Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Monday, October 7th

Nathan thinks he might be sick as he stalks his way into the girls’ bathroom.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. His plan was incredibly, stupidly simple. Drug Chloe, snap a few pictures while she’s out of it, get them back to Jefferson, and show him that he's capable of replicating the work they do together.

In hindsight, it should’ve been easy. It was not.

He pauses at the door to ensure he’s the only one inside, sneaking a glance underneath the stalls. He’s alone, but not for long. Ignoring the stench of stale piss and cleaning supplies, he makes a beeline for the sinks and digs his nails into the porcelain to stop his hands from shaking. It doesn’t help. His nerves are shot.

“It’s cool, Nathan. Don’t stress,” he says, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He swallows a gulp of air and stares at himself in the mirror. A pallid face with dark undereye circles stares back, a sight not unfamiliar to him, but one he hates nonetheless. “You’re okay, bro. Just count to three.”

Counting obsessively in his head, one-two-three, one-two-three, his eyes flit to the clock on the wall. The little hand is sneaking past four, mocking him with each revolution of its longer counterpart. She’ll be here any minute, if she’s still planning on showing up.

Instinctively, Nathan reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket for the pistol he stole from his dad's gun locker, fingers closing around the grip and feeling for the safety catch. He doesn't plan on firing it, but flashing it should Chloe decide to get pushy with him. Nothing more than an intimidation tactic, even though he'd love to bust a cap in her sorry ass.

“Don’t be scared. You own this school,” he says to the mirror, his reflection scowling. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, trying to remember any helpful advice that his hack of a psychiatrist gave him. “If I wanted, I could blow it up. You’re the boss.”

As if on cue, the bathroom door cracks open. A head of blue hair peeks in, turns side to side, and then enters. Nathan’s grip on the porcelain tightens, grasping it so hard that his knuckles turn white.

“So,” he snaps, looking down at the basin. “What do you want?”

“I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-ass would say,” Chloe replies, pushing a few of the stall doors open. She looks satisfied, as though she'd expected him to wrangle up a few friends, hide them in the toilets, and have them jump her during their negotiation. Not a bad idea, honestly. “Now, let’s talk bidness.”

Nathan sneers. “I got nothing for you.”

“Wrong. You got hella cash.”

“That’s my family. Not me,” he says. It’s a half-truth. His dad gives him a monthly allowance, but it’s only a fragment of the Prescott fortune. At the end of the day, all he cares about is having enough in his account to buy weed and blow, which he usually does.

“Oh, boo-hoo. Poor little rich kid,” Chloe says, leering over him. “I know you’ve been pumpin’ drugs and shit to kids around here. I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them. Man, I can see the headlines now.”

“Leave them out of this, bitch,” he hisses, his voice trembling. The air feels staticky, the hair on his arms standing at attention. Stay calm. Stay calm. Inhale, count to three, exhale.

Chloe shoves at his shoulder, her eyes flaring open. “I can tell everybody Nathan Prescott is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself—”

It’s all he needs to hear. Nathan pries his hands off the sink and reaches into the confines of his jacket, pulling out his pistol. The coolness of the metal does nothing to soothe the heat of his anger. He feels it in his chest, blinding, white-hot. “You don’t know who the fuck I am,” he seethes, leveling the gun at her head and placing his finger on the trigger, “or who you’re messing around with!”

The fear in Chloe’s eyes makes him feel better than he’d like to admit. She stumbles backward until her shoulders hit the bathroom door, arms outstretched to hold him at bay. “Where’d you get that?” she asks, breathless. “What are you doing? C’mon, put that thing down!”

Nathan closes in, pinning her against the door and pressing the pistol to her stomach. “Don’t ever tell me what to do!” he spits, punctuating his words by slamming his palm on the tile behind her. “I am so sick of people trying to control me!”

Chloe, looking frantically for a means to escape, places her hands on his chest. “You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs,” she warns, and Nathan knows that she’s right, but he doesn't care. He’ll flash some money at the cops or Principal Wells and everything will be swept neatly under the rug. Just like the time he tried to steal that totem pole from the dorm lawn. Just like when he cussed out the janitor for bumping into him in the hallway (which he admittedly felt bad about later on, because Samuel is one of the lesser evils at Blackwell).

“Nobody would ever even miss your punk ass, would they?” Nathan spits. Their faces are so close that he can feel her terrified breathing coming out in short, ragged gasps against his cheek. He can see the underlying panic, the slight quiver in her lower lip. She raises her hands in a placating manner, an attempt to appease him, but he doesn’t take it. He doesn’t want to take it. He wants to see her squirm under the barrel of a loaded gun.

Somewhere behind him, glass splinters. The fire alarm blares, loud and piercing.

“No way,” he utters, lifting his head. His grip on the pistol wavers for a fraction of a second, and Chloe seizes the opportunity, throwing a good punch at his stomach. Nathan’s knees immediately give out beneath him, and he falls backward, head hitting the floor with a sickening crack. The gun is lost to him as it flies out of his grip, and for a moment, all he sees is white. It lasts until her blurry, blue figure steps closer, hovering above him. Bristling.

“Don’t ever touch me again, freak!” she shouts, mouth drawn back in a snarl as she staggers away. She turns on her heel and leaves quickly, the bathroom door slamming shut behind her, and it’s clear she’s won this battle. Not the war, though. He’ll make sure of that.

His vision pulses as he writhes around on the ground, one hand clutching his stomach and the other blindly feeling for the pistol. She’s surprisingly strong, although he should’ve realized that when she broke his lamp coming out of her state in his bedroom, apparently unaffected by how much drug he’d fed to her. He hisses when he reaches around to feel at the back of his head, pain blossoming under his fingers, and decides he’ll end her life if he’s concussed. Unless Jefferson ends it first, that is.

The thought of Jefferson sobers him up entirely. Fear surges through him as he pushes himself to his feet, and he turns to escape, but only makes it a couple of steps when he notices something white poking out from underneath his shoe. He hesitates briefly, and then bends to pick it up.

The ripped remains of what looks to be an English essay. That’s what he thinks it is, at least. The notebook paper is crumbled, torn into two halves, the writing small and childish. In the upper left-hand corner, he can barely make out the red Sharpie pen left behind by a teacher. A circled seventy-two.

Nathan snorts at the trash. His fingers open to let the paper flutter back to the floor but pause when he sees a name opposite the poor grade. He strangles it in his grip, his blood going cold.

Warren Graham

It’s so messy that Nathan has to squint to read it. He reads it once, and then a second time. A third. It is unmistakably Warren’s paper. Warren was here. His breath hitching in his throat, Nathan stuffs the paper and the pistol into his varsity. He needs to find out how much he's seen, if he's seen anything at all.

He only gets a couple of paces out the door when he slams full force into another body, causing him to stumble backward. "Move," he growls, still dazed from his spill onto the tile. His head is throbbing, a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors swimming in front of his eyes.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Nathan sighs inwardly, because even with his fucked vision he can identify that voice anywhere. In front of him looms David Madsen: head of security, killer of fun, pain in the ass. In their limited time of knowing each other, Nathan can tell exactly what type of person he is. A textbook example of an ex-soldier with a hard-on for power, who enjoys lording his authority over teenagers and confiscating good weed. In other words, a dick.

“None of your business,” Nathan snaps, trying and failing to move around him. Madsen has him boxed in, his arms crossed as he assesses the situation. "Give me a fucking break, man."

“That’s ‘sir’ to you, and watch your tone,” Madsen says curtly, mustache raising with the curl of his lip. “Male students loitering around the ladies’ room is my business. Care to explain what you were doing in there? Creeping on girls?”

“There were no girls in there,” Nathan says, tensing up when he feels the gun shift around inside his jacket. “It’s above your paygrade to interrogate me. Piss off.”

“I suggest you tell me the truth before I get you expelled.”

“I suggest you hop off my tip.”

“Gentlemen, is there a problem here?”

Nathan’s head swivels. Principal Wells is standing within earshot, looking exhausted and slightly hungover. The students who frequent his office and have the balls to snoop around (much like himself) have intimate knowledge of his drinking problem. He’s seen the half-empty handles of Johnnie Walker peeking out of filing cabinets, the familiar, amber-colored Fireball shooters shoved haphazardly into his desk. As far as Nathan is concerned, everyone has a secret at Blackwell, and Wells’ is his desperation to find happiness at the bottom of a bottle. It is, perhaps, the only thing they have in common.

“I caught him leaving the girls’ toilets,” Madsen says, putting a firm hand on Nathan’s shoulder that is quickly shrugged off. “Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t any good.”

Wells sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “I’m sure Mr. Prescott had good reason for being in there. Probably searching for a friend after the alarm went off. Isn’t that right?”

Nathan nods, his face expressionless as he tries to feign innocence. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly when he meets Wells’ gaze. If he were any other student, he’d be sent right to detention, doomed to two hours of sitting in a cold, sterile room and contemplating his mistakes. Being the son of the school’s largest benefactor has its perks and has acted as a very convenient safety net over the years.

“You can’t be serious,” Madsen scoffs, looking between them. He gesticulates angrily, jabbing a finger in Nathan’s direction. “You really expect me to believe—”

“Please, Mr. Madsen, let Nathan go. This is a non-emergency. And turn off that fire alarm, since that’s your job.”

Madsen’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t protest. He shakes his head and steps aside. Nathan shoots him the meanest look he can muster as he walks by, one that he hopes says do not fuck with me or I’ll have you replaced, because he can and most certainly will. There are droves of unemployed, middle-aged lowlifes in this town, ones who are a lot less nosy than he is. Pick any random person down by the wharf and they would make a perfect Madsen 2.0, guaranteed.

He gets as far as the front doors when he hears Wells call out his name from behind, and he slows, glancing over his shoulder. “Uh-huh?” he drawls, in the same bland way he’d respond to his dad’s nagging. “What?”

“Be more mindful, please.” The crepe-like, paper-thin skin around Wells’ eyes crinkles as he looks him up and down, disapproval etched into his aging features. “I don’t want to contact your father. He has more important things to deal with.”

Nathan turns away from him again, disinterested. “Sure,” he says, although there’s a sliver of truth to it. As flippant as he is, as much as he likes to pretend it doesn’t bother him, he knows he ranks low on his dad’s list of priorities. It’s been that way for as long as he can remember. Even as a kid, a good kid, he knew his place and knew how little he mattered in the grand scheme of things. He’s almost a man now—eighteen, as of a couple months ago—and nothing has changed.

Pushing the door open with his shoulder, he slinks into the courtyard, conversation decidedly over.

Aside from the incident in the bathroom and Madsen’s attempt at screwing him over, Nathan has to admit that it’s a nice day. The sky is clear, the air crisp, the leaves on the trees turning golden with the onset of fall. It’s the kind of October candle companies try to bottle up and sell with names like Cinnamon Pumpkin Patch and Spiced Apple Chai and Maple Mahogany Whateverthefuck. It’s not the autumn he grew up with, but he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t something wonderfully cozy about it.

He misses Florida. He misses the humid summers and the mild winters, the way the heat rose off the asphalt and stained the soles of his feet black. He misses the lizards that skittered across the pavement. Julys on his dad’s yacht, Decembers in the beach house on the Keys. What he had there wasn’t perfect by any means, and maybe it’s nostalgia warping his memories, but he longs for the familiarity of it all. Florida was predictable, steady in its own way, even if his life there wasn’t.

Gray and rainy half the year, moving to Oregon wasn’t his choice. He sulked for weeks when his dad announced the decision to leave during the beginning of his fifth-grade year, citing it as a business opportunity. Interestingly, he didn’t seem thrilled about leaving either. Oregon is for hippies and liberals, he’d loudly professed over dinner one night, the setting for most of his soapbox rants. The place where dreams go to die. But the money in it was good, and it would allow them to expand the Prescott empire, and so the boxes were packed and off to Oregon they went.

He isn’t happy here. He knows this and reminds himself of it often. If he’s being perfectly honest with himself, though, he’s not sure he’d be happy anywhere.

Watching the remaining evacuating students trickle out of the main building, Nathan scans the courtyard for Warren. The lawns are populated with their classmates enjoying the nice weather, sprawled lazily in the grass or chatting in small groups. He figured he’d be hanging around his geeky friends, the ones on the same bottom rung of the social ladder, but he’s nowhere to be found. He’ll have to look harder, and that means hunting down that Max girl.

Max Caulfield. He didn’t know a thing about her until the second week of school, at which point Victoria had developed a concentrated hatred for her. From what he can glean about the situation, Max had embarrassed Victoria during their fifth period with Jefferson (something about a critique of a photo turned in for an assignment), but this recollection of events distorted over time. A few days later, Victoria was harping about Max insulting her work, or her clothes, or her family, the narrative twisted so thoroughly with self-victimization that Nathan isn’t sure exactly what happened. All he knows is that she somehow became Victoria’s latest target, and by extension, his own.

He has no personal grudge against her (not yet at least), but he’s loyal to his best friend, and that means keeping an eye on her enemies. Especially when they have information he needs, because he’s seen her milling around Warren enough to know they’re close.

He pivots and heads for the girls' dorms, where he finds Victoria seated on the front steps, flanked by friends Taylor and Courtney. She looks pretty today, her face glowing in the late afternoon as she tilts her head back and laughs. It’s a rare sight—Victoria genuinely laughing—and he debates disrupting her good mood with questions about her newest enemy, but sacrifices have to be made.

“Vic,” he calls out as he approaches, shoving his hands into the frayed lining of his pockets. His voice pulls her attention away from the conversation, and her laughter fades as she gives him a once-over.

“Hey, you,” she calls out with a smile, her glossy lips curling into a smirk. “Password?”

Nathan rolls his eyes but plays along, knowing better than to challenge her little games. “Queen Victoria reigns supreme,” he mutters familiarly. He’s been through this enough to know that any deviation would only prolong the interaction, and he doesn’t have the patience for that right now.

Victoria’s smirk widens, clearly pleased with his compliance. “Good boy,” she teases, leaning back against the steps. Taylor and Courtney exchange amused glances, but stay quiet, content to let their leader handle the conversation. “I’m thinking about changing it. I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Knowing you, it’ll be something Mark-related.”

Her cheeks go scarlet, and she leans forward to playfully swat at him while her sidekicks hold back their laughter. Her crush on Jefferson—which he finds both hilarious and horrifying—isn’t a secret. He sees it every time he walks by his classroom (Victoria practically bent over his desk, wearing one of her most revealing tops) and hears about every time her attempts to seduce him are met with polite indifference. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Mark Jefferson, a man twice her age, has no interest in her. The only girls he likes are the ones he can drug and photograph on the floor of their darkroom, and he’s done everything in his power to keep her from filling that role.

“Anyway,” Victoria says quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from her love life, “what’s up? You need something?”

Nathan frowns and looks away. "Looking for Max. You seen her?"

As expected, Victoria’s expression sours at the mention of her name. She scoffs and reaches up to brush a lock of hair off her forehead, the silver charm bracelet on her wrist jingling. “Max Bitchfield?” she sneers. “What do you want her for?”

Nathan forces himself to keep his composure, even as Victoria’s reaction grates on his nerves. He doesn’t have time for their petty rivalry, but he knows he needs to play this carefully. Victoria’s sharp, and if he’s not careful, she might pick up on something being off. The last thing he needs is for her to get involved and endanger herself.

“Nothing major,” he replies, shrugging. “We need to have a chat.”

Victoria purses her lips, displeased with his lack of elaboration. “She was here a few minutes ago. She asked us to move, but I wasn’t having any of her twee hipster bullshit,” she says flatly, admiring her nails. He sat with her a few days prior as she painted them Hot Hibiscus, an obnoxiously bright shade of pink. “I told her to take the back entrance instead and to go fuck herself.”

Nathan lets out a low whistle. “Feeling a little feisty today, huh?”

“You know me. I don’t do half measures.”

His mouth quirks when he thinks about how different the old Victoria was—the one he befriended freshman year. That was before they started ruling the school. Before they took over the Vortex Club and elevated it to an entirely new level of exclusivity.

She was a people-pleaser back then, still finding her footing. Something along the way changed her, because the Victoria he knows now is all bravado and sharp wit, always utilizing her arsenal of cutting remarks, always on the defense when it comes to him and other things she loves. He can’t say he misses the way she used to be, but he sometimes wonders what—or who—made her build her walls so high.

“I’ll hunt her down,” he says, watching as Victoria gives Courtney a nudge. She stands obediently, clearing a path just large enough for him to slip through their serried ranks. “Thanks.”

Victoria tips her head back to look at him with an appraising gaze. “Last room on the right,” she says, her tone stilted. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’ll text you.” He won’t. Not about this.

Victoria’s eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, he worries that she’s going to press further. But then she gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if she’s made up her mind to let it go—for now. “You better,” she calls out as he heaves one of the large oak doors open, stepping inside. “Au revoir.”

The door closes behind him with a muted thud, sealing him in the quiet corridor of the girls’ dormitory. The air is thick with the faint scent of floral perfume and a lingering trace of disinfectant, a world away from the slumlike conditions of the boys’ dorms next door. Generously donated by his grandfather years back, the building bears his family name on a silver plaque outside, the letters brassy and tarnished with age. THE PRESCOTT DORMITORY. Est. 1998.

As he approaches the last room on the right, just as Victoria had instructed, Nathan hesitates. His hand hovers idly before finally rapping three times against her door, tutting at the blank slate beside it. No doodles, no silly quote. Even Kate Marsh’s WILL BANG 4 JESUS is better than nothing, although he’s confident the girl waging the campus abstinence campaign didn’t write it herself. It has the mark of Victoria all over it.

Eventually, the door creaks open, and Max stands before him, her brow furrowed. “Nathan?” she says, caught off guard by his unexpected visit. “Can I… do something for you?”

Something about the way she says it makes Nathan’s frustration flare. “Where’s your friend?” he demands, the confusion on her face only fueling his anger. “Warren. Where the hell is he?”

Max recoils slightly at this sudden burst of aggression but stands her ground, arms crossed over her chest. “Why do you want to know?” she asks defiantly. “So you and your Vortex Club goons can terrorize him?”

Nathan grunts. He doesn’t terrorize Warren, aside from an occasional shoulder check in the hallway. They’ve hardly interacted during their time at Blackwell, the two of them running in vastly different circles. Warren is a year below him, anyway, a junior. They have little to nothing in common.

“Do you think this is a game?” he says. “I asked you a question.”

“Maybe I’d answer it if you weren’t such an asshole,” she fires back, and Nathan suddenly realizes why Victoria hates her so much. Her refusal to be cowed pisses him off in a way that few things do.

“Fucking spit it out,” he seethes, the muscles in his jaw working as he tries to rein in his temper. “Or I swear to God, I’ll—”

Max huffs with exasperation, hands moving to rest on her hips. “Fine,” she snaps, cutting him off mid-threat. “He’s in the parking lot. I was just about to meet him there, but I swear, Nathan, if you—

He turns away before she can finish her sentence, hearing her snort indignantly behind him as he abandons their conversation. Storming out of the dormitory and down the steps, Victoria and her friends now missing from their spot on the stoop, he cuts back through the courtyard with renewed vigor. The end of this wild goose chase is in sight. As is Warren, who he can see leaning up against his car in the distance.

Car is a strong word for the blue hunk of junk he calls a vehicle. It’s more rust than paint, dents and scratches marking almost every inch of its surface. Nathan watches him sit back against the hood, and then stand, his hands fidgeting nervously as he waits for Max to arrive. When he lifts a palm to his mouth to check his breath, Nathan cringes. People like them are made for each other.

“Hey!” he shouts, fists balled at his side as he crosses the lot. Warren’s head snaps up, the blood rushing from his face as he debates whether he should run, but Nathan gets to him before he can decide. He grabs a handful of his shirt and twists it around his fist, yanking Warren closer with a force that makes him stumble. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I—” Warren starts, his eyes wide with panic as he struggles to find his voice. His hands come up to grip Nathan’s wrist in a futile attempt to loosen his hold, his body leaning back against the hood again. “Nathan. Hi. I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”

Nathan studies him for a long moment, although there’s really no need. He can tell he’s lying, his dark eyes flitting deceitfully from side to side, fear rolling off him in waves. “Like hell you don’t,” he says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his essay. He shoves it at his chest, pinning his gawky frame against the car with the tattered paper. “C-minus, huh? That’s gotta sting for someone like you.”

Warren flinches, his hands fumbling to catch the essay before it falls to the ground. He glances down at the red-inked grade, cheeks reddening. “Not my finest work,” he mumbles. “Not everyone can coast through life like you.”

Nathan’s eyes flash with anger at the jab, and he leans in closer, his grip on his shirt tightening. “You think you’re better than me, Graham? Just because you’re some shitty little science nerd?” he snaps. “The dirt on the bottom of my shoe is worth more than your life.”

Wincing, Warren swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I wasn’t trying to—I’m not—” he stammers. “Can you let me go?”

“Not till you tell me what you were doing in the bathroom.”  When he doesn’t reply fast enough, Nathan jostles him, the bumper creaking under the force of his conviction. “Tell me what you saw.”

Warren’s eyes continue darting before finally landing on Nathan’s forehead, too nervous to look at him directly. “I saw you waving a gun at that girl,” he says, his voice lowering an octave. “So I pulled the alarm, alright? Look, you were going to kill her if I didn’t do anything. I had to—”

He saw everything, then. He could’ve sworn he checked all the stalls, but it’s possible he missed him. Chloe and her blackmail had been at the forefront of his mind. “Stay out of my way,” he hisses, his teeth gritted. “Forget everything and keep your mouth shut.”

“What if I don't?”

“I don’t think you want to fuck around and find out.”

Nathan’s grip on Warren loosens slightly at the sound of his ringtone, his phone vibrating in his back pocket. He’s almost certain it’s Victoria, nosy as ever and hungry for gossip, but he freezes as he reaches to pull it out. His real phone is tucked safely in his varsity. It’s his burner phone that’s going off.

Almost two years ago, Wells had announced that a new photography teacher would be coming to Blackwell Academy. Mark Jefferson, a socialite feted by the art world for his edgy photos of 90s Seattle, had been invited to teach his craft. He had taught at some of the most exclusive private schools in the country and would make a good addition to Blackwell’s faculty, inspiring a new generation of photographers. Photographers like Nathan, who he’d noticed right away.

A couple of months later, as he was slipping out of Jefferson’s Photography in the Digital Age class, he was told to stay after. Jefferson had asked to see his portfolio, and Nathan had handed it over with shaking hands, fully expecting to be torn apart by his critique. Instead, he had flipped through the black-and-white photos of roadkill and barren beachscapes with a strange, calculating smile.

You’ve got potential, Nathan remembers him saying. But you need guidance, someone who can help you refine this raw talent into something… extraordinary.

Extraordinary. To be remarkable. Nathan hadn’t thought such a thing was possible for him. Jefferson offered to take him under his wing, to help him sharpen his skills, to propel him into a career in photography, all in exchange for his trust and loyalty. The old, abandoned barn on his family’s property was converted into a state-of-the-art darkroom and their private lessons began, paid for by parents who believed they were investing in their son’s future. What they were really financing was the slow erosion of his autonomy.

Friday, February 24th, 2012. That was the date Jefferson had brought their first girl back to the darkroom, and the day Nathan was taught how to strip away one’s innocence with a nifty little drug. It was the day he was handed his new burner phone, which they’d use to communicate off the record about their new business: drugging girls, taking their pictures, selling the evidence. A joint venture. An art.

When he tried to back out, Jefferson promised to kill him, the threat delivered with unsettling calmness.

“Um,” Warren says, snapping Nathan back to the present. He peeks around to look at his ringing pocket, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. “Are you going to get that?”

Inhale, exhale. Inhale-fucking-exhale. Holding another breath, Nathan releases his shirt but keeps him pinned against the bumper, their eyes locked. The phone rings and vibrates for a few more agonizing seconds before finally going silent, and only then does he step back, hands dropping to his sides. “Fuck off and stay out of my way,” he says again, softer this time. “Got it?”

Warren nods and says nothing more.

Back in the safety of his bedroom, Nathan pulls the burner out and unlocks it. It takes him a few tries with how sweaty and shaky his hands are, but it opens after he successfully punches in his birthday, the screen lighting up to reveal Jefferson’s missed call. Fingers flying, he sends a text that he hopes will save his skin.

[You, Today 4:48 PM]

srry. had 2 take care of smth

The phone buzzes twice in quick succession, his heart skipping a beat as incoming messages flood in. Anxiety gnawing at him, he taps on the screen, bracing himself for Jefferson’s response.

[Unknown, Today 4:48 PM]

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you had something to do with the alarm going off today.

I told you to keep a low profile while you cleaned up your mess.

[You, Today 4:49 PM]

she didnt make it vry easy for me

[Unknown, Today 4:49 PM]

Did you find a way to shut her up?

Nathan sucks in a breath and takes a seat on the edge of his bed, mind racing. He’s sure Chloe won’t say anything, but the thought of her talking, of spilling everything, makes his stomach roil. Chloe is unpredictable, rebellious—the kind of person who might expose everything if pushed too far. If she does, his life is over, and not just in the metaphorical sense. Jefferson made that abundantly clear.

Thank God she was expelled. Her less-than-sterling reputation gives her no credibility. Ultimately, it’s her word against his.

[You, Today 4:50 PM]

yes

[Unknown, Today 4:51 PM]

Good. I need you to get a grip.

Tomorrow night. 9 pm. Meet me there.

[You, Today 4:51 PM]

whtvr

Nathan resists the urge to chuck the phone at the wall. Instead, he grabs a clear plastic bag from his nightstand drawer and slips the burner, and then the gun, into it. He doesn’t want to look at them. Doesn’t want to think about what he’ll be doing tomorrow night. Shoving it beneath his couch, he hopes that out of sight will mean out of mind, at least for the next twenty-four hours. Until he’s back in the darkroom again.

He's careful to avoid the glass from his broken lamp as he rises to his feet, tiny crystal-like shards littering his carpet. He accidentally stepped on a piece of broken lightbulb while getting dressed that morning and had to yank it out with tweezers, an ordeal so painful he almost texted Victoria for help. He knows he’ll have to toss it out at some point, but the thought of carrying it to the dumpsters feels overwhelming. Everything feels overwhelming.

His phone vibrates. His real phone this time.

[Victoria, Today 4:55 PM]

did you ever find your photo skank?

[Victoria, Today 4:56 PM]

UGHHH i can’t stand her. you should’ve seen how she was kissing up to mark after class. totally trying to get in his pants

i think she's trying to sway him into picking her for the contest. typical

i'm going to get in his pants AND win

Nathan lays back against his bed and sighs, holding his phone above his face. For the past four years, Jefferson has held a nationwide competition for high school students. The Everyday Heroes contest is the pinnacle of recognition for aspiring photographers, the winner flown off to San Francisco to have their work hung in a gallery. For someone like Victoria, someone who craves validation, winning would mean more than just the accolades. It would mean solidifying her place as the top student in Jefferson’s eyes. They’d be alone together for an entire weekend.

It would be a dream come true for her. For Nathan, the stuff of nightmares.

[You, Today 4:56 PM]

yh i found her. i was after her friend tho. figured shed know where he was

[Victoria, Today 4:56 PM]

who?????

[You, Today 4:56 PM]

warren

the beta cuck across the hall frm me

[Victoria, Today 4:57 PM]

idk what’s gotten into you but you have to stop hanging out with all of these weirdos

come over to my place? movie marathon tonight. legally blonde 1 & 2

He makes a face. He likes movies, his collection of limited-edition DVDs stacked neatly on his shelves a testament to that fact. He's more of an American Psycho kind of guy than a chick flick fan like she is, but he's not about to remind her of that, because he knows how she operates. These movie marathons are her way of keeping tabs on him, of making sure he doesn’t spend too much time by himself. He hates it as much as he appreciates her for it.

[You, Today 4:58 PM]

booze??

[Victoria, Today 4:58 PM]

duhhh

[You, Today 4:59 PM]

be there in 5 babe

[Victoria, Today 4:59 PM]

<3

Dropping the phone onto his chest, Nathan stares at the ceiling, trying to muster the will to head over to her place. His eyes flutter shut as he rolls onto his side, and when he eventually opens them, he finds a set looking right back. One of Rachel Amber’s missing posters, ripped one of the bulletins around school and tactfully taped over a framed photo on his desk. His memorial to her.

168 days. Almost six months. That’s how long it’s been since she went missing, since she vanished from Arcadia Bay without a trace. Except she isn’t really missing—not to him, at least. He knows exactly where she is. Dead and buried in the junkyard across town, her body hidden beneath the grime and detritus of a place where no one would think to look.

He forces himself to look away. Her smiling face stares him down, and continues to stare as he gets up and leaves.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 7th

“You have so much potential. Don’t get discouraged.”

But Warren is discouraged. Warren is devastated.

He’s always prided himself on his good grades, his GPA never dipping below a 4.0, his assignments never receiving anything less than an eighty. It’s a crack in the foundation of the identity he’s built for himself over the years, the one he tries so hard to maintain. He’s the smart one, the dependable one, the student who never misses the mark. Until today.

His stomach churns as he looks down at the essay on his desk. Or, more specifically, the score scrawled in the corner. It’s the reason why Mrs. Hoida asked him to stay after class, and the reason why he feels like he might curl up and die after this discussion is over.

“Was it that bad?” Warren asks, looking up at Mrs. Hoida with a frown. He can’t stand her Intro to Literature class, but she’s one of the nicest teachers he’s had this semester. He likes the brightly colored sweaters she wears, and the cat-themed motivational posters tacked around her classroom, and the way she passes out candy after tests. She’s quirky, in your typical English teacher fashion.

He thinks she’s cool. Which is why this encounter is so hard for him to swallow.

Mrs. Hoida gives him a sympathetic smile, her eyes softening as she shakes her head. “It wasn’t bad, Warren,” she reassures him, firm but gentle. “It just wasn’t up to your usual standard. I know you’re capable of so much more.”

Warren’s disappointment deepens at her words, shoulders sagging. He spent the better part of a week churning out the paper and is convinced he has carpal tunnel from the  hours spent with a pencil in hand. Mrs. Hoida requires her essays to be handwritten instead of typed, a tedious process fueled only by energy drinks, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Stella cheering him on from the sidelines. She’s perfected the art of essay writing, as evidenced by the 93 Warren saw on her paper as she fled class.

“I guess I just… didn’t understand the prompt this time,” he says, squirming in his seat. He glances down at the essay again, at some of the notes she scribbled in the margins. Lacks depth. Weak thesis. “I didn’t know what direction to take it in. I really tried, though.”

Mrs. Hoida leans forward at her desk, trying to catch his eye. “This one was difficult,” she says. “But I wanted to push you guys. I wanted to see some critical thinking.”

The prompt in question? A five-page essay on why Lord of the Flies is an allegory for modern society. A total waste of time, in Warren's not-so-humble opinion.

“You rely too much on your grades as a measure of your worth,” Mrs. Hoida continues, standing. She bends slightly so that she’s at eye level with him and places a small, comforting hand on the perch of his shoulder. “You are an excellent student. One disappointing grade is only a minor setback.”

A minor setback in her world, maybe, but not his. “I’m here on an academic scholarship,” he says. His parents weren’t able to scrounge up the money for Blackwell’s absurd tuition. How anyone affords this place is beyond him. “I need to keep my GPA above a 3.8 to stay here. What happens if I screw up on the next one? Will I get kicked out?”

Mrs. Hoida’s soft expression softens even more, and she gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “One or even two less-than-perfect grades won’t lead to that,” she says. “The next one will be different. Maybe work on improving your handwriting while you're at it. Your spellchecking skills, too.”

Warren looks down at his shoes. He gave up on both years ago. “I’ve never been very good at this sort of thing,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Writing, I mean. I’m more of a John Dalton than a John Steinbeck, you know? Science is my jam.”

Mrs. Hoida chuckles. “Not everyone’s a born writer. I certainly wasn’t,” she says. “Ms. Grant has nothing but good things to say about you. It sounds like—”

She pauses mid-sentence, turning her head. Warren looks too and finds Alyssa lingering awkwardly in the doorway, her essay held close to her chest, clutching it like it’s something fragile. He feels a small pang of sympathy when he notices that she’s sniffling, her eyes pink and glassy.

“I need to take this,” Mrs. Hoida says quietly, straightening and beckoning her inside. “If you have any questions at all, you can always find me during lunch. I’ll be happy to help.”

With a sigh, Warren gathers his things, pausing at the door. “You too?” he whispers to Alyssa, trying to sneak a look at her grade. She hiccups and nods, hurrying past him, embarrassed by her tears. As much as he feels bad for her, and he does feel bad, he also feels a sick satisfaction in knowing he’s not the only one who struggled. The thought is cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

Stepping out into the hallway, he rips the cover page from his essay and dumps the rest of the papers into a nearby recycling bin. It's the worst grade he’s gotten so far this year, still passing, but just nearly. Doing the math in his head, he finds that it brings his grade in the class down to a low B. If he aces the next essay, he’ll have it back up to an A-minus at best, but that’s a big ‘if.’ The margin of error is razor-thin, and he knows he can’t afford to make another mistake.

His chest tightens with the beginnings of a panic attack, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the icy grip of anxiety takes hold. The hallway around him seems to blur at the edges, the sounds of other students fading into a distant drone, and he knows he needs to get to a bathroom before he unravels. Unfortunately, he spots Logan Robertson and Zachary Riggins standing near the entrance, engaged in whatever football players do in their free time, and knows there’s no getting by. It’s not a good idea to interact with them. The last time he looked at Zachary wrong was the day he found GAYRAM scrawled on his bedroom slate.

The walls are closing in on him which means he needs to decide, and quickly. His eyes drift to the unattended door of the girls’ toilets, and for a moment, he weighs his options. Either he falls apart in front of everyone like a loser, or he risks the awkwardness of being caught in the wrong bathroom and labeled a creep. Loser, creep. Loser, creep, loser, creep—

With a surge of desperation, he darts inside, a hand over his mouth to stifle his hyperventilating. The door swings shut behind him, sealing him off from the chaos, and he’s relieved to find that he’s alone. Aside from the faint hum of the fluorescents and the drip of a faucet, the bathroom is deserted, and as far as he’s concerned, his. At least until he can get a grip on himself.

Leaning heavily against the nearest sink, he swallows a breath and wrings his essay nervously in his hands. Why couldn’t he be taking all science courses this semester? He’s in the chemistry program, for God’s sake. It’s the one thing he’s good at and the one thing he plans on pursuing in life. Chemistry is logical. Chemistry is factual. Chemistry doesn’t involve writing an in-depth analysis of feral, bloodthirsty children.

With a hearty tug, Warren rips the paper into two halves, pieces falling to the floor, and turns to run the faucet. He cups his hands under the stream, letting it pool in his palms, droplets sneaking through the cracks of his fingers. “Pull yourself together,” he grouses, splashing it onto his flushed cheeks. And stop forgetting to take your anxiety meds. 

Swallowing the bitter taste of fear, he twists the faucet and wipes his face with his sleeve. Thankfully, English is his last class of the day, so he can return to his room and ponder how he’ll explain this grade to his mom. She never hesitates to remind him how big of an opportunity it is to study at the ultra-exclusive Blackwell Academy, and how he needs to do everything in his power not to squander it away. Attending this school is a big deal, War, she told him freshman year. Graduating from here opens up a lot of opportunities. It did for your brother.

The door opens. Heart pounding, he ducks into an alcove and tries to make himself as small as possible. He hears footsteps, slow and hesitant, as if the person is unsure whether they should be here, and the sound of quiet muttering. When no stalls swing open, he peeks around and feels his pounding heart drop into the pits of his stomach. Nathan Prescott, the most popular of Blackwell’s rich kid assholes, is standing at the sinks, talking to himself and looking as though he might be on the verge of tears as well.

Warren wouldn’t say he hates people (he doesn’t hate anything, really, because hating takes too much energy), but Nathan is the closest thing to an exception. Arrogant, entitled, and a dick to anyone who isn’t in his inner circle, Warren tries to avoid him when he can. Luckily, most of their interactions are limited to passing each other in the halls, where Nathan hardly notices him anyway.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and texts the first person to come to mind.

[You, Today 4:02 PM]

You won’t believe who I’m trapped in the bathroom with right now.

Nathan looks like he’s about to go all Jason Dean on someone.

U’ve seen Heathers, right? Cult classic.

He smacks a hand against his forehead. He’s supposed to be meeting Max in the parking lot at this exact moment. A week ago, he’d loaned her his flash drive (the one chock full of movies he knew she’d love), and he asked her earlier if she could return it after last period. She never responded to those messages, and he doubts she’ll respond to these too, because she’s a terrible texter. The only reason why he’s willing to look past this minor flaw is because of the disgusting, soul-sucking crush he has on her.

“It’s cool, Nathan. Don’t stress,” Warren hears him say from the sinks, and he glances around to look at him again. His hands are shaking like leaves, his knuckles as white as the porcelain he’s clawing at. Everything about him is so small, he realizes, and not just because of his height. The way he holds himself is bent and burdened, his shoulders caved as though he’s carrying the weight of the world on them.

He’ll admit that there have been times, although rare, when he’s felt bad for Nathan. He’s seen him pacing up and down the hallways of the boys’ dorms late at night, mumbling under his breath, hands raking through his hair. Then there was last spring, when he found him sitting alone on the dorm steps and staring blankly into the distance, catatonic. Warren had been walking back from the library after trying to cram in some last-minute studying when he’d noticed him. He'd expected Nathan to sneer at him or throw out some snide remark like he often does, but he said nothing. He didn’t even acknowledge him.

There’s something off about him. Whether it’s mental illness or drugs, Warren isn’t sure.

The door opens again. A girl waltzes in, one he hasn’t seen before. Tall, grungy clothes, electric-blue hair. Judging by the tone of their conversation, she doesn’t like Nathan, and Nathan isn’t very fond of her. An ex-girlfriend, Warren surmises, although she doesn’t seem like the type of person a Prescott would date. He isn’t sure if such a person exists.

A flash of silver catches Warren’s eye, and he chokes on his spit at the realization that it’s a gun. Nathan is armed, his finger on the trigger. He’s shouting now, and so is the girl as she struggles to push him away.

[You, Today 4:05 PM]

EARTH TO MAX!!!! SHIT IS GOING DOWN!

SOS 911 EMERGENCY

“Nobody would ever even miss your punk ass, would they?” Nathan shouts, and Warren gasps when he watches him thrust the barrel into her ribs. The girl places her hands on his chest, muscles tensed, braced for impact. His trigger finger twitches. He’s going to kill her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Warren spies the red fire alarm switch mounted in the wall, just within reach. With a burst of adrenaline, he lunges for a nearby janitor’s cart, closes his fingers around a hammer, and swings hard at the glass cage.

The alarm wails. The shards gleam crystalline against the scuffed tile floor. 

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve stayed out of it.

That girl would be bleeding out over the tile right now, but at least he wouldn’t be the subject of Nathan’s wrath. He’d escaped the bathroom almost immediately after Nathan had, legs carrying him out the front doors, across the lawn, into the parking lot to what he believed was safety. Only when Nathan stormed over did he remember the very literal paper trail he’d left behind. The one that put him at the scene of the crime. The one that led to Nathan cornering him against his car,  about two seconds from punching his lights out.

“Stay out of my way,” Nathan snaps, wrapping Warren’s shirt around his fist and pulling. The fabric of his collar, damp with sweat, rubs uncomfortably against the nape of his neck. “Forget everything and keep your mouth shut.”

Normally, Warren would be on the defense, quick to argue, but he can see the vague outline of the gun under Nathan’s jacket. If he’s not careful, it could very well be him who gets the bullet. “What if I don't?” he asks, more out of instinct than bravery. He swallows hard to still the tremble in his voice.

“I don’t think you want to fuck around and find out.”

Nope. He does not. Warren opens his mouth to plead with him to let go, because Nathan is stretching out his favorite T-shirt, but a muffled buzzing noise cuts him off. He watches the blood drain from Nathan’s face, his body going rigid. Warren can feel it with how their chests are pressed together, how labored his breathing is.

Warren’s eyes dart in the direction of his pocket. “Are you going to get that?” he asks, trying to diffuse the tension. The phone goes silent, and Nathan seems to snap out of it, blinking rapidly as if to shake off whatever took hold of him. With a sharp inhale, he finally releases his shirt, shoving him back against the bumper with a force that makes Warren wheeze.

“Fuck off and stay out of my way,” Nathan repeats, stepping back. “Got it?”

Warren nods vigorously, his mouth going dry. He’s going to try his best.

When Nathan storms away, fists clenched at his sides, Warren exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His shirt is still twisted and stretched from where Nathan had been clinging to him, and he smooths it down absentmindedly, trying to calm the panic surging through his veins. He’s used to the occasional rough-and-tumble with bullies—being the type of person he is at Blackwell isn’t exactly a ticket to popularity—but this is different.

An important part of being a scientist is knowing how to observe and understand patterns in behavior. If there’s one thing he can deduct from his interactions with Nathan today, it’s this: He is fucking unhinged.

“Warren!” someone shouts, and he lifts his head to find Max jogging in his direction from the edge of the lot. Nathan is forgotten instantly, the pit in his stomach replaced by the butterflies he gets whenever she’s around. “Sorry I’m late!”

Warren waves weakly, realizing with sudden embarrassment that he’s still clutching the shredded remnants of his essay. With a quick, clumsy motion, he crams the crumpled paper into his pocket, where he hopes it will disintegrate in the wash. “Hey,” he says, his voice uneven with relief. “What took you so long?”

She slows to a stop in front of him, her face pink from exertion, a few loose strands of hair sticking to her temple. “I didn’t see your texts until after class,” she explains, digging into her jacket pocket and pulling out his flash drive. She hands it over, looking contrite. “I went back to my room to grab it, but Dana borrowed it, and I had to track her down. And then…”—a pause, her brows drawing together—“Nathan showed up at my door.”

Warren’s stomach drops. “What did he want?”

“Looking for you, actually,” she says, tilting her head as if to study his reaction. “Have you seen him? He was… kind of on the warpath.”

An anxious laugh escapes Warren before he can stop it. He shakes his head, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I saw him. It was nothing,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “He was just… being an asshole and making it hard for me to… uh, pee.”

Max raises an eyebrow, her lips curving upward. “That’s it? It sounded a little more serious than that.”

Warren’s heart slams in his chest when she smiles at him. She’s beautiful. Not in the way the other girls at Blackwell are, but in an understated way, in a way that doesn’t seek attention. The kind of beauty that simply exists, like the way certain wildflowers thrive in the cracks of sidewalks, small and improbable and oddly persistent.

Honestly, he’s not sure if he’d rather be her or be with her. His feelings for her are strong as they are confusing.

He waves her off, though the gesture feels weak even to him. “This is me changing the subject,” he says, holding up the flash drive. “Did you have the chance to check out the movie booty?”

Max’s smile widens at his obvious attempt to shift the conversation. “Oh, you mean the treasure trove of geek gold you loaded on that thing?” she teases, lightly tapping the flash drive in his hand. “You had some cool shit on here. Akira, Twilight Zone…”

“Cannibal Holocaust?”

“Nuh-uh. No way.”

Warren slaps a hand over his heart and gasps, feigning horror. “It’s a masterpiece! For found footage from the 80s, at least. I laughed my ass off.”

Max rolls her eyes, and he wonders if that was weird of him to say. He’s always worrying about embarrassing himself in front of her, often dissecting their entire conversations in his head after they speak. She’s still grinning, though, so he couldn’t have made that much of a social faux pas.

He clears his throat. “Speaking of movies, there’s a drive-in in Newberg. Only sixty miles away,” he says, toeing at the ground with his shoe. “We should check it out next Friday. It’s so retro. You’d love it.”

Max’s eyes light up. Cue the butterflies in his chest, frantically beating themselves to death against his ribcage. “I think I'll take you up on that,” she says, turning and beckoning for him to join her. “I’ve got some homework I need to do. Walk me back, white knight?”

“White knight at your service,” Warren says with a mock bow, trying to play it cool despite his excitement. “Someone needs to stick around in case Nathan comes knocking again.”

They cross the courtyard in comfortable silence for a while, leaves crunching underfoot, before Max glances over at him. “Mr. Jefferson pulled me aside after class today,” she says, her breath vaporizing in the frigid air. “He wants me to submit my entry for the contest. He knows I’ve been avoiding him.”

“Everyday Heroes?” Warren asks, even though he knows exactly what contest she’s referring to. It’s been the talk of the photography students since the first day of school. “Just haven’t captured the right moment yet, huh?”

Faint laughter rings across the lawn, the voices belonging to Stella and Brooke. They’re seated on the edge of the school fountain, the pair looking up as Brooke’s drone hovers above them. Warren waves in their direction and Brooke beams back, so distracted that her fingers leave the control pad she’s holding, the drone wobbling mid-flight. She cries out as it starts to fall toward the ground, but manages to save it, giving him a playful thumbs up as if to say ‘All under control!’

Max sighs, pulling a Polaroid from her pocket. “I don’t think I’ll feel good about anything I submit,” she admits sheepishly, studying it. She slips it back into her sweatshirt before Warren can take a look. “How am I supposed to compete with someone like Victoria? You should see her camera.”

“Victoria’s fancy equipment doesn’t make her a better photographer,” Warren reminds her. “She might have the camera, but you’ve got the eye. You need a muse to get those creative juices flowing.”

“And where am I supposed to find one of those?”

Warren scans the courtyard for a model, his gaze briefly pausing on Luke Parker, then Daniel DaCosta, and then Evan Harris. None of them are quite right for what Max needs. Luke’s too intense, Daniel’s too shy, and Evan’s… well, Evan is Evan. He stops in his tracks when his eyes land on a pretty girl. More accurately, a picture of a pretty girl taped to a tree. Parting from Max’s side, he walks over to take a closer look.

MISSING. Rachel Amber. Age 19. Please call with any information.

Poor Rachel. Arcadia Bay was a disaster the day the news of her disappearance broke. He didn’t know her personally, but a lot of people at Blackwell do, and her absence from school is still felt. Her locker has been cordoned off, still covered in paper flowers and notes from classmates, a pamphlet from her candlelight vigil stuffed into the slit.

“Damn,” he mutters, squinting at the date she went missing. “Has it been six months already?”

Max joins him at his side, humming. “Rachel Amber,” she says, reaching out to take a corner of the flyer between her fingers. “She’s beautiful.”

She is. Warren thinks she looks like an actress he’s seen before. “Do you know her?” he asks. “From before you moved away from here, I mean.”

“Only her flyers. They’re posted all over the school.”

Someone must miss her a lot to go through the trouble. It reminds him of the TV shows he watched as a kid, the police procedurals with names Gone in the Night and Into Thin Air, that focused on people who suddenly ceased to exist. He'd stay up past his bedtime to sit in the den, eyes glued to the television as the smiling faces of the missing flashed on the screen. It was the same sad story every time. Some poor man or woman went to work, or to run errands, or decided to go hiking in the Rockies by themselves, and never returned.

He wonders if anyone would miss him if he suddenly vanished off the face of the earth. Would he be broadcast on those shows, his face on missing posters and milk cartons, or would he be forgotten? Would anyone even notice?

“The deadline is this Thursday afternoon,” Max says. “For the contest submission. If I’m going to hand something in, I’ll have to do it by then.”

Warren blinks before looking away, his thoughts jarred back to the present. “Isn’t there a Vortex Club party on Thursday night?” he asks. “Are you going?”

It’s a stupid question. Everyone except for a small number of homebodies and wallflowers attends the Vortex Club’s parties. They’re a chance to see and be seen, to rub shoulders with the most influential students at the academy, and to get shit-faced and debaucherous without consequences. Nathan pays for all of them, shocking no one.

Max grimaces, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Yeah, I’ve heard,” she says. “Partying isn’t my thing, but that’s where the winner will be announced. If you’re going, I’ll go.”

Warren, being one of the aforementioned wallflowers, wasn’t planning on attending—but he’s not about to pass up an opportunity to spend time with her. “I guess you’re going, then,” he says nonchalantly, walking backward toward the sidewalk. “I’m a total party animal. Just wait till you see me in action.”

Max laughs, the corner of her eyes crinkling as she jogs over to join him. “Oh, really.”

A gust of wind sweeps through the courtyard, rustling the leaves that have started to gather in piles along the pavement. Rachel’s missing poster comes loose and floats gracefully into the dirt, face-down.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 8th

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?”

Rachel frowns and shakes her head, her feather earring swaying gently. It’s dark, save for the glow of the lighthouse, its beam sweeping across the cliffside in slow, rhythmic intervals. The light catches her face every few seconds, illuminating the gentle curve of her face, the softness in her eyes.

This cliff—the bench they’re seated on—is theirs. Their initials carved into the wood are proof. They’ve shared laughter and secrets and cigarettes at this place for the past three years, so much so that their entire friendship is tied to this very spot. It was there for them when Rachel found out about the identity of her birth mother, and when Nathan confided in her about his dad’s temper. It was there when Rachel confessed to having a crush on Blackwell’s new photography teacher. When Nathan begged her to stay away from him.

“This, Nate.” Rachel looks away, her gaze drifting to the ocean below, where the waves beat ruthlessly against the rocks. “I can’t stay here. I need out. Out of this town, out of this life. I can’t keep pretending I’m happy here when I’m not.”

Nathan furrows his brow. It’s not the first time she’s talked about leaving before, but it’s always been in the abstract, in passing. “What are you saying?” he asks, laughing in disbelief. “I don’t—”

“I’m saying that I need to leave,” she continues, reaching over to close her fingers around his wrist. “I’m rotting away in this town. I need a fresh start. I need to live.”

Nathan’s laughter dies in his throat, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. “Where are you going?”

“Los Angeles.”

“No.”

Rachel’s expression falters, a flash of pain crossing her face. “I have to do this,” she says firmly. “Staying here will only make me resent everything I love. My parents. You. I don’t want that.”

He’s never been able to define the nature of their relationship. More than platonic, not quite romantic, but some strange third thing. Nathan isn’t sure what it is, but he’s sure that he loves her, and the idea of losing her terrifies him like nothing else.

“Rachel, please,” he whispers, voice thick with desperation. He intertwines their fingers, holding on as if his grip alone can keep her from slipping away. “You told me you’d always be there for me. You said—”

“I know what I said,” Rachel says, her voice strained. She looks away, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the ocean meets the sooty sky. “Things change, Nate. People change.”

"Then let me come with you. We can go together."

"No," she says, shaking her head. She hesitates, biting her lip. "You know you can't. You have a life here. I've got nothing to lose."

Nathan stands abruptly, his hands curling into fists. “So you’re going to abandon me, then,” he says, his fear waning. He’s furious now. It’s bubbling up inside him, hot and bitter, clawing at his insides. “You’re just like everyone else, you know that?”

Rachel’s eyes widen, and for a moment, she looks hurt. It’s quickly replaced by her usual steely resolve, her chin lifting as she meets his gaze. “I’m trying to save myself,” she says. “It’s not like I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve got some things to figure out first.”

“Stop.”

“We’ll talk on the phone all the time. You can even come visit me if you want.”

Nathan’s head throbs, the pressure building in his temples. She’s abandoning him, discarding him like trash, and she doesn’t even care. Whatever they have means nothing to her. “You think that’s enough?” he asks hoarsely, stepping back toward the cliff. “I hate you. Leave me alone.”

“Nate,” Rachel protests feebly, reaching for him. Her fingers close around his wrist again. “Listen—”

“Fuck off, Rach. I’m not kidding.”

Rachel flinches at the venom in his voice, and then sighs, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “You’re angry. I know you’re angry,” she says, shaking her head thoughtfully. “Too angry to stay friends?”

Nathan’s jaw trembles, his vision blurring with tears. Of course, he isn’t. They’ll be friends whether she’s in Arcadia Bay or a thousand miles away in Hollywood, pursuing the acting career she’s always dreamed about, because losing her would mean losing a part of himself. He’s not sure he’d be able to survive that.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Not too angry for that.”

He glances up at her to mumble an apology, but all that comes out is a sharp cry. Rachel’s hand on his skin is scorching, his flesh blistering under her touch. He’s burning up from the inside, the pain intensifying, muscles spasming under the heat. He can feel smoke in his lungs, in his stomach, in his mouth. He’s suffocating. She’s suffocating him.

“Rachel,” he chokes out, but it doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s raw, distorted, almost inhuman. “Rach—Rachel—”

A beam of light hits her face again. Rachel is staring at him, dead-eyed, her lips chapped and blue. Her skin is translucent. Nathan can count the veins protruding from her throat, pulsing with something cold and unnatural.

“Enough to kill me, though,” she rasps, pushing him off the edge.

Nathan wakes with a start, chest heaving for air.

It’s a solid minute before he realizes he’s lying in the safety of his own bed, not at the bottom of a cliff, not with Rachel’s fingers wrapped around the black and peeling skin of his arm. His heart is racing, pounding so violently against his ribs that he half-expects it to burst. No matter how much air he swallows, he can still feel her, and for a moment, he swears he sees her standing near his closet.

His breath seizes, and he stares, unblinking, at the shadowy figure. It’s her—he’s sure of it. The same long hair, the same silhouette he’s memorized a thousand times. But as he blinks again, she vanishes, leaving only the empty, darkened space behind. He’s left wondering if it was an apparition or a trick of his overworked mind.

It’s all in your head, he tells himself. He writhes around for a moment while he breathes, trying to ignore the dull ache in his hands. When he looks down at them, he finds his damp bedsheets in a death grip, to which he slowly unclenches. Just a dream.

He dreams often, an unwanted side-effect of his benzos. The label on the orange bottle warns of nightmares and sleep paralysis, but it doesn't stop his father or his psychiatrist from trying to shove new combinations of dosages down his throat. He’s tried every antipsychotic on the market, each one met with the same promise: This will help, Nathan. This will make it better.

It never does, which is why Jefferson told him not to bother with them. He hasn’t taken them in months.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his hands dragging over his face. He’s alive, which means Rachel can’t get him here—at least not the real Rachel, though the Rachel in his dreams has never cared much for logic.

He hadn’t killed her out of spite. Not in anger or malice. He hadn’t known how much of the drug, the one used for his and Jefferson’s photoshoots, would send her into an overdose. How much would tip over from making her pliant and perfect to taking her away entirely.

It doesn’t matter. Accident or not, her blood is still on his hands, and she doesn’t seem too keen on letting him forget.

He isn’t sure when he fell asleep (sometime after another grueling therapy appointment, because they always leave him exhausted), but stealing a glance at his alarm clock tells him it’s 8:15. More than enough time to meet up with Jefferson.

Pulling on his clothes in a mechanical fashion—jeans, a plain shirt, the same red varsity he’s worn for years—he grabs his phones and slips silently out of the dorms, heading straight to the parking lot. After taking a quick look around to make sure Madsen isn’t on his ass, he hops into his truck and peels out of campus, the academy shrinking as he speeds away.

With forty-five minutes to spare, he decides to take the scenic route to the barn. It’s a dusty, winding road, flanked by pine trees and the occasional streetlamp. Occasionally, he glances up to look over his shoulder, startled by a passing vehicle and the idea that someone might be watching him from the shadows. He starts to sweat when a car with no headlights tails him for a couple of miles, and he wonders if he’ll have to call Jefferson and tell him he can’t make it, but it eventually pulls off and is lost in his rearview.

“You’re paranoid,” he huffs under his breath, squeezing the steering wheel. If anyone was watching him, all they'd see is a teenage boy out for a late-night drive, and there's nothing suspicious about that.

His truck rumbles as it pulls though the rusty gates of their meeting spot, the derelict Prescott Barn looming to his right. The building and the barren farmstead it sits on haven’t been used by his family in decades, left to rot in the shadow of Pan Estates, his dad’s housing development project. With its splintering wood and caving roof, it’s nothing more than a dilapidated shack, but that’s why it suits their purposes so well, and why Jefferson chose it for their ‘lessons.’ A perfect stranger would never suspect the things they do in the bunker.

He wishes he could tell his parents what the equipment they bought—the fancy cameras, the lighting rigs, the top-of-the-line lenses—is really being used for. His mom had been ecstatic when he’d told her he was shadowing a world-famous photographer, had told him how proud she was. Even his dad, usually so distant and preoccupied with business, had paused to acknowledge this accomplishment. He’d offered him a rare nod of approval, followed by the usual order to not disappoint him.

He wishes he could tell them the truth. The words would never pass his lips, and even if they did, he’s not sure they’d believe him.

Truck rolling to a stop, he kills the engine and climbs out, eyes landing on a heap near the barn doors. He assumes it’s just junk at first, rotting wood or an old tarp that came loose during the latest storm, but he’s hit with the stench of death as he steps closer.

A doe. It’s lying crumpled on the ground, its lifeless body twisted in an unnatural position. The tire tracks on its fur and the intestines it’s shitting out indicate an obvious hit and run by a careless driver, the poor thing limping out of the street to die in the weeds. It must’ve happened just moments before he arrived, the body steaming and the blood, still warm, pooling beneath it.

If he weren’t so unsettled by his reflection in its marble eyes, he’d want to take a picture of it. It would make a great addition to his portfolio.

“Stop stalling.”

Nathan gasps, whipping around to find Jefferson standing directly behind him. “What the hell, man! Don’t scare me like that!” he shouts. He puts a hand over his heart, the organ beating erratically under his palm. “You trying to send me into fucking—fucking cardiac arrest?”

Jefferson clicks his tongue. “Cut the dramatics. We have work to do,” he says flatly, pulling a key from his pocket. He opens the padlock secured on the barn door and steps inside, gesturing for Nathan to follow him. “There’s plenty of other dead animals out there for you to photograph.”

What follows is their normal routine. Dust the hay off the hatch, crack it open, descend the narrow staircase, punch in the code. The metal door swings open on its hinges, revealing the cold, clinical walls of the darkroom, and Nathan ventures further inside, sticking close to the perimeter. All these months later he still gets creeped out by how sterile the place is, with its soundproof walls and sparse furniture.

“I didn’t see you,” he says nervously, trying to fill the unsettling silence. “Or your car. I thought maybe I beat you here.”

Jefferson doesn’t respond immediately, his footsteps echoing off the concrete as he crosses the room. He stops in front of the shelves lining the wall to peruse their collection of red binders before finally speaking. “Unlike you,” he says disdainfully, “I’ve started parking where I can’t be seen. I don’t want to risk getting caught and having our hard work go to waste, so I need you to do the same.”

His fingers trail over the spines, each decorated with the name of a girl, before pausing over one in particular. He pulls it from the shelf with a deliberate slowness that makes Nathan’s skin crawl, his face lighting up. “Aha,” he says with a smile. “You remember this one, don’t you?”

Nathan catches a glimpse of the name on the side. Paige. She’s the most recent girl they’ve photographed, a pretty sophomore with red hair that he lured away from a Vortex Club party last month. He remembers how easy it was to dose her drink. How trusting she was when he offered to walk her to her room, but took her to his car instead.

“What about her?” he mumbles, looking away when Jefferson sets the binder down on the nearby desk and flips through it. He doesn’t like looking at the photos after they take them. They make his stomach turn.

“I think this is some of my best work yet,” Jefferson says, pausing to admire a photo of her on the floor. Paige is curled into a fetal position, her wrists and ankles bound with tape, her face expressionless as she stares down the barrel of the camera. “Our best work.”

“Really?”

Jefferson hums, turning to a page of photos that were taken by Nathan. He doesn’t always let him work the camera. It’s a privilege. “These,” he says, pausing on a series of shots where Paige’s expression shifts from fear to numb resignation, “are excellent. The lighting, the composition… just excellent. I’m proud.”

Nathan smiles weakly, tingling at the praise. It’s twisted, he knows, but he likes that his talent is appreciated here. Despite being a controlling, psychopathic jerk, Jefferson has filled the role of a father figure for him, something his real father never managed to do. Jefferson guides him. Wants what’s best for him. Maybe he even loves him, in his own warped way.

The boundaries of their relationship have only ever been tested once. They were sitting on the couch in the darkroom only a week after Rachel’s overdose, Nathan venting to him about how sorry he was. He was vulnerable, and Jefferson must have sensed it, because his hand had wound up on his inner thigh. He’d had acted as if nothing was wrong, as if the touch was just another part of their dynamic. As if it was natural. As if he owed it to him.

Nathan had wanted to pull away, to say something, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d sat there like a coward, letting Jefferson’s hand work its way up his leg until he mumbled an excuse to leave.

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the memory. “What now?” he asks. “I mean… you’re going to sell them, right?”

Jefferson’s eyes linger on the photos a moment longer before he closes the binder, slipping it back onto the shelf. “I have a buyer, yes. You and I both know that there’s a market for photos like these,” he says matter-of-factly. “Most of them will go into my personal collection. What I wanted to talk about tonight is who our next subject will be.”

Nathan scoffs. “Did I seriously have to drive all the way out here for this?” he says, crossing his arms. “Isn’t this a conversation we could’ve had over text, or whatever?”

“If you don’t want to take this seriously, you’re free to go.”

“Fine. Who is it?”

Jefferson’s gaze sharpens. He walks over to his desk and opens a drawer, pulls out a yearbook, and begins to skim the pages. “I have a few candidates in mind,” he says, scanning the rows of photos for their next victim. Blackwell has a lot of female students, which means a lot of untapped potential. Eventually, he turns the yearbook around and points to a girl in the third row down, second from the left. “What do you think about Kate Marsh?”

Nathan steals a glance at her picture before casting his eyes to his feet. Their other models have been strangers to him, but he knows Kate, and so does most of Blackwell. He’s never understood her religious values (mostly because God abandoned him years ago), or her insistence on handing out Bible study flyers to people who mock her, but there’s something undeniably genuine about her—something pure. Even after years of being the butt of Victoria’s jokes, she’ll still smile at her in the hallway as if nothing ever happened, as if grudges don’t exist.

She’s too kind. Too good. Bringing her back here would be sacrilegious.

“I dunno,” he says, picking absently at his cuticles. He brings his fingers to his teeth to gnaw on a hangnail, blood gathering on his tongue. “Maybe we should choose someone else.”

Jefferson tuts at him. “She’s perfect. Her innocence, her purity… she’ll photograph well,” he says, shooting Nathan an appraising look. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. You don’t have a crush on her, do you?”

“No,” Nathan shoots back, nose wrinkling. “I’m just—I’m just saying she won’t be easy. I’ve never seen her at a party.”

Massaging his temples, Jefferson sighs, irritated. “Invite her, then,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She doesn’t get attention from boys. She’ll go to the party if she thinks you like her.”

Nathan’s anger starts to rear. “I’m not going to play with her feelings,” he snaps, shrinking when Jefferson fixes him with a piercing look. He swallows hard to try again, the taste of blood still clinging to his mouth. “I don’t want to hurt her. What we do down here makes me feel bad enough.”

When Jefferson beckons him forward, he braces himself, expecting a slap for his defiance. Where he expects to feel the sting of a hand on his cheek, Nathan is met with the firm but unsettling weight of Jefferson’s hand on his shoulder, heavy as a shackle. “What we do down here is art,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Never feel bad about creating art. If you do as I say, you could very well be the greatest photographer of your generation.”

Great photographers don’t drug and kidnap their models. Nathan knows what they’re doing is wrong, unforgivable, even, but Jefferson promised to launch his career. If he can help him get his foot in the door, his portfolio seen, Mark-fucking-Jefferson will be his ticket out of Oregon. No one will ever have to know about his involvement, and he’ll be replaced with some other sorry soul who’s desperate for the same love and affection he is. He’ll be free.

“Yeah,” he finally says, looking away when Jefferson’s hand moves to cradle his face. “Okay.”

“I want you to take care of Miss Marsh at Thursday’s party,” Jefferson says, slipping the yearbook back into his desk and pivoting. He walks over to the metal cart that holds their tools, uncapping a syringe with a flick of his wrist. The light catches on the needle, the sharpened point gleaming silver beneath the fluorescents. “I don’t care how you get her there. I’ll announce the winner of the Everyday Heroes contest, we’ll rendezvous, take our pictures, and come Friday I’ll be jet-setting to San Francisco.”

The contest. Nathan inhales sharply through his teeth. “Who are you choosing?”

“Who do you think I should choose?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one running it."

Jefferson raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Victoria, then. I’d say her entry was adequate,” he says, almost playfully. “Cliché, perhaps, but it fits the narrative I’m trying to build. Besides, she’s a fan of my work. It’s only fitting that she gets this opportunity.”

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of Nathan’s neck. It’ll devastate her, but she can’t win this time. If he can save anyone from being drugged and photographed on the floor of some hotel room, it has to be her.

“No,” he says. “Someone else. What about Max?”

In an instant, Jefferson’s expression turns cold, a dark cloud passing over his face. “She’d be my first choice if she bothered turning in her entry,” he says, reaching for an empty vial of GHB. He turns it over in his hand, inspecting the label on the back like it’s a routine task, something to occupy his hands while his mind works through the implications of Nathan’s suggestion. “Max Caulfield has a brilliant mind, but she’s self-conscious. Something is holding her back. If she doesn’t submit her entry by Thursday afternoon, I’ll announce Taylor as the winner.”

Victoria is going to be livid. Nathan can see it now.

“We need more,” Jefferson says, holding up the vial. “Text Frank. Tell him you need some party supplies, and make sure you do it on your burner.”

Nathan shoves his hands into his pockets with a huff, wanting nothing more than to tell him to fuck off and do it himself. He’s grown tired of these little errands—running around like a lackey, covering Jefferson’s tracks while pretending everything is normal at school. It’s unfair that his reputation ends up on the line while Jefferson gets to watch from the shadows, untouched and untouchable.

He’d be the perfect scapegoat if things went sideways. This he’s sure of, but he’s also confident Jefferson wouldn’t throw him under the bus. He cares for him. Besides, Nathan has just as much dirt on Jefferson as Jefferson has on him. If they went down, they’d go down together, hand in hand. Mutual assured destruction.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, biting his tongue. “Whatever. Are we done here?”

Jefferson points the syringe in Nathan’s direction. “I don’t want to hear that you’re having second thoughts about any of this,” he says, his tone clipped. “You’ve come way too far, Nathan. You’re an essential part of this project.”

“I know.”

“What do I always tell you?”

Nathan digs his nails into his palms to ground himself. “Always take the shot,” he says.

Jefferson smiles. “Literally and metaphorically. Now get out of here.”

Consider it done. Nathan leaves him to his own devices and slips out through the barn doors, sidestepping the deer carcass covered in feasting ants and flies. If only Jefferson had been hit by that car instead. If only it had been him.

He climbs into his truck, the smell of decay clinging to him as he shuts the door and sifts through the glovebox, fingers brushing past old receipts and vehicle registration until they close around the familiar crinkle of plastic. The pack of Virginia Slims Victoria left behind a week ago is still there, half-empty. She’d switched to them recently, something about curbing her appetite and fitting into a new dress. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but now, as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, the thought lingers.

He inhales deeply, the smoke frying his throat, and pulls out his burner to send a text.

[You, Today 9:31 PM]

u home

[Unknown, Today 9:33 PM]

What do you want?

[You, Today 9:34 PM]

partying later. need weed and g

hook a brother up please

Nathan stares at the screen, the phone’s glow illuminating his face in the darkness of the truck. He exhales a cloud of smoke, watching it curl and dissipate in the confined space, his leg bouncing irritably as he waits for a response. It’s several minutes before another rolls in.

[Unknown, Today 9:40 PM]

Fine. But I’m charging night prices.

Meet beach. Be cool this time.

[You, Today 9:40 PM]

omw

Nathan rolls his eyes. Things got heated the last time he needed drugs from Frank. Words were exchanged, a knife was pulled, the cops were called. It wasn’t pretty, and if the chief of police hadn’t owed his dad a favor, his ass would’ve landed in county jail for the night.

Grinding his cigarette into the truck’s ashtray, he shifts into reverse and heads for the beach.

It’s a short drive away, but it feels like an eternity before he finally pulls into the parking lot and meanders onto the deserted shore. Most people stay away after dark, given how unpredictable the ocean can be. Once a year, someone will make the front page of the Arcadia Bay Beacon for drowning during a night swim, caught in a riptide and pulled out to sea. He’s not intimidated by it, though, and certainly not Frank.

He started buying from him a couple of years ago, initially drawn in by easy access to every drug on the market. Frank was always there, just on the periphery, ready to supply whatever he needed to get through the day or help him sleep at night. It was small stuff at first—weed to take the edge off, a few pills to help him focus. As time wore on, the transactions became more frequent, the substances more potent. He needed more. Always more.

It raised Frank’s eyebrows when he started asking for GHB out of the blue. Gamma hydroxybutyrate—an amnesia-inducing sedative—isn’t something you can easily get your hands on unless you know the right people, and those people are usually in deep with shady pharmacists. Frank just so happens to be one of them.

Heels sinking into the sand, Nathan trudges to his beat-up RV and hammers his fist against the door. Before he can take a step back, it swings open, and Frank’s dog barrels out, growling and snapping at his heels. Nathan stumbles backward, heart racing as the dog circles him, teeth bared.

“Jesus, man! Call off your mutt!” he spits, trying to move the dog away with his foot. It doesn’t work. He grabs the leg of Nathan’s jeans in his mouth and pulls hard, the fabric cracking, threatening to rip.

There’s a sharp whistle from inside the RV. “Chill out, Pompidou!” Frank’s voice booms, the dog’s ears perking up. He eyes Nathan with suspicion before trotting back to his owner, Frank appearing moments later with a wry smile on his face.

“Not a dog person, Prescott?” he asks, catching Pompidou by the collar before he can escape again. He shuts the door behind him and leans up against it, amused. “He’s harmless. Won’t bite unless I tell him to.”

Nathan glares at the dog, then at Frank, before reaching down to brush off the sand that Pompidou’s paws left on his jeans. “I’m not taking any chances. You train that thing on blood.”

“He’s just doing his job,” Frank says, shrugging indifferently. “He’s got a good nose for trouble.”

“I’m not here for trouble. I’m here to score.”

“Alright, then. Money up front.”

That’s new. Nathan snorts, caught off guard by the demand, but he reaches for his wallet all the same. “What’s your deal?” he asks, pulling out a wad of cash and handing it over. “Don’t trust me?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Frank says, snatching the bills out of his grip. He licks a finger and flips through them, counting them twice. “Some bitch I’ve been dealing to’s been stiffing me. Just a precaution.”

He pulls out a small bag of marijuana and tosses it to Nathan, which he catches with one hand, fingers closing around the plastic. He’ll deal half of it to Blackwell and keep the other for himself and Victoria. It’s been too long since their last smoke sesh.

He inspects it briefly before shoving it into the pocket of his varsity. “Well, I’m not your bitch, so you can relax,” he says shortly. “Where’s my G?”

Frank studies him intensely, pushing off the door with a sigh. “Yeah. Let’s talk about that.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I paid. Hand it over.”

Frank, seemingly unaffected by his frustration, steps closer to peer down at him. “You know what’s funny?” he asks. “I deal to a whole town, and only one person ever asks for gamma-hydroxy-whatever. Not a lot of people using it as a party drug these days.”

The hair on the back of Nathan’s neck stands up, and he cowers, head tilting back to look him in the eyes. Interacting with him is unsettling, and not because he’s some creep that hands out drugs to kids like candy. Rachel had a fling with him before shit went down, and with Frank looming over him like this, Nathan can’t help but wonder if the guy is still holding out hope that she’s alive. Maybe he’s waiting for some sign, some clue that she’s living her best life in L.A., a postcard that might come any day now.

He knows the unfortunate truth, and it’s a truth that Frank can never, ever find out.

“You—listen, you don’t go to Blackwell,” he stammers, trying to regain some semblance of control despite the dread twisting in his gut. “Tons of people there are using. They just come to me for it.”

Frank cocks his head, unconvinced. “That so?” he says. “Truth be told, I didn’t know too much about it. My supplier never filled me in on the details and I’ve never used it myself. Did some research after you became a repeat customer, though.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but—”

“Odorless… colorless…” Frank continues, producing a small, glass vial of the liquid and holding it out to him. He waves it in front of Nathan’s face, taunting him. “Can’t taste a thing if you mix it with alcohol. Makes a good date rape drug, doesn’t it?”

The accusation hits Nathan like a train, the air leaving his lungs. His and Jefferson’s darkroom activities aren't sexual in the slightest. He's never seen Jefferson touch any of the girls in a way that could even be interpreted sexually. Their work is purely artistic, the drug a way to keep their subjects compliant. Frank doesn’t know that, but even if he did, Nathan knows he wouldn’t understand.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m involved in anything like that,” he says, willing his voice not to shake. “I'm not a fucking rapist, alright? I’m not a monster.”

Frank’s expression twists into a look of disgust as he drops the vial into Nathan’s hands. “You’re one sick motherfucker,” he says. “I don’t know what freaky shit you're doing, but if I find out that any of it can be traced back to me, I’m cutting you off. Consider this a warning.”

Nathan bristles, his face heating up. He shoves the drug into his jacket and jabs a finger into the center of Frank’s chest, irate. “You are so fucking stupid, y’know that? You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I do,” he grits out. “I could ruin your life so fast. Try me.”

Frank throws his head back and laughs boisterously. “Fuck with me and you’ll never get another fix ever again,” he says, turning around. He opens the door to the RV, Pompidou barking madly from the space between his legs. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, kid. Walk away.”

The door shuts. Frank’s footsteps recede. Nathan stands there, incensed, his fingers twitching uncontrollably, his pulse throbbing in his ears. Walk away, he echoes. Take a fucking hike.

Instead, he sends his fist flying at the exterior of the RV, cursing loudly when it collides with the aluminum. Blood beads from his split knuckles like tiny rubies.

It’s almost eleven by the time he returns to his dorm.

After tucking the drugs and his burner under his couch, he takes a seat on his bed and rummages around in his nightstand for his first aid kit. His knuckles are raw and angry, and pressing the cotton gauze to the cuts makes him wince. Each loop of the bandages is a reminder of how deeply entrenched he is in this fucking nightmare, and the more he tries to patch up the damage, the more he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams.

He finishes wrapping his hand and stares down at it, flexing his fingers, before rolling up his sleeves. The puckered scars littering his wrists are healing well. It’s been six months since his last relapse, and since then, he’s been able to handle sharp objects without having any urges. Being able to shave his face and not want to open a vein has been a win.

He glances at the used gauze. Red, like the binders. Like Rachel’s binder.

Nathan leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, cradling his face in his hands. He hasn’t had the stomach to look at her photos in fear of what horrors he might find. He doesn't remember much from the night she died, and that's a good thing. Everything prior to waking up on the floor, Jefferson berating him for passing out after killing her, is blurry.

Chucking the gauze into his trash, he undresses, sliding between the sheets again. The lights are turned off, the covers pulled up to his chin. His MP3 player awakens with the sound of whales. "You're not a monster," he whispers into the darkness.

But he is, and it will always be his fault. No matter how much he begs, how hard he bargains, Rachel will never come back to him. Rachel Amber is dead, and when he dies too, whether it’s from a needle, a bottle, or the slow rot of time, it will never be enough to pay for what he’s done.

He is a monster. And if he’s trying to convince himself he’s not, it isn’t working.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 9th

Chemistry. Now this is Warren’s area of expertise.

He sits near the back of the classroom, transfixed by the blackboard as Ms. Grant drones on about acids and bases. Almost everyone around him is still half-asleep, their chins cupped in their palms as they zone out or text underneath their desks. Not him, though. He’s hanging on to her every word.

He’s liked science since he was a kid. He was the type to walk to the library by himself at ten years old and ask where the books on stoichiometry and quantum mechanics were located, please. He’d pore over college textbooks and publications that children his age had no business reading, absorb the information like a sponge, and then parrot all the facts to his parents with the excitement of a caffeinated lab rat.

He stopped reading for a while when he was twelve. That’s when shit hit the fan.

His older brother’s death left a gaping hole in his life, one that swallowed his passions. The books on his shelves gathered dust, the documentaries he’d normally tune into went unwatched. Everything space-related he owned was donated or shoved into a closet, all of it reminding him too much, too painfully, of Noah, who’d wanted nothing more than to be an astronaut. Four years later, Warren has barely managed to take so much as a peek at Noah’s old telescope, buried under layers of boxes in the garage. It’s the same one they’d prop up in the front yard at night, eyes squinted as they tried to make out the craters on the moon.

Ad astra per aspera, Noah told him years ago, pointing out the faint glow of Venus in the hollow darkness. Through hardships to the stars, little brother.

It was a solid year before his thirst for knowledge returned, creeping back into his life like an old friend.

“I know all of you are just champing at the bit to get started with today’s assignment,” Ms. Grant says, breaking Warren from his reverie. She seems unimpressed that her audience isn’t responding with the enthusiasm she’d hoped for. Warren can hear Zachary snoring in the seat behind him. “We’ll be working on acid-base titrations. I hope you all did the reading last night, because this is one of those experiments where precision really matters.”

Warren’s hand shoots up instinctively, and Ms. Grant laughs softly, nodding in his direction. “Yes?”

“What’s the concentration of the standard solution we’re using today?” Warren asks as he grabs his notebook, pen poised to jot down the details. To his left, someone hisses a surly ‘tryhard’ under their breath. He pretends not to hear it.

“Good question. We’ll be using a 0.1 molar solution of hydrochloric acid,” Ms. Grant says, clasping her hands together. “You all know the drill. Find a friend, complete your notes, and try not to set anything on fire, Justin. I’m looking at you. You have until the end of the period.”

The room clamors as everyone groggily stands and shuffles around, but Warren stays seated. One quick look at Brooke, and she’s already grabbing their materials and heading over to his table. She’s always been a solid lab partner—sharp, reliable, and perhaps the only person at Blackwell who enjoys this class as much as he does.

“There’s my partner in crime!” he says, pulling out her stool for her. “Ready to perform some weird science?”

Brooke laughs and sits down beside him, rolling her eyes playfully. “You know it,” she says, clearing some space for them. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

They quickly fall into their usual rhythm, each knowing exactly what to do without needing to discuss it much. Brooke hands Warren the pipette, and he starts measuring out the hydrochloric acid while she prepares the beakers and sets up the burette. Their movements are smooth and synchronized, the result of countless experiments conducted together.

As Warren carefully adds the acid, he can’t help but glance around the room. Most of the other students are still getting themselves together, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Meanwhile, he and Brooke are already halfway through the setup, their efficiency unmatched.

They take their time with the titration, watching the liquid in the beaker slowly shift from clear to a delicate shade of pink. Warren carefully turns the stopcock, allowing a few more drops to fall into the glassware before sitting back in his seat, satisfied. “That’s it,” he says, scribbling down their results. “Perfection.”

“Looks spot on to me,” Brooke says, pushing her thick-lensed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she studies the color. She looks owlish with them on, her eyes magnified and sparkling. “You’ve got a steady hand.”

As they start to clean up their workstation, Warren steals another look around the room again. Most of the other students are still struggling to get consistent readings, their beakers either too pale or too dark. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride at how smoothly their work had gone, and he wishes he could find whoever made that snide comment so he can rub his success in their stupid, stupid face.

“Got any plans next weekend?” Brooke asks casually as she wipes down their table. “Let me guess. Sleeping, movie marathon, studying?”

Warren’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I’m pretty predictable, huh?” he laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I think I’m going to the drive-in. They’re showing some of the old Planet of the Apes films and I gotta watch.”

Brooke grins wide, her dyed ponytail bobbing as she nods. “Sounds fun. Need someone to help you get your ape on?”

“Actually, it’s sort of a date. I think.”

Her expression shifts to one of confusion. “Oh. You think?

“With Max,” Warren admits sheepishly, trying to downplay his excitement. “I asked her to go with me, and she said yes, so...”

Brooke blinks. “Wow,” she says. “A date with Max. That’s really great.”

Warren fidgets under the scrutiny of her gaze, feeling self-conscious. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure she sees it that way, but I’m hoping. It’s hard to tell with her. You know how it is—girls are like a totally different species.”

Brooke lets out a short laugh, but it sounds a bit forced. “Sure.”

He notices the slight tension in her voice, the way her fingers tighten around the edge of the table. The moment the bell rings, she launches out of her seat, grabs her belongings, and ducks out the door, leaving Warren sitting alone and feeling a little bewildered. He watches her go, the sound of the bell still ringing in his ears as the other students scramble out of the classroom.

Warren slowly gathers up his things, lips moving silently as he tries to search for a response. He considers texting her to ask if she’s okay, but hesitates. He’s not exactly a master at navigating these kinds of social situations. Science and logic make sense to him, but feelings, especially female feelings, are an enigma.

Head reeling, he turns in their notes to Ms. Grant and flees into the hallway with everyone else. The mention of Max might've offended her somehow, although he has no idea why. He's never seen them interact, but maybe there's some long-standing history between them that he's not privy to. He doesn't know about half the things that go down in the girls' dorms—unless they're somehow related to Nathan, because news of his antics always travels fast.

Speaking of Nathan, Warren hasn't seen him. Normally he can be spotted in the halls between classes, hunched over and sullen, but he’s made himself scarce lately. What happened in the bathroom isn't lost on him. He knows he’s sitting on a gold mine of information, and if he had the guts, he’d go to Principal Wells to tell him what he saw. Expulsion is out of the question—Nathan’s family has too much pull for that—but maybe he’d be suspended for a couple of days pending an investigation. Maybe.

Shoulders aching from hauling around his textbooks, he stops by his locker to ease the load on his back, dropping off the ones he doesn’t need for his next class. Only when he shuts the door and scrambles his combination does he realize that Stella is standing right beside him, watching him with curiosity. He startles.

“Sorry, Warren Peace,” she says with a smile. “Just wanted to say hi.”

Warren sighs, still a little on edge from the surprise, but he recovers with a sheepish grin. “Hey. Where’d you come from?”

“World history. Do you have any interest in the Cold War? I don’t.”

“I can tell you all about the hydrogen bomb,” Warren says flatly. “And about how to make your friends uncomfortable.”

“What did you do this time?”

This time. It definitely isn’t the first time he’s flubbed a social interaction, and with his sorry, socially awkward ass, he knows it won’t be the last. “I was talking to Brooke about how I’m going out with Max soon,” he says, pouting. “She ran off. I know sometimes I say things that sound fine to me, but other people find it offensive, or weird, or… I don’t know. I had one of my moments.”

Stella gives him a sympathetic look, and then reaches up to pat his cheek. “God,” she sighs, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “You simple, simple, boy.”

She’s already changed the subject before he can ask what she's talking about. “Am I seeing you there?” she asks, pointing at a bulletin board. Surrounded by flyers advertising club meetings, school events, and Rachel’s face, is a poster with the Vortex Club’s upcoming party plastered on it. END OF THE WORLD PARTY, it reads, the letters bold against the fiery mushroom cloud in the background.

“Didn’t know there was a theme,” Warren says, although he shouldn’t be surprised. Nathan and Victoria have a known flair for theatrics. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be in their friend group, to deal with the drama and the constant need to one-up each other. He considers himself lucky to be on the outskirts of their world.

Stella grins mischievously. “We’ve got midterms next week, remember?” she says, nudging him. “I guess it’s playing on how it’ll be the end of the world for our GPAs. Not mine, of course. Can’t say the same for everyone else.”

A clever way to cope with the impending academic doom, Warren supposes. He’s been freaking out about midterms since the first day of the semester. Chem will be a breeze. His other classes, not so much. He doesn’t even want to think about SAT prep, his entire future riding on a few hours of filling in bubbles on a Scantron.

“I’ll be working coat check,” Stella says, her fingers gracing his shoulder as she saunters away. “Say hi if you decide to drop by.”

Warren glances back at the poster and nods. It’s been a crazy week. Maybe the world is ending. He just hopes it doesn’t burn up in a catastrophic blaze like the theme suggests, because there should be another eight million years before he needs to worry about that.

With a growling stomach and almost two hours until his next class, Warren decides that he needs some breakfast. He can’t think on an empty stomach.

He bolts to the Two Whales and, upon pushing open the door, is immediately struck with the smell of breakfast. There are a few dives in Arcadia Bay, but the Two Whales has the best greasy diner food out of all of them. It’s become one of his haunts over the years. Nothing, not even the occasional weirdness of the patrons, can keep him from his morning ritual of pancakes and bacon.

As he slides into the vinyl seat of his usual booth, he notices that the place is crawling with regulars. Truckers sitting at the counter? Check. Cop flirting with one of the waitresses? Check. Creepy guy in a leather jacket who looks like he might strangle the next person who speaks to him? Warren’s never seen him before, but stranger people have eaten here. Check.

“My favorite customer. Haven’t seen you around here lately.”

Warren looks up and finds Joyce hovering over him, a menu in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. He smiles. “Hey, Joyce. How’s business?”

Joyce laughs halfheartedly, pouring him a cup before he can ask for it. “Busy as ever, but I wouldn’t change a thing,” she says. “Everything going well at school?”

Warren decides to spare her the truth and takes a sip, savoring the warmth. “It’s great! It’s good,” he says, picking at an area on the seat where the vinyl has started tearing. “Good-ish.”

Joyce raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pry, thankfully. Warren knows she can see right through him. He’s been coming here long enough for her to recognize when something’s off with him. “Nice to know someone’s child is staying out of trouble,” she says. “Bless your parents. Tell them hello for me.”

He will when he sees them. The last time he saw his mom was when she helped him move into his dorm a month ago. The last time he saw his dad was when he went to visit him in Spokane. He spends his summers with him there as per the custody agreement.

They couldn’t hold it together after Noah’s death. They’d promised they’d stay strong for each other, for him, but the divorce papers were served three weeks after the funeral, the marriage dissolved in six. His dad moved away the following March without so much as a goodbye, unable to look him in the eyes as he packed up the car and drove off, and while Warren can’t say for sure, he swears it had something to do with his resemblance to Noah. Discounting the few inches he’s grown since Noah passed, Warren could easily be mistaken for his brother. The same tousled brown hair, the same lopsided smile, the same moles littering their arms and legs.

He sees the pain on his dad’s face whenever he looks at him, and maybe that’s the reason why he decided he couldn’t stick around. He’s a living reminder of the son who died.

“I’m sure you’re starving. I’ll get you your usual,” Joyce says, grabbing her notepad from her apron and jotting down his order. “Pancakes?”

“Yes, please.”

“Extra whipped cream?”

Warren’s smile widens. “Can’t go without it.”

Joyce clicks her pen and disappears into the kitchen just as the front door swings open, the bell above it jingling. Combat boots clunk heavily against the linoleum, and when Warren finally looks up to address the noise, to see what trucker or biker has decided to join the others at the counter, his heart plummets.

It's the blue-haired girl. The one Nathan was messing with. She swaggers in, high-fiving one of the truckers and hurrying past the cop. Warren hears him say something to her regarding unpaid parking tickets, which she brushes off with a dismissive wave of her hand. She looks like she’s doing well for someone who was recently caught in the middle of one of Nathan’s more aggressive outbursts. If it had been him, he’d never step foot outside of his dorm again.

“Uh, hello? You got a staring problem?”

Warren snaps out of it when he finds the girl looking right at him. He quickly averts his gaze in hopes that she'll leave him be, but she approaches him anyway, popping a hip against the table and crossing her arms. Now that she isn't pinned against a wall and begging for her life, she's pretty intimidating. She has the look of someone who might kick him in the shins and shake him down for his lunch money.

"I'm talking to you," she says stiffly, although not entirely unfriendly. She rakes him up and down with squinted eyes. "Can I help you?"

Warren feels a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. “Sorry,” he says, his voice a touch too loud. “I just… recognize you.”

Blue-haired girl snorts. “Yeah? Where from?” she replies, sliding into the seat across from him. “Here?”

“Monday. About four. Girls’ bathroom.”

She blanches, her mouth falling open. The bravado she walked in with evaporates instantly. “What the hell,” she says, a look of wariness crossing her face. “Why? Were you perving around in there, or something?”

“No!” Warren chokes out. “But I saw everything, and…"

Her eyes dart aimlessly around the booth, gears turning in her head, before she lunges across the table to grab his arm. “No way!” she says, loud enough that it causes some heads to turn in their direction. “No fucking way. Oh my God. The alarm. Dude, you saved my life.”

“Uh, it was nothing. Seriously.”

She scoffs. “Fuck humility. You’re a hero,” she says, her grip on his arm tightening. She pulls back and offers her hand to him instead. “Chloe. We’re friends now. I’m indebted to you, or whatever.”

He hesitates for a moment before accepting it, giving it a firm shake. “Warren,” he says, laughing softly. “I didn’t really do anything. I was just in the right place at the right time, I guess. I have some questions.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow, still holding onto his hand as if sealing some unspoken pact. “About the Nathan thing? Ask away.”

Warren releases her to fidget with his hands in his lap. “Yeah, I mean… I’m guessing you go to Blackwell, right?”

Chloe’s gaze drops, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns on the scratched tabletop. “I did go to Blackwell. Blackwell couldn’t handle me,” she says. “I was too cool for all those hippie art nerds, so they asked me to leave.”

The corner of Warren’s mouth twitches. “That sounds like you were expelled.”

“Technically it’s expulsion. Technically,” Chloe says with a half-smirk, though there’s a hint of bitterness in her voice. “That’s what my file says, I guess. I don’t care. Next.”

“How did you end up in the bathroom, then? How do you know Nathan?”

Chloe’s smirk fades, and her fingers still on the tabletop as she considers his questions. She takes a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. “Okay. Do you see that guy sitting in the back corner?” she says. “The one who looks like he kicks puppies for fun?”

Warren cranes his neck to get another look at him, but Chloe grabs him by the shirt and tugs him back down. “That’s Frank. He’s an asshole. I owe him some money,” she continues.

“For what?”

“He’s my dealer, but I asked him if he could give me a loan to fix up my truck. Thing was busted. I keep telling him I’ll repay it, but I haven’t yet, and now he’s getting all pissy with me.”

“Okay,” Warren says, shaking his head. He’s not sure what he expected, but it’s not this. “How much do you owe him?”

Chloe smiles nervously. “Three.”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand.”

Warren winces. “Three thousand?” he echoes, struggling to keep his voice down. That’s not much less than what his mom brings home from work in a month. “Are you insane? You borrowed that much from a drug dealer?”

Chloe’s smile fades. “I know, I know. Dumb move. Too late to do anything about it now,” she says, hugging her arms around herself defensively. “Anyway, I needed a way to pay him back. I don’t have a job, but I do know the richest prick in town.”

Enter Nathan Prescott. If Warren had to guess, he’d say that he and Chloe are roughly the same age. They must’ve known of each other’s existence when she was enrolled at Blackwell. He tries to imagine what a younger Nathan would look like, entering freshman year at fourteen or fifteen, a little less sure of himself but still annoyingly entitled. Was he happier back then? Has he ever been happy?

“So, you went to Nathan for the money?” Warren asks cautiously. “I’m guessing he didn’t give it to you.”

Chloe shifts uncomfortably in her seat, that nervous smile returning to her lips. “Long story short, I invited him out for a beer, I tried to steal his wallet, he drugged my drink while I wasn’t looking, and then the fucker tried to take pictures of me in his room.”

Before he can fully process the gravity of the situation, Joyce sidles up to their table with a tray of food. “I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she says, setting Warren’s pancakes in front of him. “Threw in some extra bacon for you, hon. You’re looking thin.”

Chloe cuts him off before he can thank her. “We go way back,” she says, winking at him and lacing her fingers together under her chin. “Bacon, pretty please? I’m withering away from hunger over here.”

Joyce gives her a stern look. “You have lost your bacon privileges,” she says coarsely, turning back to him. “Warren, do me a favor and be a good influence on her. She needs someone to keep her out of trouble.”

Another patron calls out to her, asking for a refill on their coffee. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Warren shovels a bite of sweet, buttery goodness into his mouth, moaning around his fork. “Sounds like she cares a lot about you,” he says through his mouthful. “Have you been coming here for a while?”

“That would be my mother,” Chloe says, watching Joyce flit to and from the kitchen. “She’s holding a grudge right now. Shit went down with my stepdad. More like step-douche.”

It never occurred to Warren until today that Joyce might have children. He’s sat in this exact booth and shared polite conversation with her countless times, Chloe never being mentioned once. He stuffs some more pancake into his mouth and swallows, wondering how many people in his life are dealing with family drama. Maybe Max. Maybe Nathan.

“Back to Nathan,” he says. “He didn’t, like, touch you, did he? Does your mom know?”

