It was after eight one night when he got a text from an unknown number. He was drowning in his English Literature homework, desperately trying to find the symbolism in the last few chapters of The Great Gatsby (he would not cheat and look up what other people said), so the text was a welcome distraction. Sam flipped his phone open to find a request: Please be in the cafeteria for lunch tomorrow with a sad face emoticon attached, and nothing else.

He hunched forward at his desk. “Nate,” he sighed, scratching the back of his head. Why he hadn't bothered to ask at school was beyond him, though he did appreciate being approached like this. Quietly. Out of the way. Privately.

I assume this is the golden human dumpster fire? he shot back.

!!! was the first message. DARLING YOU DO LOVE ME. was the second.

Sam grimaced. He hated “darling”, the implied familiarity that Nate teased him with. Just because they were in general proximity of each other did not imply relationship closeness, and Nate must have known it. If he could, he would scrub the word from Nate's tongue and never have him say it again. I'm blocking your number, jagweed, he texted back.

NO DON'T I'M SORRY PLEASE JUST BE AT THE CAFETERIA TOMORROW.

How do you have my number?

I have my ways, was Nate's obvious reply. Winking emoticon.

I'm blocking you.

Please be in the cafeteria tomorrow??

And what happens if I'm not there?

Nothing. The first few minutes rolled by. Twenty minutes passed before Sam abandoned his phone and returned to studying.

Though the request did feel a bit strange. Out of the ordinary. Nate Quinn did not ask for anything. He was probably (definitely) one of those entitled brats who thought the world owed them something for existing. Saying “please” felt like a step down from his smug “Golden Boy” demeanor, so him outright requesting something (and, again, using “please”, as well) signaled to Sam that maybe, just maybe, Nate was starting to realize what he had done wrong. Suggesting any actual realization felt too generous on his part.

The message came as Sam was crawling into bed over two hours later, flicking on his bedside light to not be blinded.

All it read was, Then you're not there.

Okay, that he didn't like at all. There was a taunt in that message, almost like Sam was missing something truly incredible if he didn't show. Not that he cared, really. The whole point of saying “You're dead to me” was to make it clear that their rivalry had gone too far, and that it wasn't worth his time anymore.

He turned out the light and moved to a comfortable position.

An hour later, he was still awake.

He really did hate Nate Quinn with every fiber of his being.

Just shy of three in the morning, Sam shot back, You'd better make this worth it, Quinn, I swear to God, and promptly blocked him.

~

The decision proved to be an absolute mistake.

Either Nate had let slip what was happening to every single breathing person at Brookfell Academy, or it was sheer happenstance that every single person was in the cafeteria at that moment. Sam thought people were definitely cutting classes for this. For, potentially, another Nate-esque display that would put any dramatics the theater department could do to shame.

Sam chastised himself, wishing he wasn't the center of attention. He'd, once again, fallen into Nate's trap, their antics becoming fodder for the entertainment of others. He tried hiding himself in the crowd, but they would not oblige; they pushed him towards the center of the room. He was glad he had blocked Nate's number, but now was tempted to text him and ask what kind of game this was. Even then, something in Sam figured that Nate would simply buy another phone just to try and bother him.

The minutes ticked by with itching slowness. He tried to leave, but people refused to budge. He considered crawling through people's legs but would rather have licked the floor. Sam, eventually, took a seat at a cafeteria table, and whoever sat around him would part like he carried a pathogen that could kill anyone within arm's reach.

Sam rolled his eyes. His foot started tapping. He wished the bell would ring so this would be over.

He spotted Olivia on the far side of the room, hiding behind one of her classmates.

He frowned and pointed to her, dragging the same finger across his throat.

Olivia frowned and stuck out her tongue.

Sam started considering poisons that were fact acting.

The hush of the crowd fell when Nate finally arrived. He trotted in with his usual bravado, head up, glowing gold and his lips curled into an easy smile, but Sam could see through him better than everyone else. Exhaustion sagged on him. Hanging under his eyes were the beginnings of dark rings. His shoulders were rolled forward slightly, making the display all the more intriguing. He fiddled with his fingers. By the time Nate was near, his smile broke into something broader. More nervous.

