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strangers: (noun) a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar
Shelby shuffles into their English class. It's quiet, it's the first day of school, everyone is fucking miserable.
They're going to spend the next hour or so tuning out synopsis bullshit (yeah, they'd like seeing any of these rules enforced by the second semester, thanks very much) and staring at the clock, mentally willing the minute hand to move faster.
Fifteen minutes after the bell's already rung, someone's come strolling in with nothing but a thin folder and a pencil tucked behind his ear and an obnoxiously empty backpack. He doesn't offer an apology or even a greeting -- just does this fuckboy "how you doing" nod, and fuck, for all Shelby cares about school, even they wouldn't do that, what the hell. The teacher's lips thin to a stern, tight white line for a beat before continuing on the synopsis lecture, perhaps with an air of irritation that wasn't there before. And there goes Shelby's easy period. Seriously, who the fuck --
But wait. Shelby thinks they remember the mop of brown hair and pale expanse of skin right above the person's t-shirt -- and -- wow. That's Nate Willey. Shelby's never actually met Nate, and never really planned to, to be honest -- he's got a rap sheet a mile long. He's a well-known bad boy, class A douche, known for playboy habits and fuck-all attitude. Rumors cloak him like a grail of smog, everything from parties to sleeping around to scandals with teachers and shit. The drugs shit from last year wasn't really confirmed, but c'mon. Everyone knew.
Shelby sighs in their seat, slumping and blowing the bangs out of their eyes. They're hoping they won't have to interact with him too much, if at all.
crush: (noun) a brief but intense infatuation for someone
For a fucking anal as fuck teacher, the class hasn't moved seats, like, at all. Shelby is still stuck staring at the back of the Nate guy's fucking head, and it's been a whole fucking semester of sitting in the weird alphabetical golden ratio order the teacher arranged in the beginning of the year. (For fuck's sakes, one math class is more than enough.) Shelby could give fuck all about how important the golden ratio was in the development of Greek philosophy.
And fine, alright. Shelby likes the back of Nate's head -- a little bit. He'd changed it from the bright teal (which was distracting but Shelby isn't too proud to say that they liked that color, too) to a chestnut brown that looks so soft, shinier and easier to tug. It looks like the strands would slip through Shelby's fingers like dark copper, cool and silky. Shelby imagines it'd smell like warm soap, clean in a blunt way.
In Shelby's opinion, Nate's hair is literally his one redeeming quality. Shelby, in their unwanted and unfortunate prime view seat, has seen girls and boys -- just a lot of people in general -- flit in front of Nate's desk, flirting and leaning against the empty desk next to his, fluttering eyelashes and tinted blushes when he winks. Shelby is pretty sure the longest someone's lingered by Nate's desk like that was like, a week. More significantly, Shelby's like a thousand percent sure Nate's slept with all of them.
And he's managed to be late every single day. How he does it, no one knows. It's the third period of the day, he hasn't got lunch or even recess break as an excuse.
Shelby tears their eyes away from the back of Nate's head when the teacher does this impatient throat-clearing thing. The chick smiling demurely at Nate shuffles away to her seat, and Shelby hears their teeth clicking involuntarily in annoyance.
Nate turns around, a scowl scrunching up his pink lips and pale nose. "What the fuck is your problem?" His voice is even clearer, bell-toned and authoritative when directed at Shelby, and they blink, stunned at being spoken to directly by the infamous Nate Willey.
"What?"
"Seriously, I hear you huffing and whatever the fuck behind me every fucking day. Hop off, what I do isn't your fucking business and it's not your place to fucking judge," he hisses, just barely quiet enough to be out of the teacher's hearing range, but definitely loud enough for all the students in the immediate vicinity to hear. Quiet muffled giggles break out, and Shelby feels their face burn pink with embarrassment.
"Well, you walking in late is fucking rude -- it interrupts everyone every time. You having kids come over to your desk all the time to the point where the kid next to you was literally forced to move from his seat because he was so fucking tired of your little 'friends' sitting on his desk all the time is rude. And you know what? Maybe if you weren't such an asshole I wouldn't have a fucking problem with you."
The giggles had died out and the room has become very, very quiet. Shelby's voice had risen enough for the teacher to hear at least that last bit. The teacher's face is grim, mouth set in a white line.