“No and no,” Chloe says, eyeing his plate like a dog begging for scraps. He pushes it toward her and she swipes her finger along the edge, scooping up some whipped cream and savoring it. “He was just standing over me with his camera like a weirdo. No idea what he drugged me with, but he didn’t give me enough to stop me from fighting back. I got out of there fast.”

Warren chews morosely, connecting the dots in his head. He’s good at guessing the ending to movies before they’re even halfway over, and the end of this story is fairly obvious. “But it gave you perfect blackmail material,” he says, pointing his fork at her. “So you told Nathan to meet you in the bathroom to discuss payment. He’d give you money, and you’d keep your mouth shut.”

“Bingo,” Chloe says, going in for some more whipped cream. “Excellent deduction.”

Everything is starting to make sense now. Warren lowers his fork, sighing. This is a disaster of epic proportions. “What happened after that?” he asks. “You looked shaken. I’m guessing you just went home, right?”

Chloe avoids his gaze and shrugs. “I ducked into an empty classroom and waited till the heat died down, and then wandered around to check on the flyers I’ve been putting up,” she says. “I peeled out of there afterward.”

Warren pauses. “The flyers for Rachel?” he asks. It’s a total shot in the dark, but it lands. Chloe’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“You know Rachel?”

He should, but he doesn’t. He can’t recall ever laying eyes on her in person, but that can be chalked up to them running in different circles and different grades. “Oh, no," he says. "Is she a friend?"

Chloe deflates, frowning. “She’s…” she starts, her sentence trailing off. “She means a lot to me.”

There’s something in the way she says it that makes Warren wonder if Rachel is more than just a friend. If his hunch is correct, it makes sense why Chloe doesn’t want to tell him outright. Arcadia Bay isn’t the most accepting town in the world.

He shakes off the thought. “I hope she's found soon,” he says earnestly. He doesn’t tell her that, statistically, most missing people show up within the first three days. "I'm sorry."

Chloe hums, nodding. “Me too,” she says, resting her chin against her knuckles. “We were talking about skipping town, the two of us. And then one day she was just… gone. The cops didn’t even try to look for her.”

Sad but unsurprising. The police in Arcadia Bay have never been much help to anyone. “What about her parents?” Warren asks gently, offering her a consolatory strip of bacon, which she scarfs down. “Are they still looking?”

Chloe bristles at the mention of them. “They think she’s dead. I don't, but I think someone did something to her,” she says sharply, licking the grease from the corner of her mouth. “Something to make her run off like this, I mean. She wouldn't abandon ship without me. I'm sure she's kicking it in California somewhere, acting or living in a commune, or something. I just... need to find her and make sure she’s okay."

“Makes sense,” Warren says, nodding slowly. “Is there anything I can do?”

Chloe looks up and stares at him pensively, biting the inside of her cheek, weighing her options. “Someone in this town has to know where she went,” she finally says, letting out a long breath. “And I’m going to find out who they are. You in?”

“I mean, I don’t know how helpful I’ll be, but—"

She holds up a hand to silence him. “Are you in, or are you in?” she asks. “You either want to help, or you don’t. I’m not looking for half-assed commitments here. I’m trying to find someone I care about.”

Warren thinks for a moment. This isn’t just about curiosity or a casual favor. This is a missing girl she’s trying to find, one who clearly means everything to her. He can see the desperation in her eyes, the way she’s barely holding it together underneath that tough exterior. What would Noah do if he was presented with this opportunity, he wonders. What would he say if someone asked him for help in a situation like this?

Fuck yeah. That’s what his brother would say.

“I’m in,” Warren says, giving her a definitive nod. “And you know what? I’ve got someone who might want to join. You should drop by the school tomorrow so I can introduce you guys, and then the three of us can check out a party.”

Chloe slaps her hand down against the table, clearly pumped. “That’s what I’m talking about!” she says, voice rising with enthusiasm. She raises an invisible glass and tips it in his direction. “To busting shit up, and to finding Rachel.”

Warren raises his cup of coffee in unison, warmth filling his palm. “To Rachel.”

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 10th

In the eighteen years he’s graced this planet, Nathan has never asked out a girl. Not once.

It’s lack of interest rather than lack of trying. Half the girls at Blackwell would probably jump at the chance to date him, though they’d probably be after his wallet rather than his personality, which most people find repugnant. His v-card remains unpunched, which is just fine with him, because the thought of being touched in that way makes him queasy. He’s never kissed anyone.

Well, except for that one time, but he’s tried to forget about it.

All of this is why he feels so out of his element standing at Kate’s door. He glances down at his watch. T-minus six hours until the party starts, until he’s carrying Kate out to his car and driving her down that long, dark road to the barn, to be posed and photographed under those sickeningly bright fluorescents. To have her purity stripped. The sacrificial lamb led to slaughter.

The thought reminds him of some proverb he heard in church as a kid, squirming against the oak seat of a pew, hands clasped obediently in his lap as the pastor droned on about sin and redemption. Something from Matthew. Something about being sent forth as an innocent sheep among wolves.

He’s no sheep. That part of him was devoured a long time ago.

Begrudgingly, he lifts his hand and knocks with sweaty palms, knuckles rapping against the wood. If he can’t convince her to come, the night will be ruined, Jefferson will have his head, and they’ll have to push their photoshoot back until the next party. He’s been fucking things up exponentially lately. He doesn’t need to make a habit out of it.

Kate isn't answering. He knocks again, more forceful this time, more desperate, and reminds himself that he should be angrier about this. There’s no reason for him to be doing Jefferson’s dirty work. He’s not his fucking minion. He should be asking Kate to the party if he wants her so badly, even though he knows, logically, how bad that would look.

“Invite her my ass,” he mutters, reaching up and picking at a piece of paint that’s starting to chip off her door frame. “You invite her yourself, you motherfu—”

The door opens, Kate shyly peeking out behind it. Nathan realizes that he’s never been this close to her before. She’s small, at least a few inches shorter than him, and practically swimming in her gray sweater. It hangs limply off her malnourished frame.

“Nathan?” she says, glancing around the space behind him. She looks skittish, like some prey animal who’s come face-to-face with a predator. “Hi.”

Nathan scowls. “Hello?” he barks, and immediately regrets his tone when he sees her flinch slightly, her eyes widening with fear. He composes himself, relaxing his shoulders and the muscles in his jaw. “Uh, hey. What's up?"

Kate shrugs, fiddling nervously with the gold cross necklace dangling from her throat. “Nothing. Can I do something for you?”

Nathan mentally kicks himself for not having any lines rehearsed for this situation. He’s going to crash and burn just like he did during The Tempest. Thinking about his brush with acting makes him want to shrivel up and die, die, die. “Yeah, actually,” he says. “You heard about the party tonight?”

“Oh. That’s tonight?”

“Yeah. I was just—I was wondering if you were going.”

Kate seems hesitant, her fingers falling from the cross to fidget with the sleeve of her sweater instead. “Parties aren’t really my thing,” she says. “Too loud. I’d rather stay in.”

“Me too,” he lies, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “I only go because I’m president of the Vortex Club, so I have to go. Need to make an appearance and shit. Wanna come with me?”

To his dismay, Kate’s face drops. Her bottom lip quivers. She moves to close the door, but Nathan manages to jam his foot in the doorway just before it can shut completely. “Wait!” he says, trying to salvage the conversation. “This isn’t a joke or anything. Victoria didn’t put me up to this. I’m serious.”

The door slowly creaks open again. Kate looks surprised, doe-like eyes wide with uncertainty. “You want me to be your date?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

Good question. He stammers, searching desperately for something most girls would like to be told. We don’t like being complimented on superficial things, his sister told him a while ago, after she grilled him about why he hadn’t had a girlfriend yet. Being called pretty is nice, but we like to hear about what makes us special.

If Kristine knew what he was doing now, she’d smack him into next week.

“Because you’re nice,” he finally manages, the words coming out more sincere than he expected. “And you’re real. Kind, and honest. You don’t get caught up in all the bullshit that goes on at Blackwell. That’s… rare.”

Kate's gaze falls to her feet, and for a moment, she seems taken aback by his words. Nathan isn’t sure if it’s working, but at least she’s not shutting the door on him again.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “But I don’t know. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not really comfortable at parties. I wouldn’t fit in, and people… they talk.”

“Who cares?”

“I don’t want to look stupid. Everyone will judge me.”

Nathan can’t blame her for feeling that way. She’ll look out of place in the VIP section, surrounded by the usual crowd of flashy, superficial people he’s supposed to call his friends. He racks his brain for anyone there who she might be on good terms with. Dana, maybe, pounding back shots and shoving her tongue down Logan’s throat. If he can get the two of them talking, it might be enough of a distraction to leave her cup of whatever unattended.

All he needs is a few seconds to pour in the drug, and to try a different approach, because his current one isn’t working.

“You know,” he says, looking her over. “You look really good today. Did you do something different with your hair?”

A light blush creeps across her cheeks. “You noticed,” she responds, her nervousness waning. She twirls a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “I guess I wanted to try something new. I was waiting for someone to say something.”

Nathan feels a pang of guilt, sharp and sudden. Her hair, tucked into a messy bun atop her head, looks the same to him as it always does. “C’mon,” he urges again, forcing a smile so tight his cheeks hurt. “Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

Kate hesitates, fingers still playing with her hair. “What if someone tells me to leave?”

“These parties are on my dime. I’m the only one who tells people to leave.”

“What if I want to go home early?”

Nathan gestures to her room, stepping closer to close the physical distance between them. “Then I’ll walk you back, I guess.”

“Nathan,” she protests softly. “I really don’t know about this.”

He’s almost there. He can feel her about to crack under the pressure. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he says softly, cringing at how fake he sounds, at how out of character this is for him. ”It’s just a party. I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

Kate takes her bottom lip between her teeth, considering his words carefully, and then nods. “Okay,” she says, acquiescing. “I just can’t be out late. I need to study.”

“You got it,” he says casually. If all goes well, he’ll have her back in her room before ten, tucked into bed, a little more of the G slipped under her tongue to keep her unconscious till morning. “I'll meet you here at 7:30.”

“7:30,” she confirms, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Okay. See you then.”

As soon as the door closes, Nathan exhales a long, trembling breath and scrubs at his face with his hands. This isn’t the first time he’s duped a girl into something she wouldn’t have agreed to if she knew the truth, but God, does it feel different this time. Worse, somehow. The way she looked at him—trusting, childlike—makes him feel like the lowest kind of scum.

He steals a glance at the slate next to her room. The message written on it the other day has disappeared, replaced with a crude drawing of an upside-down cross. Victoria, again. Looking up and down the hallway to ensure that he’s alone, he wipes his sleeve across the board, smearing it away. It’s the least he can do for her.

Back in his dorm, he digs out his burner and sends a text.

[You, Today 1:05 PM]

its done

[Unknown, Today 1:09 PM]

Good. I knew you could do it.

Nathan squeezes the phone in his hand. Jefferson might’ve had faith in him, but he very well could just be saying that to keep him in line. If only he could peek into the fucked-up psychological maze that is his mind.

[Unknown, Today 1:10 PM]

No photo from Max. Disappointing. Take care of Kate ASAP tonight.

Nathan starts to type a response but deletes it when he realizes he doesn’t have anything else to say. He wishes he could be the winner. Having his work hung in a gallery would be a dream, but it would draw too much attention to the two of them, and the less they’re seen together, the better. It’s not like he needs a contest to know his entry is best, anyway. Taylor’s picture of a Labor Day display could use some serious touch-ups, but at least it’s on theme. Victoria’s entry, as well-composed as it is, is simply a portrait of herself.

“Yo, Nathan? You in there?”

Nathan’s heart lurches. He scrambles to hide his burner, shoving it under his pillow before bolting to the door and throwing it open. He finds Trevor waiting for him on the other side, hands in his pockets, a casual grin on his face.

“The hell do you want?” he says. “I’m busy.”

“Hey,” Trevor says, attempting to step into his room without waiting for an invitation. “Where’s my green?”

Nathan makes a noise of disgust in his throat and places a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back. He should’ve guessed he’d be here for a fix. “Where’s my green?” he snaps. “And lower your voice. I’m not dealing to the whole goddamn school.”

Trevor throws his hands up in surrender. “Don’t get all aggro with me, man,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wrinkled twenty. “Some for me and some for Justin. Thanks.”

Nathan snatches it out of his grasp and disappears back into his room, where he fishes around in his desk drawer for some dime bags. The weed he gets from Frank isn’t the best quality, but it’s good enough for the likes of Trevor and Justin, who probably wouldn’t know top-shelf from ditch weed, anyway. After weighing out the right amounts, he returns, shoving them into Trevor’s hands. “There,” he says. “Take it and go.”

Trevor pockets them and salutes. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says. “Also, I dunno if you knew this already, but Dana and I are, like, kind of a thing now. She wanted me to ask if I could join the club. Is that cool?”

Nathan stares blankly at him for a few seconds, eye twitching, and then slams his door so hard his windows rattle.

“We’ll talk about it tonight!” Trevor shouts from the other side, unfazed. “Catch you later, okay?”

Once he's gone, Nathan rolls himself a joint. He needs it.

Time isn’t on his side. He tries to ignore the clock on his nightstand, but he feels the red numbers boring a hole in the back of his skull, each minute slipping away faster than the last. Ten minutes until he’s supposed to pick Kate up. Not long now.

He paces anxiously around the edge of his room, struggling to stay calm. He can do this. He’s done this plenty of times before. There was Megan Weaver, Kelly Davis, Lucy Torres. Paige Murphy. A host of other girls, all of them unaware that they were exploited, that photos of them exist in binders and dark crevices on the internet.

And now Kate Marsh. Another name to add to the collection.

Rubbing his eyes, Nathan grabs the vial of GHB from its plastic bag and grasps it tight in his fist. This is just another menial task. Just another job, he tells himself, parroting what Jefferson says whenever he thinks too hard about what he’s asked to do. Just another girl.

Shoving the vial and both phones into his pocket, he heads for the bathroom, Hayden passing him with a smile. Normally it would be returned, but tonight it goes unacknowledged, his nose turning up as he steps inside. It smells so strongly of bleach that his temples throb, yet whoever cleaned it still couldn’t scrub out the underlying aroma of BO and Axe body spray—two odors that permeate the entire boys’ dorm. He stands in front of a sink and runs the faucet, splashing water on his face, letting the droplets run down his cheeks.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispers, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He’s hit with a wave of déjà vu so hard that it feels like a knee to the gut. Here he is, giving himself a pep talk in a bathroom for the second time this week

The fluorescents overhead flicker and buzz ominously. In his reflection, he catches a glimpse of a graffiti tag on the wall. He squints to inspect it closer.

CALL COURTNEY W. FOR A GOOD TIME

Nathan laughs humorlessly. Something about the toilets must bring out everyone’s creativity, because it’s not the only graffiti adorning the walls. Nathan spots various other tags and doodles; some of them funny, and others are not so much. One in particular catches his eye, scrawled lazily in red marker.

KILL THE PRESCOTTS

He turns and reaches up to smear it away with his fist, but it doesn’t budge from the hexagonal tiles. Permanent ink.

“Fuck you too,” Nathan mutters. The urge to smash his fist into the tile is almost overwhelming, but his knuckles are still tender and scabbed from the beating he gave Frank’s RV. He clenches his fists, willing himself to stay calm. He’s already running late. Kate is waiting.

Cupping his hands beneath the faucet and taking a gulp of water for good measure, he pushes himself away from the sink, forcing his legs to carry him out of the bathroom before he can work himself into a frenzy.

As he rounds the corner, he spots Kate standing outside her door, nervously glancing up and down the hallway, hands clasped as she rocks on her heels. When she sees him approaching, her expression softens, and she offers a small, tentative wave. “Hi,” she says, looking visibly calmer since the last time they spoke. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”

Nathan forces a smile, though it feels strained, as if the muscles in his face are working against him. "Hey," he replies, trying to keep his voice steady. "Sorry I’m late. Had to take care of something."

Kate’s eyes search his face, her concern evident as she takes in his haggard appearance. “Are you okay? You look tired.”

He swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Yeah, just a long day,” he lies, brushing off her worry. “Ready to go?”

“I guess so.”

Nathan forces himself to keep the smile in place, offering a reassuring nod as they walk down the hall together. The cool night air hits them as they step outside, the campus buzzing around them. He matches her pace, keeping his hands shoved deep in his pockets to stop them from trembling, because he’s well aware that he’s going to hell for this. Straight to hell after Jefferson kills him for one reason or another, or after he kills himself.

“You’ll have fun,” he says, trying to sound upbeat, but the words feel hollow. “Promise.”

Kate looks up at him with a small, hopeful smile. “Thanks again for inviting me,” she says. “I don’t do stuff like this very often. It’s kind of nice to get out.”

Nathan’s throat tightens, shame gnawing at his insides. She probably feels special—an unpopular, bullied girl, asked out by someone much higher on the social food chain. “No problem,” he manages to say, the words barely escaping his lips.

“You won’t abandon me out there, right?” Kate asks, inching closer to him as they near the front doors. The bass from the music is so loud that Nathan feels it vibrating throughout his body, and they haven’t even stepped inside yet. “I don’t want to be all by myself.”

“I won’t,” he says, holding the door open for her and motioning for her to enter first. He can promise her that.

They’re immediately engulfed by a sea of sweaty bodies as they step inside. “Stick close, alright?” he shouts, his voice drowned out by some EDM song the DJ is spinning. Kate quickly resumes her spot next to him and grabs his sleeve as they wade through a crowd of drunken, gyrating teenagers, her grip tightening as they slide between a kissing couple.

As they make their way over to the VIP section, an area surrounded by a few curtains to keep out the undesirables, Nathan spots Courtney near the entrance with a clipboard in her perfectly manicured hands. Someone must have given her the duty of checking the guest list. She doesn’t stop him when he wanders in, but her eyes go wide as dinner plates when Kate traipses after him like a lost puppy.

“Not on the list,” she says, putting out an arm to block her. “Beat it.”

Nathan shoots her a glare and shoves it down. “She’s with me. Let her in.”

“Seriously?” Courtney scoffs, glancing disdainfully at Kate before turning her attention back to him. “She’s not on the list. You know the rules—no list, no entry.”

Nathan’s patience, already worn thin by the night’s events, snaps. “I said she’s with me,” he bites out. “That’s all you need to know.”

Courtney raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “And I’m saying it doesn’t matter. This is the VIP section, Nathan. You can’t just drag anyone in here. We have standards, and she’s…” She trails off, shooting Kate a derisive look that makes the other girl shrink back.

Kate’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she instinctively takes a step closer to Nathan, as if seeking protection from Courtney’s venomous glare. The sight only makes Nathan more furious.

“Listen, bitch,” he snarls, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone, “if you don’t get out of our way right now, I swear to God—”

He doesn’t wait for her to reply. Grabbing Kate’s hand, he pushes Courtney aside, who seems too stunned by his outburst to protest.

The atmosphere behind the curtains is slightly more relaxed than on the main floor, the lighting dimmer, the bass a little less deafening. “Do you really think that was necessary?” Kate whispers to him as she takes a seat on a nearby couch. “She was just doing her job.”

Nathan drops onto the spot beside her, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Yeah, well, she was being a real bitch about it," he mutters, his voice still sharp with residual anger. "It’s none of her business.”

Kate shifts uncomfortably, folding her hands in her lap. "She wasn’t wrong, though. I’m not supposed to be in here."

Outside, the DJ switches up the music. The party-goers cheer.

“Victoria is staring at us,” Kate murmurs into his ear, nodding in the direction of the private bar. She’s leaned against the counter, wearing a leopard-print mini skirt and a black tube top that exposes the belly button ring she gave herself last summer. Nathan can feel the hatred rolling off her as she drums her fingers against the surface. "I can go."

“I’ll take care of it,” he says gruffly.  He feels the weight of the vial in his pocket as he stands and pauses, reminded of what he's here to do, and he figures it’s better to get this over with before he ends up punching someone or something. “Want me to get you something while I’m over there?”

Kate shakes her head. “I don’t drink.”

Now that’s a problem. Frank was right when he said that GHB can’t be tasted when mixed with alcohol. Nathan has no clue if the same goes for water, and he doesn’t feel like risking it. “Not even a little? This is, like, the safest place to experiment with drinking,” he says, even though it's the furthest thing from the truth. “You’ve got tons of people around. Let me get you something.”

Kate reaches up to play with her cross pendant. “Maybe some wine would be okay,” she says. “But not much. I only drink it during communion.”

He can work with that. He squeezes past Logan, who’s playing a heated match of beer pong with Zachary, and heads for Victoria. Before he can even open his mouth, she’s holding up a hand to quiet him.

“Are you drunk?” she asks.

“Uh. No?”

“High?”

“Sort of.”

“Is that what made you decide it was a good idea to bring her?” she hisses, folding her arms and casting another glare at Kate. “Dragging a holy roller into the Vortex Club. Seriously, Nate. She’s going to kill the vibe, and you know how important tonight is for me.”

Nathan rolls his eyes. “Relax, Vee,” he grunts. “She’s my date.”

Victoria looks appalled, as though he’s spat directly in her face. “You’re fucking joking,” she laughs. “Kate Marsh is your date? Am I stroking out?”

“Nope,” he says casually, popping the 'P.’ “Party’s bitchin’, by the way. Good call having it here instead of the gym.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she says sharply, taking a sip from her drink. It’s a strange purple color, a tiny yellow parasol propped against the rim. She’s always enjoyed her girly, fruity drinks, and if Nathan’s being honest, so does he. If they’re drinking together and he’s offered some bright, sugary concoction, something with Cointreau or Strawberry Pucker, he’ll down three, and then some. “If you’re trying to sleep with her, it’s not going to happen. She’s frigid and so holier than thou about it. Like, we get it. You’re lame.”

Nathan wrinkles his nose. “Fuck no. I’m—”

“If you’re really desperate to get laid, all you have to do is ask Taylor. I’ll grab her for you.”

Nathan catches her by the wrist before she can get away. “I’m good,” he says, his hand falling to his side. “Thanks.”

Victoria raises an eyebrow, giving him a smug look. “Whatever you say,” she mutters, pulling her wrist free. “What’s the deal with you? You’ve been off lately.”

“Long week,” he says, sighing. “That’s all.”

“Family stuff?”

“Sure."

Victoria nods, deeming this an acceptable answer, though the concern in her eyes doesn’t fade completely. “How’s Kristine doing?” she asks, her hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. “When was the last time you heard from her?”

He can’t remember. His sister has been volunteering with the Peace Corps for almost six months now. He’ll get an email from her every few weeks, a phone call if he’s lucky. It’s hard for her to find time and cell service in rural Brazil.

He harbored resentment for her when she first left. She’s the only person in their family who isn’t afraid to stand up to their dad, and when she fucked off halfway across the world it meant that he had to start taking his punches, both verbal and physical. He can't blame her, though. If he had the means to leave, he would've done it a long, long time ago.

“Sometime last month,” Nathan says, sucking a breath in through his teeth. “She’s busy bettering the planet. Ending hunger and building churches and shit.”

Victoria’s eyes soften, and for a brief moment, her usual harshness fades. “It has to be hard,” she says quietly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know you miss her.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, glancing away. “She’s doing what she wants. Good for her.”

Victoria watches him closely, clearly not buying his indifference. “I think you need something to take the edge off,” she says, reaching behind the bar to rummage around in their liquor stash. “What would you like? Beer? Taylor got this raspberry lemonade vodka you’d love.”

“Got any wine?”

She hums, pleasantly surprised. “Zachary brought some boxed stuff. It probably tastes like ass, but it’s wine,” she says. She reaches over the counter and pulls out a carton, plunking it down in front of him. “All yours.”

“Thanks,” he says, reaching into his pocket for the GHB and rolling it between his fingers, the cool glass warming slightly in his hand. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I saw Mr. Jefferson walk in a couple minutes ago. Maybe you should say hi before he makes his big announcement. Make one last good impression."

Her face lights up at the mention of him, hands flying to smooth out her outfit. “God, you’re a genius,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “Talking to him before he goes on stage will totally plant me in his head. It’s… what’s it called? Subliminal messaging? Be right back.”

She plants a friendly peck on his cheek and disappears through the curtains. Once she's out of sight, Nathan pulls out the vial, his hands trembling again.

He grabs two red solo cups and fills them both to the halfway point with cheap Merlot, one for him, one for her. When he sneaks a look over his shoulder to check on Kate, he’s pleased to find her talking quietly with Dana, both of their lips moving silently. Kate says something that Dana must find hilarious, because she laughs and kicks her feet, her beer sloshing haphazardly onto the floor. It misses Taylor's shoes by mere inches, which results in a series of swears that impresses even him.

He works quickly, uncapping the vial and holding it above one of the cups. He hates this part. He’s screwed up dosages twice now, and with no syringe on hand, he’s forced to play a guessing game. He pours a quarter of the drug into one of the cups, watches it dissolve, and prays that it’s enough.

Just as he’s about to bring Kate her wine, his burner vibrates.

“Shit,” he mutters, grabbing it from his back pocket. His head swivels frantically as he looks for a place to take the call. He can't leave when someone might be polishing off empties and drink from Kate's cup. Shooting a pointed look at the phone, he raises it to his ear. “What do you need?”

“Have you done it yet?”

Nathan fights the urge to scream. “I’m working on it,” he says, teeth clenched. “You do your job and I’ll do mine. How 'bout that?”

Jefferson chuckles on the other line. “If you were able to do your job correctly the first time around, I wouldn’t feel the need to babysit you,” he says. “You aren't what I'd call reliable.”

“Go to hell.”

“I don’t think you want to get into this right now.”

Nathan’s blood boils. He storms over to the curtains and pushes them aside, peering angrily into the crowd. He can see Jefferson standing near the door to the boys’ locker room, his head haloed by a glowing exit sign. He can also see Victoria lurking several feet away, ready to pounce once he hangs up.

“I’ve got it under control,” he says sharply, walking back over to the bar. “I’ll have her out of here in half an hour tops.”

“I’m on stage in forty-five. Make it quick.”

When the line goes dead, Nathan grabs the cups so hard that the plastic crinkles in his grip. He doesn’t hesitate to cross the floor and shove one of them into Kate’s hands, ready to be rid of it. “Here,” he says. “Cheers. Drink up.”

Kate looks up at him, her eyes widening slightly in surprise as she accepts the cup. “Oh, thank you,” she says, offering a small smile. Her fingers brush against his as she takes it, and for a moment, Nathan feels a pang of guilt so sharp that he almost snatches it back. Almost.

Clinking their cups together, she raises hers to her lips, and he watches her drink. Once she’s had what he’s deemed enough, he throws his own back, swallowing it all in one go, the tannic taste of wine mixing with the bile clinging to the back of his throat.

“Wanna dance?” Dana slurs at Kate, standing over her with a tipsy grin. For a couple of minutes, the two of them go back and forth about migrating to the dance floor (Kate warning that she’s not much of a dancer, and Dana insisting it doesn’t matter). Eventually, Kate glances back at him, as if seeking permission, and he opens his mouth to speak, to tell her to stay put, but no words come out. He can’t talk.

Panic sets in as he notices the strange aftertaste in his mouth, the edges of his vision darkening like an old roll of film. “What’s wrong?” Kate asks, although her voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel. She’s still sitting there, looking up at him with concern, her face soft and innocent under the neon lights.

“I—” Nathan tries to speak, but his tongue feels swollen, useless. He stumbles backward, his legs threatening to give out from under him. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead, and he grasps onto someone’s shoulder to steady himself. He feels like he’s twelve years old again, teetering around punch-drunk in his dad’s study after discovering the bottle of bourbon in his desk. How many times did he feel the sting of his belt that night?

“Nathan?” someone says. He thinks it’s Kate. Maybe Victoria. “Are you okay? You don’t look good.”

“I…” He forces the word out, but the room continues to bank. His chest tightens, thoughts blurring into one incomprehensible mass of fear and confusion, and he realizes he can’t make out anyone’s face anymore—just a vague blur of shapes and colors.

He tries to take a step forward but staggers to the side, colliding with someone nearby. They curse at him, but he doesn’t register it, reaching for the edge of the bar this time in hopes the solid surface will anchor him. This isn't right, he thinks to himself, feeling the floor tilt and breathe beneath his feet. This isn't right at all.

It's the last thing he thinks before the room falls out from under him.

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 10th

[You, Today 6:45 PM]

Mad Max, U home?

[You, Today 6:59 PM]

Coming over now. I have a surprise for you.

Warren slides his phone back into his pocket and frowns. He was hoping he wouldn’t be springing this visit on her, but it looks like she’s AFK. Probably doing cool Max things. She knows he’ll be stopping by before the party, so hopefully she doesn’t mind that he’s bringing a visitor.

“Warren. Ground control to Major Warren. Are you even listening to me?”

Warren’s head raises, his eyes flaring open. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Just… distracted.”

Chloe gives him an exaggerated sigh as they meander through the courtyard, their bodies bathed in orange light. Golden hour, Max calls it. “Obviously. I’ve been talking about The Great Parking Lot Incident of ’11 for the past ten minutes, and you haven’t said a word.”

“What happened?”

“The place was looking a little too boring for my tastes,” Chloe says, kicking a pebble. It rolls down the sidewalk with a satisfying clatter. “So I took some spray paint and spruced it up a bit. Gave the street some color. And Wells’ convertible."

Warren isn’t sure whether he should be appalled or impressed. “You vandalized the principal’s car?”

“Now, now. That's an ugly word,” she replies, pressing her lips into a tight line and holding up a palm. “It was more of an artistic protest against the tyranny of parking regulations.”

“Don’t tell me you painted dicks all over it, or something.”

“Of course I painted dicks all over it.”

Warren can only imagine the look on Wells’ face when he found it. He’s weirdly attached to his car. Sometimes he’ll stand out in the lot on his lunch break and circle it, inspecting it for any new scratches or dents. Or penises, apparently.

“And that’s what got you expelled, I’m guessing,” he says. “No way would he let that slide.”

“Principal Prick decided it was ‘time for me to find a new educational establishment,’” Chloe says, mocking Wells in a comically deep voice. “I’d been on his shit list for ages. Anyway, who’s your friend?”

“Oh. Right,” Warren says, scratching the back of his head. He forgot to give her the lowdown on Max. Kind of important. “I mean, where do I start? She just moved here from Seattle for the photography program. I think she lived here when she was a kid. She’s great.”

Chloe’s brow wrinkles, a strange look passing over her face. It disappears before Warren can comment. “Does she know anything about Rachel?”

“No more than I do, I bet. But if anyone can find out where she is, it’s her.”

The girls’ dorms are bustling, just like they are before every party. Faint music and laughter lilt down the hallway, girls filtering in and out of each other’s bedrooms as they assist with hair and makeup. Vortex Club parties are a big deal, especially for the ladies, many of whom attend solely to take selfies for Facebook. The social currency at Blackwell is tied to these events, and missing out means losing a foothold in the school’s precarious social hierarchy. Not that Warren cares about that sort of thing.

“Where was your room?” Warren asks, taking a sharp right. Behind him, he can hear Juliet angrily accusing Dana of stealing her hairbrush, to which Dana feigns innocence. “Must’ve been nice to live over here. The guys’ dorms are nasty.”

“Didn’t have one. Board’s too expensive for some of us,” Chloe scoffs, trailing her fingers along the wall. She shoots a glare at a room as they pass by, the door slightly ajar. Warren catches a glimpse of fairy lights and furniture that looks way too fancy to be standard dorm-issue. Must be Victoria’s.

He stops abruptly in front of Max’s door and raises his fist to knock, deciding against it at the last second. He reaches for his phone again.

[You, Today 7:12 PM]

Surprise is here. OPEN UP!

I have someone I want you to meet.

“Oh my God,” Chloe snickers from beside him, peering over his shoulder. “Are you double texting this girl? You’ve got it bad for her.”

Warren presses his phone to his chest, heat rising to his face. “That’s… uh,” he says, chuckling nervously. “No. I do not.”

“Oh, I think you do. You’re blushing.”

“You’re seeing things.”

“And you are shit at lying.”

The door swings open. Their heads swivel.

Max appears in the doorway having just woken up from a nap. Her eyes are half-lidded, her hair tousled from lying against her pillow. She yawns and covers it with the back of her hand but pauses when the two of them come into focus, her mouth maintaining a round ‘O’ shape.

Warren’s insides go all gooey. He’s melting. She’s staring at him, and he’s melting, and he thinks he might just forget how to form coherent sentences. Except she’s not really staring at him, is she? She’s looking slightly to his left, where he hears Chloe’s breath catch violently in her throat.

“Max?”

“Chloe?”

Warren looks between them, taken aback. They’ve met already. So much for a surprise.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it,” Chloe says, laughing in disbelief, but there’s something brittle about it. Warren watches her step forward, hands flexing as though she’s not sure to reach out or hold back. “Only one person on this planet would move back to this shithole for photography. When did you get here?”

Max stutters, her eyes wide and uncertain, clearly thrown off by the unexpected reunion. "Uh, a few weeks ago. I—I didn’t know you were still here, Chloe. I mean, I didn’t think—"

"Obviously I’m still here," Chloe cuts in, though her voice cracks just a little, a tremor running through it. She laughs again, the sound more forced now, as if she’s trying to hold something back, something that’s been buried too long and is threatening to surface. "Welcome back to Arcadia Bay, I guess. Not much has changed, huh?"

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Warren interrupts. “Are you two friends? Is the multiverse expanding?”

No reply. Max and Chloe hold eye contact for several more seconds. “Right,” Max finally says, opening her door wide enough for them to enter. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Childhood BFFs. Warren never would’ve guessed.

He sits with his legs crossed on Max’s carpet while she relays the history of their friendship to him, Chloe chiming in every once in a while to correct her. A chance meeting on the playground led to them becoming attached at the hip (Chloe offering Max one of her beaded friendship bracelets), and from then on it was history. From playdates to birthday parties, they were completely inseparable.

“Our teachers hated it,” Chloe drawls, her legs kicked up on Max’s couch. “It got worse as we got older. You should’ve seen us in middle school.”

“We always had to sit next to each other,” Max adds. She’s fully awake now, her hair brushed and the sleep rubbed from her eyes. “We were a package deal. You never saw one without the other.”

Warren feels a twinge of jealousy. The friendships he had as a child were confined to school property. He had plenty of people to play with during recess, but that’s where the line was drawn. He was forgotten about as soon as the bell rang, and that meant no invites to playdates or birthday parties. Summer breaks were torturous.

“You said you moved away five years ago?” he asks. “You were, what, thirteen?”

Chloe decides to answer for her. “She was thirteen, I was fourteen, and it fucked my life over and ruined everything,” she says bluntly. She shifts so that she’s sitting upside-down, her head hanging off the edge of the couch. “Just saying.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Max protests, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “I didn’t want to leave. What was I supposed to do?”

“Dunno. Maybe respond to all the letters and texts I sent you? You ghosted me.”

Max’s shoulders slump, her gaze falling to her lap. It makes Warren feel better to know that she’s bad at responding to even her closest friend’s messages, as selfish as that may be. “But it’s okay! Because now you guys are reunited,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Which means we can start our investigation.”

“Warren here thinks you can help us find Rachel,” Chloe says, her beanie falling off her head. She grabs it from the ground and shoves it over her ears, smirking. “He was going on and on about you. He wouldn’t shut up.”

“Not true,” he says. He shoots a look at her, which she returns with a toothy grin. “I was just thinking that you’d be a good addition to the team. ‘Cause you’re smart. And stuff.”

If Max is flattered by his awkward attempt at a compliment, she doesn’t show it. “Wait, what? Rachel?” she says, arching a brow and turning her attention back to Chloe. “How am I supposed to help? I never knew her.”

“You don’t know her,” Chloe corrects, irritated at her use of past tense. Past tense implies what Warren secretly fears. “There might be some clues that slipped through the cracks. You can help us find them.”

“Okay, but where do we even start? And when?”

“Later,” Warren says, holding his phone up to show them the time. The white numbers on his Star Wars wallpaper read 7:45. “We’ve got a party to catch first.”

It’s almost eight by the time they leave, Chloe leading the way while he and Max hang back. For someone who’s been expelled and isn’t supposed to be within ten feet of Blackwell, she shows no fear of being caught. She marches ahead of them into the courtyard, giving the finger to the main building.

“She’s something,” Warren says, amused. He’s keenly aware of how close they are right now, their knuckles brushing as they walk. “Has she always been like this? I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

Max smiles and makes a so-so motion with her hand. “Spunky? For sure,” she says, drawing her sweatshirt around her as they step outside. “Everything else, though… it’s like she’s a whole new person. I didn’t recognize her at first.”

“You’re saying the blue hair is a recent development?”

“She pulls it off really well.”

They watch her drift off the sidewalk and over to a tree that Trevor and Justin are leaning against. They’re passing a joint back and forth, the air around them thick and smoky. “Was there a reason you stopped writing to her?” Warren asks, trying to broach the topic carefully. “Or did you just fall out of touch?”

Their knuckles brush again. Max slips her hands into her pockets. “The last time I saw her was at her dad’s funeral,” she says quietly, peeking up at him. “I wanted to be there for her, but I didn’t know what to say. Nothing I wrote would’ve helped, so I guess I figured it was just…”

“Better to not say anything at all?”

Max nods feebly, her gaze dropping again. "Yeah," she whispers guiltily. "I was scared of saying the wrong thing. And then time just kept passing, and it felt like it was too late. I know I was a bad friend. I suck, big time.”

Warren nudges her gently. “I believe in second chances,” he says. Chloe laughs somewhere in the darkness, her silhouette grabbing the joint from Trevor’s hand and raising it to her mouth. “I bet she does too. You’ll patch things up.”

“You never told me how you two met. How did that happen?”

“Ran into each other at the Two Whales and bonded over our love for breakfast foods,” he fibs, stomach twisting into knots. He hates the queasy feeling he gets when he lies to her, but it's for the best.

They regroup and keep it moving, following the steady stream of students heading for the pool. It seems everyone is in attendance tonight, the Everyday Heroes contest the focal point of the event. Warren is disappointed when Max confesses that she never ended up entering, her Polaroid currently sitting at the bottom of her trash can. She tells him she’s too afraid of rejection. Warren tells her she should’ve taken a chance.

His hearing goes out as soon as they pass through the doors. The music they’re playing isn’t even really music—just noise and feedback from the speakers, the bass so loud that it rattles his teeth. He catches sight of Stella behind the counter of the coat check as she hangs someone’s leather jacket, but he’s tugged away before he can even think about saying hello. Chloe screams something intelligible at him.

“What?”

“I said,” she shouts, “that I put my number in your phone in case we get separated!”

Warren’s hand flies to his pocket to grab it, only to feel a cold jolt of fear when his fingers close around nothing. Relief washes over him when she holds it up, grinning wildly. “What the hell,” he says, snatching it from her grasp. “How’d you do that?”

“Been practicing for forever!” she shouts, waggling a finger at him. “You need to put a password on that thing!”

A boy standing nearby cannonballs into the pool, a massive wave of water splashing over the edges. A group of girls yelp and hold their arms up to shield themselves, Brooke standing among them. Warren watches her remove her glasses to wipe the frames with her sleeve, her face scrunched in annoyance. She jumps when he yells out her name.

“Warren?” she yells back, skirting through the masses to get to him. “Hi. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, noticing that the concrete floor is weirdly sticky. “I’m full of surprises,” he says. “Did you come with anyone tonight?”

Brooke nods, slipping her glasses back on. “Alyssa begged me to come. She’s grabbing drinks for us.” She glances over at the pool, where more people are jumping in, spraying water everywhere. “I don’t know why I go to these things. I’m regretting it already.”

Warren laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, it's... intense.”

The music swells again, louder than before, making it almost impossible to hear anything. Brooke steps closer so she doesn’t have to shout as much. “Did you come with anyone?”

Warren looks over his shoulder to gesture to Max and Chloe, but it seems they’ve been swallowed up by the crowd. “I lost them,” he says, shaking his head in defeat. “Listen, about yesterday…”

Brooke’s face reddens beneath the strobe lights. “Oh,” she says, waving her hand in front of her face. “We don’t have to talk about that. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You sure? You’re not mad at me?”

Brooke looks at him incredulously, as though he’s stupid for suggesting such a thing. “I was never mad at you,” she says. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s all good.”

He doesn’t believe her, but he knows better than to keep pressing. Whatever happened that day in class isn't something she wants to talk about. “How about we study this weekend?” he asks. “You can come over to my place. We can—”

“Yes,” Brooke says quickly. She clears her throat and nods vigorously, looking strangely giddy. “Yes. I’m free Saturday. I’ll bring snacks.”

It’s not long before Alyssa shows up with their drinks, and Warren is reminded that he’s a little too sober for all of this. He drifts over to a table with an unguarded six-pack of beer and snags one before anyone notices, popping the tab and taking a long sip. He doesn’t drink often—only when he needs something to help calm his nerves. The bitterness of the beer does just that.

There’s no way he’ll find Max and Chloe now with how densely packed the party is. For all he knows, they might have ditched him completely and gone back to the dorms. He opens his phone to shoot Chloe a text, but finds himself staring at the blinking cursor, which flashes repeatedly until he turns it off. They deserve more time to catch up. He'll find them tomorrow.

He leans against the wall and busies himself by watching a couple grind on each other, trying to ignore how painfully lonely it makes him feel. The girl, clad in an obscene amount of glowstick bracelets, breathes heavily into her boyfriend’s mouth as she moves her hips. Warren pries his eyes away when his hands dart to cup her ass, feeling like he’s intruding.

Another sip from his beer. Another attempt to numb the discomfort that’s starting to gnaw at him. He wonders if he should just go back to his room and call it a night when he’s startled by a scream, his head whipping in the direction of the VIP area. It’s followed by howling laughter, several voices clamoring to be heard. He tells himself it’s just Vortex Club douches causing a scene, but his curiosity is piqued when he notices a crowd forming around the entrance, phones flying out of pockets at alarming speeds to start recording.

He weaves past the couple and inches closer to the curtains, his view obscured by shifting bodies. Whatever is happening is drawing more people in. Every time he tries to crane his neck, another head or phone pops up in front of him. He can’t see a thing.

“Holy shit!” Zachary shouts from the inside. “Is everyone else getting this?”

“Zach, fuck off! Help me out here!”

Someone shoves hard at Warren’s back. He stumbles, the sudden push forcing him past the crowd and beyond the curtains, beer can falling from his hand. He’s disoriented for a few seconds. People and lights blur together as he regains his bearings, a voice behind him shrieking in disgust. The commotion grows louder. He looks up.

There, on a couch near the center of the floor, sits Hayden. On his lap sits Nathan.

He’s straddling him, a leg thrown over his waist and his fingers splayed against Hayden’s chest. He’s drunk. He must be. Warren watches him sway side to side, his mouth hanging open in a wide grin as he ruts against him. Hayden only grimaces and gently tries to push him off.

It’s like a car crash. It’s the most disturbing thing he’s ever seen, yet he can’t look away. Not even when Nathan surges forward and catches Hayden in a sloppy kiss, his tongue filling his mouth. The audience erupts in a mix of groans and cheers.

Victoria, who appears to have been watching all of this unfold in abject horror, reaches out to rip Zachary’s phone from his hands. “You’re disgusting!” she shouts, her face twisted with anger. “Leave him alone!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault!” Zachary protests, his hands raised defensively. “He’s the one making a scene!”

“Just shut up and stop filming it!” Victoria snaps, her eyes blazing. She turns her attention to Nathan, a mix of concern and frustration on her face. “Nathan, stop! Hayden, can you please just—"

Warren isn’t sure why Hayden hasn’t thrown him to the floor yet. He’s massive, all shoulders and muscle—two things that Nathan is lacking. He could beat him black and blue if he wanted to, and yet his hands only hover awkwardly around Nathan’s chest. He breaks free from the kiss, panting hard. “Vic,” he says hoarsely. “Do something. Please.”

“I don’t—I can’t—” she sputters, looking around helplessly. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’ve got it.”

It’s only when everyone turns to look at him that Warren realizes the words came from his own mouth. He doesn’t know why they did. Nathan is the furthest thing from a friend and what he gets up to while he’s drunk is none of his business, but the relief on Hayden and Victoria’s faces spurs him into action. “I’ve got it,” he says again, a little quieter this time, and steps closer to reach for him. “I can handle it.”

He grabs Nathan’s arm and tugs him off Hayden just before he can catch him in another kiss. With how unpleasant he is sober Warren fully expects him to put up a fight, but he’s pliant. Perfectly agreeable. He leans into Warren’s side, head lolling, knees moments away from buckling. Victoria throws Zachary’s phone at his chest and rushes over, her face flushed.

“Make sure he gets to his room safe, okay?” she whispers, eyes wide. “He’s probably been a dick to you before, but—please. I don’t know what happened. He’s never like this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Warren whispers back, throwing one of Nathan’s arms around his shoulders and hoisting him up. He’s dead weight. “Uh. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

No one says a word as they leave. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, everyone staring in judgment and confusion as they stagger toward the exit. Mr. Jefferson is among them, watching like a hawk from his position on stage. They’ve interrupted his announcement.

A gust of cold wind hits Warren’s face the moment they step outside, a godsend after being cooped up in that sweaty building. The night is cool, the distant sounds of the party muffled in the open air. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for Nathan dragging his feet beside him.

He’s not used to playing caretaker for someone who's never shown him an ounce of kindness. Nathan deserves to be stranded on the sidewalk, inebriated and horny, but Warren is above that. He wishes he wasn’t.

“Mmm, what’re you… whas goin’ on?” Nathan slurs into his ear, his breath hot and sour against his neck. “Hey, wait a minute.”

Warren shudders, tightening his grip on him. “I’m taking you home. You’re wasted.”

“Me? Nuh-uh.”

Warren rolls his eyes and keeps a firm arm around Nathan’s waist. As he breathes in again, though, he finds that he doesn’t smell any alcohol on him. The warm, boozy smell that normally clings to the air around drunks is noticeably absent. All he can pick up is Nathan’s coconut-scented shampoo and the faint musk of weed.

“Did you take something else? Are you on pills?” he asks, concerned. Nathan looks up at him and shakes his head, his pupils so blown out that Warren can barely see the color of his irises. His eyes are big and black in the moonlight.

“Nah,” Nathan says. “There was somethin’ in my drink that… thas makin’ my head all fuzzy.” He erupts into a fit of giggles, a noise that Warren didn’t think he was capable of making. “Can’t feel my fingers.”

“Were you drugged?”

Nathan pulls back abruptly and opens his mouth to reply, but freezes. He lurches over to the edge of the sidewalk to puke violently, most of it missing the grass and splattering onto his clothes.

Warren cringes. He places a hand on Nathan’s back while he waits for his retching to subside, and then guides him back over to the middle of the pavement. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, gagging at the vomit on his shirt. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Nathan coughs and wipes his mouth with his hand. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unexpected. “Because…” Warren starts, searching for the right words. Why is he being so nice to him? “I don’t like seeing people get hurt or ruin their lives, and that includes you.”

Nathan looks at him, gaze searching Warren’s face as if trying to decipher his true intentions. He’s clearly not used to someone caring about his well-being. “Y’know, you’re not so bad,” he says, taking his position at Warren’s side again. “I always thought you were a… like, a huge nerd, and a loser, and—”

“Alright. I get it.”

“But,” Nathan says softly, as if he’s experiencing some grand revelation, “you’re not so bad.”

It takes forever for them to hobble back to the dorms, Nathan babbling loudly about nothing along the way. It’s only when they get to his locked door that Nathan tells him he doesn’t know where his room key is. After clapping a palm to his forehead, Warren tugs him a couple of doors down to his own room. They’ll have to bunk together for the night.

“We’re not gonna be sharing a bed, are we?” Nathan says as he steps inside, kicking off his shoes. “’Cause that looks kinda gay.”

“You made out with a boy tonight and you’re worried about looking gay?” Warren fires back, rolling his eyes as he helps him further into the room. “Pretty sure that ship’s already sailed.”

Nathan giggles at that, wobbling slightly as he kicks his shoes into the corner. “Yeah, well... that was just—” He pauses, searching for the words, but they seem to escape him. He shrugs, collapsing onto Warren’s bed with a dramatic sigh. “Whatever.”

Getting him undressed is a process. His jacket comes off first, Nathan’s phone falling out of the pocket and onto the floor. Warren picks it up and slips it back inside, only to find that there’s already a phone in there. Two phones. Of course, he has two.

“Lift your hips. Need to get your jeans off,” Warren instructs, pulling Nathan’s sweater over his head and discarding it into a heap on the carpet. “Almost done.”

Nathan groans softly but complies from his spot on the bed, raising his lower half just enough for Warren to slide them off and replace them with a pair of pajama pants. “At least take me out to dinner first,” he snickers. “Oh, fuck, my head hurts. And my stomach. Motherfucker.”

Warren huffs, amused. “You’re in for a rough night,” he says, tossing Nathan’s jeans onto the growing pile of clothes. He straightens up, glancing down at Nathan, who’s now sprawled out on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes like it might block out the pain. “Go to bed.”

“Don’t leave me,” Nathan rasps, sitting up on his elbows. He seems slightly more aware now, whatever was in his system having been emptied along with the contents of his stomach. “Promise.”

“This is my room. I’m not going anywhere.”

Nathan gives a small nod and slowly sinks back into the bed, his head resting on the pillow. He’s still pale, still worn out, but there’s a bit more clarity in his eyes now. Warren watches him settle, feeling the tension in his own body start to ease.  “Thanks,” he murmurs, giving Warren a lazy thumb-up. “I’m going to sleep now. Night.”

“Got it,” Warren says, gathering his dirty clothes into a pile with his foot. He’d rather not touch them. “Wake me up if you need anything.”

“Mhm.”

It takes only seconds for his steady breathing to turn into snoring. Warren changes into his own pajamas and climbs under the covers, places a pillow between them to set a boundary, and stares up at the ceiling. Nathan Prescott, the Nathan Prescott, is sleeping in his bed.

He watches him till his eyelids begin to sag, the distant sounds of partygoers filtering through his cracked window. Someone outside is singing something familiar, and the tune rumbles in his throat until it's too hard to stay awake. It's the hardest he's slept in months.

Chapter Text

Friday, October 11th

The headache Nathan wakes up with is so violent it feels almost biblical.

His temples throb mercilessly as he comes to. He can’t open his eyes. The sun filtering in through his curtains pierces his eyelids like fiery needles, and he squeezes them shut to block out the onslaught of pain. He’s had some nasty hangovers in his life, but never anything like this. Not even his worst coke binges have left him feeling so shitty.

Attempting to sit up sends shockwaves coursing through his body. He falls back against his pillow with a groan, torn between cradling his churning stomach and massaging his head. The air in the room is suffocating, the sheets gathered around his waist damp with sweat. His body wracks with the urge to vomit, but nothing comes up. He knows from the rawness of his throat that he’s already been sick.

His recollection of the night before is hazy at best. He remembers taking Kate to the party, but everything afterward is fuzzy. There are gaps in his memory where there shouldn’t be. Flashes of faces, fractured conversations. The fact that he can’t remember driving to the darkroom is off-putting, but that can probably be chalked up to doing some celebratory drinking after he finished the job.

A wave of nausea hits him hard. He bolts upright and clasps a hand over his mouth, tripping out of bed to kneel where his trash can should be, but finds only a backpack in its place. One that doesn’t belong to him.

“You’re awake.”

Nathan stiffens. His eyes snap open again, uncomprehending, his mind sluggishly trying to stitch reality back together. His surroundings come into a fractured focus, piece by piece: movie posters framed neatly on the walls, shelves crammed with video games, the faint hum of a game console in sleep mode. None of this belongs to him.

And there, sitting up in bed, rubbing his face with a yawn, is Warren.

“What the fuck,” he croaks, his voice a cracked whisper, barely more than a rasp. He looks around again, desperate for something—anything—to make sense, to explain why the hell he’s waking up here, in Warren’s bed. “Why the fuck am I here?”

Warren yawns again and stretches, unbothered. “You don’t remember?” he says. “I’m not surprised. You were pretty messed up last night.”

“Not messed up enough to have a sleepover with you.”

"You couldn’t find your room key," Warren continues with maddening calm. "I wasn’t about to go digging around in your pockets after you projectile vomited all over them.”

Nathan, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up, looks down to find that he’s shirtless… and wearing flannel pajama pants that aren’t his. “You undressed me?” he snarls, hiding his wrists and frantically looking around for his clothes. He spots them in a heap near the foot of Warren’s bed and crawls over to them, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Warren shrugs, unaffected. “Either you borrowed something of mine, or you slept on the floor,” he says. “I made an executive decision.”

“Fuck off,” Nathan grouses. He reaches into his varsity for his phone to check the time but falters when he sees the number of notifications on his screen. He usually has one or two texts from Victoria at any given moment, but she’s spammed him an alarming seventeen times. There are another five missed texts from various Vortex Club members, one from an unknown number that appears to be Kate, and too many comments on his Facebook to count.

Something is wrong.

“Here,” Warren says, grabbing a bottle of water from his nightstand and tossing it to him. “Sip it. Don’t drink too fast.”

“I don’t need your help,” Nathan shoots back, voice quivering. He catches the bottle one-handed and chugs from it so quickly that he chokes, water spraying onto the carpet and dripping down his chin. He can’t breathe. Warren’s room is engulfing him.

“What—” he coughs, chest heaving. “What did I do?”

Warren winces from somewhere above him as he clambers out of bed. He moves closer but keeps a respectful distance between them, as though Nathan is some feral animal poised to attack. “I found you at the party last night. Things got out of control and Victoria had me take you back to the dorms,” he says, glancing away. “You weren't acting yourself."

Nathan scoffs. That’s not right. He closes his eyes and tries to walk himself through the few memories he has, the fragmented moments that might offer some clarity. He picked Kate up. They went to the pool. He poured some wine for himself and some for her. He drugged one of the cups. Fade to black.

Oh. Oh shit.

The weight of realization comes crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. Scrambling for his main phone, he taps on Victoria’s contact and watches her typing bubble disappear and reappear continuously.

[Victoria, Today 9:14 AM]

nate?

please answer me. i’m really worried about you

you’re scaring me

are you okay?

[You, Today 9:14 AM]

im fine

[Victoria, Today 9:15 AM]

ugh thank god

listen the video is being spread around but i’m getting it under control

everything will be okay

"Video?” he mouths, syllables shaping silently on his lips as he reads through her barrage of texts. He has no idea what she’s talking about. His screen lights up with another message before he can ask.

[Zachary, Today 9:18 AM]

https://natesvid.com  LOL

Warren’s phone buzzes at the same time his own does. He watches him check it in his periphery, eyes narrowing, thumb hovering over the screen. He looks back at his own and taps the link with trembling hands, nausea returning with a vengeance as it loads.

The video on the website starts to play before Nathan can brace himself. The camera quality is low and the audio distorted, but he can still make out the scene: himself—debased, disheveled—wobbling precariously on the party floor. The camera pans away briefly, capturing some of the other club members laughing and dancing in the background, unbothered. 

Cut to a different angle. A shot of the floor. The noises behind the camera are getting louder, people whooping and hollering. Turning the volume up doesn’t help him decipher what they’re saying. The music is too loud, Disclosure’s 'F For You' blaring in the background. The camera swings upwards, and there he is again, only this time he’s seated on Hayden. Touching him. Kissing him.

It goes on for an agonizing two minutes before Victoria steps into frame, ending it.

“Jeez,” Warren utters from across the room, the same song emanating from his phone speakers. “This is…”

“Turn it off!” Nathan chokes out. Warren obeys, the sudden silence deafening in the room. His chest heaves with each ragged breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale—

“You can go to the cops, right?” Warren says, reaching out to help him off the ground. “Or Wells. They can get the page taken down. I bet no one’s even seen it.”

Nathan ignores his outstretched hand and wipes his eyes. Either he’s lying to make him feel better or he’s stupider than he thought. “That’s not me,” he insists, voice cracking. “I didn’t do that.”

“Nathan—”

“I didn’t!”

Warren’s expression softens with pity. They both know that it is him—that his reputation is ruined. The gossips of Blackwell have been waiting for something juicy to sink their teeth into since the semester started. This is the kind of scandal that people will talk about for months.

“Just leave me alone,” he sobs, gathering up his clothes and pushing off the floor. He bolts out of the room, pulse thrumming in his ears. Warren doesn’t try to stop him.

FAGGOT, his bedroom door reads. It’s sprayed across the surface in red paint, so fresh that the letters are dripping. He stops halfway down the hallway to lean against the wall and stare at it, hyperventilating, hoping it might suddenly erase itself if he looks long enough.

He’s had shitty things written on his door and slate in the past. He’s hated by most of the school, his family hated by most of the town, so it’s not uncommon for him to get a nasty comment here and there. This word feels like a slap in the face, though. Even with how many times he’s used it with—and against—other people.

Thankfully, whoever wrote it decided not to stick around. He fishes around in the pocket of his dirty jeans for his room key and jams it into the lock just as the tears start to flow. The floodgates break open the moment he’s inside, and after going so long without them even cracking, there’s no way to close them. He collapses on his bed and cries till his ribs ache.

He’s not sure how he’ll deal with Jefferson, whose patience with him is threadbare. He’ll murder him for this. He’ll murder him and bury him in the junkyard where his first mistake is currently rotting, never to be seen again.

Gasping for breath, the taste of salt on his lips, he grabs his burner. He can’t hide from him forever.

[You, Today 9:43 AM]

im sorry

i fucked up. i fucked up so bad imsorr y

[Unknown, Today 9:48 AM]

You should be, because now I have a client waiting for photos we don’t have. You never made it out the goddamn door with her.

[You, Today 9:48 AM]

dont give up on me pleasr

[Unknown, Today 9:52 AM]

Last chance. Keep your shit together while I’m away this weekend and stop embarrassing yourself.

Right. Everyday Heroes. At least something was accomplished last night.

Warren’s pajamas are quickly replaced with clean jeans and a sweater that he pulls from the back of his closet. Once he hears the building stirring with people heading for the showers, he slips out the back stairwell to the girls’ dorms and skids to a stop in front of Victoria’s door. He hammers his fist against it till his knuckles burn.

The moment it opens, he throws himself into her arms. He crumbles.

Victoria holds him, stiff at first, but then her arms tighten around his body. The scent of expensive perfume and the faint tang of hairspray wrap around him as she pulls him inside, so achingly familiar, so far from the grime and rot of his own life that it feels suffocating in its pristine indifference.

“That’s it,” she utters, rubbing his back. She strokes his hair with a rehearsed delicacy, the way she’s done a hundred times before, soothing him while she assesses the damage. “You’re okay. Get it all out.”

 “I ca—I can’t stop,” Nathan wails. His sobs are broken, jagged things, scraping their way up from his chest in fits and gasps. It’s the kind of crying that doesn’t feel cathartic, doesn’t cleanse. It only leaves him emptier, his despair draining the last vestiges of strength from his bones. “I can’t br—breathe.”

“You can do it. Deep breath.”

He obeys, inhaling with a shudder that rattles his ribs, holding it in for a few seconds before exhaling, ragged and uneven. “It’s over,” he manages to grit out, his shoulders shaking as he tucks his face back into the crook of her neck. “My life is over.”

“It’s not,” Victoria says. “I know it’s bad now, but—”

“I’m going to kill myself.”

That gets her attention. She pulls away quickly, her hands flying to cup his face. “Stop it,” she says sternly. “Do not say that. Don’t ever say that. We’re not going there.”

Nathan wipes the snot from his upper lip, sniffling. “Everyone's going to think I'm fucking gay."

“Remember when I cut my hair freshman year? The whole school thought I was a lesbian,” Victoria says, unamused. “Everyone does dumb stuff when they’re drunk. Give it a few weeks and they’ll forget.”

Except they won’t, because this is the internet they’re talking about, and nothing on the internet is sacred. It’ll exist forever.

Victoria smooths a hand down his arm, her touch light but firm, and guides him to the bed. “Sit,” she orders gently. Nathan sinks down, his legs unsteady beneath him. His hands shake as he rests them in his lap, fingers twitching, aimless, as if searching for something to grip, to hold onto.

She takes a seat beside him and reaches up to stroke his cheek with her thumb, sighing. “It’s not the end of the world. This is just like when my nudes were leaked,” she continues. “People were passing them around like trading cards. Do you remember what I did?”

He does remember, sort of. That was during sophomore year. One of her ex-flings—some jealous, spiteful douchebag a grade ahead of them—had leaked her nudes to the entire school after she found out he had a girlfriend and cut ties. In public, she’d handled it with poise and grace, brushing off the scandal as if it were a minor inconvenience rather than a full-scale assault on her social life. In private, she’d cried to him. A lot.

“You took a ton of Vicodin. I remember that,” Nathan sniffs, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “And you ignored it.”

Victoria nods, smiling faintly. “Uh, hell yeah. I ignored it, because I looked hot as shit in those pictures, and everyone else thought so too,” she says. “I’m the queen of dealing with PR disasters. The more attention you give to this video, the worse it’ll get. Ignore it.”

Nathan lets out a weak laugh, though it’s more of a sharp exhale than anything resembling humor. “You think you can get it taken down?” he asks feebly. “You think they’ll listen to you?”

“I told Zachary I’ll snip his balls off if he doesn't."

That’s a start. He wipes his face again with his sleeve, the wool scratching his flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry about the contest,” he murmurs. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Taylor? Yeah,” Victoria says. She glances away, pouting. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine. I’m pissed about it, but we’ve got bigger things to worry about now. Better her than Max, I guess.”

He reaches up to gently rub at the mascara smudged under one of her eyes. She never forgets to take her makeup off—not with the twelve-step skincare routine she does every night. “What about Hayden?” he asks. “Is he okay?”

Victoria’s eyes narrow slightly, her lips pursing. “He’s… fine, I guess. He hasn’t said much about it,” she admits, her voice dropping. “He was a little messed up after you left, but can you blame him? He was assaulted.”

Nathan flinches at her words. “Assaulted?” he says. “You think I assaulted him?”

She hems and haws for a few seconds before sighing. “It’s complicated,” she says. She brushes his hand away from her face, though not unkindly, and sits back, folding her arms. “You were drunk. I’m not saying you meant to hurt him, but… look, it wasn’t good. For either of you.”

“I didn’t…” His voice cracks, the tears burning at the edges of his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”

Victoria leans forward, her tone sharper now but still controlled. “I know you didn’t, but not everyone will see it that way.”

Nathan swallows hard, his throat tightening. “He didn’t… fight back, though. He didn’t seem… I mean, in the video—”

“He didn’t make a scene, no,” Victoria cuts in, her voice level. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Nathan’s phone rings, his body tensing at the interruption. He grabs it from his jeans and, without looking at the caller ID, raises it to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?” he spits, breathless. “I don’t want to talk.”

“You watch your mouth when you speak to me.”

Nathan freezes, the blood draining from his face. His fingers tighten around the phone as he pulls it away from his ear, staring at the screen. Dad.

“I—” he stammers, his voice weak. He moves away from Victoria so that she doesn’t have to hear the intricacies of their conversation, even though he can see her straining to listen anyway. “I didn’t know it was you. Sorry.”

“Come home. Now.”

“I’m—I’m busy.”

There’s a long, heavy pause on the other end, the kind that makes Nathan feel like the ground beneath him is about to open up. “Nathan,” Sean says tersely. “If your ass isn’t on the doorstep in twenty minutes, I will take away everything you love. That’s a promise.”

Nathan sniffs, his hand gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles blanch. “Yes,” he mumbles. “I’ll be there.”

“Twenty minutes,” Sean repeats, his voice cold as iron. The line goes dead.

Nathan keeps the phone pressed to his ear long after the call ends, the silence stretching between him and Victoria. He breaks it by standing and stuffing it into his pocket. “I have to go,” he finally says, his voice brittle, cracking around the edges.

 Victoria’s brow furrows. “I don’t think you should be behind the wheel of a car right now,” she says. “Why don’t you just—”

“I don’t have a choice,” he snaps, more sharply than he intended, but he’s fraying, unraveling. His father doesn’t make idle threats. When he says he’ll take everything, he means it. And for Nathan, that includes Victoria, the one person who has stuck by him, who has tried—however imperfectly—to help him keep his head above water.

Victoria opens her mouth to argue, but something in his expression must stop her. Her lips press into a thin, displeased line, but she says nothing.

“I’ll call you later,” he adds hastily, as if that will smooth things over. As if anything can.

As he turns to leave, she snags him by the wrist, and he glances back at her, puzzled. “I have to ask,” she says, her voice softer now, a sharp contrast to her usual iron-clad confidence. “Sorry, but why did you bring Kate last night? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two in the same room before. It was just weird, is all.”

The question hangs in the air. To violate her, he thinks. We were going to ruin her.

“I don’t know,” he says, turning away. “Wish I could tell you.”

The Prescott Estate looms over Arcadia Bay like a shadow.

Nathan can spot it from his parking space at Blackwell, perched on a cliff overlooking his father’s new housing development. It’s all ivy-covered brick and white columns, an ancient colonial you’d be more likely to see in the northeast than on the Oregon coast. He’s almost certain it was made to look intimidating on purpose. Whoever built it wanted to send a message.

It’s not a happy house. Nathan can’t remember if it ever was. It was better when Kristine was around, when she was holding the family together by sheer force of will, but everything came undone the moment she boarded the plane. Their dad’s temper became unchecked, their mom depressed, their fights explosive. It’s why he lives in the dorms where he could easily live at home instead. He can do without the door slamming and passive aggression.

His truck rolls to a stop on the winding driveway, and he trudges slowly to the front steps and into the polished foyer. The portraits of stern-faced Prescott ancestors that line the walls stare down at him as he walks inside, ashamed. He and Kristine believed they were haunted when they were kids. They’d run up and down the hallways, convinced that their eyes were following them, and then retreat to one of their bedrooms to scare each other silly with a Ouija board. He still has it somewhere.

“Nathan.”

He stops in his tracks, feeling his father’s gaze on his back. He’s seated at the large oak desk in his study, surrounded by piles of blueprints and legal documents and cases of leather-bound books. He gestures to the seat in front of him and Nathan sinks into it.

“I’m an important man,” Sean says, his expression unreadable but brimming with that quiet, simmering anger that Nathan has learned to fear. He steeples his fingers under his chin, leaning back in his chair. “You understand that, right? Do you know how important I am?”

Nathan nods, though the motion is more reflexive than sincere, a practiced response to his father’s well-worn speech. “Yeah,” he grumbles.

“Speak up."

“Yes.”

Sean’s eyes narrow into slits. “My image is important. That includes the image my family projects,” he says. “And you are constantly raking the Prescott name through the mud.”

Nathan keeps his eyes fixed on the Persian rug beneath his feet. He knows he has a bad track record. From run-ins with the law to being put on academic probation, he’s not exactly the model son his father had hoped for. “I’ve been trying to do better,” he says. “Like, actually trying.”

“Trying,” his father says. “Trying is a word for the weak. We don’t try; we succeed. Success is the only thing that matters in this family.”

“I know, but—”

Sean holds a hand up to quiet him, the lines in his face deepening. “Honestly, I thought maybe you were starting to mature. I thought the therapy I’m paying too much for was starting to help,” he says. “Imagine my surprise when I checked my emails this morning.”

He turns his computer monitor around. The thumbnail of his video is frozen on the screen, Hayden’s face twisted in discomfort and Nathan, drugged and careless, leaning in too close.

Nathan laughs. He laughs, because what point is there in crying? Someone sending the video to his dad is the cherry on top of the fucking nightmare sundae. Nothing can hurt him anymore. The laughter quickly dies in his throat when his dad starts to scrub through the video, replaying it over and over. Rubbing it in his face the way a disgruntled owner rubs his dog's nose in shit after an accident. 

Sean turns the monitor back towards him. “So,” he says with disgust, folding his hands in his lap. “Care to explain?”

For a moment, all Nathan can do is stare at the screen, the grotesque loop of his own drugged-out image staring back at him. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words catch in his throat, tangled up with the bitter laughter that had erupted from him just moments ago.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally mutters, his voice hoarse, hollow. “I was drunk. I’m sorry.”

Sean’s expression remains stone-faced, unmoved by his son’s words. “I don’t know what your school’s been teaching you, if they’re feeding you that equality propaganda bullshit, but let me make something very clear,” he says sharply, gesturing at the screen. “This is not who you are. Or at least, it better not be. My son doesn’t kiss boys.”

“And I don’t.”

“Then what the hell is this?”

Nathan grips the arms of his chair, nails tearing into the leather. “It happened once, okay?” he snaps. “That’s all. I couldn’t even—I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“That better be the absolute truth,” Sean warns, fixing him with a calculating look. He removes his glasses and runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I don’t think you understand the level of damage control this will take. You’re lucky I don’t knock some sense into you right here. I should have that photography teacher of yours do it for me."

Nathan’s stomach twists. The mention of Jefferson, the casual way his dad throws out the idea of making him the enforcer, makes his skin crawl. “It was a mistake.”

“Do you have any idea how this 'mistake' looks?” Sean says slowly, his voice low, almost dangerous. “People are going to start talking, and I’ll be damned if I let my son ruin everything I’ve built because he couldn’t keep his head straight at one of his idiotic, vapid parties.”

There’s a long silence as Sean sets his glasses down carefully on the desk, his movements slow and deliberate, the way they always are when he’s holding himself back from snapping. “You have no idea what I've had to do to keep your name out of the papers. You have no clue what strings I've had to pull,” he continues. “One more slip-up and you’re shit outta luck, kid. You’ll never see another dime from me again.”

“I got it,” Nathan grumbles, shifting uneasily in his chair, palms slick with sweat. “Last chance.”

Sean grabs a fountain pen and turns his attention to some of the papers on his desk, signing them with a flourish. “I don’t want to look at you right now,” he says dismissively. “Stay out of trouble and clean up your room. It’s a disaster.”

Nathan rises from his seat, grimacing. “That’s what the maid’s for,” he comments over his shoulder, but his father doesn’t acknowledge him. He doesn’t give the slightest indication that he’s heard Nathan at all.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Nathan chews the inside of his cheek till he tastes blood.

His room is a relic from a different time, unchanged from when he first moved into the Blackwell dorms at fourteen. Unchanged from when he was in middle school, really. The walls are still painted blue, his dresser lined with the action figures and snow globes he collected when he was younger. There’s no point in updating it. He never has anyone over.

He picks up a globe that he bought from a beach gift shop back in Florida, one with a miniature sea turtle inside, and shakes it hard. It’s almost 11:30, which means he’s already missed two of his classes. There’s no way he’ll be able to sit through the rest of them, but he can’t stay here. His mom will be home soon and he’s not going to wait around for her to find out what he did. Her opinion matters tenfold more than his dad’s, and hearing her tell him that she’s not mad, just disappointed, will be the fatal blow.

The fake snow swirls around the turtle before settling at the bottom of the glass bubble. Not safe at home, not safe at school. Nowhere to run.

He decides to jump in his truck and drive out to the lighthouse, the only place that might offer him some peace of mind. He falls sideways against the park bench that overlooks the Pacific and draws his knees up to his chest, watching the salty wind violently whip the pines around. The town looks like a cardboard diorama from where he’s sitting, the people small as ants.

Rachel used to come here with him when they wanted to take a powder on school. She’d sit next to him, an arm draped around his shoulders while they shared a cigarette. “Any girlfriends that I don’t know about?” she’d tease. “Kissed anyone lately?”

He’d tell her it hasn’t happened yet, and she’d take a pull off her Marlboro Gold, flash him that big, white smile, and tell him she could fix that.

He glances over at the spot that would normally be taken up by her and places a hand on it, his palm flush against the wood. I know I'm a bad person, he thinks, tracing his fingers over the carved R + N 4EVER. I've done bad things. I deserve this for what happened to you.

A train horn wails in the distance, echoing in the gully. You do, it screams. You do.

Chapter Text

Friday, October 11th

The second his door slams shut, Nathan’s footsteps stomping down the hallway, Warren crawls back into bed. Helping him was always going to be a thankless job.

He isn’t sure what he was expecting. Nathan was never going to fall on his knees and thank him for cleaning him up and giving him a place to sleep. That would be too much to hope for, given the current state of their relationship, or lack thereof. He should’ve enjoyed loopy Nathan while he had the chance. Maybe someone should slip him something more often.

Muttering under his breath, he pulls the covers up to his chin and unlocks his phone. He did what Victoria asked. He’s not his problem anymore.

He scrolls absently through Facebook, eyes glazed over, not focusing on anything in particular. He’d expected… what, exactly? Gratitude? A conversation? He snorts at the thought. Yeah, right. Nathan Prescott, grateful? The same guy who barely acknowledges him on a good day?

The truth is, Warren doesn’t know why he keeps getting involved. Nathan was a mess—is a mess. Maybe it’s pity. Or maybe it’s the part of him that can’t resist trying to fix what’s broken, even when the pieces don’t want to be put back together.

He decides to read through the posts he missed from last night, all of which make his FOMO skyrocket. He flicks past filtered selfies of girls with pouted lips and double taps on a photo of Max and Chloe together, dated shortly after he left with Nathan, before continuing to scroll. Clips of people doing drunk belly flops into the pool. A blurry photo of Logan attempting a keg stand. Victoria and Courtney posing for a picture with their perfect, practiced smiles, red Solo cups raised high.

And then the video, over and over, clogging up his timeline.

It’s been reposted from the website by a few anonymous profiles, each one having upwards of 500 likes—nearly double the number of students that attend Blackwell. He taps on Nathan’s tagged account and goes straight to his most recent post from a couple of weeks ago. A Tumblr-worthy photo of him and Victoria at some art gallery in Portland, their backs to the camera while they admire a painting. Harmless, although the comment section is a dumpster fire. They range from sympathy to mockery, but they’re mostly mockery, and they’re mean.

Warren is tempted to reply to them on Nathan’s behalf, but he knows better than to engage, because that would only feed the flame. Nathan will have to handle this one on his own.

Forcing himself out of bed and into fresh clothes, he makes his way over to the girls’ dorms and stops in front of Stella’s door, knocking a few times. He owes her a visit after not being able to spare her one last night. When a muffled voice shouts for him to come in, he twists the knob and finds Stella sprawled out on her bed, Dana lying horizontally with her head in her lap. Kate smiles up at him from her seated position on the carpet.

“Woah. Hey, ladies,” he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “How’re we feeling?”

“Me? Peachy,” Stella says, pointing at Dana. “Her? Not so much.”

Dana moans, scrunching up her face. “I overdid it,” she says. “Kate had to hold my hair back for me. I’m a disaster.”

“Looks like it,” Warren says, giving her a sympathetic look. Her complexion is pale, eyes half-lidded. The familiar look of someone experiencing the aftermath of a night they’d rather forget. “What was it this time? Tequila?”

Dana groans dramatically. “Everything. Never again,” she mutters, though there’s a resigned familiarity in her tone—one of those declarations that everyone says but no one really means.

“At least your face isn’t plastered all over the internet,” Stella says genially, petting Dana’s hair. “Could be worse.”

Warren grimaces and takes a seat on her couch, hugging a pillow to his chest. “I’m guessing you guys saw the video, then.”

Dana, from her supine position, musters up enough energy to prop herself up on her elbows. “God, who hasn’t seen it?” she says, wincing as she pushes her hair out of her face. “It’s everywhere.”

“Can you believe Nathan’s gay?” Stella scoffs. She grabs a plastic bottle filled with a strange yellow liquid from her nightstand and takes a swig. A homemade remedy for hangovers, most likely. “Who would’ve thought? I always assumed he was, like, violently homophobic. I guess he’s just repressed."

“But he isn’t,” Kate says, piping up from the floor. “I was his date, remember?”

Warren wonders if she’s joking for a moment, but the expression on her face is serious. “I know what you’re thinking,” she continues. “I had no idea he was going to ask me, but he did. He was sort of nice about it too. He’s not as much of a jerk as people say he is.”

“He’s a jerk alright,” Dana says, taking the bottle of mysterious hangover cure and nursing it. “And I’m with Stella. He’s a little fruity.”

“I think he was just drunk. Why would he bring a girl to a party if he doesn’t like them?”

“Drunk actions are sober thoughts, Katie. You were his beard.”

“I heard that he left the party with Hayden and… you know,” Stella interjects with a grin. She makes a hole with her thumb and forefinger and proceeds to repeatedly thrust her opposite index finger through it, a gesture that makes Dana laugh so hard she snorts. “They totally—”

“He left with me,” Warren says quickly. He clears his throat and holds the pillow a little closer when all three heads turn to look at him, each pair of eyes reflecting a different emotion—confusion, curiosity, disbelief. He shifts uncomfortably under their scrutiny. “Not with Hayden. I took him back to my place.”

Dana shares a glance with Stella, her eyebrows raised. “No way,” she says, awed. “Did you fuck Nathan Prescott?”

Warren immediately feels heat rise to his cheeks, his face turning beet red. “No!” he shouts, stammering as he searches for the right words. “No, no, we didn’t. It wasn’t like that. No.” Never.

“I’m kidding. Why’d you take him home with you?”

“Because,” he grumbles, lowering his voice. “You saw what he was like. Someone needed to get him out of there, and Victoria asked me to get him to his dorm, but then he couldn’t find his key, and at that point he’d puked everywhere so I had to undress him, and…”

Kate reaches up to place a comforting hand on his thigh. “You’re a good person,” she says, trying to alleviate his embarrassment. “Nathan has a lot of enemies. I don’t think anyone else would’ve done that for him.”

“Not after the video. He’s got a reputation now,” Dana adds. “I know we shouldn’t speculate about his sexuality or whatever, but if he is gay, then this is the wrong town to be living in. People here are assholes.”

Warren can’t help but agree with her. As far as he knows, Evan is the only person at Blackwell who's out of the closet. The shit he gets for it is unreal.

“And on that note,” Stella says, shimmying out from under Dana and grabbing her shower caddy. “I need to get up and be a productive human. This has been great, though. You guys can stick around if you’d like.”

Dana hums appreciatively, Kate standing and smoothing out her skirt. “I got back late last night and didn’t have time to finish some reading, so I better go,” she says. “It was good to see you, Warren. If you see Nathan again, tell him I hope he’s okay.”

Warren nods, jolting when his phone chimes in his back pocket. He pulls it out once Kate and Stella leave the room.

[Chloe, Today 9:38 AM]

wakey wakey eggs and bakey

at american rust with max rn. meet us there

[You, Today 9:40 AM]

I’d go if I didn’t have classes today. Midterms are coming up ( ╥ω╥)

[Chloe, Today 9:41 AM]

get your nerdy ass over here nao and play detective with us. we gots work to do

AND NO EMOJI!!!!!!

[You, Today 9:41 AM]

┐( ´ д ` )┌

[Chloe, Today 9:42 AM]

No Emoji.

Missing a couple of of classes shouldn’t be too bad. He hasn’t had a single absence in any of them so far, and he doubts any of his teachers will notice he’s absent anyway. “Dana,” he says, tossing the pillow to the side of the couch and rising to his feet. “Can I ask a question?”

“You just did,” Dana says, rolling over onto her side to face him. “Ask me another.”

“This is random, but what do you know about Rachel Amber?”

Dana’s expression shifts slightly at the mention of her. She pulls herself into a sitting position, her hands resting on her knees. “Haven’t heard that name in a while,” she says. “We did theater together. We weren’t close, but I always thought she was really cool. She partied pretty hard with the VC.”

“Was she a member?” he asks. Chloe doesn’t seem like the type of person who would hang out with anyone associated with the Vortex Club. The fact that Rachel has ties to them is interesting.

Dana makes a noise of uncertainty. “Not officially. Victoria wouldn’t have let it happen. They had, like, this weird rivalry,” she says, tugging a scrunchie off her wrist and pulling her auburn hair into a ponytail. “Honestly, I don’t think Rachel wanted to be a member. She was her own person, you know? Didn’t play by anyone’s rules.”

A rivalry with Victoria. Warren leans forward slightly, his interest piqued. “What do you think happened to her?” he asks. “If you had to guess.”

The look on Dana’s face turns somber. “Rachel was kind of an enigma. She kept her secrets close to her chest,” she says. “She got in trouble with the school last year. Something about drugs. It's morbid, but sometimes I wonder if she pissed off the wrong person and they got rid of her."

“Drugs?” he asks. “She was into that sort of thing?”

Dana shrugs. “She wasn’t, really. Not like… well, not like some people. I think she just got mixed up in the wrong scene for a while. You know how it is. Everyone wants something from you when you’re… her.”

Warren nods, though he can’t pretend to fully understand. Rachel seems more myth than person to him at this point—a larger-than-life figure everyone knows but no one really knows. “The plot thickens,” he mutters, making his way over to the door. “Thanks, Dana. I’ll see you later.”

“Hold on. What’s this all about?”

“Nothing,” he says over his shoulder, throwing her a smile. “Just curious.”

Warren, up until now, has never set foot in the American Rust Junkyard. He’s never had a reason to.

It’s an eerie, desolate place, surrounded by the rotting carcasses of vehicles and broken appliances. The air is thick with the smell of decay, the area dead silent save for the shrieking of gulls and the occasional creak of shifting junk. It’s a far cry from what he’s used to, and he can’t help but feel a sense of dread as he ventures further inside. His mom would kill him if she found out he was wandering around here, dodging used syringes and broken glass. He'd never hear the end of it.

He spots Chloe’s beaten-up truck parked amidst the wreckage and makes his way over, Max sitting on the hood and Chloe leaning against the side. “Finally decided to show up, huh?” she smirks, pushing herself off the truck and giving Warren a playful shove. Her hair is blinding against the drab background of rusted machinery. “We were wondering if you got lost on the way over here.”

Warren chuckles nervously, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. "Made it," he says, glancing around warily. "I can't believe you guys abandoned me last night, by the way. Some friends you are."

“Sorry,” Max says as she hops off the hood, camera swinging from a strap around her neck. “We thought you were right behind us the whole time… until we turned around and saw that you weren’t. Where’d you go?”

Warren scratches the back of his head, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. “The dancefloor," he lies. "Had to bust a move."

“Did you see the moves Nathan was busting last night?” Chloe asks with a crazed grin. “Hilarious. I’ve watched that video, like, ten times.”

Max frowns, shooting a disapproving look at her. “I heard some people wondering if he was roofied,” she says. “He looked more than drunk. I don’t know who would do that to him, though. He’s not your typical target of a date rape drug."

“Exactly. I don’t know who would want to date him, let alone ra—"

“Chloe.”

Chloe throws her hands up in surrender, scoffing. “He tried to kill me! Excuse me if I don’t feel like shedding any tears for the guy!” she says, kicking at a pile of junk nearby and sending a soda can clattering across the junkyard. “If anyone deserves to have a rough night, it’s him. I don’t give two shits.”

Max freezes, her mouth falling open. “Wait,” she says, shaking her head and looking between the two of them. “Sorry. Nathan did what?"

Warren turns around and tries to sneak away, but Chloe grabs his arm and yanks him towards her. “Nathan roofied me, and then he tried to shoot me in the bathroom. Warren rescued me,” she boasts, clapping him hard on the back. “And now we’re best friends.”

“When were you guys going to tell me about this?” Max asks, looking between them with wide eyes. She turns to Warren and reaches for his hand. “You seriously saved her?”

Fireworks erupt under Warren’s skin when she touches him. “Oh. I mean… yes?” he says, voice strained. He can’t think with Max’s hand in his. “It was just adrenaline. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Anyone with massive balls. He’s my knight in shining armor,” Chloe chimes in, batting her eyelashes. “The self-appointed guardian angel of Blackwell. But a lady’s gotta know how to defend herself, so…”

Warren staggers backward when she reaches into the waist of her jeans and pulls out a gun. A revolver, small and black with a long barrel. She spins it around her finger like a cowboy from an old Western. “Relax,” she says, sensing his unease. “The safety’s on.”

“Where did you get that?” he asks, breathless. “Why is everyone armed to the teeth?”

Max eyes the gun with the same amount of discomfort. “We went back to her house last night,” she explains, shaking her head when Chloe winks at her. She reaches out to take it from her hands, but Chloe holds it just out of reach, dangling it over her head. “She stole it from her stepdad’s gun cabinet. I keep telling her to put it away.”

“Not when we’ve got Nathan on the loose. I’m not dealing with his bullshit again,” Chloe says pointedly, tossing it up and down as she talks. “Let’s cut to the chase. Rachel and I used to hang out here all the time. I’ve turned this place upside-down looking for answers, but maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places. That’s where you guys come in.”

Warren glances around, the creepiness of the junkyard settling in again. “What are we looking for?” he asks. “Is there where she was last seen?"

An oncoming train whistles nearby, the rhythmic clattering of the tracks growing loud. It drowns out the conversation as it cruises past them, vanishing into the tree line. “I don’t even know what we’re looking for. Anything that seems sketchy, I guess,” Chloe says, her gaze intensifying. “She was seen walking off of campus the night she went missing. This place meant something to her, though. If she left a trace, a clue for me to find, it’s here.”

“We’ll be a fresh set of eyes, then,” Max says. “Let’s split up to cover more ground.”

Warren wishes he was bold enough to suggest the two of them pair up, but she and Chloe part ways before he can work himself up to it. One of them wanders over to investigate a cluster of car parts, the other checking out an old shipping container. He finds himself standing alone before he forces himself to walk through the labyrinth of scrap metal, only to trip over a piece of rebar jutting up from the soil. He catches himself just in time, only moments before falling on top of it.

An old bathtub, a washed-up dinghy, a marquee sign with its letters and numbers rearranged to read W3LCOME 2 HELL. He explores the twisting pathways lined with garbage until he stumbles on an outbuilding, its door kicked off its hinges. Light filters in through the gaping hole in the brick, dancing on dust particles and casting long shadows across the floor. He cautiously steps inside, and then relaxes when he spots the mishmash of drawings and scribbles on the walls. One of them reads Chloe was here. Below it, a similar sentiment left by Rachel.

Chloe wasn’t lying about spending time with her here. The dartboard on the wall and the empty pizza boxes littering the floor point to this being their hideout. He snoops through the remnants of their presence until he lands on a stack of photos of them together, taken around town with a disposable Kodak. They’re standing on the beach in one, their fingers interlaced as they walk toward the ocean. In another, they’re seated on a bench by the lighthouse, Rachel’s head resting tenderly on Chloe’s shoulder.

He wonders how Max feels about this, and if she even knows how close the two of them are. Is she jealous knowing that her childhood best friend found a replacement for her after she left? She didn’t expect Chloe to wait around for her indefinitely, did she?

Digging through more of their mementos turns up an assortment of concert tickets, seashells, and a few handwritten notes, all of which he leaves exactly as he found them. When he makes his way over to a small, rickety bookshelf, he finds a piece of paper tucked between two worn paperbacks, the paper yellowed and fragile.

I WANT TO DIE

That’s dark. Warren slides it back between the books, disturbed. As much as he hates to think about it, he wonders if Rachel was suicidal when she disappeared. Dana said she kept her secrets close. This might just be the story of a girl, quietly battling mental illness, who walked into the woods and killed herself.

A gunshot pierces the air outside, the noise reverberating through the hollow structure of the outbuilding. He finds himself sprinting back toward the center of the junkyard, feet pounding furiously against the earth, horrified of what he might find. He doesn’t have to wonder long when he slams into Chloe’s back, who glances over with her eyebrows raised.

“What was that?” he pants, doubling over. “What’s going on?”

“Target practice,” Chloe says nonchalantly. Warren peeks over her shoulder and watches her raise the revolver, aiming it at an empty beer bottle. She pulls the trigger with a precision that suggests she’s no stranger to firearms, the bottle shattering into a hundred shiny pieces. “Bullseye.”

Warren hisses and claps his hands over his ringing ears. A group of crows take flight overhead, equally startled. “Maybe give me a heads-up next time,” he says. “I thought someone was dying.”

“Just me getting distracted. Remind me to give you guys shooting lessons,” Chloe says, turning around and brandishing the gun with one hand. She lowers it quickly when she spots something in the distance, her eyes narrowing. “Shit,” she says. “Ugh. Shit.”

Warren doesn’t see it at first, having kicked up a cloud of dust in his wake. A figure emerges once it settles, and he finds himself looking at the man from the diner, a swagger in his step and a wry grin on his face.

“If it isn’t Bonnie and Clyde… and friends,” he drawls, watching Max scurry over to join them. “Real cute that you’re playing with guns. Just like me at your age.”

“Bullshit,” Chloe snaps, jumping in front of the two of them. She subtly passes the gun to Warren, who hides it behind his back. It’s cold and heavy in his palm. “We’re nothing alike, man.”

“Sure we are. We both need money. In fact, you need it so bad that you owe me a shitload.”

“You’ll get your money.”

Frank chuckles. “Debt’s a dangerous game,” he says, stepping closer. He notices Warren fidgeting out of the corner of his eye and points at him, beckoning him closer. “What’ve you got there, kid? Let me see.”

“Uh, it’s just… um,” Warren says, trying to discreetly shove the gun down the back of his jeans. The muzzle keeps catching on one of his belt loops. One wrong move and he’ll have a bullet in his ass. “Nothing.”

Chloe, now focused on Frank’s wrist, steps in again. “Where did you get that bracelet?” she interrupts. “That’s Rachel’s. That’s Rachel’s fucking bracelet.”

Frank looks down at the blue leather band, his demeanor suddenly guarded. “She gave it to me,” he says, an edge in his tone. Warren and the gun have been forgotten. “It’s none of your goddamn business. You’re my business now.”

“Bullshit! You stole it from her!”

“Calm the fuck down. It was a gift.”

When Chloe lunges to tear it off him, Frank reaches into his jacket and pulls out a butterfly knife. He holds it close to her face, the blade gleaming dangerously. “You watch yourself, girlie. I mean it,” he warns. “You want me to cut you, bitch? I’ll cut you. I’ll—”

Warren pulls the gun from behind his back and points it at Frank’s chest, his heart pounding. “Put that down,” he says. “Take a step back.”

For a tense moment, no one moves. Frank’s expression hardens as he shifts his gaze from Chloe to Warren, the knife still poised threateningly in his grip. When he fails to lower it, Warren braces himself and pulls the trigger, only to hear the impotent click of an empty chamber. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck when Frank laughs coarsely, pointing the tip of the knife in his direction.

“Nice try, kid. You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that,” he says, his face set in a sneer. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, waving the knife through the air in lazy arcs. He turns it on Chloe after a moment, pointing the tip at her chest. “And you. You have till Friday to pay up. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He twirls the blade between his fingers as he swaggers away, footsteps crunching against the gravel as he disappears into the tree line. For a moment, neither Warren nor Chloe moves. The silence is oppressive.

“You—” Chloe starts, her voice breaking as she turns to him, eyes wide with disbelief and something akin to gratitude. “You were actually gonna shoot him, weren’t you?”

Warren opens his mouth, but no words come out at first. He’s still trying to process it himself. The cold, sickening realization that he’d been ready to pull the trigger—to shoot a man, even if it was to protect Chloe—sends a chill down his spine. “I—I didn’t know what else to do,” he stammers, examining the useless revolver in his hands. “Holy shit. I could’ve killed him.”

Chloe, sighing shakily, pulls her keys from her pocket and starts back in the direction of her truck. “He did something to her,” she says, shaking her head. “Rachel—she’d never give him one of her bracelets. That fucking lowlife. He did something.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Max says quickly, carefully taking the gun from Warren’s hands and trailing after her. “Who was he, anyway? Chloe, did he say you owe him money?”

“I’ll explain later. We need to break into his RV.”

Warren almost laughs. “Nope. I’m good,” he says, backing away and throwing his hands up in defeat. “Count me out. We’ll just call the cops and tell them he’s a person of interest. I like that idea more.”

Chloe opens the door of her truck and jumps inside, slamming it. “Yeah, that’s great. ‘Hey, officer, we had a little confrontation with a known criminal in a junkyard, someone who’s probably a suspect, and one of us tried to shoot him.’” Her truck roars to life as she sticks her head out the window. “You wanna tell them, or should I?”

Warren winces, realizing how ridiculous his suggestion sounds in the face of Chloe’s biting sarcasm. “I mean, it sounded better in my head,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “My point still stands. Bad idea.”