The sight was unsettling.

“Glad you could make it, darling,” he said casually.

Sam started standing. He sighed through his teeth.

“Fine. Fine. Just...” He flapped his fingers at his sides and drifted lazily from foot to foot. “I'm sorry.”

The silence made his stomach churn; a pin could be dropped anywhere and everyone would hear it. Sam shuddered, jaw setting in frustration. He certainly didn't hate Nate more, but putting him on display might have made him the worst thing in the entire universe. “If you think,” he started, internally chastising himself for breaking his own rule, “that you think this is enough – ”

“I propose this to make amends,” Nate continued, raising his hand to stop Sam from continuing. As if the rage in Sam's words were no more than dying embers than a burning fire. “I will do whatever you want, whatever you say, no questions asked.” He let it hang for a moment, let it simmer among the crowd around them, and Nate straightened his posture out, as if gaining the confidence to continue: “You want me to wear high heels for an entire day? I'll do it. Do the...the macarena outside in a speedo seven times when it starts snowing? I'll do it. I'll fucking do it.”

Some people giggled.

Sam wished he was dead.

“Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what I did to you and your sister. I didn't mean to hurt you.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, producing something of a shy tableau, but the glint in Nate's eyes proved either insincere or uncertain; either way, Sam didn't like it. “So I thought, maybe putting some of that hurt on me can negate some of whatever you're still working through.”

Oh, my God.

“I do miss you, darling.”

Sam wanted to scream. Here he was, believing with a sliver of hope that Nate had come to understand what had happened between them, that he had some semblance of decency in him, why and how this rift had come about. He swallowed back the painful lump in his throat and nearly laughed. He glanced around at everyone, searching for the same disgust he felt, but saw cooing, admiration.

Nathaniel Quinn had twisted the narrative in his favor.

“I really, really do.”

“It wasn't about that,” he almost spat, anger trembling through his fingers. He wiped his face, desperate for recomposition, but the welling feeling in his chest bounded back and forth, unable to be capped, again. He was back at Family Night, descending the debate stage seeing red and ready to kill Nate. “You missed the point entirely of why I am so upset at you! Shame on me for believing you could have had a shred of human dignity inside you, Nathaniel Quinn. You are nothing but foul. You are nothing but sour and miserable through and through.”

“Sam?”

He inhaled, uncurling his fingernails from his palms, already a pale red; blood flowed back to his fingertips. Sam searched for something – anything – to prove this was a dream, that he hadn't been caught in Nate's web again. Every which way he turned, people watched him expectantly, with the kind of bated excitement that came from when they fought before Family Night. Some whispered while others rolled their eyes.

But he felt trapped, caught between an obvious answer (“NO! FUCK YOU! FUCK OFF!”) and the suffocating weight of the audience’s stares. Every eye burned into him, not as witnesses to his pain but as spectators, desperate and hungry for drama. If he lashed out, the crowd would flock to Nate's side, console him while chiding Sam; if he stayed silent, he’d let this narrative go unchallenged, further cementing him as the villain in a story Nate had rewritten. If he did accept, then this entertainment would continue the misery. There was no escape. Only a choice between losing his dignity or his voice.

“Say something, darling.”

“Don't ever. Call me 'darling' again.”

Nate put his hands up. “Fine. Fine. I liked the nickname, but I won't say it again. You have my word on that.”

“Oh, not just that,” Sam hissed through his teeth, meeting Nate's gaze. Cogs started turning, glowing hot with speed, as a plan emerged fully formed. The flap of a butterfly's wing causing a storm thousands of miles away. “This deal of yours? One month. You do everything I say, without question for one month.”

Nate, for a moment, bristled, but something clearly released inside him. He smiled, and the motion seemed easier, like it had been freshly oiled, and he nodded. “Got it.”

“If you can't follow through on it, on any part of it, then you voluntarily resign, permanently, from the soccer team. The debate team. You change classes. I don't ever want to see your face again.”

“I figured,” he said lightly.

Sam straightened out, grimacing. He was going to make Nate understand how much he hated him if it was the last thing he ever did.