"Shelby, Nathaniel? Since you two seem to have so much to say to each other, you can say it after school. In detention. I expect you in this room at 3 PM sharp. Unbelievable."
Shelby set their teeth and glares at Nate until he turns back around, slowly, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Shelby is suddenly very aware of the stares of their classmates, and stares ahead at the corny poster in front of them determinedly, feeling self-conscious. You know what? Fuck them. Who cares if the quiet kid suddenly explodes one day? The quiet kid's got a fucking voice, too. Jesus Christ.
The poster seems to bleat What would you do if you knew you could not fail? pathetically in its snot green comic sans.
People talk, and people talk fast. Suddenly, there were claims that Nate and Shelby had slept together (no way in hell -- sorry not sorry, but Shelby actually has standards), or, along the same tangent, that Nate knocked Shelby up. More outlandish ones were that Shelby used to deal drugs to Nate (what even), and Shelby was an ex (again -- standards). And the most outlandish to circle back to Shelby: Nate burned down Shelby's house and killed their parents, and now they're a homeless orphan living on the streets. (Just -- what the hell?)
Anyways, Shelby trudges through the entire day being pestered and annoyed by prying questions, and odd ones ("does Nate have hair on his ankles") and by the time 3 o'clock circles around, Shelby's in a pretty shit mood. They half-consider ditching, but finally come to the conclusion that missing a 30-minute detention's probably not worth the Saturday school. They head to their English classroom reluctantly, sighing in resignation.
Nate's already in there -- in his usual seat -- and he's actually early, for once. Shelby pinches themself to make sure they aren't hallucinating or dreaming or something. It hurts, so, no, this is not their twisted imagination conjuring up this, of all things.
They start walking to their normal seat, reconsider, and sit down five seats away from Nate, in a sweet, Nate-less area. For a second there, Shelby forgot that that could exist. A smile twitches the sides of their lips.
The teacher comes in, blabbering about their swearing and how "I expect better of my students -- language and behavior like that isn't tolerated on school grounds" and honestly, shit like that isn't going to change. But the most important bit is that this pointless waste of time is only supposed to last half an hour. Then the teacher leaves the room, footsteps pattering further and further down the echo-ey hall.
Shelby closes their eyes and enjoys the silence -- finally. They're starting to drift towards sleep when Nate clears his throat and Shelby lets out an exasperated sigh. There's a thoughtful pause, before --
"Hey." It's cautiously said, still high and bell-like, but without all the demanding authority. Shelby sighs, more audibly this time.
"What do you want?" Shelby says waspishly.
"Listen. You, uh, you made some. Um. Some valid points. I haven't been the most -- uh -- considerate. And I'd like to apologize."
Shelby purses their lips, and mulls over Nate's words. They turn to Nate apprehensively.
"You're not bullshitting me?" Shelby asks point-blank. Nate shakes his head.
"No! I honestly feel bad. I just didn't realize I was doing all that shit."
Shelby's not quite sure how to respond. "Well then. I guess you're not quite the asshole I thought you were. Congratulations," they say wryly, sparing Nate a small smile. He beams in response. He's got white teeth laced with braces, and somehow, that works for him. His lips stretch smooth and slick like he's just been kissed and his nose scrunches up a little and the smile lights up his eyes.
Shelby feels this fluttery sensation in their stomach, and a warm feeling in their chest as their pulse begins to audibly quicken.
Well, fuck.
friendship: (noun) a relationship of mutual affection
Unsurprisingly, Shelby gets paired with Nate for the next group project. They're supposed to make a poster or something on The Grapes of Wrath -- waste of time, if you ask Shelby. Of course, though, no one's asked Shelby. The teachers shoots them a stern look before announcing the other pairings. A boy next to Shelby giggles, and the amusement dies in an awkward forced coughing fit when Shelby slides him a death glare.
"Fucking hell," Shelby mutters in irritation under their breath.
The bell rings to let the student body out for break, and Shelby slings on their backpack and scoops up their binder and shit from their desk in a well-practiced motion of efficiency, legging it to the door.
Shelby's about to slip into the rush of bodies that is students moving as quickly as possible to the nearest exits, when someone touches their shoulders. Shelby internal scream of are you fucking kidding me I rushed out to avoid this is accompanied by a very external grimace when they turn to face Nate.
"Hey," Nate says, "can I have your number?"
And Shelby's silly little heart skips a beat before they come to their senses enough to be properly offended. "Excuse me?"