Max steps in, trying to diffuse the tension. “Chloe, we don’t have to do this right now,” she says, calm but urgent. “We need to think things through. If we get caught breaking and entering, it’s game over. We can’t help Rachel if we’re locked up.”

Chloe lets out a sharp, exasperated sigh, glaring at both of them from her seat. “I can’t just sit around and do nothing,” she says, her voice softer, but no less determined. “I know Rachel’s in trouble. I feel it in my gut. And every minute we waste is one more minute she’s out there… God knows where.”

“Then we’ll make a plan,” Max says, jogging to the passenger side and sharing a look with Warren. “And if things get too dangerous, we’ll bail. How’s that sound?”

Chloe doesn’t respond. She gives Warren a halfhearted wave as they tear out of the yard, truck rattling, tires squealing. Only when he’s alone does he allow himself to exhale, sinking down onto an overturned barrel and clasping his sweaty hands to keep them from shaking.

It’s too early for him to point fingers, but the dots already seem to be connecting themselves. Rachel gets in trouble for drug use, vanishes, and suddenly a dealer turns up wearing her bracelet? He knows he shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but that’s pretty damning on its own.

Chloe’s right. Frank needs to be investigated. Or, more accurately, his RV.

Warren huffs, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. Noticing a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, he tenses up and scans the junkyard for the source, still skittish from the encounter with the gun. He relaxes when a doe sticks her head out of the bushes, ears moving back and forth, nose pressed low to the grass.

“Hey there,” he says softly, raising a hand in what he hopes is a non-threatening gesture. The doe takes a cautious step forward, big brown eyes meeting his as she stands over a pile of scrap metal. It’s like she’s speaking to him, like she wants something from him, although he isn't sure what exactly.

A twig snaps nearby. Just as quickly as she appeared, the doe bolts, vanishing into the underbrush.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 14th

Nathan hates a lot of people, but at the top of his list sits his psychiatrist.

He’s sat through exactly fifty-four sessions with Dr. Bill, a graying, bearded man with a beak for a nose. One session a week for the past year, each one more tedious and infuriating than the last. It’s amazing how his dad thinks sitting down and talking about his feelings will magically erase all his problems, and even more amazing that he uses these therapy sessions to gather intel on what’s going on in his life, because Dr. Bill is a walking, talking HIPAA violation who tells him every goddamn thing they discuss.

His predecessor, Dr. Jacoby, wasn’t much better. In fact, Nathan would argue he was worse—an empty suit who just sat there, nodding along, scribbling meaningless notes on a legal pad while pretending to listen. He had ended up firing Nathan as a patient, citing him as ‘uncooperative and noncompliant' and needing more help than he could give. Nathan had laughed when he’d gotten the letter. Fired from therapy. As if he’d wanted to be there in the first place.

It’s not that Nathan doesn’t understand therapy. He gets the concept, in theory. He’s even read about it, done the research—CBT, mindfulness, whatever. But sitting in Dr. Bill’s over-furnished office, staring at the motivational posters on the walls and trying not to roll his eyes every time he pops a how does that make you feel? Frankly, it makes Nathan feel like he wants to deepthroat the barrel of a shotgun.

“How was your weekend?” Dr. Bill asks from Nathan’s computer screen. Their meetings have been over Skype lately due to ‘scheduling conflicts’ on Nathan’s end—a cunning way for him to avoid the suffocating proximity of his therapy room. He’s not sure he can survive another hour in there, sitting across from a man who believes he’s cracked the secrets of the universe with his line of shitty self-help books.

“It was fine,” Nathan replies, his voice flat. He’s slouched back in his chair, one hand fidgeting with the edge of his laptop. Dr. Bill’s face looms on the screen, pixelated but still wearing that same patronizing expression. His soft, patient smile, the type that screams I’m trying to understand you, only fuels Nathan’s mounting disdain.

“Fine,” Dr. Bill repeats, jotting something down. He flips through his notebook, probably refreshing himself on Nathan’s issues before they dive into another round of psychological arm-wrestling. “Anything in particular you’d like to talk about? You seem distracted today.”

Nathan scoffs quietly to himself. Of course, he’s distracted. There’s a thousand thoughts running through his mind, most of them things he’ll never speak out loud. The video, Jefferson, his dad—none of that belongs in this room, or this session, or whatever this virtual purgatory has become.

“I’m just tired,” Nathan mutters, knowing full well it’s a non-answer. It’s easier this way, keeping things vague, not giving Dr. Bill too much to work with. He’s mastered the art of evasion since being thrust into therapy sessions at the age of eight.

“I see,” Dr. Bill says, his voice taking on that careful, practiced tone that therapists use when they’re about to tread lightly into dangerous territory. “How was your weekend? Do anything fun?”

His weekend was anything but fun. He had spent the better part of it spiraling, alternating between sleeping, drinking himself into a stupor, and staring blankly at the ceiling as he considered his life choices. Victoria had dropped by to deliver him food and coax him to eat, though everything she brought him had gone uneaten. The smell of it had been nauseating, the mere thought of eating turning his stomach, and so the Styrofoam containers of wings and sushi had gone cold and untouched.

He doesn’t tell Dr. Bill any of that, of course. Instead, he shrugs, feigning indifference. “Nothing special. Just hung out.”

Dr. Bill watches him closely, clearly not buying the casual dismissal. “Your father told me about an incident at school,” he says. “Let’s talk about that.”

“I don’t know why we have to talk about it if you two already did.”

Dr. Bill leans back in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “Nathan, therapy is a process. It’s about addressing the underlying issues that contribute to your behavior,” he explains. “Simply discussing the incident with your father doesn’t replace the need for our sessions.”

Nathan rolls his eyes and fixates on the lawn outside his window, where two football players are playing catch. “I don’t need our sessions.”

“Your father seems to think so.”

“My father,” Nathan says sharply, “knows jack shit about me.”

Dr. Bill raises an eyebrow, his pen poised over his notepad. “He told me that a certain video of you was leaked to the school,” he says. “Something about you kissing a boy at a party. I want to delve deeper into that.”

Nathan hooks his fingers under his chair and digs his nails into the upholstery. “I got drunk, made an idiot out of myself, and now everyone thinks I’m a fucking homo,” he says. That's the story he's going with, apparently. "Happy?"

“Language,” Dr. Bill says. “Are you gay?”

Nathan’s eyes narrow. “No.”

“Are you being honest with yourself?”

“I know who I am.”

Dr. Bill tuts, unconvinced. “You’ve never had any girlfriends. You’d think a good-looking, well-to-do kid like yourself would’ve had at least one,” he says. “Has that ever occurred to you?”

Nathan’s eyes flare open. “Maybe I’m just not interested in dating. Has that ever occurred to you?” he retorts. Just because he’s never had a girlfriend doesn’t mean he wants a boyfriend. Maybe he's meant to be alone for the rest of his life. It would certainly spare the disappointment and heartache he's seen Victoria deal with over and over again.

Dr. Bill doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning Nathan with that same clinical detachment that always makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. “Alright,” he finally says. “Why don’t you tell me how you felt after the video debacle, then.”

Nathan leans away, his eyes darting from the screen. He doesn't like talking about his feelings, especially when it comes to someone like Dr. Bill, who seems to derive some sick pleasure from dissecting his emotional state. “Bad,” he mumbles reluctantly. “Embarrassed. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Dr. Bill hums and scribbles something down. “That’s understandable. Do you have anyone you can open up to about this? Anyone you can trust?”

Nathan scoffs. “Trust is overrated,” he says. “People use it to hurt you.”

“That’s pretty cynical, don’t you think?”

“Have you met me?”

Dr. Bill chuckles drily. “Moving on. How are you doing on the self-harm front?”

Not yet. He came close Saturday night, even going so far as to retrieve his razor and hold the blade to the scar tissue on his wrist, but he was able to talk himself down. “I’m fine,” he says, looking down at his lap. “No new scars, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good. Have you experienced any suicidal ideation?”

“No more than usual.”

Dr. Bill observes him intently before nodding and glancing at the corner of his screen, checking on the remaining minutes of their session. “Very good. We don’t want you back in inpatient, do we? I know that seventy-two-hour hold in the psych ward wasn’t fun for you.”

It was worse than that. After a suicide attempt during his sophomore year, he was forcibly dragged to a psychiatric clinic in Salem. Those three days were a blur of white walls, bright lights, and antipsychotic injections. He never told a soul about it and showed up at school the following Monday, pumped full of drugs and lying that he was home sick with the flu.

“I’ll check in with your father, let him know how our talk went,” Dr. Bill says, already starting to wrap things up. “Keep up those breathing exercises and keep taking your meds, Nathan. They’ll help you.”

Nathan disconnects from the call, slumping back in his chair and reaching for the two orange pill bottles on the edge of his desk. He spins one of them absently between his fingers, shaking it to hear the rattling of pills. Diazepam to quell his anxiety, Risperidone to quiet the voices in his head. Both of them useless.

He sets them down and opens Facebook against his better judgment, over a hundred notifications sitting in his inbox, and reads through some of the comments left on his page. They’re about as toxic as he thought they’d be. A lot of death threats, a lot of invasive questions and speculations about his sex life. He’s numb to them now. The words on his screen can't hurt him any more than he's hurt himself.

His laptop pings, inbox lighting up with an incoming private message. Someone sending him the link to the video again, he thinks, until he sees that the message request is coming from Evan. Even though he’s also in the photography program, the two of them have barely spoken during their time at Blackwell. Evan is a year younger and the sort of pretentious hipster type that Nathan usually avoids—the kind of guy that sips on artisanal coffees and talks about the deep, introspective meaning of his photos. He accepts the request with his guard up.

Evan Harris

Hey Nathan. How are you?

You

yo. why do u care

Evan Harris

I heard about what happened. I know we haven’t talked much, but if you need someone to chat with, I’m here.

You

is that it

Evan Harris

I just wanted to tell you that I know how you’re feeling and that it gets better. Life can be hard for people like us.

You

us???

Evan Harris

If you’re interested, I run the Gay-Straight Alliance after school on Wednesdays. We don’t have too many members, but we’d be happy to have and support you.

You

if u ever fucking message me again ill break ur fucking kneeca|

Nathan glares at his blinking cursor for several seconds before scrubbing his face with his hands, eventually returning them to his keyboard. He presses down hard on the backspace and smashes a reply.

You

k thx

“Motherfucker,” he mutters to himself, slamming his laptop shut and standing from his chair. No way in hell is he joining Evan’s support group. He won’t touch him, or anything he’s affiliated with, with a ten-foot pole.

He paces the length of his room for a moment before stopping in front of his mirror, a blanket thrown over it to hide his reflection. He recoils in disgust when he pulls it off and lets it fall to the floor. Bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, a sallow complexion. With twenty minutes till class and his dad breathing down the back of his neck about his attendance, he has no choice but to go. He's not willing to put his allowance from him on the line. He wouldn't be able to afford the very drug that ruined his life without it.

Shower caddy in hand, he unlocks his door, takes a deep breath, and sprints for the bathrooms with his eyes glued to his feet. He only looks up once he’s safe inside and confident he’s alone, the room is still steamy from the people who showered before him. Someone wrote the link to his video in one of the fogged-up mirrors. He doesn’t bother erasing it.

He wonders how Rachel would be dealing with this if it had been her in the video instead. Cool, confident Rachel, never letting anything get to her. She'd let the entire situation roll off her back, all of it forgotten by the following week. If only he could be as unbothered, as untouchable, as she was. If only he could ask her for help.

Instead, he peels his clothes off until he’s down to his boxers, an act that takes a herculean amount of effort. His limbs are lead-heavy and uncooperative. If he had it his way, he’d scrub the grit and grime off his body and go right back to bed, where he’d sink into the confines of his mattress until he disappeared completely.

The door opens as he reaches to turn the faucet on, a pair of hands wrenching his arms behind him. A shoe kicks the back of his knees, sending him flailing. “What the—what the fuck!” he heaves, the air leaving his lungs as he falls lamely onto the tile. “Get off me!”

Logan snickers over his shoulder. “Hey, Nate,” he taunts, jutting his knee into the nape of Nathan’s neck. His head is forced downwards, chin tucked. “Thought you needed a wake-up call. You’ve been hiding in your hole for too long.”

“You messed Hayden up bad,” Zachary says from somewhere behind him. Nathan tries to twist around to glare at him, but Logan’s grip tightens, the pressure on his neck increasing. “Dude’s, like, catatonic now. He should sue you into the ground.”

“For fucking what? The video you took?” Nathan growls. “That was all you, dumbass.”

Logan pushes him down hard, his face meeting the cold bite of the tile. “You know what you did,” he says. “And now everyone knows what a creepy little shit you are. Get the fuck up. Come on.”

Nathan tries to pull himself back up to his knees, only for Logan to shove him a second time. His teeth cut through the inside of his cheek and blood spills onto his tongue, warm and coppery. It tastes like the time his dad split his lip open with his wedding ring. He sobs.

“He looks like shit,” Zachary snorts, kicking Nathan’s leg with the toe of his sneaker. “Think we should give him a shower?”

Before Nathan can wonder what that could mean, Logan grabs a handful of his hair and drags him over to one of the bathroom stalls, kicking the door in. “No, no, no, no,” he begs, wincing when Logan throws him against one of the toilets. “Please. Please don’t. Pl—”

He screams when his head is dunked into the bowl, fingers clawing desperately at the porcelain. The shock of the cold water steals his breath, and he thrashes violently, the tang of blood mingling with the stinging sensation in his throat. His vision starts to phase out after he swallows a large mouthful of water, and he wonders if this is how it’s supposed to end. Death by drowning in a high school toilet. What a way to go.

The world around him narrows to nothing but the cold, the pressure, the unbearable need for air. When his body falls limp, his strength sapped, Logan jerks his head above the surface. He coughs violently, the sour taste of bile lingering in the back of his mouth. Only water spills past his lips as he clutches the bowl and vomits. He hasn’t eaten a proper meal in days.

Logan smirks down at him with perverse satisfaction. “Feeling refreshed?” he asks, dusting off his hands as though he’s just finished a hard day’s work. “Faggot.”

“Someone’s coming!” Zachary whisper-shouts, Logan’s head snapping toward the door. One of them flicks the light off as they flee the scene, laughing, their shoes squealing against the tile. Nathan manages to curl up in a shivering heap and wait for someone to find him in the darkness, counting the minutes with burning lungs, but no one does. No one is coming for him.

He shows up to photography fifteen minutes late and dripping wet.

He can feel the eyes of his classmates follow him as he takes his usual seat, a silence descending over the room. Jefferson gives him a pointed look, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him. He continues his lesson on Richard Avedon’s use of light and shadow in portraiture, as if Nathan’s tardiness is a mere blip in the timeline of his class.

He expects to be pulled aside once the lecture is over and asked if he’s alright, or to be called an idiot for coming to class in such a state, but Jefferson does neither. Once the last few students file out of the room, he returns to his desk and busies himself with some camera equipment. Nathan envisions storming over, grabbing one of the expensive lenses, and throwing it to the floor. He relishes the thought of tearing into him for not paying him any attention, for the radio silence from him since Friday morning. After hovering by his desk for another minute, he leaves, realizing that he’s not going to get what he wants from him.

He floats to and from the rest of his classes in a daze, whispers and curious glances following him everywhere. He manages to survive biology and calculus by zoning out, but he’s all too lucid during gym. The boys in the locker room give him a wide berth, afraid he’ll try something as they’re changing into their uniforms. “I think it’s best if you sit out today, son,” Coach Moore tells him, eyeing him cautiously. Nathan doesn’t argue, just nods and takes a seat on the bleachers while everyone else heads out to the field. He’s relieved when the bell rings and he can escape to AP English Lit.

It's the easiest class he’s taken so far this year. Mr. Garrett is on the cusp of retirement and has therefore given up on trying to engage his students, allowing most of them to coast through the semester with minimal effort. Nathan takes his seat by the windows and looks out at the courtyard, watching the beginnings of a storm roll in. A raindrop splashes against the glass.

There’s a creaking noise behind him as Luke Parker leans closer in his chair, positioning himself right above Nathan’s ear. “Nice coming out video,” he whispers, a grin in his voice. “How’s your boyfriend doing?”

Nathan turns his head just slightly and levels him with a cold glare. He’s surprised Luke would try to pick a fight with him. He’s in the same social class that Warren’s been assigned to—the one populated by geeks and losers. The bottom feeders. “Leave me alone,” Nathan utters, trying to focus on Mr. Garrett’s lesson on Shakespeare. “He’s not my fucking boyfriend.”

“You don’t have to get defensive. We’re all cool with it. Just didn’t expect you to be into that kind of thing.”

Nathan’s fingers tense on the edge of his desk. “Shut the fuck up, Parker,” he says, looking back at the window. The storm is building outside, the wind throwing the trees about. The sky opens in a torrential downpour.

“Whatever you say. It’s just funny, you know? You’ve always been, like, the macho, take-no-prisoners type,” Luke continues smugly. “Didn’t think the big, bad Nathan Prescott played for the other team.”

Nathan grinds his teeth and turns around, his face only inches apart from Luke’s. “You need to shut up before you say something you’ll regret,” he says, voice low. “I mean it.”

Luke’s smirk falters for a moment under Nathan’s intense gaze. The air buzzes with tension, the classroom seemingly oblivious to their conversation. Mr. Garrett drones on about iambic pentameter. “Did your dad get the email I sent him?” he says, his bravado returning. “I bet he didn’t like seeing his son swapping spit with another boy. No amount of money’s gonna erase that from the internet.”

Nathan’s patience snaps like a brittle twig. He stands and pushes his chair back forcefully, the screech of metal against the floor drawing everyone’s attention. “Fuck you,” he says, his voice breaking. “Fuck. You.”

“Enough, both of you,” Mr. Garrett says, closing the book of plays he was reading from. “Nathan, take a seat. Settle down.”

“No!” he shouts, whipping around to look at the rest of the class. Everyone is staring at him in varying degrees of shock and amusement, and if Mr. Garrett allowed phones in his classroom, he’s sure they’d be recording this too. “My life is ruined and—and no one even cares. You think you can just sit there and judge me? I didn’t ask for this!”

“Mr. Prescott, this is not the time nor the place. I’m not sure what’s going on, but—”

Nathan takes off before he can be threatened with a visit to Wells’ office. His feet drum against the linoleum, carrying him out of the main building and into the rain. He needs to get away. He’s done.

He has more than enough pills in his room to overdose on, but it would be a slow, agonizing death, and a horrible existence if he somehow managed to survive it. He could slit his wrists again, but he’s tried and failed that already. He remembers the gun tucked away beneath his couch, cocked and loaded, but shooting himself in one of the campus buildings would be messy. He doesn’t want to be more of an inconvenience than he already has been.

He stops in his tracks once the roof of the Prescott Dormitory comes into view, a thirty-foot drop to the concrete below. Throwing himself off will be the quick death he needs, the very thing to snuff out his miserable existence, and minimal cleanup for the janitor. Samuel can pressure wash the gore off the sidewalk and everything will be as good as new. It’ll be like he never even existed.

Glancing around to ensure he’s not being pursued, Nathan stalks towards the door to the stairwell and prays it isn’t locked. He’ll break into the janitor’s closet and steal the keys if it comes down to it. He’ll scale the fucking building.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 14th

“So, how are things?”

Warren scoots over as Stella sits down beside him, pulling her English binder from her bag and plopping it down in front of her. If only he could tell her how things really are—how in the past week he’s managed to reunite two friends, let the school’s designated asshole sleep in his bed, and almost shoot a man. Not to mention that he’s been busy uncovering a town-wide conspiracy about a missing girl. How he’s expected to deal with all of that and attend class as normal is beyond him.

“Not too bad,” he says, mustering up a smile. “The usual.”

Stella arches an eyebrow and taps her pencil on her chin. “Mhm. I heard you and Brooke hung out on Saturday,” she says. “What did you do?”

Not much, if he's being honest. She quizzed him on chemistry formulas and he helped her prepare for her engineering exam, all while gorging on a family-sized bag of potato chips.

“Nothing exciting,” he says. “It was nice. Brooke’s nice.”

“She told me she had a really good time with you. She said she wants to do it again soon."

“Oh. Seriously?”

“Enough with the chitchat, everybody,” Mrs. Hoida says from her desk, holding up her copy of The Great Gatsby. “I don’t feel like teaching today, and since we’re starting a new unit on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s magnum opus, we’re just going to read silently till the end of the period. Open your books.”

Warren groans and pulls the novel from his backpack. More required reading means another essay he’ll have to struggle through. The room falls quiet as he skims through the first few chapters, the silence punctuated by the turning of pages and the occasional cough. He doesn’t have any interest in Nick’s monologues or Gatsby’s parties or their weird, slightly homoerotic relationship. Not when he has sleuthing to do.

“You should text her,” Stella whispers, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re all she ever talks about. Whenever we see each other it’s always ‘Warren this, Warren that.’ It’s cute.”

“She talks about me?” Warren murmurs, scanning a paragraph about Gatsby’s sordid past. “What does she say?”

“Just about how hot she thinks you are.”

“What? Why?”

Stella facepalms, dragging her hand down her face. “Do I need to draw you a diagram?” she hisses. “She has a crush on you! You know, the thing people get when they’re attracted to someone?”

“That doesn’t sound like silent reading,” Mrs. Hoida calls out, shooting a stern look at the duo. They exchange a guilty glance and hide their faces with their books until she returns to the novel, the classroom settling again. It’s only a matter of minutes until he feels Stella’s eyes boring into him, searching for a reaction.

He sighs and leans closer, keeping his voice low. “I didn’t know she liked me like that,” he says. “I’m not very good at picking up on signals.”

Stella snorts. “Welcome to the world of teen romance, buddy. It’s rarely straightforward.”

Warren slumps a little further in his seat. “Straightforward would be nice,” he whispers. “Is there a way to… y’know. Let her down easy?”

“Are you for real?” Stella scoffs, nudging his leg with her shoe. “You two would make the cutest couple, and I’m not just saying that because I’m friends with both of you and great at matchmaking. How do you think Dana and Trevor wound up together?”

There’s a certain appeal when he contemplates what dating Brooke would be like. Museum dates, conversations about the mysteries of the universe, nights at the drive-in. She’s smart as a whip and girlfriend material in almost every way. Her only flaw, one that he can’t quite look past, is that she isn’t Max.

He opens his mouth to remind her about their movie date when the classroom door flies open. Justin runs inside, his wet clothes dripping onto the floor. “There’s some crazy shit happening at the dorms!” he shouts, doubling over. “Check it out!”

Mrs. Hoida frowns, standing up from her desk. “Justin! Language!”

But Justin isn’t paying attention. He’s wide-eyed, panting, clearly worked up over what he’s just witnessed. “Prescott’s flipping out—he’s going to kill himself!”

There’s a ripple of concern from the classroom, students grabbing their belongings and jogging out despite Mrs. Hoida’s pleas for everyone to remain seated. Before Warren can fully process what’s happening, he’s already out of his seat, his chair scraping against the floor.

“Where is he?” he blurts, ignoring the startled look from Stella. “Inside? Outside?”

Justin, still catching his breath, gestures frantically toward the hallway. “On the roof. It’s bad, dude. Real bad.”

Warren’s heart drops into his stomach. Without thinking, he bolts for the door, pulse roaring in his ears.

He doesn’t wait for Stella or Justin to catch up. He braves the chaos of the hallway—faceless, murmuring voices at the edge of his awareness—moving instinctively, automatically. Nathan, despite everything, is someone he knows. Someone who doesn’t deserve to die like this. No one deserves to die like this.

Please don’t let it be too late, he thinks, bursting out of the building and into the pouring rain. The storm that has been threatening all day has finally broken, drenching him and the others as they stampede down to the dormitory lawn. He sees an ambulance. He sees a crowd of onlookers gathered beneath the roof, their faces turned toward the sky, hands cupped over mouths, phones raised to capture video.

And then he sees Nathan.

He's a red streak against the dark sky, his jacket flapping wildly in the wind. Warren watches him inch closer to the precipice before retreating a few steps. He doesn’t react when Victoria emerges from the crowd and begs for him to come down. With the vacant look on his face, it’s hard to tell if he’s noticed her at all.

“Oh my God,” Max says from somewhere behind him. He knows her voice anywhere. “Is he going to jump?”

There’s a collective gasp when Nathan teeters on the edge. The wind seems to catch him, playing with him, as if toying with the idea of whisking him off the edge and onto the concrete below. He steps forward, the toes of his shoes now hanging over the rooftop’s edge, suspended in that thin, fragile space between this world and the next. His arms windmill to save himself, and he backs away again.

He doesn’t want to die. Warren can see his hesitation, his body rebelling against the finality of it all. If he really wanted to die, he would’ve done it by now.

Warren frantically looks around, waiting for someone to tell him all the things he has to live for, but no one moves a muscle. Everyone waits for the inevitable, for his body to come crashing down to earth like a falling star.

“Don’t be a hero,” he whispers to himself, hands balling at his sides. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Fuck it.

Max yells for him when he throws himself through the crowd, one of the paramedics shouting for him to keep a safe distance. He races up the front steps as fast as his feet can carry him and climbs the stairwell two steps at a time, his sweaty palms slipping on the railing, until he bursts through the utility door.

The wind howls around him as he reaches the rooftop, rain hammering against his skin, the world blurring in a wash of gray. He hauls himself up, and for a moment, he’s breathless—both from the run and from the sight of Nathan standing so dangerously close to the edge, his body swaying in the storm.

“Nathan!” Warren’s voice cracks as he calls out, taking a tentative step forward. “Please—don’t do this!”

Nathan doesn’t move. He doesn’t acknowledge Warren at first, his gaze still fixed on the vast emptiness below, on the distance between him and the ground, between him and the end of everything.

Warren’s heart pounds, his mind racing as he tries to find the right words, the ones that will break through whatever walls Nathan has built around himself. “I know it feels like everything’s falling apart,” he shouts, his voice raw. He steps closer, hands held outward in a placating gesture. “But this isn’t the way out. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

Nathan turns slightly. His eyes are distant, unfocused, as if he’s struggling to process Warren’s presence. “What the fuck are you doing up here?” he asks meekly. “I’m already gone, Warren. Just—just leave me alone.”

“No,” Warren insists, reaching out to him with a trembling hand. “You’re still here. You’re right here, and you don’t have to do this. I’m not leaving.”

“Fine. Then you can have a front-row seat to this shit show.”

“I know this is about the video,” Warren continues. He’s only a few feet away from him now. He’d try to grab him, but it could mean both of them tumbling off the roof by accident. “And I am so sorry for how people have treated you. But there’s millions of videos out there, and eventually yours will just… fade away.”

“This is about more than just the video!” Nathan snaps, voice wrought with pain. “My life is hell. You don’t understand. There’s no way out.”

“There’s always a way out.”

“Not for me.”

Warren takes a breath, choosing his words carefully. “I know how you’re feeling right now,” he says. “I do. But think about your family. How would they feel? How would your dad feel?”

Nathan’s eyes flicker, a shadow of something painful crossing his face at the mention of his family. For a moment, his mask slips, and Warren can see it—how deeply the weight of his father, of everything, has crushed him.

“You think my dad gives a shit about me?” he hisses. “You have no idea what it’s like to be his son.”

“How would your mom feel?” Warren asks softly, inching closer. “Do you have siblings? How would they feel?”

“They…” Nathan’s voice falters, breaking on the word. He makes a choked noise at the back of his throat. “They love me, but they can’t help me.”

“There are people that can,” Warren asserts. He swallows the lump in his throat and inches closer, his outstretched fingers nearly brushing his back. “There are people that love you. Your family loves you. Victoria loves you.”

“Why do you care?” Nathan asks, the question coming out in a sob. He wraps his arms around himself, pulling his drenched varsity closer to his body. “We aren’t friends. Why are you doing this?”

Warren hesitates. “Because I do care,” he says. “I don’t want anyone to die. You don’t know what that shit does to people.”

Nathan doesn’t respond immediately. He stands there, rain dripping down his face, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tight around himself like he’s trying to hold the pieces of himself together. His body trembles, not just from the cold, but from the sheer exhaustion of carrying so much weight, so much hurt.

 “You know what’s going to happen if you jump, right?” Warren continues. “People are fake. They’re going to pretend they were best friends with you for pity points.” He extends his hand further, reaching for him. “You don’t want Blackwell to memorialize you.”

Nathan’s face twists. “So what? I’m just supposed to stay here and suffer? Let everyone keep treating me like shit?

“No,” Warren says quickly, backtracking. “That’s not what I mean. I’m saying—"

“You don’t get it,” Nathan says, shuddering. His head drops, his chin nearly touching his chest. I don’t want to live anymore. I—I’m tired.”

He looks exhausted. After their encounters in the bathroom and the parking lot, Warren dubbed Nathan an asshole with a violent streak. Seeing him after the party and on the edge of the roof has humanized him somehow. This boy, wet and shivering in front of him, is nothing more than a scared child. One who’s been failed by everyone around him.

His eyes meet Warren’s, red-rimmed and anguished. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I thought this would make it stop. I just want it to stop.”

Warren nods slowly, reaching out to him again. “We’ll figure it out together,” he says earnestly. “But not like this. Let’s get down from here.”

Nathan hesitates. He’s in obvious pain, but there’s something else there too. Fear. Uncertainty. Hope. It’s small, fragile, but it’s there. Warren can see it in the way he looks between him and the drop. The void below, beckoning him with its promise of finality, and Warren, standing firm with his hand outstretched, offering something far less certain but undeniably human.

After an agonizing few seconds, Nathan clasps Warren’s hand in his. His knees buckle as he’s helped off the ledge, and he falls limply into Warren’s arms, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Sorry,” he whispers, his chest heaving against Warren’s. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It’s a weird feeling, holding the person Warren thought hated his guts. He wraps an arm around him and guides him gently to the concrete, their shivering bodies pressed together, Nathan sobbing into his neck. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, cradling the back of his head. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“Now, I know today was difficult for everybody, but I’m so proud of the way Blackwell pulled together to save a life. You’re quite the hero for getting Nathan to come down.”

Warren shrugs in the chair across from Principal Wells’ desk. He’s never stepped foot in his office before, thanks to his squeaky-clean record. The seat he’s in is usually reserved for students who find themselves in some kind of trouble, and not for someone who just prevented a tragedy.

“It didn’t take much,” he mumbles, his eyes dropping to the polished floor. The praise makes him uncomfortable. He’s not used to this kind of attention, and while the weight of what happened is still sinking in, the last thing he wants is to be celebrated. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“He’s being modest,” Mr. Jefferson says from his left, putting a hand on Warren’s shoulder. He’s not entirely sure why he’s here during this unexpected visit to Wells’ office, but his comforting presence is appreciated. The same can’t be said for David Madsen, who’s standing to his right and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “He did what everyone else was too afraid to do. It’s not every day a student saves a life.”

Wells hums and clasps his hands behind his back, turning to face the large window that overlooks the courtyard. “I take the well-being of our students very seriously. Mr. Madsen, as our head of security, those roof doors should always be locked. They were not,” he admonishes. “And Mr. Jefferson, Nathan is one of your students. You should have known something was amiss.”

Warren looks from side to side, watching both men be scolded like naughty children. Madsen looks more uncomfortable than anything, but the look on Jefferson’s face is placid. If he’s experiencing any emotion, Warren can’t tell what it is.

“Mr. Graham, I received an email from Nathan’s father regarding an inappropriate video that was circulating,” Wells says, taking a seat and leaning closer. “I have reason to believe it contributed to Mr. Prescott’s suicide attempt. Would you agree?”

Warren shifts in his seat, the memory of the video flooding back. He nods reluctantly. “Yeah. It was… bad. It went viral over the weekend,” he says, feeling the weight of all three sets of eyes. “It was sent to everyone. I watched it, but I deleted it right after. I swear.”

“Hold on,” Jefferson interjects, his brow furrowing behind his square-framed glasses. “I’d like to know about this video. Nathan is one of my star students.”

“Uh,” Warren says, glancing over at Wells. “It’s not really my business to talk about it, but he sort of… kissed a boy. Hayden Jones. He was on something, I think. Nathan, I mean, not—not Hayden. Sorry."

“Tch.” Madsen clicks his tongue disapprovingly and crosses his arms. “That boy is trouble. Underage drinking, smoking pot in his dorm, sneaking around doing God knows what. I don’t like it.”

“That is completely uncalled for,” Wells says sternly, gaze hardening. “One of our students just left campus in an ambulance. We’re lucky he’s alive.”

The paramedics were quick to take him away. As soon as he and Nathan made it out the front doors, he was whisked off in a gurney he didn’t need, both of his parents trailing after him. Warren recognized Sean Prescott instantly from the local newspaper. The beautiful, much younger blonde woman at his side, at least twenty years his junior, must have been Nathan’s mother.

“Bullying at Blackwell will not be tolerated. Whoever tormented Nathan is in violation of our code of conduct,” Wells continues. “An investigation will be launched and his video taken down, if it hasn’t happened already. I also spoke briefly with Mr. Garrett and believe switching Nathan to a different English class would greatly benefit him.”

“That’s nice,” Warren says. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“With Mrs. Hoida’s blessing, he’ll be moved to her class, where he’ll be seated next to you. In fact, I’d like you to take Nathan under your wing for the remainder of the year.”

Warren’s jaw drops. “Wait. With all due respect, I’m not a therapist,” he says, laughing nervously. “Or a babysitter. I’ve done everything I can already. I can’t fix Nathan. He doesn’t like me, anyway.”

“If he didn't, he wouldn’t have let you talk him off that roof.”

“That’s a lot to ask, don’t you think?” Jefferson says, raising an eyebrow. Warren almost forgot he was there. “We’re dealing with teenagers. Not elementary kids who use the buddy system.”

“I understand your concerns. However, we’re in uncharted territory here,” Wells says, grabbing a fountain pen from his desk and writing something in what looks to be Nathan’s file. He turns his attention back to Warren. “I’m not asking you to be a therapist. I’m asking you to be a friend, which he desperately needs right now. You’ve demonstrated a willingness to help today. Just be there for him when he returns to campus.”

Warren bites the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to argue. He’s hardly qualified to be Nathan’s anchor. Despite his reservations, he nods, although he can already picture how this arrangement will play out.

“We can’t rely solely on peer support,” Wells says, sensing his apprehension. “We’ll have the school counselor reach out to Nathan’s parents to ensure he has what he needs when he returns. In any case, Mr. Graham, you’re free to go. Thank you.”

Warren nods once more, mumbling a quick “Yeah, okay,” before sliding out of his chair and exiting his office, passing a miserable-looking secretary on his way out. Nathan Prescott is his friend. Or will be, supposedly. Whether he likes it or not, saving him from the very brink of death has, like Chloe, bound the two of them for life.

With classes canceled for the rest of the day, he starts to head back toward the dorms, fully prepared to cram for tomorrow’s exams. He only makes it a few feet out the front doors, the leaves bleeding gold and red under his shoes, before a body violently slams into his chest.

“I don’t know what you said to him,” Victoria says, her voice trembling as she wraps her slender arms around his shoulders, “but thank you for saving him.”

Warren stammers, dizzy from the cloud of Chanel No.5 engulfing him. His body goes rigid in her grasp, shell-shocked at the prospect of being hugged by the most popular girl in school, or even a girl in general. “You’re welcome,” he winces, patting her gingerly on the back. “It's cool.”

Victoria pulls away, her eyes searching his face. “Who would’ve thought someone like you could actually be useful?” she says, genuinely surprised. “That should’ve been me up there. It all happened so fast, and I just… I knew he was in a dark place. I knew. I just didn’t know how bad things really were.”

Warren stands there, awkwardly frozen as Victoria’s words sink in. The sharpness of her initial comment—someone like you—should sting, but there’s something vulnerable in her voice that makes it feel less like an insult and more like an acknowledgment of her guilt. She looks rattled, her usual cool, untouchable demeanor stripped away. For a second, Warren sees her differently—less as the queen bee of Blackwell, and more as someone genuinely scared for her friend.

“I just…” Victoria starts, but her voice cracks, and she quickly composes herself. “I didn’t know what to do. I was supposed to be looking out for him. I let him down.”

“It’s not your fault,” Warren says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seriously. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Victoria sniffs, wiping a stray raindrop—or maybe a tear—off her cheek with a quick swipe. “Nathan is my best friend. We’ve known each other since forever,” she says, glancing away. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. Listen, if you ever need anything, or whatever, I owe you one.”

Warren blinks. Victoria Chase, offering him a favor? “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, before pausing. “Actually, could you give me his number?”

Victoria whips out her phone with surprising speed, sends him a friend request on Facebook, and shoots him a private message. “There,” she says, thumbs moving quickly over her screen. Warren feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket. “He won’t respond for a while. His mom said he’s going in for a psych eval right now. I wish I could prove to the doctors that he isn’t crazy. Just… troubled.”

We all are, Warren wants to tell her. Some are just better at hiding it.

[Mom, Today 4:59 PM]

Got a call from your principal. I couldn’t be prouder. You did a great thing today.

[You, Today 5:05 PM]

Thanks. Miss U lots.

[You, Today 5:12 PM]

Sorry I haven’t come home, been busy. Will you be around? Maybe I visit for dinner this week and we can watch Jeopardy.

[Mom, Today 5:36 PM]

I’ve been working late most nights. Sorry, bud. Text me if you plan on dropping by and I’ll leave some pizza money on the table. Schrödinger would love to see you. Meow.  🐱

Warren isn’t sure what he was expecting. It’s not often he asks to hang out with her, their schedules clashing with the extra shifts she picks up at the hospital. Maybe she’ll be one of Nathan’s nurses while he’s there. He’ll have no way of knowing.

Lounging back against his bed in the same spot where Nathan laid only a few days prior, Warren stares at his screen for a solid minute before sending a reply.

[You, Today 5:38 PM]

Okay. Love you.

Warren rubs a hand over his face, the weight of his mom’s message sitting uneasily in his chest. He knows she works late because she has to, that she’s doing her best, but there’s a part of him—an irrational, wounded part—that still wishes things were different. That they could sit down for dinner like they used to before everything got so complicated.

Noah was always the one who could bring them together. His easy laugh, his confidence, the way he seemed to make everything a little brighter, a little less heavy. Noah, with his lofty grin and effortless charm and natural talent. Everything feels muted without him now. His mom throws herself into work, and Warren tries to keep busy with school, and the distance between them grows wider every year.

He can’t help but shake the feeling that his mom wishes Noah were still here instead of him. It’s ridiculous, cruel even, to think that way, but it gnaws at him during quiet moments like this. Would things be better if Noah hadn’t died? Would they all still be that happy, close-knit family he remembers?

Whatever. At least he’s got his cat for company.

Swiping out of his texts, Warren locates Victoria’s message with Nathan’s number and creates a contact for him, squinting at the name field. What should he put? Nathan Prescott? That feels too impersonal, too detached after what happened today. He considers typing something lighthearted, something that might make him smile later—Nate the Great or Nate Dogg—but it doesn’t feel right either.

Nathan, he types, saving it with a satisfied tap. Just Nathan.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 15th

One failed suicide attempt is embarrassing enough, but two failed suicide attempts is just pathetic.

Cocooned in several layers of blankets and chewing his nails down to bloody stumps, Nathan wonders if it’s possible to drown in self-pity. His room is dark, the curtains drawn tight. Rain patters softly against his window. It hasn’t stopped since yesterday afternoon.

His dad offered him a choice after he was carted off to the hospital. After sitting in a stark white examination room, a doctor ticking off questions about the fragility of his mental state, he was given an ultimatum: another short stint in the loony bin or a day of bed rest at home. An easy choice for most people, but Nathan would rather be a pile of blood and guts on the concrete than a burden in his father’s house. Ultimately, he chose the bedrest.

If he tried to kill himself for attention like his dad accused him of doing, it worked. Most of the inflammatory posts and comments about him were purged from the web, the link to his video broken, his Facebook flooded with performative sympathies from people he’s never spoken to in his life. He can’t imagine how many acquaintances would be crawling out of the woodwork to give tribute if he had died. Warren was right. People are fake.

Warren. Fucking Warren Graham, inserting himself into yet another situation that doesn’t involve him. That idiot would probably throw himself in front of a bus to shield a kitten, or a baby, or something actually worth saving. Maybe Warren thinks he’s worth saving. He can’t for the life of him understand why.

Pulling his bedsheets up to his chin, Nathan stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling until his eyelids start to droop. He’s jolted awake moments later by the sound of someone knocking at his bedroom door, and he sighs, forcing himself to sit up on his elbows. “Come in,” he groans. “It’s unlocked.”

His mom pokes her head inside, giving him a tired smile. She looks like she’s aged five years in the past twenty-four hours, her hair unbrushed and dark circles under her eyes. It’s clear she hasn’t slept much, if at all. “Hey, you,” she says, stepping inside, eyes scanning the mess he’s made of his bed and the blankets tangled around him. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Can I get you anything to eat?”

“I’m okay.”

Caroline watches him for a minute before deciding to enter, closing the door behind her and taking a seat on the edge of his bed. “You’re looking better today. You’ve got some color in your face,” she says, reaching over to cup his cheek and then feel his forehead. “Did you take your pills?”

“Yes,” he sighs, glancing over at the new bottles on his nightstand. He was given stronger dosages, something that both of his parents insisted on after recent events. Her fingers linger on his forehead for a moment longer before she withdraws.

“That’s good,” she says. “Let’s try to stay on top of that. Therapy too.”

“Okay.”

Caroline studies him again, exhaustion etched into her delicate features. He’s a carbon copy of her. They have the same face, same eyes, same smattering of freckles over their high cheekbones. “You scared me yesterday,” she says. “I was worried about you. I worry about you all the time.”

Nathan shifts uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. “I know,” he says, his voice hollow. “I’ll be fine.”

Caroline doesn’t seem convinced. Her hand lingers near his knee, hesitant, as if she’s unsure whether to touch him again. She pulls it back after a moment, folding her hands in her lap instead. “I’m just glad you’re home now,” she says. “You can come home whenever you feel like it. Even if it’s just for a break.”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that being at school is his break, but she knows that already. He’s sure that if she could, she’d run off somewhere and take a break too. “I know,” he repeats, quieter this time.

Caroline inhales and exhales slowly before she speaks again. “We’re only going to talk about this once, and then we’ll never mention it again,” she says. “The video you were in—”

“Please don’t—”

“Nate,” she interrupts gently. “I don’t know what happened that night. I’m sure you don’t want me to know what happened, so I won’t ask, but I’m going to say two things.” She thinks for a few seconds and then clears her throat. “You might not have been aware of what was going on, but you still owe that boy an apology.”

Nathan knows he does. He spotted Hayden in the courtyard as shit was going down, gawking up at the roof along with everyone else, waiting for the inevitable. The look on his face could’ve been horror, but it could’ve been a sick satisfaction too. Nathan wouldn’t be surprised if he was hoping he’d jump. News of his death would’ve overshadowed anything that happened at the party and pardoned him from his role in the video.

“Secondly,” Caroline says. She looks over her shoulder to hide the fact that she’s tearing up. “I am your mother. I love you no matter what. I will always love you, and I’m so, so sorry you’ve had to deal with all of this.”

Nathan’s throat tightens, and he nods, unable to trust his voice. He sits up further and crawls towards her, placing his head in her lap. “I’m sorry I’m so messed up,” he says, rubbing his face with his hands. “I’m sorry I’m a freak.”

Caroline runs her fingers gently through his hair, her touch soothing in a way that he’s forgotten it could be. She’s quiet, her breath trembling, as though she’s searching for the right words. “You’re not a freak,” she says, her voice cracking. “You’re hurting. That doesn’t make you broken or any less worthy of love.”

“Am I a disappointment?”

“Not even a little.”

Nathan cracks a small smile, but it quickly falls away. It’s a good thing she doesn’t know the truth. Knowing how sick he is, how perverted and disgusting he is, would destroy her.

“Do you know how excited I was when I found out I was pregnant with you?” she asks with a smile, and Nathan playfully rolls his eyes at her sappiness. He’s heard this story at least a dozen times. She was young, freshly twenty-five, a stay-at-home mom to three-year-old Kristine. There were no plans to have another child. He’d been a surprise, although he thinks it’s funnier to call himself an accident.

”It was a warm fall day, and I’d spent the whole morning down by the beach with Kristine,” she continues, Nathan mouthing the words in time with her. “We collected seashells and dipped our feet in the water like we usually did. When we came home around noon, I was exhausted. I had this weird urge to take a test.”

“And so you took one,” Nathan says.

“I did,” she says, her smile widening. “I didn’t believe it at first. I must’ve stared at it for ten minutes, convinced I’d done something wrong, but it was real. You were real.”

Nathan chuckles softly. “And then Kris threw a tantrum when she found out she wasn’t going to be an only child anymore.”

“Oh, yes. She was devastated,” Caroline says, brushing his hair out of his face, her fingers light and warm against his skin. “But by the time you were born, she was your biggest fan. Couldn’t leave your side.”

“What did dad say when you told him?” he asks, realizing that he’s never heard that part of the story before. From what he’s gathered, he wasn’t around much when he and Kristine were young. Always working, always away on business. His memories of his dad from that time are vague at best, his absence looming larger than any real presence. Apparently his father was much the same. As was his father before him, and so on.

Caroline’s smile falters. “He was surprised,” she says. “Happy, of course. But I think he was worried about how we’d manage with two kids, him being so busy. He wanted to make sure we were prepared.”

Nathan raises an eyebrow, sensing the careful choice of words. “Prepared?”

“For how much would change. You know how he is,” Caroline says, letting out a small sigh. She pauses, her gaze flicking to the window for a moment before turning back to him. “He likes to have everything planned out. Controlled. When he found out you were a boy, he was over the moon.”

There’s a tiredness in her eyes that Nathan recognizes, a quiet acknowledgment of the expectations his father had placed on him before he even entered the world. A boy, the heir to the Prescott legacy, the one who would someday take on the family name, the family business, whether he wanted to or not. He never had a choice. Never stood a chance.

“The point of me telling you all of this,” Caroline says, her voice soft but deliberate, “is that you’ve always been wanted. Your dad and I both knew you were going to do great things someday.”

“Great things,” Nathan echoes, the words tasting sour in his mouth. “Dad thinks I’m a screw-up.”

Caroline shakes her head, her expression filled with a quiet kind of determination. “You’re not a screw-up,” she says firmly. “You’re struggling, and that’s okay. You don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations right now but your own.”

Nathan laughs bitterly. “I don’t know what I expect from myself. I don’t know anything.”

Caroline tenderly turns his face toward hers, her hand on his cheek. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out,” she says. “And if there’s ever anything you want to tell me, I’m here. No judgment.”

The way she says it is almost accusatory, as if she knows he’s keeping something from her. It should make him nervous, but she doesn’t seem angry. She’s calm. Curious, even.

When the doorbell rings downstairs, her gaze briefly flits towards the noise. “Be right back,” she says, moving out from under him and pausing by the door. “Oh, almost forgot. Check your email. Kris sent you a little something.”

Nathan grabs his phone from his nightstand so quickly that he jostles his lamp with his elbow, nearly sending it to the floor.

Kristine Prescott <[email protected]>

To: Nathan Prescott <[email protected]> Tue 10/15/13 10:49 AM

Subject: Checking In

Nate,

First of all, I am so sorry I couldn’t get in touch with you sooner. Things have been crazy busy here. Before I say anything else, are you okay? I know that’s a loaded question. You can answer however you feel like it.

Mom filled me in when I called her this morning. When I heard about what happened, I was THIS close to calling it quits and coming home. I’m still thinking about it. Being halfway across the world from you when you’re struggling so much is soul-crushing. I’m not even going to ask how Dad’s been treating you. Promise you’ll lean on Mom for support.

I can't lose you, Nate. Please, please, please write me if you ever need a place to scream into the void. I’ll write back as soon as I can.

Counting down the days till I see you again. Hang in there.

Xoxoxo,

Kris

Nathan reads it a couple of times before pressing his phone close to his chest. She was still around the last time he went off the deep end. She signed him out of the psych ward herself after his three days were up and, despite being asked to take him straight home, took him out for ice cream instead. They sat on the hood of her car and ate through pints of rocky road and strawberry until things started to feel normal again.

The stairs outside his room creak under the weight of someone climbing them. “Mom?” he calls out, but she doesn’t reply. He wonders if it’s just his imagination, and if he should take some more of his risperidone, until Warren appears in his doorway.

He looks like his nerdy, awkward self, and less like the drowned rat he was on the roof. In one hand he’s clutching a small bouquet wrapped in red cellophane and in the other a card that he probably picked up on his way over.

“Hi,” he says. “Can I come in?”

Nathan blinks at him, momentarily speechless, but nods. “How’d you find my house?” he asks. “Are you stalking me?”

Warren steps inside and glances at his childish, powder-blue walls. “It’s the biggest house in town. Wasn’t hard to find,” he says. “Nice room.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, handing him his offerings. Nathan cautiously takes them, snorting softly when he sees the front of the card—a cartoon drawing of a sad-looking dog with a thermometer in its mouth and an icepack on its head.

“Heard you’re feeling ruff. Get well soon,” he reads flatly. “Nice.”

Warren scratches the back of his neck. “They didn’t have a great selection,” he says. He gestures to Nathan’s desk, cluttered with gifts. “Looks like I’m not the first one to stop by.”

He’s not. Victoria came over earlier to drop off some presents from people at school. A vase of pink roses from herself, a poster signed by members of the Vortex Club (including Zachary and Logan), and various gift cards to places around town. Even Kate contributed by sending a box of chocolates, a note taped to the lid. 3 John 1:2 it says, written in frilly cursive.

Nathan shrugs, dropping the bouquet and card onto the bed beside him. “Yeah, well, apparently a failed suicide attempt gets you a fan club,” he mutters, the bitterness barely concealed. He gestures vaguely at the gifts. “Everyone’s acting like they care all of a sudden.”

Warren fidgets awkwardly, glancing around the room again. “I mean, people do care. Even if it doesn’t always seem like it.”

“Right. Because nothing says ‘I care’ like a signed poster from a bunch of assholes who hate me.”

Warren hesitates for a moment, shifting on his feet. “I don’t hate you.”

That catches Nathan off guard. He opens his mouth to fire back some snarky comment but stops himself, the words dying on his tongue. Warren doesn’t look like he’s here out of obligation, and he certainly doesn’t look uncomfortable being in his room. In fact, he looks... sincere. 

“Are you holding up okay?” Warren asks, looking around for a place to sit. Nathan moves his legs so he can take a seat on his bed, which he does. “How are you?”

Nathan falls back against his pillows, wrapping his blankets around his shoulders. “I’ve been better. I’ve also been worse, so…” he says. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life. And for giving me a place to stay when I was… messed up. And for the card.”

Warren gives him a lopsided smile. “No problem. I’d like to think that if I was up there, someone would’ve rescued me too,” he says. “Not that you were a damsel in distress, or anything.”

Nathan hums dismissively. “How are things at Blackhell?”

“Chaotic. They brought in crisis counselors,” Warren says. “Some of the girls decorated your door for when you come back. Oh, and we both have Mrs. Hoida now.”

“God,” Nathan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew he shouldn’t have told his dad about the scene he made in Mr. Garrett’s class. “Let me guess. They sat me right next to you so you can be my fucking emotional support animal.”

Warren tries to tiptoe around the truth, but eventually sighs and hangs his head. “Yeah, but that’s okay. We don’t have to talk. You can just ignore me,” he says quickly. “I’ll pretend to be deep in thought about the symbolism of the green light.”

“The what?”

“Gatsby,” Warren says, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is… we can just go back to the way things were before.”

Nathan narrows his eyes at him. “The way things were before?” he says, voice tinged with disbelief. “I tried to kill myself yesterday. You really think we can just go back to pretending everything’s normal?”

Warren wrings his hands in his lap. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says cautiously. “I just meant… I don’t know. I don’t want you to feel pressured to interact with me, or feel like you owe me, or whatever. I get that this—” He gestures between them, the room, the situation. “This is a lot.”

Nathan lets out a sharp breath, sitting back against his headboard. “Yeah, no shit. ‘A lot’ doesn’t even cover it.” He pauses, glancing sideways at Warren, who looks like he’s walking on eggshells. Part of Nathan wants to tear into him, push him away like he does with everyone else. But another part—a quieter part—recognizes that Warren’s not trying to fix him or offer some shallow comfort. He’s just... there.

“We can talk,” he says slowly. “Just don’t get all touchy-feely with me. We aren’t friends.”

Warren puts his hands up in surrender. “No friends, no touchy-feely. You got it,” he says, standing from his bed. “Your mom said I could come over whenever I want, though. She likes me.”

“Get out.”

“See you later,” Warren says, flashing another smile before disappearing out the door. Nathan watches him go with a mix of irritation and something else he can’t quite place as he nestles underneath his comforter, eyes closing. Being around him is draining. He can only take so much at a time.

When his phone vibrates somewhere near his feet, Nathan blindly feels around for it before bringing it to his face.

[Unknown, Today 12:38 PM]

Hullo!

[You, Today 12:38 PM]

who tf is this

[Unknown, Today 12:38 PM]

Guess who? Lol.

Jk. It’s Warren. I’m downstairs.

[You, Today 12:39 PM]

WTF. how did u get my #

[Unknown, Today 12:39 PM]

Victoria gave it to me!

Just to talk. You said we could approx. 2 mins ago.

[You, Today 12:40 PM]

im regretting that decision

[Warren, Today 12:40 PM]

No takebacks! ٩(＾◡＾)۶

Nathan naps longer than he planned.

It’s dark when he wakes up, the sun having set hours ago. He groggily sits up and turns his lamp on, eyes squinting at his alarm clock. Half-past twelve. Clearly, he needed the rest.

Rubbing his eyes and shaking off the remnants of sleep, he throws his legs over the edge of his bed and stands, hobbling over to his dresser to take a bite of a peanut butter sandwich his mom left for him while he slept. He’s hungry enough to scarf it down, but he eats it in meager bites, crumbs falling to the floor. He almost chokes when he hears a certain buzzing noise coming from the drawer of his nightstand. Finishing his meal will have to wait.

He had his burner on him when he tried to jump. In hindsight, if he was truly going to kill himself, taking it to his death would’ve been a good way to destroy any evidence of him being involved with Jefferson—but it had been in his pocket by mere coincidence. He had taken it out and forgotten to tuck it away with his gun.

Brushing the breadcrumbs from his shirt, Nathan opens the drawer and unlocks it.

[Unknown, Today 12:34 AM]

Are you awake?

[You, Today 12:35 AM]

yh

[Unknown, Today 12:35 AM]

Good. Meet me in 30.

[You, Today 12:36 AM]

dont want to

[Unknown, Today 12:36 AM]

I want to make sure you’re okay.

Nathan’s stomach does a weird flip at his words. Jefferson doesn’t take a genuine interest in his wellbeing very often.

[You, Today 12:37 AM]

k coming

He slides it into the pocket of his sweatpants and heads for the door, faltering as his hand meets the knob. He doesn’t have his truck. His mom took his keys away in fear of him driving off a cliff or into a tree to finish the job. He’ll have to find another way to get there.

Tiptoeing down the hall, he slowly descends the stairs and grabs his dad’s keys off the hook. He doesn’t bother memorizing their exact location. If his dad hasn’t noticed his pistol missing from his gun locker, he won’t notice this either. Taking one last look over his shoulder, he slips out through the foyer and starts the Cadillac.

The drive is long, the road dark. When he pulls through the gate and arrives at the barn, he doesn’t spot Jefferson anywhere. He could’ve parked somewhere else and walked over like the last time, but the padlock on the barn doors is still intact. Not wanting to wait around in the darkness and freeze his ass off, he steps over the withered remains of the dead deer, shimmies in through a space between two broken boards, steps over some old gasoline canisters, and pops the hatch.

Despite the darkroom technically belonging to him, Jefferson doesn’t usually allow him inside unsupervised. It’s strange, standing in the dim light without him hovering over his shoulder, coaching him on lighting and angles and the twisted art of capturing vulnerability. He spots the newest addition to their collection of binders on the desk, Taylor’s name written along the side, and flips through it.

Taylor on the carpeted floor of a hotel room, her hands bound behind her back and her blonde hair strewn about her face. Taylor slumped over in a chair. Taylor sprawled limply on a bed.

Nathan snaps the binder shut, disturbed. She’s probably in her dorm right now with no clue what happened to her. For all she knows, her trip to San Francisco went off without a hitch. He turns to place it with the others, stopping short when he sees Rachel’s. Her binder, thicker than the others, sits closest to him on its respective shelf.

His heart starts to pound hard against his ribs. He shouldn’t look. He doesn’t want to look, but his hand gravitates towards it on its own. With trembling fingers, he swaps binders, braces himself, and opens it to the first page.

His legs almost give out when he sees her face. She’s heavily drugged in these photos, her pupils dilated and vacant, but she’s alive. Nathan can see it in the crinkle of her brow and the parting of her lips. He flips to the next page of pictures, ones that show her bound in various positions. He didn’t take any of these. He can’t remember taking them, at least. Why can’t he remember? How did Rachel even get to the darkroom that night?

When he turns the page again, his breath catches in his throat. Rachel on the floor, her lips blue, her body lifeless. She’s dead, and he’s lying next to her.

He stumbles backward, the backs of his legs slamming into the desk. He’s drugged. The glassy look in his eyes is one he’s seen in every girl he’s lured back here. He’s drugged and lying next to the body of one of his best friends, and Jefferson took a picture of it. He put it in his fucking private collection.

“Nathan,” Jefferson says from behind him, and Nathan slowly turns around, eyes widening at the pistol he’s holding at his side. “Whose car is that?”

Nathan’s mouth goes dry, the blood pounding in his ears so loudly that it nearly drowns out the sound of Jefferson’s voice. He looks down at the binder, too sick with horror to reply, his brain scrambling to make sense of it all.

“Whose car is that?” Jefferson repeats, his voice calm, but with an edge of impatience. "I told you to stop parking here."

“I—” Nathan’s voice catches, his throat tight and dry. He backs away from him slowly, binder still held tight in his hands, fingers curled around the red plastic. “Dad’s. What’s with the gun?”

“I thought someone was trying to break in. What’s wrong?”

A cold sweat breaks out on Nathan’s forehead. He looks helplessly from the photo back to Jefferson, his fingers digging into the pages. “What did you do to me?” he rasps. He tries to swallow, but it feels like there’s a rock lodged in his throat. “What did you do? Why did you do that?”

Jefferson’s eyes flicker to the open binder, a look of surprise crossing his face. “I did you a favor,” he says, shouldering off his coat and draping it over the couch. “You were inconsolable when she stopped breathing. You should’ve seen yourself.”

“So you fucking dosed me? You told me I passed out.”

“You’re making it a bigger deal than it was,” Jefferson says, shaking his head. “I gave you something to take the edge off. You were, understandably, very upset. You had just killed your friend.”

Nathan cups a hand over his mouth, the casual admission sending a chill down his spine. “You posed me next to her,” he says. “That’s sick.”

Jefferson sighs. “I know this might be difficult for you to comprehend since you’re not a professional,” he says, his tone condescending. He reaches out to grab the binder from Nathan’s hands and places it back on the shelf. “But I saw an opportunity to make art, and I took it. Think of it as a collaboration.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Now you know how our girls feel. But you learned what that felt like last Thursday, right?”

Nathan’s mind races. He’s not sure how Jefferson found out that he drugged himself, or how much he knows about the video, but he’s smart. He must’ve pieced it together somehow. “Why would you do that to her? Why would you—why’d you take a picture of her corpse?” he asks shakily. “She didn’t deserve that.”

Jefferson slams his fist against the desk, hard enough to make Nathan jump. “She didn’t deserve to be framed and suspended either, but someone got a little too emotional about her wanting to skip town. You ruined her life, you brought her here to preserve this perfect image of her before she slipped away from you, and then you made her overdose,” he says, his voice rising in intensity. “Accident or not, you set the scene for me. I just played my part.”

Nathan looks down at the floor, eyes searching the concrete. “I…” he says, but he trails off. He did get her suspended. He knows that much.

The night she told him she was leaving, he planted drugs in her room in a fit of rage. He’d wandered around campus high until Madsen found him, demanding to know who hooked him up, he gave him her name, and she was escorted off campus the following school day. He can't remember how he was able to deliver her here, though.

He can’t remember anything.

“Come here,” Jefferson says softly, arms outstretched. Nathan retreats into the embrace, his head pressed into his chest. “You know I care about you, right?”

“Yes,” Nathan mumbles, shuddering when Jefferson puts his hand on the back of his head. The side of the pistol digs painfully into his neck. “I know.”

“I’ve been pushing you too hard lately.” Jefferson’s hand moves down to his shoulders, and then to his mid-back. “I think that’s the problem. I think we need a fresh start. Dwelling on our mistakes has put you in the wrong headspace for our work.”

When his hand hits the small of his back, Nathan freezes. He opens his mouth to tell him to back off, but no words come out. It’s been months since he’s tried anything like this, and although he wishes he could threaten to punch his teeth in for touching him so intimately, he's not as brave as he used to be.

“There’s a party on Thursday at the high school down the road,” Jefferson says, paying no mind to his discomfort. His fingers knead the fabric of Nathan’s shirt. “You’re going to go and bring me back a girl. You can pick her out yourself."

“I… I don’t want to,” Nathan stammers, the words barely escaping his lips. His voice sounds small, weak, even to himself. But Jefferson’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into Nathan’s back with a quiet authority that makes it clear: this isn’t a request.

“You’re not in a position to want or not want anything,” Jefferson replies smoothly, his voice low. “You’ll go to the party, Nathan. You’ll bring me what I need. And this time, you won’t mess it up. I know you won’t.”

Nathan nods mechanically, sucking in a breath when Jefferson pulls away and crosses the room. They’re starting over now. No more Rachels, no more Chloes, no more Kates. He can do this. He will do this.

“Don’t disappoint me,” Jefferson says, turning to face him. The edges of his lips quirk up in a cold smile as he reaches for the light switch, plunging them into darkness.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 15th

All things considered, talking to Nathan went spectacularly.

Sending him another text, Warren smiles down at his phone before slipping it into his pocket. He wasn’t originally planning on coming by, but he had stopped at the pharmacy to pick up his medication and spotted that dumb card in the gift aisle, too corny not to purchase. The fact that Nathan didn’t rip it to shreds and chew his head off for it made the impromptu visit worth it.

“Mrs. Prescott?” he calls out from the foot of the stairs, nervously glancing around. She welcomed him in with open arms and begged him to stay for lunch, but she’s disappeared. He doesn’t like the thought of leaving without saying goodbye, but he’s not too sure if he should be wandering around looking for her, either. Casting a doubtful look toward Nathan’s door, he decides to take a chance and venture into the living room.

The Prescott house is pristine. Not just home magazine-level pristine, but so neat and polished and from a different tax bracket that Warren is afraid to touch anything. He feels out of place here, and he’s sure Nathan would feel just the same if he saw the inside of his mom’s house. All the clutter would make him evaporate into a fine, red mist. They’ve never had the money for a housekeeper.

“Uh, hello?” he calls out, carefully sidestepping an expensive leather couch. He pauses when he looks at the brick fireplace and sees the family portrait above the mantel. In the middle is Nathan, younger than he is now, surrounded by his stiff, unsmiling family. The innocent roundness of his face points to him being around the age of ten, but the emptiness in his eyes is something Warren has only seen in people double and triple his age. He looks burdened. Hollow.

“Can I help you?”

Warren startles, wheeling around to find himself face-to-face with Sean. He’s taller than he expected, with the kind of authority that makes Warren feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Oh,” he utters. “Hi. Sorry. I just—I was just on my way out.”

“You’re Warren,” Sean says, his voice flat, unamused. It’s not a question, more like a statement that Warren feels compelled to confirm.

“Yeah, I, uh… I brought him a card,” Warren replies, his voice coming out weaker than he intended. He gestures lamely to the stairs. “I wanted to check up on him. See how he’s recovering, I guess.”

Sean raises an eyebrow, his stern expression softening a fraction. “Well,” he says. “I suppose some thanks are in order.”

Warren shifts awkwardly, unsure how to respond to the sudden shift in tone. “Uh, it’s no problem,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m just glad he’s okay.”

Sean’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and Warren can feel the weight of his gaze, as though he's sizing him up, trying to figure out his angle. “It is a problem,” he says after a beat. He looks over Warren’s head to scrutinize the family portrait. “The problem is my son. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled a stunt like this. Nathan has more issues than I know what to deal with.”

If Warren has to gamble, he’d guess he’s the source of most of them. There’s a lot he could say about his own dad, about how he picked up and left when he needed him most, about how he’s started over in Washington with a new wife and a baby on the way, but it all seems to pale in comparison to the misfortune of sharing DNA with Sean Prescott. He can’t think of anything unluckier than that.

“Right,” he says, inching towards the door. “Mental illness. It sucks.”

Sean inhales sharply through his teeth. “Your family would know all about that, wouldn’t they?”

His words catch Warren off guard, the color draining from his face. “Wait, what?” he says. “Sorry?”

“Your brother?”

“How do you know about Noah?”

Sean’s expression doesn’t change much—he remains calm, almost businesslike, as if the mention of Noah is just another fact, not something intended to cut deep. There’s no malice in his tone. “He was friends with my eldest. Good kid from what I’ve heard,” he says. “His death did a number on Kristine.”

Warren glances at the portrait, to the resigned-looking blonde girl above Nathan’s left, and wonders if he’s met her before. He doesn’t recall his brother ever talking about her, and he doesn’t remember her ever coming over to the house, or even to the funeral, but he was twelve when Noah died. His memories from that time are a bit hazy.

“It did a number on everyone,” Warren says, giving him a tight-lipped smile that suggests he’d rather not talk about this. “It’s still a fresh wound.”

After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Sean clears his throat. “I’ll let Caroline know you wanted to say goodbye,” he says. He looks to the door, and Warren realizes it’s his cue to leave. “Thank you for your help.”

“Sure,” Warren mutters. He exits and breathes deeply once he’s outside. It’s odd that Nathan has always been only a couple of degrees of separation from him, and through his dead brother no less. The Prescotts and his own family have always felt like worlds apart, but now, standing on their front steps, he realizes they’re more intertwined than ever.

Climbing into the front seat of his car, Warren starts up the engine and tries to push the lingering thoughts out of his mind. With his chemistry exam finished and the tickets for Friday’s movie date purchased, he should be feeling relieved. Everything is lined up: school, his plans to woo Max, the Rachel investigation. He needs to start looking into Frank. He had to put a pin in that fiasco after Nathan tried to perform his swan dive.

His phone rings. He grins when Max’s caller ID lights up his screen, and he quickly raises it to his ear. “Hey!” he says, balancing it on his shoulder as he reverses out of the driveway. “What’s up?”

“Hey yourself,” Max chirps on the other end. “I feel like I’m talking to a celebrity. Did you know you’re in the school paper?”

Warren laughs, the sound bubbling up from his chest. “Maybe I should start practicing my autograph,” he says. “All this attention feels weird. I’m not used to it.”

“Nathan owes you double now. Chloe says you should ask him for cash so she can pay off Frank.”

Warren laughs again, nervously this time. That’s not happening. “Where are you?” he asks. “Is she with you?”

There’s a brief pause from Max as Chloe swears loudly in the background, followed by a metallic crashing sound. “Yeah… we need your help,” she says, both amused and mildly distressed. “Meet us in the Two Whales parking lot. She’s losing it.”

“On it.”

When Warren arrives fifteen minutes later, he almost shifts gears and reverses into traffic. Frank’s home-on-wheels is parked dead-center, and loitering near it are Max and Chloe, looking shifty as ever.

“I change my mind. I’m not doing this,” he says, slamming his car door and storming over to them. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a criminal. I’m not breaking into his shit.”

Chloe shoots him a stern look. “Good to see you too,” she says, leaning up against the side of the RV. “And yes, you are. Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

When she backs up and takes a running start at the RV, throwing her side into the door, Warren screams and claps a hand over his mouth. “Are you insane?” he whisper-shouts, reaching out to pull her away. “Bum-rushing his house? He’s going to kill us!”

Chloe rubs her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “We’re fine. We’ve got about forty-five minutes before he freaks.”

Warren scoffs and turns to Max, who gives him a sympathetic smile as Chloe takes another leap at the door. It’s then when he notices the plate of bacon she’s holding in her hands, and he reaches over to grab a piece. “At least you brought snacks,” he mumbles, taking a bite. “Is this what I get for aiding and abetting?”

Max playfully smacks his hand. “It’s for the dog,” she says. “We need something to lure him out.”

“What?"

When Chloe kicks the aluminum siding in frustration, the RV erupts with the sounds of barking and snarling. “Meet Pompidou,” she says. “Frank’s only friend. He bites.”

Warren raises an eyebrow, still chewing on the stolen piece of bacon. "And you think bacon’s gonna be enough to distract him?"

Chloe rolls her eyes. "Trust me, nothing’s gonna stop him from devouring this," she says, motioning toward the plate in Max’s hands. "Frank’s mutt is a sucker for food. We just need to time it right."

Max doesn’t look entirely convinced. "Are you sure about this? What if Frank comes out while we’re messing with his dog?"

Chloe shrugs, as if the idea of getting caught breaking and entering is nothing new for her. "Would you guys chill out?” She nods toward the window of the diner where Frank is sitting, oblivious to their presence. "Dude’s a human vacuum cleaner. He’s not leaving till he finishes that greasy plate of whatever he’s shoveling into his face."

Warren presses his hands together in front of his mouth. “Hold on. Just—let me get this straight,” he says. “Your plan is for us to get the door open, throw the food at Cujo, hope he doesn’t attack us long enough to get inside, and then gather up some intel before Frank comes back and murders us?”

Chloe grins, unfazed by the potential dangers. “You’re so smart. Isn’t he smart?” she says to Max, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “Now use that genius brain of yours and help us crack this glorified tin can.”

If Frank won’t be the death of him, they certainly will be. Warren wants nothing more than to turn around and drive right back to school, but he can’t let Max down. She looks pretty in the rain, the droplets catching on her eyelashes and her cheeks pink from the cold. “Fine,” he grouses. “But I don’t like this. We need to be quick.”

Chloe fist-pumps the air as he turns to inspect the door, wincing at the sound of claws scraping furiously on the other side. He’s not surprised when he tugs hard at the handle and feels the resistance. Frank isn’t dumb enough to leave it unlocked. “Either of you guys have a screwdriver, by chance?” he asks over his shoulder. “Or a bobby pin?”

“You’re not a criminal, but you know how to pick locks?” Chloe asks, tugging off her beanie and searching her hair. “That’s convenient.”

“I went to spy camp when I was a kid. Learned how to pick locks and decode stuff.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

Warren smirks. “You underestimate how much of a loser I am.”

“Here,” Max says, reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulling out a lint-covered paperclip. She tosses it to Warren, who manages to catch it with one hand. “Will that work?”

“Perfect,” he says. He bends it into a hook and inserts it, feeling around with careful precision. His skills are a little rusty, but the lock isn’t, thankfully. He can hear the metallic snicks as he turns the paperclip this way and that. It pops open after a good jiggle, and he quickly throws the weight of his body against the door before Pompidou can make a break for it.

“Ready?” Chloe asks, glancing at Max and her bait. “On three. One…”

“Wait. Chloe, where am I throwing this?”

“Two…”

“Hold on,” Warren says, but Chloe’s already reaching for the handle. He jumps out of the way as she opens it, Pompidou flying out like a furry cannonball and charging straight for Max. Much to Warren’s relief, she thinks quickly. The bacon strips are tossed away from the busy road and Pompidou, driven by the promise of a treat, is temporarily distracted.

Inside, the RV reeks of cigarettes and stale beer, the small space crammed with unwashed dishes, wrinkled clothes, and enough clutter to make Warren feel claustrophobic. Chloe immediately begins rifling through the scattered papers and items on the table, while Max nervously checks the windows to make sure Frank is still deep in his meal.

Warren, hesitant at first, starts sifting through a small drawer by the entrance, eyes scanning over loose change, gum wrappers, and a set of car keys. "What exactly are we looking for again?" he asks. “You need to give us something to work with.”

"Anything that connects him to Rachel," Chloe replies, flipping through another stack of documents. She takes a seat at a small table, cracking her knuckles and opening Frank’s laptop. "What is it with guys and not putting passwords on their devices? They make it too easy."

When Max wanders over to the front seats to search the glove compartment, Warren decides to hang back. He hovers over Chloe’s shoulder as she searches through his open tabs for anything Rachel-related, but there isn’t anything out of the ordinary for someone like him. A sketchy website selling drug paraphernalia. A website selling pet supplies. Freaky porn.

“So, you heard about what happened yesterday,” he says, grabbing the mouse and exiting out of the questionable tab. “Did Max tell you?”

Chloe snorts. “About Nathan? Yeah,” she says, opening his browser history and then closing it with a grimace. “Wish I’d been there. I would’ve yelled for him to do a backflip on the way down.”

“You don’t feel bad for him?”

She turns around in the chair to face him, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Maybe a little? I bet all three of us have wanted to kill ourselves at some point, so I know how that feels, but we’re also not selfish, privileged, psychotic assholes,” she says, shrugging. “Do you feel bad for him?”

“You were a grade above him when you still went to Blackwell, right?” Warren asks, avoiding the question. “How was that?”

“He was weird. Always had this dead-behind-the-eyes look. I had to save him from getting his ass kicked a couple of times, and guess what? Never got a thank you,” Chloe snorts. “Why Rachel wanted to be his friend is beyond me.”

Warren pauses, listening to the sound of Max rifling through the papers inside the glovebox. “So they knew each other,” he says. “How’d they meet? Vortex Club?”

Chloe shakes her head. “Theater. She’s always wanted to be in the spotlight, and Nathan’s mom was a huge donor for the theater program, so I guess that’s why he was involved. All three of us were in a play a while back and he choked,” she says, swiveling back to the laptop. “Forgot his lines on stage and had a meltdown. It was sad.”

“Huh. And they were close?”

“If they were, she didn’t talk about it. Probably because it would’ve pissed me off.”

Warren hums and watches her for a moment longer before stepping away and wandering into Frank’s bedroom. It might be worth asking Nathan about her, he thinks, stepping into the small, cluttered bedroom at the back of the RV. Not today, though. Not if he wants to keep whatever fragile trust he’s managed to build with Nathan intact.

Stepping over a heap of yellowed bed sheets and a trash bag filled with empty beer cans, Warren pokes around without much luck. He approaches his dresser cautiously, fingers skimming over the top, before opening some of the drawers and sorting through the contents. Part of him feels guilty for snooping, but the other part knows this is necessary—necessary if they want to find out where Rachel is.

He moves toward the nightstand, pulling the drawer open slowly, the squeak of the hinges loud in the stillness of the RV. Inside, there’s an old, dog-eared notebook, its pages stained and worn. He opens it.

9/27   1:50 AM   Bobtail, gas station: Oxy x3   $120.00

9/27   11:30 AM   Bulldog, beach: 2g, shit weed   $20.00

9/28   2:30 PM   Bulldog   $3000.000 LOAN

9/28   11:50 PM   Rott, beach: 5g, GHB   $105.00

10/2   1:20 PM   Shiba, beach: 2.5g, shrooms   $80.00

10/4   1:10 AM   Rott, Blackwell: 2g, cocaine   $140.00

10/6   8:50 AM   Pug, Blackwell: ½ oz, top shelf shake   $100.00

10/7   9:15 PM   Stray dog, night club: 300g, molly   $250.00

10/8   10:20 PM   Rott, beach: ¼ lb, weed + 3g, GHB   $180.00

10/11   2:10 AM   Bobtail, gas station: Oxy x3   $120.00

The list goes on. Frank’s logbook for drug transactions, each of his customers assigned a dog breed for their anonymity. He knows that much. He doesn’t know much about half of these drugs, though, or who the people buying them might be. Except Bulldog. That’s Chloe.

“Chloe!” he hollers, pulling out his phone to snap a picture of the most recent page. “What day did Rachel go missing?”

Chloe leans out of her chair to look back at him. “April 22nd. Why?”

“She got in trouble with the school for drugs, right?”

Her eyes narrow. “They found coke in her room and suspended her for it,” she says, rolling her jaw. “She went missing the day she was kicked out. Rachel wouldn’t do coke, by the way. Weed, sure, but we didn’t smoke anywhere near campus. Someone else put it there.”

Warren flips back to the beginning of the year, taking more pictures along the way. Rachel might be one of these breeds. He’ll have to cross-reference to see which customers stopped buying around late April. A drug deal gone wrong might be the answer to all their questions. “What I’m hearing is that someone wanted her gone,” he says. “Any idea who could've set her up?”

“Victoria.”

“Really?”

“Who else could it be? She’s always had it out for her.”

Warren closes the logbook and slips it beneath the mattress. Victoria may have gotten Rachel suspended, but she doesn’t seem like the type to make people disappear. As catty as she is, anything beyond ruining social lives is outside of her MO.

“Guys?” Max says from the front seat of the RV. “I think I found something.”

When the two of them rush over to her side, Warren gawks. In her hands are a few fanned-out Polaroids of Rachel. A couple of her cuddling with Pompidou, one of her kissing Frank on the cheek, and one of her dancing around Frank’s bedroom in nothing but her underwear.

“What the fuck?” Chloe says, snatching them from Max’s hands. “Where did you find these?”

“A secret compartment under the radio,” she says, reaching into it and pulling out two pieces of notebook paper. She hands them both to Warren. “Take a look.”

Warren unfolds the first one and clears his throat. “Dear Frankie B,” he reads, puzzled. “Hope you read this first thing in the morning. Sorry about last night. I was being a monstrous bitch and took it out on you… and poor Pompidou. There’s a lot of weird shit going on in my life and sometimes I feel like I’m never going to get out of Arcadia Bay. Thank God for you. You’re one of the best things I have here, and I smile when I think of us together. Love you always, RA.”

“Were they dating?” Max asks, looking between the two of them. “That’s a love letter.”

Chloe scowls. “No. Rachel wouldn’t,” she says, turning around to pace up and down the length of the RV. “Trust me. She would’ve told me if she was seeing someone else. I would’ve known about it.”

Warren and Max exchange a look before he unfolds the second letter and scans it. “Want me to read this one too?”

“Get it over with.”

“Frank,” Warren begins with a sigh. “That was not cool what you did, and don’t blame the drugs. You actually scared me. I’ve never seen you act that way, and the next time will be the last. I care about you, us, so maybe we need to break our routine. XO, RA.”

There’s a moment of silence, the floor creaking as Chloe walks up to the front and back to Frank’s bedroom again. “Chloe,” Max says, grabbing her hand before she can get away. “Maybe they weren’t dating, but it looks like they had a fling. She must’ve given him the bracelet before breaking things off.”

Chloe stares at her for a long time before exhaling. “Yeah,” she says halfheartedly. “Sure. Maybe.”

Warren turns the letters over in his hands before folding them up and placing them back in the compartment. Max is right. Judging by the first letter and the photo of them together, it looks like Frank cared a lot for her. It’s possible he did something to her after she ended things, but why would he still have her bracelet? Frank’s a skeevy dude, but he’s not sick enough to keep her mementos as trophies. He’d be holding on to evidence of a crime.

Evidence. “Did the cops take anything of Rachel’s when they started investigating?” Warren asks, frowning. “Anything from her room or locker?”

“God, I don’t know,” Chloe says, pulling away from Max to rub her temples. “I know they raided her bedroom. They took her phone, but that was around the time they decided to end the investigation. I don’t think they ever went through it.”

Warren sighs, nodding. “Which means they gave it back to her parents, right? Which means it’s probably in her house somewhere.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Are you kidding? If they didn’t go through it, then they probably missed something,” Warren explains, opening the door and stepping outside. The drizzle has slowed to a gentle rain, the sky starting to part. “I think we can rule out Frank, but there might be texts or calls on there that can point us toward someone else.”

“But it’s in her house,” Max says, climbing down the steps. “We’re not getting in there.”

Chloe brings up the rear, shutting the door behind her and pulling the bent paperclip out of the lock. “If we’re able to break into this piece of shit, we can get into her room,” she says, flicking it onto the concrete. “I need a smoke break. Later.”

Warren watches her produce a pack of cigarettes from her pocket before taking off in the direction of her truck, leaving him and Max in her wake.

“Thank you,” Max says, nudging him. “From both of us.”

“Just trying to make everyone happy,” Warren says, shuffling his feet. “We’ll regroup and figure out how we’re going to do this. Breaking into a vehicle is one thing. Breaking into a house won’t be as easy.”

“As long as it’s not Friday, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Warren grins. “Yeah? Are you excited?”

“Stoked,” Max says, perking up when she notices Pompidou lounging under an awning nearby. She pulls her camera from her bag and takes a picture, waving the Polaroid as it develops. “How’d you find out? Chloe?”

“About what?”

“She’s taking me to a concert Friday night.”

Warren sighs inwardly. She forgot about their plans. Of course, she forgot, because why would she want to go out with him in the first place? She’s so out of his league, so perfect, that she probably agreed just to spare his feelings. “Oh!” he says, forcing himself to smile. “Yep. She mentioned that.”

“We’ll bring you along next time,” Max says, glancing back at the window Frank was sitting in. “We need to get out of here. I’ll see you, okay?”

“See you,” Warren says, lifting a hand to wave goodbye. Her back turns before she can see the disappointment on his face, Chloe’s truck careening out of the parking lot with the two of them in it.

He peels out of there in his own car just as Frank leaves the diner, watching him gesture angrily at his RV through the rearview. He tells himself they’re making progress, although he’s not sure where to go from here. They’ve crossed the most obvious suspect off their list, but who else is there? Where the hell is she? And what use is an extra ticket to Marathon of the Apes?

“One step forward,” he mumbles, shaking his head and digging half-moons into his steering wheel. Three steps back.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 16th

Returning to school isn’t as bad as Nathan thought it would be.

He’s dreaded making his comeback, but the second he’s dropped off on campus by his mom, backpack slung over his shoulder, everything is strangely calm. No one says a word as he walks through the doors of the main building. He gets a few glances cast in his direction, a few looks that ask why he’s showing his face again so soon, but nothing more than that. It's almost eerie how normal it all seems, as if the whole school has collectively decided to pretend nothing happened. Nathan isn't sure if he should be relieved or suspicious. He expected more, really—more stares, more whispers, more of that suffocating judgment that followed him everywhere before.

Even though he tells her it isn’t necessary, Victoria walks him to each of his classes, stands outside the door with him till the bell rings, and is there to escort him out the second they end. “I can take care of myself,” he tells her after gym, his hair still damp from the showers. He doesn’t bother slicking it back like he normally does, but leaves it wavy and unkempt, small curls gathering at his temples. “I think everyone’s kinda scared of me right now. You don’t have to protect me.”

“Of course I do,” she says, her expression hardening when she sees Zachary and Logan approaching them from the end of the hallway. She stalks them like an expensive, lipsticked she-wolf until they tuck tail and make a hasty retreat. “We look out for each other.”

When she drops him off at the door to Mrs. Hoida’s, Nathan can hear Warren before he even sees him. His voice filters out from the classroom, unmistakably animated. For a second, Nathan hesitates at the threshold, chest tightening, unsure if he’s ready to go back to pretending everything is okay.

"Go on," Victoria says softly, giving him a nudge forward. Her protective stance eases, but she’s still watching him closely, ready to jump in if anyone so much as breathes wrong in his direction. Steeling himself, he sighs and steps inside. The chatter dulls for a moment as he enters, eyes flitting in his direction, before returning to its normal rhythm.

Slinking over to an open desk, he spots Warren nearby, deep in conversation with a girl he’s seen before but never spoken to. The girl notices him almost immediately. Her mouth forms the shape of his name and Warren turns to look at him, smiling at him like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Like they hadn’t stood on that roof together, like Warren hadn’t pulled him back from the edge.

“Hey!” Warren says, beckoning him over. “What’s up?”

Nathan begrudgingly wanders to his side and forces himself to respond, his voice low. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Not much. Just… you know. Back at it.”

Warren nods, his expression open and disarmingly genuine. “It’s good to see you,” he says, gesturing to the girl. “Have you met Stella? She was just mentioning how you guys both have Mr. Jefferson.”

“Same class, different period,” Stella corrects with a smile. “Nice to officially meet you. I think Mr. Jefferson’s shown some of your work to us before. You’re talented.”

Nathan cringes at the mention of him. Under normal circumstances, he’d feel the warm glow of pride in his chest at Jefferson showing him off. Right now, he feels nothing. “Thanks.”

“Honestly, and I know this is going to sound mean, but I have no idea how Taylor won that contest,” Stella says, turning back to Warren. “She doesn’t have a style. Nothing she turns in is cohesive. It’s so gauche.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Warren says, shrugging. He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “You’re just jealous she got to hang out with him in San Francisco and you didn’t. Someone’s hot for teacher.”

“Can you blame me? He’s sexy,” she says, sighing dreamily and glancing back at Nathan. “Don’t you think?”

Nathan wheezes, caught off guard by the sudden change in conversation. Thankfully, Mrs. Hoida tells everyone to quiet down, which saves him from having to reply. He feels a ripple of unease as Stella saunters away, and he hopes she’ll never have the chance to see under the veneer of Jefferson’s persona. Better for her to think he’s hot than to know what he’s really like—what he’s capable of.

“Are there assigned seats?” he asks quietly. He needs to sit. Being on his meds has brought back that sluggish, zombie-like feeling again, the fatigue settling into his bones. “I don’t—”

“Right here,” Warren says, sliding into his desk and nodding at the one beside him. “You’re with me now, remember? Is that okay?”

He forgot about that. Being in the same class as Warren is something he can handle, but being desk buddies is going to be a more difficult pill to swallow. “Yup,” he mutters, tossing his backpack to the floor and pulling out his chair. “Awesome.”

Mrs. Hoida claps her hands together, a dozen heads snapping in her direction. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she says cheerily. “I hope you’ve had a decent day so far.”

Nathan can feel her staring right at him when she says it. It’s the same cosseted, pitying look that everyone was wearing as he was rolled out of campus on a stretcher. He hates it.

“I know this week has been hard on everyone,” she continues, her eyes lingering on Nathan a moment longer than necessary. She looks up to address the rest of her class. “And exams certainly haven’t helped. So, with Principal Wells’ permission, your midterm assignment will be waived. Today will be a study hall."

The class heaves with a sigh of relief, Nathan included. One less thing he has to worry about, although exams have never been much of a concern for him. All he has to do is remind his teachers whose last name is etched into plaques around the school, and they’ll almost always fork over an A. The ones who don’t simply need a call from his father to change their minds.

He watches as everyone around him begins to rustle through their bags, most of them grabbing their phones. Stella pulls out a massive math textbook a couple of rows in front of him, colorful sticky notes poking out of it at frenetic angles. Unsure of how to keep himself busy, he props his elbows on his desk and reaches for his phone. He could text Victoria, although he knows she won’t answer since she’s in Jefferson’s class. He could text Frank. He can’t remember how much GHB he has left, or where the vial even ended up. He’ll need to find it for tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow night he’ll have to drive to that party, pick up some random girl, and deliver her to the darkroom. Jefferson must be getting desperate for new subjects. The last several girls have been specially handpicked for one reason or another, whether it be their hair color or their popularity or how pure they’re deemed to be. Either his requirements for models are becoming looser or his customers are giving him artistic license. Nathan doesn’t know which is worse.

He startles when he feels something nudging at his arm, head swiveling to look at Warren. They lock eyes for a moment before Warren nods at his desk, at a folded piece of notebook paper that he’s tucked strategically under Nathan’s arm. Nose wrinkling, he opens it.

You okay?

“What?” Nathan mouths silently, scoffing. Warren’s eyes go wide. He glances at Nathan’s hands, and then his face. Back to his hands again.

When Nathan looks down at them, he realizes that it’s not his hands that have his attention. His left sleeve is pushed up, revealing some of the milk-white scars littering his forearm. Shooting a glare at him, he produces a pen from his backpack and scribbles I’M FINE before sliding the note over. He is fine. He’s trying to be fine.

Warren’s eyes scan the page. He chews on the end of his pencil, eraser held between his teeth, before writing again. He passes it back.

Are you sure?

YES NOW LEAVE ME ALONE

Okay

THEY’RE OLD

I just thout thought I’d check

STOP TALKING TO ME. I’LL FUCK YOU UP FOR REAL

Rolling his sleeve down, Nathan hands the note over with affected delicacy. He’s confident that Warren will take the hint and back off, until he watches him grab the paper, read the note, and then smile. He’s smiling. A couple of weeks ago, just looking at him in the hallways would be enough to put him on edge. He’s not intimidated anymore. Nathan doesn’t like that one bit.

“You wouldn’t,” Warren whispers, slipping his pencil behind his ear. He folds the paper this way and that until it no longer resembles a note, but a small, origami butterfly. “You’d fuck me up? After everything I’ve done for you?”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Nathan says coolly. “I never asked for your help.”

“I’m kidding.”

When Warren places the butterfly on his desk, Nathan makes a big show of flicking it away and watching it flutter helplessly to the floor. A voice in the back of his head reminds him that he shouldn’t be so awful to the person who saved his life, but old habits die hard. It’s time to rebuild the emotional walls that he erected before his life went to shit. They were the only thing protecting him.

“You did say we could talk,” Warren says coyly, grabbing his notebook and ripping another piece of paper out of it. He lines up the edges and begins folding again, fingers moving deftly, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. “Just that we shouldn’t get too close.”

“Well, you’re toeing the line.”

“Does that mean no more sleepovers?”

Nathan stiffens at the question, his gaze snapping to Warren. He narrows his eyes, trying to gauge whether Warren is serious or just messing with him. Judging by the faint smirk on his face, it’s a little of both.

"Fuck off," he says sharply, rolling his sleeve back down as far as it will go. “No more sleepovers.”

Warren is undeterred by his hostility. He finishes his second origami creation, a star this time, and places it gently on Nathan’s desk. "You sure? We could pop some popcorn. Watch a movie,” he teases. “Braid each other’s hair.”

Nathan almost smirks at that, but he catches himself before his expression can soften. He can’t let Warren think he’s getting through to him. "Don’t you have something better to do than annoy me?"

“Honestly? Not really.”

Nathan scoffs, finally picking up the origami star and turning it over in his hands. He doesn’t crush it like he planned to. Instead, he sets it back on his desk, his thumb brushing over one of the folds. "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?" he says. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Warren laughs softly. "Yeah, but I don’t think you hate it as much as you pretend to."

He doesn’t answer, but the fact that he doesn’t tell Warren to leave says enough.

One thing that Nathan learns quickly about Warren is that he doesn’t shut up. Ever.

For the remaining forty-five minutes of class, he sits and listens (dissociates, really), leg bouncing, to Warren’s thoughts on just about every topic imaginable. School, gaming, conspiracy theories, the latest drama that he’s missed out on. He’s mid-sentence on a tirade about how pineapple on pizza is an abomination when the bell rings, mercifully allowing Nathan to escape. His chair screeches as he gathers up his things and jumps to his feet, bag flung over his arm, body halfway out the door. He bumps into Victoria as he leaves, one of her clawed hands grabbing his varsity to keep him upright.

“Jesus, Nate. Slow down,” she says, frowning when she notices the sweat gathering at his temples and the back of his neck. “Overwhelmed?”

Nathan nods, reaching into his backpack for his pills and unscrewing the cap to his diazepam. He tucks one of the yellow tablets under his tongue and gathers enough saliva to swallow it down. “A little,” he rasps. Between Warren’s chatter and the fluorescent lights and the stuffiness of the classroom, he’s reached his tipping point. “I was okay at first.”

“It’s probably a lot, being back here,” she says, looping one of her arms through his. “How about we head back to my place for a smoke? It’ll calm your nerves.”

Nathan considers it for a moment before shaking his head. “Can you walk with me to the pool?” he asks. “I’d go by myself, but I haven’t been there since… you know.”

Victoria smiles and pats his hand. “Say no more.”

He started swimming during freshman year. After an awful semester as running back on Blackwell’s football team, he quit and took refuge in the water, where he ended up surprising everyone with how not-so-terrible he was at it. He used to visit the pool every few days as a way to relax, to work out all of his pent-up rage. Now he’s lucky if he makes it once a month. Jefferson says it’s a distraction.

