He didn't think Sam would take the “high heels” suggestion seriously. But, that's what he did the following Monday. Six inch ones, at that. Nate thought the love confession for Sam at lunch was a bit over the top, though.

To be fair, he didn't expect the raffle-style punishment at the start of the day. Every. Single. Day. That was clever on Sam’s part.

To be fair, also, he rocked those high heels. He didn't even twist his ankle (he did, but once he got the hang of them, he really liked the height that came with them). It pissed Sam off immensely, which made Nate snicker to himself. Why were girls always complaining about them? They were easy as all hell once he got used to them.

“Okay,” Sam called, turning the stolen bingo cage over and over until something fell out. Three capsules with notes stuffed into them rolled down to a stop, and Sam snatched the second one, popped it open, and read through it. “Martin Grace?”

Someone in the crowd raised their hand.

His hands fiddled with the paper, twirling it around his fingers. “I like your suggestion, but I'm not commandeering the school's pool for it.”

“I meant for it to be on the weekend,” he called back.

“This isn't happening on the weekends,” Sam said, slipping the suggestion back into the capsule and turning the bingo cage again. “Only weekdays.”

Nate glanced over the small crowd of curious spectators. A part of him was genuinely aghast at the sight of so many people participating in such an awful display. Didn't they have any kind of decorum? I mean, sure, Nate could understand the appeal, but this felt like an affront to everything he tried to build for himself. It went against his character. “Shouldn't I –”

“I said no talking, Quinn.” Two capsules fell from the cage. Sam leaned forward to retrieve one.

He snapped his mouth shut, chastising himself for the eleventh time in less than a few hours. Why hadn't he considered the repercussions that this could've brought on? The embarrassment? All he remembered was the sheer joy, the relief, when Sam said he'd agree to the terms. He could've said anything as outrageous as “posing naked under the science museum's T-Rex skeleton reconstruction” and Nate would have agreed to it. All he wanted was Sam back. He wanted the bantering, the pestering, the challenge set between them. He wanted the end to a cold war he didn't know how to end.

He also hoped no one put the T-Rex suggestion in there.

“Emily Jones?” Sam called.

A hand popped up, followed by a frizzy-haired underclassman weaving through the front of the crowd. Her eyes sparkled.

“Do you have everything you need?”

She grinned and nodded. “I've been practicing for a few years, now. I've even had a stall at the county fair doing it. I'm pretty decent at it.”

Sam smiled. Too thin to be genuine but too broad to not be off-putting. “Wonderful.” He pressed his hand to Nate's spine and shoved him forward. “Hands and face, Ms. Jones.”

“Hands and face?”

Nate turned around.

He hummed, nodding as he returned to the bingo cage.

Nate opened his mouth, the objection on his tongue falling back into his throat when the underclassman tugged him towards the girl's bathroom. “It'll be quick, as long as you don't move.”

“I'm sorry, everyone, if I didn't get your suggestion,” Sam called out, packing away the bingo roller and sliding it towards his previously-empty locker. Collectively, the crowd started dispersing and groaning. “If you have more, the submission box will be available after school today by the front office for tomorrow's pick.”

This wasn't what Nate signed up for. He assumed Sam would try to embarrass him, absolutely, but bringing the whole school into this? A work of a genuine madman.

Still, he couldn't help but respect the guy.

Nate spent the entire day painted as a tiger. His love confession at lunch was gag-inducing and hilarious. It made his skin crawl and rotted his stomach.

“You look terrible,” Emma noted with casual nonchalance. “What did you do in gym?”

Nate knew what she meant. The paint had started flaking off (melting off from exercise), and he looked like a disheveled, sweaty face-painted pedophile. “Track.” They had resigned somewhere quiet, away from people, partly for Nate's sake. People were taking pictures of him, and he certainly did not want this to be the look people knew from him.

“You did this to yourself,” she sang, leaning back in her chair and raising a brow. “You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you have...how many days left of this?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Emma cocked a brow, wiggling in her seat. “Does Tyler know –”

“Leave him out of it.”

She put up her hands. “So I assume you're going straight through to New Years, then. Huh?”

He shuddered. “If I can convince him to stop for winter break –”

Emma started laughing. The moment Nate cast his glare on her, she started coughing to try and mask her amusement, but it was too little too late. The glint in her eyes told him she didn't mean it. “Be reasonable, Nate. For once. You know Sam isn't going to, is he?”

No, he wouldn't. He hoped, but Nate knew.

He buried his face in his hands and sighed, wishing for a moment to talk things over with him. To discuss new rules for this thing.

He knew Sam wouldn't accept.

“Why can't he, just, take a fucking joke?”

“My dear, sweet Nathaniel, you and I both know the answer to that.”

He wiped his brow and stared at her, realizing he was smearing paint even more across his face and fingertips. His easy expression remained, tinted with irritation. “Can't you, for a second, just try and console me? You're my best friend, Emma. I'm suffering here.”

She stuck out her tongue. An Emma non-response.

The bell finally rang, and students start trickling out into the hall, but Nate lingered, unwilling to face the inevitable for the rest of the day. His stomach churned – not just from the paint or the exhaustion, but from something deeper, colder.

“Buck up. Don’t worry about it,” Emma said, glancing at Nate and slapping his back. “It’s not the end of the world. I doubt Watson'll do anything too serious to you. Unless he wants to get expelled. You’re still alive, right?”

He looked at her, barely holding in a sigh. “Yeah, I...suppose.” He ran a hand through his hair. Probably smearing fragments of dried paint through it. “I just want Sam back.”

Emma shrugged. “Well, then. Brace yourself.”