"For the project, genius," Nate says with an easy smile, effortlessly smoothing over the spike of tension that Shelby's caused. Shelby swears they've caught a flicker of disappointment flash in Nate's eyes, but it was gone so quickly that they couldn't be quite sure.
"Fine," Shelby sighs irritatedly, handing over their phone for Nate to plug in his contact information while Shelby enters in their own number into Nate's phone. They're tempted to "accidentally" fuck up their number in order to be problematic in an impulsive suddenness of defiance, but they double-check their number carefully anyways before handing Nate his phone back. Nate grins his easy smile again.
"I thought you liked me," Nate pouts when Shelby slaps his phone into his hand, scowling.
"No, I said you weren't as much of an asshole," Shelby says curtly, already walking away. "There's a big difference."
They've literally just made it out of the hallway when their phone vibrates in their pocket. They fish it out, balancing all their pens on their binder precariously. Naturally, it is Nate, who has somehow made it his personal mission to irritate Shelby to death since the day Shelby actually said something that was more than one syllable.
should we start on the prject today
Shelby frowns at the text on their phone. why
There's an immediate answer, and the phone vibrates unnecessarily to punctuate its arrival. because
lets procrastinate on it
is that sarcasm i need an a on this project to get an a in this class
Shelby puts their phone back in their pocket and holds their binder and pens more securely now, nudging past people en route to their locker. Their pocket vibrates three more times. Shelby opens their locker and shoves all their shit in before checking their phone again.
dude if ur not free its nbd but i need to know plsssss
shelby
sheeeeeelbyyyyy
Shelby sighs. They don't have plans anyways -- scratch that, they never have anyways -- so might as well. He needs an A, right?
fine urs or mine
why dont u buy me dinner first ;)
And Shelby's so fucking tempted to just cancel the plans out of sheer annoyance, even if they've got to use a lame excuse like "sorry my mom said no :(" if they had to. They're prepared to type it out when --
urs, if thats ok. bells gonna ring bye
Shelby scowls, stuffs their phone in their backpack, and trudges off to their next class.
Later, Nate's waiting for Shelby by their locker after school, and Shelby frowns at him.
"How'd you know where my locker was?" Shelby asks suspiciously. Nate snorts.
"It's not actually a secret, where your locker is, you know," says Nate, amusement saturating his voice. "And I'm not blind."
Shelby fixes their eyes away from Nate, focusing on taking shit they need out of their locker. "What do you want?" It doesn't come out as harsh as Shelby intended -- pity.
"We're going over to your house after school, remember?" Nate drawls, leaning a shoulder against the locker next to Shelby's.
"Well, I walk," snaps Shelby, closing their locker door sharply. Nate's unfazed, but he seems too annoying stubborn to be driven off by Shelby's passive hostility. Shelby sighs inwardly.
"Well, I drive," says Nate, pulls a set of car keys from out of his pocket. He waves them enthusiastically, making them jingle in obnoxiously in Shelby's face. "Need a ride, Sheeb?"
Shelby holds back a growl -- barely. "Don't call me that," they hiss. "Or else -- "
"Or else what?" Nate grins cockily, and it makes his eyes scrunch up and seem brighter. Shelby opens their mouth angrily and Nate holds his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay! Whatever you say, then." Nate smiles mischievously, before he sing-songs "Sheeb." He prances -- fucking prances -- to the student parking lot, and Shelby stomps along behind with an air of rebellion and vexation, muttering to themself angrily along the way. They slam the door and put their muddy backpack on the clean carpet rug at the feet of the passenger seat. Nate turns on the car cheerfully.
"What the fuck is your problem?" hisses Shelby, and Nate sighs good-naturedly.
"Not this again," chuckles Nate in a joking voice, but his eyes are serious. Shelby practically bares their teeth.
"I actively show how much I hate you, okay?" explains Shelby. "And you're still being so nice and fucking cheerful and shit. And it's getting on my fucking nerves."
Nate frowns. "Wait. So let me get this straight. So, first, you hated me because I was an asshole who was inconsiderate and was always late and shit." Nate pauses, and looks at Shelby patiently for a response.
"Yes," Shelby grates out.
"Okay," says Nate thoughtfully. He deliberates for a moment, watching the blue of the sky outside his windshield. "Okay," he continues, seeming to come to a conclusion. "And now, you hate me because I'm too considerate and I'm being too nice."