After saying goodbye at the door to the boys’ locker room, Nathan dips inside to undress, looking over his shoulders every few seconds in fear of having his head stuffed into another toilet. The steamy air and wet tile tell him that swim practice must’ve just ended. He wishes he could join the team, but the Otters are ranked third in the state, and he’s good, but not that good. He’s mediocre. He’s been mediocre all his life.

Grabbing his goggles from his locker, he straps them over his head, walks out, and jumps in.

He cuts through the water like a knife, his breathing syncing with the splash of his arms hitting the surface. Only when he reaches the end of the pool does he come up for air, lungs and muscles burning with exertion. He feels weightless. Powerful. He turns and kicks hard against the wall, propelling himself forward into another lap, and then another. Back and forth.

He hears footsteps as he flips his body into backstroke, a pair of dirty sneakers approaching the edge of his periphery. “Pool’s mine,” he snaps, gliding to the opposite wall and rolling back onto his stomach. It isn’t, and there are another five lanes for this stranger to use if they wanted to, but he’s not going to give up his peace so easily.

“Easy, tiger,” a familiar voice responds, and Nathan’s irritation flares. Feet touching down in the shallow end, he slides his goggles onto his forehead and finds Warren watching him from an alcove. Great.

“It’s weird being in here when there’s no party,” Warren continues, venturing further inside and taking a seat on the bleachers. The sun filtering through the windows bounces off the water and reflects onto his face, covering him in dappled light. “I’m not a Vortex Club fan, but you guys know how to have a good time.”

“How did you find me?” Nathan asks, ignoring his attempt at conversation. “Stalking me again?”

Warren shrugs. “Victoria.”

“Why are you here?”

“To apologize.”

Nathan huffs and lifts himself onto the edge of the pool, beads of water cascading down his back. “Okay. Why?”

“I think I came on a little too strong,” Warren says, tossing his head back to move his hair out of his eyes. “In class, I mean. I know I ramble a lot. I just wanted you to feel like you have a friend.”

“We aren’t friends,” Nathan says coldly. So cold that he almost backtracks and softens his tone. He doesn’t, but Warren doesn’t seem to mind.

“Right,” Warren says, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back against the bleachers. He goes quiet for a few seconds before speaking again, gaze sweeping across the pool. “Swimming, huh? It’s a good way to clear your mind.”

“I’m not here for a therapy session, Graham. I pay professionals for that shit.”

“All I’m saying is that you need to relax. You’re wound too tight.”

Nathan doesn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. “Grab me a towel,” he says. “I’m freezing.”

Warren does. He stands up and wanders over to a stack of rolled-up towels, grabs one, and tosses it over in Nathan’s direction. When Nathan catches it and wraps the scratchy cotton around his shoulders, he notices that Warren is staring at him again. It’s not his scars that have his attention this time, but his very small, very tight swimsuit.

“Are you really going to follow me around everywhere?” Nathan asks, wrapping the towel around his waist and coughing. “I guess that’s what Wells probably told you to do, right? Keep tabs on me so I don’t take a fuckin’ dirt nap?”

Warren’s eyes flicker back to his face. “I have a proposition for you,” he says, suddenly serious. “And it might sound crazy, but hear me out before you shut me down, okay? Just listen.”

Nathan eyes him with suspicion but nods, motioning for him to continue.

“I had plans to see a movie with someone, but… those plans changed. And now I’ve got an extra ticket that I don’t know what to do with. Wanna come with me?”

Nathan sneers. “Max turn you down?” 

“Not important,” Warren says quickly, looking away. “There’s this drive-in theater I like to go to sometimes. They’ve been showing a Planet of the Apes marathon this week. I was planning on going Friday.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just thought it might be a nice break from reality. I also don’t want to waste a good ticket.”

Nathan eyes him warily. He has to hand it to him—he’s persistent. He’s not sure why Warren wants to spend time with him so badly after everything that’s happened. Maybe he’s lonelier than he lets on, but he’d have to be desperate to hang out with Blackwell’s resident basket case. “I like movies,” he says, scrutinizing him. “I’m not a fan of that sci-fi crap you’re into, but whatever. I’ll go.”

Warren lights up, a grin spreading across his face, and Nathan thinks about what a nice smile he has. He’s got dimples. “Sweet! It’s a date, then,” he says, giving two thumbs up. “Not like, a date date. A hangout. Two guys hanging out. Not friends.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Nathan says, shaking some water droplets from his hair. “Just text me the details.”

“You got it.”

Warren gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder as he leaves, and Nathan tenses up hard at the unexpected touch. He watches him head out with a skip in his step, leaving Nathan standing by the pool, still processing what the hell he’s gotten himself into. He is going to a movie on Friday. He is going to the drive-in. With Warren.

“Fuck me,” Nathan grumbles, carding his fingers through his wet hair. He shouldn’t have agreed to it. It’s not too late to back out, he supposes. Yeah. That’s exactly what he’ll do.

He walks back into the locker room and peels his wet swimsuit off, replacing it with his dry jeans and varsity. When he hears another set of footsteps behind him, he fully expects it to be Warren again, crawling back to tell him that he’s also changed his mind. “That was fast,” he says, bending down to lace up one of his shoes. “You’re doing both of us a favor.”

“Hey, Nathan.”

Nathan’s heart leaps into his throat. He whips around and stumbles backward, shoulder blades pressed into the cold metal of the lockers. Hayden.

He’s standing across from him, only arms-length away. Nathan watches him shift his weight from one foot to the other, his brow furrowed in concern. He doesn’t look angry or disgusted like Nathan would’ve assumed he’d be, or like he wants to punch the piss out of him, but he’s not taking any chances. He cowers.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Hayden says cautiously, stepping back. “I just forgot—”

“I’m sorry,” Nathan chokes out in a rush, grabbing his wallet from his pocket. He pulls out his remaining cash and holds it out to him in a frenzied panic, hoping the money will be enough to satisfy him. “Take it. I’m sorry. I—I’m so sorry.”

Hayden shakes his head and pushes his hand away. “I’m not here for your money, man. It’s okay,” he says. “Seriously. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Take it anyway,” Nathan says, pushing the money into his chest, but Hayden refuses. Swallowing thickly, he hangs his head and pockets the money in defeat. So much for bribery.

“I left my phone in here,” Hayden says after a few pained seconds of silence, holding it up as proof. “Came back to grab it. How are you?”

Nathan shrugs, eyes darting around the room. “How are you?”

“Alright. Exams are kicking my ass right now, but that’s nothing new.”

Nathan nods slowly, forcing himself to look at Hayden’s face. It’s the same face he cupped his hands on several nights ago. He kissed those lips. He felt the warmth of that body against his own.

“Do you hate me?” he blurts out. “Did I mess you up like everyone’s saying I did?”

Shockingly, Hayden chuckles. “I don’t hate you,” he says. “I think I’m doing pretty good. The gossip’s died down, so…”

“You’re not mad at me?”

Hayden glances up at the ceiling, the paint yellowed and peeling with age. “I mean, I was. Having that video up fucked me over, but you were on something and didn't seem like you were in control. Sober Nathan wouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I’m also pretty secure in my sexuality. Now, if you had kissed Zachary, I don’t think you’d still be alive.”

Nathan laughs weakly, vision clouded with tears. He blinks them away. “So, um, we’re good then?” he asks. “Can we pretend it never happened?”

“We can try that,” Hayden says, giving him a half smile. He jabs a thumb in the direction of the exit. “Gotta go. I promised Justin I’d toke up with him. Talk later?”

“Sure,” Nathan says, watching him leave. He takes a moment to steady himself, wiping his eyes and wrangling his breathing. He’s forgotten how good it feels to have someone forgive him, mostly because he’s rarely felt the need to apologize. He'll spend the rest of his life chasing that feeling.

Lacing up his other shoe and closing his locker door, he feels his phone buzz. He knows it’s Warren before he even sees the text, but pulls it out and taps on the message all the same.

[Warren, Today 4:58 PM]

Hello  (￣ω￣)

They’re showing Battle for the Planet of the Apes on Friday at 8 pm. I’d swing by and pick you up around 6:30. Is that good with U?

[You, Today 4:59 PM]

no i dont want to g|

Nathan looks at the cursor long and hard, watching it stutter, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His backpack slips from his grip and falls to the floor, Warren's paper star fluttering out from one of the pockets. He picks it up. He glances down at his phone again, at the unfinished message.

He erases his words and starts again.

[You, Today 5:02 PM]

see u then

[Warren, Today 5:03 PM]

⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 17th

“Warren, tell everyone what you told me.”

“What part?”

“You know.”

Warren groans, the girls around him leaning forward in anticipation. When Dana asked him for help planning the upcoming Halloween party, he assumed it would be a low-key get-together to discuss the color of the decorations and the flavor of punch being served. He should’ve known that the conversation would circle back to his personal life, thanks to Stella’s nosiness.

“Just so everyone’s aware,” Stella begins from her bed, lowering herself onto her stomach. She props up her elbows, chin resting on her knuckles. “Warren was planning on going on a date to the movies with Max, but that fell through. Now he’s taking someone else, and he won’t tell me who it is. I’ve been trying to get it out of him all morning.”

Warren rolls his eyes from his spot on the floor and pulls his knees up to his chest. “This is being blown out of proportion,” he says flatly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, it’s a huge deal,” Dana says from Stella’s desk chair. She grins mischievously and rubs her hands together like a villain plotting some evil scheme. “We need to know who the lucky girl is. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill.”

“You are such a liar.”

“I’m not lying!” Warren says, throwing his hands up in defense. He looks around at the expectant faces in the room and pouts when he realizes that not a single one believes him. Not even Kate.

“You have to tell us who it is,” Stella says. She reaches over to Kate, who’s been sitting timidly beside her this entire time, and grabs her hand. “We’re girls. You need us if you want this date to go well. All you have to do is give us a name.”

“Not a date,” Warren reminds her for what feels like the hundredth time. “I can’t tell you. And it’s not Brooke, so don’t even ask, Stella. Stop looking at me like that.”

“We don’t even get a hint?” Kate asks, holding up her hand and pressing her thumb and forefinger together. “Not even a tiny one? Why not?”

Because this is Nathan Prescott we’re talking about, Warren thinks, and he’d rather not advertise that they’re spending time together. Not because he’s embarrassed by him. It would just save him from a lot of questions about why he asked him of all people, and he hasn’t come up with an answer for them yet.

“She… doesn’t want me talking about her. She likes keeping a low profile,” he lies. “That’s all there is to it.”

The girls exchange skeptical glances, clearly not buying his weak attempt at deflection. Stella narrows her eyes, leaning in closer. “A low profile, huh? Sounds extra suspicious, Warren. We’re going to find out eventually, you know.”

Dana folds her arms across her chest, smirking. “Is she pretty at least?”

“Pretty,” Warren echoes, laughing lightly. Nathan’s pretty for a boy, in a brooding, vulpine sort of way. His body was a fun surprise, a nice figure normally hidden under layers of baggy clothing. And his eyes. A stormy gray—not blue, like most probably think—with a thin band of silver around his pupils. He’s never really thought about it before, but the more he tries to describe Nathan, the more he realizes how striking he is. If it weren't for his personality, he'd be Blackwell's most eligible bachelor.

“Kind of,” he says, nodding. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“That’s a relief,” Stella says, pretending to brush away sweat from her brow. “Have fun with your mystery girl. Remember to be safe, alright? This school is crawling with STDs.”

Warren grimaces. “Back to the party,” he says, pivoting. “Dana. You asked what costumes we’re wearing, right?”

Dana grabs a notebook from her lap and flips it open, pulling out a pink feathered pen from the spiral binding. “Right. Some of the Vortex Club wants to make sure their costumes aren’t being copied, cough cough, Victoria, so I have to vet as many people as possible. Let’s hear it.”

“Skeleton,” Stella says. “Brooke’s going as some creature from D&D. Alyssa isn’t sure yet.”

“I like it. Kate?”

“Black cat.”

Dana makes a noise of displeasure, writing something down. “Victoria’s a cat this year. You’ll have to pick something else,” she says with a frown, pink feathers drifting to the floor. “Sorry.”

“But—it’s a cat. Victoria’s probably going as a sexy cat, isn’t she?” Kate says, confused. “Mine will be different. Just ears and some face paint. She doesn’t own the costume, Dana.”

“It’s the rules,” Dana sighs. “Got any other ideas?”

“Fine. Ghost.”

Dana nods and writes some more before looking up at Warren with a smile. “Whatcha got for me, Ren?”

“Luke Skywalker,” Warren says with a definitive nod. He’s gone back and forth between costumes over the past few weeks before finally making up his mind. He needs to put the lightsaber he bought to good use. “His outfit from A New Hope. What about you?”

“Trevor and I are doing a couple’s costume,” Dana says, tucking her pen back into her notebook. “Bonnie and Clyde.”

Stella snorts. “Are you dressing as them before or after they were shot to pieces?”

“Before, but that’s not a bad idea. We’ve got some fake blood we can use.”

Warren jumps when his phone buzzes underneath him. His alarm. He needs to get to chemistry. “Duty calls,” he says, standing and turning it off. “Science time. Keep me updated on the party stuff, alright?”

“If you’re looking to join the Vortex Club, now’s the time to get your name on the list,” Dana says, waggling a finger at him as he moves towards the door. “Nathan and Victoria would totally let you in, given everything that’s happened.”

“I’ll let you know,” Warren says, even though he most certainly will not. He gives Stella and Kate a two-fingered salute and steps into the hallway. “I’ll need to think about that.”

“You do that, superman.”

After dropping by his dorm to grab his backpack, Warren heads in the direction of the chemistry lab, passing Nathan’s room along the way. He pauses to admire the colorful WELCOME BACK! sign taped to his door, smiling to himself as he eyes the glitter and bubbly letters. It’s Kate’s handiwork, with a little help from Alyssa and Brooke.

He’s surprised Nathan hasn’t torn it down yet, and he can’t help but chuckle at the thought of him grudgingly accepting the over-the-top display of affection from people he usually ignores.

Warren spots him in the hallway just as he’s turning into Ms. Grant’s classroom, leaning up against a row of lockers and talking quietly with Victoria. He slows his pace, not wanting to interrupt whatever conversation they’re having. Nathan looks tense, his arms crossed, Victoria's voice low and soothing. She gestures with her hands as she talks, clearly trying to reassure him about something, and while Warren can't make out what they're saying, he recognizes the look on Nathan's face. It's the same one he wore on the rooftop—that guarded, fragile expression that tells Warren things aren't as calm beneath the surface as they might seem. He knew that already, though.

He contemplates whether or not he should approach, but before he can decide, Nathan glances up and catches him staring. For a split second, their eyes meet, and Warren raises his hand in an awkward half-wave. Nathan’s expression hardens, and he quickly looks away, muttering something to Victoria before heading into Mrs. Corcoran’s, one of the math teachers, classroom.

That’s okay. Warren isn’t put off by Nathan’s attempts to keep him at a distance. He knew the assignment Wells gave him wouldn’t be an easy one, but he must be getting somewhere, right? Nathan accepted his invite to the drive-in. That would never happen under normal circumstances.

Chemistry is business as usual, all isomers and enantiomers and things he already knows way too much about. After a lengthy lecture, Ms. Grant starts to pass out their graded midterms, and Warren knows he’s got this one in the bag. It’s an easy A. Nothing to worry about.

Until Ms. Grant hands him his test, and there it is. A big, red sixty-eight marked at the top of the page.

It can’t be right. It must be some kind of mistake. Sure enough, though, his name sits in the upper corner in his awful, cramped handwriting. It’s his test, and the answers that were marked wrong are, indeed, wrong.

Eyes wide with disbelief, he scans the missed questions—questions he thought for sure he double-checked—and wonders how he could’ve been so stupid. He studied for this midterm. Maybe not as hard as he did for his midterms last year, considering he’s been hot on the trail of a missing girl, but he knew the material. At least he thought he did.

He looks around the room and tries to gauge if anyone else received a similar grade, but most of his classmates seem to be doing just fine, either celebrating their successes or quietly accepting their average scores. The shock on his face doesn’t go unnoticed, and some of them shoot him curious glances. Brooke eyes him with concern from across the room.

“Warren, are you feeling alright?” Ms. Grant asks, appearing at his side. He isn’t sure how long she’s been standing there. Everything is moving in slow motion. “Do you need to see the nurse?”

Warren shakily stands and grabs his backpack, leaving the bad grade splayed across his desk. He can taste the bile rising in the back of his throat, feel the hair on his forehead damp with sweat. “Sorry. Um, I just—can I just step outside?” he asks. “Sorry. I don’t feel well all of a sudden.”

“Go ahead. Come back when you’re ready.”

He stumbles out of the classroom, the edges of his vision blurring as he makes his way down the hall. Once he’s outside, he leans against the cool brick exterior of the building, backpack sliding off his shoulder and hitting the ground with a soft thud. One of his hands flies up to wrap around his neck, and he inhales sharply. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

Lowering himself onto the front steps, he takes a couple of minutes to compose himself before reaching into his bag for his phone. He scrolls until he finds his mom’s contact, taps on it, and raises it to his ear. He knows she’s at work, but he needs to talk to someone. He’ll die if he can’t talk to someone.

Luckily, she answers almost immediately.

“Hey, honey. Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Warren tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat tightens, and all the air in his lungs seems to vanish. He grips the phone tighter, as if holding onto it will keep him grounded. For a moment, all he can do is listen to the sound of his mother’s breathing on the other end.

“Warren?” she asks, her tone shifting from casual to concerned. “Are you there?”

Warren swallows hard, trying to force words past the constriction in his throat. “Hi,” he says, voice cracking. “Do you have a minute? Are you busy?”

There’s rustling on the other end of the call, the sound of a chair being pulled out. “Only a couple. My break’s almost over. What’s going on?”

“I got one of my midterm grades back.”

“Yeah? How’d you do? I promised you I’d take you out to celebrate.”

Warren swallows the lump in his throat and closes his eyes. “There’s nothing to celebrate,” he says hoarsely. It hurts to speak. “I got a D.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretches, and Warren can almost hear her processing the news. “You studied, right?” she finally asks. “What happened? You’ve never scored that low on anything.”

“I did. I swear,” Warren whispers, eyes stinging with tears. He sniffs and brushes them away, only for them to well up again, and presses the phone tighter against his ear. “I know it’s going to hurt my GPA. I’m going to get it back up. Don’t worry.”

“You don’t have a choice,” his mom says, exasperated, and Warren’s stomach churns. “Warren, you need that scholarship. You can't attend Blackwell without it. With all the bills piling up, and no child support, and—I just need you to try a little harder, okay?”

“I am trying. I am,” Warren says, reaching up to tug at his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry I’m not smart enough.”

“You are smart,” she says, but there’s a weariness in her voice he can’t ignore. “You’re just not applying yourself. I know things have been tough, but you need to keep pushing.”

Warren bites the inside of his cheek, staring blankly at the courtyard. “I’m doing my best,” he says coolly. “I’m not Noah, okay? I have to work for my grades. I’ll never be a natural genius like he was.”

“Don’t. Do not bring him into this.”

“It’s true!” he snaps. “He got into Johns Hopkins. Do you seriously think I’m capable of something like that? Do you think I can compete with him?”

He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. His mom doesn’t respond right away, and Warren can almost picture her reaction on the other end of the line—her mouth tightening, her brows furrowing as she absorbs the blow. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, but the edge of disappointment is still there, lingering beneath the surface. “I have to go,” she says, sighing heavily. “You’re responsible. I know you’ll fix this. Let’s talk more about this later.”

“Yep,” he says bitterly. “Okay.”

“I love you.”

“Mhm.”

She hangs onto the call for a few more seconds, waiting to see if he’ll say it back, and ends it when he doesn’t. They won’t talk about it later, and he knows it. Work keeps her so busy that she barely has time to eat and sleep. She barely has time for him, Warren thinks, shoving his phone into his bag with more force than intended.

Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he bows his head. He cries.

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 17th

When Jefferson had told him about the party a couple of towns over, Nathan didn’t think it would be in Tillamook.

He hugs his varsity around his body and huffs as he takes the long walk in the direction of his house, the cold air making him shiver. After spending almost an hour turning his dorm room upside-down in search of the last bit of GHB (which he found buried at the very bottom of his laundry basket), and failing to convince Victoria to give him a ride to his place (because she was busy re-watching Vanderpump Rules), Nathan resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to walk home, in the dark, on his own. All so that he can steal the Caddy again and spend the evening in a town that smells like cow shit.

The sky is an inky black by the time he reaches his front door, and his dad’s car is parked squarely in the driveway, thank God. His mom’s is not. Thursday nights have always been their 'date night,' which consists of the two of them eating at some fancy restaurant and pretending to be deeply in love with each other to keep up appearances. He’ll ogle their waitress, she’ll knock back some red wine and pretend not to notice, and then they’ll return home and sleep in their separate rooms.

They almost always take her car. They won't be back for a while.

He slips in through the front door, shoes tapping against the tile floor as he maneuvers his way into the dimly lit kitchen, and plucks the keys off their hook. He scans the others for the set that belongs to his truck, hoping he might be able to take those too, but they’re missing and likely hidden somewhere in his mom’s room. He doesn’t have the time to check. The party is in full swing by now, and he needs to get his ass over there and get this over with.

Nathan turns around and heads back towards the front door, running his fingers over the ridges in the key to calm his nerves. He reaches out to close his hand around the handle and opens it, his body halfway onto the porch. Find a girl, dose the drink, bring her to Jefferson, he tells himself. Find a girl—

“Nathan.”

His body goes taught at the sound of his name, freezing mid-step. Slowly, he turns around to face the voice, hiding the keys behind his back. Seated in his darkened study is the silhouette of his father, puffing on a cigar as he pores over his paperwork.

“What are you doing?” Sean asks, his tone sharp. He taps his cigar against a crystal ashtray, the embers glowing faintly. Smoke wafts in a cloud towards the ceiling. “I don’t like it when you come home during the school week. You need to be on campus.”

Nathan shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, heart pounding. “I forgot something,” he lies, palms growing clammy against the cool metal of the keys. “Why are you home? Where’s mom?”

Sean snorts, picking up a glass of amber liquid off his desk and swirling it around. Scotch, probably. Nathan hates the stuff. “Went out by herself,” he says gruffly, taking a sip. “She’s in one of her moods.”

Nathan looks away, trying to mask his discomfort. “Got it,” he replies, his voice strained. He inches backward, searching for an escape. “I’m leaving. Tell her I stopped by.”

Sean leans forward slightly, his cigar hovering between two fingers as he regards his son with a steely expression. “I never should’ve married her,” he says, setting his glass down with a gentle clink. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

Their marriage has always been a mess. This isn’t anything he hasn’t already heard. “Well, if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Nathan says, forcing a smirk. A weak shield against the weight of his father’s words.

Sean takes another drag off his cigar and gives a short, humorless laugh. “Sometimes I wonder if that would’ve been a bad thing.”

Nathan’s freezes. He knows his dad isn’t exactly the affectionate type, but hearing him say it—actually hearing the man he’s tried his whole life to please confirm that his existence is a mistake—stings in a way that nothing else ever has.

"Right," he says under his breath, barely audible, his gaze dropping to the floor as he clenches the car keys in his fist. Focus. Get through this, get to the party, finish the job. Nothing else matters. Not tonight.

Slamming the door behind him, he skulks down the driveway and peers through the study window from a distance, watching, until he sees his dad leave his chair and disappear into the shadows of the house. With a bitter shake of his head, he turns back to the Cadillac, fingers fumbling with the keys as he unlocks the door and starts it up.

He can still smell the smoke as he pulls away. It clings to him like his father’s disappointment.

Twenty minutes later, the bay gives way to lush, green countryside.

Nathan cuts through rolling hills dotted with tiny farms, only distinguishable by the lights illuminating the barns and the occasional herd of heifers grazing in the pastures. He drives along the dark, winding 101, the only major road in and out of any of the coastal towns, past twenty-four-hour convenience stores and neon-lit fast food joints, past the old creamery. The ribbon of asphalt in front of him stretches endlessly. He wonders what would happen if he stepped on the gas, if he kept driving. Would it ever end? Would he drive right into the sea?

It ends when he finds himself suddenly sitting in the parking lot of Tillamook High, the radio turned to a station he doesn’t remember ever tuning into.

“Keep it together,” Nathan mutters to himself, momentarily disoriented by the change in scenery. He turns the car off and feels around in his pocket. The drug is accounted for, as is his burner. He pulls it out and sends a quick text.

[You, Today 8:07 PM]

here

[Unknown, Today 8:09 PM]

Good. You know what to do.

Nathan turns the phone off completely. He doesn’t want to think about Jefferson while he’s handling this. How he even found out about this party is beyond him, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to know. With luck, he’ll finish the job and have all of tomorrow for himself.

Except he won’t, because Warren’s taking him out. How could he forget?

Hopping out of the car, Nathan crosses onto the lawn and falls in line with the students making their way into what looks to be the gym. He weaves through girls in slutty outfits and guys shotgunning beers, foam spilling through their hands. These aren’t the type of people he’d normally party with. The hoi polloi, salt of the earth kind—the children of dairy farmers and blue-collar workers. Definitely not Vortex Club material, but they might be fun to hang out with for a night.

He follows closely behind the girl in front of him, bass pulsing through his body, a bead of sweat forming at his brow. Just as he’s about to cross the threshold into the packed gym, a hand reaches out and grabs the scruff of his varsity, yanking him backward with a startled grunt. Behind him stands a stone-faced boy nearly a head taller than himself, his arms crossed against his chest.

“Hey!” he shouts over the music. “Need to see some school ID.”

Nathan laughs callously. “Who are you, the bouncer?” he shoots back. “Didn’t see anyone else who had to show it.”

“’Cause I know everyone else. Never seen you before.”

“So what? I’m new here.”

“I don’t believe you. Get the fuck out.”

Nathan grits his teeth, his anger mounting. “I’m going in whether you li—” he snarls, but the words die in his throat when the boy wheels him around and shoves him outside. He stumbles pathetically with a thud, landing on his hands and knees in the dirt, where he brings his fist down against the ground in frustration.

Pushing himself off the grass with a scowl, he considers his options. He doesn’t know the layout of this foreign place. Either he wastes time searching for another way in, or he swallows his pride and phones Jefferson for help. He’s not too keen on doing either.

Venturing further outside, he leans up against a tree, head bent in defeat. He needs a cigarette. God, does he need a cigarette.

“Leave me alone, Aaron. I’m not doing this.”

“Please listen. Just—just give me five minutes, okay? Five min—”

Lifting his head, Nathan glances over his shoulder and watches a wispy-looking girl storm out of the party, teetering on too-tall heels. A boy follows after her in hot pursuit, gesturing wildly as he begs her to listen. Consider his interest piqued.

“No! No listening,” the girl snaps, waving him off with her hand. She swats him away when he reaches out to touch her arm. “You really think you can ambush me here? What’s wrong with you?”

Aaron’s voice cracks. “Just hear me out! That’s all I’m asking!”

“I said no.”

Nathan rolls his eyes. Lovers’ quarrel. None of his business, but he straightens up when the boy, presumably Aaron, reaches out and snags her by the wrist. “Hey,” he says, stepping out from behind the tree. “Watch it.”

Aaron’s head jerks toward Nathan, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Who the hell are you?” he demands, tightening his grip on the girl’s wrist. Her eyes flick between them, caught off guard by Nathan’s sudden appearance. “The fuck is your problem, man?”

“Guys that can’t take a hint.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

Nathan throws his hands up and laughs again, incredulous. “She’s not gonna fuck you, dude. Leave her alone,” he says. “Go pound a Natty Light and run around like a fuckin’ Neanderthal, or whatever you hicks do for fun out here.”

Aaron’s face flushes red, and Nathan’s pretty sure he’s about to walk over and knock his lights out. Instead, he unhands the girl and whips around, disappearing into the party without another word.

The girl is still standing there, looking bewildered, her wrist red from where Aaron had grabbed her. “Thanks,” she mutters, her voice unsteady. “I didn’t think he’d actually leave me alone.”

Nathan shrugs, his hands slipping into the pockets of his varsity jacket. “Yeah, well, guys like him don’t usually stick around when they realize they’re outmatched.” He glances over at her wrist. “You okay?”

She rubs it absentmindedly, her eyes downcast. “I’ll be fine. I just didn’t expect to run into my ex here.” She looks up at Nathan, her expression softening with relief. “He’s drunk.”

Nathan nods, indifferent. He doesn’t care about the details. “Yeah. I figured,” he says, backing up to his spot under the tree and sliding down into a sitting position. “You really know how to pick ‘em, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” the girl says, smiling wryly. She walks over and takes an uninvited seat beside him on the grass, holding her hand out to him. “I’m Kiara, by the way.”

Nathan screws up his face and inches away from her. He is not here to make friends. “Do people still do the whole hand-shaking thing?” he snorts, finally reaching out and clasping it firmly. “Cute.”

“Aren’t you a peach. What’s your name?”

Nathan stammers, his mind blank. He shouldn’t give her his first name, but his middle name should suffice. No one needs to know he was here. “Uh, Joshua.”

Kiara laughs for reasons unknown to him. “Okay, ‘Uh, Joshua.’ Nice to meet you,” she says, looking him up and down. “You look like a Josh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never met a Josh that wasn’t wildly unpleasant to deal with,” Kiara says, amused. A pair of headlights pulling into the parking lot catch on her sequined dress, illuminating her like a disco ball. “I know you’re not from around here. Where’s home?”

“Arcadia Bay,” Nathan says flatly, eyes narrowing at the notion that he of all people could be seen as unpleasant. Impossible. “Just north of here.”

“I know where it is,” Kiara says, taking another sip from her cup. “The whale-watching capital of the country. That’s what I’ve seen on all the T-shirts in the gift shops. I think every beach town likes to claim that title, though.”

“You’ve been to one,” Nathan says, leaning back against the tree, a cold dampness seeping through the back of his jacket, “you’ve been to all of ‘em.”

There she goes, laughing again. It’s a nice laugh, light and airy and girlish. It almost makes him forget why he’s here and why he shouldn’t be pissing away his time making small talk with a stranger. “I’m from Nevada originally,” Kiara says, reaching down to tug off her heels and place them in her lap. “Moved here three years ago. Not my idea. This place is depressing.”

“Yeah?” Nathan says, blinking. Finally, someone who understands. “I think I hate the rain the most. Too much of it.”

Kiara nods vigorously. “Ugh, yes,” she says, putting a hand on his arm. “The rain, and the fog, and the grayness. It’s so…”

“Sad,” Nathan finishes for her, surprised to find himself not shying away from her touch. Everything—these towns, his life, the fact that the two of them are sitting outside a party they should be attending—is sad. “I’m leaving after I graduate. I need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Oh, me too. I’m not sticking around any longer than I have to,” Kiara says, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.  “Eight more months till I’m California-bound.”

Nathan glances at her. "Cali?" he asks, trying to sound casual. “What’s out there?”

Kiara smiles, a wistful look crossing her face. “LA. I’m gonna give acting a shot.”

Time stops. Nathan’s mouth goes dry, and he tries to swallow, but his throat feels like it’s closing. Rachel. The two of them reciting their lines for The Tempest, zipping each other into their costumes, going out for a celebratory meal after their last dress rehearsal. The smell of fresh paint and the plywood set. Her telling him to never, ever say good luck before a show, because it’s a superstition that damns an actor to failure. It’s ‘break a leg,’ Nate, and never say the name of The Scottish Play.

“You okay?” Kiara asks, snapping him back to reality. She waves her hand in front of his face. “You still with me?”

Nathan blinks hard, trying to shake off the remnants of his all-consuming dread. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “Just… thinking about my exit plan.”

Kiara gives him a curious look, her smile fading slightly. “What’s it look like?”

“Like me getting in my car and driving as far away from this place as possible.”

She raises her cup to her lips, eyeing him over the rim. “Specifics, Josh.”

“Jesus, I—I don’t know,” Nathan says, scoffing. He looks up at the moonless sky and frowns. “It’s hard to plan that far ahead when I never thought I’d survive this long.”

Kiara studies him intensely, her dark eyes softening. She snaps her fingers. “New York City.”

“What?”

“You totally strike me as an NYC guy. I bet that’s where you’ll end up,” she says. She looks him over again before nodding decisively. “Yeah. You’re one of those guys that comes from money but decides to do the whole starving artist thing for a while, because you think it’ll make you interesting. You’re artsy, right? What’s your medium?”

“Photography,” Nathan says, laughing in disbelief. How did she know?

“Are you any good?”

Nathan smirks, shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "I don’t know. Some people seem to think so." His mind flashes briefly to Jefferson, his words of praise mingling with the darker things he’s done. "I’ve had some good teachers."

“Well, there you go,” Kiara says, smiling wide. “You’ll live in some shitty, cramped apartment in Brooklyn working odd jobs to make ends meet, because daddy’s stopped footing the bills. It’ll be hard, and you’ll hate it sometimes, but it’s all worth it, because you’ll get to wander around with your camera and chase that one, perfect shot that’ll get your name out there. The shot.”

Nathan looks at her for a long time before tipping his head back against the tree, feeling a bit like she just flayed his chest and exposed parts of him he didn’t even know existed. Things he didn’t even know he wanted. “Wow.”

Kiara grins, clearly pleased with herself. “Yeah, I’m good at reading people. It’s like a sixth sense or something.” She leans back on her hands, studying him. “I can totally see it—Josh. The tortured artist. Photography extraordinaire.”

Nathan chuckles. “You make it sound like some indie movie cliché.”

“Maybe it is,” she shrugs. “But aren’t all clichés just reflections of things people really do? People we’ve all met before. I bet you’ve already thought about it, even if you won’t admit it out loud.”

Nathan doesn’t answer right away. He has thought about it—leaving everything behind, starting over in some city where no one knows him, where the weight of his name doesn’t suffocate him every time he steps outside. Maybe he’d fail. Maybe he’d end up back in Arcadia Bay, the prodigal son returned. Or maybe he’d make something of himself.

“You might be on to something,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Damn.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just had too much to drink tonight,” Kiara says playfully, shifting closer until their shoulders are touching. He can smell the booze on her breath now, sweet from the fruity cocktail she’s been nursing. “Tell you what. Since I’m so generous, I’ll let you do a portrait of me someday. Once I’m a famous actress and everything. For the exposure.”

“Thanks, Mother Teresa. How kind,” Nathan drawls, a warmth spreading throughout his chest. She’s so much like Rachel. Her big dreams, her trying to figure him out. It’s unnerving and comforting at the same time, and he hopes she’ll fare well in California. She deserves every chance to claw her way out of this dead-end town and make something of herself. Rachel’s life was cut short before she could even try.

The warmth dissipates when she hands him her cup.

“Be right back,” Kiara says, grabbing her shoes and rising. “Gotta pee. Don’t go anywhere.”

Nathan watches her toddle away, tripping over her feet as she meanders toward the gym. He looks down at the Solo cup, at the reddish-pink liquid inside. She’s made this too easy for him. He can hear Jefferson in his head telling him that she’s asking for it, because what girl hands a stranger her drink? Not a girl who cares about what happens to her, he’d say.

He reaches into his pocket for the drug and pulls it out, unscrewing the cap with his teeth and spitting it onto the grass. His heart thrums in his chest. Do it, he tells himself. This is what happens to good girls. Good girls are easy targets. Good girls make good models.

In goes the last of the GHB. Nathan swirls the liquid around in the cup with shaking hands, watching as it dissolves, and hands it back wordlessly when she returns. She takes a large swig, a bead of it rolling down her chin, down her neck. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Similar to his own drugging, it only takes several minutes before it starts kicking in. Kiara’s words become slurred, her movements sluggish. This she does notice, because mid-sentence on a tirade about the perversion of Hollywood executives, she trails off. “I don’t feel good,” she says, her face screwed up in confusion. “I should... probably go home. I’m tired.”

When she tries to stand again, wobbling like a newborn fawn, Nathan jumps up and puts an arm around her. “I’ll drive you there,” he says, jaw clenched as he guides her in the direction of the parking lot. “You’re fine. Just drunk.”

Kiara groans. She goes completely limp against him, bare feet dragging along the ground, and he has no choice but to scoop her up in a bridal carry. She’s small—quite a bit smaller than he is, and he’s not too tall himself—and weightless in his arms. Light as a feather. “Wait,” she protests feebly, head lolling over his bicep. “No. Hey. Josh, wait—”

“Just shut up,” Nathan snaps, his breathing picking up. He takes a gasp of air and holds it until they’re at the car, her body in the backseat and her face pressed into the leather. His lungs scream, burning in his chest. He’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry. He’s sick, and awful, and Kiara is way too good for this, but he needs this. He has no choice.

He closes the car door once her eyes start to roll back into her head. He can’t look at her anymore.

Jefferson is ready to begin as soon as he arrives at the barn, his camera primed.

“I’m guessing everything went as planned,” he says, gently setting Kiara down on the concrete floor and grabbing a roll of duct tape. He starts with her thin wrists, binding them tightly behind her back, and then does the same with her ankles. She doesn’t move a muscle. She can’t. “Any problems come up that I don’t know about?”

Nathan shakes his head and takes a seat on the couch, fidgeting with his hands. “Nope,” he lies, deciding not to mention that he never actually made it inside the school. Better if he doesn't know. “Went fine.”

Jefferson hums, stroking Kiara’s cheek with his knuckles. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice cold. He places one last strip of tape over her mouth before rising and stepping back, admiring their victim. “She’s not who I would’ve picked, but I did leave it up to you this time. You did well.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Really,” Jefferson says, looking over with a smile. “You followed instructions and you didn’t get caught. I can’t ask for much more than that.”

Nathan’s heart flutters at the praise. “It wasn’t hard,” he says, gaze drifting back to Kiara’s bound form. “She trusted me.”

“Trust is a powerful tool,” Jefferson remarks, his tone almost philosophical as he steps behind his camera. He takes some practice shots, the shutter snick-snicking as he adjusts the settings. “It’s amazing what people will do when they trust you. They become so easy to exploit.”

“Yeah,” Nathan murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He falls silent as Jefferson starts to snap away, trying to remember anything he can about the night he was in Kiara’s place. He made Rachel overdose, Jefferson drugged him, and then he woke up, but there’s something else that happened in between, and he knows it. A memory that his mind can’t access, probably out of self-preservation.

“Your turn,” Jefferson says suddenly, motioning for Nathan to join him. He stands and walks robotically over to the tripod, where Jefferson pulls away and allows him full control of the camera. A rare treat. “Tell me what you see.”

Nathan peers through the viewfinder, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Chiaroscuro,” he murmurs, adjusting the focus on the camera as he zooms in on Kiara’s face, half-lit by the harsh glow of the overhead light. The rest of her is swallowed by darkness, her expression unreadable, distant. “She looks… haunted.”

Jefferson hums, pleased with this appraisal. “And hunted. My dad took me hunting when I was your age,” he says, putting a big hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “You never forget the thrill of tracking your prey and gunning it down when it least expects it. We used to string up our trophies and take photos with them, just like this.”

Nathan makes a face at that. His knowledge of Jefferson’s childhood is limited, but considering what the two of them are doing now, he guesses it was horribly, supremely fucked up. Was this cruelty taught, passed down like an heirloom, or was it something that festered and grew on its own? He knows that for all his mentor's charm and brilliance, there’s a sickness at the core of him, something deeply twisted and broken. And now, standing there with Jefferson's hand on his shoulder, Nathan can feel that sickness creeping into him too.

"Focus," Jefferson murmurs, his hand tightening slightly on Nathan’s shoulder, almost in a way that’s meant to root him in place. “Capture her essence.”

Nathan swallows hard, squinting through the viewfinder again. He adjusts the focus slightly, zooming out. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, her mouth slightly ajar. There's a sheen of sweat on her forehead, a dark ringlet clinging to her cheek. The camera clicks once more, freezing her terror in time.

He pulls back when she stirs ever so slightly, mumbling behind the tape. “She’s waking up,” he says, his voice wavering. This part always gets to him—the moment when they start to come to, when reality hits them. “We’re good, right? We have enough?”

“I’ll give her another dose,” Jefferson says, walking over to his tray of tools. “Where’s the drug?”

Nathan looks away. “We’re out. I gave her the rest.”

Jefferson pauses, syringe in hand, his face unreadable for a moment as he processes Nathan’s words. There’s a coldness in his eyes, a flash of irritation that’s gone as quickly as it appears. He sets the syringe back down with deliberate care, turning to face him fully. “You gave her the rest,” he repeats icily, “and you didn’t think to mention that sooner?”

“I’ll get more, okay?” Nathan says quickly, sensing Jefferson’s raising hackles. He turns away from the camera and moves back towards the couch, leaning up against the arm. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a text away.”

Jefferson's gaze follows him as he retreats, skeptical. “Fine,” he says tersely, glancing back at Kiara. “We’ll have to cut things short tonight, but I think we have enough material. I’ll deal with her.”

Dealing with their drugged models entails dropping them off somewhere secluded, where they’ll wake up disoriented and groggy with few memories of the night before. Usually on a park bench or face-down in some bushes, although Jefferson has left some of their difficult victims in far worse places.

“Okay,” Nathan says, pulling out his keys and walking over to the stairs. He pauses at the foot of them. “Don’t leave her passed out in the woods or anything. She was nice to me.”

“Someone’s turning soft,” Jefferson says in a sing-song voice, taking a knee and ripping the duct tape off Kiara’s mouth. “Rachel was nice to you too. Remember how that turned out?”

Nathan drives. He drives fast.

Hands gripping the steering wheel, he races down the shadowy, forest-lined road, the Cadillac purring each time he accelerates. He ignores the speed limit signs, ignores the fact that this isn’t a backroad and that this stretch is regularly patrolled by cops looking to cash in on speeding teenagers. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is delivering the car, walking home, and smoking a bowl to put him to sleep. He needs to self-medicate.

Eight more months, just like Kiara said. Eight more months until he’s out from under Jefferson’s thumb. He’ll be going to college somewhere far away, somewhere prestigious since both of his parents are Ivy League alums. After that, who knows? He hasn’t thought that far ahead, although Kiara’s plan for him doesn’t seem all that bad.

Disturbed by the silence, he fiddles with the radio. He flips through the stations, grunting when he doesn’t land on any that interest him. Who even listens to the radio anymore? Country, classic rock, gospel, pop. More country. Static. Stupid.

And then he looks up. That’s when he sees a deer, frozen in place, eyes reflecting gold in the path of his headlights.

Nathan gasps, turning hard to his right and clenching his eyes shut. The Cadillac skids, tires screeching as he veers off the road. There’s a loud thunk as it careens into a ditch, and his forehead connects painfully with the steering wheel as it comes to a sudden stop. He sits there for what feels like ages, chest heaving, a bead of blood rolling into his eye from a gash above his brow.

Blindly reaching out to feel for the door handle, he opens it and unbuckles his seatbelt, tumbling onto the dirt. He coughs, and he wonders if he might vomit out of pure shock, but nothing comes up. Only then does he blink his eyes open to assess the damage, and finds that, aside from the mud caked onto the hood, the car is more or less fine.

“Shit,” he croaks, rising to his feet and staggering towards the road. The deer is still standing there, staring at the direction he was coming from in a fugue. He grabs a rock and chucks it at it with a yell, watching it skip across the asphalt with a clatter. It doesn’t react. When he blinks, it’s gone.

Nathan rubs his eyes, blood trickling through his lashes. “Goddamn it,” he mumbles, running his hands through his messy hair and clambering back into his car. It’s just his imagination. Just his mind playing tricks on him again. A hallucination, although he’s pretty sure his meds are supposed to be helping with that.

With a deep breath, he turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters to life, rumbling unsteadily, but it runs. The car shudders as he pulls it back onto the road, tires slipping slightly in the mud. He wipes the blood from his brow with the back of his hand, ignoring the sting.

As he drives away, a deer emerges from the forest, quiet as a ghost.

Chapter Text

Friday, October 18th

Did you know the human body contains enough graphite to produce aproxam approximately 9,000 pencils?

WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS. I DON’T CARE

You don’t like my super rad science facts? :(

SCIENCE SUX

Dear Nathan,

That’s not very nice.

Yours,

Warren

WARREN,

SUCK MY ASS

Dear Nathan,

Thank you for the offer but I think I’ll pass. Your very kind.

Yours,

Warren

WARREN,

*YOU’RE

Warren chortles as the note is passed back to him, all too aware of the smirk Nathan’s wearing. He knows he’s supposed to be focusing on this week’s lesson (they both should, considering Nathan has some catching up to do), but the back-and-forth banter is far more entertaining. Glancing at the front of the classroom to make sure Mrs. Hoida is occupied, he writes another quick response.

Dearest Nathan,

As someone who cares deeply about his grades, I must ask that you allow me to concentrate on my studies. I don’t expect someone whose family pays for his test scores to understand. Good day.

Yours, Warren

That earns him a dirty look. Huffing, Nathan picks up his pen and scribbles aggressively onto the paper, sliding it back so quickly that it nearly flies off the desk.

WARREN,

NERDY BITCH

“Warren,” Mrs. Hoida says, causing Warren to jump in his seat. He quickly stuffs the note into his pocket, hoping to avoid confrontation. He can see Nathan sit back in his seat out of the corner of his eye with a smug grin, satisfied with his retort and the disruption it caused. What a dick.

“Uh-huh?”

“Since I know you’re paying such close attention,” Mrs. Hoida drawls, “tell us your thoughts on Gatsby.”

Warren flounders, trying to recall anything interesting about the titular character of a book he doesn’t particularly care about. Jay Gatsby. What is there to say about him? Sorting through the endless rows of filing cabinets in his mind palace yields only chemistry formulas, song lyrics, and the jingle to that one toothpaste commercial that’s been rattling around in his skull for months now.

“Um, well,” he stammers, trying to buy himself some time. “He’s… this mysterious rich guy who throws these big parties, but it’s all a façade. No one knows who he really is.”

Apparently it’s not enough, because Mrs. Hoida holds her gaze on him, urging him to elaborate. “He’s actually into some shady stuff. Bootlegging, I guess,” he continues, face flushing from the weight of everyone’s eyes. “Yeah, and, uh, he’s kind of obsessed with Daisy. But their whole thing is… complicated, you know? It’s like he’s chasing after this idealized version of her, or something, and…”

His explanation trails off weakly, acutely aware of the silence that follows his feeble attempt at analysis. Mrs. Hoida looks pleased, though. “Good,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “His relationships are definitely complicated. What do you think about Nick?”

Warren shrugs. “Nick Carraway is kind of a loser.”

His bluntness elicits a few laughs. “I mean, he is!” he says defensively, his face only growing redder. “He came from nothing. He doesn’t fit in. He gets caught up in all this drama with Gatsby and Daisy, but never really takes control of his own life. He just kind of lets things happen to him instead of actively shaping his destiny, or whatever. He’s passive.”

The bell rings, and Warren sighs with relief as everyone darts for the door, the discussion decidedly over. Nathan takes a bit longer than the rest as he gathers up his things, and Warren watches him hesitate for a moment, poised to say something. Instead of speaking, however, he quickly shoves his notebook into his bag, gives Warren a brusque nod, and hurries out.

Strange, Warren thinks. If he was going to flake out on their movie night, he must’ve decided against it.

As promised, he finds himself standing in front of Nathan’s door at half past six, a backpack full of snacks from the nearest 7-Eleven slung over his shoulder. It should be Max’s door he’s outside of, but she and Chloe are already on the road to Portland by now to watch some obscure punk band (a band called Needle Fuckers, which he remembers only because he laughed when Chloe told him) perform downtown. He’s never been more jealous in his life.

The door swings open before he has a chance to knock, sending him stumbling backward and startling the both of them. “Jesus,” Nathan huffs, quickly regaining his composure. “You’re punctual.”

“Didn’t want you to think I bailed,” Warren says, trying to hide his embarrassment as he straightens up. “Come on. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Nathan corrects. He pushes past him, allowing Warren to catch a glimpse of the inside of his room. It’s about what he expected, dark and brooding, with sleek furniture and a few prints framed on the walls. His eyes linger a little too long on a photo of a woman with her back turned to the camera, her arms bound behind her shibari-style. Nathan slams the door closed when he notices.

“You don’t have to come,” Warren says, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. “I know it’s probably a little weird that we’re hanging out. If you want to bail, I won’t hold it against you.”

Nathan shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs, his posture tense. “I’ve got nothing better to do,” he says, starting down the hallway. “It’s two fuckin’ hours of my life. Either I watch a movie or I rot alone in my room.”

“That’s the spirit,” Warren sighs, trailing after him. He nearly trips over a plastic jack-o’-lantern sitting outside Trevor’s room but quickly regains his balance, glancing around to make sure no one saw his near-disaster. “More like five hours, factoring in the drive. It’s an hour and a half each way.”

Nathan stops in his tracks, takes a deep breath, and continues out the front doors. “Five hours. Whatever.”

“Who knows? You might have fun.”

“Doubt it.”

Warren snorts as he follows him out to the parking lot, but decides not to push the issue further. It’s not worth it. If Nathan’s going to be a dick the whole night, which wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, it’s on him. Warren will simply enjoy his popcorn and pretend he doesn’t exist.

When they reach the parking lot, Warren pulls his key fob out of his pocket and stops short in front of his car. It lights up with the press of a button and he grins, gesturing at it with pride. “Here she is,” he says, beaming and resting a hand on the dented hood. “My baby. AKA, the TARDIS.”

The appalled look on Nathan’s face makes his smile widen. “I forgot you owned this eyesore,” he says, sounding personally offended. “It’s a fucking death trap. Is that duct tape holding the seat together?”

“It was a DIY project. It’s all part of the charm,” Warren says casually, sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine sputters when he inserts and twists the key, the car shaking as it comes to life. He cranks the window down and sticks his head out with a grin. “Need a ride, hot stuff?”

Nathan groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "I need you to never call me that again," he mutters, but eventually relents and opens the passenger door, sliding in with a sigh of resignation. "If this thing breaks down in the middle of nowhere, I’m leaving you for dead."

When he throws his feet up on the dash, Warren makes a face, grabbing the leg of his jeans and tugging them back to the floor. “I’ve got three rules in my car,” he says as he adjusts the rearview mirror. “Keep your feet on the ground, wear a seatbelt, and absolutely no backseat driving.”

“So you hate having fun, then,” Nathan says, although he complies with the rules and buckles up. “This is going to be a blast.”

Warren ignores his pessimism and nods approvingly, shifting the car into gear and pulling out of his parking spot. The engine rumbles erratically again before finally settling. Someday he’ll scrape up enough money to have it replaced. “Your job is to DJ,” he says, driving off campus and onto the main road. “The radio doesn’t work, but I’ve got a bunch of CDs under your seat. Pick one.”

Nathan rolls his eyes but reaches through his legs, pulling out a booklet and flipping through it with a frown. “Dude. Do you only listen to cheesy 80s music?” he asks, knitting his brows together. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s the best musical era of all time,” Warren says with a grin, keeping his eyes on the road. “What do you like to listen to?”

“Radiohead,” Nathan says, pulling Hatful of Hollow by The Smiths out of the clear casing and examining it. He slides the disc into the player and sits back against his duct-taped seat, leaning his head against the window as the jangly opening chords of ‘William, It Was Really Nothing’ fill the car. “I like Elliott Smith. Jeff Buckley. That sorta thing.”

“So you only listen to depressing 90s music.”

Nathan tuts at him. “It’s better than fucking—” He glances back down at the booklet. “Tears for Fears. This is the kind of shit my dad listens to.”

Warren smirks. “Debatable. But if we’re making compromises here, I’ll allow it.”

The car rattles slightly as they drive over a speed bump, the CD player whirring as the opening notes to the next song begin to play. He doesn’t know this album well. His dad had let him go through his collection during the divorce and subsequent move, and Warren grabbed anything that looked remotely interesting, knowing that whatever he didn’t want would probably be dropped off at the nearest thrift store. One of the more memorable CDs he managed to save from the donation pile was entitled A & J’s Wedding Soundtrack 1988, drawn on the case in his dad’s handwriting. It now resides in his nightstand drawer at home, gathering dust, a relic from a past life.

They drive in silence, Warren glancing over occasionally to observe Nathan. His cheek is pressed against the glass, eyes half-lidded as he looks out at the trees whizzing past them in shades of orange and red. He lets the music do the talking for a while until they’re almost to Newberg, until the last track on the disc starts up. This song he does know, but only because it was used in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, AKA one the best movies of modern-day cinema. Young Jennifer Grey was smokin’ hot.

“I know you probably don’t want to relive it,” he finally says, breaking the silence. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and peeks over at him again. “And you’ve probably heard this from a lot of people already, but… I’m sorry about what happened at the party. I’m glad you’re still here.”

Nathan doesn’t move. He exhales slowly and keeps his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. “Thanks.”

“Did you ever catch who roofied you?”

Nathan blinks, his gaze shifting to look at him. “Who the hell said anything about roofies?”

“No one. Just some people. I don’t know where I heard it, honestly,” Warren says quickly, nails digging into the leather. Panic starts to swell inside of him when he realizes that Nathan might not even know what happened to him. He doesn’t even know for sure if Nathan was roofied, but God, did it seem like it. Nathan himself even confessed that there was something in his drink that wasn’t supposed to be there. A lie, maybe, but what if it wasn’t?

Nathan remains silent for a few agonizing seconds, his expression blank. Warren braces himself for the worst, but much to his surprise, his demeanor softens. He lets out another sigh. “No,” he says. “Didn’t catch them.”

“Shit,” Warren mumbles, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I was hoping—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I just—”

“I know.”

“Sorry,” Warren blurts out. A lump starts to form in his throat when Nathan doesn’t immediately reply. He waits with bated breath for Nathan to demand he pull over and let him out, the silence stretching between them.

But then, to his surprise, Nathan speaks again. “You’re wrong,” he finally says. He ejects the disc when the song drones to an end, only to replace it with a scratched-up Hall & Oates CD, so worn that the picture of the duo is barely recognizable. John Oates is missing his head. “Just so you know.”

“About what?”

Nathan leans against the window again, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “That a lot of people have told me they’re glad I’m still here,” he says. “Pretty sure you’re the first.”

It’s nearly dark by the time they arrive at the drive-in and hand over their tickets, the car creaking dangerously as they pull into the gravel lot. Most of the moviegoers in the area have switched over to seeing their films in theaters to beat the chilly weather, leaving plenty of room for the two of them. Warren can count only eight other cars in the lot as he parks beside a black pick-up, its owners noisily making out in the truck bed.

“I wasn’t sure what to get you, so I kinda grabbed a bit of everything,” he says, unzipping his backpack and handing it to Nathan. “Take whatever you want, except the licorice. That’s mine.”

Nathan rummages through the candies, raising his eyebrows as he pulls out a bag of Tootsie Pops. “Did you buy the whole damn store?” he says, tearing it open and pulling the wrapper off a cherry lollipop. “How’d you get the money to pay for all this, anyway? You got a job?”

“Not a real one,” Warren admits, reaching over to pull a small, portable radio from underneath the snacks. He turns it on and sets it on the dashboard, fiddling with a knob until the sound of the previews fills the car. “Just doing odd jobs here and there. Mowing lawns, walking dogs. You get it.”

“You don’t want to get a job in town?”

“Not a lot of options around there,” Warren says. He could wait tables at the Two Whales if he really wanted to. Joyce told him the position would be handed to him if he just brought in his resume and schmoozed with the manager for a while, and although the offer is tempting, he’s witnessed her deal with plenty of scumbags to put him off from it. He’s not cut out to handle greasy, hungover truckers who make passes at waitstaff and hurl insults when their eggs aren’t cooked just right. “I’m guessing you don’t work either.”

“That might change,” Nathan says, shoving the lollipop into his mouth. “I fuck up again and my dad’s cutting me off. No more allowance.”

“Does he count what happened to you as fucking up?”

“Take a guess.”

Warren frowns. “That’s messed up. It wasn’t even your fault.”

Nathan shrugs, leaning back in his seat and staring at the dimming sky through the windshield. "Doesn’t matter to him. Everything’s my fault," he says, voice flat. He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth, inspecting it for a moment before continuing. “I could trip and fall, and he'd still find a way to blame me for it. That’s just how he works.”

Warren bites the inside of his cheek, unsure how to respond. "Still,” he says, “he should be on your side. Parents are supposed to… I don’t know, care.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t.” Nathan folds the red wrapper in half, and then in half again, before squishing it into a tiny ball in the center of his palm. “Or if he does, he doesn’t show it. He’s always angry with me about something. Not like I can blame him, since he saw the video. How would your parents react to you doing that?”

Grimacing, Warren grabs the licorice from his backpack and rips the package open, tearing off a strand and taking a bite. “Honestly?” he says, thinking for a moment before sighing. “My mom would freak out. Like, total meltdown. But she’d still love me. She’d tell me I made a mistake, and we’d talk about it until I wanted to crawl into a hole.”

“And your dad?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t see him much.”

There’s a long pause as a preview for a new horror film plays, casting flickering shadows across their faces. Nathan shifts in his seat, folding his arms across his chest as if trying to shield himself from the weight of the conversation. On screen, a woman screams, a knife-wielding killer lunging for her. Blood sprays everywhere and the couple in the truck beside them cry out in what Warren thinks is fear, until he notices a disgusted drive-in attendant running over to break them up.

“We’re not here to talk about our shitty, absent dads,” Nathan finally says, glancing over at him. “They have popcorn here?”

Warren chuckles softly, thankful for the shift in conversation. “I’ll grab some,” he says, hopping out. He returns a few minutes late with the biggest tub of popcorn they have and a soda for good measure, placing both on the center console and sliding back into his seat, the smell of butter and salt filling the car.

After another round of previews, the movie starts. Nathan reaches for the popcorn absentmindedly, shoving a handful into his mouth before letting out a sigh that feels heavier than the air between them. Warren feels it too—the weight of everything unsaid—and he has the annoying urge to ask him how he’s doing, and how his classes have been, and whether he’s enjoying this at all. The words stick in his throat like the popcorn, and he’s glad. He’s not sure when he gained the impulse to check on Nathan so much, but he is sure that Nathan wouldn’t appreciate being bombarded with his silly questions. Not tonight, at least. Maybe not ever.

Instead, Warren focuses on the film, although he isn’t really watching it. His eyes follow the images on the screen, but his mind drifts, tangled in the awkward tension that sits between them like a third passenger. Nathan shifts in his seat, the leather creaking softly, and for a moment Warren thinks he’s going to say something—anything to break the silence—but he doesn’t.

Bored, Warren takes to sneaking glances at him every few minutes to make sure he’s watching, and is pleased to find he is. He doesn’t check his phone once. When he does look away, it’s to root around in the popcorn or to grab another lollipop, the wrappers piling up in his lap.

That’s one thing in particular Warren finds himself looking at. Not once, not twice, but three times does he find himself staring as Nathan sucks away at them, his lips stained red from the dye. He doesn’t bother with the other flavors, he notices—only the cherry, which clacks noisily against his teeth as he switches it from one side of his mouth to the other. He fixates on the way his jaw rolls when he swallows, and the way he smirks around it when something amusing happens on screen.

A blush creeps up Warren’s neck when he realizes how much attention he’s paying him. It reminds him of the time last July when he took his bike out for a ride around town, only to spot Dana sitting on her front porch in a bikini, enjoying a popsicle. The way the juice dripped down her chin distracted him so much that he crashed into her mailbox, leaving a sizeable dent in the metal and his pride.

“What’s your problem?” Nathan says, staring right back at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Warren jolts, blinking rapidly as if to reset his brain. He tries to think of something clever, something that won’t reveal the weird, fevered line his thoughts had wandered down, but words, when he most needs them, fail him. “Uh, what? Nothing,” he says, shoving another strand of licorice into his mouth. He looks back over at the screen, eyes widening when he sees the credits rolling. “It’s over?”

“Did you zone out, or something?” Nathan asks, gnawing on the stick hanging out of his mouth. He pulls it out and cranks the window down, flicking it onto the ground. “Ending was good. Caesar’s a badass.”

Warren rubs his face, trying to shake off the flush of embarrassment creeping across his cheeks. He laughs weakly, still not quite able to meet Nathan's eyes. "Yeah, must’ve," he says, gripping the steering wheel for no reason other than to occupy his hands. His palms are sweating for reasons unbeknownst to him, and he hopes Nathan doesn’t notice.

Nathan, on the other hand, doesn’t seem too concerned. He stretches out, cracking his neck with a satisfied sigh. “You missed a decent chunk, but whatever. You’ve probably seen it, like, three times already.”

“Four,” Warren corrects.

“Four, then. Same difference.”

They reach into the popcorn bucket at the same time, their fingers brushing against each other for a brief moment. A jolt of electricity courses through Warren at the touch and he quickly withdraws, startled. Nathan must’ve felt it too, because he pulls back at the same time—although the look on his face and the way he’s cradling his hand suggest he’s been burned.

Neither of them says a word. Heart racing, Warren starts up the car and drives out of the lot before he can dwell too long on what just happened, clearing his throat. “It’s getting late,” he says, the glow of the screen disappearing in his rearview as they file onto the highway. “I’m not keeping you from homework or anything you have to do tonight, ri—”

Nathan interrupts, his voice low and strained. “No. Nope.”

“Good,” Warren says, breathless. Hall & Oates start singing again, the CD picking up right where it left off. After a good half-hour without so much as a peep from Nathan, Warren looks over to find him asleep, snoring. At least one of them was able to enjoy the movie. It’s a shame he dragged him to the one with the worst acting in the franchise.

Acting. Rachel.

“Nathan,” he hisses, steadying the steering wheel with one hand and using his other to push at his shoulder. “Nate, wake up. I need to ask you something about Rachel Amber.”

Nathan stirs at Warren's prodding, blinking groggily as he sits up and rubs his eyes. "The fuck?" he mumbles, his voice hoarse from sleep. "Who?"

“Rachel Amber. The missing girl. The one you did theater with.”

Nathan sits straight up in his seat, suddenly awake, the drowsiness draining from his face in an instant. “Uh,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Okay.”

“You’re friends with her, right?”

“That’s… I don’t know. Sort of. Why?”

“Because,” Warren says slowly, taking a deep breath, “I don’t think she’s missing. I think something happened to her, and… and some friends and I are trying to find out what.”

Nathan's face goes blank. A loud thumping noise comes from somewhere in the car, and Warren is almost certain it’s the engine acting up again until he notices the anxious bouncing of Nathan’s leg against the glovebox. “Can’t help you,” he says brusquely. “Sorry.”

“You guys didn’t hang out together?” Warren asks. “You don’t know anything that could help?”

“We saw each other at parties,” Nathan says, biting his nails. “Maybe a few times outside of school. That’s it.”

Warren deflates. Another dead end. “I thought maybe she left of her own free will at first, but she had people who cared about her here,” he says. “I don’t think she’d abandon the people she cared about. I don’t know. It’s just… weird.”

Nathan flinches, biting down harder on his nail until it cracks. “I’d leave that shit to the cops,” he says, putting a hand on his knee to still his trembling leg. “Nothing we can do about it.”

There is, Warren thinks, pulling off on the exit that leads back to the coast. There has to be.

Chapter Text

Friday, October 18th

He knows.

It’s all Nathan can think about as the two of them walk back to the dorms, Warren rambling on about something insignificant as they cross campus. Somehow, he knows that Rachel didn’t pick up and leave Arcadia Bay, that her disappearance is suspicious, and now he and his friends are looking into it. He’s decided to launch a fucking investigation.

The idea of him digging up the truth that he and Jefferson worked so hard to bury makes his stomach churn. It was difficult in the beginning, having to sit around while search parties combed the forests and beaches for any sign of her. When the bloodhounds turned up nothing and the initial fervor died down, Nathan thought they might be in the clear. Rachel’s name could fade quietly into the annals of Arcadia Bay’s history, another mystery people would eventually stop talking about. Until Warren came along, that is.

He's close. Too goddamn close. For a second, Nathan imagines grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him, telling him to back off before he gets himself hurt, but he doesn’t. It’s not like it would stop him, anyway. Warren seems stubborn—the kind of person who, once he latches onto something, doesn’t let go until he’s satisfied with the answer. And right now, Rachel Amber is that thing.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m pretty sure there’s a ghost haunting the library,” Warren finishes, oblivious to his turmoil. “I swear I saw a book fly off the shelf when no one was around.”

“Uh-huh,” Nathan mutters, trying to sound interested. “I’m sure it’s just the wind. You know how old buildings are.”

“Maybe,” Warren says, shrugging, “but weird shit happens all the time in this town. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that it was built on an ancient burial ground. Bad juju.”

Nathan wonders if he’s cursed as he slips in through the dormitory doors behind him. His family settled in Arcadia Bay generations ago, and from what little he knows of them, they had a reputation for ruthless business practices and exploitation of the land. Especially now, with his dad building a housing development that will raze some of the last remaining natural areas in town.

Rachel’s death. His video. Maybe everything that’s happened is nature’s way of exacting justice for his family’s sins.

They stop when they get to the end of the hall, Nathan fishing his key out of his pocket and cracking his door. He figures Warren left his side to slip wordlessly into his own room, because that’s what he would do, but he’s still there when he glances over his shoulder, hands shoved into his pockets with a smile on his face.

“I don’t know about you, but I had a good time tonight,” he says, a surprising amount of sincerity in his voice. “I had fun. Did you?”

Nathan blinks, a pang of guilt cutting through his defenses. He’ll never understand Warren’s genuine affection for him. Every attempt at turning him away sends him running right back, and it reminds him of the mangy stray dog that used to visit his childhood home. He fed it handouts once and it visited for weeks after, vying for scraps and attention, until his dad caught wind of it and called animal control.

“Yeah?” Nathan mumbles, his fingers still on the door handle. “It was fine. Thanks.”

Warren’s smile widens, unaffected by his lackluster response. “Man, I really thought I’d get more than that out of you. But I’ll take it.”

Nathan shoots him a look. “I’m not great at hanging out with people. You knew what you signed up for.”

“Well, you’re not terrible at it either,” Warren says, stepping back toward his room but pausing just outside his door. “Next time we can watch something else. Maybe a comedy. Ease you into this ‘having fun’ thing.”

Nathan’s lips twitch into the smallest of smiles. “We’ll see.”

Warren seems to take that as a victory. “Awesome,” he says, shooting finger guns at him. The dimples in his cheeks crease as he grins. “Night!”

Nathan enters his room and shuts the door behind him, pressing his back against it. “Homo,” he huffs, and then laughs softly to himself. Warren is no more a homo than he is. Warren hasn’t made out with a boy, at least to his knowledge.

Kicking off his shoes, he slumps into his desk chair, thoughts spinning. Was it a date?

No. It couldn’t have been. He wouldn’t have gone if it was a date, obviously, but it certainly felt like it at times. Nathan’s cheeks burn when he remembers the way his body reacted to Warren’s touch. It was like he had touched a live wire—goosebumps, the hair on his arms standing at attention, his insides turning to jelly. It was the weirdest fucking thing he’s ever experienced. Weirder still, he didn’t seem to mind it.

Warren, for all his awkwardness and dorky tendencies, isn’t so terrible. Something tells him he’s had this realization before, probably the night Warren helped him home from the party, changed him out of his puke-stained clothes, and gave him a place to crash, but now he’s sober. Now he means it.

Sinking into his chair, Nathan rummages around in his desk for weed, rolling paper, and his lighter. It’s a white BIC—one of the cheap, plastic ones available at any gas station—that Rachel gave him ages ago after trying to throw it out. She mentioned something about the 27 Club when she handed it over, something about Kurt Cobain (or was it Jimi Hendrix?) who died with one in his possession, which somehow made it bad luck. All Nathan had seen was a perfectly good lighter destined for the trash.

He packs a joint and lights it up, the lighter sparking a few times before finally igniting the tip. The smoke curls around him as he takes a drag, and while the buzz would normally numb the sharper edges of his thoughts, it does nothing to soothe him this time. If anything, it’s magnifying his anxieties. What if Warren knows more than he’s letting on about him and Rachel?  Was inviting him out a way to see if he’d slip up?

Another drag, another exhale. Retrieving his burner from under the couch, he punches in his birthday and taps on Jefferson’s contact, lifting it to his ear. The phone rings only twice before it connects.

“Yes?"

“Hey,” Nathan says, rolling his joint between his fingers. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

Jefferson's voice on the other end is smooth, calm, too calm for how Nathan's heart pounds in his chest. “It’s fine. Is there something on your mind?”

Nathan moves to his bed and lays down, letting the purplish smoke linger around him before placing the joint between his lips again. “Yeah,” he says, feeling the heat of the smoke in his lungs. “Do you know Warren Graham?”

“Of course.”

“He’s asking about Rachel.”

There’s a prolonged silence on the other end of the call, and then the screech of a chair moving as Jefferson stands up. He’s at home, most likely. Nathan has tried to imagine what his mentor’s apartment looks like, but all he can picture is something resembling the darkroom—clean and cold, a complete absence of anything personal, just like Jefferson himself.

He’s been invited over once or twice, but never actually accepted the offer. If he was still the person he was last year, Nathan might’ve accepted, but he’s smarter now. He knows what Jefferson is capable of.

“What did he say?” Jefferson asks, his voice devoid of emotion. “When?”

“Tonight,” Nathan says, staring up at the ceiling. “He knows we did theater shit together and asked if I knew what happened to her. I tried to play it off like we weren’t friends, but—”

Jefferson cuts him off with an exhale. “How much does he know?”

“I don’t know. He’s got friends involved, though. They’re trying to find her.”

“Who?”

“Fuck if I know, Mark,” Nathan snaps, taking a long drag from the joint to steady himself. The smoke stings his eyes, and he closes them when they prick with tears. “Sorry. I don’t know. I just know he’s not doing this alone.”

To his surprise, Jefferson chuckles. “I think he developed a savior complex after rescuing you,” he says. There’s the sound of a clinking glass on the other end as he pours himself a drink. “Now he wants to rescue her.”

“Yeah, well—”

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about. If the cops couldn’t find anything, a sixteen-year-old boy won’t.”

Except the cops are stupid and lazy, and Warren isn’t. If he wandered around the junkyard for a while, he’d eventually stumble upon her remains. Jefferson promised he’d buried her well, but it rains hard and often in Oregon. She may have been unearthed by a storm, her bones and clothing scattered by animals. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic coursing through him.

“Were you spending time with him?" Jefferson suddenly asks, curious. "Wells asked him to keep an eye on you the other day. Have you two gotten close?”

Nathan shakes his head, even though Jefferson can’t see it. “No,” he says. “He invited me out. He’s just… I don’t know. Trying to be nice, or something.”

Jefferson’s tone sharpens. “Nathan, listen to me. Warren Graham is not ‘just being nice.’ He’s using you, and if he isn’t, he’s spending time with you because he feels obligated to. He doesn't care about you. Don’t interact with him unless you have to.”

“I have to,” Nathan mumbles. “We share a class now.”

“Then keep your conversations brief,” Jefferson says firmly. “If he starts talking about Rachel again, change the subject. Better yet, toss him a false lead.”

Nathan isn’t even sure what that would look like. He wonders if it would be possible to fabricate a letter from California declaring that she’s alive, but the last thing he forged was a field trip permission slip back in middle school. He’s out of practice. Not to mention that it might backfire spectacularly, reopen her case, and paint a target on both of their backs.

“Okay,” he says, resigned. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You will. Get a refill from Frank while you're at it. We have work to do.”

Right. He’s been meaning to get around to that. He’s already drafting a message by the time Jefferson hangs up, thumbs tapping furiously against the screen. Frank, having nothing better to do than sit around and wait for druggy teens to buy his wares, responds almost immediately.

[You, Today 12:04 AM]

need g pls

meet tmrw night?

[Unknown, Today 12:04 AM]

Busy. Meet at beach tomorrow 4 pm.

[You, Today 12:05 AM]

i said night. dont want attention

[Unknown, Today 12:05 AM]

Don’t give a shit.

Nathan grunts, his fingers hovering over the letters as he tries to formulate a reply. Buying drugs in broad daylight is the last thing he wants to do. The beach at that time will be crawling with people—families, joggers, locals walking their dogs. Anyone could see him, and it’s not like he’d be able to make a quick getaway. He’s not dumb enough to steal his dad’s car during the middle of the day, and that leaves him without a ride. Unless he can find a way to borrow Warren’s.

He snubs out his joint, embers glowing and sizzling in the ashtray, and turns his MP3 player on. The bellowing of whale song lulls him to sleep, and he dreams, although they’re nonsensical and disjointed from the weed. Giant apes wielding spears, shadowy figures, faces of people he’s never seen before.

Except for Warren. He’s standing among them, clutching something in his hands, his expression frozen in fear.

Chapter Text

Saturday, October 19th

“It wasn’t Max,” Stella says. “And it wasn’t Brooke.”

“It was not.”

“And it wasn’t Courtney, or Alyssa, or…”

Warren smirks from his desk chair, watching Stella pace the length of his room. She’s been attempting to guess the name of his secret movie date for upwards of twenty minutes now, according to the clock on his nightstand, with no signs of stopping. Rattling off half the girls at Blackwell has gotten her no closer to the truth, and Warren can see her growing increasingly irritated with her lack of success, her eyes narrowed into slits behind her glasses.

Eventually, she stops and whirls around, snapping her fingers and pointing one at him. “Got it,” she says, grinning wide. “Juliet, obviously. It has to be her.”

“Yep.”

“Actually?”

“Nope,” Warren says, swiveling around to face his desk. He picks up his graded exams and flips through them, sipping from the mug of hot apple cider Stella brought him from the cafeteria. As it turns out, he didn’t do as horrendous as he thought he did. The only glaringly bad grade is in chemistry, which he can hardly stand to look at and quickly sets aside. The others aren’t stellar, but it’s enough to keep him afloat for now.

Stella groans and throws her hands up in exasperation. “You’re such a little shit,” she says, falling on his bed and glaring up at the ceiling. “Is this fun for you? Do you get some kind of sick enjoyment out of torturing me?”

“You have no idea,” Warren says, cupping the mug in his hands and letting the steam tickle his face. “You’re never going to guess.”

“I don’t get why you won’t spit it out. You trust me, right?”

He does, especially after she confided in him about how she ended up in Arcadia Bay. She had grown up in a poor, abusive family on the other side of the state, and was eventually removed and placed in the care of an aunt. She’s on scholarship like he is and knows exactly what it’s like to come from nothing but attend a school where most students, like Nathan, have everything.

“Yeah, but…” He sighs, glancing away and taking a seat beside her. “It’s complicated.”

Stella raises an eyebrow and rolls onto her side to face him, propping her head up with her hand. “Complicated as in you have a crush on this girl?”

“Ha,” he says, sipping from his cup. “No. No way.”

“You’re blushing.”

He reaches up to press the back of his hand to his cheek and finds that it’s just as warm as his cider. Trying to come up with an excuse, that he’s sick or that the draft coming in through his open window is to blame, is futile. His body has betrayed him and Stella smirks, knowing she’s caught him red-handed.

“You do have a crush,” she says. “That’s adorable. And shocking, considering it’s not Max.”

Warren’s cheeks burn even hotter. “I don’t,” he starts, shaking his head vigorously. “It was totally platonic. He’s—she’s not my type at all. She’s insufferable.”

He holds his breath and waits for Stella to point out his slip of the tongue, but she only raises an eyebrow and leans back on her hands, looking intrigued. “You told me you had a good time. You’re switching up on me,” she says, waggling a finger at him. “Did you kiss her?”

“No!”

“Did you think about kissing her?”

“Stella,” he warns. The thought of kissing Nathan hasn’t crossed his mind, because that would be weird. He does remember the lollipop hanging from his mouth, though. Just thinking about his lips wrapped around it makes his stomach curl. He would’ve tasted like cherries.

Someone pounds hard at his door, the noise making him jump. Stella looks just as surprised as he scurries over to open it and finds himself standing in front of a slightly disheveled Nathan, his hair tousled and his clothes wrinkled. “Sup,” he says, his voice scratchy. “You busy?”

Warren stares blankly at him before shrugging. “Not really. Why do you look like you just rolled out of bed?”

“Slept in late.”

“It’s, like, four in the afternoon.”

Nathan yawns, his eyes flickering briefly toward Stella before settling on Warren again. “I need a favor.”

He steps inside and Stella slips out the door behind him, shooting Warren a curious look. He shrugs helplessly as she leaves, signaling that he too has no clue what this could be about, and turns his attention back to Nathan, who sinks into his desk chair and kicks off the floor to spin himself around.

“I need to use your car,” he says, the chair slowly turning to a stop. He leans forward and clasps his hands together, smiling wryly. “Thanks.”

Warren laughs, which sours Nathan’s expression. A little over a week ago he was shocked to wake up in this bedroom. Now he’s walking in like he owns it. “You want to use my car,” he repeats, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t you have your own?”

“Don’t have the keys. I need to run an errand.”

“Why don’t you ask Victoria?”

Nathan scoffs. “She’s in Seattle visiting her parents for the weekend,” he says. He crosses his arms and shifts uncomfortably, avoiding Warren’s gaze for a moment before looking back at him with a slight frown. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I just need to take care of something real quick.”

Warren studies his face before relenting and grabbing his keys from his nightstand. “Alright,” he says, twirling them around his finger. “But under one condition. I’m driving.”

“Fuck no,” Nathan balks, standing. “You can’t come.”

“Why?”

For a split second, Nathan almost looks panicked. His eyes shoot open, his nostrils flare. After a brief pause, he nods curtly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Whatever,” he says, exiting into the hallway. “We’re going to the beach.”

Warren eyes him skeptically as he follows him out. If he needed a lift into town or back to his house, he’d understand. The beach is an odd choice, considering it’s overcast and barely sixty degrees out. “You’re not planning on swimming, are you?” he asks, jogging to catch up with him. “You’re about three months too late for prime beachgoing weather.”

“Don’t ask questions,” Nathan says cryptically. “Too hard to explain.”

Warren unlocks his car once they reach the parking lot, Nathan sliding into the passenger seat without another word. He casts a sidelong glance at him as he starts up the engine and even slides a fresh CD into the player (Elliott Smith’s Either/Or, which he had found, by some stroke of luck, at the back of his booklet), but Nathan says nothing. He stares out the window as they depart from Blackwell, his hands fidgeting restlessly in his lap.

Warren parks his car near the shore when they arrive. The sea is a turbulent gray, the sky above it darkening with the first signs of an oncoming storm. When he reaches to open his door, Nathan grabs his arm, his fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice unexpectedly urgent. “Got it? Don’t fucking move from this seat.”

It’s Warren’s turn to scoff. “Are you—”

“Look at me. Don’t. Move.”

Warren nods, an uneasiness settling in his chest as Nathan releases his wrist and steps out of the car. He watches him trudge down a rickety flight of stairs, worn from the salty, lapping waters of high tide, before finally reaching the sand and walking into the mist. Only when he reaches a large, white structure does he stop and bang his fist against it, and when Warren peers into the distance, he realizes that it’s a parked trailer. One that looks frighteningly familiar.

It could be anyone’s, Warren thinks, because there are plenty around Arcadia Bay, but his worst fears are confirmed when he sees Frank clamber out. He ducks beneath the steering wheel, swearing under his breath. Nathan brought him to a drug deal. He’s here to score whatever the hell it is he pays for, and he dragged him along as an unwitting accomplice. He should be mad about it—pissed, really—but the entire situation is so unbelievably Nathan that he can’t help but feel stupid. He should’ve known what he was getting himself into when he offered him a ride.

He peeks over the wheel to watch the interaction unfold. Nathan pulls a wad of cash from his varsity and hands it over. Frank counts it. Frank grabs something from his pocket. It’s quick and clean and exactly what a drug deal is supposed to look like, he imagines, but something is wrong. Frank hesitates and then passes the money back to Nathan, pocketing whatever it was he had intended on dealing. He’s changed his mind.

Nathan blows up. Warren can hear him screaming like a madman from his vantage point, his hands thrown up in the air. When he takes a step in his direction, Frank grabs him by his shirt and brandishes his butterfly knife. The blade presses against the tender skin of his throat and his face, previously crimson with anger, pales with fear.

Throwing open the door, Warren stumbles down the stairs and onto the sand, the briny wind biting at his face as he runs. “Stop!” he shouts, his voice dampened by the waves. “Don’t fucking touch him, Frank!”

Frank’s eyes narrow with recognition as soon as they land on him. “You,” he spits, his grip on Nathan tightening. “I know it was you and your punk friends who broke into my shit. Stay out of this.”

“Yeah. Stay out of this,” Nathan echoes shakily, tipping his head back to avoid the sting of the blade. “Just give me the fucking drug, asshole.”

“I told you. Deal’s off.”

“I said I’m not leaving without it!”

Warren steps closer despite himself, his legs moving on instinct even though his brain is screaming at him to stop. “Please, just let him go. We don’t want any trouble,” he says, his hands held up in surrender. His gaze falls to the bracelet around Frank’s wrist, and he swallows thickly. “Rachel—Rachel wouldn’t want this.”

Frank’s face darkens at the mention of her name. “Don’t talk about her. You don’t know a goddamn thing about her, or what she wants.”

Nathan chokes out a bitter laugh, his eyes wide and desperate. “Oh, please,” he gasps, his voice strained against the pressure of the knife at his neck. “You don’t know shit either. You’re just a lowlife junkie she fucked for free weed.”

“You shut the fuck up, Prescott,” Frank snarls, and Warren wishes he was a little closer so he could wrap his hands around Nathan’s neck and shut him up himself.

Resisting the urge to throttle him, Warren inches toward him, heels digging into the sand. “You know Rachel better than either of us,” he says, holding his breath. “Rachel—if she were here, she’d be begging you to let him go. You know she would.”

“Keep her name out of her mouth.”

“Did you hurt her?” Warren’s voice trembles as the words slip out, unplanned. He steps closer again, his eyes on the knife, and he wonders if he’s close enough to make a grab for it yet. “Did you do something to her?”

Frank’s face collapses in on itself, a slow-motion crumple of emotion. “Hurt her?” he says, his lip curling. “I loved her. I loved Rachel more than anything, and she left me for someone else. Told me she’d fallen in love with some guy who ‘saw the real her,’ whatever the hell that means. She hurt me.”

There’s a beat of silence, the wind whipping salt into Warren’s face, stinging his eyes. Then Nathan—because of course it would be Nathan—lets out a horrible, strangled laugh, more of a croak than anything else. Warren’s heart seizes in his chest.

“Oh my God,” Nathan manages between wheezes. “You’re such a little bitch, Frank.”

Frank stiffens, his entire body going rigid as if the words have cut through him, through whatever thin thread of self-control he has left. When he digs the knife into Nathan’s neck, Warren lunges forward, knuckles cracking against his jaw. The impact sends Frank stumbling, and Warren goes with him when he tumbles backward against the sand. His fists connect with his face over and over until he feels his nose break beneath them, and blood spurts, hot and thick and violent, across his skin.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop until he feels Nathan behind him, grabbing him by his shirt and yanking him off.

“There,” he rasps, his breathing ragged as he staggers to his feet. He stares down at Frank’s crippled form, his blood mixing with the sand, and for a moment, he feels a surge of triumph. It lasts only until he looks back at Nathan, then down at his split knuckles, before he realizes what he’s done.

“Holy shit,” Nathan says breathlessly from beside him, kicking the knife out of Frank’s reach. “Fuck, dude.”

“Give him the money and take your stuff.”

Nathan stares at him in shock, but then quickly fumbles into his jacket, pulling out the wad of cash. He tosses the money onto the ground near Frank, who’s groaning and clutching his nose, blood seeping through his fingers, and retrieves a small vial from the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s go,” he says, stuffing it into his varsity and looping his arm through Warren’s. “Now.”

Warren blinks rapidly, trying to clear his head as the rush of adrenaline ebbs away. “Your debt’s settled with Chloe,” he rasps to Frank, tripping over his feet as Nathan drags him away. “Don’t fuck with her again.”

Frank only gurgles in reply. Inside the RV, Pompidou whines.

Back in the car, Warren digs the blood out from underneath his fingernails in silence.

Never in his life has he fought someone before and won. He’s never so much as raised a hand, not even to defend himself. The fact that he beat up a grown man and got out unscathed is shocking, and with the way Nathan’s staring at him from the passenger seat, he must think so too.

“What?” he mutters, curling in on himself. “Shut up.”

Nathan grins and shakes his head in disbelief. “That was so fucking metal,” he says. “You’re badass.”

Warren huffs and shakes his head, the reality of what just happened settling like lead in his stomach. “I’m never doing that again.”

“Please do it again. And let me know so I can watch.”

Warren leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing. He doesn’t know how he did what he just did, although he’s pretty sure he has a culmination of four years of pent-up rage to thank. That and the idea that Nathan’s life might’ve been on the line. It reminds him of stories he’s heard about women lifting cars to save their trapped children, an extraordinary burst of brute strength born from desperation.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asks, looking over at Nathan. He reaches out to brush his fingers along the shallow scratch on his throat where the knife had cut, fingers gracing over his Adam’s apple. “You’re good?”

“I’m good,” Nathan says, flinching slightly at the touch. He leans into it after a moment. “Didn’t even hurt.”

Warren winds his arm back and punches him hard in the shoulder, to which Nathan yelps. “Don’t ever put me in that position again,” he snaps, cradling his throbbing knuckles. “What the hell were you thinking, taking me here? Why are you buying from him?”

“None of your business,” Nathan says, glaring and rubbing his shoulder. His hand hovers near his throat where Warren had touched him, fingers ghosting over the spot as if still feeling the warmth. “How do you know him? Did he say you broke into his trailer?”

Exhaling sharply, Warren turns the keys in the ignition. “Don’t ask questions.”

“Touché.”

When his phone buzzes in his pocket, Warren pulls it out. He groans loudly and smacks his forehead against the steering wheel.

[Chloe, Today 4:42 PM]

at rachel’s house. meet us there

2420 blackfriars road

“What’s wrong?” Nathan asks, leaning over to peek at the screen. “Who is it?”

Warren shivers at the feeling of Nathan’s breath tickling his neck and slips his phone into an empty cupholder, tugging his seatbelt across his chest. “We have another stop to make,” he says grimly. “You need to be on your best behavior.”

Nathan snorts and throws his shoes up on the dash, which are quickly shoved off. “I dunno. I think I’ve been pretty good today.”

“If this is the best you can do, we’re screwed. Now buckle up.”

It’s raining heavily by the time they pull onto Rachel’s street, water sloshing noisily under the windshield wipers. The neighborhood is quiet, the houses illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning. He finds hers at the back of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by a grove of pines, and is somewhat shocked at how big it is, although he knows he shouldn’t be. It’s not far from Nathan’s place which means they’re on the ritzier side of Arcadia Bay, if there exists such a thing.

“Okay,” he says, parking a few houses down and turning to Nathan. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here, so—what’s wrong?”

Nathan, cupping a hand over his mouth, cranks his window down and leans out of it. “Nothing,” he croaks, his forehead shiny with sweat. “I’m fine.”

Warren frowns. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Motion sickness?”

“Why are we here?”

“We…” Warren starts, pausing as he studies Nathan’s pale, sweating face. “We’re breaking in.”

Nathan looks back at him, horrified. “Like hell we are.”

Chloe’s truck rattles to a stop behind them and Warren hops out onto the wet pavement, too drained to argue with him. “Hey,” he greets, giving both Max and Chloe a brisk hug. Max returns it warmly. Chloe, her arms glued to her sides, stiffens and glares at his car.

“What,” she says sharply, “is he doing here?”

Nathan grunts, slamming the passenger door and hobbling onto the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too, Caliban. How’s the acting career going?” Chloe says, bending down to his height and resting her hands on her thighs. “Oh, and how’s Mrs. P? You still need to introduce us so I can take her out to a romantic candlelit dinner sometime.”

“How about I introduce my balls to the back of your throat?” Nathan seethes, shoving a finger at her. “Dyke.”

Max’s eyes go wide, and Warren grabs the back of Nathan’s jacket, yanking him away. “Knock it off,” he says, shooting Nathan a pointed look. “We have a job to do. Let’s do it.”

“You’re telling me he’s here to help?” Chloe says in disbelief, nodding in Nathan’s direction. “The creep in Gucci loafers is going to help us find Rachel?”

“Shut up,” Nathan snaps, tearing his arm from Warren’s grip. “And I’m not a creep.”

“You drugged me and took pictures of me!”

“It was for an art project!”

“Art project or not, it’s gross,” Max says, stepping between the two of them and shooing Chloe away. “You should know what it’s like to have someone take pictures of you when you’re not all there. Doesn’t feel great, does it?”

A look of pain washes over Nathan’s face. Embarrassed, he retreats behind Warren, turning his back to the three of them and kicking absently at one of his tires.

“Focus,” Warren says, rubbing his temples. “Chloe, how are we getting in? I’m not picking the lock on their front door.”

Chloe grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around, pointing at a large window. “Same way I used to sneak into her room,” she says. “We get in, we snoop around in there, we find the phone, and we get out. We just need to dodge her parents.”

It’s doable, Warren supposes. The window is only about twelve feet off the ground and appears to be slightly ajar. It shouldn’t be too difficult if they climb the trellis. The difficult part will be explaining themselves to Mr. and Mrs. Amber should they be caught ransacking their missing daughter’s bedroom.

Chloe takes the lead as the four of them sneak through the rain-soaked yard, shoes squelching in the muddy grass. She reaches the trellis first and glances back to make sure the others are following, ready to chase down any defectors. Luckily, Max is right behind her, her head on a swivel as she presses herself up against the side of the house. Warren and Nathan bring up the rear, the latter looking increasingly nervous. Warren sees him clutch his stomach as they slow to a stop in front of the window, and he wonders for a moment if he might keel over and ruin Mrs. Amber’s petunias.

“How do we figure out who’s going up there? We can’t all climb in,” Warren mumurs, wiping his palms on his jeans. “One person can go and the rest will keep watch.”

“Not me,” Nathan says under his breath, eyeing the distance from the ground to the window. “I didn’t even want to come here.”

Chloe pouts and bats her eyelashes at him. “Aw, is Nathan Pwescott scawed of heights? I guess that’s why you didn’t jump,” she teases, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Warren, tell him to pull his thong out of his ass. His tampon string is showing.”

“I will fucking kill you."

Warren rounds on them, his patience wearing thin. “If you two get us caught, I’ll kill both of you,” he snaps, his voice a harsh whisper. Nathan blinks, his mouth twitching like he wants to snap back, but instead, he looks away. Chloe’s grin falters.

Sensing that no one is going to volunteer, Warren steps forward. If they’re going to get anything accomplished today, it’ll have to be him who makes the sacrifice. “I’m going up,” he says with a sigh, placing one foot on the trellis. “Stay put and try not to act like children for five minutes.”

Max reaches for him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, already beginning his ascent. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Gripping the wet iron tightly in his fists, he places one foot on the trellis, trying not to picture mangled wrists or broken ribs or certain death as he climbs. Images of his crippled body lying at Nathan’s feet flash through his mind, a clean break in the neck. He shudders, and the trellis wobbles beneath him, creaking in the wind.

“How do we know the phone’s in her room, anyway?” he grunts, blinking the rain out of his eyes. He inches upward again, slowly, carefully. “Do we know that for sure?”

“Not exactly,” Chloe calls out from somewhere below him. “But they put all her stuff in there. They didn’t want any reminders of her lying around.”

“I won’t be happy if we did this for nothing.”

“Just climb, dude.”

Before he can fire back with a retort, the trellis wobbles again. The metal screeches as it detaches from the wall, and he feels himself falling backward, his hands scrabbling for purchase. He leaps, gasping, for the windowsill, and manages to sink his fingers into it just as it comes away completely. It falls to the ground with a metallic thud, leaving him hanging.

“Shit,” Nathan hisses, and when Warren looks down, he finds him standing below, arms outstretched. “Are you okay?”

“Fantastic,” he grits out, arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up. He can hear Chloe and Max whispering nervously as he reaches to shove the window open, and with a final heave, he manages to pull himself through and into Rachel’s darkened bedroom, where he collapses in a damp heap on the carpet. His muscles cramp as he pulls himself into a sitting position, the palms of his hands raw with blisters.

It takes him a solid minute to recover from the ordeal before poking his head out the window, Chloe cheering silently from the ground. Beside her, Nathan looks relieved and slightly less sick than before. When Warren smiles down at him, he smiles back.

