anymore, either. This was for Olivia. This was to prove that Nathaniel Quinn couldn’t get away with everything.

He reached a seated student and touched their shoulder. “Not to you,” Sam stared, loud enough for Nate to ear, “but I just want to study and work.” He tried not looking at Nate as he said it.

“I'm right here, you fucking jagweed!” That tone was unmistakably his. Nate, despite the crocodile tears and the whining, was still the Golden Boy of Brookfell Academy.

Sam hummed until his breath wore out, and left the cafeteria in his wake.

He wanted to believe this would get easier.