One quick look around Rachel’s room tells him all he needs to know about her. It’s a time capsule, untouched since the day she vanished. Her bed is still unmade, the lipstick on her dresser still uncapped. He admires the posters and theater masks tacked to her wall before remembering the task at hand, and he sets to work, opening drawers and carefully combing through her belongings. There are answers hidden here. He just needs to find them, and it looks like he’ll be doing it alone.

When sifting through her desk and her nightstand yields nothing but everyday items—a notebook filled with doodles, some loose change, some scattered receipts—Warren’s frustration mounts. He’s ready to give up when he finds a shoebox underneath her bed, and he opens it, expecting to find more of her trinkets. Instead, he finds a manila folder, the seal of the Arcadia Bay Police Department stamped on the front of it. Beneath it, her phone.

He opens the folder first. Her case file is meticulously organized, filled with photos and witness statements from her parents, friends, and teachers, all of which say the same thing. There was nothing out of the ordinary on the day of her disappearance. Rachel Amber, talented and beloved by many, had left Blackwell one night and never returned. CCTV had captured her walking away from campus and that was it. No signs of a struggle. No foul play suspected.

Next comes her phone, recovered from her dorm room the morning she was declared missing. It strikes him as odd that any teenage girl would leave hers behind if she decided to skip town. The girls at Blackwell are glued to theirs, and although he wants to believe she might’ve forgotten it accidentally, he knows it’s unlikely. It solidifies the growing feeling he’s had since the day they started this investigation, one that he’s tried to ignore, and one that he certainly won’t speak into existence in case he’s wrong: Rachel is dead.

He turns it on, frowning when he sees it requires a code. “Password?” he whisper-shouts, leaning his head out the window. “Any ideas?”

“Try her birthday. 072294.”

Warren types it in and shakes his head, the screen displaying an error message. “Nope.”

“Okay, try mine. It’s 031194.”

The phone lights up as soon as he enters it, revealing a wall of notifications and apps. Navigating to her messages, he finds her texts with Chloe at the very top, and although he tells himself he shouldn’t go through them, he does anyway. He skims through months of sexting and flirting until Rachel’s responses taper off into Chloe pleading for her to come home, the most recent texts from her sent only a few days ago, and he swipes away, feeling like he’s seen too much.

Then comes Frank, his contact saved with a red heart beside his name. Their messages are largely the same, peppered with nudes and Frank apologizing for upsetting her for one reason or another, promising to be better. Swipe.

An unsaved number piques his interest, buried beneath the more familiar contacts. He scrolls to the top of their messages, curious.

[You, 09/18/12 8:48 PM]

Is it weird that we exchanged numbers?

[Unknown, 09/18/12 8:58 PM]

Not at all. What makes you say that?

[You, 09/18/12 8:59 PM]

I don’t know. You’re so much older. I think you’re the oldest guy I’ve ever liked.

It feels wrong.

[Unknown, 09/18/12 9:02 PM]

Wrong in what way?

[You, 09/18/12 9:05 PM]

In a hot way.

[Unknown, 09/18/12 9:08 PM]

We need to keep this a secret. Can you do that?

An older man asking to keep their relationship, whatever it may be, a secret. This must be their guy. Warren grabs his own phone and continues scrolling, taking pictures of the conversations that catch his eye. Similar to Frank and Chloe, there’s an abundance of naked photos, although the ones she sent them were sloppy, hastily captured in mirrors or the shower. The ones she sent to this stranger are tasteful. Posed, even. All are met with praise and promises of a successful future modeling career.

When he hits April, the messages become concerning.

[You, 04/12/13 11:19 PM]

I don’t want to do this anymore. We need to stop.

You’re scaring me.

[Unknown, 04/12/13 11:22 PM]

You’re being dramatic, Rach.

Let's forget about this. Let's run away together like we planned. We can make this work.

[You, 04/12/13 11:23 PM]

No.

I should go to the cops. I should ruin your life.

It's over. Don’t talk to me again.

[You, 04/22/13 5:20 PM]

I’m having a really hard time right now. I need to get out of here.

Can we leave town in an hour?

[Unknown, 04/22/13 5:28 PM]

Pack your things.

Warren's mind races as he stares at the screen, the weight of the discovery sinking like a stone in his chest. April 22nd. This man, whoever he is, was the last person Rachel reached out to before she vanished. She may have confided in Chloe about running away, and she might've had that messy fling with Frank, but this—this man—was different. This was the one she actually left with. The one who lured her away for good.

His stomach twists with a sickening mix of fear and anger. How had no one else seen this? How had this gone unnoticed?

Against his better judgment, he taps on the number and holds the phone to his ear, hoping for a voicemail, for anything recognizable about this person. The call never connects. It rings and rings before he finally gives up, ending it.

“James?” a woman says from the other side of Rachel’s door. “Are you in there?”

Panic seizes Warren when the doorknob turns. He grabs the shoebox and shimmies underneath the bed just as the door opens, and he holds his breath, trying to make himself as small as possible among dust bunnies and forgotten socks.

“James?” the woman says again, stepping into the room. Rachel’s mom. Warren can see her feet through the gap under the bed as she walks over to the window and peers into the garden. When she sees nothing out of place, she leaves, the door clicking shut and her footsteps fading down the hallway.

It’s his cue to get the hell out of there. Placing the lid back on the box, he grabs Rachel’s phone and leaves through the window, sliding clumsily down the drainpipe. Chloe tackles him in a hug as soon as he’s back on the ground, squeezing him so violently he thinks he may pop.

“We thought you were fucking toast,” she says, stepping back to give him a once-over. “Thank God. Did you see anything useful on there?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice wavering. He holds up the phone before handing it to Nathan, who only stares at it. “We’ll go over all of it later. Were you guys hiding?”

“We dove into some bushes before she could see us,” Max says, picking a twig from her hair. She reaches over and carefully plucks a leaf out of Nathan’s, who doesn’t react. He’s still staring at the phone, his expression unreadable. “It was a close one.”

“We’ll see you back at campus. Be careful out there.”

Chloe snorts, eyeing Rachel’s phone. She looks as though she might grab it from Nathan’s hands, but she stops herself, shaking her head and clapping him on the back. “Can’t be too careful when Frank’s after me,” she says. “I was supposed to get him his money yesterday. I’ve got nothing for him."

Warren laughs nervously, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah… I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Chloe shoots him a puzzled look, but shrugs and scurries back to her truck, Max close behind her. Beside him, Nathan sighs.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence. He’s gripping the phone with white knuckles, Warren notices, and tapping the home button over and over. The screen flashes on, the wallpaper a picture of Rachel kissing Chloe on the cheek, before going dark again. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” Warren says. He’s still trying to process what he’s seen, rearranging the cork board of evidence in his mind. There has to be a connection somewhere. The red strings have to intersect. “But we got what we came for, so…”

“Do you think you know where she is?”

Hurrying back in the direction of his car, Nathan pressed squarely beside him, Warren shrugs and looks up at the sky. “Not yet,” he says, lightning crackling overhead. It strikes close by, a little too close for comfort. The ground trembles underfoot. “But I’m going to find out.”

Chapter Text

Saturday, October 19th

What did he see?

Nathan can’t shake the question as he slides into Warren’s passenger seat, wiping his clammy hands on his jeans. Did Warren read through his messages with Rachel? If he had, he would’ve realized that the two of them were closer than he let on. He’d know they were friends. That he lied to him about their relationship.

He’d look suspicious as fuck.

If Warren did see anything regarding him, though, he isn’t showing it. He’s quiet, focused on driving them through the storm and back in the direction of Blackwell. Nathan can feel his gaze on the side of his face as they pull up to a red light, and for once in his life, he wishes he knew what he was thinking. What the hell is rattling around inside that big, stupid brain of his? He’d give everything to open it up and poke around inside.

“Shit,” Warren says, sighing and hanging his head. When the light flashes green, he hangs a U-turn, steering them back in the direction they came. “Sorry. One more thing we have to do.”

Nathan squeezes Rachel’s phone tightly in his hands. “Where are we going?” he asks, praying that he’s not planning a 'gotcha' moment and driving him to the police station. He relaxes slightly when they pass it, the concrete building and parked cruisers disappearing in the rearview.

“My house,” Warren says. He turns right, and then right again, driving further away from the wealthier neighborhoods of Arcadia Bay and into the humbler part of town. The streets begin to change, the houses getting smaller and closer together. Nathan doesn’t react, but something in his face must change, because as they pull up beside a modest, two-story house with faded blue paint, Warren looks away with embarrassment.

“Yeah,” he says, parking and turning off the engine. “It’s not much to look at. I know.”

Nathan shakes his head quickly, startled. “What? No. It’s great.”

"It's not, but—” 

“Warren,” Nathan says, cutting him off. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

The corner of Warren’s mouth twitches in a tiny smile before he jumps out and starts up the rain-slicked steps. As Nathan shuts the passenger door, Rachel’s phone buzzes, sending a cold jolt of fear through him. Discreetly, he glances down at her screen.

[Chloe, Today 5:58 PM]

had to break into ur room today. sorry

i’ll tell you all about it when we see each other again

i miss you

Nathan sighs. Chloe’s still texting her, which means she’s still clinging to the idea of her being alive. If she truly thinks Rachel is in Los Angeles, he’s happy for her. It’s better than her knowing the truth, which is that her friend (girlfriend?) isn’t coming home, thanks to him. All that’s left of her is this phone, which really shouldn’t be in his possession. It shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

His eyes land on a sewer grate partially obscured by Warren’s tire. Jefferson said to toss Warren a false lead. Tossing away the evidence isn’t a bad idea either.

“Coming?” Warren shouts from the porch, fumbling with his house key. “The longer you stay out there, the wetter you’ll get.”

“Coming,” Nathan says, swallowing hard. Taking one more look at Rachel’s phone, at the wallpaper photo of her and Chloe, he forces himself to let go. It falls to the ground and slips between the metal bars of the grate, plunging into the dirty water below.

The differences between Warren’s house and his own are obvious from the moment he steps inside.

He’s greeted with warmth and light clutter, the foyer giving way to a cozy living room. He takes note of the many photos on the walls, of the framed artwork Warren made when he was a kid, and he wonders if this is what a real house is supposed to look like. Not a house, but a home. His feels soulless in comparison, like the gallery rooms in IKEA. Pretty to look at, but ultimately devoid of any warmth or personality.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Warren says, kicking off his dirty sneakers and disappearing into the kitchen. “We won’t be here long.”

Nathan takes a seat on a worn couch, sinking into it. “So... why are we here?”

“Mom’s working tonight. She asked earlier if I could feed Schrödinger.”

Nathan’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, but everything falls into place once Warren reappears with a bowl in his hand. An orange blur darts out from underneath the couch and begins to yowl incessantly at his feet, the bell on its collar tinkling. The second Warren sets the kibble on the ground, it pounces, eagerly devouring its meal.

“You have a cat?” Nathan says, snorting softly. “And you named it Schrödinger?”

Warren chuckles, crouching down to stroke his head. “Yup. Like the scientist and his thought experiment,” he says. “If you put a cat in a box with something that could kill it, you won’t know if it’s alive or dead until you—”

“I know what Schrödinger’s Cat is,” Nathan snarks, rolling his eyes. Physics was one of the few classes he paid attention to during his junior year, and one of the few he passed on his own. Aside from some electives and a history course here and there, the rest of his grades were bought with donations to Blackwell’s new computer lab. “It’s just so… you."

Warren’s lips perk. “It was between that and Emperor Pawpatine,” he says. “He was a gift after my parents divorced. A peace offering, I think. They thought I needed a friend.”

When Nathan glances at the family pictures, he notices that the more recent ones only feature Warren and his mom. He’s smiling beside her in all of them, although it only looks genuine in about half. The younger is, the less it reaches his eyes.

Warren takes a seat beside him and Schrödinger follows, hopping onto his legs and stretching. Nathan carefully extends a hand for him to sniff, hesitant that he might lash out with claws, but the tabby only purrs and rubs his face against his knuckles. “He’s sweet,” he says, scratching behind his ears. “I like cats.”

“I was going to ask if you had any pets. I didn’t see any when I came over.”

Nathan purses his lips. “No pets,” he says. “My dad doesn’t like small animals. Or children. Or…”

Warren raises an eyebrow. “Anything?”

Pretty much. His gaze falls to Warren’s injured hand, and he reaches out to grab it, turning it over. “I told you to stay in the car. Look what happened to you," he scolds, fingers closing around his slim wrist. When he presses a thumb to the base of it, he can feel his pulse racing beneath his skin, the gentle ba-dum, ba-dum of pumping blood. "You don’t listen.”

Warren shrugs, unbothered by the small wounds carved into his fist. They've already started to scab, the skin around them yellowing with the onset of an ugly bruise. “You needed help, and I just happened to be there,” he says, as though it's obvious. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

Nathan feels his stomach tighten, his insides constricting with an emotion he can’t quite name. It’s a foreign feeling, but not unwelcome, and he’s positive that Jefferson’s warning about Warren was wrong. Warren isn't spending time with him because he feels obligated. He’s done too much for him not to.

Realizing that he’s still holding his hand, he quickly drops it and continues petting Schrödinger, who’s decided to seat himself gingerly on his lap. “That’s the last time I’m ever going to Frank,” he mutters. “Fuck that guy.”

“What were you guys fighting about, anyway?”

He was afraid Warren would ask that. “He raised his prices,” he lies. In reality, Frank told him he had ‘done a lot of thinking’ and didn’t want to supply him with GHB anymore because it ‘conflicted with his morals.’ When he developed morals, Nathan isn’t sure. All he knows is that he’ll have to find someone new to buy from, and fast.

Reaching into his pocket and rolling the vial under the pads of his fingers, he glances over at a small, framed picture on the side table next to them. Warren, about six years old, smiling up at the camera with missing front teeth. In his arms, a swaddled baby.

“Huh,” he says, picking up the photo. “I didn’t know you had a little brother.”

Warren leans over with a frown. “I don’t. I’m the baby.”

“I’ve never heard you talk about him.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

Nathan hums. Said brother is noticeably absent from the family pictures. “What’d he do to get kicked out?” he asks, smirking. “Steal your parents’ money? Run off and get someone pregnant?”

Warren inhales sharply, painfully, and then breathes out. “Uh, well,” he says quietly, tearing his eyes away from the photo in Nathan’s hand. “He kind of… died.”

Nathan’s smirk drops from his face, replaced with a look of horror. He’s made baseless assumptions about people before, but this one… this one is bad. He sets the photo down as if it’s scalded him and opens his mouth to apologize, because he knows he’s just committed a massive blunder, but Warren holds up a hand to stop him.

“It’s cool,” he says gently. “You didn’t know.”

Nathan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, Schrödinger jumping off him to meow at something across the room. “I didn’t,” he says, and he really didn't, because speaking ill of the dead is something he tries to avoid. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Warren stands and offers him a hand. “Come with me,” he says, tugging him to his feet. He rounds a corner and starts up the staircase, steps creaking underfoot, before checking over his shoulder to see if he’s following. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Nathan trails after him, allowing Warren to lead him into his bedroom. It’s an extension of his dorm room, decorated similarly. The only real difference is the box TV and VHS player perched atop his dresser, surrounded by stacks of old tapes. He’s impressed when he spots Citizen Kane and Casablanca among them, and he wonders if he judged Warren too quickly. His taste in film is more refined than he thought.

“You cut me off earlier,” Warren says, pausing by his bedroom window. He undoes the lock and pushes it open with a grunt. “When I told you this house wasn’t much to look at.”

Nathan feels his face heat up. “I did?”

Warren smiles warmly at him, and that odd, fluttery feeling returns, his guts twisting themselves into knots. “Yeah. I said ‘It’s not much to look at’ and you said ‘It’s great’ and then I was going to say ‘It isn’t, but the view sure is.’ Check it out.”

When Nathan sticks his head out the window, his mouth falls open. Warren’s house sits almost directly on the beach, a flight of rickety stairs leading from the backyard onto the sand. It’s still storming, the clouds dark and sagging with rain, but they’ve begun to part. The setting sun has turned the sky a vicious, blistering red. Redder than Nathan’s ever seen it.

“Hoooly shit,” he says. “This is…”

“Nice, huh?” Warren finishes for him. He nudges him aside and throws a leg over the windowsill, climbing onto the small patch of roof that juts out below. Taking a seat, he pats the spot beside him. “It’s even better out here.”

Nathan hesitates, and then swings his leg over to join him, sitting and pulling his knees up to his chest. “Why the hell would you live in a dorm when you could see this every day?” he asks. He shivers when a cold burst of wind hits him in the face, ruffling his hair, and he finds himself leaning into Warren for warmth, who doesn't lean away.

Warren chuckles softly. “It’s sad here,” he says. “Living at school is more practical, anyway. Easier to focus on work when I’m on campus.”

Nathan nods, looking out at the sea. Before he switched out of Mr. Garrett’s class, they had a unit on the English translation of The Iliad. Homer described the ocean as ‘wine-dark’ in one of the stanzas, which he thought was stupid at the time because he’d only ever seen it in shades of blue. Now, looking out at the deep reds and purples blending into the horizon, he gets it. It looks unsettlingly black from where they’re sitting, the waves licking the shore.

“He died four years ago,” Warren says absently, picking a piece of fuzz off his jeans. “Noah. That’s his name.”

“Oh,” Nathan murmurs. He’s not sure what else to say. “How did it happen? Is that… can I ask that?”

Warren’s eyes remain fixed on something in the distance. “He killed himself,” he says, slowly starting to open up. “He was so smart. He wanted to be a doctor, and then go on to be an astronaut. It was all he ever talked about. That’s what he thought his purpose was, I guess. But he struggled... with a lot of things. Depression, mostly. He took pills and went to therapy, though, and he was doing okay. Or, I thought he was.

“He was at Blackwell on scholarship like I am, but he graduated with honors and was accepted to universities all over the country, even his dream school. We packed his things and flew him to Baltimore, and everything seemed fine. He was excited, and he liked his roommates, and…”

Warren’s voice trails off, pausing to clear his throat. “He promised he’d call me every week,” he says. “And he did. But then it turned into every other week, and then every two weeks. It was around Christmastime, and we hadn’t heard from him in a while, so we called him to see if he was coming home for the holidays. When we couldn’t get ahold of him, we asked one of his roommates if he could put us in touch. Later that night, he found Noah hanging in the bathroom by the shower curtain rod. No note.”

When Warren leans his head on his shoulder, Nathan doesn’t move a muscle. If anything, he inches closer to support his weight. “Wow,” he utters. “That’s…”

“We didn’t know anything was wrong. I didn’t know anything was wrong, and he told me everything,” Warren blurts out, trying to make sense of it all. He scrubs his face with his hands, sniffing. “It’s why I helped talk you off the roof. If I couldn’t save my brother, I had to save someone. I had to try.”

When he says that, Nathan regrets every moment he ever even thought about taking his life. Any remaining urges to kill himself evaporate instantly. “You did,” he says softly. "You saved me."

“I’m glad I could,” Warren whispers. He blinks hard and fast, attempting to keep himself the tears at bay. “It just… I don’t know. It sucks that my family fell apart. Our parents couldn’t hold it together after he died so they split up, and now I have to be the perfect son with the perfect grades. I have to be him, the overachiever, and I’m not. I’m…”

“Perfect,” Nathan says, the word slipping out before he can swallow it down. When Warren peeks up at him through his eyelashes, he looks away, panicked. “I just—you look perfect to me. You look like you’ve got your shit together.”

“I really, really don’t. But thanks.”

Nathan presses his lips together, leaning his head against Warren’s. He doesn’t mind how intimate it is. The last time they were this close must’ve been when Warren tucked him into bed the night of the party, his pillow the only thing separating them. "I know what it's like to feel like you're falling short of everyone's fucked up expectations," he says slowly. “If there’s ever anything you’ve wanted to know about me… ask away. It's only fair."

Warren moves his head, his dark hair brushing against Nathan’s cheek. “What was your childhood like?” he asks. “If you want to talk about it.”

His childhood. Nathan thinks, trying to recall the bits and pieces he remembers. “I grew up in Florida. Fort Lauderdale. It was fine,” he says. “It was a normal childhood, I guess. Went to the beach. Went to Disney World most summers."

“What are your parents like?”

“They’re not too fond of each other,” Nathan says bitterly. If only they’d take a page out of Warren’s parents’ book and divorce already. They should’ve done it before he was born. “I love my mom, but my dad’s a piece of shit. When he gets pissed, he’s really pissed. He hits me sometimes when I deserve it. He hit my sister once and she traveled across the world to get away from him.”

Warren’s face twists in anger, and Nathan almost laughs at how his nose scrunches up, at the way he looks offended on his behalf. “You don’t deserve it,” he says. “Does he hurt your mom? Why hasn’t she left yet?”

“Physically, no. I think she’s scared.”

“Are you scared of him?”

“Sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t have to live like that,” Warren says firmly. He pauses a beat. “Has it always been that way?”

Nathan hums, mulling over the question. “It wasn’t as bad when I was younger. He was still a jerk, but it got worse as I grew up. I think I reminded him too much of himself.” He snorts. “Guess he didn’t like seeing his own bullshit staring back at him. I can handle him being mean to me, but when he’s mean to my mom?”

He sniffs, looking out at the sea, inhaling deeply to drink in the smell of wet earth and salty air. “I hate it,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “I hate feeling powerless.”

Warren sits up to look at him, his face softening. “You’re lucky to have them. Your mom and your sister,” he says, tapping his foot against Nathan’s. “Your dad said Noah and Kristine were friends. Do you remember them hanging out with each other?”

Nathan shakes his head, and then freezes, thinking. He’s never met Noah personally—he’s sure about that. He does recall Kristine getting in trouble with their mom for sneaking a boy into the house, however. She fell into a horrible fit of depression near the end of that year, skipping meals and skipping school and spending all of her time in her room, door closed, curtains drawn. That was around the time Mom dragged the two of them to the mall in search of a black dress for her. A dress for a funeral she would later refuse to attend.

“Sort of, now that you mention it,” he says. If the two of them attended Blackwell together, Kristine would've been seventeen when he died, Noah only a year older. The timing makes sense. “Yeah. I think they did.”

Warren’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “Do you think they dated?” he asks, grinning, Cheshire-like. “Do you think they ever—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Nathan warns, pushing at his shoulder. Warren cackles against him, the force of his laugh shaking them both. “Kristine’s friends with everyone. She was my only friend for a while after we moved here.”

“Why did you move here?”

Nathan gestures vaguely with his hands, trying to spare him the boring details and business jargon. “Granddad died and left us a fuckton of property, so my dad moved us here to develop it,” he says. “He wants me to work for him at the family company someday, which is funny, because he’s always going on about how hopeless I am. I guess working at the Prescott Foundation’s supposed to fix that.”

Warren taps him again. “You aren’t hopeless,” he says firmly. “That’s stupid.”

“Clearly, you don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

Nathan can’t argue with that. He falls quiet, watching the sun sink slowly behind the ocean, the fiery reds giving way to the velvety blues of twilight. He can’t help but look down at Warren again, his face serene, his cheeks pink with the last light of the setting sun, and he wishes he had his camera. Kiara was wrong about finding the perfect shot in New York City. It’s right next to him.

“So you moved here, we avoided each other for a few years, and then fate decided to throw us together in the girls’ bathroom,” Warren says, breaking the silence. He snorts softly. “Don’t laugh, but when I first saw you and Chloe, I thought she was your ex.”

The reaction he has to that is visceral. “Oh, fuck no,” he gags, body shriveling. “No. Fuck that. I don’t… do that.”

“Girls?” Warren asks. “Or dating in general?”

The question dangles loosely in the air. Nathan scoots away from him, his heart thrumming. He’s transported back to the morning he found out about the video, to the moment he stepped out of Warren’s room to find his door vandalized. He’s in Hayden’s lap all over again, pushing his tongue into his mouth, bracing his hands against his chest. In a room full of people, he chose to make out with a boy. Why did he choose a boy?

“I kissed a girl once,” he rasps, hugging his arms around himself and blinking. He can feel the pressure behind his eyes building, and he wills himself not to cry at the thought of Rachel. “She was a friend. She kissed me, and I guess I made a weird face when she did it, because she laughed. She said I looked like I was in pain. Maybe I was. I don’t know, but—”

He's stopped mid-sentence when Warren leans forward to crash their lips together. Nathan’s breath catches in his throat, the shock of it sending a rush of warmth coursing through his body. He freezes up, his mind racing, every cell in his body alert and confused, and he wonders if this is actually happening. Only when Warren reaches up to cup his face in his palms is he tethered back to reality, and he realizes two fundamental truths.

Warren Graham is kissing him. Warren Graham is kissing him, and he likes it.

The second he accepts it, he melts into his touch, placing his smaller hands atop Warren’s bigger ones. His lips are soft, and he tastes good, like mint toothpaste and apple, and he’s so relieved that he can experience a sober kiss this time. No drugged drinks. No cameras.

When they finally part, both breathing a little unevenly, Nathan notices that Warren is trembling. He’s still cradling his face with his hands, fingers twitching restlessly against his skin. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice trembling just as much. “You’re shaking.”

Warren swallows and nods rapidly, although it doesn't seem like it. “Yeah, I just…” he says. He presses his face into Nathan's jaw before pulling away, and almost graces it with a kiss too, but something stops him. His tongue darts out to lick his chapped lips before he pulls back, hurriedly turning to climb back into his bedroom. "We should head back. It's getting dark."

Nathan gently disentangles himself from Warren’s hands, though he’s reluctant to, because his lips feel like they're on fire and he desperately needs Warren to put them out. “Alright,” he murmurs, his movements stiff as he clambers after him. After making sure Schrödinger is accounted for (and giving him a few goodbye pets on the way out), they walk back to Warren’s car in silence, a considerable distance between them. If there's something Warren wants to say, and Nathan can tell there is, he doesn't plan on saying it now. He doesn't make a peep as he shoves his key into the ignition, turning it so hard it nearly snaps off the fob.

His mouth is all Nathan can think about as they drive back to Blackwell. He’ll think about it for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Sunday, October 20th

Warren is restless.

He spends the night tossing and turning, rolling from one end of his bed to the other. He turns on some music. He knocks back some cold medicine. He strips naked, wondering if the heat pumping through the vents is to blame for how awake he is, but it does nothing. That burning, prickling feeling under his skin, the same feeling that washed over him when he kissed Nathan, persists, and after hours of replaying the moment in his mind, he looks over at his alarm clock to find that it’s only two in the morning.

Groaning and running a hand through his hair, Warren sits up and throws his legs over the edge, his face in his hands. He doesn’t know why he did it. He doesn’t know what possessed him to do something so reckless, so stupid. His body had been on autopilot, moving on its own, and the second he lunged forward and cupped his fingers around the freckles on Nathan’s cheeks, he knew he was in too deep. He kissed a boy, and not just any boy, but Nathan. Unhinged, unpredictable Nathan. The kind of person who could shatter Warren’s fragile world, who could destroy his life, if he really wanted to.

But he wouldn’t. He’d never do that.

Warren had seen flashes of something else in him. Nathan had opened up to him, had let his guard down in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d found that Nathan, for all of his dickishness and general assholery, is a good person—a person who cares deeply for his mom and sister, who desperately wants someone to understand him, who yearns for approval he’ll never get. Someone who’s just as messed up as he is.

That must be why he’d kissed him. He’d wanted to know him, really know him, and in that moment, he knew Nathan better than anyone else. In those few seconds their lips had pressed together, they were one and the same.

It doesn’t matter. Any potential for them to become friends is dead, probably. There’s no way Nathan will ever want to speak to him after this, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already blocked his number, cutting the rot out of his life. Eager to test the theory, Warren groggily grabs his phone from his nightstand, squinting at the screen as he taps on his contact.

[You, Today 2:19 AM]

I didn’t mean to make things weird. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyo|

He deletes it. Rewrites it. Deletes it again. No matter how he types it, it sounds too desperate, too cloying, and he decides he’d rather live in blissful ignorance about his status in Nathan’s life than send something he might regret. Either way, he needs to tell someone what happened. The longer he bottles it up, the more the pressure will build, and he’ll explode like some self-hating rocket bottle science experiment.

Tugging his sweatpants and T-shirt back on, he shuffles out of the boys’ dorms and sneaks into the girls’, casting a sidelong glance in the direction of Max’s room. Telling her about what happened will certainly ruin any chances he has with her, and he can’t afford Chloe knowing that he kissed her mortal enemy, so she’s a no-go. He finds himself standing in front of Stella’s door and hesitates for a moment before knocking softly. Something tells him she’ll be understanding about this mess.

“Stella,” he whispers, rapping his knuckles against the wood. No reply. “Are you awake? Hello?”

His knocking speeds up until he’s practically banging. There’s an irritable groan from the other side, and then the sound of heavy footsteps. Stella opens the door a crack, rubbing her eyes and sliding her glasses onto her nose. “What?” she mutters. “This better be important.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It is,” he says, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I need to talk.”

“Can it wait a few hours?”

“No.”

Sighing, Stella opens the door to let him in. She retreats to her bed and turns her lamp on, drawing her blankets around her shoulders. “Okay,” she says, looking at him over the rims of her glasses. “The doctor is in. Talk to me.”

Warren sits down next to her, his hands fumbling in his lap. He has no idea where to start. There’s no instruction manual for dropping a bomb of this magnitude.

“You know about the movie I went to,” he finally says. “With the mystery girl.”

The corner of her mouth drags upwards in a smirk. “Your date, you mean.”

“Not a date,” Warren corrects her, although now he’s not so sure. It was supposed to be a date when he invited Max along, and Nathan took her place. “Anyway. We sort of… well, we kissed. Last night.”

Stella yawns, cupping a hand over her mouth. “Nice,” she says. “Was it good?”

It was good. Good for a first kiss, anyway. Warren had been hoping to save it for Max, had envisioned leaning in during the brutal scene where Aldo falls to his death after being pursued by the other apes, but the universe had other plans. “I mean, sure. There’s just one problem,” he says, his voice small. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It was a boy.”

She nods pensively, silently. The face she’s making looks like a grimace, and Warren fears that she’s disgusted by him, revolted by the idea that he kissed another boy, but then she starts to laugh. “Oh my God,” she snorts, wiping a tear from her eye. “Uh, yeah, Warren. I know.”

Warren stammers, wide-eyed. “What do you mean? How did—what?”

“Your little Freudian slip yesterday,” she says, standing to brew herself a cup of tea from the electric kettle plugged into her wall. She pours two mugs of hot water, sticks a teabag into each, and hands one to him. “When I was teasing you about your crush on this person. I didn’t point it out in case you weren’t ready to come out about it, but it was kind of obvious. You’re not very subtle.”

Warren takes a long sip, hardly waiting for the tea to steep. “There’s nothing to come out about,” he says firmly. “I’m not gay.”

“You’re bisexual, then. Big whoop.”

“I’m not,” he says earnestly, throwing his hands up. Some of his tea sloshes onto the carpet, which earns him a hardened look. “It was a kiss, but that’s it. I—I wasn’t even thinking. We were talking, and watching the sunset, and it was weirdly sensual—”

Stella sets her mug down to take his face in her hands. “Look me in the eyes,” she says, blinking. “Would you kiss another boy?”

Would he? He’s never considered it before. There were times as a kid when he found famous male actors attractive, but most people would, because most people have eyes. Who wouldn’t want to kiss Heath Ledger from 10 Things I Hate About You? Who wouldn’t want to passionately make out with a shirtless Brad Pitt? Anyone who says so, even the most heterosexual of men, is probably lying.

He makes a soft, noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “Maybe?” he says. “If he was nice. And good looking.”

“Would you marry one?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’d be fun to live with another guy.”

Stella squints at him. “Here’s the big question,” she says solemnly, moving her hands from his face to grasp his wrists. “Would you have sex with one?”

Warren looks away, flustered. He tries to picture what that would look like, although he isn’t quite sure, because his virginity is still woefully intact. He knows he likes women, their curves and softness and the way they do their hair up nice, but now that he thinks about it, there are things he likes about men too. Men, with their coarse sandpaper hands. Strong arms. Firm abs. When he thinks about Nathan when he climbed out of the pool that day, his skin glistening, his swimsuit hugging his hips, his stomach coils.

“Oh,” he says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Oh no.”

Stella gives him a consolatory pat on the shoulder. “There, there,” she says. “Take a moment. Let it sink in.”

He stares at the mug in his hands with a strange mix of understanding and fear. The puzzle pieces regarding his feelings about Nathan have finally fallen into place. His persistence in knowing him, the way he couldn’t stop staring at him during the movie, the kiss. All symptoms of a bigger problem. He likes boys, and over the past two weeks, he’s developed feelings for one boy in particular.

What would his mom say if he told her? She’d never kick him out like some parents do when they find out their child is less than straight. Their relationship might be tense, and he might be ignoring her attempts to reach out to him (which he knows is immature, and he should probably text her back), but he’s her only surviving child. She loves him. His dad too, although he’d be one of the last people he’d tell, considering he’s removed himself from their family and is attempting a do-over.

“Let’s say… let’s say I have a crush on him,” Warren says, taking a gulp of his tea. The chamomile only marginally helps calm his nerves. “I like Max too. Don’t I need to pick a lane, or whatever?”

“You can like whoever you want, and as many people as you want, I suppose,” Stella says, shaking her head. “But do you actually like Max, or are you just obsessed with wanting something you can’t have? You haven’t had much luck with her.”

“Hey,” Warren says, shooting her a pointed look, but he can’t say she’s wrong. Max is his world, but when he takes a step back, it’s clear he isn’t hers. That title goes to Chloe, which is oddly cathartic for him to admit. She was there for Max years before he entered the picture. Their friendship is sacred.

Stella scoots closer to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a clumsy side hug. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she says. “It’s 2013. People are more accepting than they used to be. Maybe not here, but everyone’s a little gay in Portland.”

Warren sets his mug down on her desk with a huff and burrows into her bed, pulling the covers over his face. “I fucked up,” he mumbles. “I bet he hates me.”

“You’re being a baby,” she scolds, crawling in beside him and pulling them down. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

Warren whispers his name so quietly that his lips barely move. When Stella narrows her eyes, he clears his throat. “Nathan,” he rasps, throwing the covers over his head again. “Don’t look at me. Don’t say anything.”

There’s a long silence from Stella, followed by an even longer, laborious sigh. “Okay,” she says, and Warren feels her shift onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. “That complicates things. Wasn’t expecting it, but it does make sense.”

Warren peeks up at her, relieved by her lack of reaction. “Does it?”

“I mean, yeah. You rescued him when he got drunk and ruined his life, and then you saved him when he tried to end it.” Stella smiles, looking somewhat dumbfounded by it all. “No wonder you two got close. I had a hunch about him being gay ever since his video dropped, but is it confirmed?”

“More or less.”

Stella nods, tapping her chin. “Was he angry when you kissed him?”

There was nothing angry about him. Warren studied him as he pulled away from the kiss, taking him all in, scared shitless of his reaction, but Nathan had only stared back at him. There wasn’t a trace of anger on his sharp, angular features, no furrowed brow, no clenched jaw. Just a surprised softness in those big, sad eyes, two gray pools on his otherwise severe face.

“No,” Warren says. “I don’t think he was.”

Stella rolls over to face him again, frowning. “So you like a boy who also likes boys, and you weren’t rejected when you made a move on him,” she says. “Sounds fine to me. Are you sure you want to take on all his issues, though? If you were to date, I mean.”

Dating Nathan. What a concept. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. He might be gay, but I don’t know if he feels the same about me,” he says. He doesn’t state the obvious, which is that Blackwell would eat them alive for being together. After everything Nathan went through post-party and watching Evan be socially estranged for being himself, flaunting their sexualities isn’t an option. “I’ve got issues too, y’know. I told him about Noah.”

“Your brother?” Stella asks, intrigued. She’s the only other person at school who knows of his existence. “What did he say?”

“Not much, but he listened,” Warren says. All he’s ever wanted was for someone to just listen, to acknowledge his existence after ghosting through the past few years of his life. Nathan gave him just that. “And then told me he understood me. You don’t know how nice it felt to hear that.”

Stella pouts, touched by this revelation. “I can tell you like him a lot,” she says. “Be careful, though. He’s volatile.”

That much is true. Being around Chloe seems to bring out the worst in him, and he makes a silent promise to keep them separated going forward lest it impede Rachel’s investigation. He still has questions about this so-called art project that involved drugging her, but he’ll dig into that later. There are more pressing issues at hand.

Warren shakes his head dismissively, balling up Stella’s chevron-patterned sheets in his hands. “It doesn’t matter what I like, because it’s not going anywhere. I’m giving up while I’m ahead.”

“Wrong,” Stella says, tapping him on the tip of his nose. She sits up, propping her back against the wall, and grabs her laptop. “If he’s truly the man of your dreams, you’re going to seduce the hell out of him, and I’m going to teach you how.”

Warren huffs, a ragged puff of air escaping his lips. “There’s nothing seductive about me.”

“With all the gaming you do, you’re telling me you’ve never played a dating sim before?” she asks, plopping her laptop on her lap and opening a new tab. She clicks on the search bar, her fingers hovering above the keys. “We need to fix that. You can’t learn anything from Skyrim.”

“Actually,” Warren says with a toothy grin, pushing an imaginary pair of glasses up his nose, “I used the Amulet of Mara to marry my Altmer to a female Argonian. They’re very happy together.”

Stella looks at him in genuine disbelief. “That might be the most virginal thing I’ve ever heard someone say,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her mouth. They return to her keyboard after a moment. “Which happens to be a perfect segue into our first lesson: Getting Laid 101.”

Her fingers fly as she types, and Warren chokes when the screen of her laptop lights up with porn. “Woah, woah!” he exclaims, averting his eyes and flailing his hands. His face flushes as she starts to scroll through the first page of results, past thumbnails of naked women in various compromising positions. “Stella, come on!”

“I know it seems like I’m tossing you into the deep end, but this is the perfect place to start,” she says matter-of-factly, scanning the videos for something specific. “Sex is easy. All you have to do is give in to your bodily urges and mash your parts together. Emotional intimacy is where it gets significantly harder.”

Warren covers his eyes, peeking through his fingers when she stops over a thumbnail with a busty blonde, her mouth agape in pleasure. “We kissed once,” he grumbles, squirming away from her. “The odds of us fucking are low.”

“Ah, but never zero,” Stella says, waggling a finger at him. She scrolls some more before finally finding the selection of categories. With a couple of clicks, the women are replaced by men. Tall men, short men, older men, men only a few years his senior. Hairy. Waxed. Broad and burly, slender as a dancer. The variety is staggering.

It’s not the first time he’s seen porn, of course. He’s a teenage boy with a full-fledged sex drive and unrestricted access to the internet. He’s seen enough tits and asses to last a lifetime, and a peek at his search history would corroborate that. Never in his life has he ventured into the dark depths of the gay category, however. He swallows hard as Stella clicks on a video of two men intertwined in an embrace, their naked bodies melded as they kiss against a wall.

“I’m not watching porn with one of my friends,” Warren says, voice wavering, but he doesn’t look away this time. The bigger of the two’s hands roam over the smaller one’s chest (short, feminine-looking, red-haired), thumbs rolling over the pebbled hardness of his nipples. When he arches into his touch and moans, Warren swallows again, the lump in his throat refusing to budge. “This is too weird.”

Stella clicks her tongue in mild exasperation. “It’s only weird because you’re making it weird. Think of it as research,” she says casually, as though they’re watching any old movie and not Cute Twink Gets Destroyed by Hung Stud. “What happens if things escalate between you two? You need to know what you’re doing.”

If he gets the chance to kiss Nathan how these two porn stars are kissing, he’s pretty sure he’ll die. Here lies Warren Graham, his headstone will read, who fell victim to his unbridled horniness, and people will spit on it as they walk past. He exhales shakily when the bigger one flips the ginger around, pressing him into the wall, his large hands falling to cup his ass. The title is accurate, at least. He is very hung, his cock plum-flush and twitching. He slides it between the crevasse of his scene partner’s cheeks until he groans for him to put it in, which he does, inch by inch until there’s nowhere else to go.

“It’s not that easy in real life. It would help if you used fingers and lube first,” Stella says, but Warren isn’t listening. His eyes are glued to the ginger’s face, his cheeks ruddy and his lips parted just slightly. He arches again, his body strung tight like a bow, warm gasps spilling from his throat as he meets the clipped bunny-quick thrusts of his partner. Shamelessly, he wonders what Nathan would look like in his place, his lithe, willowy body curved under the weight of someone else. Under him.

Eyes fluttering shut, he imagines just that. The two of them at the drive-in again, piled into the grimy backseat of his car. Nathan in his lap and naked from the waist down and overbearingly tight. His breathy whimpers. His thighs shaking with the effort of sinking onto him, stuffed with cock. War-ren, he hears him cry, high-pitched and broken. Warren, Warren, Warren.

Sparks of pleasure shoot down Warren’s spine, and his eyes shoot open, flustered. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, do not—

The bigger one gives the ginger a harsh smack on the ass and then grabs at it again, flesh giving way beneath the firm grip of fingers. They’re moaning and chanting in tandem, fuck me and oh my god and feel so good falling from their mouths, until finally, finally, the bigger one pulls out. He strokes languidly at his cock before coming on the small of the ginger’s back, the video gradually fading to black.

“If you play your cards right,” Stella says after a brief silence, jabbing a finger at the darkened screen, “either one of those guys could be you.”

Warren jumps from her bed in a hurry, tugging his shirt down. He’s not hard yet, but he is certainly on the way there, and he’s not sticking around for her to notice. “This has been very informative,” he croaks. “But I need to go. To bed. I’m going to bed now.”

Stella shuts her laptop with a flourish, setting it at the foot of her bed. “Mhm,” she hums, yawning again. “Did that help at all?”

It didn’t. Porn isn’t reality, and losing his virginity is going to be anything but a porno, which means he needs a play-by-play of what to expect. Which means he’ll need to do plenty of more research. “Sure,” he says weakly, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

Stella shrugs nonchalantly. “You could say I’ve been around the block a few times.”

“Around the block,” Warren parrots, unsure if he wants to know what that means. “Okay. And when do we start our lesson on romance? You know.” He waves a hand around awkwardly, trying to conjure up the right words. “Like, what do I do when I’m not, uh, doing… that?”

Stella laughs. “Unfortunately, that’s not something I can teach you,” she says. “But you’ve done pretty well so far on your own, it sounds like. A date, a kiss…”

“What do you mean you can’t teach me?” he says, his hands falling to his sides in disbelief. He quickly tugs his shirt down again. “I need your help, Stella. Please.”

“You don’t want my help in that area. Trust me,” she says firmly. “I’m just as clueless as you are. Why do you think I’ve been single for so long?”

Warren lets out a frustrated sigh, because he knows her singleness is by choice. As long as he’s known her, Stella has always been a friends-with-benefits, no-strings-attached kind of person—one for quick trysts at parties instead of serious relationships. Not counting Luke, who she dated for a meager three weeks before ghosting him entirely.

“You’re overthinking this,” Stella says, flopping back against her bed. “Whoever you’re into would be lucky to have you, Warren. You’re sweet, and that counts for a lot.”

Being sweet isn’t going to stop me from looking like an idiot, Warren wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “Thanks,” he mumbles, drifting over to her door and reaching for the handle. He pauses, glancing over at her. “Stella?”

“Hm?” she hums, an arm draped over her face.

“Don’t tell anyone about this. I need to figure some stuff out.”

She lifts her arm just enough to peek at him with one eye, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You got it,” she says, crossing a finger over her heart. “You’re not the only one who’s having me keep their little gay secrets for them. I caught Victoria and Taylor making out in a stairwell a few months ago. You didn’t hear that from me, though.”

Warren raises his eyebrows but decides not to pry. “I didn’t,” he says, slipping into the hallway. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she replies, nestling under her blankets with a smirk. “Poor Brooke is going to be so disappointed.”

After another unsuccessful attempt at sleeping, Warren heads for the showers.

Bare feet slapping against the tile, he strips down to nothing and turns the faucet on, waiting till the water turns scalding before stepping inside. It’s a welcome sensation, his skin stinging in a way that feels grounding. He tilts his head back, letting the water stream through his hair, and tries to focus on the feeling rather than the fact that he’s now achingly, embarrassingly hard.

Cold showers are supposed to help, right? He twists the faucet as far left as it will go, the water turning icy as it pelts against his skin. It does nothing to quell the heat inside him, and he groans, resting his forehead against the tile wall in defeat.

He needs to stop. He needs to get his head straight. Nathan’s been through enough already without him complicating things with these new feelings.

But no matter how hard he tries to push them away, the images of Nathan—his hands, his mouth, his thighs, his stomach—won’t leave him. He thinks back to the drive-in, Nathan’s tongue swirling around the lollipop, and his hand travels autonomously downward, fingers wrapping around his cock. He thinks about Nathan kissing him, his body warm and unyielding. He squeezes himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his chest heaving as he leans harder against the tile. He works his fist around his cock, eyes fluttering shut as he resumes his fantasy about wild, unabashed car sex. He imagines himself sitting in the passenger side this time, the seat pushed all the way back to accommodate Nathan kneeling between his thighs, his cherry-red lips hovering dangerously close. He can almost feel the wet heat of Nathan’s mouth, the way his tongue flicks teasingly over him. The way Nathan swallows him down all in one go until his nose is flush against his stomach, his throat clenching around him as he gags.

Warren bites down on his lip to stifle a whine, the pace of his hand quickening, thumb rubbing circles over the tip. He wonders, does Nathan ever think of anyone like this? He wants it to be him. God, does he want it to be him.

He gasps, a dizzying pleasure wracking through his body as he spills over his knuckles. His legs quake as he continues giving lazy thrusts into his hand, hips rutting until he’s too spent to do anything but lean against the tile. Once the aftershocks of his release have faded, he glances down at his hand, slick with the evidence of his desires, and looks away with shame.

Back in his room, he crawls into bed and lays his damp head against his pillow. He checks the time. He takes another dose of grape cold medicine. He tries not to think about how much of a freak he is.

Finally, he sleeps.

Chapter Text

Sunday, October 20th

Nathan vividly remembers receiving his first camera.

It’s one of the few memories of his childhood that doesn’t have that foggy, distorted quality, the kind that time and trauma tend to impose. It was Christmas morning, and he was eight years old, and just beginning to show signs of something his dad called ‘artistic inclination,’ although he spoke of it with the same distant, cautious tone one might use to describe an inconvenient allergy or a bad habit that needed curing. He’d been drawing incessantly in therapy, crude sketches of how he saw the world around him, all with that obsessive attention to detail that unnerved his father and concerned his mother. Faces, mostly, because he saw faces everywhere.

The camera was a gift from his mom. She’d seen it on display in a mall downtown—professional-looking, nothing like the disposable ones they sometimes bought for vacations—and had it purchased and wrapped just for him. Maybe she thought it would be a way to channel his fixation into something productive. More likely, it was a way to keep him quiet and occupied.

She'll never admit it, but he knows she was at a loss with what to do with him back then. Both she and the doctors had no idea how to help a schizophrenic eight-year-old.

They’d visited Oregon that year for the holidays. He remembers the snow falling outside, thick flakes sticking to the windowpanes of his grandfather’s house (his dad’s dad, mentally ill, believed to be the source of his own illness). He remembers a tree, decorated with glass bulbs and strings of lights, and he remembers the presents, of course. Five of them in varying sizes, his name written on the tags in looping cursive.

“Why does he have one more than I do?” Kristine huffs, sitting cross-legged on the floor and arranging her gifts into a neat pile. “That’s not fair.”

“Santa likes me more than you,” he replies smoothly, shrinking when their dad gives him a stern look from his armchair. He returns to his morning paper, and Nathan sticks his tongue out at her before lowering his voice. “I was on the nice list this year.”

Kristine scowls at him, her face scrunching up in a way that makes her look younger than she is, but she doesn’t reply. She begins tearing into her own presents, paper flying, squealing when she unwraps something she put at the top of her wish list. Sparkly gel pens, perhaps, or a bracelet-making kit Nathan had seen her circling in a holiday catalog weeks before.

“Nate, honey, why don’t you open that one first? The one with the red ribbon,” Caroline says, appearing from the kitchen with a plate of cookies. She passes them around before offering one to Granddad, who shakes his head, waving her off with a wrinkled hand. He mutters something under his breath and returns his glassy gaze to the television, droning with the sound of a holiday parade. Nathan often wonders if he’ll end up like him someday—foggy, distant, ‘not all there,’ as his mom politely puts it. A fixture at family gatherings rather than a participant.

Nathan glances at the gift she’s pointed out—a medium-sized box, neatly wrapped in dark green paper, tucked in the far corner beneath the tree. He hadn’t noticed that one before. It wasn’t part of the pile he’d been eyeing since the morning began.

“Go on,” she encourages. “Open it.”

Reaching for it, Nathan tugs the box out from its hiding spot beneath the tree, feeling the weight of it as he pulls it into his lap. It feels heavy, solid—like whatever’s inside holds significance. Carefully, he peels back the paper, his fingers working slowly, methodically, as the dark green wrapping reveals a box underneath. Holding his breath, he opens the lid.

A Canon Powershot G5. Sleek, shiny, brand new. He pulls it from the box, out of the protective foam, his mouth agape. “Wow,” he whispers. “This is for me?”

“Do you like it?” Caroline asks. “I thought you might take up photography. You can take pictures of your friends, the places you go, anything you like.”

Nathan lowers the camera, nodding reverently. No one has ever trusted him with something so valuable before. He’s a bull in a china shop when it comes to delicate things, always knocking over glasses or breaking the plastic bits off toys without meaning to. Two weeks before, he and Kristine had been playing tag inside when he’d bumped into a table, knocking over one of their mom’s chinoiserie vases. He’d immediately burst into tears, and Kristine had helped him glue the shattered pieces back together before their parents noticed. They had, and had banned running in the house for the foreseeable future.

“I love it,” he says, holding it close to his chest when Kristine leans over to see what the fuss is about. “Thank you.”

Caroline smiles warmly. “Good,” she replies, and there’s something in her tone—relief, perhaps? Or maybe just the satisfaction of having gotten something right for once.

Sean sighs from his chair, his newspaper rustling as he turns the page. “Damn thing’s expensive,” he mutters. The parade on TV switches to an ad break, a commercial for a big box department store flashing across the screen in garish colors, announcing last-minute holiday sales. He grabs the remote and mutes it with a frown. “He’ll break it.”

“He won’t break it,” Caroline says quickly, her tone a little sharper now, though still gentle. She eyes her husband sternly, whose gaze drops to the op-ed piece he’s pretending to read. “He’s careful.”

“I’m careful,” Nathan parrots. He’ll be careful with this camera, at least, because it’s one of the nicest things in his possession. He feels weirdly adultlike as he raises the camera to his eye, his field of vision narrowing in the viewfinder, and he’s pleased to find that the battery has already been charged. He points it at the Christmas tree. Click. He points it at Kristine, who smiles and poses without being asked. Click.

“Lemme see,” Kristine says, crawling over and craning her neck to look at the screen. She leans in close, her breath fogging the tiny display. Nathan tilts the camera so she can see the image, a snapshot of her mid-laugh, hand thrown up in a peace sign. “My eyes are closed. Take another.”

“No, it’s mine. Stop trying to hog it.”

“Mooom, he won’t take another!”

Caroline sighs softly from where she’s standing by the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She shoots Nathan a look, one that says play nice, but doesn’t outright intervene just yet. “Why don’t you take one together?” she suggests. “I need more pictures of you two. Ones where you’re pretending to like each other.”

Nathan tightens his grip on the camera, annoyed at the interruption. It’s his, after all—he’s barely had it five minutes, and Kristine’s already trying to take it over as she does with everything. Still, he complies, gives his sister a reluctant nod, and allows her to squish herself close with a big, cheesy smile.

Turning the camera and holding it out in front of them, he grins. Click.

His dad was right. He broke it three months later, throwing it at the wall after a violent reaction to new medication.

He’s upgraded since then. Though he wields a newer, even more expensive model—the monochromatic kind that strips away the distractions of color—his feelings toward photography are the same as they were the day he was introduced to it. Freezing moments in time, distilling life down to its most simple components (light, shadow, contrast), are and will always be the only way he knows how to make sense of the world. Dramatic, maybe, but he’s pretty sure he’d be dead without it.

It's very therapeutic, too. Especially when all he’s been able to think about for the past twenty-four hours is Warren’s tongue in his mouth.

Standing out in the courtyard, Nathan tries his best to focus on the scene in front of him. The cold air bites at his skin as he lifts his camera to his eye, the lawn shrinking to a small black-and-white square. Molting trees, harsh lines of shadow on the ground, autumn sun filtering through the branches in fragmented beams. It’s a good, clean shot, and his finger hovers above the shutter button, ready to preserve it in time, but Warren’s face intrudes his thoughts again, and he lowers his camera in surrender.

The kiss. It stole his breath, had left him dizzy, off-kilter, and worst of all, craving more. Warren had tasted sweet, and his lips had been so soft, and his tongue. God, he wants to kill him. He wants to beat his face in till he’s nothing but a bloody mess. He wants to break his nose, break his fingers, break a rib or two. But even more than that—he wants to kiss him again.

His feelings toward him are violent. Primitive. It doesn’t make sense, this need to hurt him and have him both at the same time, but when has anything in his life ever made sense? Shouldn’t taking pictures be helping with that? Why is he obsessing over the way Warren gripped his shirt to pull him closer, his long, nimble fingers finding their way up to his face?

One of them had brushed against his bottom lip as he surged forward. He can’t help but imagine Warren slipping one past his mouth, the rough pad of his thumb pressing his tongue down, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks—

No. Nathan shakes his head, trying to ignore the way his pulse quickens at the idea. It was just a kiss. A spur-of-the-moment mistake. Warren must think so too, because he hasn’t said a word to him since. No awkward apology, no text to break the silence. Nothing, nada, zip, which is frightening coming from someone who talks near-constantly.

Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he’s straight-up disgusted by him. Nathan tries to remember if he brushed and flossed that day, and starts to worry when he can’t recall.

Venturing down to the main road, he raises his camera, his viewfinder landing on a mangled squirrel in the gutter. He’s good at taking pictures of dead things. They’re easy subjects, nothing but lifeless forms that capture the finality of existence. It’s probably why Jefferson chose him to mentor. Dead animals and drugged girls aren’t so different when it comes down to it.

He raises his head when he sees a flash of movement in his periphery. A cat, slipping out from beneath a parked car across the street. He forgets the squirrel and zooms in, focusing as it stops to lick a paw and draw it over its ear, and thinks about Warren and Schrödinger. Warren likes cats. Would it be too weird to send him a picture of one to break the silence? Click.

“You’re out of bounds, Prescott. Step away from the road.”

Nathan startles and whips around, annoyed but not surprised to see Madsen lurking a few feet behind him with his trademark scowl. “It’s Sunday. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m allowed to be off campus on the weekends,” he sneers, slipping his camera strap over his head. “If you’re gonna be a glorified hall monitor, get your facts straight.”

Madsen’s scowl deepens, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Watch it. Wells isn’t here to cover your ass this time,” he says. “You think you can just stroll around like you’re untouchable, but you’re not. I’m not going to turn a blind eye to whatever it is you’re doing. I see everything.”

“Oh, yeah?” Nathan drawls, walking past him. He debates taking a picture of his angry, mustached face to show him how ridiculous he looks, but settles for a smirk instead, knowing it’ll piss him off just as much. “Photography isn’t illegal, jackass. Nice try.”

Madsen falls silent as he starts to walk away, although he can still feel his eyes on his back. “Might want to get that left taillight of yours fixed,” he says calmly, and Nathan stops mid-step, his blood curdling. “On your truck. Been out for, what, a few months now? Since April, at least. Shame if you got ticketed for it.”

Every muscle in Nathan’s body locks up, his mind racing. There’s no reason why Madsen should know about that. He didn’t even know about that. Madsen must be fucking with him, he decides, although he can’t shake the dread at the thought of being watched without his knowledge. Even worse, tracked.

“Creep,” he mutters, stalking back toward the dorms. He doesn’t look back, but the weight of Madsen’s gaze follows him all the way there.

Back in his room, Nathan paces till his mind slows down enough to think again.

He should be worrying about Madsen, and he is, but not enough as he should. He’s worrying about why Warren still hasn’t texted him. On top of that, he’s even more worried about the implications of what liking the kiss might mean.

He’s not gay. He’s never been into guys before. To be fair, he’s never been into girls, either, but there’s always been this assumption that he’d figure it out eventually. That maybe, when the right girl came along, things would just click into place, and he’d feel what he was supposed to feel. The kind of thing people write love songs about, the stuff Kristine and her friends would giggle about over the phone.

That feeling never showed up—not with girls, not with anyone—until Warren.

Warren. Good, kind Warren, who always has something optimistic to say. Who never seems to judge him, even when he feels like the whole world is against him. Warren, who’s always been there, sitting at the edge of his world, just close enough to be comforting but never intrusive, who saved his life. No wonder he has feelings for him. Max is out of her fucking mind if she doesn’t like him back.

Still, it’s a statistical anomaly. Seven billion people on the planet, and he ends up with butterflies for the dork in corny graphic tees. It shouldn’t be happening.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he whispers, rubbing his face with his hands. He flops against his bed and buries his face in his pillow. He can’t be gay. Gay men are feminine and weak, and he’s spent his entire life trying to avoid being anything like that. Gay men are perverts. Gay men aren’t normal.

Clenching his eyes shut, he reaches down to fumble with the button on his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down to his ankles. He forces himself to think of a woman and manages to conjure up a vague image of some girl from a magazine—perfect curves, soft lips, nice tits. Bleach blonde. Fuckable. The Playboy variety.

With a shuddering breath, he starts to roll his hips against his mattress, hips swiveling as he brings himself to hardness. He doesn’t get off as much as he used to (being back on his meds has dulled a lot of his impulses), but right now he needs to prove something to himself, needs to feel in control of something. He hikes his shirt up, taking the bottom hem between his teeth, and lets his hand slide over the expanse of his chest as he focuses on the girl’s artificial perfection.

Just as he manages to imagine her sucking him off, the image of her begins to fade, her edges melting away. Her features are slowly replaced, blonde waves morphing into messy brown hair, soft curves shifting into long limbs, and before he knows it, she’s dissolved into someone else entirely. It’s Warren who’s touching him, who’s hovering over him, looking down at him with those familiar, dark eyes. Warren’s hand, not hers, wrapped around the veiny outline of his cock.

He whines around the fabric and ruts harder against his mattress, against the wet patch of precome seeping onto his sheets. “Warren,” he mumbles, cock twitching when he thinks about how big he is. He’s tall, a good five inches taller than him. It wouldn’t be hard at all for Warren to overtake him.

Which begs the question: What else about him is big? What kind of monster is he hiding in his pants? Isn’t there a stereotype about nerdy guys being secretly hung?

“Ah, hah, fuck,” he groans in time with the thrusts of his hips, shirt falling from his mouth. His fingers twist into the wrinkled sheets, and he comes hard, so hard that he swears he sees stars as he paints the bed beneath him. His teeth clamp around his pillow to keep himself from crying out, although he’s pretty sure his neighbors, if they’re home, already know what he’s been up to. The Prescott Dorm has always had paper-thin walls.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes is how long it takes him to recover, and by that point, the vindictive little thing they call 'post-nut clarity' has set in. Once his body has stopped trembling, he yanks his jeans and boxers back up to his waist and tears the soiled sheets from his bed, trying to suppress the nausea rising in his throat. He just jerked off to a boy. A boy he knows well. A boy he has to see every goddamn day for the next eight months.

Nathan starts to pace again, fingers digging into his scalp, his chest stuttering with ragged breaths. He stops to look at himself in his mirror, at the horrified expression staring back at him.

You’re disgusting.

You’re going to hurt him. You want to hurt him.

Faggot, faggot, faggot.

Pills. Stumbling toward his desk, he grabs his orange prescription bottles and takes one of each, his shaking hands fumbling with the child-proof caps. His throat constricts as they go down, and his vision starts to sting with tears, but he quickly wipes them away. No crying, he tells himself. Just calm the fuck down. Inhale, exhale.

After some time, his heartbeat begins to slow. His muscles unclench. He finds himself on his bare, yellowed mattress, staring up at the ceiling, gnawing on his bottom lip.

Rachel, he wonders, what the hell do I do now? Give me a sign.

She doesn’t, but he does remember that the pool is open late on weekends.

He spends a few more hours brooding on the current state of his existence before visiting Victoria to see how visiting her parents went. He decides to spare her the dirty details of the day’s events and listens to her drone on about how busy they are at The Chase Space, constantly jet-setting between Seattle and New York City to meet with famous photographers.

“Mom wants to showcase some new talent in the gallery,” she explains as she scrolls listlessly through her Facebook feed. “Someone edgy for their winter show. Someone fresh.”

Nathan feigns interest until the little hand on her clock creeps closer to ten, signaling that it’s time for him to make his exit. The campus is silent, as is the pool, and he makes quick work of changing into his swimsuit and strapping his goggles over his head. He dives in without hesitation, the cold water a shock to his system, but it’s exactly what he needs.

Underwater, everything slows. He holds his breath for as long as he can before his lungs start to burn, and he emerges, propelling himself into backstroke. The ache is good. It’s hard to panic about his sexuality when his muscles are preoccupied with keeping him afloat.

There’s no point in denying it. He’s a little gay. If he’s not gay, then he’s at the very least Warrensexual, which is somehow easier for him to wrap his head around. It’s something he’ll never be able to tell anyone, but that’s fine, because Warren’s feelings on the subject are probably mutual. He’ll just have to suffer in silence, but he’s good at that. He’s become a practiced pro over the years.

Pausing by the wall to take a breath, he hears footsteps echoing in the direction of the locker rooms. “Fucking Madsen,” he growls, and he prepares himself for another pissing match as he’s kicked out for the night, but it isn’t Madsen who emerges. His breath sticks in his throat as Warren steps out, his hands buried in his pockets as he watches from the sidelines.

“Hey,” he says, with a smile that Nathan knows is forced. He can see it from where he’s standing. “How’s the water?”

Nathan blinks in disbelief. It’s several seconds before he answers. “How did you know I’d be here?”

Warren takes a tentative step forward, his sneakers squeaking on the wet tile. “Lucky guess,” he says. “Looks like I was right.”

Nathan feels his chest tighten, and he swims backward, legs treading water. “Yeah, well, congrats, I guess,” he says sharply, trying to mask his nervous energy. “I know you’re not here to swim. What do you want?”

Warren fidgets awkwardly, his gaze flicking to the water and then back to Nathan. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says, voice steady, “about what happened yesterday.”

This is it. Nathan can feel it. This is the moment Warren tells him he thinks the kiss was a mistake, that it didn’t mean anything, that they should pretend it never happened. This is where he tells him he has feelings for Max, and that the two of them never stood a chance. How stupid of him to think that Warren could ever like someone like him.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says sharply, bracing himself for the sting of rejection. “It was an accident. I get it.”

Warren’s face shifts, a look of hurt passing through his expression before he quickly tries to mask it. Nathan can see it, though—he always notices the small things, the little details. He feels a pang of guilt, but he doesn’t say anything, just waits for Warren to confirm what he already knows.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Warren comes closer and takes a seat on the bleachers, in the same spot he did the day he asked him to the drive-in. “It wasn’t an accident,” he says.

“What?”

Warren’s eyes finally meet his, and Nathan can see the vulnerability there, the same nervous energy he’s been trying to shove down in himself. “I mean… I didn’t mean for it to happen like that, but it wasn’t just some random thing. I wanted to kiss you, I think. I mean, clearly I did, because I did kiss you, but…”

He pauses to gather his thoughts, clearing his throat. “Are you mad at me? I think that’s what I want to know,” he says, almost a whisper. “I’m so sorry. After everything that happened at the party, I should’ve asked. I shouldn’t have just…”

The air in Nathan’s lungs tightens as Warren’s words trail off, hanging in the space between them. Mad at him? Maybe he was for a minute or two, but he was mostly angry with himself. He can lie to himself all he wants, but really, there’s no way he can be mad at him. Not after this.

“No,” he utters, shaking his head. “I’m not mad.”

Warren lets out a shaky breath like he’s been holding it in, waiting for his reaction. “Okay. Good.” He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with his sleeves, his nerves still palpable. “Because I haven’t really been able to stop thinking about it. About you.”

The lights on the walls of the pool reflect off the water in shimmering patterns, casting a faint glow on both of them. Nathan swims back to the wall, fingers gripping the ledge, and swallows the lump in his throat. “I—” he starts, but it’s a fight to get the words out. He stops to try again. “I’ve been thinking about you too.”

Before Warren can reply, he motions at the pool with his head. “Do you want to get in here?” he asks. “It’s cold as shit.”

Warren’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, and he lets out a small laugh. “As long as you’re okay with me interrupting your night swim,” he says, tugging his hoodie over his head and kicking off his sneakers. “Your doggy paddling.”

“Shut up,” Nathan says, a smirk tugging at his lips, but it falls away when Warren pulls his shirt off. He’s never seen him anything less than fully clothed. He’d envisioned Warren to be just as slender as he is, all cords and ligaments, but now that he’s standing before him, shirtless in the dim light of the pool, Nathan is struck by how wrong he was. Broad shoulders, toned arms, toned chest. Embarrassingly, Warren looks more like a man at sixteen than he does at eighteen.

He’s also very, very aware of the trail of dark hair leading up from Warren’s waistband. He quickly averts his eyes as he strips down to his boxers, his pulse roaring.

Warren, completely oblivious to his thoughts, sits down on the edge and slides into the water with a gasp. “Holy shit, this is freezing,” he mutters, teeth already starting to chatter. “I thought this pool was supposed to be heated.”

Nathan forces a laugh, but it comes out awkward, too tight. “Yeah, guess they forgot to turn that on tonight,” he mutters, trying to keep his focus on anything but Warren’s body, which is now half-submerged in the water and dangerously close to him. “You broke into someone’s house. You can handle it.”

“Don’t remind me. I still can’t believe we did that,” Warren huffs, splashing him. “You still have Rachel’s phone, right? We’ll need it.”

Nathan flinches, both at the question and the cold water splashing across his chest. He knew it would come up eventually. “I thought you had the phone,” he lies, distracting him with a coy splash to the face. “Maybe you left it in your POS car.”

Thankfully, he takes the bait. Warren wipes the water from his face, laughing despite himself. “You love my POS car,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You can’t disrespect the TARDIS, dude. She’s got feelings. She’s sensitive.”

“You’re sensitive,” Nathan shoots back, and before he knows it, the two of them are engaged in an all-out war, giggling as they try to shove each other under the surface. Nathan manages to gain the upper hand and dunks Warren under the water, who sputters and flails in defeat.

Surfacing with a gasp, Warren pushes his dripping hair out of his eyes and grins. “Truce?” he says, holding out his hand. “You win.”

“I always win,” Nathan boasts, giving his hand a firm shake. He laughs when Warren tugs him closer, so close that their chests are pressed together, and for a moment, all he can do is tilt his head back and look at him. You can kiss me, he thinks, rehearsing the line several times. His lips are itching with the need to say it. It’s right there, right on the tip of his tongue. You can kiss me. You can kiss me, if you want.

“Warren,” he breathes, barely audible over the gentle lapping of water against the pool walls. His voice wavers, hands rising to rest on the perch of Warren’s shoulders. “Can you kiss me?”

Without saying another word, Warren leans in and wraps his arms around his waist. He does.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 21st

As it turns out, Nathan doesn’t hate him after all. Quite the opposite, actually.

They kiss in the pool until their lips hurt and their fingers start to raisin, and when the water becomes too cold for either of them to stand any longer, they clamber out with a fit of laughter. Scrambling for the locker rooms, they end up in one of the showers and kiss some more as they rinse the chlorine out of their hair, Nathan’s back against the wall and Warren pressed against him, his fingers digging into the flesh of his hips.

Kissing isn’t the right word. No, they’re making out, and it’s fucking fantastic.

It’s a frenzy of hands, lips, and heat, water cascading over their bodies as their mouths move hungrily against each other. Warren feels like he’s free-falling, no control over the pace or intensity of it all, but he doesn’t mind. He’s more focused on the way Nathan’s hands are in his hair, Nathan’s body sliding against his own, Nathan nipping at his bottom lip with kittenish canines.

He has a mini heart attack when the beam from Madsen’s flashlight cuts through the steam. The pool is closed and they’re now trespassing, along with feeling each other up in public like the horny idiots they are. Being caught would be catastrophic. Suspension, detention, letters sent home to their families. Better to own up to it, he thinks, and moves to step out from the shadows, but Nathan tugs him into another kiss to silence him. It works, and Madsen’s beam sweeps lazily through the locker room before disappearing altogether.

They don’t stick around after that. Nathan, still in his swimsuit, flings his varsity over his shoulders and books it for the exit, Warren hurrying after him in nothing but his boxers. He doesn’t feel like risking his life for his clothes and so the two of them, giggling like children, streak across the lawn before returning to Nathan’s bedroom, where they resume their making out the moment the door clicks shut.

There’s an undercurrent of panic that thrums through Warren’s veins, a low-level terror lurking beneath the surface. They’ve crossed a line—several, probably—and the weight of it is there, creeping up on him with every kiss, every touch. It’s not just the thrill of getting caught, of sneaking around in the dark. It’s what they’ve become, what they’re doing now—this strange, uncharted territory where nothing feels certain except for the fact that Nathan is here, tangible, real, and touching him in ways he’s only fantasized about.

It takes everything in Warren not to ask if he can spend the night with him, especially when Nathan parts to brush his lips against his neck, but this isn’t how he envisioned things would go. It’s too much, too soon, and the last thing he wants is to screw up by moving too fast. He’ll never forgive himself if he fumbles by rushing into something Nathan isn’t ready for, or worse, might regret.

“Wait,” he says shakily, just as Nathan begins to suck on a spot beneath his jaw. His touch feels branding, searing, and his body jerks slightly at the heat that surges through him. “Nate, hold on.”

Nathan pauses, his breath warm against his cheek. “Yeah?” he whispers, moving his hands back to Warren’s hair. He threads through the damp strands with a sort of possessive intensity, tugging gently when Warren doesn’t reply right away. “What’s wrong?”

“I just—” Warren starts, swallowing thickly. He can’t think straight, need burning like a hot coal in the pit of his stomach. He shifts, squirming away from Nathan’s knee, which is slotted dangerously between his legs. “I really like you, and I want this, I do, but not yet.”

Nathan’s fingers loosen in his hair before he pulls away entirely. While his room is dark, Warren can make out how disheveled he is, his cheeks flushed and his lips, reddened and slightly parted. “Yeah,” he pants, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Warren nods, feeling a little more relieved. “I’ve never done this before,” he says. “Whatever this is. With anyone.”

Nathan’s expression softens in the darkness, and Warren feels slightly offended when he doesn’t seem surprised by the admission. He’d hoped he’d come off as someone more experienced, or at least less unsure. But Nathan doesn’t laugh or smirk, doesn’t throw him one of his usual biting remarks. “Me neither,” he murmurs, and he looks away, like it costs him something to admit it.

Warren’s eyebrows raise. He’s always assumed Nathan had been with other people. Before his suicide attempt, he carried himself with such careless confidence, like nothing and no one could touch him. Warren had pictured him as someone who had already navigated the complex and messy terrain of relationships, who had seen it all, done it all, and walked away unscathed.

There are plenty of girls who are into aloof pretty boys, he remembers himself thinking. There’s no way he hasn’t been with one of them.

Before Chloe, he thought it might’ve been Victoria. During his first year at Blackwell, he’d seen them together, Victoria always clinging to his side. They were both polished, both popular, both fabulously wealthy. He’d assumed, like everyone else did, that they were a thing, but it became increasingly obvious over time that their relationship was more sibling-like than anything. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Nathan likes boys. Nathan likes a boy. Nathan likes him.

“Don’t look at me like that, okay?” Nathan grumbles, turning around. He tosses his jacket onto his bed and searches his dresser for a pair of boxers. Peeking over his shoulder to ensure Warren isn’t staring, he drops his swimsuit and tugs the briefs over his hips, snapping the waistband into place. “I should’ve gotten laid by now. I know it’s lame.”

Warren tries to focus on the photos lining Nathan’s walls—anything to stop himself from staring at the small of Nathan’s back, or the cute dimples just above his ass. He’d do just about anything right now to press his lips to them, to trace the protruding curve of his spine with his fingers.

“It’s not lame,” he blurts out, his eyes still averted. “I mean, it’s kinda scary, isn’t it? You’re letting someone in. Letting someone see…everything. That’s scary.”

"It’s just sex.”

"I don't think so," Warren says. “Not when it’s with someone you care about.”

“Hallmark crap,” Nathan mutters, but there’s no real conviction behind it, only a kind of tired bitterness. Heaving a sigh, he turns to face him, and then quickly closes the gap between them in two steps, their lips colliding again.

“Go,” he whispers into his mouth. “I’ll see you in Hoida’s in a few hours.”

Warren lingers for a moment, hands itching to grab at Nathan’s waist, but he forces them to reach for the door handle instead. “Okay,” he says, eyes flitting to his bed. His brow furrows when he notices his bare mattress. “Where’re your sheets?”

Nathan’s face turns scarlet. “In the wash.”

“Do you wanna sleep at mine tonight?”

“Go,” Nathan grunts, opening the door and spinning him around. He gives him a gentle shove into the hallway, a smile playing at his lips. “Go. Goodnight.”

Nate,

Want to explain why I have a hickey? I have a mom with eyes, ya know >:(

Yours,

Warren

WARREN,

I DIDN’T HEAR ANY COMPLAINTS AT THE TIME

Nate,

She’s going to kill me if she sees it, and then I won’t be able to kiss you anymore, and then you will be very, very sad. And then I’ll be sad because YOU are sad, but there’s nothing I can do because alas, I am dead. Maybe you can explain it to her yourself?

Yours,

Warren

WARREN,

NOT UNLESS YOU WANT ME DEAD TOO

YOURS,

NATHAN

Warren rolls his eyes as he unfolds the note, Nathan smirking beside him. He hadn’t noticed the love bite until he’d slipped into the bathroom after chemistry, where he’d caught sight of it in the mirror while washing his hands. A small, dark bruise sitting just below his jawline. No wonder Brooke was giving him strange looks during class.

He rubs his thumb over it, feeling the shallow indents of Nathan’s teeth. He isn’t sure what to call the state of their relationship. It’s not like they’ve had a real conversation about it, and knowing Nathan, that conversation might not ever happen. But now, with a literal mark on his skin, he can’t help but wonder what they are. Are they friends yet? Surely they’re something more than that by now.

The idea of confronting him about it feels ridiculous. Nathan isn’t the type to talk about feelings, and Warren isn’t sure if he wants to bring it up himself. Not if it will risk whatever fragile thing they have between them. No, he’ll take what he can get.

He glances at Nathan, who’s now pretending to focus on the lesson but is still smirking, leaning back in his chair so that the two front legs are barely touching the ground. He doesn’t seem worried about this, so Warren shouldn’t be worrying either. He likes this version of Nathan—cocky, indifferent, devil-may-care. The version of Nathan that enjoys marking his territory in the most irritating way possible, i.e., sucking a bruise on his neck where everyone can see it.

“I hate this shit,” Nathan whispers to him as Mrs. Hoida hands out the rubric for their next assignment. He leans over to him, his chair falling against the linoleum with a clatter as he sits upright. “You’re going to write my essay, right?”

“In your dreams,” Warren mutters, rapping Nathan’s knuckles with his pencil. “Why does it matter, anyway? You could turn in a sheet of paper with ‘fuck you’ written on it, and you’d still get an A.”

“Duh. But if I did that, I wouldn’t get the satisfaction of watching you do my work for me,” Nathan says. “And that’s priceless.”

“Warren and Nathan, can either of you tell me what I just said?” Mrs. Hoida says from the front, exasperated. Warren’s head snaps up, and he scrambles for an answer, but his mind is blank. He looks over at Nathan, who shrugs uselessly. He wasn’t listening either.

“Keep the talking to a minimum during class, please,” she says, before returning to her lesson.

From her seat at the front, Stella turns around and eyes the two of them, grins, and gives a thumbs up. Before Nathan can ask, Warren tugs the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He melts against his desk, humiliated.

When the bell rings, the two of them sling their bags over their shoulders and walk to Warren’s locker, talking as he sheds his heavy textbooks. When he shuts it and scrambles the combination, he realizes that the hallway is deserted, everyone else having hurried to their rooms after their last class. They lock eyes as they lean up against the row of lockers together, and Warren wonders if it would be too dangerous to reach out and kiss him again right here, right now, because Jesus Christ, is it hard to keep his hands off him now that he’s had a taste.

Glancing around to make sure the coast is clear, Warren subtly reaches out his hand and hooks Nathan’s pinky with his own. Nathan’s gaze flicks downwards, and he slowly intertwines the rest of them until their hands are fully clasped together, Warren’s long, tanned fingers laced with his shorter ones.

“There you are.” Victoria’s voice cuts through the quiet, and Nathan yanks his hand away, jumping backward as she approaches him from behind. Looking impeccable as always, she loops her arm through his and brushes some fuzz off his varsity. “I was wondering where you wandered off to. You okay?”

Her eyes flit over to Warren, suddenly noticing his presence. “Hello,” she says, surprised.

Warren forces a tight smile, trying to keep his expression neutral even though his heart is battering itself against his ribs. “Hey,” he replies. He hopes it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels.

“Want to grab something to eat?” she asks, turning her attention back to Nathan. “Real food, please. I’m so over the slop they serve us in the cafeteria.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nathan replies, his voice gruff as he shoves his hands into his pockets. He sniffs and gives Warren a once-over. “See you, Graham.”

Warren barely manages to nod in response, the tightness in his chest intensifying at the cold dismissal. “See you,” he mumbles, even though Nathan’s already turning away, arm still looped with Victoria’s as they leave. Victoria glances over her shoulder once, a flash of something unreadable in her eyes as she says something he can’t make out, and Nathan’s head bobs in assent. They turn a corner, disappearing like a couple of actors exiting stage left, perfectly timed, perfectly synced.

Warren stands there, rooted to the spot, mind whirling through the familiar loop of self-recriminations. Nathan wants to keep this—them—a secret. Why shouldn’t he? They aren’t committed to one another, and even if they were, shouting their feelings from the rooftops in this town would be tantamount to social hara-kiri. They’d be better off disemboweling themselves in ritual suicide than letting the world know what’s going on between them.

Still, he thinks. Still.

Sighing, he pulls his phone from his back pocket, the screen lighting up with missed texts.

[Max, Today 2:19 PM]

Ditching last period to carve pumpkins at Chloe’s. Come over when you’re free!

[Chloe, Today 2:22 PM]

44 cedar avenue. door’s unlocked

and bring rachel’s phone thx love you big guy

[You, Today 4:09 PM]

Sounds gourd. Haha. Get it?

No?

OMW

Warren tears his car apart in search of the phone.

He looks under the seats, inside the glove boxes, in that stubborn crevice where he normally drops fries and spare change. His fingers brush against sticky old soda spills and discarded wrappers, his movements becoming increasingly frantic. He must’ve left it in here somewhere.

When it never surfaces, he gives up and drives to Chloe’s, a small house in disrepair not far from his own. They have pictures of the more important messages, at least, and he praises himself for snapping proof of them. The investigation would have been thrown off course if he hadn’t.

Pulling into the driveway, he hops out and starts up the front steps, letting himself inside. “Hello?” he calls out as he slips off his shoes. The place smells vaguely like the Two Whales, like burnt bacon and strong coffee, and he inhales deeply as he finds himself in the living room. Max’s belongings are strewn about, her sneakers kicked onto the floor and her sweatshirt draped over the back of the couch, but there’s no sign of her or Chloe.

“Guys?” he calls out again, wandering up the staircase. He hears music blasting behind a closed door, and he presses his ear to it, knocking. “Hello?”

No one answers. He frowns, knuckles resting against the wood, before his hand gravitates toward the knob. He twists it open.

The room is dim, blinds half-closed and blocking out most of the afternoon light. Chloe is sprawled against her unmade bed, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, her blue hair a messy halo against the pillow. And sitting atop her, legs straddling her while they kiss, is Max.

Warren freezes in the doorway, staring, watching from the outside. Max’s hair tumbles over her face as she leans into Chloe, her hands gripping the fabric of Chloe’s old band tee, fingers curled tight like she’s afraid to let go. Chloe reaches up to cup Max’s cheek, and… okay, now she’s slipping a hand up her shirt. He shouldn’t be here. Time to go.

Finally summoning enough presence of mind to tear his gaze away (because what teenage boy isn’t a little curious about watching girls make out?), he takes a step backward. His heel catches on the doorframe, and that’s when it happens. The sharp creak of wood under his foot.

Max jerks back, her eyes wide, disoriented as her gaze snaps toward the doorway. She gasps when she sees him, her hand flying to her mouth. "Warren!" she says, pulling away from Chloe so quickly it’s almost comical. “Oh, God. How long have you been standing there?”

Warren coughs, shifting his gaze to his feet. “Sorry!” he rasps, clearing his throat. “I knocked. I swear.”

Max’s face flushes deeply, her eyes darting from him to Chloe and back again. She groans and rolls off her, burying her face in the sheets. Chloe, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“Sup,” she says, reaching over to her nightstand. She grabs a cigarette, smoldering in its heart-shaped ashtray, and brings it to her lips. “When did you get here?”

“Uh. A few minutes ago?”

She takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke through her nose. “Well, cat’s out of the bag, I guess,” she says, patting Max’s head. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Max huffs and sits up, straightening out her shirt. “Great,” she mutters, shooting Warren a sheepish, mortified look. “Sorry. We didn’t exactly… plan on having an audience.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I, uh, really didn’t see much,” Warren says, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. He laughs, nervous, high-pitched, and he knows how lame he sounds, but what else is there to say? He glances at Chloe, who’s watching him with her usual irreverent grin, completely unfazed by the whole situation. Typical.

Chloe flicks the ash from her cigarette and reclines lazily against her pillow. “Don’t worry about it, dude. Shit happens.” She shrugs. “And now you know. Big deal.”

Max groans again. “This is so embarrassing.”

Warren stands there as Chloe teases Max about how red her face is, Max swatting her away, and he feels like he’s watching everything unfold from behind a layer of glass. His first instinct isn’t shock, or anger, or even sadness—no, what surprises him most is that he feels nothing. He should feel something, given how he thought he had a crush on Max only a few days ago, but the part that usually reacts to her—the part that yearns—is silent.

Stella was right. Whatever he thought he felt for Max wasn’t real. Not in the way he’d convinced himself it was.

It's better this way, though. He’d suspected there was something deeper going on between them. Max deserves someone who sees her the way Chloe does, and Chloe deserves to be with someone who’s here. Alive.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones who’ve been busy,” Chloe remarks with a smirk, launching off her bed and pressing a finger into his hickey. “Got yourself a little vampire for Halloween?”

Warren turns his head away, his expression blanking. “Oh, um—"

“Who’s the lucky gal? Or guy,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “We don’t judge around here.”

“Leave him alone,” Max huffs, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at Chloe, who lets out a dramatic oof as it smacks her in the back. “We don’t need to know everyone’s business.”

“Nah, it’s… it’s just a thing,” Warren says quickly, hoping to dismiss the topic before either of them digs any deeper. “A thing I have… with a person. Who I like.”

Chloe nods, pursing her lips. “Wow. Very specific,” she drawls, beckoning for the two of them to follow her downstairs. “Doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”

Max shoots her a look that says enough as they trudge into the kitchen, and Chloe raises her hands in mock surrender before gesturing to the three large pumpkins sitting next to the sink. “Anyway. Time to gut these babies,” she says, hoisting one up and dropping it onto the small, newspaper-covered dining table. “Everyone grab a knife. We’ve got some serious carnage to get through.”

Warren sighs with relief as Chloe passes him his pumpkin, the conversation shifting away from his personal life. After opening several drawers, he finds a knife, which he promptly stabs into the top before sawing it open. Noah used to help him carve his pumpkins as a kid. He’d draw out the designs (intricate spider webs, terrified faces) while Warren hacked away at it, eager to get to the messy part.

“Do you have stencils? I don’t know if I can freehand this,” Max says, rolling up her sleeves and digging around inside her pumpkin. She grabs a fistful of stringy innards and dumps them onto the newspaper, grimacing. “Gross.”

“If we do, they’re somewhere in the garage. Warren?”

“You got it,” he says, setting down his knife and wiping his hands on a rag. She points him toward an inconspicuous-looking door and he enters, Max and Chloe’s chatter fading behind him.

Flicking on the single dangling bulb above him, he prods around in the garage, which smells strongly of motor oil and dust. He swats away cobwebs as he scans the shelves, which seem to hold everything but what he’s looking for. Power tools, Christmas lights, enough canned goods to survive an apocalypse. He picks up a military MRE, one supposedly filled with a spaghetti dinner, and chuckles. If aliens ever decide to invade Arcadia Bay, he’ll be marching his ass right back here.

Turning, he notices what looks like a small package sitting atop a tall cabinet. He grabs it with little effort, only to find that it’s not the stencils, but a manila folder, which he flips open without much thought. Probably just old paperwork or car registration, he assumes, until he sees the photos.

A dozen snapshots of Nathan, all taken from afar without him knowing. Warren’s heart skips a beat as he shuffles through them. Nathan outside Blackwell, leaning against his truck in the parking lot, entering the dorms, having a smoke on the lawn. The other photos in the deck, just as grainy, just as unnerving, are pictures from locations around town. The junkyard. The creepy abandoned barn everyone speculates is haunted.

All of them are timestamped, he finds, the dates scrawled in frantic writing on the back of each photo. The earliest ones date back to the end of March, but the more recent ones are only from a couple of weeks ago. His confusion only deepens when he pulls Rachel’s missing poster out from underneath them, the date of her disappearance circled in red marker.

What the hell is this?

The garage door starts to rise. Panic surges through him as he stuffs the evidence into the folder, places it on the cabinet, and darts for the door. It slips slightly, and a photo falls out and flutters to the ground—October 8th, 21:00, Nathan’s truck idling outside of the barn.

“Couldn’t find them,” he mumbles, stumbling back into the living room and slumping into his chair. “Sorry.”

Chloe glances over from where she’s elbow-deep in pumpkin guts, her arms smeared with stringy pulp. “Looks like you’re on your own,” she says to Max, who pouts and begins her carving.

Warren picks up his knife, but his hand trembles as he grips the handle. Someone has been tracking Nathan’s movements for months now. There’s no way it’s Chloe, because she would’ve said something, wouldn’t she? And what was Nathan doing out there, anyway? 21:00. Nine at night, in the middle of nowhere.

The door to the garage swings open, David Madsen crossing the threshold with a stern look on his face. “Chloe,” he says stiffly, dropping his car keys into a bowl and sloughing off his jacket. “Have you been in the garage?”

Warren hides his shock with a cough, Chloe rolling her eyes. “No, David,” she says sharply, pointing at her hollowed-out pumpkin. “Do you seriously think I have time to snoop around in your shit? I’m busy making a masterpiece over here.”

Madsen eyes her warily, then scans the rest of the room, his gaze briefly landing on Warren before moving to the kitchen counter. “I noticed some things were moved around,” he says gruffly. “I don’t go into your room and mess with your stuff, so I expect the same courtesy in return.”

Chloe laughs in disbelief, throwing her head back. “Oh my God, I said no. Chill out.”

“Watch it,” Madsen warns, but decides to let her off the hook. He grabs a beer from the fridge with a sigh, his work boots stomping against the floor as he retreats into the garage. The moment the door closes, Chloe makes a jerking-off motion with her hand and then flips him off for good measure.

“When were you going to tell me your stepdad was the head of security at Blackwell?” Warren scoffs, his voice coming out a bit sharper than intended. “Jesus, Chloe. Seriously?”

“What? Don’t worry about him. I wasn’t going to let you take the fall for touching his things,” Chloe says, picking up her knife with gleeful disregard. “Don’t let him scare you. It’s not like he’s a cop.”

“No, but I don’t really feel like pissing him off and risking my enrollment,” he mutters. He’s suddenly grateful that Nathan stopped him from surrendering himself to him the night before. He can’t imagine the embarrassment of facing him again after getting caught engaging in some same-sex PDA. The thought alone makes him slump further into his seat, his face warming at the memory.

So it’s Madsen who’s taken an interest in Nathan’s whereabouts, then. For as long as he’s worked at Blackwell, he’s always seemed a little paranoid, a bit gung-ho about surveillance and keeping everyone in line. Nathan, with his volatile nature and notorious reputation, was bound to catch his attention at some point. It’s odd that he’s this obsessed with him, but not totally uncharacteristic. If it weren’t Nathan, it would probably be someone else.

“Do you have Rachel’s phone on you?” Max interrupts. “Now’s a good time to go through those messages.”

Right. About that. Warren meets her gaze, laughing nervously. “I must’ve lost it,” he says. “But it’s fine. I took pictures of stuff I found on there, so—”

Chloe’s knife freezes mid-motion. “Bullshit. Nathan has it.”

“What?” Warren says, laugh dying in his throat. He blinks, his brow furrowing as he processes her accusation. “No, no way. Nathan wouldn’t—he told me I had it. I must’ve dropped it leaving Rachel’s, or something.”

“I watched you give it to him. He has it.” She gestures to Max, who nods in agreement. “Warren, he’s lying to you. You need to get that phone from him.”

Warren feels the ground tilt beneath him. He scoffs. Nathan, lying to him? No, that can’t be right. Nathan is a lot of things, and maybe he’s a liar too, but he wouldn’t lie to him about this.

His mind reels, grasping at fragments of memories, of moments where Nathan had been...what? Distracted? Defensive? He was quick to shut down the conversation about knowing Rachel and had looked ill at the idea of showing up at her house. What about her makes him so uneasy?

“I don’t believe you,” he says, ignoring his growing doubt. “He wouldn’t do that.”

Max looks back to him, concerned. “No, she’s right. I didn’t see the whole thing, but… I remember him walking away with something after we left Rachel’s. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now…”

“He wouldn’t, okay? I trust him.”

Chloe’s eyes bug out of her head. “You trust him? Are you hearing yourself right now?” she asks, stabbing her knife into the table. “Why are you defending him? He’s fucking nuts. He’s playing you, and you’re just another idiot falling for his—"

“You don’t know him like I do!” he says, almost pleading. He stands abruptly from his chair, the heat rising in his chest. “You don’t get it. He’s not like that. Everyone thinks he’s bad, but he’s just… he’s different with me.”

The air between them turns sour, and Warren’s pulse quickens as Chloe points a finger at him. “You’ve been spending time with him,” she says. “That’s why he showed up with you at Rachel’s place. Why did you bring him around after I told you what he did to me?”

“I know, I know, but listen. I’ve gotten to know him and—” Warren starts, glancing over at Max. She looks horrified, and the sight of her—wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, frozen in shock—makes his stomach drop. “I know what he did was awful, but he’s not always like—”

“Like what?” Chloe cuts in. “A freak? A psychopath?”

“He’s not either of those things,” Warren shoots back. “He’s not. He’s scared, and he’s been hurt, and—”

Chloe gawks at him. “You’re really going to stand there and back him up? After everything he’s done? After he—” Her voice catches, and for a second, Warren can see the hurt in her eyes, raw and unburdened. “He drugged me. He drugged me. And you’re telling me he’s a victim?”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t wrong, but he’s more complicated than that.”

Chloe shakes her head, her lips pressed into a tight line, like she’s heard enough. “Complicated, my ass,” she says, her gaze dropping to his neck.  “Who gave you the hickey, Warren?”

Warren’s breath hitches, and the room suddenly feels too small, too hot. His hand instinctively goes to his neck, covering the mark Chloe’s eyes have zeroed in on. He shakes his head feebly.

Chloe stands, her fingers still wrapped around the handle of the knife. “Right,” she says, her voice hollow. “You wanna fuck a lying, manipulative sack of shit who’s messing with our investigation? Fine. But if you’re going to do that, don’t pretend like you care about me or Rachel. You don’t get to play both sides and act like you’re one of us.”

“It’s…” Warren starts again, but his voice cracks, and he doesn’t know how to continue.  When he looks to Max for help, he finds her looking down at her lap, her face pale and drawn. She isn’t going to defend him this time, and the silence between them stretches taught, uncomfortable.

“I didn’t plan this,” he manages to choke out. “It just happened.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you got involved with a guy who destroys everything he touches,” Chloe snaps. “You think you’re different? You think he’s going to change for you? For someone so smart, you’re really fucking stupid, dude. You can see yourself out.”

Warren stands there, reeling, his mouth dry. His feet seem to obey her before his mind catches up. He turns, his legs moving automatically, like some part of him has already decided he doesn’t belong here anymore, and he walks briskly to his car, the sky outside sagging with rain.

He reaches for his phone as he slides into his seat, fingers clumsy and shaking as he unlocks it. Nathan’s number is there, near the top of his contacts, and his thumb hovers over it, uncertain. He should text him.

Chloe’s voice echoes in his mind. He’s playing you. You’re an idiot.

He wants to believe she’s wrong. He needs to believe it. But as he stares at the screen, the sinking feeling in his gut tells him otherwise. Warren lowers his phone, the screen going dark in his hand, and for the umpteenth time since he met Nathan, he’s not sure he knows what to do next.

A drop of rain splashes against his windshield as he turns his key. In the end, he hopes all of this—all of Nathan—will be worth it. He’s one of the few things he has left.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 21st

“And then I heard from Courtney who heard from Dana who heard from Juliet—”

Nathan zones out as he listens to Victoria rattle on, words blending into each other in the way they often do when she’s gossiping. He tries to focus, but it’s impossible—the words mean nothing to him, a string of names and stories that loop together in an endless, monotonous cycle. He catches glimpses of phrases, like little bits of debris floating by on a river: Courtney, Juliet, heard from, so-and-so said this, Dana did that. It’s all white noise.

They’d decided to grab a quick bite at a café in town (a homey little place called Tide & Grind), Victoria turning up her nose at the suggestion that they eat at the Two Whales. She’d made a comment about it being ‘too greasy,’ which is probably true, but Nathan’s appetite has returned with an odd vengeance. For someone who barely eats on a good day, he’d love to sink his teeth into a bacon cheeseburger and fries drowning in ketchup—anything that might stick to his ribs and quiet the gnawing in his stomach.

But here he is, drinking his chai latte while Victoria prattles on about who fucked who, and where, and why.

“And then—get this,” Victoria says, taking a bite of her overpriced yogurt parfait. She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Court saw them leaving her room at three in the morning. I mean, can you believe it?”

“No way,” Nathan gasps in a deadpan tone. “And then what happened?”

“Well…” Victoria starts, and then stops, noticing his disinterest. She smirks. “You’re a terrible audience, you know that?”

Nathan shrugs, giving her a half-hearted smile. There’s no way he can focus on her drivel when he’s still mentally in his bedroom, Warren grabbing him as they kiss, their teeth knocking together in their haste. If Warren had decided to push him down onto his bed and fuck him into the mattress, would he have allowed it? Would he have put up a fight?

Stupid question, he scolds, raising his cup to his lips. He would’ve let him, and he would’ve enjoyed every second of it.

He’s thankful Warren didn’t push it, though. The idea of being completely at someone’s mercy, even his, makes Nathan’s chest tighten with a sharp, instinctual panic. There’s a part of him that wants to lose control, to let someone else take over for once, but the larger part—the part that’s always been on guard, always afraid—can’t stomach the thought of being so vulnerable with someone.

“I’m listening,” he says, licking some spiced foam off his bottom lip. “Promise. Keep going.”

Victoria gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Doesn’t matter,” she says, plucking a blueberry off the top of her parfait and popping it into her mouth. She’s painted her nails again. They’re orange this time, her thumbnails decorated with tiny candy corn. “Let’s talk about the Halloween party. What are you dressing up as?”

“Halloween?” he says, trying to seem interested, though the thought of playing dress-up feels distant and childish compared to everything else going on in his life. “I dunno. Probably won’t do anything.”

“You say that every year,” Victoria says pointedly. “You can’t come to the party in jeans and a T-shirt. I’ll whip something up for you.”

“Knock yourself out,” he says. She did the same for him last year, and the year before that. He has to hand it to her—she has a knack for this sort of thing.

He wonders what Warren had dressed as last year, before the two of them really knew each other. Something dorky, probably. Maybe Captain Kirk. He’d make a hot Kirk.

“Sounds like most people are bringing a date,” Victoria says, taking another dainty bite of her parfait. “Hayden and I are going together. He asked me out the other day.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Mhm,” she hums, twirling her spoon around with her finger. “He’s been hinting at it for a while, but he finally asked. I figured, why not? At least he’s not a complete idiot, unlike most of the guys here. Of course, Taylor’s super pissed. She wanted to do a matching costume with me this year.” She rolls her eyes, snorting. “She’s been way too clingy lately.”

She pauses, appraising him. “Are you thinking about bringing anyone?”

Nathan shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Halloween night will be the next opportunity for him to pick up someone for the darkroom, and having someone hanging around would only complicate things. Unless he attempted a do-over of his initial plan with Kate. Ask a girl out, flirt it up, dose her cup...

The thought makes him nauseous. He isn’t over what happened to Kiara. He dreads the day he gets a Facebook request from her, a message in his inbox asking why he has a different name and why she wakes up in the middle of the night with nightmares of a strange, clean room.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Probably not.”

Victoria nods, staring him down. Her eyes narrow slightly, like they always do when he’s not being completely forthcoming, and Nathan manages to hold her scrutiny for a few seconds before looking away. Victoria may be shallow in her interests, but she’s sharp when it comes to sensing weakness or discomfort. She could probably pick apart his psyche if she wanted to, but luckily for him, her attention span for such things is short.

“What’s Warren like?” she asks. She leans forward, watching him closely. “What were you guys talking about earlier?”

Nathan frowns. He doesn’t like this, this sudden interest in Warren, the way their worlds have started to overlap. He’s not ready for anyone to know about what’s really going on between them—if he even knows himself.

“Nothing important,” he says, hands gripping the edge of the table a little too tightly. “Just… you know, the same. School. Classes. Whatever.”

Victoria’s eyebrow arches. “Riiight,” she says slowly, drawing the word out. “Is he your bestie now? Has he passed the rigorous entrance exam to the Nathan Prescott Inner Circle of Trust?”

“No,” Nathan says a little too quickly. It’s true. They’re sort of in-between labels right now—not quite friends, not quite anything else either. To call Warren a ‘friend’ feels too simple, too safe, when nothing about their connection is either of those things. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t get all weird and cagey over just anyone,” Victoria urges. “Tell me about him.”

Something about the way she’s watching him, that sharp, all-seeing gaze of hers, makes it clear she’s not going to let this go. Nathan exhales sharply and glances out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in slow, erratic lines. To describe Warren—to put him into words, to pin down what he means—feels impossible, at least in any way that would make sense to Victoria.

“He’s alright,” he finally says, his voice quieter. The words feel insufficient compared to the weight of what Warren means to him, but they’re all he can offer right now. He’s not about to bare his soul to Victoria out in the open like this. “Nice. Kinda funny sometimes. I mean, he saved my life, so that says something.”

Victoria’s face falls slightly, her smile wavering. “I never told you how sorry I was that it wasn’t me who talked you down,” she says. “I should’ve been a better friend to you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” Nathan says quickly. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty for something she couldn’t control, for not being there when he’d made it impossible for anyone to reach him. He rubs a hand over his face, a weight settling in his chest. “I didn’t make it easy for anyone,” he adds, more to himself than to her. The truth is, he’s pushed everyone away for so long that it still feels unnatural to let someone care—really care.

Warren cares, though. He cares a lot about him, and Nathan has come to find that that feeling—the feeling of being wanted, of being tended to and taken care of—is pretty great.

Victoria eyes crinkle at the edges. “I love you,” she says, nudging his leg with her shoe beneath the table. “And I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Nathan huffs, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle his smile. “You’re my best friend,” he says, which isn’t exactly I love you too, but it’s the closest he can get. He’s never been very good about loudly professing his emotions, despite how strongly he feels them.

Victoria smiles too, and she gives a small nod, like she understands. She most likely does. She’s always understood more than she lets on. “I’ll take it,” she says, nudging him again under the table, her voice lighter now, less serious. “Now, let’s get out of here. Want to come over to my place tonight? I could use a drink or three.”

Yes, is what Nathan wants to say, but he feels his pocket vibrate before he can respond, his heart doing a familiar, traitorous flip. He’s been carrying around his burner at all times lately, knowing that Jefferson could reach out at any moment to summon him. He pulls it out just enough to glance at the screen.

[Unknown, Today 5:18 PM]

Meet me tonight at 8.

“Actually, I’ll have to take a rain check,” he says, standing and slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Have something I need to take care of tonight.”

Victoria pouts and rises from her seat. “Something more important than hanging out with me?”

Nathan forces a smirk, knocking back the rest of his drink before tossing it into the trash. “Something like that,” he says, and remembers the last vial of GHB, stuffed under his couch. “I need to stop at the dorms. Think you can give me a lift to my house after?”

“You’re lucky I’m such an understanding friend,” she says as they head for the door, their shoulders bumping as they step into the rain. “One that doesn’t charge you gas money.”

“Mom?” he calls out as he steps into the foyer, shaking the rain from his varsity and wiping his wet hair out of his eyes. He walks quickly past the study, knowing that his dad is likely inside, unreachable as usual. They haven’t spoken since the last time he stopped by, and he isn’t eager to extend an olive branch now.

Nathan makes his way into the living room, and there she is—his mother in her usual spot by the window, a book in her lap and a glass of wine on the side table. The soft light from the late afternoon rain filters through the curtains, casting everything in muted gold. She looks up when she hears his footsteps, her face softening when she sees him, though there’s still that trace of anxiety in the way she holds herself, as if she’s always bracing for something to break.

“Sweetheart,” she says, her voice light, welcoming. She places her book down gently, carefully marking her page, then beckons him over with a faint smile. She presses a kiss to his temple when he leans down toward her, the kind of gesture she’s been more deliberate about since everything happened. “Nice of you to drop in. How are you?”

Nathan shrugs, tossing his jacket onto the back of a chair. “I’m okay,” he sighs, taking a seat next to her. “Just wanted to talk to you about something.”

Caroline sits up a little straighter, the soft lines of her face turning slightly more focused. She holds her hands in her lap, her smile patient. “Sure. What’s up?”

Nathan feels a pang of anxiety, but he pushes it down. He’s been rehearsing this on the drive over, trying to find the right way to bring it up without sounding desperate. “I was wondering if… if I could have my keys back,” he says slowly. “If I could drive again. The truck.”

There’s a moment where she’s perfectly still, processing. The look on her face falters, but only for a second, as though she hadn’t been expecting him to ask such a thing. “Ah,” she says, blinking, reaching over to fold one of her hands over his. “Do you think you’re ready for that?”

“I think so,” Nathan says. He’s been itching for independence. Stealing his dad’s car and using Warren and Victoria as his chauffeurs has only made the itch worse.

“I’ve been doing good,” he adds. “I’ve been taking my meds. I’ll go to therapy this week.”

Caroline is quiet, watching him in that careful way she does when she’s trying to measure the space between what he’s saying and what he’s feeling. “I know,” she says cautiously. “But it’s only been a week. We didn’t take your keys to punish you. We just want to make sure you’re safe, that we’re not rushing into things.”

Nathan nods through his frustration. “I get it,” he says, keeping his voice even. “But I need this.” He looks down at his hands, at the way his fingers fidget against his jeans, betraying the calm he’s trying so hard to maintain. “I’m trying, I am, but I need some freedom. I need to go places. Do things.”

He also needs a way to get to the barn without having to rely on other people, but he doesn’t mention that.

Caroline sighs at that, the tension in her shoulders easing. She rises and disappears up the staircase before returning with his set of keys, holding them out to him. “We’re going to take it slow,” she says sternly. “Short trips and no late-night drives. Understand?”

“Yes,” Nathan says, snatching the keys and holding them to his chest. “Yes, yes. Thanks.”

“I’m serious. And please make sure you take your pills before you go anywhere.”

Nathan nods quickly, almost snapping the movement. “I know,” he says, a little too dismissively, but he can’t help it. He’s restless and morbidly curious about what Jefferson wants from him tonight, and while he’s still a couple of hours early, the thought of lingering here, under his mother’s watchful gaze, is making him feel more and more like a caged animal—the manic kind at zoos who pace back and forth in their enclosure, wearing a path into the dirt while onlookers watch with pity.

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?” Caroline says curiously. “Just the keys?”

“Just the keys,” he says, turning to leave. “I’ll be back later.”

“You aren’t staying for dinner?” she asks, and Nathan wheels around, suddenly reminded of how hungry he is. With plenty of time to kill and no excuse in the chamber, he doesn’t have a way to dodge the invitation. She orders pizza for the two of them—pepperoni, his favorite—and he finds himself sitting beside her at the kitchen table as he wolfs down three slices, grease pooling in the folds of the paper napkin beneath them. He can tell she wants to comment on it, probably to commend him for taking care of himself, but she holds back, measuring his small victories from a distance.

“How are your lessons with Mr. Jefferson going?” she asks as he rinses off his plate. “I feel like I haven’t heard you talk about him much.”

The back of Nathan’s neck prickles. He avoids mentioning his name in this house, lest his parents start asking too many questions. He’s learned to deflect, to minimize, to dodge anything that might bring up his name in conversation. “They’re fine,” he lies, using the act of drying his hands to avoid meeting her eyes. “Headed there right now.”

“Do you have any new pictures you can show me?”

“Not much to show. He’s keeping me focused on technique,” he says, hating how easily the half-truths slide from his lips. His mother looks on at him tenderly, and he hates it, hates how she believes in the version of him that she wants to see instead of the version that doesn’t exist anymore—if it ever really did. If only she knew how precarious it is beneath the surface, his scaffolding of lies.

“Well,” she says cheerfully, standing to grab another slice from the cardboard box, “whenever you’re ready.”

He says a quick goodbye and she almost manages to convince him to stay for dessert, but he’s already halfway out the door, mind buzzing as he slides into the familiar front seat of his pickup. It feels good to be behind the wheel again, if only for the illusion of control. The truck with a broken taillight rumbles to life beneath him, and he pulls out of the meandering driveway, dusk swallowing him as he merges onto the main road.

Nathan heeds Jefferson’s request this time and rolls to a stop a half-mile before the barn, just out of sight. He kills the engine, letting the truck settle into the silence as night closes in around him. The last vestiges of daylight slip beneath the horizon, leaving everything soaked in a deep, blue-gray gloom, and he sits there in the thickening darkness, the engine tick-ticking as it cools. With a great amount of force, he steps out and onto the road, his keys gripped in one hand and the drug in the other, and begins to walk.

“You made it,” Jefferson says once he’s reached the darkroom, the dusty, hay-smell of the barn giving way to the acrid odors of borax and bromide. Nathan sees some of their photographs hanging from thin wires strung near the door, the faint red glow of the safelight casting shadows over distorted faces and bodies frozen in strange, uncomfortable poses. “Right on time, too.”

“Yes,” Nathan says, his voice tight, flat. He moves past Jefferson and toward the desk, placing the vial down with a hollow clink. He isn’t going to mention what happened with Frank, or how he hasn’t even started looking for a new supplier. Obsessing over Warren has distracted him in ways he hadn’t expected. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Let’s not rush into things,” Jefferson chastises as he grabs the drug and places it with his syringes, his finger tapping the lid. “How are you? Feeling good?”

“Fine. Same as always.”

Jefferson lets out a quiet hum, a sound that could be agreement or amusement—it’s hard to tell. “I know when you’re fibbing,” he says, almost teasingly. “I’ve spent too much time with you not to notice the signs.”

Nathan keeps his gaze fixed on the desk, on the small, innocuous objects scattered across its surface—papers, empty vials, red binders waiting to be filled—anything to avoid Jefferson’s eyes. “Just working on getting my life back together,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry.” Jefferson reaches out to put a hand on Nathan’s shoulder, which gradually slides up to rest on the side of his neck. “You’re like a son to me. You know that.”

Nathan nods slightly. He likes these moments the most, when Jefferson doles out affection in careful, calculated doses. If he spoke to him like this on a regular basis, he’d be eating right out of the palm of his hand. If he called him his son more often, he’d probably do anything for him—no questions asked, no hesitation.

“I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you were special,” Jefferson continues, his hand lingering on his neck, and for a fleeting moment, Nathan is grateful Warren didn’t get the chance to mark him up too, because Jefferson would undoubtedly have something to say about it. “You’ve always been mature for your age. You have this depth to you, a certain... understanding of the world that other kids your age lack. You aren’t like the others.”

“I’m not?” he says.

“No.” Jefferson scoffs, shaking his head. “No. The world hasn’t been kind to you, and that’s because it doesn’t understand you. I do, though. Tortured souls always make the best artists. We’re very similar in that way.”

Nathan’s heard him say that before in class during one of those long, rambling lectures on artists who embraced the darker side of existence—Diane Arbus, Nan Goldin, other photographers of their ilk. Jefferson always had a way of speaking about them like they were gods, like their suffering elevated them above the rest. It’s what he’s always wanted to believe about himself. That his pain, like theirs, has a purpose. That it makes him extraordinary.

“You’ve done so well,” Jefferson says, his hand moving to cup Nathan’s cheek. “With a little more practice, you could be running all of this by yourself. This darkroom could be yours.”

“It is mine,” Nathan mutters. “Can we talk about Halloween? What’s—”

Nathan’s words catch in his throat as Jefferson’s hand tightens ever so slightly, his thumb grazing over the curve of his cheek with a kind of deliberate slowness that makes his breath hitch. It’s such a subtle shift in the atmosphere, but it feels like the world tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to this single point of contact. His mind scrambles for something to say, but before he can form a coherent thought, Jefferson leans in, his breath hot. The kiss happens so suddenly, so smoothly, that for a moment, Nathan isn’t sure if it’s real—if this is actually happening, or if it’s something his mind has conjured up in the hazy, heady air of the darkroom.

His mind empties, a yawning blackness swallowing thought as his body seizes, going rigid under Jefferson’s touch. “What are you doing?” he breathes, turning his head away as though it might stop what’s happening, might unspool the moment into something normal. But Jefferson’s fingers dig into his cheek, sharp and insistent, yanking him back into it.

The kiss—if it can even be called that—is nothing like Warren. No warmth, no tenderness, only the coarse rasp of Jefferson’s beard scraping across the raw skin of his jaw, his tongue probing Nathan’s mouth. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong.

Nathan jerks back, breaking free and stumbling awkwardly as his back slams into the edge of the desk. His chest heaves, heart pounding erratically, breath coming in frantic, shallow gasps that barely fill his lungs. The room spins around him, Jefferson’s figure blurred and looming, and for a moment, all he can do is stare, wide-eyed and disoriented.

“Stop,” he pleads, his voice shaking, barely a whisper. “Don’t.”

Jefferson doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. “Nathan,” he says softly, soothingly, as though he’s trying to reel him back in. “Don’t be like that. You can trust me.”

Two steps. That’s all it takes for Jefferson to close the distance between them, and Nathan cries out as he’s shoved violently against the desk, his face pressed hard against the cold, unforgiving surface. The room contracts around him when he hears it—the clink of metal, the unmistakable sound of a belt being undone—and something primal, something buried deep within him, rears up in terror.

“Mark,” Nathan sobs, voice cracking, shattering. “No, Mark, stop. Please.” His body screams at him to move, to fight, to run, but he’s pinned, helpless under his weight.

Get out, a voice inside him demands. Get out, get out, get out.

When a hand reaches around to fumble with the button on his jeans, Nathan twists violently, adrenaline kicking in as he shoves Jefferson with every ounce of strength he can muster. For a moment, his grip loosens, caught off guard by this burst of resistance, but it’s enough. Nathan scrambles out from under him, knocking over the chair, catching himself against the doorframe as his legs threaten to give out beneath him.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he yells, the words ripped from somewhere deep inside him. “You don’t get to touch me. Don’t ever touch me.”

Jefferson straightens slowly, his expression unreadable. He adjusts his belt, taking his time, as if Nathan’s outburst was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be smoothed over. “Let’s calm down,” he begins coolly, “you’re overreacting. You know I wouldn’t hurt yo—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nathan spits, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He’s never felt this kind of raw, helpless anger before—anger mixed with shame, with terror. He backs away further, his eyes wild, darting between Jefferson and the stairs leading to his escape. “You think you can just—” He cuts off, choking on his own words, his stomach twisting painfully. “I’m done. I’m done helping you.”

“Nate,” Jefferson says, and there’s something almost patronizing in his tone, as though Nathan is a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “I’m trying to reward you. You don’t think I haven’t seen how you’ve looked at me, how you’ve let me touch you? You want this.”

“Don’t,” Nathan spits, his voice raw. “Don’t you dare.” The words come from somewhere guttural, somewhere unfamiliar, and they taste copper, metallic, like blood on his tongue. His whole body feels like it’s unraveling, and all he can think about is how stupid he was—how blind—to have let this go on for so long.

“You’ll have to find a new subject,” he says. “Because I’m done. I’m done getting you the drug, and I’m done getting you girls. You’re on your own.”

For a split second, Jefferson’s mask slips, a hairline fracture, and something dark moves behind his eyes. He takes a slow step forward. “You don’t want to do this,” he says, a barely concealed threat. “You don’t want to throw everything away like this.”

“I know what I want.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Jefferson says, his voice tightening. “Think of your future. Your work. All the progress we’ve made together. You’re too smart to throw it all away because of—” He cuts off, shaking his head, as though the idea of Nathan leaving, of Nathan defying him, is absurd. “You don’t understand what you’re walking away from.”

Nathan feels a bitter laugh rise in his throat, but it comes out as more of a snarl. “I’m not losing anything of value.”

Jefferson’s face hardens, the pretense of warmth, of patience, evaporating in an instant. “I thought so highly of you,” he says. “You could’ve been something great. What a waste.”

There’s a moment, a split second, where Nathan hesitates—where the familiar pull of that voice, the one that’s kept him in line for so long, tugs at him, telling him to let Jefferson steer him back into the shadows. But then it passes, and he turns around, his legs climbing the stairs. “Yeah?” he says over his shoulder, shoving open the hatch. “Fuck you.”

The moment he rolls to a stop in the Blackwell parking lot, he crawls into the backseat. The sobs start before he can stop them.

He’d thought he was numb. He’d thought he could handle Jefferson’s manipulations, that he was strong enough to play along without it affecting him. A part of him had to know what he was doing (he’s smarter than a lot of people give him credit for) and that it wasn’t right. Still, he’d held out hope that Jefferson wanted to help him. That he loved him, even.

He hadn’t been prepared for this. For the betrayal, for the violence of it all. For how completely and utterly powerless he felt when Jefferson held him down and prepared to take what he wanted. How fucking stupid he was to think he was ever anything more than a warm body to be used and violated and discarded. He’s no different than any of the girls who passed through the darkroom.

He’s free now, though. There’s no rush of relief, no sense of victory, but he’s free.

Nathan forces himself to sit up, tears rolling hot and thick down his face. His head throbs as he wipes them away, a dull, persistent ache from crying, from everything, but he pushes it aside as he climbs out of his truck and starts back toward the dorms. He doesn’t know what’s next. He doesn’t know what comes after this, but the uncertainty feels like something he can live with. He can work with it.

After a shower (which means scrubbing every part of his body raw until Jefferson’s touch is nothing more than a memory), Nathan feels marginally better—cleaner, at least. He towels off and returns to his room, where he pulls a pair of boxers on and collapses, limbs akimbo, onto his bed. Sleep comes hard and fast, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, he doesn’t fight it.

His dreams are chaotic. It’s nonsense at first, flashes of color, blurred faces, Blackwell’s hallways stretching out infinitely and twisting into impossible angles. He’s walking, but his legs don’t move, his body floating through the space as doors slam and voices echo. Suddenly, the world sharpens, and in a great burst of light, he finds himself on the lawn.

In the distance, shoved up against the brick façade of the school, is himself. Above him looms Madsen.

Nathan remembers that night, the details clawing their way up from the recesses of his mind, blurring the line between memory and nightmare. It was the night Rachel had told him she was leaving, the same night he’d planted the coke in her desk and recklessly dipped into his own stash. The drug had burned through him, a fever in his veins, and he had stumbled across campus, furious, nose red and itching, until Madsen had caught him.

In the dream, he sees himself as he was back then—thinner, smaller, his body trembling, pupils blown wide, fear and confusion etched across his face. His ghost-like form stumbles forward, as if trying to help, to intervene, but is stopped by some unseen wall that keeps him locked in place, helpless to change what’s already been set in motion.

“Just tell me who’s dealing around here,” Madsen growls, his voice muffled and warped, like it’s coming from underwater. Nathan’s past self looks up at him, tears welling in his bloodshot eyes, and whispers Rachel’s name.

As if the dream wants to punish him further, the scene shifts, the memory slipping away like sand through his fingers. He’s back in the darkroom, lying on the cold floor, his hands and legs bound tightly. His heart races, fear crawling up his spine as he squints upward, blinded by the harsh light overhead. He blinks against it, and then Jefferson steps into view.

A smile stretches across Jefferson’s face. He vanishes, and Nathan cries out, every limb, every muscle in his body aching fiercely. There’s the prick of a needle against his neck, and then darkness swallows him whole, the fight draining out of him.

Another explosion of light, white like a camera flash. He opens his eyes to find himself on a beach, one that stretches endlessly in both directions, although it’s hard to tell with the fog that hangs thick and low, blurring the horizon into an indistinct smear of gray. His head swims as he stands, and for a moment, he doesn’t know where—or when—he is.

“Hi, Nate,” a voice says from behind him, and he spins around to find Rachel standing only a few lengths away, looking the same as she did the last time he saw her alive. Before everything went to hell.

“I—” Nathan stammers, taking a step closer. His brow furrows in disbelief. “Rachel?”

Rachel smiles at him, a small, knowing smile. “The one and only,” she says, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans. She pulls out her pack of Marlboros, slides one past her lips, and ignites it with a lighter that seems to manifest out of nowhere. “It’s been a while, huh?”

Nathan swallows hard, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him, the ache in his muscles from the dream prior still echoing in his body. “Where are we?”

“Oh, you know,” Rachel says, her eyes flicking over him, like she’s assessing the damage, reading the weight of everything he’s been through during her absence. Her tone is matter-of-fact, as if she knows something he doesn’t. She takes a slow drag from her cigarette, then taps off the ash with a practiced flick. “The in-between. That’s what I call it, anyway. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Nathan takes another look at the churning, gray ocean and the slate-colored sky. “Oh,” he says dumbly, looking down at his feet. “This is a dream, right? This isn’t real?”

Rachel only shrugs. “Hard to say,” she replies, exhaling smoke that seems to melt into the mist. She doesn’t seem concerned with the distinction, as if what’s real or isn’t doesn’t matter in a place like this.

She gives him a brief, cryptic smile and turns, beckoning him to follow, which he does, their footsteps almost soundless on the damp sand. They walk side by side through the thick, hanging fog, the world around them strangely muted, as if everything’s been wrapped in cotton wool. Every few seconds, Nathan glances over at her, half-expecting her to vanish into the mist, to fade back into wherever she came from, but she doesn’t. She stays there beside him—solid, real—or as real as anything in this strange, liminal space can be.

It’s unnerving, how much she’s the same. The same, when everything else has changed so much. He doesn’t know how to make sense of it.

They pause at the water’s edge, the waves reaching out and withdrawing, pulling and retreating, like the slow, steady pulse of something alive. Nathan watches the sea, feeling the tug of something nameless inside him, and before he knows it, the words tumble out of his mouth: “Are you happy here?”

“No,” Rachel answers instantly. She takes another drag from her cigarette, the ember glowing a brief, defiant red against the gloom. “But you aren’t too happy back home, so I’d call it even.”

Nathan stiffens at her words, the truth in them hitting him like a wave of cold water. He doesn’t respond right away, watching the restless sea in front of him, the way it moves, never quite settling. A flock of gulls cry overhead, but when he glances up, he sees nothing but cloud cover. The sky offers no answers. Only more gray.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His words sound thin and weak against the roar of the ocean. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you.”

Rachel says nothing at first. Her cigarette burns down to a small, glowing nub, and she flicks it into the sand, the butt quickly smothered by the damp ground. “Are you?” she asks, her voice low, almost curious.

Nathan’s throat tightens, guilt rising like bile. He’s been living in this moment, this suffocating regret, for what feels like an eternity—ever since that night, the night everything changed, the night he whispered her name, the night he handed her over. He can’t shake the image of her, the girl he destroyed, the girl he killed. His hands feel heavy, like they’re still stained with her blood, even though there wasn’t any. Not really. Just the terrible, irreversible weight of what he’d done.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know it would go that far. I didn’t know—” His words break off, choked by the shame that’s been festering inside him ever since. “I killed you, Rachel. It’s all my fault.”

There. He’s said it. The thing that’s been gnawing at him, tearing him apart, leaving him hollow. He expects anger, maybe even hatred, to flare in her eyes. He deserves it. God, he deserves it, but Rachel doesn’t react the way he expects. She doesn’t yell or sneer or condemn him. Instead, she tilts her head, studying him with that same distant, detached look.

“Oh, Nate,” she says, the fog obscuring her face. “It’s not all about you. Not everything is.”

He wakes with the taste of salt and smoke still lingering in his mouth.

Sitting upright, he rubs his palm over his chest, trying to still the frantic thudding of his heart. He doesn’t know what she meant—whether it was a message, or some strange, dreamt-up absolution, or both. He sits in the dark and stares at the shadows shifting on the ceiling, debating on sinking back under, hoping that maybe—just maybe—she’ll be here. That he’ll see her face again, hear that voice.

But no. He knows better. The glaring 12:20 AM on his alarm clock knows better, too. He’s awake for good, for now at least.

Reaching for his phone (not his burner, which he’s decided will live under his couch for the rest of his days), he scrolls through Facebook, and then his contacts. His thumb hovers over Warren’s name for a long, agonizing moment. He knows he’s probably asleep, and that he can’t talk to him about this—about Rachel, about the dream, about any of it. Still, his thumb lingers over the screen, the urge to reach out gnawing at him. He doesn’t want to be alone tonight.

With a frustrated sigh, he sends a message.

[You, Today 12:22 AM]

hey r u up rn

A minute passes. Then five. Nathan locks his phone and tosses it onto the bed beside him with defeat, squeezing his eyes shut. Images of Rachel and that forlorn beach cling stubbornly to the backs of his eyelids. It’s not all about you.

His phone buzzes. He snatches it up without thinking.

[Warren, Today 12:29 AM]

Yeah I’m here. Are U okay?

Can’t sleep?

[You, Today 12:29 AM]

no

can u come over

When he doesn’t answer immediately, Nathan is sure that he’s made a mistake, that Warren’s going to see the message, roll his eyes, and decide not to bother. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s tired. He wonders if it was selfish, and if he should’ve just dealt with it like he always does. Alone.

[Warren, Today 12:34 AM]

OMW!!! Sleepover time!!

Before he can even process what’s happening, there’s a knock at the door. He glances at his phone—there’s no way—but sure enough, when he stands to open it, Warren is already there, beaming at him.

“I brought snacks,” Warren announces proudly, holding up two crinkled bags of chips from the vending machine. He’s grinning from ear to ear, his face practically glowing with excitement, and Nathan doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“You actually came,” Nathan says, his voice gritty. The relief in his tone must be obvious, because Warren’s smile widens, his eyes suddenly full of that gentle warmth Nathan’s grown to rely on without realizing it.

“I never miss a sleepover,” he says, stepping inside and flopping down on his bed like he’s already made himself at home. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with a bad chemistry joke on it, and Nathan feels momentarily exposed in just his boxers, but then realizes how stupid that is. He and Warren almost had sex last night. Any remaining sense of modesty between them seems laughable now.

Warren settles against the wall, holding out one of the bags of chips like it’s some kind of peace offering. “I figured we’d need some fuel for this epic, middle-of-the-night bonding session,” he says. “Wanna kick things off with a movie? I brought my flash drive. I’m thinking we check out some of my bad vampire flicks.”

Nathan’s lips twitch into a small, reluctant smile. “No way,” he says, popping one of the bags open and raising a chip to his mouth. “My room, my rules. Pick something out of my collection.”

He nods at his shelves of DVDs, and Warren’s eyes go wide as saucers. He rolls off the bed and onto the floor, his fingers skimming the spines, reading the titles with a reverence reserved for priceless artifacts. “Dude, this is impressive,” he says, his voice tinged with awe. “You’ve got, like, everything here. Classics, horror, even some indie stuff. You’ve been holding out on me.”

Nathan shrugs, crunching on another chip. “I like movies,” he says simply, trying to downplay the significance of the collection, though a part of him is pleased by Warren’s reaction. No one really knows how much effort he’s put into gathering all those films. “I collect them, mostly. There’s a lot I haven’t seen.”

Warren plucks one off the shelf and turns to face him, grinning toothily. “You’ve got My Own Private Idaho?”

Nathan glances at the DVD Warren’s holding up, his brows knitting together as he tries to recall when he’d even bought it. “Yeah,” he says, chewing. “I guess so. Haven’t watched it. Don’t know anything about it.”

“You’ve never seen My Own Private Idaho?”  Warren says, as though he’s just discovered some kind of grave injustice. “My Own Private Idaho. Van Sant. Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix.”

“You saying the title over and over again isn’t going to suddenly jog my memory.”

Warren lets out an exaggerated groan, clutching the DVD to his chest like it’s some sacred relic. “This is a crime, Nate. It was literally filmed in Portland,” he says, hopping back onto the bed and handing the case to him. “It’s like… quintessential road movie meets Shakespeare meets 90s grunge vibes.”

Nathan snorts. “Sounds pretentious.”

“Play it,” Warren says, a note of impatience in his voice, and Nathan, without much thought, loads the disc into his projector. The room darkens, and the opening scene flickers across his bedroom wall, casting soft, ghostly light over their faces. Nathan settles beside him, the quiet whir of the projector filling the stillness, and pulls the blankets up over their laps. His gaze drifts, almost absentmindedly, to the space between them—the small but noticeable gap that suddenly feels too wide.

Without really deciding to, Nathan inches closer. His movement is tentative, uncertain, but Warren—without hesitation—wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in, until he’s tucked neatly against his side as though this closeness was always meant to be. It’s an easy, effortless gesture, and for a moment, Nathan is startled by the simplicity of it, how natural it feels. His breathing stops, but he doesn’t move away. He lets himself sink into Warren’s body, his cheek resting against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his ear.

Desolate highways, worn-down towns, the ache of loneliness. When Mike confesses his feelings to Scott beside the campfire and is met with quiet indifference, Nathan finds himself tearing up again, which he tries to hide from Warren. Luckily, he appears to be choked up too, and when they exchange a glassy look with each other, they laugh.

“You should’ve seen me after Brokeback Mountain,” Warren says, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was wrecked for a week. I swear, I couldn’t function. Haven’t even tried to watch it again since.”

When the credits roll, Nathan sighs in defeat. “That was good,” he admits. “Not exactly a ‘feel good’ kind of movie, but it was good. You were right.”

Warren perks up immediately, leaning closer with exaggerated disbelief, cupping a hand around his ear. “Sorry, what was that?” he says, eyes wide with mock innocence. “I didn’t quite catch that. Bad hearing.”

Nathan rolls his eyes, unable to suppress a small smile as he gives Warren a half-hearted shove. “Don’t make me say it again,” he grumbles, shifting beneath the blanket, trying to hide the flush creeping into his face. “You have good taste, alright?”

Warren grins, all teeth and triumph. “So do you, apparently. It’s your DVD.”

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Nathan glances over at him. “What were you doing up so late?” he asks. “I didn’t wake you up to drag you over here, did I?”

“No,” Warren says, hugging Nathan closer to him. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

“Not tired?”

Warren hums, like he’s weighing his words before answering. “Bad day,” he says, resigned.

Nathan doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details. He knows better than anyone that sometimes it’s easier to let things hang in the air unsaid. Instead, he rests his head against Warren’s chest again, feeling the steady rise and fall.

“Same here,” Nathan murmurs after a long pause, his voice barely audible. It’s easier than trying to explain that his mentor very nearly assaulted him only a few hours earlier, and that his world as he knows it has been turned upside down.

Warren hums softly again, like he’s trying to fill the silence with something other than words, and Nathan wonders briefly what Warren’s bad day looks like in comparison to his own. A poor test score, probably, or maybe he’s missing his brother more than usual.

“I need to ask you something,” Warren says suddenly. “And I really need you to be honest with me.”

Nathan braces himself. “Okay.”

“How well did you know Rachel?”

Nathan’s chest tightens at the question, an almost imperceptible tightening, but enough to make the room feel smaller, like all the oxygen has been sucked out in an instant. He hadn’t expected that. Of all the things Warren could ask, of all the delicate, dangerous threads he might pull, it had to be her.

“She was my friend,” he says. “One of my best friends. The girl who kissed me.”

Warren’s silence is palpable, and Nathan can’t bring himself to look up. He can feel his gaze on him, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the blanket, twisting the fabric between his fingers. "We were in the theater program together. That’s true," he says, exhaling. "We spent a lot of time together. She—" He hesitates, swallowing hard, the words sticking in his throat. “She looked out for me when no one else did.”

Warren shifts beside him, the bed creaking softly under the movement, and for a moment, Nathan is terrified that he’s going to pull away—that the weight of this confession is too much. But then Warren’s arm tightens around him, just slightly, a quiet reassurance that he’s still there, still listening. “And what did you do with her phone?” he asks.

“It’s gone.”

“You told me I lost it.”

“I didn’t—” Nathan begins, but the words come out strangled, because he did. He sighs, burying his face in Warren’s chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Warren lets out a slow breath. “Why did you lie about it? About the phone, about everything with Rachel?”

Nathan swallows, lifting his head just enough to speak, though he still can’t bring himself to meet Warren’s eyes. "Because," he begins, and he has to be careful now, because he can’t lie to him again, but he can’t let him know the whole truth, either. “It’s painful to talk about her. I miss her, and… I don’t know. I freaked out. Being involved in the investigation like that hit too close to home.”

“You could’ve told me,” Warren says quietly, tracing absentminded patterns on Nathan’s back. “Instead of making me feel like I was crazy. I would’ve understood.”

Nathan wishes that were true. He nods anyway, chewing on his lip. “I know.”

Warren is silent for what feels like an eternity. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft but firm, low enough that it almost gets lost in the space of the room. “I like you a lot,” he says. “A lot, a lot. But we can’t do this—we can’t have this—if we’re not honest with each other. No more lies. No more secrets.”

Warren pauses, pulling away just slightly, enough to tilt Nathan’s chin up, his eyes searching Nathan’s face with a look that’s equal parts concern and expectation. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Nathan imagines telling Warren everything—letting the dam break and the flood of secrets spill out into the open. He imagines the shock, the hurt, the inevitable fallout. The red binders. Rachel’s death. He’s left all of that in the past as of tonight, though, because tonight is a turning point—a clean break from everything he’s been involved in, every evil he’s done.

“No,” he says, reaching up to hold Warren’s face in his hands. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

Warren holds his gaze for a long time, then nods, leaning in to press a much-needed kiss to his lips. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Is it really okay if I stay here tonight? I wanna sleep with you.”

Nathan nods, the tightness in his chest loosening just slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of everything he can’t say. “Stay.”

Warren’s smile is small but genuine, and when he leans in again, pressing their foreheads together, Nathan closes his eyes. It’s a fragile peace, one that Nathan knows might not last, but in this moment, he feels like he can breathe, just for a while. Like maybe, despite everything, he’s allowed this one reprieve.

“Let’s just sleep,” Warren murmurs, his fingers brushing lightly against Nathan’s jaw. He rolls over so that Nathan’s back is to his chest, his arms curled protectively around him. “No more heavy stuff tonight.”

Nathan nods again, grateful for the mercy he’s being offered. He doesn’t deserve it—not even a little—but Warren’s here. For now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 22nd

Warren wakes to find his face buried in a mop of blond waves, Nathan’s hair tickling his nose.

For a few seconds, disoriented in the quiet haze of early morning, he almost forgets where he is. The familiar weight of Nathan beside him, the warmth of their bodies pressed close under the thin, gray sheets, brings it all back. He lifts his head just slightly, careful not to wake him, and smiles as he watches the slow and steady rise of his chest, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Not that long ago, Nathan had been in his bed, recovering after an awful night of partying and puking. It’s strange to think that so much has changed in such short time.

Nathan’s hair spills across his pillow, unruly and golden in the early light, and Warren reaches out to comb his fingers through it. He wishes he’d leave it like this more often, letting it fall naturally instead of slicking it back like he usually does. Something about it makes him look cuter, softer around the edges. When he presses a kiss to the top of his head, Nathan makes a noise of contentment and rolls over to face him, his eyes still closed, lips parted as he breathes out a sigh.

He’d lied to him after all, then. If he wants to salvage his friendship with Chloe and Max, he’ll run back to them and beg for forgiveness. They’ll probably ask him to give up speaking to Nathan ever again, though, and that’s something he doesn’t plan on doing. Why does it matter, anyway? Everyone lies sometimes. Nathan’s reasoning wasn’t so great, but he’s willing to look past it if it means seeing more of him like this.

Shimmying out from underneath him, Warren stands and stretches, joints popping, and takes a look around. The floor creaks as he wanders to his desk, eyes landing on one of Rachel’s missing posters, and he sends her a silent thank you for all the times she watched over Nathan. Did she understand him, all his flaws and wounds, the way Warren was beginning to? Had she seen the bad parts of him but chose to love him despite it all?

He’ll find her. He owes it to Nathan and to everyone else who still clings to her memory.

Picking up a black leather photo album, Warren lifts the cover, unable to help himself from taking a peek at Nathan’s talent. He always figured he was a good photographer (Mr. Jefferson’s class isn’t open to just anyone), but he’s very good—maybe even better than Max, which feels traitorous to admit. He flips through colorless photos of beaches and jagged cliffsides, a cemetery, a portrait of Rachel.

He stops when he comes across a series of dead animals. A beached whale, bloated and lifeless on the shore. A possum, hit by a car, ribbons of innards spilling out from both ends. His eyes linger on a dead crow, a black mass crumpled against asphalt, and Warren traces his fingers over its broken, outstretched wings, poised for flight.

He used to be afraid of death, used to hate it, because how could he not? Noah’s death had sent his world off its axis for a while. Now, though, looking at the photos, he feels something different. Understanding, or at the very least muted acceptance. Death, in all its ugliness and inevitability, is as much a part of life as anything else. Maybe Nathan wants to remind people of that with these pictures. Maybe himself.

“Whatcha doing?”

The groggy voice snaps Warren out of his reverie. He turns to find Nathan sitting up in bed, blinking sleep from his eyes with a frown. “Just looking,” Warren says. “Your photos.”

Nathan’s frown deepens, still hazy from sleep but sharp enough to catch the shift in Warren’s voice. He rubs his face with the back of his hand, then glances at the album in his hold. “That’s my portfolio,” he rasps. “I know they’re weird.”

Warren shakes his head slowly. “Not weird. Cool.”

“You don’t think taking pictures of dead things is weird?”

“Maybe a little, but in the best way. I love creepy stuff,” Warren says with a grin. He points at the bird. “I mean, this? This is something an edgy celebrity or artist would pay thousands for. You’re talented.”

Nathan snorts, a sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement, though Warren can tell he’s still not fully convinced. “Thanks,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face again, wincing slightly as though his head hurts. His voice is rough, tentative. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely toward the cluttered desk. “Can you grab my pills for me?”

Warren sets the album down and grabs the two orange bottles, turning the larger of the two over in his hand. “Risperidone,” he reads, tossing them over. “What’s that for? I probably shouldn’t ask, actually. If you don’t want to tell me—”

“Schizophrenia.” Nathan catches them both and uncaps them with ease, shaking the pills into his palms. He swallows them dry, one at a time, and sets the bottles on his nightstand. “It’s bullshit.”

The word conjures up scenes of psych patients in old movies he’s seen—people strapped to hospital beds and stuffed into straitjackets, foaming at the mouth, haunted by their own minds. Nathan is so far from that image it’s almost funny.

“So… you see things,” Warren says, taking a seat next to him and propping his chin on Nathan’s shoulder. “Or hear things.”

Nathan’s hands drop into his lap, and for a moment he stares at them like they don’t quite belong to him. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says. “But… yeah. Sometimes. I was one of the youngest to be diagnosed with the early-onset kind, so I had doctors and psychiatrists poking at me like I was… I don’t know. A fucking specimen, or something. Did a lot of experimental trials. Different meds, different therapies. It’s not something that can be cured.”

“That sounds like hell,” Warren says, peeking up at him. He can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. To be so young and already labeled, already marked as different. An anomaly.

“That’s what it felt like. I mean, I know they were trying to help, I guess, but when you’re that young, you don’t get it. You just feel like there’s something wrong with you. And then you tell people, and then they think you’re dangerous, so…” Nathan’s voice falters, like he’s wrestling with words he hasn’t spoken aloud in years. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “I don’t tell people. The other one’s just for anxiety. Diazepam.”

Warren’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Same here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Anxiety, panic attacks, all that fun stuff,” he replies, leaning closer so that his lips are pressed against the base of Nathan’s neck. “It started right after Noah. I went to therapy for a while. It didn’t help much.”

“Tell me about it,” Nathan mutters sardonically. He turns to face him and presses a hand to Warren’s chest, to the space where his heart should be. “My psychiatrist taught me this trick. Take a deep breath.”

Warren furrows his brow but complies, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the air fill his lungs. “Like this?

“Yeah. Now count to three and let it out.”

When he does, Nathan chuckles softly. “He said it was supposed to ‘center’ me,” he drawls, smoothing his thumb over Warren’s chest. Warren feels his heartrate spike erratically under his touch, fast enough that he wonders if Nathan can feel it too. “You’re supposed to do it over and over till you stop panicking, or whatever. It’s never worked for me. Maybe it’ll work for you.”

Warren swallows, reaching up to rest his hand atop Nathan’s. The space between them shrinks when they lean in at the same time, and Warren kisses him sleepily, smiling against his lips. “I gotta get ready for chem,” he whispers, laughing when Nathan throws his arms around his neck to keep him in place. “Nate.”

Nathan groans in protest, falling back against the bed and tugging Warren down with him. “Ditch and get breakfast with me,” he says, his voice thick. “You already know all that stuff anyway. It doesn’t even matter.”

“It matters,” Warren says. “It also masses. And volumes.”

“You’re so corny.”

Warren grins. “I really do have to go,” he says, though there’s no urgency in his voice. He nuzzles into Nathan’s neck one last time, breathing in the smell of him—clean skin and linen—before extracting himself from Nathan’s hold. “We’ll grab Two Whales after. You’ve got class too, y’know.”

Nathan huffs, a quiet sound of annoyance, though Warren can tell it’s more for show than anything else. “Not going,” he says.

Warren stands and squints at Nathan’s class schedule, taped to the wall over his desk. “Skipping photography?”

“Yep.” Nathan’s voice is flat, nonchalant, as if missing out on his favorite class were as inconsequential as deciding not to wear socks. He rolls onto his side, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I’ve got therapy in five. Better get out of here unless you want to hear about all the ways I’m self-sabotaging.”

“I could stay,” Warren says quietly, half-joking.

Nathan waves a hand dismissively in the air, swatting away the idea like a pesky fly. “Do your thing,” he says. “Meet me here when you’re free.”

Warren heads for the door, and then stops, turning to bend and steal one more kiss from him. “Just for the record,” he says, his thumb brushing over the constellation of freckles on Nathan’s cheek. “I don’t think you’re dangerous.”

Nathan doesn’t reply as he leaves, but Warren catches the faintest twitch of a smile, just visible beneath the crook of his arm.

Slipping out into the hallway, Warren rakes his fingers through his hair, one hand still lingering on the cool brass of Nathan’s door handle. Breakfast feels like an eternity away, and he’s not sure he can go a couple of hours without seeing him. It’s absurd, really, how much he needs him. How much his life, in the space of a few weeks, has begun to warp around him.

God, he thinks, pressing his back to the chipped plaster wall and staring up at the ceiling, as though it might offer him secret knowledge. I’m pathetic.

Pressing his palms against his eyes, he pushes off the wall and accidentally collides with Luke, returning from the showers with a towel around his waist. Luke opens his mouth to tell him off, but stops. He looks Warren up and down in his disheveled state (hair tousled, shirt wrinkled, eyes clouded with the remnants of whatever Nathan-induced fog he’s been drifting through for days now), and then looks to Nathan’s door. Back to Warren again. He smirks.

“Fuck off,” Warren blurts, surprised by the sharpness in his own voice. Luke’s eyebrows shoot up, and Warren blinks, taken aback by his own words. He’s not used to snapping at people like this—not until recently, anyway. Nathan's temper and foul mouth have rubbed off on him more than he realized.

His face flushes as he pushes past him. Luke stares but says nothing, either too stunned or too entertained by the outburst to respond. Warren doesn’t care to find out which.

Chemistry is a blur. He takes his notes without really processing any of the lecture, pen moving mechanically across the page of his notebook. Ms. Grant calls on someone to answer a question—not him, thankfully—and when the bell rings he’s the first out the door, knowing he didn’t absorb a single thing about the lesson. Whatever. He’ll crack open his textbook later and try to make sense of it when he’s not so giddy over seeing his not-friend-not-boyfriend again.

He meets up with Nathan on the dormitory steps and finds him fiddling with his camera, the strap slung around his neck. It’s an unseasonably warm fall day, and Warren notices he’s shed his usual varsity, wearing only a faded T-shirt that clings to his lean frame. It rides up slightly as he stretches, exposing a sliver of his white stomach, and Warren feels his heart do that annoying little flip again, the one he tries to ignore whenever Nathan exists in the same space as him.

“I’m starving,” he says, his eyes still glued to that brief flash of skin, the curve of his waist. “Taking pictures?”

Nathan pushes his hair out of his eyes, still wavy and unkempt from their time in his bed. “Not yet,” he says. “Thought we could stop by the beach after so I can get some shots. Weather’s good today.”

Warren bats his eyelashes at him and smiles toothily. “Ooh-la-la. A breakfast date, a walk on the beach,” he teases, stretching his arms over his head and trying to shake the energy buzzing under his skin. “So romantic. Am I underdressed?”

Nathan shoves at him playfully, pushing him in the direction of the parking lot. “Idiot,” he says, his posture stiffening as they pass a small gathering of Vortex Club members (Dana, Hayden, Logan, Courtney). His shoulders pull tight as they walk by, and Warren notices the way Nathan shrinks, puts a considerable amount of distance between the two of them, and momentarily pretends he doesn’t exist.

Hayden and Logan glance over, but it’s a lazy, disinterested kind of look, one that doesn’t seem to register Warren’s existence. Courtney is too busy scrolling on her phone to have any clue what’s going on. Dana offers a wave and a half-smile, which Warren returns with a polite nod, though his attention is still mostly on Nathan, who’s retreated into himself at the sight of them.

“Are you going to the Halloween party?” Warren asks, jogging to his side and making a clumsy attempt at changing the subject. “We should go together. Max and Chloe won’t want me third wheeling them the whole night, so…”

He doesn’t mention how they probably don’t want him to third wheel them ever again, at least for the foreseeable future. He’d caught a glimpse of Max in the hallway as he darted out of chemistry. They’d locked eyes, but the connection had been fleeting, awkward, and she’d hurried over to her locker to dodge conversation with him.

“I don’t know,” Nathan says. When Warren starts walking to his car, Nathan grabs his arm and steers him in the direction of his pickup, which he unlocks with his key fob and a quick flick of his wrist. “It’s not really my scene anymore.”

Warren hesitates for a second, one hand poised on the door handle, before sliding into the passenger seat. He leans back and adjusts into the mess of Nathan’s truck—empty cigarette cartons crumpled in the cup holder, an old hoodie shoved in the backseat, the faint smell of leather—before clicking his seatbelt into place. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he says. “I get why you wouldn’t want to. We can stay in and watch a movie if you’re not feeling it.”

Nathan fumbles with his key in the ignition, eyes downcast. He twists it and shrugs, one shoulder lifting, but the gesture feels hollow. “I don’t want to stop you from going,” he says. “I just don’t have a reason to be there.”

He turns quiet, the air pulling taut between them. Warren notices his hands on the steering wheel—notices how they grip it too tightly, how his fingers flex and curl, pale and tremulous. “I’d be with you the whole time,” he says, assuming it’s the video he’s talking about. He has every reason to be apprehensive about attending, this being the first party since shit went down. “No one’s going to mess with you or your drink. Consider me your personal bodyguard for the night.”

Warren wonders if part of the reason he doesn’t want to go is him, if he’s anxious about being seen around him should rumors start to spread. It doesn’t matter, though, because Nathan exhales slowly, like he’s deflating, and gives him a perfunctory nod. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay? You’ll go?”

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

Warren allows himself a small grin as Nathan pulls off the curb and onto the road. “Damn,” he teases. “I didn’t know I had that much sway over you. I should start charging for my services.”

The tension in Nathan’s jaw gives and he smiles too, although he keeps his tired eyes on the windshield. “If it sucks, we’re bailing,” he says sternly. “And I get to blame it on you. If anyone asks, I’m telling them you’re not feeling well. That you’re a lightweight.”

“Hey,” Warren pouts. “I’m way sturdier than I look, thank you very much.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The drive is short and quick. Warren watches the early morning light trickle through the trees, the town still waking up, sluggish and indifferent to their presence. As they pull into the cracked asphalt lot of the Two Whales, he feels relieved, Frank’s RV nowhere to be found. If he’s lucky, the two of them will never cross paths again. The scabs on his knuckles will heal and the ass-kicking he gave him on the beach will fade into a distant memory.

The bell above the diner door jingles weakly as they enter. There are a few regulars hunched over in their seats, mugs in hand, but the place is mostly empty, the morning rush not quite in full swing yet. Joyce is wiping down a spot behind the counter with a rag, her back to them, but her face lights up when she turns around.

“Isn’t this a nice surprise,” she says, hands on her hips as they slide into Warren’s usual booth. “Nathan, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s your sister?”

Nathan looks up at her almost shyly. “She’s good, I think,” he says. “Probably misses your waffles.”

Joyce beams at him. “Let me know when she’s back in town. I’ll whip up a special batch for her,” she says, turning her attention to Warren. “Coffee? Pancakes?”

Warren watches their small exchange with a quiet fascination before nodding. “Please,” he says, looking to Nathan, who orders a coffee with milk and nothing else. Joyce tries to coax him into eating more, telling him he’s skin and bones. He gives in without much of a fight and orders the same as Warren, bacon on the side.

“I don’t know how someone like her has a hellspawn for a kid,” Nathan mutters once she’s out of earshot, sipping on his coffee. He grabs two creamer packets and empties them in, stirring slowly. “Chloe’s too much of a bitch for them to be related.”

“Be nice,” Warren scolds, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. If only they knew how similar they are. In another world, under different circumstances, the two of them might be friends. “Did you and Kristine used to come here a lot?”

“All the time until she joined the Peace Corps. She left after graduation and hasn’t been back since.” He looks away, wistful. “She writes and calls sometimes, but it’s not the same, you know?”

Warren nods, though he doesn’t know, not really. The concept of leaving Arcadia Bay, much less the country, seems abstract to him—something other people did, people with lives far removed from the monotony of this sleepy coastal town.

“Is that what you want to do when you graduate?” he asks. “Leave?”

Nathan opens his mouth, and then closes it, thinking. He snorts. “I fantasize about it. I’ve always thought I’d get out, like Kris, and just—” He gestures vaguely, as if waving away the entire town, its suffocating familiarity. “Go somewhere where people don’t know me, don’t know my family. Start over. That was before.”

“Before?” Warren says. Before you met me?

“I don’t know.” Nathan looks down at his lap and smiles bitterly. “Do you want to leave?”

“I’ll get some scholarships and go to college somewhere,” he says. That’s always been the plan. Go to college, get a degree in something practical (or something his mom could nod approvingly at), get a job, help out with bills. “OSU has a pretty good chemistry program, I’ve heard.”

“And after that?”

“I’ll come back. This is home for me.”

Nathan looks at him skeptically, his fingers drumming on the side of his mug. “You want to live here?”

Warren chuckles, embarrassed by his disbelief. He knows it sounds simple, pedestrian even, but he knows nothing else. He’s lived here all his life. His parents grew up here, both sets of grandparents grew up here. He left the state for the first time when he was ten and has only flown a couple times since then. Once to drop Noah off at school, once to collect his body.

“I like it,” he says, hands falling to rip at the corner of his napkin. “Anyway, why should I get to leave when Noah never really had the chance? It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“Fair?” Nathan says, edged with incredulity. “You think staying here is fair to him?”

Warren flinches at the harshness of his tone. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like he was punishing himself for something out of his control, but it’s true, isn’t it? Leaving Arcadia Bay, moving on with his life—it feels like betrayal, somehow. It’s the self-narrative he’s been feeding himself for years, the idea that staying here, tethered to his past, is somehow an act of loyalty, of penance.

“I feel like I owe him,” he finally murmurs. “Like, if I get out, if I go live some big life while he’s… gone, then what does that make me?”

“That’s stupid as fuck,” Nathan says bluntly, and then immediately seems to regret it. His mouth snaps shut, but when he sees Warren fighting the urge to laugh—partly at his sudden burst of honesty, partly because it’s exactly what he needed to hear—he relaxes.

“I know what it’s like,” he says, starting again. Joyce sets their food down in front of them, and he smiles up at her, picking up his silverware and tucking into his meal. “To have a sibling you’d do anything for. But Noah wouldn’t want you to feel like you owe him something just because you’re here and he isn’t, Warren. That’s not fair to you.”

Warren’s fingers tighten around his fork, staring down at his plate as if the answers might be hidden in the folds of his pancakes. “You’re right,” he says, taking a bite and swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Obviously, you’re right. I’m too hard on myself.”

“A little,” Nathan says after a long pause. “I don’t know anyone else who gives less of a shit about his own interests than you do. You’re selfless. I like that a lot.”

Warren smiles. Truthfully, he doesn’t know how to be any other way, and sometimes he wonders if that’s a problem—if giving so much of himself has left him a shell where a person should be.

The food on his plate is getting cold, syrup congealing in thick, amber pools, and he scoops some of it up with a finger and pops it into his mouth, savoring it with a soft hum. “And you’re the opposite,” he says. “Not that it’s a bad thing. You know what you want, and you don’t apologize for it. I wish I could be more like that.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Nathan says flatly, and then nudges him gently with his shoe. “Maybe it’s about time you start thinking about that. What do you want?”

What a question. Warren mulls over it over with a sip of his coffee before speaking again, meeting Nathan’s eyes. “I think I just want… time,” he says. “Mostly, I just want to spend time with you.”

Nathan laughs softly. It’s a real laugh, low and genuine, warm. “Don’t know what you’d want that for. You could do a lot better.”

“You asked.” Warren reaches beneath the table and loops their pinkies together, a promise. “I’ve made up my mind.”

They finish and pay, Warren digging around in his wallet for a crumpled bill before Nathan bats his hand away with an exasperated look. “I’ve got it,” he insists, tossing some cash onto the table like it means nothing to him. He tips generously, Warren notices, which says a lot. Any other spoiled rich kid at Blackwell, and there are a lot of them, might not have bothered.

They walk in companionable silence down to the shoreline. The beach isn’t crowded, a small handful of people taking advantage of the sunshine to swim, but for the most part, it feels like it’s just them. He takes a seat on a rock while Nathan raises his camera, occasionally stopping to snap a picture—of the waves, the sky, the gulls swooping low over the water in search of fish.

Warren kicks at the sand lightly with the toe of his sneaker, watching the grains scatter in small, lazy arcs. “Get anything good?” he calls out to Nathan, who’s crouched low and adjusting his lens. “You should take some of me.”

Nathan stands slowly, brushing the sand off his knees. “You?” he asks. “I didn’t know you liked being in front of a camera.”

He doesn’t. He hates having his picture taken. He’s pretty sure he’s conventionally attractive, but it’s never translated well to photos. Every time he sees one of himself, he can’t help but focus on what’s wrong—his gawkiness, his crooked smile, how his hair looks too messy, like he’s always caught mid-motion. He feels differently, though, knowing it’s Nathan who will be taking them. He wonders if, through his lens, he might look like someone else entirely.

“I like to keep you guessing,” he says, winking. He lies down against the rock he’s seated on and poses seductively, tucking an imaginary lock of hair behind his ear. “Shoot me like one of your French girls, Jack.”

“Not like that, I’m not. Don’t pose,” Nathan says with a smirk, raising the camera. “Just be yourself.”

Humoring him, Warren sits up and brings one of his knees up to his chest, the warmth of the sun seeping into his skin. A breeze from the sea ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t try to fix it. He feels weirdly exposed, though less in a way about being judged and more about being seen. Nathan’s brow wrinkles as he adjusts the settings and then, after moving to find what Warren assumes is his best angle, gets to work.

“Now look away. No, not at the ground. Down the shore,” Nathan instructs, and Warren obeys, fixing his gaze on a spot in the distance where the waves meet the sand, the water sparkling like scattered diamonds. Finally, after a few more clicks of the shutter, he drops his camera to look at the screen, reviewing the shots with narrowed eyes.

“Perfect,” he says quietly, Warren just barely catching the syllables on his lips as he admires his work. “Yeah. That’s beautiful.”

Before Warren can ask to see them, a pang of uncertainty creeping up—beautiful, he thinks, really? Me?—a sudden splash in the distance pulls Nathan’s attention away from his camera. “Did you see that?” he asks, already moving toward the water’s edge. Warren stands and jogs to his side, following his line of sight, but sees nothing at first. Just the endless expanse of blue.

Then, as if on cue, a dark, sleek shape breaks the surface. The tail of a whale rises gracefully above the water before crashing back down with a spray of mist and foam, and Warren hears Nathan laughing from beside him, childlike with awe. His camera goes up again in an instant, snick-snicking away as the whale breaches fully before disappearing into the depths again.

“Gray whale,” Nathan says breathlessly, grinning ear-to-ear. He looks over at him, giddy, and Warren feels warmth bloom in his chest. “They’re incredible, right?”

Warren watches him for a beat. “Incredible,” he says, but he isn’t looking at the ocean or the whale, not anymore. “You like whales?”

Nathan’s eyes glitter. “Love them,” he says, glancing back at the horizon in hopes for another glimpse. “What’s not to like? They’re the biggest fuckin’ organism in existence. They sing and they have these huge families, pods, and they just—they’re so cool. I like all ocean animals, honestly, but whales. Especially whales. Ever since I was a kid.”

“And I’m the nerd,” Warren snickers, which is met with a playful punch to his shoulder. “There’s an aquarium a couple hours away. In Newport, I think. We should go.”

Nathan nods absently. “Please,” he says. “I haven’t been to one in years. We can take a road trip one weekend, or something.”

Warren blinks. “No,” he says, insistent, because that isn’t quite what he meant. “We should go. Like… right now. Today.”

Nathan’s brows knit together as he studies him, as if trying to decipher whether he’s joking. When he finds no trace of sarcasm, he balks, speechless. “You’re—what? No. You’re serious?” he sputters. “Come on, don’t fuck with me. You have class.”

“So do you. You’d be skipping too.”

“It’s different for me.”

“It’s not,” Warren says, although he knows that’s not quite true. He really shouldn’t be missing class when his grades are what they are, but he’ll catch up. He hopes he can catch up.

“It’s not like I’ll fail,” he adds, trying to sound more confident than he feels. “One day won’t ruin me. School will still be there tomorrow.”

Nathan studies Warren for a moment longer, his expression slipping into something guarded, like he’s calculating the risks, weighing them against whatever small thrill this might offer. For a moment, Warren’s certain he’ll say no—that Nathan will clamp down, shut this idea down for his sake. But then something shifts in Nathan’s eyes, almost imperceptible, and he gives in.

“You’re really fucking good at wearing me down,” he says, grabbing Warren’s arm and leading him back toward his truck. He laughs again, his face lighting up, cheeks pink. “Alright. Why not?”

Warren traipses after him with a stupid grin, happy to be dragged wherever. If it were possible to pinpoint the exact moment he fell for him, to chart the subtle slope from infatuation to something more, it might have been now, right here, with the warm autumn air thick around them and the feel of Nathan’s hand on his arm. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for him.

He hears Ms. Grant’s voice in his head, a lesson from the first week of school. Cysteine, tyrosine, isoleucine, glutamine, she’d chanted, sketching the molecular structure for oxytocin at the front of the class. These are the building blocks of love.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 22nd

When they arrive at the aquarium, Nathan is vibrating with how excited he is.

Literally. His leg bounces uncontrollably as he rolls to a stop in the half-empty parking lot, fingers drumming against his knee in a jittery staccato rhythm. He can’t remember the last time he was this geeked out over something, and while part of him wants to shy away (what eighteen-year-old boy gets this pumped over an aquarium?), he feels safe knowing that Warren won’t think less of him for this. It was his idea to go, after all.

“I don’t think they have whales here,” Warren says as they hop out and begin the walk down the long, cobbled path to the entrance, posters of dolphins and sea otters lining the stone walls. “They’d need huge tanks.”

“There’s only a few aquariums that do. I know there’s one in Chicago that has a beluga exhibit,” Nathan says. “And then there’s parks like SeaWorld who have orcas, but those places are shit.”

Warren makes an amused huffing noise and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I can’t believe I’m just learning about this now,” he says. “Nathan Prescott, a marine biologist. I’m shocked.”

When they pay for their tickets (which Warren insists on buying and refuses to take no for an answer), the two of them walk side by side through the main doors, which hiss as they give way to the atrium. The air inside is cool and salty, and Nathan’s excitement bubbles over again as they follow the dimly lit path toward the exhibits.

“I forgot how big this place is,” Warren says, but Nathan is barely listening, eyes lingering on the various signs pointing in different directions—Sandy Coast, Rocky Coast, Passages of the Deep. “They have a whole tunnel where you can walk through the water. Sharks and rays swimming right over your head. It’s insane.”

They make their way to the first room, dark except for the faint blue glow emanating from the massive tanks that line the walls. A handful of jellyfish drifts lazily through the water, translucent bodies pulsing, undulating. Nathan presses his face to the glass like a Dickensian orphan, eyes wide with fascination, his breath fogging up the surface.

“They’re so weird,” he mutters, more to himself than to Warren, who’s watching him with that same fascination he had on the beach. “No brain, no heart, just… existing. It’s like they’re from another planet.”

Warren steps closer and stands beside him his own breath joining Nathan’s on the glass. “It’s kind of amazing,” he says, voice soft in the dim, hushed space. “They’re little aliens. They’ve been around for how long?”

“Hundreds of millions of years. Maybe more. Scientists aren’t sure.”

“Jeez.”

When he’s had his fill, Nathan moves to another tank nearby, one with small, darting fish that shimmer like silver coins. Beside them, a wall of colorful reef fish—vivid yellows, blues, oranges—poking their heads out from the safety of anemones and coral formations. His eyes move from one species to the other, cataloging them in his mind, and he wishes he still had the marine life encyclopedia he bought at a book fair when he was young. It might be at home, tucked in the back of his closet somewhere. He should look.

Warren moves beside him again, close enough that their shoulders touch, and watches him with a quiet intensity, as though he's trying to see what he sees, trying to understand the pull these creatures have over him. "Would you ever want to work with marine life?" he asks.

Nathan nods. It would be a hard choice, having to pick between this and photography, the two loves that have kept him afloat over the years. His dad doesn’t understand either of them, but Nathan thinks he’d be a little more forgiving about this. It isn’t business, but at least he’d be able to brag to his expensive country club friends about it. Better a scientist than an artist.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’d be cool to work at one of those research institutes. Or, you know, tag sharks, or something. Rehabilitate baby seals.”

“You should. You’re passionate about it.” Warren drifts over to another tank and points to a fish, triangular and brightly colored. “Look at this guy. What is he?”

“Angelfish,” Nathan says without much hesitation.

“And this one?” Warren nods to a slow-moving fish, a spiny, venomous-looking creature.

“Lionfish,” Nathan answers, leaning his head against Warren’s shoulder. He doesn’t care if anyone sees them being affectionate this time. They’re strangers in this town. “They’re invasive. Pretty, but they can fuck up the ecosystem. They’ll sting the shit out of you, too.”

Warren raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Look at you,” he says. “You’re so smart, Prescott.”

“Uh, yeah,” Nathan says with a grin, small and a bit sheepish from the praise. “I just don’t flaunt it like someone I know.”

They move from exhibit to exhibit. Nathan keeps his hands in his pockets, though they’re itching to touch something—Warren’s sleeve, maybe, or the cold glass that separates them from this otherworld. He rattles off facts as he remembers them, Warren nodding along and listening intently. Did you know that an octopus has three hearts? And manta rays, they have the largest brain-to-body ratio of any fish. They can recognize their own reflection.

After heading outside to watch the otters perform tricks for the afternoon crowd, darting through the water at a frenetic speed in exchange for fish, they find themselves in the quiet, dim light of the deep ocean room. Nathan’s pulse slows to match the hum of the water filtering through the tanks, and he falls silent as he wanders through the glass tunnel, varying sizes of fish swimming above, around, and below them.

Warren, too, has stopped speaking, his head cocked back to watch the predatory glide of a cow shark. Nathan looks back at him, and the annoying urge to touch resurfaces. Without thinking, he reaches out for his hand, his fingers curling and catching the soft skin of Warren’s palm. Holding his hand, even kissing him, isn’t sating him anymore, he realizes. He wishes they could be closer. Morbidly, he wishes he could crawl into his skin, tanned and dotted with moles, and live there.

“I don’t think you how much you’ve done for me,” he says, eyes tracking the slow, circling shadow of a ray overhead. “I owe everything to you.”

Warren turns to him, his head tilted slightly, the same way he always does when he’s thinking something through—when he’s about to say something important but wants to make sure it lands right. “You know what I think?” he says, his face half-illuminated in blue-green light.

“What?”

Warren taps gently at the glass, at an unsightly flounder, a lumpy creature with bulging eyes swimming near the bottom of the tank. “I think,” he says, finger still hovering over the sad, awkward fish. He fights a smile till he can’t anymore, and then dissolves into a fit of giggles. “I think you look just like that guy.”

Nathan’s head snaps to the tank, eyes narrowing. “You’re an asshole,” he says in mock offense. Playfully, he tries to pull away from him, but Warren tugs him right back and holds his hand tighter, preventing his escape. “Go away. You ruined the moment. Moment’s gone.”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Warren chuckles, not sounding sorry in the slightest. He lifts Nathan’s hand to his lips in an apologetic gesture. “Come on, though. You don’t see the resemblance?”

The fish struggles with its next turn, a comically slow and uncoordinated movement, and the two of them lose it again. It earns them some stares from a nearby family, their little girl’s nose pressed to the glass, looking more curious about the two laughing boys than the creatures in the tank.

They don’t plan on staying till close, but by the time they visit the aviary to catch a show about puffins, stop for a bite at the food court, and end up back in front of the jellyfish, the aquarium is nearly empty. It takes on an eerie, hushed quality as the few remaining visitors filter toward the exit—a subterranean stillness, broken only by the gurgle of water and a grainy voice over the intercom. Thank you for visiting the Oregon Coast Aquarium. Have a wonderful night.

When an employee comes along to stand several feet behind them and cough awkwardly, they exchange a glance and agree that it’s time to go. They manage to sneak into the gift shop just as the cashier is turning the sign to CLOSED, the two of them fluttering over to the overpriced memorabilia—plastic stingrays, seashell jewelry, mugs with cartoonish sea animals emblazoned on the sides. Warren drifts toward the postcard rack, fingers grazing the glossy cards as Nathan buys a stuffed whale. “It’s a humpback,” he tells the cashier, who only half-listens, offering a tired nod and a distracted smile as she rings it up.

“You ever send postcards?” Warren asks absently from behind him. He holds up one of a seabird seated on a craggy rock, a stormy ocean crashing behind it. Visit Oregon’s Wild Coast, it reads in bright, looping script.

“No, never.”

“I used to,” Warren continues, oblivious to the dirty look they’re getting from the cashier, who is clearly waiting for them to leave. “My grandparents, mostly. They’d get them framed, put ‘em up in the guest room. I’d feel so stupid, writing out all the usual stuff—having a great time, wish you were here, but they loved it.”

Nathan tries to imagine Warren, younger, sweeter, painstakingly printing those banalities onto a postcard. He wishes he had known him back then, back when they were both a little less damaged than they are now. He plucks it out of his hand and slaps it down on the counter, where he slides the cashier a dollar. “Thanks,” he says sheepishly, the woman ringing it up with a twinge of irritation.

When they step back out into the parking lot, it’s dusk. The sky is veined with deep purples and blues, the air cool and briny. Nathan clutches the plastic bag with the stuffed whale inside, Warren twirling the postcard between his fingers as they head for the truck. Nathan starts walking to the driver’s side but stops when Warren calls his name. He turns to find him folding down the tailgate, hopping into the truck bed with a grin.

“What are you doing?” Nathan asks, amused.

Warren only points to the sky. Nathan follows his gaze, stepping slowly to the back of the truck. When he looks up, his breath catches.

Stars. Thousands of them, chewed up and spat out across the gossamer darkness. Where he’s from, light pollution would smother them until they were barely visible—just faint pinpricks in an otherwise dull sky. Here, though, it’s like he’s seeing them for the first time, hanging close, crisp, and brilliant, as if he could reach out and pluck one. Are they normally this bright in Arcadia Bay, and he’s simply never noticed?

“You gonna join me up here, or what?” Warren says, lying back in the bed and propping himself up on his elbows. Nathan doesn’t need to be asked twice. Tossing his purchase in the backseat, he climbs up beside Warren and tucks his body into his, claiming his spot at his side. It’s cold now that the sun has retreated, and he presses closer to him, seeking warmth.

“Thanks for today,” Warren says, his breath brushing against Nathan’s ear. “I needed this.”

Nathan chuckles, his voice muffled against Warren’s shoulder. So did he. Therapy was like pulling teeth, Dr. Bill lamenting his suicide attempt and suggesting they bump their appointments to twice a week.

“Thank you,” he says, “for letting me talk your ear off about fish.”

“Any time. You should do it more often.”

The sky above them stretches vast and incomprehensible, the stars burning steady in the darkness. For a moment, Nathan lets himself imagine it—what it would be like to live in a world where it was just the two of them, where they could be open about each other, where they could be happy. And really, he is happy. It’s a fickle, fleeting thing, he knows, but right now he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Warren shifts slightly, his arm threading around Nathan’s shoulders. “See those stars up there? That’s Orion’s Belt,” he says, pointing to the sky. His hand moves upward. “And right there is the Big Dipper. It’s like a signpost—always points to the North Star. And that big one over there is Scorpius. That’s my zodiac sign.”

Nathan hums, tilting his chin up to watch him speak. “When’s your birthday?”

“November twentieth. I ask for a pumpkin pie instead of a birthday cake every year,” he says, the dimples in his cheeks popping when he smiles. He looks to the sky again. “I can lay down some serious space facts for you, if you want. I learned from the best.”

Nathan snorts, running his thumb over the rough denim on Warren's knee. He imagines Noah, an older clone of the boy next to him, orbiting some quiet corner of the universe and looking down at them with all the unrestrained curiosity of a kid who dreamed of seeing the cosmos. He wonders what he’d think about this—about them. Would he approve of this match, or would he be the kind of guy to think no one was good enough for his baby brother?

“Space facts,” Nathan echoes, trying to shake off the heavy feeling in his chest, “lay ‘em. It's only fair."

Warren laughs softly, his face tipped skyward as he begins, voice low, reverent, almost as if he’s confessing something secret. “Okay, so,” he starts, reaching upward, “did you know stars don’t actually twinkle? It’s just the light from them bending through layers of the Earth’s atmosphere. And black holes? They’re basically time machines. They bend time so much it can wrap back on itself.”

Nathan’s brow lifts. “A time machine,” he says. “Wow. I think your rambling about science is doing something to me.”

“Yeah? Are you so turned on right now?”

“Oh, yeah. If you start talking about the Milky Way, I think I might bust,” Nathan finishes, fighting a smirk.

“Then get this,” Warren says. “The Milky Way is a hundred thousand light-years across. It’s huge.” He spreads his arms apart wide to demonstrate this. “We’re just a grain of sand on this big, cosmic beach, and within that grain, there are billions of stars. Each with their own planets, potentially.”

The idea of that is daunting. Nathan peers up at the sky, suddenly feeling small, like one of those grains Warren mentioned. The two of them, their problems, seem trivial in comparison. It makes him want to scream. He wants to stare into the void, into the eyes of God, and scream it. Is this all there is? Is this all I am? Molecules and dust and star-stuff?

Nathan lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “We’re insignificant,” he says.

Warren looks down at him, fixing him with a rare, steady gaze that holds no trace of his usual playfulness, eyes dark and reflective in the night. “Nah,” he says. He leans in to press a kiss to his forehead. “We’re infinite.”

Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 23rd

Warren is the victim of several crushes throughout his early life.

The first is on an older girl at his elementary school—someone, he supposes now, who had been sweet enough to let him believe his quiet devotion was a secret, even if he hadn’t been very subtle about it at the time. She was the first to laugh at his jokes, to listen with that rapt, tilted-head attention when he talked about the things he liked, and would push him on the swings during recess. When she left him for middle school, he cried inconsolably for a whole three days, convinced he’d never have feelings for anyone again.

After that, there’s a series of fleeting infatuations: the girl in his fifth grade math class, the girl in his sixth grade chemistry lab who has eyes the color of moss and a laugh he wants to bottle up and keep in a glass jar. His babysitter. One of his friend’s sisters.

In seventh grade, he meets a boy down the street named Theo, whose curly hair and chipped-tooth grin leave Warren feeling like he’s swallowed a handful of fireflies every time Theo looks at him. They spend long summer days holed up in the treehouse in Theo’s backyard, trading paperback comics and contraband candy bars, Theo occasionally showing him forbidden things—how to balance a cigarette between two fingers, how to inhale without coughing.

He remembers him clearly. It's sometime in August of that year, one of those lazy days where the heat presses down so thick that it feels like a damp blanket. They’re lying side by side on the rough wooden planks of the treehouse floor, Theo flipping through the crumpled pages of an X-Men comic and Warren tracing circles on the sun-warmed wood, thinking about nothing and everything, like how close their arms are, the exact sound of Theo breathing.

In a movement that feels both impulsive and inevitable, he stretches a hand out, hovering just over Theo’s, before pressing his palm gently against it. It isn’t much—barely a touch, really, just his hand resting against his skin, the warmth of him radiating through that thin layer of contact. And he has no real reason for doing it, nothing he can explain. It just seems, in that instant, that holding his hand is the most natural thing in the world.

Theo goes perfectly still, the comic forgotten in his hands. “What are you doing?” he asks, unnerved.

“Oh, uh—” Warren pulls his hand back quickly, trying to laugh it off, brush it away. “Nothing. Just… nothing.”

Theo doesn’t look at him. In fact, he doesn’t say anything after that, just gathers up his comics, climbs down from the treehouse without so much as a backward glance, and disappears into his house. Warren sits alone for a long time, the sun sinking lower in the sky, and wonders if he’s just broken something beyond repair.

They never talk about it again. By the time school starts up, they may as well be strangers. Theo moves away only a few months later, leaving Warren with a lingering ache for reasons he can’t name. Looking back, he can almost laugh at how clueless he was, how deeply he buried the memory. He hadn’t known then—hadn’t known until much later—that it was just as much of a crush as any of the ones he’d had on those girls, the ones he’d timidly confessed to his friends, red-faced and stammering, during those gauzy, half-formed years of adolescence. He hadn’t thought it was possible to have feelings for a boy during that time. That he was allowed to.

He has Nathan to thank for unearthing all of this. This is his fault.

Laying on his stomach across his bed, Warren stares down at the postcard Nathan bought for him, at the happy little auk nesting above the sea. He runs his thumb over the glossy surface, tracing the bird’s rounded silhouette. Last night—the aquarium, the stargazing—had been one of the best nights of his life. If he could trap the moment in amber and keep it forever, he would.

The knock on his door makes him jolt upright, and he tosses the postcard onto his desk as he rises. He’s halfway across the room when he hears Stella’s voice calling his name, muffled and cheerful. “Coming,” he says, and opens it to find her grinning up at him, a brown paper bag dangling from her hand. The expression on her face is suspiciously smug.

“Oh no,” he says, already feeling a prickling embarrassment, which only deepens when she pushes the bag into his hands.

“I need updates,” she says, breezing past him and making herself comfortable on his bed. “How are things going with your beau, lover boy?”

“Hey, Stella. Good to see you too,” Warren says sarcastically, dropping into the spot next to her. “Things are good. We went out last night.”

Stella lets out a dramatic gasp. “Out? On a date?”

“You could say that.”

“Look at you,” she coos, reaching up to pinch his cheek. “I feel like a proud parent.”

Warren swats her hand away, feeling a heat creeping up his neck. “Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, holding up the bag. “What’s this?”

Stella’s grin widens. “Consider it an early birthday present,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “You could say it’s a care package. Dana needed to stop by Spencer’s, so Kate and I went along with her and… well, I thought I’d pick up some supplies for you and Nathan.”

“Stella,” he says, glancing between the bag and her impish smile, “please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

She just shrugs, crossing her legs on her bed and folding her hands primly in her lap. “It’s called being a good friend. You know, wingwoman duties. It’s for your education, so to speak.”

Warren peeks into the bag, his eyes widening when he spots colorful packaging. Lube and condoms. A lot of condoms. Not just the normal variety, but the flavored type, too. He picks up an artificially chocolate-flavored one, turns it over with morbid curiosity, and then drops it with the others.

“Oh my God,” he finally says. “You’re insane.”

“Look, I just thought you might want to be prepared. You never know when these things are going to… come up.” She snickers at her own joke. “Besides, it’s good quality stuff. None of that cheap crap that’ll make you itch.”

He groans. “Thanks. That’s… so thoughtful.”

“You are so welcome.” Stella throws her arm around him and pulls him into an awkward hug. “Ugh, I wish you’d been there. We weren’t planning on bringing Kate at first, but she tagged along at the last minute. You should’ve seen her face when Dana bought some fuzzy handcuffs. I thought she was about to start quoting scripture.”

“Remind me never to go shopping with you.”

“Please, you’d have the time of your life,” she insists. “Besides, think of it as a test of friendship. If you can survive a trip to a sex shop with us, you can survive anything.”

Warren rolls his eyes, but he can’t deny how grateful he is. It’s ridiculous, sure, but there’s something undeniably comforting in knowing he has a friend who would go to these absurd lengths for him. Even if it means humiliating him half to death.

Mrs. Hoida’s class is spent working on the outline for his essay and trying to ignore Nathan, who’s taken an interest in drawing in the margins of his notebook.

Warren sneaks glances at him out of the corner of his eye as he doodles fish and strange, abstract shapes that look like they could be planets and stars. When he draws that lopsided flounder, eyes comically large with a tongue poking out of its mouth, Warren snorts so loudly that a few heads turn in their direction. He quickly covers it up with a cough, but it’s too late. He’s already drawn Mrs. Hoida’s attention.

“Is there something funny about your essay outline, Warren?” she asks from her desk, amused.

“No. Just… allergies,” he replies, and kicks Nathan under the desk when he sees him stifling his laughter. “Sorry.”

Nathan, next to him, bites back a grin, his shoulders shaking slightly as he keeps his eyes on his notebook. Warren shoots him a look, mouthing, Thanks a lot, but Nathan only shrugs, feigning innocence.

A few minutes later, Warren feels something brush against his hand—a folded slip of paper being nudged toward him. He glances sideways again and sees Nathan nibbling on the tip of his pen, pretending to be completely absorbed in his classwork. Carefully, he unfolds it.

CAN I COME OVER TONIGHT?

“You don’t have to ask,” Warren whispers, voice barely above a breath. “Sleepover?”

“Sleepover,” Nathan agrees, and while it could be nothing, there’s something in the way he says it that makes Warren wonder if he should brush up on the ‘research’ he and Stella did the other night.

He took a stab at watching some more of those videos a couple of days ago. Stella’s comments about him needing to be prepared had festered in the back of his mind, needling at his insecurities. So, under the guise of studying, he’d opened his trusty friend PornHub in a new tab and got to work, keeping the volume at zero and taking mental notes on what and what not to do.

He’d be lying if he didn’t seek out videos with guys who looked just like Nathan, and he’d be even more of a liar if he said he didn’t crank one out to them. Or two.

After the bell rings and they part ways, Warren starts back in the direction of the dorms. Just as he’s about to round the corner and leave through the main doors, he hears a hushed conversation coming from the alcove to Principal Wells’ office. He presses flat against the wall as Wells and Madsen half-appear in the corridor, their voices low but tense, and Warren feels his skin tingle like static before a storm.

“I’m telling you, this isn’t a case of her skipping town,” Madsen’s voice growls. “I’m not asking for much. I just need to know if there’s something in that file that we’re missing. Something that could help us figure out what happened to her.”

Wells sighs, his expression impassive but wary. “I understand your concern, David, but we have rules for a reason. Rachel’s file is off-limits without proper authorization. You know that.”

“Don’t tell me about rules,” Madsen says. “This is about a kid’s life, and you’re hiding behind red tape. Doesn’t that feel wrong to you?”

“This is a delicate situation. The police already checked her file, anyway. There’s nothing in there that isn’t anything we already know.” Wells looks around, and Warren shrinks further against the wall, hoping the edge of the alcove is enough to obscure him. “You know as well as I do that Rachel Amber was troubled. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”

Madsen’s eyes scan the hallway with suspicion. “I have reason to believe one of our students may be involved in her disappearance,” he says. “Now, I’m not going to say who, because I don’t have all the proof yet, but someone at this school knows more than they’re letting on.”

“I can’t give you access to the file without that poof. It’s speculation right now, and we have a process—”

“Process be damned,” Madsen says, his voice dropping further. Warren strains to catch his words. “This isn’t just some protocol issue. If there’s even a hint that something foul happened to her, then I need to act.”

“That’s not your job,” Wells says sharply, although it’s tinged with something that sounds almost like fear. “If we start digging into this without concrete evidence, it’s not just the school’s reputation at stake. I don’t want to hear another word about this.”

There’s a pregnant pause. “This conversation is over,” Wells adds dismissively. He disappears down the hallway, and Madsen watches him leave, his gaze lingering on him. For a moment, Warren wonders if he’s going to kick open the door to his office and take her file, to hell with it all, but he doesn’t. He only shakes his head, shoulders rigid with frustration, and walks off.

Once he’s sure he’s alone, Warren pushes off the wall and exhales. It’s Nathan who Madsen has zeroed in on. He must think there’s something in Rachel’s file that will connect her disappearance to him, some damning detail buried beneath the bureaucratic veneer of Blackwell’s records. He’s wrong, but Warren can’t shake the feeling that Madsen might be on the right track. There could be something, much like Rachel’s phone, that the cops didn’t catch when they closed her case.

Warren’s fingers twitch, adrenaline sparking through him. He might not be investigating with Max and Chloe anymore, but that doesn’t mean he can’t pick up where they left off. He needs to see what’s in that file.

He’ll need to move quickly, because getting caught rooting around the principal’s office is grounds for expulsion. Peeking his head into his office, Warren sees no sign of life. Even the secretary who normally sits at the desk outside Wells’ door, filing her nails or flipping through a magazine, is nowhere to be seen. He steps inside, walking on his toes, and reaches for the door handle. Just a quick look around, he tells himself, hoping that rationale might steady his nerves. He doesn’t need to take anything, just see if there’s anything accessible, a clue, a lead—anything that might confirm Madsen’s thoughts or put them to rest.

Slipping inside, he closes the door softly behind him. The room is dim, with only a sliver of light from the blinds casting a narrow beam across Wells’ desk. He hasn’t been here since the day Nathan tried to jump. It feels like a lifetime ago. It’s hardly been a week.

He takes a deep breath and moves toward a filing cabinet, yanking one of the drawers open. He scans the alphabetized tabs of student records, fingers quaking as they skin over familiar names of people he’s crossed paths with in classes. ABBOTT, GRACE. AGUIRRE, LOUIS.

AMBER, RACHEL. Finally.

He lifts the manila file from the drawer and flips it open. The usual records greet him at first: attendance logs, grade reports, notes from teachers about assignments. He pauses when he gets to her student information sheet.

Rachel Dawn Amber

DOB: 07/22/95

GPA: 4.0

Rachel Amber is a talented student known for her dedication inside and outside the classroom. She often struggles with perfectionism and displays signs of stress related to future planning. Though she has a tendency to keep secrets and rarely opens up about personal matters, Rachel is well-liked and trusted by her peers.

On the night of 4/20/13, it was reported to security officer David Madsen that Rachel possessed drug paraphernalia in her room. A quick search of her belongings turned up a bag containing roughly one gram of cocaine. Madsen noted in his report that Rachel appeared nervous and defensive during the search, insisting that the items weren’t hers. She hinted, without naming names, that someone else may have placed them there, though she refused to elaborate further.

The student who reported her…

This is it. This is the person who framed her. Warren braces himself and reads on, his heart doing somersaults as he snaps a picture with his phone.

… has remained anonymous. Tip provided under confidentiality agreement; name withheld to protect student privacy.

Due to the serious nature of the offense involving possession of a Schedule II drug, Rachel was placed on a three-day suspension of Blackwell Academy, effective immediately following intervention on 4/22/13. Pending further investigation, Rachel will be permitted to return on academic probation with biweekly check-ins.

“Dammit,” he mutters, slamming the folder shut. Frustration gnaws at him; he’s come this far, only to be stymied by an anonymous tip. Whoever betrayed her didn’t want anyone to know their identity.

Ignoring the urge to snoop through his own file (he’s not sure if he wants to see what his own GPA is currently sitting at), he slips the folder back into the filing cabinet and drifts over to Wells’ computer, its blank screen daring him. If the truth isn’t in the file, maybe it’s in the system itself. Reaching for the mouse, he decides to peruse Wells’ emails, typing in Rachel’s name and hitting enter.

The screen populates with results. At first, it’s only emails back and forth between Wells and the police, Wells and Rachel’s parents. He scrolls back to May, where he stops, cursor landing on one from Mrs. Nolan, the physics teacher.

Brianna Nolan <[email protected]>

To: Raymond Wells <[email protected]> Mon 05/06/13 5:09 PM

Subject: Nathan Prescott

Good afternoon,

I wanted to bring up a recent change in Nathan Prescott’s behavior that I’ve noticed during class. Over the past few weeks, he’s been acting agitated, withdrawn, and has caused multiple disruptions during lessons. Today, he turned in an assignment with a drawing that I found particularly disturbing. Attached is a scan of it. I thought it best to bring it to your attention.

It seems he isn’t coping well with Rachel Amber’s disappearance. I don’t want to make assumptions, but I believe he may be experiencing some form of trauma or severe stress. If possible, I’d suggest arranging a meeting with his parents and a school counselor. We all know how difficult his father can be, but he should be notified of this. I’m worried about Nathan’s well-being and what he might do should he not receive the support he needs.

Please let me know if there’s anything more I can provide or do to help.

Best,

Brianna Nolan

Warren’s gaze is drawn to the attachment icon—a tiny paperclip symbol, ominous in its simplicity. He clicks on it, breath held, as the image loads on the screen.

The drawing comes up, the black-and-white scan filling the monitor. RACHEL IN THE DARKROOM. That’s what the paper reads, over and over, the words twisted and layered on top of each other in varying sizes and slants. Some letters are stretched to the point of distortion, others crushed into tight, trembling script. Around them, half-concealed in the chaotic lines, are crude sketches of eyes. At least a dozen, pupils black as pits.

Rachel in the darkroom. What is a darkroom? Was Nathan talking about an actual, physical dark room, or the kind used for photography? Max showed him the darkroom down the hall from Jefferson’s classroom once, only a few days into their friendship. She’d brought him along while she developed some of her photos, washing them in a bath of chemicals under a string of glowing red lights.

What’s the significance of that place? It’s probably nonsense, just a bunch of paranoid scribbles from when he was mourning and unmedicated. He can’t help but wonder, though.

Closing out of the tabs, he quickly logs off. He needs to get out of here. As he opens the door, though, he finds himself chest to chest with Wells, who fills the doorway with folded arms. Warren’s heart plummets into his stomach.

“Mr. Graham,” Wells says, arching an eyebrow. “Care to explain what you’re doing in my office?”

Warren’s mouth goes dry, his mind scrambling for something, anything, that could pass as a plausible excuse. “I, uh…” he stammers. His voice comes out shaky, weaker than he wants it to. “I was just…”

“Just what, exactly?”

“I was looking for you,” Warren blurts out. He eyes the secretary’s desk, still empty, warily. “I needed to talk with you. Urgently. And no one was here, so I thought I’d go in and wait for you, but…”

Wells doesn’t look convinced. Warren clears his throat and forces himself to hold his gaze, straightening his posture. “I wanted to thank you,” he says, his hands fidgeting behind his back. “For pairing me up with Nathan. Being a friend to him, it’s been very… eye-opening. We’ve learned a lot about each other.”

For a long, tense moment, Wells simply looks at him. “Thank you, Mr. Graham, for keeping him out of trouble. I’ve heard from Mrs. Hoida that he’s been easy to have in class,” he says at last. “I appreciate all you’ve done for him and Blackwell. But if I find you in my office unsupervised again, you’ll be facing disciplinary action. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On your way, then,” Wells says with a curt nod, stepping aside just enough for Warren to slip past him and out the front doors. The courtyard stretches wide and empty as Warren tries to gather himself, but he’s still vibrating with the residual panic of nearly being caught, the lingering dread of what he’s uncovered, and the unsettling confirmation that he’s only scraping the surface.

He’s so, so lucky. Some benevolent fate has reached down to pull him from the edge of real disaster. Thanks, Rachel. Thanks, Noah.

He’s about halfway across the lawn when he nearly collides with someone, the shock of it sending him stumbling backward. A hand reaches out and clasps around his wrist just moments before he has the chance to fall, and he’s yanked upright with a force that leaves him blinking. The hand belongs to Brooke, who steadies him with a look of impatience. It quickly gives way to something more guarded as she releases his wrist.

“Woah, careful,” she says, but her tone is bland. “You look… flustered.”

He tries to laugh it off. “Oh, hey,” he says. “Just in a hurry. Didn’t see you there.”

Her face is skeptical, unreadable, and she regards him coolly. “I haven’t seen much of you lately. How was the movie?” she asks. A casual question on the surface but unmistakably edged with resentment. “I bet Max had a good time.”

“I didn’t go with Max,” he says. “She bailed on me. I took someone else.”

There’s a pause, a crackling silence, and then she furrows her brow in confusion. “Who?”

“A boy.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but the words come tumbling out like loose change through a torn pocket. So much for keeping it a secret.

“A boy?” she echoes. There’s a strange emptiness to her tone, like she’s working through an equation that doesn’t quite add up. Her eyes drift to the faint bruise on his neck, lingering there a beat before snapping back to his face.

“Oh,” she says. And then, “Oh.”

“I’m sorry for stringing you along,” Warren says, even though he knows it isn’t enough. Apologies seem trite, half-formed things in his mouth, and he’s aware none of them will undo the hurt he’s caused her. “I should’ve been upfront with you. It’s just… it’s new. And I can’t exactly run around screaming from the rooftops about it.”

Brooke purses her lips. She glances over his shoulder as though searching for the right words in the empty courtyard beyond him. “I get it,” she says. In a careful motion, she reaches out and squeezes his arm. “Look, I’m not going to pretend all of this didn’t sting a bit, but… I’m glad you’re figuring yourself out. That’s a good thing.”

Warren offers her a small, hopeful smile. “Maybe we can still be friends? I mean, if you’d want that.”

“Duh,” she says, punching his arm playfully. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

She walks away, a hand thrown up over her shoulder in a wave. The reality of it—that he’s coming into some truer version of himself—feels freeing, as if he’s shed an old skin. He watches her figure grow smaller in the distance until she’s just a speck against the gray-washed campus, her easy acceptance lingering like an aftertaste in the wake of his confession.

Back in his dorm, Warren sloughs off his backpack, grabs his laptop, and plugs in his flash drive. He has a pretty good idea of what movies Nathan likes. He’ll give him something good. Something that hopefully won’t make them cry this time.

He falls back against his bed, computer in his lap, and reaches for his phone.

[You, Today 5:05 PM]

Come over when you’re ready ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

And then, only seconds later.

[Nathan, Today 5:05 PM]

omw :)

Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 23rd

Nathan must look happier than usual when he goes home between classes to do laundry, because his mother notices almost immediately.

He’s tossing his dirty clothes into the washing machine when she appears in the doorway, a coffee cup held in her hands as she watches him sort through lights and darks. “Well, aren’t we in a good mood?” she says, and Nathan stiffens, his hands paused mid-toss with a pair of balled-up socks. He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, but doesn’t bother hiding his smile.

“It’s just laundry,” he says, grabbing Warren’s pajama pants from the bottom of his hamper and holding them securely in his fist. He normally comes home to do it. The washers and dryers at Blackwell swallow his quarters and never seem to work properly—either that, or they chew through his clothes and leave them smelling vaguely of mildew. But he knows he’s here for another reason, too. Some quiet need to hide the evidence of his happiness, keep it close, ward it away from prying eyes.

Caroline takes a slow sip of her coffee. “You’re humming to yourself,” she says, looking him up and down and reading him with that gentle but uncanny perceptiveness only mothers seem to have. “I don’t think I’ve heard you do that in years.”

Was he? He hadn’t noticed. His shoulders raise again, and he shoves the pajamas into the machine before pouring out detergent, watching the bright blue liquid spill into the cap. “I have a lot to be happy about, I guess,” he says. “Things are really good right now.”

“Oh?”

Nathan keeps his gaze trained on the laundry, focusing intently on pouring just the right amount, as if his life depended on the exactness of his measurements. There’s a part of him that wants to turn, to smile at her, to say something easy, like yeah, there’s this guy—but the words lodge somewhere in his throat. If only it were that easy.

“You know,” Caroline begins, “I remember when you were little, you used to come home from school with that same look on your face. You’d run back to the house from the bus and tell me you’d made a new friend.”

Nathan’s fingers pause on the edge of the washing machine. For a moment, he can almost see it: himself, eight years old, sneakers scraping against the pavement as he dashes up the front steps, breathless and bright-eyed with a story about some kid he met at recess. His mother standing there, expectant, as if she already knows what he’s going to say.

“I’ve met someone,” he says, the words sounding alien to his own ears. He feels exposed just saying them aloud.

Caroline’s face lights up. “I want to hear all about it,” she says, beckoning him over to the couch. He starts up his clothes with a small sigh and follows her, sitting down beside her as she settles in with a look that’s half curiosity, half quiet excitement. There’s warmth in her eyes that catches him by surprise, and he realizes with a pang that he hasn’t seen her look this hopeful in a long time.

“What’s this someone like?” she asks. “How did you meet?”

Nathan laughs drily. In a bathroom, when I had a gun pointed at a girl. He doesn’t say that, of course, but the memory flashes through his mind like a bad punchline to an already dark joke. The circumstances of that first meeting with Warren are too complicated to even begin explaining. Instead, he looks down, focusing on his lap.

“School,” he says, skirting the truth but not lying. “A couple weeks ago.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says. “Are they nice?”

Nice barely scratches the surface of what Warren is. “Yes. Very.”

“And they treat you well?”

“Better than I deserve.”

Caroline gives him a tired smile. “Sweetheart,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that’s both tender and sad. “You deserve nothing but the best.”

“I don’t know about that,” he murmurs. He glances down at the floor, at his backpack, which he carelessly dropped when he came in. He reaches for it and pulls out his camera, clicking through the pictures he took at the beach, until he lands on one of Warren. Him, seated on that rock, half-turned toward the ocean with wind-tossed hair. There’s a small, almost shy smile on his face, like he didn’t quite know what to do under the camera’s gaze but wanted to trust it all the same.

“You, uh, asked to see some of my recent stuff,” he says, suddenly feeling nauseous. He swallows thickly, trying to keep his voice steady as he hands it to her. He feels sweat dampening the collar of his varsity, and he wonders if maybe this is a mistake. He’s not ready for this. He’s going to break her heart, and she’ll never look at him the same again, and then he’ll have two parents thinking he’s a disappointment. Bad idea. Really fucking bad idea.

His fingers itch to snatch the camera away from her, but Caroline’s hands close gently around it as she brings it closer to her face. She’s quiet as she studies the photo, and with each second that passes, Nathan feels his anxiety coil tighter.

“It’s nothing,” he says, fearing the worst. “We were just messing around. It’s just a hobby shot, honestly. I—”

“Oh, look at that,” she says softly, wistfully. “This is beautiful, Nate. You should frame this.”

Nathan blinks. “What?”

“You can tell a lot about what someone values by what they choose to take pictures of,” she continues, setting the camera in her lap. “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

Nathan swallows again. He knows what he wants to say, what he needs to say. He looks at his hands, turning them over, studying the healed abrasions on his knuckles, the callouses on his palms.

“I like him,” he says, and he can already feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “More than a friend.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his own ragged breathing and the low hum of the washing machine churning away in the background. And then her arms are reaching out, wrapping around him, and he crumbles against her. He feels smaller than he has in years when she rubs comforting circles on his back, like he’s a child again, seeking shelter in the only place that has ever truly felt safe.

“I know,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice. “I know you do.”

He nods, barely able to speak past the lump in his throat. “He’s so—he’s so good, Mom. He’s so good to me,” he says. “I mean, he sees all my bullshit, and it doesn’t scare him off. He just—he stays.”

“That’s love,” Caroline says. She pulls back to hold his cheek in her hand, wiping away the tears that threaten to spill. “It stays. It sees all of you and still chooses to stay.”

And Warren has stayed. Nathan sniffs, his face scrunching when she presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ve known for a long time,” she continues, “that maybe you didn’t like girls. Parents just… know. And it’s okay. I just wish you’d felt like you could come to me sooner.”

She knew before he did, then. Even if he had known, he’s not sure he would’ve been brave enough to tell her until now. There’s a lifetime of fear woven into the fabric of his fragile existence. It’s calcified in him, hard as bone.

“Warren,” Caroline says, nodding at the camera, “is a good boy. What he did for you on the roof that day… well, that’s one thing. But when he came to check up on you afterward? I knew he cared about you. And I hoped—well, I hoped that maybe you felt the same way.”

Nathan laughs incredulously. “I hated him at first. Now, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Caroline smiles. She lets a moment pass, as if savoring his confession, before tilting her head slightly. “So,” she says mischievously, “would you call him your boyfriend, then?”

Nathan looks away, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find an answer that doesn’t feel absurdly formal or juvenile. “I—well, I mean… I don’t know,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze fixed firmly on a loose thread in the couch cushion. “It’s not like we’ve talked about it, or anything.”

“Sure,” she says, patting his hand. “And are you two being safe?”

In an instant, the color drains from Nathan’s face, only to surge back in a hot, burning wave. The idea of his mother even thinking about that makes him want to sink into the upholstery and disappear.

“Mom,” he says, his voice cracking. “I—Jesus, we’re not even…”

But Caroline just chuckles softly, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Okay,” she says, looking visibly relieved. “You know I have to check. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Nathan nods, still not quite able to meet her gaze. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, glancing down the hallway in the direction of his dad’s study. He’s not home right now. If he was, they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. The thought of him overhearing even a fraction of it—Nathan shudders at the idea. His dad, with his narrow ideas of the world, would never understand. Nathan has long since given up hoping for any acceptance there.

“Do you think he knows?” he asks.

Caroline’s face falls, her gaze flicking down the hallway as if she, too, is suddenly aware of the boundaries her husband has set around them. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Do you want me to tell him?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Alright, then,” she says. “When the time is right—or if it ever feels right—just know I’m here.”

She stands, taking another sip from her mug and putting a comforting hand on his head, and then stops. “Before you go,” she says, “and you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, obviously, but I was going through Kristine’s room earlier, sorting through some things. I was hoping you could grab the boxes on the floor and move them to the garage for me.”

Nathan nods, brushing the last traces of tears from his eyes. “Sure.”

Her room is just as he remembers—pale lavender walls lined with posters, mounted corkboards cluttered with photos of friends, dried flowers, and ticket stubs. He hesitates in the doorway before he steps inside, as if expecting some part of her to look up and ask what he’s doing there. He can picture her sitting on her bed, head raising, grinning. Come on in, she’d say. You’re not too cool to hang out with your big sister, are you?

The boxes his mom mentioned sit in the middle of the room, their flaps haphazardly folded open to reveal old yearbooks and some old journals. Nothing that catches his eye, until he pushes the journals aside to reveal a bundle of envelopes tied together with fraying twine. He grabs them, eyes passing over the stamp on the top of the pile (a blue crescent moon, slightly smudged) and his sister’s name in the corner.

And then the recipient’s name, front and center. Noah Graham.

Oh, he has got to read these. Kristine would murder him if she knew he was going through her things like this, but the temptation is too great. He untangles the twine and pulls the letters from the envelopes, trying to ignore the feeling that he’s intruding. He is, but it’s like fate left this here for him to find. He can’t ignore it.

The paper is soft with age, the ink faded in places. As he unfolds the first letter, he’s greeted with Kristine’s handwriting.

Noah,

We need to be more careful next time. We’re lucky it was my mom who caught you sneaking in and not my dad, because he would’ve grabbed the gun from the basement and chased you out of town if he knew what we were doing. That’s not an exaggeration. You know he’s armed.

Mom’s mad, but waaay less mad than I thought she’d be. Still, she took my phone away for the month, so the only way we can communicate is at school… or by letter. I feel like such a hipster writing to you like this, but maybe there’s something romantic about it, too. Like we’re characters in some tragic love story (suburban Romeo and Juliet?).

Anyway, I don’t know how long this will last, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep talking to you. I need you in my life, and it kills me to know how much you’re hurting. Just, please, be careful.

Love you always,

Kris

Kris,

Tell your mom I’m sorry and that it won’t happen again. She saw me while I was in town and tried to clear the air by inviting me to dinner, but I lied and said I couldn’t go. I can’t look her in the eyes for a while.

I’m doing okay. I’m three months clean today, so that’s something to celebrate. I keep reminding myself of reasons to stay. You, my parents, you, my brother, you. How are we going to make this work while I’m across the country for college? What if I just apply to the community college in town? We can stay together that way.

I love you,

Noah

Noah,

Do NOT throw away this opportunity because of me. You got into your dream school. We’ll figure it out, I promise. Long distance won’t be so bad. How about we go on a trip together around Christmas break? Anywhere in the world, just me and you.

Love,

Kris

Kris,

I hear good weather is supposed to help with depression. How about Brazil?

Love,

Noah

Nathan stares blankly at the lavender walls, at the delicate traces of Kristine’s life preserved like relics. Warren had been right, in that offhand, laughing way of his. Their siblings had dated—no, loved each other, truly, hopelessly. The proof is there in every stroke of their pens, in every earnest word, fragile as spider silk, suspended in time. Kristine had loved him, and a few months later, Noah had killed himself.

Kristine is the bravest person he knows. Kristine had lost her boyfriend, and then she’d almost lost him in the same way, twice.

Slowly, he wraps the letters up and places them back in the box, closing the flaps. He wants to reach out to Warren, to say something about this, though he doesn’t know what. Maybe they’ll share this story someday, curled up together in the comfort of one of their rooms. Maybe then he’ll find the words to explain what it feels like to carry someone else’s love story, to inherit the ghosts of it.

He carries the boxes to the garage, one stacked on top of the other, wobbling dangerously as he shelves them. When his clothes finish drying, he hauls them to his truck, and his mom follows him out to say goodbye with a hug so tight it might’ve cracked a rib. She’s halfway up the porch when he calls for her, his head leaning out the window.

“One more thing,” he says. He stays parked in the driveway, fingers wrapped loosely around the steering wheel. “I’m not seeing Mr. Jefferson for lessons anymore. Can you tell Dad for me?”

Caroline stops mid-step. “You aren’t giving up on photography, are you?”

“No. We just had a creative disagreement. Time for me to find my own way.”

She looks like she wants to ask what it’s about, but doesn’t bother, knowing better. “You will,” she says, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the midmorning sun. There’s not a trace of doubt in her face, her voice. “I’ll let him know.”

“I’ve never seen this one before.”

“Yeah?” Warren says. They’re lying side by side on his bed, the covers pulled up to their necks, the laptop seated near their feet playing The Omen. “You like horror?”

“Yup.” Nathan grabs one of Warren’s arms and wraps it around his shoulder, intertwining their fingers. “Gives me an excuse to get close to you whenever there’s a jump scare.”

Warren snorts, pulling him impossibly closer. “Dork,” he teases, and then flinches when something scary happens on screen. Nathan doesn’t catch it. He’s too busy savoring the feeling of their bodies pressed together, the way their hands fit perfectly. Warren’s much longer fingers curl gently around his own, thumb tracing soothing circles over his knuckles.

He should be concentrating on the movie. Warren had gone on a long, animated tangent about the plot (a child who’s also the Antichrist, something something, evil incarnate, American classic), and Nathan tried to keep up with his rambling analysis to humor him but had eventually given up, too distracted by the idea of kissing him again. He glances away from the screen to look at him, his gaze falling to his lips.

“…so that’s why Damien’s nanny, like, sacrifices herself,” Warren says. “It’s not some random horror trope. It’s part of the symbolism of chaos versus control, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Nathan says, unaware he’d started talking again. He stares at him a moment longer before sitting upright and reaching for the laptop, closing the screen. It plunges the room into darkness, and Warren’s head snaps to look at him, startled.

“What—did I lose you?” he asks, bemused, the glimmer of his grin barely visible.

Nathan takes a steadying breath, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. He’s just able to make out the outline of Warren’s face, the tilt of his head, his mouth parted slightly in anticipation. “Do you want to make out, or something?” he asks, and he hopes his voice doesn’t betray how desperate he feels.

I want you to kiss me and never stop, not even when I forget to breathe and my face turns purple and I pass out. Kiss me until I forget what it’s like to be anything other than right here, with you, is what he really wants to say. If only it were socially acceptable to spout what’s really on his mind. It’s never stopped him before, he supposes.

Warren laughs softly, a sound so perfect and familiar it sends a shiver down Nathan’s spine. “If I ever say no to that, I want you to take me out back behind the dorms and shoot me,” he says.

In one quick movement, Nathan is pulled into his lap, his legs straddling Warren’s hips, his hands settling naturally on his waist. When Warren cranes his neck up to close the space between them, Nathan’s body turns to jelly. He melts against him, panting softly, tongue lapping into the wet seam of his mouth with the same kind of hunger he had in the locker room the other night. Nathan finds himself clinging to him as if he’s the only thing tethering him to this Earth, as if letting go might cause him to drift away into some unknown, terrifying freedom.

At some point (Nathan isn’t sure when, because time seems to pass differently when he’s in Warren’s arms), he winds up on his back, Warren hovering above him while their teeth click and their noses bump. Warren pulls away, a string of spit connecting their puffy lips, and presses his mouth to the base of Nathan’s throat. “Can I touch you?” he murmurs, slipping a hand under Nathan’s T-shirt. “Is that okay?”

Is asking for consent supposed to be sexy? Something about it sends an electric shock rippling through Nathan’s body, his hair standing on end. Maybe it’s because no one has ever asked him for permission to do anything before. Everyone in his life, minus a few special people, has only ever wanted to take, take, take.

“Yeah,” he says, peeling off his shirt and tossing it to the floor. He fights the urge to cover the pale expanse of his chest, to curl in on himself, even though Warren has seen him shirtless before and hasn’t seemed put off by it in the slightest.

Warren gets to work as soon as the words leave his mouth. He peppers hot kisses down his neck, down to his jutting collarbones, over a pert nipple. He makes his way down to his wrists, crisscrossed with scar tissue. “God,” he whispers as he brings one to his lips, grazing over his pulse point. It flutters beneath his touch. “You’re so pretty.”

Nathan’s face flushes saturnine, and he turns his head to the side, both overwhelmed and soothed by the praise. “I’m not.”

“You are. I swear,” Warren says, with so much conviction that Nathan believes it. When his kisses reach his stomach, Warren now slotted between his thighs, he looks up at him again, pupils black and blown. “Can I take these off?”

His jeans. Nathan glances down at himself and squirms against the bed, suddenly hyperaware of his vulnerability, of the way Warren’s face is inches from his crotch. He can feel his cock straining against the denim, and he’s pretty sure he’s hard enough to cut diamonds at this point. Every moment Warren isn’t touching him feels like torture, every nerve ending on high alert and pulsing with the urgent need for contact. If he doesn’t have his hand or mouth on him soon, he’s pretty sure he’ll burn up and die.

“Okay,” he says, breath catching. “Take them off.”

Warren nods quickly, visibly excited but trying to keep his composure. His fingers unbutton his jeans, and he slips them under the waistband, tugging them down inch by inch. “Lift your hips,” he says, and Nathan does, allowing him to strip him down to just his boxers. His cock, red and welling against his stomach, spills out the top of them.

When Warren leans in to mouth at the thin fabric, Nathan’s hips jolt, his hands flying to Warren’s hair. “Fuck,” he hisses, clenching at his scalp. “Where—fuck, are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“Mhm,” comes a muffled hum from down below, Warren running his tongue along the clothed outline of his cock. He presses a kiss to the head, tongue sliding along the slit. “I’ve done research, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Warren’s head lifts, his eyes flitting to the other side of the room. “I’ve been watching porn,” he says, licking his lips. “A lot of porn. Like—”

Nathan huffs, frustrated, and shoves his head back down. “You’re so—mm, haah,” he groans, Warren wrapping his lips around him with newfound fervor. He suckles, his tongue curling around him, and if Warren isn’t careful, Nathan might come right then and there. He can feel his cock leaking, which Warren accepts in earnest. He licks away the precome beading at the tip when he pulls off to breathe, and Nathan wonders what it tastes like. Salty, if what Victoria’s told him is true.

“Can—” Warren starts, fingers toying with the elastic waistband to his briefs. He swallows hard, and Nathan watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat, up and down. “Nate, can I fuck you? Please.”

Jesus Christ, Nathan thinks, because there is no way in hell this is happening. Jesus H. Christ. He’s going to wake up in a few minutes from the best wet dream of his life and be utterly devastated. For now, though, he’ll enjoy this.

Too overwhelmed to use his words, Nathan slides his boxers off his hips and frees his cock, which is now a syrupy mess against his quivering stomach. He nods vigorously, and Warren reaches into his nightstand for a bottle of lube. As he uncaps it and generously coats his fingers, Nathan can’t help but wonder if he planned all of this, and how far out this plan has been in motion. Either way, he’s impressed.

“Okay,” Warren says, and he appears a little less sure of himself now, his voice tremoring as he nudges Nathan’s thighs apart. “I don’t want to hurt you. We’ll go slow.”

“I can take it,” Nathan says, because it’s just his fingers, for God’s sake. But then Warren is nudging one against his hole, pressing into his flesh all the way down to his last knuckle, and Nathan’s back lifts off the mattress at the intrusion. He gasps loudly, which fizzles into a moan when Warren sucks at a spot near the apex of his thighs.

“You okay?” Warren asks, rubbing his finger along his tight walls, watching carefully to gauge his reaction. “What’s it feel like?”

Cold. Wet. Those are the appropriate descriptors for the sensation, but Nathan only grunts, nose scrunching. “Like—” he chokes out, rolling his hips down against the digit. “Like I’ve got a finger up my ass, dipshit.”

Warren smirks. “Well, yeah, but… does it hurt?”

It’s uncomfortable, maybe, but not painful. Nathan shakes his head, letting out a shuddering breath. “No,” he says. “It’s fine.”

With a lot of lube and patience, Warren opens him up, fingers pumping and scissoring him apart until he’s taking two. When Warren slips in a third, Nathan stiffens up, his vision blurring with tears. The stretch is stinging, and while Warren is trying to make it good for him (and he is trying, because there’s no shortage of kisses or praise from him while he works him), Nathan isn’t sure how much of this he can take.

Until Warren’s fingers curl and nudge something inside him, that is. Nathan moans involuntarily and clenches around him, hands scrabbling at the sheets. The discomfort fades, replaced by something foreign and intensely gratifying that pools like liquid heat in his stomach, like magma. “Ohmyfuckinggod,” he says on an exhale, hips rocking against Warren’s hand. “Warren—”

“Yeah?” Warren asks softly. He crooks his fingers, all three of them, against the bundle of nerves. “Right there? Feels good?”

“Yeah,” Nathan breathes, writhing, desperate to chase the feeling. No amount of self-gratification could ever compare to this. His own hand could never do what Warren is doing to him at this very moment. “Just fuck me already.”

In an instant, Warren’s fingers slip free of him, and he lets out a throaty moan at how horribly empty he feels. Warren reaches into his nightstand again to grab a condom, bright red and possibly cherry-flavored, and is in the middle of tearing it open with his teeth when Nathan reaches up to grab his wrist.

“You don’t have to,” he says, and he’s pretty sure his words are slurred from how well Warren has fingerfucked him. His brain feels muddled, lust-addled, dizzy with arousal, but he knows what he’s saying and what he wants. “I trust you.”

Warren pauses, the wrapper still held between his teeth until he spits it onto his bed. “You’re sure?”

He is, although he can’t help but think about his conversation with his mom, about her asking if they’re being safe. Unprotected sex isn’t safe, but he’s a virgin, and Warren’s a virgin, and YOLO as they say, so fuck it.

“I’m sure,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows and tugging at Warren’s shirt. “I wanna feel you.”

Warren nods jaggedly, surging forward to kiss him again, their breaths mingling as he sheds his shirt. Nathan watches through hooded eyes as he fumbles with his jeans, pleased to see that he’s equally just as hard. His suspicions about his size are confirmed when he yanks his briefs off, which cling stubbornly to his ankle until he gives his leg a shake.

A little over six inches. Uncircumcised. Warren isn’t that much bigger than him, but he’s big all the same—big enough to the point where he wonders if he can take all of it while he’s this inexperienced.

They stare at each other for a moment, both naked, both of their chests heaving. Warren takes their stiff cocks in his fist and strokes, and Nathan whimpers at the friction, at the heaviness of Warren’s balls against his. “How’d you like me?” Warren asks, reaching for the lube again, which he drizzles into his palm and uses to oil himself up. “Any way you want. Just want you to feel good.”

Sideways, frontward, backward, upside down. Warren could fuck him stupid in the TARDIS in the Two Whales parking lot and he’d be peachy keen, happy to be there. “Like this,” Nathan decides after some deliberation, closing his fingers around Warren’s cock and jerking him. He rubs the rough pad of his finger along the underside, tracing a thick vein. “So I can look at you.”

Warren chuckles, his voice raspy as he guides himself between his legs, cock sliding against the crevasse of his ass. “When did you become such a sap?” he asks, cockhead catching on the edge of his hole. It slips, smearing lube over Nathan’s flushed ass, but he’s quick to redirect it. With a little force, he pushes against the resistance of him, his face screwed up in concentration, and Nathan laughs. It quickly dies in his throat, replaced by a pained choking noise.

There’s a pop as Warren pushes past the tight ring of muscle, much like the snapping of a rubber band, and Nathan feels his body ignite from the stretch. It’s nothing like his fingers, which were their own kind of intensity. This is that same feeling—that searing sting—amplified by a thousand. He throws one arm around Warren’s neck to steady himself, and blindly feels for the spot where they’re connected with the other, horrified to find how much more of him there is. He’s not even halfway in.

“Hah, shit,” Warren huffs, his hands pawing at Nathan’s thighs before landing on his waist, and then his hips. There’s something endearingly clumsy about the way he touches him, something boyish and fumbling that screams this is, in fact, his first time too.

He must feel the way Nathan’s thighs are trembling viciously from the pressure, because he guides them to wrap around his waist, careful not to move so much as an inch until he’s given permission. “You’re okay,” he pants, words leaving in harsh puffs of breath. “You’re okay, babe. I’ve got you.”

The pet name flusters Nathan more than he’d like to admit. “I can take it,” he says again after catching his breath, looping his ankles around Warren’s midsection and squeezing. It helps guide him further along his cock, and for once in his life, he wishes Warren wasn’t so fucking tall. He feels like he’s climbing a tree.

Warren splays a kiss to his lips, and another to his jaw. “I know,” he says, murmuring into the crook of his neck. “You’re so good. God, you’re—you’re gonna kill me.”

Nathan finds himself determined at his words, eager to please. Clenching his eyes shut, he pushes his hips down and slides further, smiling weakly when he hears the quickening of Warren’s breathing against his throat, the whine he makes when he finally bottoms out. He feels like he’s being split in half, but it’s worth it, the pain already subsiding into a wonderfully dull ache.

“Now move,” Nathan says, reaching down again to feel where they’re joined at the hilt. They’re flush together now, one instead of two. “Or I’m getting on top.”

Ever so good at following directions, Warren fucks him slowly, thoroughly, cock twitching inside his fluttering hole. Nathan can feel it leaking inside him. He buries his face in Warren’s shoulder, his nails digging half-moons into his freckled back, and inhales deeply, absorbing the musky scents of sweat and sex and something else. Warren’s own unique smell, maybe, warm and woodsy.

In a sudden flicker of memory, the feeling shifts. Warren is gone, replaced with another body on top of him, unwelcome and violent. He feels the scruff of Jefferson's beard on the back of his neck, his hungry hands pinning him down. Cold terror floods his veins. He's in the darkroom again, and Jefferson's going to hurt him. He'll kill him. He'll—

No. He blinks a few times, gasping softly as though he's broken free of icy water. It's Warren who's inside him, whose solid weight is bearing down on him. Nathan looks into his face, into his dark eyes, and presses their foreheads together. You're here, he tells himself. This isn't the darkroom, and Warren isn't Jefferson. Warren is safe. Warren is gentle.

Warren’s control starts to fray, his hips quickening, noisy little ah, ahs escaping his throat while he fucks into him. Nathan cants his body to meet his thrusts, and the head of Warren’s cock nudges again that knob inside him again, Nathan muffling a sob into his shoulder. “Warren,” he whines, so pitchy and needy it doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. “Oh, fuck. You’re gonna make me—”

His hand moves to jerk his swollen, drooling cock, a neglected mess against his stomach, but Warren beats him to it, lube-slicked fingers stroking him fast. “C’mon,” Warren urges, nosing at Nathan’s cheek. He kisses the corner of his mouth, grinding the heel of his palm against him. “C’mon, Nate. Want you to come. Come for me.”

Nathan isn’t sure if Warren is parroting what he’s heard in pornos or if these beautiful words are of his own making, but they’re enough to push him over the edge. His release shudders through him with a quiet moan, hot spurts of come shooting across Warren’s knuckles, across his stomach. He can’t stop the embarrassing slew of words that tumble from his mouth, unable to register half of them as they spill out. Please, fuck, keep going, don’t stop, more.

It's not long until Warren is following suit, his thrusts clipped and messy. His fingers intertwine with Nathan’s on either side of his head and he buries himself in him, all the way in, all the way down to the base. His hips grind in a circle as he fills him up with a breathy sigh, and Nathan’s body lifts off the bed again in the aftershock of it, buzzing like a live wire. He can feel Warren leaking out the sides of him, come running down the supple flesh of his upper thighs.

For a minute or two, neither of them says anything. Warren pulls out with a grunt, Nathan’s hole clenching desperately around nothing as he adjusts to the emptiness again, and rolls off the bed to cross the room. Groggily basking in the afterglow, Nathan wonders if he’s going to pull some clothes on and leave him here, leave him lying in his own room like he’s nothing but a quick fuck, but Warren returns in seconds. He swipes a towel over Nathan’s forehead, damp with sweat, and then over his stomach, his thighs.

When Warren finishes cleaning him up, he collapses beside him, and Nathan rolls over to face him, snorting. He looks spent, nothing short of a mess, and he wonders if he looks the same. The same, if not worse.

“We really aren’t friends, are we?” Warren says, low and faintly hoarse. “Friends don’t normally sleep with each other.”

“No,” Nathan says once he’s found his voice. He reaches up, loopy, to smooth down one of Warren’s cowlicks. His hair is mussed beyond any hope of remedy, sticking out in a dozen unruly directions. “Not usually.”

A pause stretches between them, brittle and agonizing. Finally, Nathan swallows, his voice a whisper, as if saying it too loudly might shatter the delicate equilibrium. “So… what are we?”

Warren glances up at the ceiling, gaze fixed, his eyes searching the cracked plaster. He looks almost ethereal, caught in some inward place Nathan can’t reach, and yet there’s something starkly real about him, too. A vividness in the tanned line of his collarbone, the smudge of sweat against his taut throat. It’s Warren, and yet it isn’t; it’s the boy Nathan knows and someone wholly other, a beautiful, naked figure lying inches from him in this bed.

“I don’t know,” Warren says at last. His fingers brush the length of Nathan’s arm, slow and careful. “Do you want to put a label on it? Could you call yourself my boyfriend?”

Nathan mouths the word. Boyfriend. It feels sour on his tongue. If the time ever came where he could be open about who he was, about who he liked, could he use it? Could he look someone in the eyes and say that Warren Graham is his boyfriend?

“Let’s not call it that,” Warren says, picking up on his apprehension. A rueful smile plays at his lips, fingers stilling against his arm. “We don’t have to fit into a box. We can just… be. If that’s what you want.”

Nathan inches closer to him and cocoons himself against his chest, Warren’s arm wrapping around to hold him. “I want that,” he says, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He lets them close, his heart slowing with the tempo of Warren’s breathing. I want you.

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 24th

It’s 2009. Warren is twelve years old and the happiest he’ll ever be.

Sitting in his bedroom, he leans against the cool wooden headboard of his bed, the tattered pages of A Brief History of Time open across his knees. The book is far too advanced for him, but that’s part of the appeal—jargon and theories spinning through his brain like the tiny galaxies illustrated in the margins. He traces the curvature of spacetime with his finger, imagining himself slipping through a black hole, stretched thin but infinite like spaghetti. A cup of lukewarm cocoa, abandoned on his bedside table, leaves a ring on the wood. His mom will have his head for it. He doesn’t care.

Outside, the December wind rattles the trees, the sound of his neighbor's dog barking filtering through the thin walls of the old house. His room is a sanctuary of sorts: posters of the Apollo 11 moon landing and Carl Sagan’s face cover the peeling paint. Plastic models of planets dangle from the ceiling, their orbits imperfect and tangled with fishing line. Noah promised he’d help him fix the model solar system when he came home for winter break. It’s a travesty, he’d said on his last visit for Thanksgiving, pointing at the wonky tilt of Jupiter. Neil deGrasse Tyson would weep if he saw this.

Warren hadn’t minded the teasing. He’d glowed at the attention from him, much like one of the phosphorescent stars stuck to his ceiling. Noah isn’t home much these days. College seems like a foreign country, some far-off place where important things happen to people far smarter, far cooler, than Warren can ever hope to be. When Noah is home, though, it’s as if the sun itself has returned to orbit Warren’s tiny, anxious world.

A sharp knock at his door.

“Warren.” His mom’s voice bleeds through the wood, muffled. “Come downstairs. Noah’s on the phone.”

He freezes, torn between irritation at being interrupted and electric, immediate happiness. Noah never calls. It’s been at least three weeks since he’s last heard from him, and Christmas is quickly approaching. He’s hoping that Noah is planning a surprise visit just for him, that in the next few days he’ll show up unexpectedly on the doorstep with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, smelling faintly of the campus library and the cheap cologne Warren always teases him about. He’ll take a phone call for now, though. A slice of Noah’s world beaming directly into his own, if only for a moment.

His socked feet slip on the wood floors as he scrambles downstairs. The smell of dinner—a roast, maybe—hits him as he nears the kitchen. His mom is standing at the counter with the corded phone in her hand. “Don’t keep him all night,” she says, though her smile is warm. “I still need to talk to him.”

“I won’t,” Warren promises, though he knows he’ll try. When she hands it off to him and leaves the room to give them some privacy, he presses it to his ear. “Noah?”

“Hey, Space Cadet.” Noah’s voice comes through, slightly crackly but unmistakably him. “What’s new?”

Warren grins. “Not much. I’ve been reading a lot. School’s been boring.”

Noah chuckles softly. “Yeah, that’s middle school for you,” he says. “It gets better.”

“What about you? How’s college? Have you finished finals yet?”

“Almost,” Noah says, weary. “Just one more to go, and then I’m done.”

“Done for the semester or done done?” Warren teases, expecting the usual sarcasm in return. They often joke about Noah dropping out and pursuing some other passion if classes in his major get too difficult. Instead, there’s a pause on the other end of the line—a little too long, a little too heavy.

“Done done,” Noah says, though there’s no sarcasm in his voice. Not even a little.

Warren frowns but doesn’t press. He’s probably stressed. College finals sound brutal. Instead, he tries to steer the conversation to safer waters. “You’re coming home soon, right?” he asks. “Mom and Dad keep talking about how they’re going to make you all your favorite foods, and Dad’s going to fix the car before you get here so you can take me for drives. He was in the garage cursing at it yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sure. That thing’s a beater.”

“And,” Warren continues, “Mom won’t stop talking about how she thinks you’ve got a secret girlfriend at school. And that’s why you don’t call much, ‘cause you’re busy with her.”

That earns him a tired laugh. “No girlfriend here,” he says. Another pause. “I had someone back home, but I had to end things. I was, uh, dealing with a lot. It wasn’t fair to her.”

“Oh. Do I know her?”

“No. We liked sneaking around. You might know her little brother, though.”

Warren wants to ask who he is, but decides to shift the conversation again. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty great,” he says. “And I can’t wait for you to come home so we can hang out.”

Noah falls silent again, and when he speaks, there’s a strange, almost distant warmth in his tone. “You’re a good kid, Warren. I don’t say that enough.”

Warren feels his throat tighten unexpectedly. Noah isn’t usually the type to get mushy. “Well, yeah, I mean, obviously,” he says, trying to brush it off, to keep things light. “I’m a Graham, aren’t I? Greatness runs in the family.”

“Yeah,” Noah says. His voice sounds brittle, like glass about to crack. There’s the sound of movement on the other line. “It does. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I know Mom wanted to talk, but I’ve got some stuff to do, so… tell Mom and Dad I love them and I miss them.”

Warren’s brow furrows, but he nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. He was hoping they’d be able to talk longer, but he knows his brother is busy doing whatever it is he does out there. He’s grateful for this rare gift. “Love you. Call again soon, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Noah says, sighing. “Love you too.”

Warren wakes with a start, the room still cloaked in the gray light of dawn. His chest heaves as he pulls himself upright, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like cobwebs. For a moment, he forgets where he is—his mind still lingers on that warm December evening, the sound of Noah’s voice.

But then reality settles back in. He’s not twelve anymore. He’s not in his childhood bedroom, but in his dorm, in his bed. The sheets are damp and rumpled from the night before, the air in his room smelling faintly of sex and sweat. He relaxes against his pillow again, his hand gravitating to the warm shape beside him.

Nathan is curled on his side, his bare back rising and falling. The pale light filters in through the blinds, striping his skin like the bars of a cage, but he looks peaceful—hair tousled, one hand clutching the edge of his blanket. Warren wraps an arm around his middle and pulls him close to his chest, kissing along the side of his neck. Nathan hums happily in reply.

It’s both amazing and frightening how well Warren knows him now. He knows Nathan better than he knows himself, in ways he can’t even articulate, ways that seem to defy logic. He could recognize him anywhere, he thinks. The sound of his laugh in a crowded room, the way his footsteps fall. Warren could map him by memory alone—his scent, his touch, the exact way his ribs feel beneath his fingertips when he breathes. All boundaries of self between them have fallen away. There’s no distinction between where one of them ends and the other begins.

Nathan shifts against him, his hand reaching back instinctively to curl against Warren’s hip. “You awake?” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Warren says, pressing a kiss to the angled line of his jaw. “You okay? Sore?”

Nathan groans and rolls over to face him, eyes half-lidded. “Ass hurts like hell,” he says, his voice gravelly with the remnants of sleep. “Worth it, though.”

Warren laughs softly, the sound low and warm. He brushes his thumb over Nathan’s cheek, marveling at how someone so sharp-edged can look so soft in moments like this. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.” Nathan nuzzles into him, pressing his face into Warren’s chest, his arms looping around his neck. They stay like that for a while, quiet and entangled, but even in his arms, Warren can’t settle.

“I had a weird dream,” he says finally, breaking the silence. “About Noah.”

Nathan perks up, looking up at him with sleepy, curious eyes. “Yeah?” he rasps. “About what?”

Warren hesitates, his hand drifting to the small of Nathan’s back, tracing idle patterns there. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It was more of a memory. It wasn’t anything crazy, just… talking to him. But it felt so real. Too real.” He exhales, softly. “I think I need to go home. Just for a little bit.”

Nathan blinks at him before nodding. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t prod, and Warren is grateful for it. Instead, Nathan hums again and burrows back into him. “You should go,” he says. “Want me to come with you?”

Warren shakes his head and shimmies out of bed. “No,” he says, walking naked to his dresser and rifling around for some clean clothes. “I think this is something I have to do on my own. Come over again after classes, okay?”

Nathan watches him from the bed, his chin propped on his forearm, the faintest trace of a smile on his face. “You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks, concerned. “You’ll call if you need anything, right? Or text? I can be there in ten.”

Warren pulls on some jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt before turning back to him, taking in the sight of Nathan sprawled against the sheets, hickeys bruising his neck and chest. “I’ll be okay,” he says. He walks over to the bed and leans down, brushing a kiss to the corner of Nathan’s mouth. “I promise.”

Twenty minutes later he’s standing in the narrow foyer of his house. Schrödinger is the first to greet him, winding between his legs with a soft, plaintive meow. Warren crouches down, letting his hand glide over the sleek fur of his back. “Hey, buddy,” he murmurs, his voice low and scratchy. “Miss me?”

Straightening, he makes his way to the living room and kicks off his shoes, Schrödinger padding after him in search of treats or more pets. He isn’t sure why he’s here, exactly. Coming home—back to a place he’s grown to resent so much over the years—feels like he’s reopening an old wound. There’s nothing here for him. No doting parents, no brother, no idyllic white picket fence life he’s seen in old movies. Just the shell of a house that once held everything he thought he wanted, hollowed out by time and loss.

Warren drops his keys onto the coffee table with a metallic clink. He won’t be here long. Not when he has chemistry class and a quiz he forgot to study for. His grades are probably tanking by the day, but he can’t bring himself to care. The old him would’ve been mortified at getting anything less than an A on a test. The old him would’ve balked at the idea of having sex with Nathan Prescott.

He can’t help but laugh a little at the absurdity of it all. He’s a man now. So long, virginity.

His eyes fall on a bookshelf by the window, crammed with old paperbacks and knick-knacks his mother has collected over the years. He walks over to trace his fingers along the spines until he lands on a thick photo album, dark green, leather. Sighing, he picks it up, takes a seat on the sagging couch, and props it on his knees. He opens it.

The first page greets him like a punch to the chest: a collage of baby photos. Him, tiny and pink-faced, swaddled in a hospital blanket and held securely by his smiling mom; Noah, no older than six, grinning as he pokes at Warren’s pudgy cheek. Their dad is nowhere to be found. He’s probably the one behind the camera.

He turns the page. More memories spill out. He and Noah, ages eight and two respectively, bundled up in thick winter coats and making snow angels. The whole family at a barbecue, grinning at the camera with paper plates balanced in their laps. Birthdays, Christmases, vacations. All of them so nauseatingly happy. Warren can’t decide if the warmth the pictures stir in him is comforting or downright cruel.

He keeps turning until he lands on Noah’s high school graduation photo. Noah stands in the center of the frame, his cap askew and his gown wrinkled, one hand around their mom’s shoulders and the other holding his diploma aloft. It’s the last picture of him in the album. The remaining pages are blank.

Warren’s throat constricts. He hasn’t looked at any pictures of him in a while. It’s strange, seeing him like this—alive, smiling, caught in a moment that feels so immediate it could’ve happened yesterday. The last time he laid eyes on him was when his family was called to the morgue in Baltimore to identify his body. His parents had made him stay in the hallway, but the door had been left ajar, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of Noah’s pale, cold body and the ring of bruising around his broken neck. From a belt, he’d heard the coroner say, followed by his mom’s wailing.

Warren inhales sharply and closes the album, clenching his eyes shut. The image of him lying on that slab isn’t how he wants to remember him. He isn’t religious (never has been, because science has always offered answers that felt more solid than faith), but he doesn’t believe Noah is gone forever. Take the first law of thermodynamics, for example. Energy can’t be created or destroyed. It just changes form.

That’s what he’s told himself, over and over. Noah is out there, somewhere. Not as a person, not in any way Warren can touch or talk to, but as something different. Heat, light, motion, scattered and diffused into the universe. He’s everywhere and nowhere, part of the vast, interconnected web of existence—his atoms and energy repurposed into the building blocks of stars, into the heartbeat of the Earth itself. He isn’t dead. He’s just different now.

“Warren?”

His eyes snap open at the sound of his mom’s voice. He sits up, startled, his heart kicking in his chest. He hadn’t heard the front door open, hadn’t even realized she was home.

Jennifer Graham, still in her hospital scrubs, stands in the doorway to the living room, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and dark circles smudged under her eyes. She looks exhausted, but her expression softens as she takes him in. Her gaze flicks to the photo album in his lap, and then back to her son.

“Hi,” he says, his voice rough. He sits up straighter, brushing invisible dust off his jeans and trying to hide the fact that he’s been sitting here for who knows how long, lost in his thoughts. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were here.”

“No, no. It’s okay,” she says soothingly, setting her bag down on the floor. “I just got home from night shift. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Warren murmurs. “Good to see you too.”

Jennifer steps further into the room, her sneakers scuffing softly against the floor. She glances at the photo album in his lap again but doesn’t comment on it right away. Instead, she sinks onto the couch beside him, letting out a weary sigh as she leans back. Schrödinger hops up on her lap, batting at the ID tag clipped to her front pocket.

“You’ve been working a lot,” Warren says, casting his gaze to the floor. He isn’t sure what else to say. What is there to say? “How are you?”

She shrugs, smiling weakly. “Busy time at the hospital. Flu season,” she says, nudging him gently. “There’s always something going on. If it’s not the flu, it’s broken bones, or heart attacks, or someone waddling into the ER because they ‘slipped’ and ended up with a shampoo bottle inside of them.”

Warren snorts. “You should rest.”

“In a bit.” Jennifer tugs the photo album into her lap and silently flips through the pages, stopping on a family photo of them at the beach. “I’ve always liked this one,” she says, tapping the younger version of him, sunburnt and holding a plastic sandcastle bucket. She laughs. “That was a good day. You wouldn’t let me put sunscreen on you. You looked like a lobster for a week.”

Warren shakes his head, cringing at the memory. “I should’ve listened,” he says, his eyes trailing to Noah, who appears to be around fifteen and not at all pleased that his picture is being taken. Teen angst, maybe. Or maybe that was around the time he started struggling. Warren wishes he could remember, wishes that the signs were more obvious.

Jennifer puts a hand on his back. “Did you come home because of him?” she asks quietly. “Have you been thinking about him?”

Warren hesitates, his gaze lingering on the photo. Noah’s face stares back at him, frozen in time. “Yeah,” he says. “I have.”

“It’s okay to miss him,” she says. “I do, every day.”

Warren nods but doesn’t look up. “I just… I keep thinking about that last phone call. The way he sounded. Like he wanted to tell me something, but he didn’t. I was too young to get it. Too stupid.”

“Don’t say that,” Jennifer says firmly, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into her side. “You weren’t stupid. You were a kid. And even if you had known… I don’t think anything could’ve stopped what happened. He was good at hiding things. Things none of us could fix.”

Warren chokes out a bitter laugh. “I could’ve tried, though,” he says, his voice cracking. “I thought I knew him.”

“You did know him. Whatever image you have of him, keep that inside your head, okay?” she says. She sighs, her breath trembling. “Remember him for the good things. His sense of humor, his hobbies. That’s the Noah you knew. The Noah who loved you.”

Warren leans into her and tries not to cry, because man, does he hate crying. But his eyes well up with tears and pretty soon they’re spilling over, hot and stinging. “I just—I just miss him a lot,” he says, shielding his face with the crook of his elbow. “It’s so weird without him. It feels like—like there’s this void in my life, you know? It’s been four years.” He pauses to sniff and draw in a ragged breath. “I thought things would get easier. They haven’t.”

“Grief,” she says, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, “is an echo of love. It stays because the love stays.” She brushes his hair off his forehead and kisses him between his eyebrows. “Maybe it changes over time. Maybe it gets a little easier to deal with. It never really leaves, though, and that’s okay. It’s how we keep him with us.”

“I just want him to know how much I looked up to him,” Warren says, wiping his face on his sleeve. “And how much he meant to me.”

“He knew. I swear, he knew.”

He hopes he did. Warren hopes that Noah thought of him, of their family, in those final moments. It wasn’t enough to save him, but hopefully it brought him comfort. If love could’ve saved him, he would’ve lived forever.

Jennifer shifts beside him, drawing her legs up onto the couch, her arm still draped protectively over his shoulders. “I know I checked out when he died,” she says. “I wasn’t there for you as much as I should’ve been. I threw myself into work because it was the only thing that kept me sane. I couldn’t stay in this house. Couldn’t walk past his bedroom, knowing that he would never come home to it again.”

“I know,” Warren mumbles. He was the same way. He went back to school almost immediately after the funeral out of his own survival. It was easier to drown in distractions rather than sit with the empty space Noah left behind. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Jennifer shakes her head, sighing. “I do,” she says earnestly, eyes glistening. “I could’ve done better with you. And I’m… gosh, I’m proud of you. I know how hard you work. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be everything your brother was, because you’re enough just as you are, okay?”

The words are a balm. He doesn’t know how to respond—doesn’t know if he even can, even though he’s wanted to hear something like that for years. “Thanks,” he manages, wiping at his face again, embarrassed. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she says. As she reaches up to smooth his hair, her hand stills for the briefest of moments. Her gaze catches on the faint purpling smudge on the side of his neck, peeking out from where his T-shirt has shifted. “What’s that?”

Warren stiffens and rises to his feet, hand shooting up to adjust his collar. “What? Nothing,” he says quickly, clearing his throat and grabbing his keys. “Must’ve bumped into something.”

Jennifer raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“Gottagoloveyoubye,” he blurts, tripping over his own feet as he bolts for the front door. When it closes behind him, he runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Sooner or later, she’ll find out who it came from. Hopefully, she won’t be too surprised.

Classes go as expected, which is to say they’re interminably dull. Warren drifts through the day in a haze of half-listened lectures and idle doodles in the margins of his notes, until he gets to English, of course, where Nathan is seated and not-so-subtly waiting for him.

They wind up back in his room later on, the late afternoon sun slanting gold through the window and pooling on the floor. “We’re going to study for once in our lives,” Warren says firmly, pulling his chemistry textbook from his backpack. He takes a seat on the floor, snaps at Nathan, and points to the spot next to him. “We are going to be productive.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nathan whines, slinking over to flop down beside Warren in a dramatic sprawl, as though the very idea of studying is a form of medieval torture. He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand idly flicking through the pages of the textbook Warren has opened. “You wanna be productive? I’ve got other ideas.”

“Sex is great, but—” Warren starts, snickering when Nathan tries to press a finger to his lips. “It’s great, and I really, really, love it, but I’ve been slacking off. I don’t wanna know how bad I did on my quiz today.”

Nathan groans, flopping back against the floor with a loud thud, arms sprawled out. “God, you’re boring.”

“And you’re an enabler,” Warren shoots back, giving Nathan a pointed look. “Weren’t you telling me a couple of days ago that I shouldn’t skip class? What happened?”

“That was the old me,” Nathan says, leaning closer, close enough that Warren can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Come on. You’re so smart already. Studying’s a waste of time.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Won’t it?” Nathan mumbles, grinning. His hand sneaks around Warren’s waist, tugging him slightly off-balance. “Are you sure about that?”

“Nate,” Warren warns, though he doesn’t pull away. “I swear, if you—”

Before he can finish the thought, Nathan lunges. In one swift move, he knocks Warren to the ground, his hands bracketing his wrists, Nathan’s thighs on either side of his hips. The chemistry textbook flops shut, forgotten, and Nathan looks down at him triumphantly. “You wanna study? Alright,” he says, leaning in to nip at his lip. “I know you like science. Give me an anatomy lesson.”

Warren lets out a bark of laughter, twisting under his grip. “That’s not—ugh, get off!”

“Make me,” Nathan says, grin widening as Warren struggles against him.

Warren wriggles an arm free, shoving at Nathan’s shoulder with enough force to make him lose balance. They tumble sideways, a tangle of limbs. Warren manages to gain the upper hand, but Nathan hooks a leg around him and pins him again, hands pushing his shoulders to the floor.

“Gotcha,” Nathan says, panting. “What did I say? I always win.”

Warren glares up at him, his breath coming fast, his hair a mess from the scuffle. “You’re such a pain in the ass,” he says, his hands landing on Nathan’s waist. He could overpower him if he wanted to, but seeing his face light up at this small victory, eyes sparkling—Warren doesn't even want to try. 

“Fine," he relents. "Okay.”

“Truce?” Nathan says, leaning down to brush noses. “Are you mad at me?”

Warren doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, he tilts his chin up, closing the space between them, his hands fumbling to push Nathan’s varsity off his shoulders. Nathan shudders into his mouth and rolls their hips together, hands roaming, fingers nimbly discarding their clothing. When Nathan pulls away to breathe just for a moment, Warren can only smile at his disheveled state.

“You alright?” Nathan asks, head haloed by the sun, looking more like some gilded deity than the boy Warren’s come to love. He wants to fall down on his knees and worship the beautiful sight before him, overcome with the urge to offer himself up entirely, to consecrate the moment. His hands find their way to Nathan’s back, his fingers pressing into his skin as if to leave an imprint, a mark to say: I was here. I touched you. I knew you. He isn't religious, but if heaven is real, it can only ever look like this.

“Yes,” Warren says breathlessly, shaking his head in wonder. “Never better.”

Chapter Text

Friday, October 25th

“I love this part.”

Nathan looks up from the plush, cream-colored couch he’s sprawled on, brow furrowing at Victoria’s TV. On the screen, a woman in a silk dress leans out of a window, the camera lingering on her cigarette while French subtitles run across the bottom. Something poetic about solitude and the moon. They disappear before he can finish reading.

“This? This is the part?” he asks skeptically, dodging when Victoria launches a pillow at him from her bed. He smirks and relaxes into the futon, crossing his arms. “I like sitting by a window and chain-smoking just as much as anyone else, but this is too art house-y for me.”

“You’re so philistine,” Victoria shoots back. She’s lounging against a mound of pillows, an uncorked bottle of red wine nestled in the crook of her arm. She gestures toward the screen with a hand, as though explaining something painfully obvious. “It’s not about what she’s doing, it’s about what she’s feeling.”

Nathan rolls his eyes, sinking deeper into the cushions. His thoughts drift, skipping from Victoria’s impassioned commentary to something else entirely—or rather, someone else. He thinks about Warren, who, come to think of it, would probably love this kind of film. The two of them have been conjoined at the hip lately, rarely spending more than a couple hours apart outside of classes. If they aren’t fucking like rabbits, they’re napping together, or gorging on fries the two of them had delivered from the Two Whales, Warren’s bed dusted with crumbs.

Unofficially, he’s moved into Warren’s bedroom. Not that either of them has said it out loud—it just happened suddenly, both assuming it made sense. He now sleeps on the same side of the bed he did the night Warren carried him back from that party, reeking of sweat and vomit. If anyone’s picked up on how often their ‘sleepovers’ happen, it isn’t obvious.

Tonight should’ve been the same as usual. Nathan had fully intended to spend the evening with Warren, half-watching some obscure movie or getting on his knees, the sharp fibers of Warren’s cheap carpet digging into his skin while his mouth went to town. But then Victoria texted him, said it had been an agonizing four days (an eternity in her world) since they last did something fun, and informed him they needed to hang out.

He’d shown the texts to Warren in hopes he’d help him type up an excuse, to which he’d laughed and nudged him toward the door. Go, he’d said with an easy smile. I can’t be the only one who has to put up with you.

“Feeling,” Nathan echoes blandly, hauling himself to his feet and crossing the room to snag the bottle from her. He takes a large swig and sighs. “What the hell is the plot of this, anyway? I can’t follow.”

“She’s in love with some married guy and pregnant with his baby,” Victoria responds matter-of-factly, twisting her body to face him. “She finds out later on that her husband is cheating too, and—plot twist—it’s with the same guy. I think that’s what it’s about, anyway.”

“That’s messy.”

“It’s French,” she says pointedly, like that alone justifies it. She grabs the remote and turns the TV off, leaving the room bathed in the moody, amber glow of her string lights. “And now I’m bored.”

Nathan quirks a brow, still holding the wine bottle. “Uh, well… we could—”

“Do your makeup,” she interrupts, grinning.

“What?” Nathan blinks at her. “No.”

“Why not?” She springs up from the couch, barefoot, and pads toward her dresser. “There’s some new looks I’ve been wanting to try out. It’s so much more fun to experiment on someone else than yourself. Did Kris ever practice on you?”

She did a few years back. Somehow, she’d talked him into letting her smear eyeshadow over his lids, wanting to test out a new palette. It wasn’t so bad. Nathan liked the way the color brought out the gray in his eyes, made him look like a washed-up rockstar. He had to scrub hard at his face with a wipe to get it all off, though, scared of what their dad would say if he saw his son playing with makeup.

“No,” he lies, setting the wine down and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not doing this.”

“Why not?” she asks again, already pulling open her drawer, rifling through palettes and brushes. “You’ve got great bone structure. It’s a crime not to play it up.”

“Because it’s dumb,” he mutters, even though he knows it’s a losing battle. Victoria Chase doesn’t hear no, she hears try harder.

“Dumb,” she scoffs, tossing a sleek black eyeliner onto her desk before spinning to face him. “You know what’s dumb? Sitting here, bored out of our minds, when I could be giving you a makeover. Let me do this.”

“Vic,” he groans, glaring at her when she clasps her fingers together and bats her eyelashes. He stares at her for a long moment, weighing his options. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he shrugs. “Fine. No pictures.”

“Deal,” she says instantly, her grin triumphant. She scoops up her collection of supplies and plops down on the couch, all business now. “This is going to be so fun. Sit.”

Nathan scowls but complies, pouting as Victoria takes his face in her slender hands and tilts it side to side. She grabs a cylindrical bottle of what might be foundation or concealer and holds it to his cheek, squinting critically.

“You’re pale, but not that pale,” she mutters, rummaging through her collection until she finds another bottle. “This one should work. Your skin’s, like, weirdly good, by the way. For someone who doesn’t do anything to it.”

Nathan chuckles. “Thanks,” he says drily, thoughts drifting to Warren again. He’s got perfect skin for someone who washes his face with 5-in-1 Irish Spring. It’s all Nathan can smell now whenever they lay down together at night, still damp from the showers they’ve been taking together. The scent clings to his sheets, to his clothes, sharp and herbal.

Victoria unscrews the cap and pumps a dollop onto the back of her hand. “Hayden came over last night,” she says, grinning mischievously. She reaches for a makeup sponge, dabs it into the product, and presses it into his cheek. “You’d be so proud of me.”

Nathan raises an eyebrow, wincing slightly as she taps the sponge against his face. “Proud of you for what, exactly?”

“For playing it cool,” she says. “He texted me at, like, eleven, asking if I was busy. And instead of saying yes right away, I made him wait an hour.”

“Wow, what restraint.”

She smacks his forehead lightly with the sponge, leaving a faint smear of foundation. “Shut up. It worked. By the time he got here, he was practically begging for me,” she says. “He’s a good lay, too. Actually made me finish.”

“Impressive,” Nathan drawls, scrunching up his face when she grabs a compact filled with some kind of powder. She brushes it over his face, blending it into the crevices with her finger. “Asking you to the party, and now this. He might be in love with you.”

“Yeah, well,” Victoria sighs, her face falling. “He’s not the only one.”

Nathan opens his mouth to ask what she means by that, but she quickly shuts him up by brushing a puff of bronzer against his cheekbones. “I’m not looking for love,” she says assertively. “Just someone to help me pass the time. Unless Hayden keeps impressing me… then I might need to keep him around. I want to talk about you, though.”

“Me?” Nathan says, incredulous.

“Uh, yeah. Have you popped your cherry yet, or are you waiting for some college girl to rock your world?”

Nathan freezes for a fraction of a second, his face blank as he processes the question. He doesn’t look at Victoria, doesn’t meet the sly grin she’s aiming at him. Instead, he focuses on the soft bristles of the makeup brush she’s swirling in some blush, the rhythmic motion oddly hypnotic.

He could lie. It would be easy, almost automatic, to conjure up some half-baked story about a one-night stand with a nameless girl he’d met at a party, something casual and forgettable. Victoria wouldn’t press for details; she’d roll her eyes and move on, probably launch into another story about Hayden or some other guy in her roster.

If he’s going to come out to someone other than his mother, she’s probably the safest bet. She’d never judge him for something like this. Everything else, maybe, in that lovingly teasing way of hers—but not this.

Nathan clears his throat, still avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I mean, yeah. I have. It’s a little complicated, though.”

Victoria pauses mid-swipe. “What’s complicated?”

Nathan taps his fingers against the arm of the couch, willing himself to just say it. To rip off the Band-Aid. If he wants to be open about Warren someday, he’ll need to get used to doing this over and over again, to strangers, to friends. Do it, pussy.

“I’m gay,” he blurts, his voice low and quick. He doesn’t look at her, but keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, on the stain on her carpet where she accidentally spilled wine during a particularly animated rant last month.

Victoria doesn’t respond immediately. The silence stretches long enough that he almost regrets saying it, the words already echoing too loudly in his head. Then, finally, she lets out a soft breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Huh,” she says, resting her hands in her lap. “Well, that makes sense.”

Nathan frowns, his head snapping up to look at her. “What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

She tilts her head, her lips curving into a faint, almost knowing smile. “I mean, you’ve never dated a girl during your time here. I thought you could’ve ended up with… oh, what’s her name? Samantha Myers? She had a crush on you. But then she moved away, so…”

He hasn’t heard that name in forever. Samantha did like him, and he liked her too, just not in the way she deserved. Still, she was one of the only people during freshman year who hadn’t treated him like he was radioactive. They’d even hung out together outside of class a few times, either to read silently in each other’s company or take pictures. One of their photography sessions landed her in the hospital (a long and convoluted story), but she’d laughed weakly through the pain of two broken ribs and told him it wasn’t his fault.

I shouldn’t have been standing out in the street, she’d said from her hospital bed, pressing the button that delivers morphine through a needle in her forearm. You’d think I would’ve seen that biker.

It was the last real conversation they had. Three weeks later, her family moved away to Nebraska for reasons he never asked about, and she was gone.

“It’s Warren, isn’t it?” Victoria says, picking up an eyeliner pen and uncapping it. “Close your eyes.”

Nathan takes a slow breath, steadying himself, and does as he’s told. “Yeah,” he says, feeling the glide of the pen over his eyelids. “It’s Warren.”

“That’s good.” She caps it with a click and leans back against the armrest of the couch. “He’s good for you. You’ve been a lot calmer with him around.”

Nathan nods thoughtfully. “He makes me a better person.”

“Whatever he’s doing,” she says, “tell him to keep doing it.” She grabs a small mirror from her makeup bag and hands it to him. “You know… Dana’s having a bonfire tonight at her house. You should come. Both of you.”

Nathan takes one look at his reflection before reaching for her makeup wipes, rubbing at his face. “Both of us? Who’s going to be there?”

“Vortex Club. Just the girls, though. Me, Dana, Courtney, Juliet. Maybe Taylor.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing. “No Logan or Zachary?”

Victoria shakes her head. “Nope. It’s just a low-key thing,” she says. “Drinks, s’mores, music. No one will say anything about you two being affectionate. Courtney’s got two dads.”

Nathan pauses, considering. A bonfire with the Vortex girls sounds leagues less chaotic than one of their usual parties. No football bros hollering over beer pong, no clouds of smoke thick enough to choke on. Part of him should be offended, probably, that he and Warren are allowed when the other guys aren’t, and that she’s offering him some sanitized version of their get-togethers to accommodate his new relationship. He isn’t, though. He’s relieved, grateful even, that she thought to mention it.

“Alright,” he says slowly, feeling out his decision. “I’ll ask him.”

Victoria beams, standing up and shoving her makeup back into a drawer. She pauses to look at him tenderly, and Nathan’s face flushes, a warmth pooling in his chest. “What is it?” he asks.

“I’m happy for you,” she says simply, her voice softer than he’s used to hearing. “You’re a good guy, Nate. It’s nice you have someone who makes you feel like it’s okay to be yourself.”

Nathan smiles back. He thinks so too.

Warren’s playing some shooter game when Nathan returns to his room, the sharp crackle of gunfire and a tinny soundtrack blaring from his TV. He’s seated crisscross on the floor, leaning too close to the screen, controller clutched tightly in his hands.

Nathan shuts the door behind him with a soft click, but Warren doesn’t look up, too focused on whatever mission he’s in the middle of. “Come on, come on…” Warren mutters, his thumbs flying over the controller.

Nathan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You know, they say sitting that close to the TV will make you go blind.”

Warren jumps, his character taking a sudden hit on-screen. “Hey,” he says, tugging his headset off with a goofy grin and leaping to his feet to kiss him. His character groans several times as bullets tear into him, the screen flashing red in defeat. “What’re you doing back so early? I thought she was keeping you the whole night.”

Nathan smirks against Warren’s lips, letting the kiss linger a moment before breaking away. “She invited us to a party at Dana’s place. Just her and the other girls,” he says. “You wanna go?”

“Us? Like, together?”

“Yeah,” Nathan says, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. He keeps his tone casual, even though his heart picks up slightly. “I kind of… told her about us.”

Warren blinks, surprised. “You did?”

“I did.” Nathan shrugs, like it’s no big deal, even though it feels huge. As it turns out, coming out to the people he loves isn’t as difficult as he thought it would be. “It just… came up. She asked if I’d, y’know, ‘popped my cherry,’ or whatever, and—”

“Jesus, Victoria.”

“Yeah,” Nathan huffs. “Anyway, I told her. About me. About us. And she was cool. Said we should go to this bonfire thing tonight. Thought it might be…” He hesitates, his voice dipping. “Good for us, I think, to be out like that. Together.”

Warren doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at Nathan with that open, curious expression that always makes him feel like he’s being seen too clearly. “Okay,” he says, reaching out to tug lightly at the sleeve Nathan’s been worrying at. “Let’s do it. It’ll be fun.”

“You think so?”

“Uh-huh.” Warren tugs him back in again, his hands wandering to Nathan’s hips, his mouth brushing against his neck. It’s almost comical how handsy he is, how utterly incapable Warren is of keeping his affection subtle. Nathan has never been very touchy (it took him a year before he felt comfortable enough to let Victoria hug him), but with Warren, it’s different. Maddeningly different. The casual way Warren’s fingers hook into his belt loops or skim his jaw always leaves him completely unmoored.

When he pulls away, he squints. “Are you… wearing eyeliner?” he asks.

Nathan bats at him, embarrassed. “No,” he grumbles, flitting to Warren’s closet. He pulls out one of his sweatshirts and pulls it over his head, and then tosses one to Warren. “Bundle up. Let’s go.”

It’s 6:30 by the time they leave the dorms, cutting through the vacant main building to stay warm. The air outside is sharp, the kind of biting cold that seeps through layers and gnaws at exposed skin. The bay is well into autumn. In a few more weeks, the trees will be stripped bare, their branches skeletal. For now, though, the leaves still cling stubbornly to their reds and golds, carpeting the lawns in uneven bursts of color.

“I’m surprised,” Warren says as they cross the threshold into the heated corridor. He offers Nathan his hand, who accepts it. “That you told Victoria about us. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to… you know. Go public.”

“I don’t want everyone to know yet,” Nathan says, glancing at him as their fingers intertwine. His video, his suicide attempt… he doesn’t need another reason for people to treat him like he’s a spectacle. Eventually, someone will find out and Blackwell will know all about it, but for now, he wants to keep this—them—to himself. “Just close friends. The Vortex girls are safe, I think.”

"I’ll take your word for it,” Warren says. He squeezes Nathan’s hand, their fingers tangled together in a way that feels natural now, like muscle memory.

They walk a few more steps in silence until Warren stops abruptly, mid-stride, his hand tugging Nathan back just enough to make him pause. “What is it?” he asks, turning to face him

Warren hesitates, his free hand slipping into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “I was just thinking,” he says, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Would you want to come over to the house for dinner sometime? Meet my mom?”

Nathan stares blankly at him, trying to process the enormity of what he’s been asked. It takes him a moment to wrap his head around it, to take the question and fold it neatly into something manageable. “Really?”

“I mean, you don’t have to,” Warren says quickly. “But I’d like you to. I’ve already met your parents, so this should be the next step, right? Circumstances weren’t ideal, but…”

Nathan’s palms sweat at the mere thought of having to impress yet another person in his life. He’ll try to clean up and present himself well, of course, but there’s no shaking the feeling that he’ll mess it up somehow. That he’ll say or do the wrong thing, or worse—that Warren’s mom will look at him and see right through his bullshit. He has issues that no sane parent would want anywhere near their child.

What would he even say to her? Hi, I’m Nathan, the guy who almost jumped off a roof and probably traumatized your son a little in the process. He swallows hard, and he grips Warren’s hand harder without realizing it.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Warren adds. “She doesn’t know about you yet. I want her to, though. She’ll like you.”

Nathan forces out a dry laugh. “You sound awfully confident for someone who doesn’t know how much people usually hate me.”

Warren gives him a look, one of those pointed, unwavering stares. “Because they don’t know you,” he says firmly. “Not the way I do.”

Nathan sighs and looks away, tugging Warren down the empty hallway. They’ve reached the glass double doors near the front of the school, and he lets go of his hand to shove his own into his pockets, staring out at the dark expanse of campus beyond. “Okay,” he says. “If you want me to, I will.”

Warren’s face lights up, and Nathan smiles too, although he still feels uneasy. He wishes he could give him a pleasant dinner with his own family. His mom would love to see him again, but there’s no way his dad would ever treat him with anything close to respect if he knew the nature of their relationship. He can’t give him a perfect, loving family who will welcome him with open arms. All he can offer is himself and hope it’s enough to make up for everything else.

Neither of them speak. The hallway is empty, silent except for the faint hum of the building settling around them. Warren shifts again, his hand brushing against Nathan’s. “You know,” he finally murmurs, his voice dipping lower, “there’s no one here.”

Nathan raises an eyebrow, his pulse stuttering. His gaze darts to the lockers lining the walls, the polished linoleum floor, the silent rows of closed classroom doors. It’s true—they’re completely alone. “So?”

“So,” Warren says with that stupid, teasing grin of his, stepping closer, “that means we can do whatever we want.”

Before now, Nathan hadn’t pegged Warren as the type of person to make reckless decisions. Not that he’s complaining, because it’s hot knowing that Warren is capable of being brazen when he wants to be. He caught a flash of it the day he watched him beat Frank within an inch of his life on the beach, blood streaking his knuckles, eyes wild. He’d looked more animal than human, like some unleashed, primal thing that had been caged too long and was now utterly unrepentant in its fury.

Something about seeing him so feral had made his knees weak. He remembers thinking how, in the moment, he’d almost wished it was him taking his punches. Blood on his lips, bruises blooming under his skin like violet flowers, all of it etched into him by Warren’s hands. Any excuse to have his full attention, even if it came with pain. Maybe because it came with pain. That’s the part Nathan doesn’t like to dwell on, the quiet hunger for punishment. The need for someone to break him open and strip him down to nothing, because maybe then he’d feel purged, cleansed by violence.

It’s such a simple thing to give in. Nathan grabs Warren by the collar of his sweatshirt, yanking him closer with more force than he intended. The two of them stumble backward into a row of lockers with a loud clang, the sound echoing down the hallway. Nathan barely registers it, too caught up in the heat of Warren’s mouth, the feeling of their bodies melded together. Desire sparks in his stomach like a firecracker, and he gasps softly when he feels Warren’s hands gliding up his sides, slipping under his shirt to grip his hips.

“There’s probably cameras in here,” Nathan mutters, breath catching when one of Warren’s hands squeezes his ass. There’s definitely cameras in here. They caught him last year when he tried to steal the totem pole by the dorms as part of a drunken dare. He and a couple of other guys he barely knew (equally drunk, equally stupid) had managed to drag it through the main building and out to the parking lot, where they’d planned to tie it to the back of someone’s truck and haul it who knows where. Thanks to Madsen, it never got that far.

“Mmm, probably,” Warren hums, parting from the kiss to mouth at his jaw, tongue lapping at his neck. “Hope they’re enjoying the show.”

Warren’s teeth scrape against his throat, and Nathan’s mouth falls open, his pulse jackrabbiting again in his ears. “You’re such a freak,” he huffs, even though he loves it, loves how Warren pushes him, pulls him apart at the seams, makes him feel things he’s never felt before. The words come out sharp and biting, but his hands betray him, clawing at Warren’s shoulders to keep him exactly where he is.

Warren purrs happily in response. “Takes one to know one,” he says. His hands tighten on Nathan’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft dip just above his waistband, and Nathan’s breath stutters embarrassingly in his throat. “You kissed me first.”

Nathan wants to argue, wants to throw out a retort that might save a shred of his dignity, but his brain turns to mush when Warren’s hands slide up his sides, the calluses on his fingers dragging against his ribs. “That’s not—God,” he breathes, tilting his head back against the lockers to expose more of his throat. Warren takes the opening greedily, his mouth finding the hollow of his neck, sucking just enough to leave another mark along the pale expanse of skin. He has a growing collection now, although most of the damage is hidden beneath his clothes. The worst—or maybe best—of it is on his thighs, a mess of hickeys Warren spent the better part of last night crafting.

Out of the corner of his eye, movement. A shadow in the glass of the faculty office doors. The reflective pane catches just enough light to show a figure standing there, completely still, watching them quietly. The heat of Warren’s body against his is suddenly replaced with an icy dread. He knows that stance, that posture, even in silhouette.

Panic claws its way up Nathan’s throat, and he stiffens in Warren’s arms. “Warren,” he says sharply, his voice cracking. He pushes at his chest, not hard but hard enough to make him pull back slightly, brows knitted.

“What?” Warren asks, reaching out to wipe a bead of spit off Nathan’s bottom lip. “What’s wrong?”

Nathan’s gaze darts back to the glass, but Jefferson is gone, replaced by their own warped reflections. It’s been four days since he’s seen him last, since that awful night in the darkroom, and he’s managed to avoid him since then. He can’t stomach the thought of sitting in the same room as him, his skin crawling at the memory of his voice, his touch. He’ll skip his class till graduation if he needs to—anything to keep himself from being in that man’s presence again.

“Nothing,” Nathan says, his voice thin and unconvincing. The word tastes like ash in his mouth. He plants a kiss on Warren’s cheek before stepping away to busy himself with straightening his hoodie, using it as an excuse to avoid Warren’s probing gaze. “C’mon. We’re late.”

They arrive at Dana’s, the yellow glow from the windows spilling onto the pavement. The sounds of laughter and music bubble up through the air, and Warren, apparently having visited her house before, leads them around the back. They slip through an open gate and into the backyard, a bonfire burning in a pit, flames licking at the dark sky. Around it, the girls huddle in various states of engagement: some stand close, hands extended to capture the warmth, while others sit on scattered chairs, lost in conversation.

Dana is the first to notice them. She stands and bends to grab something from a cooler beside her before walking over with a bright smile and two seltzers. “You made it!” she says cheerfully, handing each of them a drink. She doesn’t say anything about the two of them arriving together. Maybe Victoria already filled her in, or maybe she’s none the wiser. “We weren’t sure if you guys were going to show up. Get over here.”

She beckons them over, where Victoria looks up and waves. In her other hand is a stick, a marshmallow skewered on top, toasted to a golden brown. “Took you long enough,” she says, grimacing when it catches on fire. She waves it frantically to extinguish the flames before blowing on it, her face illuminated by the brief flare of light. “We were just talking about Halloween. Nate, you’re going to be a cowboy this year. I’ve decided for you.”

Nathan pops his drink with a satisfying hiss and scrunches up his nose. “Do I get a say?”

“Not really, no. It’s either that or a pirate, and I think the pirate thing has been done to death,” she says. She takes a satisfied bite of her marshmallow and licks the gooey mess from one of her fingers. “I’ll see if I can borrow some clothes from the theater department. There has to be some boots from Annie Get Your Gun lying around.”

“I, for one, am totally on board with that,” Warren whispers from beside him. “Maybe some spurs… some assless chaps…”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Nathan mutters, his mouth twitching. He takes a sip of his drink, the fizz tickling his throat. “I’d look like a fucking Village Person.”

Victoria clears her throat and everyone’s heads turn, suddenly rapt. “I’ve had to rethink my costume now that Hayden’s taking me to the party,” she says. “We’re talking about doing Gomez and Morticia. Cute, right?”

The girls erupt in a clamor of approval, cooing at the idea. Nathan can’t tell if they think it’s cute or if they’re just playing along to stay on Victoria’s good side. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Taylor reaching into the cooler for another drink, looking sullen. When she can’t find what she’s looking for, she stands, sighs, and slips inside Dana’s house through the sliding glass door.

“What’s her problem?” Courtney snorts. Victoria glances over her shoulder in Taylor’s direction but doesn’t follow her. Her attention snaps back to the remaining group moments later.

When the drinks run out and the fire starts to die, most of the girls retreat inside, leaving the backyard quieter, the conversations softer. Nathan and Warren linger by the embers, their drinks almost empty, their faces flushed from the heat. Nathan kicks at the dirt with the toe of his shoe, watching the scattered sparks glow faintly before extinguishing in the damp grass. Eventually, he feels brave enough, or maybe tipsy enough, to reach out and hold Warren’s hand.

Warren shifts closer to him, his thumb rubbing against his knuckles. “Cold?” he asks. It’s just the two of them now, Victoria having left them to do Jell-O shots with the rest of the group.

Nathan shakes his head, though he’s lying. The chill in the air bites through the fabric of his hoodie, but he doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to leave this bubble where they can exist just as they are. He likes this—the two of them here, hands intertwined, the faint hum of music drifting from the house.

The song fades, the backyard holding its breath. Then, the low strumming of a guitar, filtering out through the open windows. Nathan knows this one. ‘Nutshell’ by Alice in Chains. Good song.

Before he can second-guess himself, he tugs Warren’s hand, pulling him closer. “Dance with me,” he says, his free hand coming up to rest on Warren’s shoulder. He’s never danced with anyone before. He’s skipped every homecoming and last year’s prom, too self-conscious, too lazy to dress up. If he could invite Warren as his date and not have to worry about the shitstorm that would ensue, he would.

Warren blinks at him, surprised, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah,” he says, one of his hands sliding to Nathan’s waist. “Okay.”

Their movements are stiff and awkward at first, Nathan’s nerves getting the better of him. He’s hyperaware of everything—the heat of Warren’s touch, the way their breaths mingle in the cold air, the way their chests press together. But then Warren gives him a look, something so open and patient and Warren, that the tension melts away.

“Relax,” Warren murmurs, his thumb brushing against Nathan’s hip. “It’s just me.”

Just me. As if that isn’t everything. Nathan nods, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment, focusing on the music, the steady rhythm of Warren’s breathing. Slowly, they begin to sway. He laughs a little when Warren spins him and then pulls him close again, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Funny, he thinks, head swimming from the seltzers, how dancing feels so much more intimate than sex.

“I love you,” Warren says suddenly, and Nathan’s world narrows to that moment, to those three words.

He freezes. His first instinct is disbelief—he must have misheard, must be imagining things. But when he looks up, Warren’s gaze is steady, his expression calm.

“You—” he starts, then falters, the words dying on his lips. “Are you drunk?”

Warren nods at his drink sitting near the fire pit, unopened. “Sober,” he says.

Nathan stares at him, his heart racing. He doesn’t know what to do with this, doesn’t know what to say. He’s hoped this whole time that Warren might love him, but hearing it out loud is a different beast altogether. “You mean it?” he asks hoarsely. They’re swaying again, the song still droning in the background.

“I don’t think I’d say it if I didn’t,” Warren says earnestly. His cheeks are flushed, though whether it’s from embarrassment or cold, Nathan isn’t sure. “You don’t have to say it back, or anything, I just—I wanted you to know.”

Nathan’s breath lodges in his throat. His mind screams at him to say something, anything, but the words won’t come.

Instead, he leans forward, closing the space between them, and rests his face against Warren’s chest. Warren’s arms tighten around him instinctively, holding him close, and Nathan lets out a shaky breath. He smells like wood smoke mixed with the clean scent of his cheap body wash. That fucking Irish Spring.

“I want to say it back,” Nathan murmurs, his voice muffled against Warren’s sweatshirt. He loves him too, more than anything else in this world, but something is stopping him. "I want to say it, but... I don't think I'm ready yet."

Warren’s hold on him tightens just a fraction, a silent affirmation that he’s there, listening. “It’s okay,” he says. “No rush. I’ll be here whenever you are.”

Nathan nods, breathing him in, and pulls back slightly to look up at him. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he confesses, the words tumbling out. There’s no reason why he should be so lucky—not after everything he’s said and done.

“You exist,” Warren says, leaning in to kiss him. He smiles against his lips. “That’s enough.”

Nathan stops by his room once they’re back in the dorms.

Since he’s stayed with Warren, the two of them have slept naked most of the time, bodies coiled under the sheets. With the dormitory's heating having broken and a cold snap sweeping down the coast, sleeping naked is no longer an option. Not unless they want to spend the night with goosebumps and chattering teeth.

Shedding his jeans, he digs around in his dresser for Warren’s pajama pants and pulls them on. He lingers awkwardly in the middle of the floor for a moment, as though the space belongs to someone else entirely. It’s been days since he last stepped foot in here. It’s become less of a bedroom and more of a place to pass through, not stay.

He glances at the couch—or, more accurately, what lies beneath it. The encounter with Jefferson still lingers in his mind. He was there. He knows he was there, and for whatever reason, he was watching. He isn’t sure how long he’d been there or how much he’d seen, but the thought of it sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with the weather.

Nathan forces himself to move, to carefully dodge the fragments of glass still littering his carpet, and kneel. He reaches beneath the couch and yanks out the plastic bag containing the gun and the phone, and against his better judgment, he powers it on.

He wonders if Jefferson has left him any messages, but quickly finds that he hasn’t. No texts, no calls. Frank is a different story, though, having sent him a barrage of threats several days ago. Nathan scrolls through them, vaguely entertained, and then sets the phone down.

Immediately, the screen lights up.

[Unknown, Today 0:00]

Do you think you can run from this, Nathan?

This is who you are.

Nathan’s heart beats loudly in his chest, the room spinning around him. He grabs the phone with shaking hands, his breathing labored, and then stops. There is no new message from Jefferson. The last text he received from him was days ago.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rubbing at his eyes. It’s nothing. Just his tired mind.

Staring down at the dark screen, he considers the possibility of Jefferson breaking in to steal the phone. Was that why he’d been watching him earlier? Was he keeping tabs on his movements, waiting for the right moment to act? It sounds absurd, but he can’t put anything past him anymore. There’s nothing Jefferson won't do to manipulate the situation to his advantage.

Nathan taps on the phone’s settings, finger hovering over the RESET SETTINGS button. If he’s smart, he’ll delete everything, destroy the evidence before Jefferson has a chance to take it for himself. He doesn’t, though. He needs to hold onto it a little longer. It’s his only leverage.

Instead, he taps the option to change the password, which Jefferson definitely knows. He thinks, racking his brain for a combination of numbers that have no significance to anyone but himself, something impossible for Jefferson to guess. What did Rachel use for her password, again? Right.

112096

Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 30th

“Guess what?” Warren says as he and Nathan leave Hoida’s class, fishing around in his backpack. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, clutching the crumpled piece of paper that marks his triumph. “Remember that chem quiz I was telling you about? Check it out.”

Nathan hums and takes it from his hands as they navigate through the crowded hallway, their shoulders bumping. “Ninety-one,” he says with a whistle, handing it back with a nod of approval. “Obviously. You’re a genius.”

“I know,” Warren says smugly, even though he achieved it (and the A on his recent English essay) through dumb luck. The gods of academia must be smiling down at him this week, because there is no way in hell he should’ve done well on either assignment. He crammed for the chemistry quiz with a last-minute, frantic study session and finished the four-page essay in an evening. Not before chugging a Red Bull, popping his Diazepam, and saying a quick prayer.

He hasn’t had the time to study—not with Nathan around. Just yesterday, the two of them drove into Newberg to catch another Halloween movie at the drive-in. They watched Carrie this time (the 1976 version, Nathan’s choice) and cuddled in the backseat, stuffing their faces with popcorn and sharing a bag of Tootsie Pops. Nathan, as per usual, hogged the cherry ones. Warren chose blue raspberry so their tongues would be purple when they kissed.

“Wanna head back to the room and watch me try my costume on?” he asks with a smirk, which Nathan mirrors. He swung by the Spirit Halloween in town a few days ago—the one that took over the abandoned adult video rental—to grab a pre-made Luke Skywalker outfit, but gawked at the prices. Instead, he cobbled his costume from clothes he found thrifting. It’s not quite movie-accurate, but then again, it’s a high school Halloween party. No one will be sober enough to care.

“I would,” Nathan says, holding up his phone, “but Victoria needs me to grab some shit for the party. Gotta run to the liquor store.”

Warren is less surprised about Nathan having a fake ID and more curious about how he can get away with using it when the entire town knows who he is. He doesn’t ask, just sighs dramatically. “Duty calls, I guess,” he says, waving him off in mock exasperation. “Go on. Better get your booze, since it’s so much more important and fun than hanging out with me.”

“You’re annoying,” Nathan grumbles, though he reaches over and squeezes Warren’s hand three times. It’s a habit he’s picked up over the past few days, a secret code. Three times for three words. I. Love. You.

He leaves, Warren watching him till he disappears through the double doors. In the earliest stages of their relationship, Warren thought he would’ve been a nervous wreck when it came to moments like this, had envisioned people finding out and dragging the two of them outside to beat the shit out of them. Their reality is far less dramatic. Sure, they’ve been tossed some odd looks for standing too close to each other, and Justin caught them red-handed when they left a shower stall together, but so far, the school rumor mill has been surprisingly quiet.

Maybe everyone is too caught up in the Halloween hype for petty gossip. Or maybe Nathan’s suicide attempt had more of an impact on Blackwell than he’d thought, and no one wants to stir up more trouble for him. Some things just aren’t worth making a fuss about.

Since Nathan made it clear he’s okay with close friends knowing, he’s slowly come out about them to the remaining people in his circle. He called an emergency meeting a few days ago while Nathan went for a swim, Stella, Dana, and Kate shuffling into his cluttered mess of a bedroom. Stella already knew, of course, but Dana had only suspected. Kate, on the other hand, was completely blindsided, but her reaction was everything Warren had hoped for. I just want you both to be happy, she’d said, hugging him. We’re here for you.

He wishes he could tell Max about him. She knows, although she deserves more of an explanation than the pathetic one he gave her at Chloe’s. He ran into her between classes on Monday and exchanged stilted small talk. Her classes are going well. If she isn’t taking pictures, she’s spending time with Chloe, who’s now her girlfriend. When he asked if the two of them were still looking into Rachel, she shrugged, despondent. They aren’t sure what else there is to look for.

When he drops by the girls’ dorms to see if Stella is around, he finds Victoria standing in the hallway, staring at one of Rachel’s posters. It's almost obscured by new additions to the corkboard, announcements for dance auditions and debate club meetings nearly swallowing it whole, but Victoria’s gaze remains fixed on the faded edges of Rachel’s image. Warren hesitates, unsure whether to interrupt.

“Hey,” he finally says, approaching slowly. She says nothing, just nods slightly without taking her eyes off the poster. He continues. “Thanks for the invite to the bonfire. That was, uh, really fun.”

She glances over at him and smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks for coming,” she says, eyes flicking back to the poster to trace the contours of Rachel’s face. “Did Nate have a good time?”

“Yeah,” he says, stuffing his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “He did.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the distant sound of laughter and footsteps at the other end of the hall. Warren looks to the poster again, to Rachel’s smile, and remembers what Dana said all those weeks ago—something about a rivalry with Victoria.

“You two knew each other, right?” he asks. “I mean, I’ve heard things, but…”

Victoria’s eyes harden, her posture stiffening. For a beat, he thinks she might turn and walk away without answering, but then she exhales slowly. “She was everywhere,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Unavoidable. Always the center of attention, always trying to outshine everyone else.”

“How?”

She presses her lips together and turns to face him completely. “I’m guessing you’ve only heard the hero-worship version of her,” she says grimly. “Rachel knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it, and she didn’t care who she stepped on to do it.” Her voice dips lower, almost to a mutter. “Sometimes, that was me.”

Somewhere in there, there’s truth. Rachel was seeing multiple people at once, all while dating Chloe. Except it wasn’t really her fault, was it? Sure, she cheated, but Frank has to be at least ten years older than her. Who knows how old the mystery man in her phone is. Both are adults who took advantage of her.

Victoria’s jaw tightens as though she’s debating on whether to keep going. “She was the most boy-crazy person I’ve ever met,” she says, turning up her ski jump nose. “What does she do when she finds out I have a crush on Mr. Jefferson? She flirts with him. You have no idea how many times I saw her in his classroom after hours, leaning against his desk, flipping her hair.”

Warren shifts uncomfortably, unsure if he should say something or just let her vent. The Rachel he’s heard about—Chloe’s Rachel, Nathan’s Rachel—feels so far removed from the one Victoria is describing. “You don’t think the two of them ever…” he asks, his voice trailing off. “Did they?”

Victoria steps closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Now, you didn’t hear this from me,” she says haughtily, “but Mr. Jefferson taught at this private school in Vermont before he ended up here. I heard he had to leave because of a scandal. Something about sleeping with a student and her parents finding out.”

“Shit,” he says, stomach churning. He doesn’t like the implications of this. “Is it true?”

Victoria shrugs. “No clue,” she says, looking down to examine her nails. “Probably not. I’ve tried to sleep with him plenty and I never got anywhere. Either he’s not into students anymore or he left for other reasons.”

There’s no way Jefferson would do something like that. He’s one of the cool teachers at Blackwell, the kind who actually cares about his students—or at least, that’s what Warren’s always thought. Max and Stella worship the ground he walks on, and Nathan probably does too, him being Jefferson’s star student and all. That has to say something.

He needs to look at Rachel’s messages again.

“It’s weird,” Victoria says, sneaking a look over her shoulder at the poster. “I hated her… but I miss her, too. Even when she was driving me insane, she was still the most interesting person in the room.”

“Ah,” Warren says, although he isn’t really listening anymore. Victoria says something about party planning, she’ll see him tomorrow, tell Nathan she says hi, and then he’s alone. Starting in the direction of the boys’ dorms, he tries to ignore the cold dread settling in his chest. He needs to look over the evidence again. Needs to find the truth buried in all of the pictures he’s taken.

He has work to do.

Nathan isn’t back from the liquor store, so Warren sprawls out on his bed, kicking off his sneakers and pulling his laptop from his desk. The conversation with Victoria is still rattling around in his head and making it difficult to concentrate, but he forces himself to open the folder entitled RA anyway.

Inside are all the scraps of information he’s collected, uploaded from his phone for convenience. He peruses her texts first, rereading the exchanges with the older man. They don’t tell him anything he hasn’t already agonized over. Neither does her file, which only reminds him that an anonymous student reported her a couple of days before she vanished. Which is why she was so upset in her texts with the stranger, who later picked her up and did something awful to her.

He types the phone number into a reverse lookup website, hoping for a lead. It’s a long shot—he knows most sites won’t return anything useful without payment, and even then, the results might be vague. He’s desperate.

The screen refreshes, and his heart sinks. As expected, the number is unavailable. No name, no address, nothing. A burner.

Back to the files. He clicks through the photos of Frank’s logbook, scanning dates and dog breeds and drugs until he’s in April. It was a slow month for Frank. Only one person bought from in the few days before Rachel went missing. April 20th. The beach. GHB. Rott.

Whoever they are, they’re a return customer with serious money. Sometimes weed or cocaine, but usually GHB in small quantities. Whatever that is. He opens a new tab, fingers flying across his keyboard, and clicks the top result.

GHB

Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid (GHB) is a powerful central nervous system depressant often referred to as a ‘date rape drug’ due to its ability to induce drowsiness, confusion, and memory loss. In small doses, it can create a sense of euphoria or relaxation. In large quantities, it can incapacitate someone completely.

Warren’s eyes fly back to the logbook. It’s a wild guess, but could Rott and the stranger be the same person? That can’t be right. The man she was texting was markedly older than her, and whoever Rott is felt comfortable enough to buy from Frank on Blackwell property. They couldn’t be a student. They could be a teacher.

This isn’t looking good for Jefferson. Warren presses his hands against his eyes, exhaling a trembling breath. If it is him, if he did do something to Rachel, then he’s doing things to other people as well. Rott’s transactions start months before and continue long after her disappearance. Most of them are only a few days before major Vortex Club parties. He bought from Frank on the 8th, two days shy of the most recent one.

The one where Nathan was drugged.

Oh, fuck. Warren stands and begins to pace. The parties are a hunting ground. If it is Jefferson, he’s using them as a cover. The crowds, everyone being drunk—they’re perfect for someone like him to operate unnoticed. He’s drugging people and doing who knows what with them. Who knows what he planned on doing with Nathan. It’s obvious what he did with Rachel.

And what about October 8th? Something about that date seems familiar, like he’s seen it before.

He stops in the middle of his room, queasy, and forces himself to think rationally. Why would Jefferson buy the drug before the most recent party when he knew he’d be the center of attention? He made his big announcement about the contest that night. All eyes would be on him, and slipping something into someone’s drink would be a massive risk—unless he wasn’t planning on doing it himself.

Unless he’s using someone else to do it. The same person who got Rachel suspended.

His head snaps toward the door, and Nathan enters with two plastic bags of bottles dangling from his wrists. “I should get a fuckin’ discount for how much money I spend at that place,” he says, carefully setting them in a corner. “I’m keeping it in business.”

Warren freezes mid-thought, his heart pounding. He can’t move, can’t speak. Nathan must notice his weird energy, because he stops what he’s doing and looks up, puzzled. “Are you sick?” he asks. “You look pale.”

“Feels like it,” Warren says, taking a slow seat on his bed. He reaches over and shuts his laptop, his palms damp with sweat. Whoever drugged Nathan must’ve been in the VIP area that night. Someone from the Vortex Club. “I’m fine.”

Nathan frowns, reaching out to cup his cheek. “Hey,” he says gently. “Anxiety?”

Warren looks up at him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He wants to tell him everything—about Jefferson, about Rott, about the horrifying conclusions he’s been drawing and how someone might be roofied tomorrow—but he’s scared of what it might do to him. He can’t know yet.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Forgot to take my med this morning.”

Nathan nods and straightens. “I know what’ll help,” he says, and then disappears through the door. He returns only a moment later with a small tin, which he holds up and shakes gently. “You ever smoked before?”

Warren stares as he rattles it. Leave it to Nathan to offer weed as a cure-all. “Not really,” he says, his voice tight.

“Well,” Nathan says, opening the tin with a little flourish, “you’re in for a treat. Prescott special.” He fishes out a neatly rolled joint and pulls a white lighter from his pocket, settling onto the edge of Warren’s bed. The fluid click of the lighter and the faint, herbal scent of burning paper fill the room.

Nathan takes a slow drag, holding in the smoke for a beat before exhaling in a ribbon-thin stream. He must sense Warren’s wondering about whether the smoke alarm will go off, because he shakes his head. “They don’t work,” he says, giving him a crooked grin. “Trust me, I’ve tested it. C’mere. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Warren hesitates when he hands it to him, their fingers brushing. The last thing he needs is to cloud his head after the awful conspiracy he’s been piecing together. He can’t lose his edge—though, really, he feels like he’s lost it already.

The look on Nathan’s face softens. “One hit,” he says, his voice low and coaxing. He leans his cheek against Warren’s shoulder. “For me?”

It’s that tone—that soft, disarming plea—that does it. Warren relents, the tension in his shoulders unspooling just enough for him to raise the smoldering joint to his lips. The first hit burns, sharp and acrid, making him cough hard enough to double over. “Fu—fuck,” he splutters hoarsely, eyes watering as he tries to catch his breath. Beside him, Nathan laughs and claps him on the back.

“Easy,” he says, plucking it from Warren’s fingers. “I said take a hit. Not inhale half the thing at once.”

“Shut up,” Warren croaks between coughs, wiping the tears from his eyes. His lungs burn as he leans back against his headboard, thumping a fist against his chest. “I’m never doing that again.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nathan says with a lazy grin, rolling the joint between his pointer finger and thumb. “You say that now, but give it ten minutes. Let’s try this instead.”

He shifts closer, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Without missing a beat, he takes a long drag and holds the smoke in his mouth like it’s second nature. Then, with a tilt of his head, he leans in.

“Breathe in when I exhale,” Nathan murmurs, and Warren nods dumbly, his lips parting as he inhales the smoke. It’s different this way—not as harsh, smoother somehow, though his lungs still sting faintly as he breathes it in. He can already feel a pleasant buzz creeping into his limbs, a slow, languid warmth spreading through his body.

“See?” Nathan says against his lips, his words brushing against Warren’s skin like a physical thing. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

Warren lets out a soft, nervous laugh. “I’m a fast learner,” he says, pressing their lips together. His eyes flutter shut as Nathan blows another puff of smoke into his mouth, the sensation heady and electric. The smoke is faintly sweet, laced with something unrecognizable, and Warren can’t tell if it’s the weed or Nathan—or both—that’s making his head spin.

“Here,” Nathan says, reaching for Warren’s hand. He presses the lighter into his palm, the white one he used earlier. “It’s yours.”

Warren looks down at it, the plastic warm from where Nathan’s fingers had been. “Really?”

“Really.” Nathan leans back, propping himself up on one elbow, the joint still burning steadily between his fingers. “I want you to have it. Keep it safe.”

Warren doesn’t question it. Maybe it’s the weed messing with his head, but he already feels attached to it, to the scuff marks on its sides from being tossed into pockets and dragged across countertops. “Thanks,” he says softly, flicking it and watching the flame spark and die, spark and die. He’ll guard it with his life.

They share the joint until it’s burned down to a small stub, Nathan snubbing it out on the bottom of his shoe. The room is hazy now, the glow of Warren’s lamp filtering through the smoky air and softening the sharp lines of everything. Warren feels like he’s floating, the weight of the day melting away like wax under a flame.

Nathan, clutching his stuffed whale to his chest, sits up and stretches. “Feeling better?” he asks, inching closer to nestle into his side. “You’re so quiet.”

Warren hums, swallowing hard. His mouth feels tingly. He can’t stop rubbing his tongue against his teeth. “Yeah,” he says. “Just thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Nathan teases. “What about?”

Warren shifts against the headboard, reaching into his pocket to play with the lighter. His new talisman. “Just… stuff,” he says vaguely, the haze in his mind making it hard to construct a believable deflection. “Everything, I guess.”

Nathan nods, taking this as an acceptable answer. “We’re gonna have fun tomorrow,” he says. He cranes his neck to mumble the words against Warren’s neck, who laughs at how much it tickles. “It’s Halloween. Best holiday ever.”

Warren tilts his head, grinning as Nathan’s breath fans across his throat. “Yeah? What’re we gonna do?”

“Maybe we ditch class. Get breakfast or something,” Nathan says. “Then we come back here and get our costumes ready, eat candy till we think we’re going to puke, and then party till we actually puke.”

Warren snorts. “Gross.”

“No, fun.” Nathan reaches up to thread a hand through Warren’s hair, twirling a lock around his finger. “I got some good shit at the liquor store. I’ll make you something you'll like.”

Warren forces a chuckle, leaning into Nathan’s touch even as his mind starts to spin again. He’ll have to keep a close watch on whoever’s serving drinks at the party. If he finds them, he might have a lead—a way to link everything back to Jefferson and bust this case wide open. Someone at the party knows something. Someone is responsible for this.

I’m closer than ever, he thinks, resting his forehead against Nathan’s. I'm coming, Rachel.

Chapter Text

[You, 04/23/13 3:11 AM]

what the fuck did i do

whsg did i do

[You, 04/23/13 3:18 AM]

mark

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:19 AM]

You killed her.

[You, 04/23/13 3:19 AM]

i killed her. i killed jer

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:20 AM]

I told you to watch the dosage and you made her overdose. Stupid mistake.

[You, 04/23/13 3:20 AM]

what did you do with her

i need to bury her i did tnis to her

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:24 AM]

Already took care of it. She’s in the junkyard.

[You, 04/23/13 3:24 AM]

where

[You, 04/23/13 3:36 AM]

please i need to know shes somewhere nice

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:37 AM]

What’s most important is that she isn’t found.

She’s under a pile of scrap near the front.

[You, 04/23/13 3:38 AM]

oh god oh god oh god

i need to go there i need to go see her

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:40 AM]

The more you move, the more you risk being seen. Do you want to go to prison for this?

[You, 04/23/13 3:40 AM]

it was an accident i didnt mean to

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:41 AM]

Doesn’t matter. The police won’t care that it was an accident.

They’ll look at you, at who you are, and you’ll rot in a cell. Is that what you want?

[You, 04/23/13 3:41 AM]

no

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:43 AM]

Then shut up and listen to me. This stays between us. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t go to the junkyard. You don’t slip up. Do you understand?

[You, 04/23/13 3:44 AM]

i understand

but i cant live with this

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:45 AM]

You’ll learn to.

Go to bed.

[You, 04/23/13 3:46 AM]

why did this happen

why did this happen

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:47 AM]

Because you’re careless. Because you don’t listen.

[You, 04/23/13 3:47 AM]

ill never forgive myself

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:48 AM]

You shouldn’t. Now get your shit together.

[You, 04/23/13 3:50 AM]

i hate you for what youve done to me

[Unknown, 04/23/13 3:51 AM]

You’ll thank me someday.

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 31st

“Nate, come on. I know you’re stalling in there.”

Warren leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his ear pressed against the wood. He can hear the muffled sounds of movement on the other side: the scrape of a chair, the rustle of fabric, Nathan’s soft cursing.

“I’m not stalling,” Nathan snaps back, his voice muffled from inside the bedroom. “I’m adjusting.”

Warren smiles to himself, the kind of private, knowing smile that comes from spending enough time with Nathan to anticipate his every deflection. He raps his knuckles lightly against the door. “Whatever you say, pardner,” he teases, reaching into his pocket to fidget with his lighter. “If you keep adjusting, we’re going to be late to the party.”

There’s a muffled groan from inside, followed by what sounds like something—probably the hat—being thrown against the wall. “Shut up,” he grunts. “I can’t get these goddamn boots on. It’s pissing me off.”

“If you opened the door, I could help you.”

“No.”

Warren rolls his eyes, looking up when he hears a burst of chatter at the other end of the hallway. “Warren!” Stella says, grinning and rushing to his side. She went all out this year—a black bodysuit with bones painted on, elaborate skull makeup, skeleton gloves. She’s followed by Dana in a bloodied dress and stockings, and Kate, who ended up dressing as a cat after all.

“Why aren’t you in costume yet?” Stella asks, pulling a fun-sized chocolate bar from her pocket and unwrapping it. “Everyone’s heading over to the pool.”

“I’d be in costume if a certain someone would hurry up,” Warren says loudly, throwing a dramatic look at the still-closed door. He gestures toward it with both hands like a gameshow host unveiling a prize. “He’s been in there forever.”

The door creaks open just enough for Nathan to poke his head out. “Not true,” he says, the brim of his hat falling over his face. He flicks it upward, murder in his eyes. “I’m ready.”

“Are you going to do a big reveal for your audience?”

Nathan takes turns glaring at each of them, clearly weighing the humiliation of staying hidden versus facing the peanut gallery, before stepping into the hallway. Victoria had brought over a bag full of clothes she scrounged up for him from the theater classroom, including but not limited to: a jean jacket, a plaid shirt, a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, and a felt hat. “I feel dumb,” he grouses.

Warren doesn’t think he’s ever been more attracted to him in his life.

Dana purses her lips. “You look fine,” she says dismissively, looking back to Warren. “We’ll see you inside.”

Warren waits for them to leave through the side doors before tackling Nathan, shoving him back into the room. The door clicks shut behind them and they go tussling onto the bed, which groans beneath their weight as they collapse on it. “God, Warren,” Nathan says, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell—”

“You look so good,” Warren blurts, pressing Nathan into the mess of rumpled blankets and pillows. He’s grinning, flushed from the sudden exertion, his hands braced on either side of Nathan’s head. “Like, unbearably good. You look like Jack Twist.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Nathan says, his tone flat, though the faint blush creeping up his neck betrays him. “If I knew you were into cowboys, I would’ve dressed like this way sooner.”

“I didn’t know I was into it till about two minutes ago,” Warren admits, one of his hands falling to play with the collar of his flannel. A white T-shirt peeks out from underneath it, which he tugs at absentmindedly. “You know what they say, right? Save a horse, and everything.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that what we’re doing?” Nathan rasps, one of his hands curling around Warren’s waist. He glances at the alarm clock on Warren’s side of the bed and arches a brow. “We’ve got twenty minutes. Take me for a ride.”

There’s nothing Warren wants more than to do just that. They’re in a time crunch, though, Victoria demanding the two of them show up early to help kick things off. He’s not going to be the one to make them late. Not when he might be able to stop someone else from being drugged tonight.

“You know I want to,” Warren says, his head dropping. “But we’ve got places to be. Plus, twenty minutes isn’t enough time.”

Nathan smirks. “Come on. For what?”

“To, you know.” Warren gesticulates vaguely as he clambers off him. “Properly saddle up, and everything.”

Nathan huffs and drags his hand over his face as he sits up, his hat tipping precariously to one side. “You’re so corny, it physically hurts,” he mutters, standing and planting a kiss on the corner of Warren’s mouth. “Get dressed. Let’s show our faces and then get back here so you can do whatever you want to me.”

Deal, Warren thinks smugly, already creating a list in his head of exactly whatever might entail, a mental catalog that threatens to derail his entire focus. He has things to do tonight. Important things that require his undivided attention.

He crosses the room to start putting on his costume, but doesn’t get his shirt pulled over his head before Nathan calls for him. “Can you do me a favor?” Nathan asks, his tone sliding into the practiced casualness that Warren has learned to recognize as anything but.

He glances over his shoulder to see Nathan still standing by the bed and narrows his eyes, suspicious. “What kind of favor?”

“You’re supposed to say ‘Yes, Nate, anything for you.’”

“The last time you asked me for a favor, you dragged me to a drug deal where a junkie almost killed you,” Warren says wryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Forgive me if I’m a little wary.”

Nathan groans, tipping his head back dramatically like Warren’s just suggested he chop off his own arm. “Jesus, you’re such a martyr,” he says, his voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation. “It’s nothing like that. I just need you to grab my belt from my room. It’s on the chair by the desk. Simple.”

Warren stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. “You’re literally ten feet from your room.”

“And yet here I am, beltless,” Nathan says, spreading his arms wide in mock helplessness. “Come on, you’re already up. Don’t make me beg. It’s undignified.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Warren mutters fondly. “One day, you’re going to run out of favors to cash in, and I’m going to laugh so hard.”

“Doubt it,” Nathan calls after him, settling back against the headboard with a self-satisfied smirk. “You’re soft for me.”

Warren can’t argue there. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for him, even if it’s ridiculous, like fetching something Nathan is fully capable of getting himself. If Nathan ended up in the hospital tomorrow in need of a kidney, he’s pretty sure he’d volunteer before the doctor even finished asking the question. Hell, he’d probably open himself up and hand it over on the spot. He imagines himself standing in front of a hospital bed, chest flayed open, holding the organ like some kind of macabre offering. Here you go, Nate. Take it. You’ve got my heart already—might as well take the rest.

Crossing the hall, Warren steps into Nathan’s darkened bedroom, the belt exactly where he said it would be—slung haphazardly over the back of the desk chair, an afterthought. When he steps forward to grab it, something bites into his foot.

“Shit,” he hisses, jerking his leg up and hopping awkwardly. He looks down and sees a glittering shard of glass embedded in the sole of his shoe, feels the warm wetness of blood filling his sock. Perfect.

He lowers himself onto the floor and peels off his shoe, yanking the shard out of the rubber sole. It’s small but wickedly sharp, blood smearing across his fingers as he inspects it. Then he notices the broken lamp, shoved into a corner and forgotten about. “You’re going to give me tetanus!” he calls out to no response, pressing his thumb against the wound to slow the bleeding. At least he has proof of his martyrdom now.

Grumbling, Warren scans the floor, half-expecting another booby trap waiting to take him out. His eyes catch on something peeking out from underneath the couch, and curiosity gets the best of him, as it usually does. Ignoring the throb of his injured foot, he reaches for it, fingers brushing against something cold and plastic. He tugs it out until a bag is sitting in his lap. Inside it, a gun and a phone.

Warren stares down at the contents, sighing. Of course Nathan still has the gun from the bathroom incident. It never occurred to him that he might’ve kept it after all this time. Opening the bag, he pulls out the pistol, realizes it’s loaded, and then quickly slips it back inside. Between this one and the one he held in the junkyard, he’s starting to think the universe is playing some cruel joke on him, putting him in reach of firearms far more often than he’d like.

He squints at the phone as he picks it up. It’s the same one that fell out of Nathan’s pocket the night he was drugged, he realizes. He turns it on and pouts when the cracked screen lights up, password-protected. It’s for the best. He shouldn’t be poking around like this, even if he’d kill to know what’s hiding inside of it. If he had to guess, it’s what Nathan used to contact Frank. Why else would anyone have a second phone?

Still… it doesn’t hurt to try. Just until the phone locks him out. Then he’ll back off.

His bloody fingers hover over the screen as he contemplates what to type. Six digits. It could be anything. He types in six zeroes just to see what happens and feels the phone buzz with a sharp rejection. Okay, not that, he thinks, his thumb hesitating again. Maybe something more personal? His mind races, running through possibilities—something related to his address, to their school, to a movie or band he likes. Nothing comes to mind until he remembers Rachel’s phone, and he pauses. Nah. There’s no way.

When he punches in his birthday, however, the screen unlocks, and Warren stares down at in in stunned disbelief.

He used his birthday as a password? Warren feels stupidly giddy at the thought of Nathan remembering something so trivial. A quiet laugh bubbles out of him, soft and disbelieving. He’ll make fun of him for it later. Except he shouldn’t, because he’s not sure how Nathan would react to him doing something like this. If Warren has to guess, not well.

The momentary high fades as he looks down at the unlocked screen. There’s no apps—nothing except for two contacts (both unnamed), a sparse call log, and a number of messages. He needs to put the phone down now. He’s gone too far already. This is a serious invasion of Nathan’s privacy.

But he doesn’t. He taps on one of the contacts and begins to read.

A lot of the texts mean nothing to him at first. Most of them are requests to meet up at an undisclosed location or Nathan announcing his presence. Nothing that seems too concerning, until he scrolls past a conversation from the morning after Nathan was drugged. Nathan, offering a frantic, typo-ridden apology, and whoever he texted replying in a way that makes Warren’s blood curdle. I have a client waiting for photos we don’t have. You never made it out the goddamn door with her.

Warren stares blankly at the texts and then scrolls up as fast as he can, his thumbs slipping on the cracked screen from the blood smeared across his fingers. He isn’t sure what that means. What photos? Nathan didn’t make it out of the party that night because he was drugged—stumbling, incoherent, and completely out of it. Someone roofied him, and he was in the VIP area, and Kate was his date—

No. Warren’s blood curdles, his mouth falling open as the pieces click into place. Kate was Nathan’s date to the party that night. It wasn’t some random coincidence or spur-of-the-moment decision. It was planned, premediated. Nathan had meant to drug her, to take photos of her, and he’d botched it in the worst way possible. He’d dosed himself instead.

Nathan and Rott are the same person.

Tears blur Warren’s vision as he continues to scroll through the texts, bile rising in his throat. It’s the same thing he did to Chloe. He drugged her too, put something in her drink and dragged her back here to take pictures. She’d warned him, hadn’t she? She told him he was dangerous, and he stupidly, naively brushed her off. He should’ve listened. He should’ve fucking listened. This whole time he’s been in bed with the enemy, one who drugs girls for whoever this unknown number is.

He lets out a quiet sob when he lands on April 23rd, on Nathan’s confession, which confirms his worst fears. So do the messages to who he assumes is Frank. His hands tremble so violently that he almost drops the phone, and he gags, dry heaving. No. No, no, no.

The door creaks open, and Warren’s head jerks up, his breath catching in his throat. Nathan stands in the doorway, his face pale, his wide eyes locking onto the phone in Warren’s shaking hands. Neither of them speak. Somewhere down the hallway, someone laughs.

Nathan takes a small step forward, his expression frozen somewhere between fear and devastation. “What are you doing?” he asks.

Warren’s tears spill over as he looks between him and the phone, which feels like it’s burning in his hands. “Nathan,” he chokes out, his name cracking as it leaves his lips. “What did you do to Rachel?”

Nathan doesn’t answer. He stands there, paralyzed, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides.

“What did you do?” Warren says again, staggering to his feet. The tears rolling down his face make it difficult to see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to see Nathan to know the truth. It’s already written in his silence, in the way Nathan’s gaze drops to the floor, in the bloodless tightness of his jaw. “What the fuck did you do?”

He doesn’t wait for an explanation. He shoves past him and sprints down the hallway in one shoe. He needs to tell someone. Chloe. Max. He has to tell them he’s sorry. He’s so, so sorry.

He doesn’t stop running until he reaches the pool building, humid, hazy, and packed full of students in costumes that range from last-minute lazy to extravagantly detailed. A group of guys in blood-spattered white shirts and hockey masks are gathered near the diving board, red Solo cups in hand, laughing as they shove each other dangerously close to the edge. On the far side, someone in a witch hat is bent over and retching into a pumpkin pail, her friends patting her on the back. The world around him feels distorted, too loud, too bright, but he presses forward, eyes scanning the crowd for blue hair. He’s not sure if they’re even here, but he has to try. What choice does he have?

A guy dressed as a zombie stumbles into him, sloshing beer onto Warren’s shirt. “Whoa, man,” the guy huffs, clearly drunk, before staggering off toward the shallow end. Warren barely registers him. He wipes the tears and sweat from his face and carries on, his breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps as he weaves through the crowd.

He stops to take a break once he’s made it to the other side of the pool, unsure if he can keep going. Gripping the railing by the bleachers, he tries to catch his breath, tries to remember the technique Nathan taught him. Inhale, exhale, count to three. That’s not right. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Hold for three.

It doesn’t work. The breaths come too fast, too shallow, to count. He imagines Nathan’s voice—come on, Warren, you’re fine, just breathe—but it does nothing to soothe him, and he’s reminded that nothing is fine, nothing will ever be fine. Nathan lied to him more than once, had thrown out valuable evidence to protect himself, had kissed him with such trembling, bruised tenderness that Warren had innocently believed he was safe there, in his arms. That Nathan would never, could never, hurt him.

He feels like an idiot. No, worse than that. A willing participant in his own destruction. He’d seen the signs and ignored them. He’d told himself that Nathan was broken, yes, but he was too, and that he could be mended. Saved, even. It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.

And the worst part—the most unbearable, gut-wrenching part—is that Warren still loves him. Even now, even after this betrayal. He loves the boy who made him feel seen, who looked at him with an awe that made Warren feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t so small and insignificant after all. That boy isn’t real, though. Or maybe he is, but he’s buried beneath so much pain, so many lies, that Warren can’t reach him anymore.

Nathan Prescott is a liar and a coward. Nathan Prescott is a murderer.

Warren presses the heel of his hand to his chest as if to physically shove away the ache spreading there, another sob scraping up his throat. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he jumps, his head snapping up so fast it makes him dizzy.

“Warren,” Mr. Jefferson says with a frown. “Are you okay?”

“I…” Warren stammers before jerking his arm away, unnerved. The hairs on his arms are standing on end, and he rubs at them to distract from the icy sensation crawling up his spine. “Yeah. Fine.”

Jefferson tilts his head slightly, his frown softening into something more neutral, almost placating. “You sure?” His tone is calm, conversational—just enough concern to be polite, but not enough to pry. His hands slide into his pockets and he rocks back on his heels, as though he has all the time in the world to stand here and wait for Warren to respond. “Big party like this, it can get overwhelming. Not exactly my scene either, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m okay.” Warren slips the burner into his back pocket, out of sight, and stumbles backward. “I need—I need to go. Find my friends.”

“Absolutely,” Jefferson says, stepping aside. “It’s Halloween. Go enjoy yourself.”

Warren nods and scurries past him, feet carrying him toward the exit. With his phone sitting on his nightstand, there’s no way he’ll be able to track down Max and Chloe in this mess. He won’t be able to find them here.

There’s one person he can find, though. One person who isn’t going anywhere.

Warren doesn’t remember getting in his car.

The next thing he knows, he’s gripping the steering wheel as he speeds to the junkyard, the road ahead a blur of shadowy trees and the occasional streetlamp. The burner phone rests on the passenger seat, every pothole sliding it a little farther.

Something went wrong the night Nathan killed her. An overdose, the texts said. He’d given her too much of the drug and she’d never woken up. Cue the panic, the chaos, the scramble to cover up her death and frame it as a disappearance. This is her final resting place, among the weeds and the hollows of old cars. What a horrible place to be buried.

He parks at a distance and trudges inside, his singular sneaker sinking into the sodden ground. The texts had been vague about where her body is, but Warren has a feeling. Exhausted, he shambles over to a pile of scrap, the one he’d seen the deer standing over, and falls to his knees. He digs.

It feels unreal at first. The dirt is damp and clings to his hands, cool and sticky, caking underneath his fingernails. He doesn’t let himself think while he does it. Thinking invites doubt, and doubt will stop him cold. So he digs. And digs.

His hands are bleeding by the time he feels the resistance, something different from the rocks and roots he’s been clawing through. Brushing the dirt aside with frantic fingers, he uncovers the edge of something plastic. A black tarp peeking through the earth.

Warren wipes his hands on his jeans, smearing them with blood and grime, and stares at the ground like he’s waiting for it to swallow him whole. It doesn’t. It just sits there, passive and terrible, daring him to finish what he’s started.

“Come on,” he whispers. He has to. For her.

He grips the edge of the tarp with trembling hands and pulls. It doesn’t give at first, stubborn and heavy, but he yanks harder, gritting his teeth against the sound it makes as it peels away from the ground. The smell, rank and sour and wrong, hits him almost immediately, bypassing his nose and punching him in the stomach. He reels back, a hand flying to his mouth when he catches a glimpse of matted blonde hair. Beneath it, bone.

“Rachel,” he retches, folding into himself. The tarp flutters in the breeze, and he refuses to look at her again, refuses to see her in this state, but it’s too late. The image has branded itself behind his eyelids, and he isn’t sure how he’ll ever be able to close his eyes again. The world feels like it’s collapsing inward, his heartbeat thudding like the drums of war. He can feel it everywhere—in his chest, his throat, the tips of his fingers.

The burner phone lies discarded in the dirt where he dropped it. Trembling, he crawls to it, the screen lighting up as he types in the code he knows all too well. There’s no hesitation this time—he knows what he’s looking for. He swipes back to Nathan’s messages and taps on the number, the same number that Rachel had been texting the night she died, and stares down at the string of digits. His thumb hovers over the screen for only a second before he presses CALL.

The dial tone trills as he holds it to his ear. Then, from somewhere in the bushes, a phone rings. A staccato chirp.

Before he can react, something slams into the back of his head. It’s quick—a burst of pain, sharp and blinding, like a bomb detonating in his skull. His knees give out instantly, and he pitches forward, phone flying from his grip. The ground rushes up to meet him as he falls. When he finally lands, all he can feel is the cool ground against his cheek.

Above him, the sky swims in and out of focus, but can still make out the stars. Tiny specks of light a trillion miles away. There’s Ursa Major, he thinks, blood filling his mouth. It spills over his lips, hot and metallic. And Orion’s Belt.

And then nothing.

The first thing Warren feels is movement.

A jarring rhythm rattles through his body, each bump and tug sending sharp pulses of pain through his skull. His head feels split, his thoughts slow and sticky, like they’re slogging through molasses. Everything hurts.

Sound trickles in next: the crunch of footsteps on gravel, the creak of wood. His ears ring, a high-pitched whine, like the feedback from a microphone placed too close to an amp.

And then the smell. Damp hay. Rust. The sharp tang of gasoline.

His eyes flutter open, lids heavy and crusted, the world a smear of dim shapes and shadows. He’s on his stomach, his cheek scraping against something hard and rough—a barn floor. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, but the dim light stabs at his head, intensifying the pounding ache at the base of his head.

He’s in a barn. The barn Nathan was at? Probably. There aren’t many barns in Arcadia Bay.

The dragging stops. Warren’s body lurches forward, and he lands on his side, breath knocked clean from his lungs as his head bounces against the floor. A low groan escapes his lips. The world is tilting, skewed like a funhouse mirror. He feels a strange wetness on his chest, his shirt clinging to his skin in sticky patches. Blood from his mouth, which is still trickling in a steady stream down his chin.

Rough hands seize his arms, dragging him upright like a ragdoll. “Almost there,” a voice says, pulling him over to a hatch built into the ground. He can’t see what lies at the bottom. A yawning blackness.

“No,” Warren croaks, the word weak and slurred. His legs drag uselessly beneath him, his feet scraping against the barn floor. “Don’t—”

His protest is cut off as he’s shoved forward, down into the dark.

He falls. It’s not far, but he tumbles down a flight of stairs before landing on hard concrete, the impact jolting every nerve in his body. Pain blossoms in white-hot bursts in his ribs, his knees, his already pounding head. He wishes whoever is doing this to him would just kill him already, just end it and spare him the agony of whatever comes next. This is a person who wants him to suffer. This is a punishment.

Above him, the hatch slams shut, sealing off any light from the barn. He’s plunged into near-total darkness until the lights are flicked on, harsh fluorescents that flood the room and sear his eyes.

He’s grabbed again and dragged to the center of the room, where his ankles and wrists are bound with tape. He can’t see who’s doing this to him, strange shapes obscuring his vision, but he can vaguely make out the details of where he is. Some sort of basement filled with photography equipment. Tripods, lenses, shelves lined with chemicals.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” the voice says, tightening the tape around his wrists until his circulation is cut. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Excellent detective work.”

The voice is calm, amused, as though Warren’s agony is some kind of intellectual curiosity to be marveled at. He struggles against his restraints, desperately trying to free himself. It’s useless. His hands are already numb, his wrists burning where the adhesive bites into his skin.

“Let me go,” Warren mumbles. The words feel feeble, like throwing pebbles at a brick wall. “Please.”

One of the lights shining into Warren’s face is adjusted, its beam shifting until he can see his attacker. Jefferson looks down at him, his expression serene, as though he’s just stepped out of a classroom rather than into the center of Warren’s nightmare.

“I would, but I can’t,” Jefferson says with mock disappointment. He stands and walks to one of the shelves, pulling a red binder and flipping it open. “Curiosity is such a double-edged sword. It gets people like you into trouble. And trouble, as you’re learning, is not a place you want to be.”

He returns to Warren’s side and turns the binder around, holding it for him to see. A photo of Rachel and Nathan, posed together on the floor, unconscious. “I knew you were close when I got a call from Rachel’s phone,” he says. “I thought it may have been her parents going through her contacts, but with everything else I’d noticed, it became clear it was you. I didn’t think you’d piece it all together. Here you are.”

“You—” Warren starts, tearing his eyes away. He twists against the tape, his shoulders screaming. “You and Nathan. You killed her.”

Jefferson clicks his tongue. “I wouldn’t expect you to know this, but art requires sacrifice. Sometimes there’s collateral damage. Tragic, yes, but worth it in the end.”

“But the texts. You and Rachel were… you were going to run away together.”

Jefferson chuckles. “Of course not. I fed into that delusion of hers. She had this grandiose idea of leaving Oregon and starting over in Los Angeles as an actress,” he says, standing and turning away. “It was a pipe dream. L.A. would’ve chewed her up and spat her out.”

He turns to another picture in the binder, studying it intensely. “She was a good muse, though. When I first saw her, I knew she had the potential to be something extraordinary. She was magnetic, and everyone who met her could see it, but no one knew what to do with it. Except me.

“She attached herself to me the minute I started giving her validation. She ate it up. Turns out she had a thing for older men, which helped tremendously in my case. It was so easy to mold her into what I needed her to be."

Warren blinks sluggishly, licking his chapped lips. One of his molars is loose. He wiggles it with his tongue. “And what’s that?”

“A slut who knew how to work the camera.”

“You lied to her. She trusted you.”

“I gave her what she needed in the moment,” Jefferson counters. “Everything would’ve been fine if she hadn’t lost her mind on me that night. I was a little rougher with her than I should’ve been, admittedly, but she threatened to go to the cops.” He sighs and shakes his head. “From then on, she was a liability. I couldn’t risk some teenage girl ruining my life’s work, so when Nathan went off the rails and got her suspended… I took it as an opportunity to set things right.”

“You said…” Warren trails off, watching Jefferson set the binder down and walk to a cart. He pulls on a pair of nitrate gloves, the kind his mom wears at work, and snaps them at the wrist. He doesn’t look at Warren as he reaches for a small vial, and next to it, a syringe.

“You said it was an overdose,” Warren finishes. “You said Nathan made her overdose.”

Jefferson smiles. He picks up the vial—GHB, Warren realizes with a sinking feeling—and uncaps the syringe, drawing the clear liquid into the barrel. “I immortalized her,” he says. “I’ve immortalized all the girls who’ve been part of this journey. It’s art. Art that pays very well.”

He flicks the needle lightly, forcing a bead of liquid to gather at its tip. “And now I’ll immortalize you.”

Warren thrashes as Jefferson crouches down to wrap a gloved hand around his throat, fingers finding a vein. The needle pierces his skin, a sharp sting, followed by the icy rush of liquid flooding his system. It spreads quickly, radiating from the puncture point and snaking through his veins like a cold fire. His vision blurs almost immediately, and he tries to speak, but finds that he can’t. His tongue feels tingly, thick, like it’s been stuffed with cotton.

“There,” Jefferson murmurs, withdrawing the needle. His fingers linger briefly on Warren’s neck, thumb brushing over the spot where it entered. “It’ll be painless. You’ll slip away quietly, peacefully, and then I’ll bury you next to Rachel when I’m done. And when the town searches the beach and finds your car… well, the story writes itself. You had too much to drink at the party and decided to go for a swim.”

“No,” Warren slurs, his head lolling to the side. He has to keep fighting. Has to make it home. His mom—oh, his mom. She’s already put up with so much. Noah’s death almost destroyed her. This will finish the job.

And what about his friends? What about Nathan?

“Nathan’s gonna come for me,” Warren says, the words tumbling out in a garbled whisper, more a hope than a certainty. “He’ll come.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Nathan always turns out when someone he loves is in the darkroom,” Jefferson says, stepping back and adjusting the camera perched on its tripod. The shutter clicks, the flash burning through Warren’s dimming vision. “And when he does, I’ll take care of him. He’s become more trouble than he’s worth. But you don’t need to worry about that. You’ll be long gone by then.”

Warren groans, fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. Take me instead, he wants to say. Take my body, take my life. Just don’t hurt Nathan.

Then, from above, the sound of the barn doors being pushed open. Jefferson’s hands still on the camera, and he straightens up, looking to the ceiling. “Look at that,” he says wryly. “Right on schedule.”

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 31st

The panic comes slowly at first, then blooms into full-blown terror.

Nathan doesn’t move. Can’t move. He stands rooted in place, clutching at the doorframe for balance as Warren runs. He watches him disappear down the corridor, and for a second—just a second—Nathan thinks about letting him go. About collapsing here in the hallway, curling into himself like a wounded animal, and letting it all happen as Warren turns him in. It’s what he deserves. The police, the headlines, the whispers. His name spat like poison from Chloe’s lips. A cold cell.

He presses his palms to his face, digging his nails into his temples as if to claw the panic out of his skull. Warren knows. He knows, and he’ll never look at him the same.

But then instinct kicks in. That old, familiar thing, bred in him from months of Jefferson’s barking commands: Fix it. Handle it. He hears the echo of his voice in his head, and it spurs him forward even as his knees threaten to buckle. Nathan pushes off the doorframe, half-stumbling, half-lurching into the hallway, a lump in his throat. Warren doesn’t know the danger he’s putting himself in. He doesn’t know what Jefferson is capable of, what Jefferson will do if he finds out he knows.

If Warren wants to throw him to the cops, fine. Fuck his name, his reputation, everything. Nothing else matters anymore. Nothing except for him.

Fix it. Handle it. Save him.

He doesn’t know where Warren is headed, but he has a guess—Chloe, Max, Madsen, someone who might listen, someone who might believe him. He grabs the gun and tucks it into his waistband, his boots pounding against the floor as he bursts out of the dorms. Students dressed in costumes drift in clusters toward the pool building, and Nathan veers toward them, scanning faces. None of them are Warren’s.

He knocks shoulders with Luke as he sprints past, who wheels around to glare at him. “Fucking watch it,” he hisses, but Nathan doesn’t stop, doesn’t even acknowledge him as he skids to a stop in front of the open doors to the pool. Taking a deep breath, he pushes in and starts threading his way through the crowd. Warren has to be here. Warren would feel safe here, surrounded by people. Safe from him.

Stuffing his clammy hands into the pockets of his jean jacket, he wades through vampires and angels and werewolves, their faces blurring together under the neon lights. Someone calls his name—“Prescott!”—which he promptly ignores. He pushes deeper, past the pool and the fog machine spewing thick clouds into the humid air.

For a second, he thinks he sees him. Just a glimpse, a silhouette near the vending machines in the corner, and he surges forward, shoving past a girl in devil horns who stumbles back with a curse. But it’s not Warren. It’s some other guy, slouched against the wall with a drink in his hand, and Nathan feels his stomach churn with disappointment.

A sudden burst of laughter draws his attention, and he turns toward it, squinting through the haze of fog and pulsing lights. There, in the roped-off VIP area by the pool, he spots Victoria. She’s perched on a chair in a plunging black dress, one leg crossed elegantly over the other while she sips from a cup. She’s holding court as always, surrounded by her usual entourage. Hayden, sitting beside her, leans over to whisper something into her ear. She swats playfully at his chest in retaliation.

“Victoria,” Nathan says weakly, stumbling punch-drunk in her direction. Sweat rolling between his shoulder blades, he staggers to a stop outside the curtains. “Vic. Vic, please.”

Her head snaps toward him at once, her smirk sliding off her face like water. She sets her drink down and rises from her chair, rushing to his aid. “Nathan?” she shouts over the music. “What’s wrong? Where’s Warren?”

“I—I need your help,” he stammers. “Have you seen him? Did he come through here?”

“What?” she says, grabbing him by the arm and leading him further away from the Vortex Club. Her heels click against the tiles, the gauzy curtain fluttering behind her like smoke. “No, he hasn’t. What’s going on? Why are you—” Her eyes narrow, darting over his disheveled state: his flushed face, his shaking hands, the sweat darkening his collar. “What happened? Are you two fighting?”

He looks away, his gaze falling to the ground, the pool, the fog swirling at their feet. “No,” he croaks. “It’s not that. He… he just ran off. I need to find him.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Nate,” she says, her nails digging into his sleeve. “You’re scaring me.”

“I saw him,” Taylor says. Nathan startles, his head snapping up, and he feels Victoria’s grip on him loosen minimally. Taylor steps closer in a glittery dress and a half-empty cup of punch, looking between the two of them.

“I saw him,” she says again. “Warren. He was talking to Mr. Jefferson by the bleachers. He looked pretty upset.”

Nathan twists his arm away from Victoria so abruptly that her nails scrape against his skin. “Why the fuck is Jefferson here?” he barks, Victoria flinching at the edge in his voice. Taylor only shrugs.

“I don’t know,” she says, swirling her drink around in her cup. “Maybe he’s a chaperone.”

Jefferson only comes to these parties when it’s necessary. He came the night the contest winner was announced. The school administrators forced him to come one night in May during an initiative to crack down on underage drinking. And now he’s here, tonight, and speaking with Warren.

“Where are they now? Did you see Warren leave?” Nathan asks, his gut twisting violently. “Please. I need to know if he’s still here.”

Taylor looks at him, blinking lazily, as if Nathan’s panic is something distant and irrelevant. She shrugs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder with an air of detachment. “Warren went outside, toward the parking lot, I think,” she says. “I thought I saw Mr. Jefferson leave too, but there’s so many people in here, I can’t say for sure.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About twenty minutes. What’s the big deal?”

Nathan stares at her, his mouth dry, his thoughts snarled in panic. Twenty fucking minutes. Jefferson could be well on his way to the darkroom with him by now. If Jefferson knows what Warren knows, that’s where he’d take him. He’d finish him. Erase him.

He turns sharply on his heel, the motion so abrupt it sends Taylor stumbling back with a startled yelp. Victoria shouts for him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her as he runs back into the crowd. All he can think about is Warren. Warren in the darkroom. Warren, dead, because of him.

His legs carry him out to the parking lot, where he sees no sign of Warren’s or Jefferson’s car. He stumbles to his truck, fumbling with the keys in his pocket, hands shaking so violently he can barely unlock the doors. When he manages to, he throws himself inside and shoves them into the ignition. For a horrible moment, the engine sputters and stalls. He slams his palm against the steering wheel with a choked growl of frustration, twisting the key again. This time, the truck roars to life.

Tires screeching against the asphalt, he slams on the gas and hurtles into the night, watching the speedometer needle climb. Jefferson could kill Warren a million different ways, but he’d likely use the drug. It’s quick. Minimal cleanup. How long does it take to kill someone through injection? How long did it take Rachel to die that night? Was it five minutes? Ten?

He’s running out of time. He presses harder on the gas, the engine growling in protest. The truck veers onto the dirt road leading to the barn, the tires spitting gravel as he slams the truck into park and stumbles into the darkness. The barn looms ahead, and he draws his gun as he approaches. He doesn’t want to kill anyone. He’s never wanted to. But he will.

Shoving the barn doors open, he descends the stairs, punches in the code, and steps inside. The light hits him all at once, harsh and blinding, and when his eyes finally adjust, he sees them: Warren, curled on the floor, his cheek pressed against the concrete. There’s a dark smudge of blood near his temple. Jefferson stands nearby, surveying his work.

“Nice of you to join us,” he says, turning and rolling his sleeves to his elbows. “I like the getup.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nathan spits. He raises the pistol, the barrel shaking as he points it at Jefferson. “Get away from him.”

Jefferson smirks, slow and cutting, like he’s savoring the moment. “Can you put that thing down, please? You don’t even know how to use it properly. You’ll shoot yourself before you shoot me.”

Nathan flicks the safety off and places a finger on the trigger. “You wanna find out?”

“If you miss, I guarantee you won’t get a second shot.”

“I won’t miss.”

Jefferson takes a measured step forward and raises his gloved hands. “So, this is the moment,” he says, his voice colder now, edged with contempt. “The big moment where you kill me and run off into the sunset with him, right? You don’t have it in you.”

Nathan’s grip tightens on the pistol, leveling the barrel squarely at Jefferson’s chest. “You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he snaps, inching further into the room. “You have no fucking clue what I’d do for him.”

Warren stirs faintly on the floor, a small, broken sound escaping his lips, and Nathan’s chest tightens. He risks a glance down, just for a second, his stomach twisting at the sight of Warren’s bruised face, the blood on his lips. He’s still breathing. Still alive.

“Cute,” Jefferson says smoothly. He gestures to Warren. “It didn’t have to be this way. If you listened to me and stayed away from him, he wouldn’t be in the early stages of overdose. Warren, Rachel… they’re casualties of your recklessness.”

“Stop,” Nathan says, his voice cracking. “Don’t.”

“You know it’s true. In fact, you invited me to do this to him.” Jefferson takes another step closer, too close for Nathan’s liking. “The day you walked out on me, you told me you were done finding me girls to photograph. I went out and found myself a boy.”

“No, no, I—”

“You’ve been complicit in this from the very start.”

“Shut up!” Nathan snarls, the words tearing out of him. “I killed Rachel, and I swear to God, I’ll kill you too. I will put you in the fucking ground where you belong.”

Jefferson chuckles and walks to the cart holding their supplies. “Still taking credit for my work after all this time,” he says. “It’s a good thing you never stopped. You were more useful to me when you were blaming yourself.”

Nathan freezes. “What are you talking about?” he demands, the words coming out shakier than intended. “Don’t—don’t play games with me, Mark. I fucking—”

“When I called you that night and told you I brought Rachel to the darkroom,” Jefferson interrupts, picking up a syringe, “what did I do?”

“I don’t remember,” Nathan says hoarsely. “I can’t.”

“Try.”

Nathan swallows hard, his grip on the gun faltering for a moment before he steadies it again. “I…” He stops, the words catching. The memory claws its way to the surface. April. The late hours of the 22nd. His phone buzzing in the dead of night, Jefferson’s voice on the other end. Rachel was in the darkroom. She was being difficult. He needed help.

And so he’d gone, thinking it was only a photo shoot, that Rachel would be fine, shaken maybe, but alive. He was still angry at her for wanting to leave Arcadia Bay, for wanting to leave him in this cesspit of a town. Cruelly, he remembers thinking that her ending up in the darkroom was her karma. Something she deserved for daring to leave him.

When he arrived, he’d found that she’d torn through her restraints twice already. Jefferson had resorted to securing her wrists and ankles with cable ties, which she’d tried and failed to chew through, her lips cracked and bleeding. It all comes flooding back to him. Seeing her there on the floor, thrashing, her voice ragged from screaming. Her hair sticking to her cheeks in sweaty clumps.

She’d looked up when he walked in, her eyes wild and wet, and stopped fighting. She must’ve realized then and there that no one was coming to save her. He can still see it as if she’s standing in front of him now: her swollen, tear-streaked face, her breath hitching in shallow, exhausted gasps. She hadn’t said a word, just stared at him, resigned to her fate. Help me. Don’t help me. It doesn’t matter.

And then Jefferson handed him the syringe, already filled with the drug, and told him to get on with it.

Nathan stumbles back a step, his chest tightening as the air in the room seems to grow thin. "You gave me the wrong dosage," he says.

Jefferson spreads his hands, as if to say, So what if I did? "Rachel was never leaving that room alive," he says. "The only question was how to use her death to my advantage. And you?" He gestures at Nathan with a lazy wave of his hand. "You were my solution. I knew you weren’t going to say a word about her death if you thought it was your fault. And if you somehow found out the truth, it’s not like anyone would’ve believed a mentally ill child."

"You ruined me," Nathan says, his voice trembling, thick with rage and grief. "You have no idea what you put me through.”

“You were ruined long before I found you,” Jefferson says. “You’ve always been a self-sabotaging junkie with daddy’s money and a chip on your shoulder. It’s your birthright.”

He sets the syringe down with a smile and sighs wistfully, as though he’s savoring a fond memory. “You and Rachel were similar in that way,” he continues. “I wish you could remember how beautiful she was before I dosed you. You should’ve seen the way the life drained from her eyes, the way the fight left her body. She was so… fuckable.”

Nathan’s stomach lurches violently, the nausea rising so fast and thick he almost chokes on it. The room tilts, spinning in slow, awful arcs as Jefferson’s words sink in, as filthy and venomous as the smirk stretching across his face. “What did you do to her?”

“I think you already know.”

Nathan raises his knuckles to his lips, wide-eyed, as he recalls waking up that night. Stiff, sore, bruised in ways that didn't make sense at the time. “What did you do to me?”

Jefferson tilts his head, amused by the question. “You were out cold,” he says. “It would’ve been a waste not to.”

Nathan doesn’t think. His vision narrows, the room blurring into nothing but Jefferson’s face, that smirk, that voice, that smug, unshakable calm. The gun bucks in his hand, the crack of the shot splitting the air, and Jefferson stumbles back with a grunt of pain, clutching his shoulder.

But he doesn’t go down.

"That’s it?" Jefferson snarls, his calm demeanor snapping, replaced with a feral anger. Blood blooms across his shirt, dark and spreading, but he pushes forward, lunging at Nathan before he can fire again.

Nathan barely has time to react before Jefferson’s weight crashes into him, the gun flying from his grip as they hit the floor. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, his head slamming against the concrete, sending stars bursting across his vision. Jefferson’s hands descend on him, pinning him down.

“Pathetic,” Jefferson hisses, his voice low and venomous, his face inches from Nathan’s. “I think I’ll pose you two together when we’re done here.”

Nathan’s head pounds, a hot ache radiating from where it hit the floor, but the fire in his chest is stronger—hotter, more consuming. "Get the fuck off me!" he snarls, a guttural sound ripped straight from his core. He bucks his hips, twisting violently, his shoulder slamming into Jefferson’s injured side. Jefferson lets out a sharp grunt of pain, his hand flying out and clawing for the nearest object—a heavy metal tray from the cart. He swings it, the edge catching Nathan across the face with a sickening crack.

Nathan’s vision bursts into white light, his head snapping as the tray connects with his cheekbone. It stuns him, but only momentarily. He lunges forward blindly, hands scrabbling for Jefferson’s wrist before he can swing again, his mind consumed by one singular, all-encompassing thought: survive.

With a surge of strength, he drives his knee up, slamming it into Jefferson’s stomach. Jefferson grunts, doubling over, and Nathan doesn’t waste a second. He shoves him off and rolls to the side, his hands frantically searching the floor for the gun.

There. Just out of reach, glinting silver under a chair.

Crawling on all fours, Nathan scrambles toward it, his palms scraping against the rough surface. He reaches out, fingers stretching, the tips of them brushing the gun’s barrel. Just as he manages to grab it, Jefferson grabs his ankle and yanks him back with a vicious pull.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls. He climbs on top of Nathan again, his knee pressing into the small of his back, pinning him to the ground. Nathan thrashes, his chest heaving, his breaths coming in short, desperate bursts. They’re cut off when Jefferson wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes hard, nails gouging into flesh.

This is how it ends, he thinks with horrible, ringing clarity. There’s a sharp, acidic burn in his chest, his body screaming for air, for anything, but his thoughts splinter and dissolve into static. He’s had so many brushes with death that it should feel familiar by now, this encroaching darkness, but it doesn’t. It’s new every time. The primal instinct to claw, to kick, to live.

A detached, half-formed thought flutters through his mind. Warren. He turns his head to the side, Jefferson pressing harder against his windpipe, and manages to catch a fleeting glimpse of Warren on the floor. If he’s breathing, Nathan can no longer see it. His face is slack, his lips stained an unnatural, deathly blue.

Nathan’s vision blurs, black spots blooming at the edges. Fingers finding the grip, he sucks in one last desperate gasp for air and turns hard in Jefferson’s hold, the gun aimed at his chest. He fires.

The gunshot cracks like thunder, reverberating off the walls and making Nathan’s ears ring. The recoil jolts his body, arms shaking as Jefferson’s grasp loosens. For a second, there’s silence—horrible, thick silence, broken only by the rasping of Nathan’s breathing as oxygen floods his lungs. Jefferson falls to the side, his eyes wide with something between disbelief and fury, a dark, wet stain spreading rapidly across his chest.

“Warren,” Nathan croaks, shoving him out of the way. He drags himself to his side and kneels, hands hovering uncertainly over him. Afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Warren. Warren, look at me.”

Warren doesn’t move.

“No, no, no,” Nathan mutters, the words spilling out in a breathless chant. He presses his fingers to Warren’s neck, searching for any flicker of life. There’s nothing at first, just cold, clammy skin. Then, faintly, a pulse. Weak and thready, but there.

He still isn’t breathing. Leaning down to crash their lips together, he blows hard into his mouth, his hands finding his chest. He presses down, counting in his head. One, two, three, the rhythm etched into his memory from a long-forgotten health class. “Please,” Nathan begs, muscles screaming from the effort. “Come on.”

On the third cycle, Warren jerks suddenly, his body spasming beneath Nathan’s hands. A sharp, wet gasp tears from his lips, followed by a fit of coughing so violent it rattles his entire frame. Nathan falls back on his heels, his chest heaving as he watches Warren’s chest rise and fall, uneven but moving. He’s breathing. He’s breathing.

“Warren,” Nathan says again, taking his face in his hands. “Oh, fuck. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Warren’s eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused. His gaze shifts sluggishly to Nathan, confusion clouding his expression. “Nate?” he croaks, head lolling to the side.

“I’m here,” Nathan says, swallowing hard. “Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”

Behind him, Jefferson coughs. Nathan turns his head sharply to find him pulling himself into a sitting position, his fingers unbuttoning his white shirt. Nathan spots the glint of a bullet lodged in his stomach as he pries it open, blood spilling sluggishly from the wound.

“Killing me… isn’t going to bring her back,” he wheezes. His hand brushes over the gaping wound, his fingers smeared red as he pulls them away to inspect the damage. He grimaces. “It’s not going to undo what you did, or what I made you do. It’s not going to save him, either.”

Nathan throws one of Warren’s arms over his shoulders and lifts him with a grunt, his legs unsteady as he guides him to the door. “You’re wrong,” he says. His knees threaten to buckle under the effort, but he doesn’t let go, his grip tightening around Warren’s waist. “This ends here. Tonight.”

Jefferson coughs again, the sound wet with blood. “You’ll never escape me,” he says. “You’ll carry me forever.”

Nathan knows he will. Years from now, he’ll wake in the middle of the night, bathed in sweat, and think he’s in the darkroom again. Jefferson is grafted onto his psyche. It’s a natural consequence of his proximity to evil. He’ll learn to live with it, just like how he learned to live with the guilt of killing his friend.

He steals one more look at Jefferson—at his ashen face, at the blood pooling beneath him, dark and viscous like oil—before hefting Warren to the stairs. “Rot in hell,” he says.

Jefferson chuckles, his head tilting back against the wall. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth, streaking his teeth crimson. He smiles. “I’ll tell Rachel you said hello.”

The barn door groans as it swings shut behind them, sealing Jefferson inside, and for a fleeting, vertiginous moment, Nathan wonders if he imagined the whole thing—the blood, the gun, Jefferson dying in a corner.

But Warren’s weight is real. Jefferson’s blood on his shirt is real. The puffs of Warren’s shallow breathing are achingly, crushingly real.

“Almost there,” he promises, hoisting Warren to his feet again. His truck is still idling, its headlights carving pale, sickly beams into the night. It’s fifteen minutes to the nearest hospital. If he runs every light in town, he can make it in half that.

Warren stirs as he’s half-dragged, half-carried. “Beam me up, Scotty,” he murmurs, his head dropping sideways to rest in Nathan’s hair. One of his pupils is noticeably larger than the other. “Am I gonna be on Dateline?”

Nathan huffs out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “No,” he says, gritting his teeth as he inches closer to the truck. “Not if I can help it.”

“Okay. Can you tell my mom I love her?”

“You can tell her yourself.”

Warren falls silent, his body heavy and useless against Nathan’s side. For one heart-stopping second, Nathan thinks he’s passed out—or worse—but then Warren groans softly, a low, guttural sound. “I love you,” he says. “So much.”

“Please, don’t talk.”

“I do, I do, I swear,” Warren babbles, and Nathan’s eyes burn with tears as he loads him into the passenger seat. How can Warren still love him when he’s wounded him like this? If self-preservation is a law of nature, then Warren defies it completely. Someone could tear him apart, limb by limb, and he’d still offer the remnants of himself to whoever needed them most. It’s who he is—an open wound disguised as a boy, bleeding for everyone around him without a thought to how much of himself he’s losing.

Just as Nathan reaches to close the door, Warren reaches into his pocket and pulls out his lighter. “Gotta torch it,” he says. “Get rid of everything.”

Nathan grabs it and wrestles with Warren’s seatbelt. “We don’t have time,” he says firmly. “We need to go.”

Warren shakes his head, one of his cold hands wrapping around Nathan’s wrist. “Burn it. You have to.”

Nathan hesitates, looking back at the derelict barn. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to look at it ever again. But the binders, and Jefferson’s body, and—Christ, he didn’t even think about any of that. The evidence of his sins lies scattered inside, soaked into the floors, the walls, the very foundation. All of it is in there, on his family’s property, waiting to be found.

Warren is trying to protect him.

“Stay awake,” he orders, marching back to the barn and grabbing the old gasoline canisters. He sloshes it everywhere, dousing the hay and the rotting beams, and when they’re thoroughly coated, he pours it into the basement. It trickles down the steps to the darkroom, gathering in a puddle on the floor. The flammable chemicals they’ve used for photo processing will ignite like a spark meeting dry kindling. Nothing will survive.

Tossing the empty plastic into the brush, Nathan crouches and lowers the flame to the fuel-soaked ground. He runs.

Heat bites at his back as he sprints to the truck, the fire roaring to life. In seconds, the entire structure is ablaze, the flames racing across the floor and climbing the walls. He doesn’t stay to watch, just throws the truck in reverse and speeds away, the engine roaring. A black cloud of smoke billows toward the sky in his rearview.

“It’s over?” Warren asks, his eyes half-lidded as Nathan puts distance between them and the crime scene. “I can smell it.”

The whole town will be able to. “It’s over,” he says, reaching over and fumbling for his hand. Warren’s fingers twitch in response. “It’s all over now.”

Warren hums, a soft, noncommittal sound. “Good. That’s really good.” A pause. “Rachel’s happy.”

Nathan doesn’t ask him how he knows this as he screeches to a halt in front of the ER, because Warren has been pumped so full of GHB that he can’t tell his ass from his elbow. There’s no way he could possibly know. No way anyone could know.

But God, does he hope he's right.

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 31st

It’s a funny feeling, being drugged.

Not funny ha-ha, but funny in the way that reality—the solid, unshakable foundation of things—seems like it’s melting around him. One moment he’s on the floor, Nathan shouting and brandishing his gun. And the next? The world is tilting, spinning, and he’s in Nathan’s truck, barreling down a black stretch of asphalt.

Voices. Quiet, distorted. Someone leaning over him. Rachel? He swears he sees her smiling down at him. An angel. He reaches up to touch her, his fingers closing around air. “Am I dead?” he asks, except he isn’t sure if he’s really saying it. He can’t feel his lips moving.

Not yet, someone says. Not Nathan, though. He’d know if it was Nathan.

“I don’t want to die.”

You won’t, the voice says calmly. A lie, maybe, but a comforting one. It feels like a hug.

The truck jerks to the left, Warren’s stomach lurching. His head slams back against the seat as they hit something—a pothole, a curb, who knows?—the impact jostling him enough to register the low, ragged rhythm of Nathan swearing under his breath. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he hears Nathan say, followed by the clicking of his seatbelt being undone. “Fuck, Warren. You’re okay.”

He’s felt like this before. One time as a kid, he fell out of a tree in his backyard, smacking his head on the hard-packed dirt below. The sensation had been much the same: the world pivoting, the bone-deep awareness that something wasn’t quite right. He remembers lying there, staring up at the branches swaying above him, unable to move or cry. His mom had scooped him up, saying over and over again, You’re okay, you’re okay. And he was, one night in the hospital and two healed fractures later.

He’s being moved now, Nathan staggering under his weight, his footsteps uneven and frantic. Gravel crunches underfoot, then the hollow echo of tile as they stumble through a door. The light inside is harsh, white, and Warren winces, or thinks he does. He can feel the tremor in Nathan’s arms, the strain as he drags Warren forward, mumbling under his breath—words that blur and bleed together. More swears. An appeal to God.

And then, suddenly, they both collapse. Warren hits the floor first, the cold tile a shock against his back, and Nathan follows, crumpling beside him. For a moment, all Warren can see is Nathan’s face, hovering inches from his own, pale and damp with sweat. His nose is bleeding, bent at a strange angle. Is it broken? Does he know?

“Help!” Nathan cries out, his hands gripping Warren’s shoulders, shaking him gently. “He’s—I don’t know what’s—just do something!”

Hurried footsteps, the rustle of scrubs. Two sets of hands pull him from the cold tile and onto something softer, smoother. Someone shines a light into his eyes. “Pupils are anisocoric,” a woman’s voice says. “What happened?”

“He was drugged,” Nathan croaks. “We were attacked.”

“We need to stabilize him,” the woman says, speaking to someone over her shoulder. Warren feels himself being moved again, wheeled down a corridor that seems to stretch on forever. He hears Nathan’s boots squeaking against the tile somewhere close, like he’s struggling to keep up. “Page Dr. Kelley. We need toxicology and rapid response in here now. Prep for intubation if he doesn’t improve.”

Intubation. That’s a scary word. He imagines himself stretched out on a table, tubes sticking out of his throat, looking like the victim of an alien abduction. He laughs weakly at the thought, even though it isn’t particularly funny. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.

Another set of footsteps running in his direction. Shouting. “That’s my son!”

Mom’s working tonight. She’s worked every Halloween for the past three years. She always said Halloween shifts were the worst—drunken injuries, mostly. Alcohol poisoning. The occasional freak accident involving a costume prop. She’d much rather be at home, passing out candy to kids and eating her way through leftover Reese’s cups. He wishes she didn’t have to see him like this.

“Warren? Oh, baby, can you hear me?” she says, her face emerging into view. Warren watches her ID badge swing from side to side as she whisks him into a room with the medical team, barking orders at another nurse. “What’s his BP?”

“Seventy-two over forty,” the nurse replies.

“Respiratory rate?”

“Eight per minute and shallow. You can’t be here, Jen.”

“What does that mean?” Nathan says, his voice frayed and childlike. Warren can see him in his periphery, swaying slightly, his face stricken. “What does that mean?”

“Get him out of here,” someone says. And then there’s pressure—hands on Warren’s neck, fingers prying at his mouth, tilting his head back. A needle is slipped into his arm, liquid bursting through his veins in a cold rush. The world bends and stretches like a bubble of molten glass, his life unraveling in snapshots behind his eyelids.

Silence. A tinnitic ringing in his eardrums. Sound eventually filters back in, faint at first but growing louder: the steady beep of a monitor, the rustle of paper. A doctor’s voice, low and tired.

“…stabilized. We’re monitoring him closely. Toxicology came back—gamma-hydroxybutyrate, high dose.”

A sigh. The sound of a chair scraping across the linoleum, Nathan’s body collapsing into it. He must look awful. In his mind’s eye, Warren can almost see him—hair stuck to his forehead, his jacket dark with sweat and grime. His voice, when he finally speaks, is sandpaper-rough. “Will he be okay?”

“His condition is serious,” the doctor says. “When he arrived, his blood pressure was dangerously low. Seventy-two over forty is at the threshold of what we call cardiogenic shock. His heart isn’t pumping enough blood to keep his organs supplied with oxygen.”

“But you can fix him, right? You can give him medicine, or something.”

“I wish it were that simple. Warren is young and strong, and both will work in his favor, but his body has experienced significant trauma. If you’d gotten here any later…”

“But you did stabilize him,” Nathan says. It’s not a question—almost a demand, as if sheer willpower might force her to confirm it.

“For now,” the doctor says carefully. “But he isn’t out of the woods. A dose like the one he had can cause acute organ failure. His liver and kidneys are under strain. If they fail, it’ll be a matter of hours to intervene, and even then…” She hesitates. “There’s no guarantee.”

“You’re saying he might die.”

“It’s possible, yes.”

Nathan’s breathing seizes, a sharp, audible intake that makes Warren’s chest ache more than it already does.

“He needs rest,” the doctor continues. “And so do you. Why don’t you go home? Public visiting hours ended almost two hours ago.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Nathan says stubbornly.

“Mr. Prescott—”

“No.” A squeaking noise, the sound of his boots against the linoleum as he plants them more firmly. “I’m staying. He’s my boyfriend.”

Warren would laugh if it weren't for the plastic tube wrestled into his trachea. If dying is what it takes for Nathan to call him his boyfriend, then maybe it’s worth reconsidering his stance on staying alive. He wishes he could sit up and crack some joke about it, shove his prickly hospital blanket down to his ankles and say something smart, but he’s drugged to the gills. He can’t even move his fingers. Never in his life has he been so annoyed with himself for being unconscious.

The doctor doesn’t argue further. “Alright,” she says. “Someone will be in soon to take a look at your face.”

“I don’t give two shits about my face,” Nathan says flatly.

The door clicks shut as the doctor leaves. All is quiet save for the chirping of his heart monitor and the rasp of Nathan’s breath, who scoots his chair closer and reaches for his hand. “If you die,” he says, lacing their fingers together and bringing Warren’s knuckles to his lips, “I will kill you. Got it?”

That’s a little redundant, Warren thinks, or would think if his brain weren’t floating somewhere outside of his body.

“Don’t you dare,” Nathan murmurs. “You don’t get to leave. Not now. Not—” Warren can hear him drag a sleeve over his face, followed by a loud sniff. “Just don’t, okay? If you’re in there, can you squeeze my hand? Just once.”

Warren tries, he does, but he’s paralyzed. The effort costs him, his consciousness ebbing back into the hum of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. An alarm blares somewhere in the distance, some poor soul coding in the ICU.

“One of your nurses said you’d be able to hear me. I don’t know if that’s true,” Nathan continues, “but I’m going to keep talking anyway. Your mom came in earlier to check on you. We talked, and I think she realized I’m the person you helped off the roof, ‘cause she brought me a pudding cup.”

He laughs humorlessly. “It was butterscotch. Said she used to bring them home for you after her shifts,” he says. “I hate butterscotch, but I ate it anyway.”

Warren hates butterscotch too. Too sweet, like swallowing syrup straight from the bottle. His mom likes it, though. A mother’s prerogative, maybe, to impose her preferences on her children and convince them to love what she does. If she’s handing out butterscotch pudding cups to Nathan, she’s basically adopted him.

“She’s in the cafeteria getting a coffee, but she’ll be back. Your dad’s driving down to see you,” Nathan says, leaning forward to rest his chin on Warren’s lap like an old dog. “There’s so much I have to say to you, Warren. I don’t even know where to start. I’m doing fine right now because of the shock, but once it wears off, I’m—I’m fucked. I think I’ll lose my mind. I’m so scared.”

Warren isn’t. He should be scared, but all he feels is acceptance. It would be effortless to slip away like this, to fall off into the void and go without a fight. Out of all the ways to die, this one doesn’t seem so bad. It's better than having the life leeched out of him on the floor of the darkroom.

Nathan huffs softly, pressing his forehead into Warren’s thigh. “God, this is so stupid. I should’ve told you,” he whispers into the blanket. “I know you know how I feel, but I should’ve said it sooner.”

Warren’s eyelids flutter. He can feel his thoughts waning. Tell me, Nate. Before I have to leave you.

“Warren,” Nathan says quietly, but the name drifts past him, dissipating into the ether. Warren tries to hold on, to cling to the sound of his voice, but it’s like gripping smoke. Everything is soft now. Weightless.

Nathan’s words fade into nothing.

And then, so does Warren.

Chapter Text

Famous photographer Mark Jefferson found dead in barn fire

By Nicolas Bishop | The Arcadia Bay Beacon | Nov 01, 2013, 9:02 a.m.

The body of celebrated photographer Mark Jefferson, 38, was discovered late last night amidst the charred remains of a barn on private property. Authorities have confirmed the blaze appears to be the result of arson. Investigators are working diligently to uncover the circumstances surrounding the fire.

Jefferson, known for his provocative technique, rose to fame during the grunge scene of the early 1990s in Seattle. His exhibits, though sometimes controversial, drew significant media attention. In the mid-2000s, Jefferson turned to education, leveraging his reputation to teach photography at prestigious institutions across the country. Eventually, he accepted a permanent teaching position at Arcadia Bay’s Blackwell Academy, where he continued to produce critically lauded work and launch the careers of dozens of emerging photographers.

The tragic circumstances of his death have left many questions unanswered. Local law enforcement has not disclosed whether foul play is suspected beyond the confirmed arson. Sources close to the investigation suggest the blaze may be tied to ongoing controversy involving the Prescott family, who own the property where the barn was located. Sean Prescott has declined to comment at this time.

Jefferson’s death leaves behind a legacy as a mentor and innovator in the art world. As the investigation unfolds, many hope it will shed light on the photographer’s final days and the fire that ultimately claimed his life.

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Body of missing Arcadia Bay teen recovered

By Jamie Bauer | The Arcadia Bay Beacon | Nov 13, 2013, 10:39 a.m.

The body of Rachel Amber, a Blackwell Academy student who had been missing for over six months, was discovered yesterday in a shallow grave in the American Rust junkyard. Arcadia Bay authorities have confirmed the remains were identified through dental records.

Amber, 19, was last seen in April and was the subject of an intensive search effort led by local law enforcement and volunteers. Despite the widespread efforts, no solid leads emerged until earlier this week when an anonymous tip was reported through the Arcadia Bay Police Department’s tip line. Authorities have not released further details.

Rachel Amber was a well-known figure at Blackwell Academy, celebrated for her creativity and love of the arts. Her sudden disappearance shocked those closest to her, many of whom have expressed both relief and heartbreak at the discovery of her body. The news comes only days after the discovery of photographer Mark Jefferson’s tragic death, though authorities have not confirmed any connection between the two cases.

The investigation is ongoing, and authorities have urged anyone with additional information to come forward. Amber’s family, who had previously declined public interviews, issued a brief statement through their lawyer: “We are devastated by the loss of our beloved Rachel and ask for privacy during this difficult time.”

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The first two days at St. Francis Medical Center pass in a haze.

The hospital is a labyrinth of identical hallways and weird smells, the beeping of machines and alarms near-constant. The nurses know Nathan by sight now, though he doubts they’ve learned his name. To them, he’s just the boyfriend—the distraught one who wouldn’t leave the ICU until they forced him out.

When he asks, Warren’s condition is described to him in terms he doesn’t fully understand. The doctors speak in clipped tones, their explanations couched in medical jargon that seems to exist solely to keep people like Nathan at arm’s length. Organ function. Fluid balance. Possible complications. He nods along, pretending he understands, but all he really hears is not out of the woods yet. Warren won’t be out until he stops slipping in and out of consciousness.

He isn’t there when they move Warren out of critical care. He leaves for an hour—just an hour—to shower, to eat something that isn’t vending machine garbage, and when he comes back, Warren is gone. Transferred to a new room on a different floor, they tell him, and now restricted to family visits only.

“You’re not on the list,” the nurse at the front desk tells him, apologetic but firm. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Call his mom,” Nathan snaps. “There’s a mistake.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Nathan glares at her, the kind of glare that can strip paint off walls, but it slides off her impenetrable professionalism like rain on glass.

“There’s no mistake,” she says again, and her voice softens just slightly, as if she can sense the fire simmering behind his clenched jaw. “Family only. I’m sorry.”

After that, he has no choice but to return to Blackwell.

Normally the school would be abuzz with gossip about what happened to Warren, and news about him landing in the hospital does circulate for a day, but the discovery of Jefferson’s body overshadows it almost immediately. Blackwell descends into a state of chaos. The faculty scrambles to maintain order, issuing carefully worded statements that say nothing at all, while students trade rumors like currency.

It doesn’t help that everyone knows Jefferson’s body was found on his family’s property. Students (and Madsen) eye him more strangely than usual—more openly curious, more openly suspicious. He feels their stares burning into his back as he drifts from class to class, fragments of their conversations breaking against him like waves.

“Do you think he knows?”

“I mean, it’s Nathan. He probably had something to do with it.”

“I heard he was there when it happened.”

Nathan ignores their theories, or tries. The press is worse. They swarm like vultures, contacting him and his parents relentlessly. His dad tells him to keep his mouth shut while the family lawyer works on covering their asses, but Nathan isn’t stupid enough to think silence will save him.

Luckily, the attention span of the media is short. When Rachel’s body is found, the headlines shift overnight, and the vultures flock to new prey.

Behind the scenes, Victoria does her best to fill the silence. Much like after his video was spread around, she drops by unannounced over the next two weeks to bring him food and attempts to lift his spirits, though her efforts are clumsy as they are persistent. She sits cross-legged on the edge of Warren’s bed, picking at a container of takeout she brought him and scrolling through her phone, pretending not to notice the dark circles blooming under his eyes.

“Can you eat for me?” she asks gently, shoving a forkful of something vaguely edible in his direction. “I didn’t spend thirty bucks on sushi for you to let it rot.”

“I’m not hungry,” Nathan mutters. He can’t remember the last time he had a real meal. Three days? Four? He can feel his ribs pressing against his skin when he lies down, sharp and uncomfortable.

Victoria sighs and inches closer to him, taking his hands in hers. “He’d hate this,” she says. “He won’t want to come back and find you like this. You’re barely functioning, Nate.”

“How am I supposed to function when he’s lying in a hospital bed with machines doing the work his body should be doing?” Nathan says, his voice cracking. He runs a hand through his greasy hair, the strands slipping like sand through his fingers. “He could be getting worse and I wouldn’t know. They won’t tell me anything. He hasn’t texted me.”

Victoria doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches thin between them, taut as a wire ready to snap. She looks at him, her perfectly lined eyes softening. “I know it’s awful,” she says, rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles. “But if you don’t take care of yourself, you’re not going to make it through this. Your families can’t lose both of you.”

“I can’t—I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t do anything,” Nathan says, his voice rising. “I just sit here and wait. For what?”

“For him to come back. And he will.”

She doesn’t know the severity of the situation. She and everyone else at school who gives a shit about Warren thinks he’s recovering from alcohol poisoning. Another carefully constructed lie of his to protect them both, and a ballsy move, considering Warren might have a change of heart and tell the truth about everything once he’s discharged.

After a lot of coaxing, she talks him into taking a shower with her so she can make sure he doesn’t faint and crack his skull on the tile. She frames it like a joke, like an afterthought—you’d be the type to make me call an ambulance for you while Warren’s still in the hospital—but Nathan knows she’s serious. He agrees.

The shower is scalding, steam billowing around them and fogging the mirrors. There’s no illusion of privacy between them. They’ve showered together before when they were both belligerently drunk and too far gone to care about propriety. He leans against the wall while she works shampoo through his hair, her slender fingers washing away the grime he’s neglected to deal with.

“You’ve lost weight,” she says, lathering soap along his back. “I can feel your spine.”

Nathan snorts bitterly. “Guess I’m finally getting that model body I’ve always wanted.”

“Don’t,” she says, rinsing him off and tilting his head back. “I mean it. Don’t do that thing where you make a joke out of everything. It’s not funny.”

Nathan doesn’t respond, too tired to spar with her. He lets her work in silence, and while he knows she sees the bruises littering his body from his fight with Jefferson, she doesn’t comment on them. Not even when it comes to his nose, which has started to heal crookedly.

She gives him some time to finish scrubbing up on his own. By the time he returns to Warren’s room, which he hasn’t left since his banishment from the hospital, she’s laid out a fresh set of clothes for him—his softest hoodie and a pair of sweatpants she must have dug out of the bottom of his dresser.

“You look better,” she says.

Nathan gives her a half-hearted shrug. “Thanks.”

“You need to eat. I ordered Chinese. Should be here in ten.”

He groans, dropping onto the spot beside her. “I told you I’m not hungry.”

Victoria tosses her phone onto the nightstand and picks at her nail polish. A deep brown for November, shade name Espresso Martini. “Tough,” she says. “You’re eating anyway. Even if I have to spoon-feed you lo mein.”

For a fleeting moment, Nathan thinks he hates her. And then he manages a few bites of fried rice when the food arrives, and the feeling burns away.

“Why do you think he was there?” she asks after they’ve eaten quietly, their chopsticks scraping against the bottoms of their takeout containers. “Mr. Jefferson. Why do you think he was on your family’s property that night? “

“I don’t know,” Nathan says, lacking any conviction. He hasn’t stopped to think about how she must feel about all of this—about how her idol perished in one of the most gruesome ways possible.

Victoria casts her gaze to the floor. “Do you think he suffered?”

Hope so, Nathan wants to say. He hopes he felt every second of it, every ounce of pain from the gunshot, every shred of terror as the flames closed in on him. He can’t say that, though. Not when she’s one of the people trying to plan a school-wide memorial event for him.

“The smoke would’ve gotten to him first,” he says carefully. He tosses his takeout container into the trash, his appetite vanishing. “He probably didn’t know what was happening.”

A week later, Jefferson’s funeral comes and goes. Nathan is not in attendance.

It’s a grand affair, or so he hears from Victoria. Photographers and admirers flock from all corners of the country and beyond to pay their respects. None of them know about the atrocities he committed, and they never will. Nathan wishes he could tarnish his image with the truth, but it’s best to let what happened in the darkroom die with him.

He goes to Rachel’s funeral, though, since it’s one of the last good things he can do for her. It’s overcast, appropriately, and there’s a dampness in the air that clings to Nathan’s clothes as he stands apart from the others, near the crooked wrought-iron fence that borders the graves.

He keeps his head down, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. He doesn’t approach the casket, doesn’t dare step closer to the priest’s murmured prayers or the wreaths of white lilies. When he does look up to parse the crowd, he spots some familiar faces. A lot of people from school, some Vortex Club members included. Rachel’s parents, a huddled mass near the front. Chloe, standing off to the side with Max.

They lock eyes. He looks away immediately.

The ceremony ends in a slow, solemn trickle, the crowd dispersing as people drift back to their cars. But then Chloe is there, standing in front of him. He doesn’t know how she closed the distance so fast, doesn’t even hear her approach until she’s right there, her boots planted firmly in the mud.

“You have some serious nerve showing up here,” she says.

Nathan keeps his gaze fixed on the ground, the scuffed toes of her boots, the faint imprints they’ve left in the damp earth. “I know,” he says. “I’m trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

“Keep it that way,” Chloe says, her blue eyes narrowing. They’re red-rimmed, shiny from crying. “She might’ve been found sooner if it weren’t for you fucking things up.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know why you came. She wouldn’t want you here.”

“I loved her too, okay?” Nathan blurts, dragging his hands out of his pockets and gripping the hem of his coat, twisting it in his fists. “I just—I just came to say goodbye. That’s all I wanted.”

Chloe looks at him for a long time, and then glances back at Max. Back to him again. “We heard about what happened to Warren,” she says, her voice dropping. “Is he going to be okay?”

Nathan sighs. His gaze darts to the plot where Rachel’s casket was lowered just minutes ago, the flowers fresh and fragrant against the churned earth. “He’s stable,” he says hoarsely. “But it’s… it’s going to take time. They’re keeping him under observation, I guess.”

“Stable,” Chloe repeats, shifting her weight onto one foot. “That’s what they always say when they don’t know what the fuck’s going to happen.”

Max, standing slightly behind Chloe, reaches out as if to touch her arm, but thinks better of it. “Is it true?” she asks. “That he drank too much on Halloween?”

“That’s what the doctors said,” Nathan lies. “He went too hard. They, um, said it might’ve been due to stress, or something. They haven’t told me much.”

Chloe shoots him a pointed look. “Stress doesn’t get you pumped full of charcoal in the ER. I know Warren parties sometimes, but he’s not that guy.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Chloe doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t argue. “Tell him we’re thinking about him, alright?” she says, rubbing at her eyes. “And if he needs anything—”

“I’ll tell him,” Nathan cuts her off. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

Chloe turns on her heel without another word, heading for her truck with Max in tow. As soon as they’re out of sight, Nathan exhales sharply, his breath fogging in the air. They probably saw through his flimsy excuse. Warren isn’t the guy who goes too hard, who drinks himself into oblivion. That’s Nathan.

He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it with shaky fingers (a new lighter, not Rachel’s), and walks cautiously to her grave. He exhales a stream of smoke as he approaches, and then stops in front of the stone, eyes scanning the inscription.

RACHEL DAWN AMBER. Jul. 22, 1994 – Nov. 13, 2013

Daughter. Dreamer. Friend.

Nathan crouches down, flicking ash onto the frost-crusted grass. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. His voice wavers, and he wonders, not for the first time, if Rachel would hate him for what happened—for all of it. Probably not. She was always too forgiving when it came to him.

He takes another drag, exhaling smoke through his nose like a dragon. “Jefferson’s never going to hurt anyone again,” he continues. “I made sure of that. I haven’t really processed the fact that I’m a fucking murderer, but I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? Not if it means you’re avenged.”

Rachel’s stone says nothing.

“I don’t know if you can hear any of this, and I know you’re not God, but…” Nathan says, his voice trailing off. He swallows thickly, grimacing. “If you’ve got any pull where you are, can you do me a favor? Can you make sure Warren’s going to be okay? I know I don’t deserve it, but he does.”

Nathan’s voice cracks on the last word, and he grits his teeth, crushing the cigarette into the dirt beside Rachel’s grave. The ember sizzles out with a faint hiss, leaving behind a smudge of ash that feels pathetically inadequate. He stays crouched there a moment, the world around him silent save for the faint rustle of bare branches in the wind.

Nathan doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. An answer, maybe, though he doubts Rachel’s grave will give him one. Forgiveness. Closure. Something. Anything.

“Wherever you are, you can rest now,” he says quietly, grinding his hand against his eyes to stem the tears threatening to fall. “Bye, Rach.”

He places a hand against the top of her stone before rising slowly, his legs stiff from the cold, and walks away from her for the last time. He doesn’t look back.

Slowly, Nathan falls into routine.

It’s less of a routine and more of a bleak, mechanical pattern of showing up, getting through the day, and leaving without speaking to anyone unless absolutely necessary. He drifts from class to class, smokes till he stinks like an ashtray, swims till his body feels numb. He calls the hospital every day for updates on Warren’s condition, which he doesn’t get. He checks his phone every ten minutes to check for texts from Warren and finds nothing.

Nothing except messages from his mom, who’s been particularly shaken by Jefferson being found dead on their land. She’s been more of a helicopter parent than ever, even going so far as to talk about unenrolling him from Blackwell and sticking him in one of the public high schools for the rest of the year. Only when he reminds her of Warren does she drop the idea.

Nathan starts to spiral when he returns to Warren’s room one night and realizes that his smell has started to fade, that woodsy, soapy scent of his. It’s not something he’s ever thought about before, how long it takes for someone’s scent to disappear when they’re gone. He can feel Warren slipping away from him, replaced by the stale, impersonal scent of unwashed sheets and the chemical tang of nicotine.

Everything in his room is kept exactly as it was before Halloween night, because changing anything feels like admitting that he might not come back. The cluttered desk with Warren’s half-empty coffee mug, mold blooming around the rim. The pile of DVDs they planned on watching at some point. Even his unworn Halloween costume sits where Warren had last placed it, in a neatly folded pile on his desk chair. Nathan doesn’t have the heart to move it.

The days blur together. Warren’s absence stretches longer, heavier. He waits.

And then, the Monday before Warren’s birthday, the waiting ends.

Nathan attends Mrs. Hoida’s class as usual, the seat beside him empty. He hasn’t looked at it in weeks. It makes him too sad. Instead, he focuses on the scratched-up surface of his desk, the dull drone of the lesson fading into the background as he stares at the graffiti etched into the wood: initials, band names, profanity.

When he makes it back to Warren’s room, he shoves the door open and drops his backpack on the floor, letting it slump against the wall with a heavy thud. He moves to the bed, ready to collapse into it and bury himself in Warren’s pillow, as though doing so might stave off the emptiness for another night. But he stops short, his breath catching in his throat.

Warren is there.

Sitting up in bed, his head bowed as he reads a book. He looks older, smaller, like the weight of the past two weeks has compacted him into something more fragile. He’s here, though—solid and real, the late afternoon light falling in soft streaks across the side of his face.

Nathan freezes, his mind struggling to catch up with what his eyes are seeing. For a moment, he thinks he must be imagining it, some cruel trick of exhaustion and longing. But then Warren looks up, and their eyes meet, and Warren smiles in the way that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle.

“Hey,” he says softly, closing the book and setting it aside. “How was class?”

Nathan crosses the room in two quick steps, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, before he falls into him. “You’re back,” he croaks, burying his face into Warren’s neck. “Oh, God. You’re back. You’re back.”

Warren’s arms come up around him, hesitantly at first, then tighter, as if he’s afraid Nathan might shatter in his grip. “I’m back,” he murmurs. “They discharged me a few hours ago. I’m okay.”

“No,” Nathan says, and he’s crying now, the tears spilling over and soaking into Warren’s shirt. “You’re not okay. You almost—” His voice breaks, and he grips Warren tighter, his fingers digging into his back. “You almost died, Warren.”

“But I didn’t,” Warren says, tugging Nathan onto his chest. “I’m okay. Kidneys… not so much. I’ll be on a cocktail of meds for a while, but it’s cool.”

Nathan lets out a broken laugh, the sound half-choked by his tears. “I tried to come visit you,” he says, sniffing. “I swear, I tried. They wouldn’t let me. Said only family could see you.”

“I know. I was the one who made it that way.”

Nathan pulls back, hurt. “Oh,” he says. “You didn’t want me there?”

Warren sighs, his hand still on Nathan’s back. “It wasn’t about that,” he says, his gaze drifting to the window. “It’s not—God, no. I did.”

“Then why?”

Warren’s fingers twitch, his body tensing beneath Nathan’s weight. “Because the cops came,” he says. “My mom called them. They were asking questions. Who drugged me, who beat the shit out of me, what do I remember from that night…”

Nathan goes very still. “What did you tell them?”

Warren looks at him, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes shadowed in the fading light. “Nothing,” he says softly. “I told them I don’t remember anything, and that I don’t want an investigation.”

Nathan stares at him, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs, frozen in the tight space of his chest. “Do you remember?”

“I remember enough.”

“And you don’t want to tell them the truth?”

“I should, probably,” Warren says. “I should, but I won’t. I thought maybe if I put some distance between us, it would make things easier. Less chance for them to dig into your involvement, less chance for you to get hurt because of me.”

Nathan feels like the floor beneath him has shifted. He clambers off of Warren and sits on the edge of the bed, distraught. “Warren,” he says, “I killed someone.”

“Not directly,” Warren says evenly. “We both heard Jefferson. You didn’t know what you were doing to Rachel.”

“I’m not talking about Rachel.”

Warren shrugs. “You saved me,” he says. “You did what you had to do.”

Nathan chuckles humorlessly. A life for a life.

Warren moves to sit beside him and props his chin on Nathan’s shoulder. “So… you were bringing him girls,” he says. “To exploit. Why would you do that?”

Nathan flinches at the question. He doesn’t answer right away. How can he? How do you explain the unexplainable?

“At first, it was just… he said it was art. He said he saw something in me. That we could create something together,” Nathan says finally. “He gave me attention I wasn’t getting from anyone else. By the time I realized how fucked up it was, it was too late for me to get out of it. It’s no excuse for what I did.”

Warren nods, pensive. “He hurt you the night she died,” he says. “Didn’t he?”

Nathan clenches his eyes shut. He hasn’t had time to unpack all of that. For once in his life, he’s thankful for the GHB and the black hole where memories should be.

“That’s what he said,” Nathan starts, taking a deep breath. “I keep telling myself that he could be lying, but I don’t think he was.”

He can feel Warren’s breath on his neck, steady but shallow, like he’s trying to measure his reaction before saying anything. It’s comforting in a way, his lack of immediate judgment.

“I hate him,” Warren says. “For what he did to you. To Rachel. To those girls.”

“Join the club,” Nathan mutters, his head dropping forward. “You should hate me too.”

“Maybe, but… I don’t. I really don’t think I can.”

After a long silence, he speaks again. “I heard the cops are investigating Jefferson’s death,” he says. “Do we need to be worried?”

From what Nathan overheard on a call between his dad and the police, they don’t have much to go on. Three sets of footprints, a burned-out barn, and a body charred beyond recognition. The gunshot was close-range, the kind of wound that doesn’t leave much room for interpretation for ballistics, but the fire destroyed everything useful—his fingerprints, the binders, the so-called evidence of what had happened that night.

“They think it was a robbery,” Nathan says. “Jefferson and two accomplices broke into the barn to steal some of the photography equipment. Something went wrong, and… well.” He shrugs, the motion stiff and awkward. “Dad paid them off, so it doesn’t matter. They aren’t going to look too hard.”

Warren smirks weakly. “Prescott money.”

“It comes in handy sometimes.”

“What about the gun? And the burner phone?”

Nathan’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking to the floor. “The gun’s gone,” he says. “Buried it. The burner phone… I smashed it. Dumped the pieces in different trash bins all over town. Nobody’s finding that.”

“And Frank? Could he cause problems for us?”

Nathan shakes his head. He hasn’t seen Frank or his RV around town since Rachel’s funeral. Chances are he fucked off to wherever people like Frank go when they’ve overstayed their welcome. If Nathan had to guess, he’s in another shitty beach town up the coast, mourning Rachel and dealing to the next batch of teenagers with too much money on their hands.

“Good,” Warren says, relieved. “You know I’m the one who called in the tip about Rachel’s body, right? When I was leaving the hospital.”

Nathan looks up at him. “What?”

“I wasn’t going to leave her in the junkyard. It was time for her to go home.”

Better him calling it in than some random person who had the misfortune of stumbling on her remains, Nathan supposes. “They could’ve traced it back to you,” he says. “I hope you didn’t use your phone.”

“Payphone,” Warren says. “Even if they had, I’d do it again. I kept thinking about Chloe finding her there by accident. About what that would do to her.”

Nathan’s throat tightens. He can picture it too clearly—Chloe stumbling through American Rust to look for her again, only to find her body unearthed among the debris. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

“I guess I should thank you,” Nathan says. “For doing what I couldn’t.”

“It wasn’t about you,” Warren says, and there’s no malice in his tone—just a simple, unflinching truth. “It was about Rachel.”

Nathan sits back to look at him and brushes Warren’s unruly hair out of his eyes. His fingers grace over the scar healing on his temple, a burst of pink flesh where Jefferson must’ve hit him. He wants to say something, wants to form the words that have been building inside him for days, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

“I have a lot I need to say to you,” Nathan says, forcing the words. “But I don’t know how to—” He breaks off, frustrated, running a hand through his hair. “I’m so shit at words. I don’t know how to get it right.”

Warren tilts his head, his dark eyes soft and searching. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he says gently. “Just say it.”

Nathan exhales, his shoulders sagging. He doesn’t know where to start. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t say it enough times to make it matter, but I’m sorry. For everything. For lying to you. For getting you hurt.”

“Nate—” Warren starts, sighing.

“No, let me finish,” Nathan interrupts, his voice wavering. He runs a hand over his face and takes a breath before continuing. “I will never forgive myself for the things I’ve done, and you shouldn’t either. You’re the only good thing I’ve ever had in my life, and I dragged you into this mess. You gave me a chance when no one else would, and… I don’t know. You make me happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“I want,” he says, swallowing thickly, “I want to be your boyfriend. I want to wake up to you in the morning. I want to keep going to the movies with you. I want to have dinner with your mom. I like the cheesy, cliché shit we’ve been doing, and I want to keep doing it. But if there’s no coming back from any of this, I just…”

Nathan’s breath catches, and he forces himself to lift his head. “I just want you to know,” he says, “that I love you too.”

Warren doesn’t move a muscle. He just looks at Nathan, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes wide and shining. Nathan feels a sick, twisting panic form in his chest. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it’s too late for apologies.

Then Warren reaches out, his hand brushing against Nathan’s, his fingers curling around his wrist. “You’re an idiot,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Nathan blinks, his pulse pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. “Really?”

“Really,” Warren says, pressing their foreheads together. “With everything that’s happened to us, you really think I’d leave now? After all of it?”

Nathan’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into the contact. “I don’t know what I thought,” he admits. “I don’t know.”

Warren presses his lips to Nathan’s temple. “I’m not sure where we go from here,” he says wearily. “I don’t know what’s next. But we’ve been through hell, Nate. We deserve a shot at something better, don’t you think?”

Nathan isn’t sure what better would look like for the two of them. It feels abstract, impossible, unattainable, even.

But he knows the feel of Warren’s hand, warm and steady against his own. He knows the way Warren is looking at him now, like he’s worth something more than the mistakes he’s made. Better might feel worlds away, but maybe it starts with this. With Warren. With trying.

“Yeah,” Nathan says, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time in weeks. “We do.”

Inhale, count to three, exhale.