"Huh?" Shelby's confused. Sure, it sounds bad when you say it like that, but --
"I'm being so nice and cheerful and shit, right? I'm being patient with you. I'm being considerate and shit and not just showing up where you live even though we're on the same street, and offering you a ride even though you made it clear that you expect to walk. And that's -- that's why you hate me?" Nate's lips are pursed, and his eyebrows are scrunched together.
"Well -- I didn't mean -- " Shelby flushes in part frustration and part guilt. "It's -- annoying, alright, and I'm not going to invalidate my own reactions -- "
"No," says Nate decisively. "No, there's no winning with you. You know what's annoying? Your fucking attitude. I'm trying to be your friend. You don't have to be my friend, actually. You don't even have to acknowledge that I'm trying so hard, if you don't want to. But you can at least be fucking respectful. You were on my case about being rude -- and you know what? You're the fucking rude one. We have to work together on this project for like, a month, and the least you can do is be fucking polite. So stop being an ass, and make this easy for the both of us, alright?"
There's a heavy silence in the car for a long time. Nate's breathing is a little labored, and when Shelby sneaks a peek out of the corner of their eye, it looks a little like he's fighting back tears, and Shelby feels so fucking awkward. They've gone from being well-acquainted with the back of Nate's head to seeing Nate emotionally debauched in two days flat, and it feels like Shelby's intruding on something intimate -- something not their place. Shelby clears their throat.
"I'm sorry," they mumble. And they mean it. It's still quiet, and Shelby's worried that Nate hasn't heard it. They start to gear themself up again to repeat themself louder when Nate clears his throat.
"It's okay," Nate says in his normal voice. Shelby's shoulders slump in relief, tension releasing from in-between their shoulder blades that they didn't even know was there. Nate clears his throat again. "Do you want to listen to any music, or -- "
"No, it's alright," says Shelby, and they mentally kick themself because ten minutes of awkward silence (or even worse, forced conversation) with Nate sounds like hell. "I'll just listen to whatever you listen to," Shelby amends quickly.
"Alright," says Nate. He clicks the play button on the stereo and whatever CD that's already in starts in the middle of a song. Shelby recognizes the song immediately -- it's "Dance, Dance" by Fall Out Boy. The familiar bass beats against the car's speakers, which are remarkably good, Shelby notes.
"I love Fall Out Boy," says Shelby tentatively, and Nate smiles warmly without taking his eyes off the road.
"Me, too," replies Nate, and the smile in his voice warms up the clear bell-tone. Shelby glares out the window in one last attempt of defiance. But they have to admit it to themself, fine, alright. They guess Nate's not that bad.
fondness: (noun) affection or liking for someone
"This is not how I pictured your house to be." Nate stares at the messy stack of newspapers on the coffee table. It's literally the only mess in the living room.
The carpet's beige and fluffy clean, the coffee table has a polished-shiny top, the TV is neatly centered with the wires tucked behind, the remotes in a holder next to it, and the brown suede couch look like they've never been sat on. The walls are an aggressive shade of white and bare -- no family portraits, no baby pictures or awards, no anything.
Shelby kicks off their shoes, which land somewhat near the organized shoe rack, drop their backpack in the middle of the floor, and collapse on the couch. They frown.
"How exactly did you picture my house, then?" asks Shelby. Nate can't pick up any sarcasm or irritation in Shelby's voice. He figures it’s probably safe to answer.
"Messier. More lived-in, I guess. Your house looks like a model home."
"Is that a bad thing? I’d take that as a compliment."
"Nah. Just unexpected, I guess." Nate looks at Shelby. They make the house look better. Like, not in a corny way -- like they contribute their mess and liveliness to the house, make it more homey and less inanimate. Nate fiddles with the hem of his shirt.
There's a pause of silence for a while, before Shelby sits up. "Uh. Do you want something to drink? Or like a snack or something?"
"No, I'm good," says Nate. He slumps against the wall -- Shelby’s occupying most of the couch.
"Alright, so." Shelby gets up, their hair already messy and flattened on one side. "I'll, um -- " They've shuffled to the far side, where the drawers are, and sifts through the contents quickly, " -- here's a poster, markers, paint. Shit. A hot glue gun. Do we need a hot glue gun? And, uh. Glitter." They shake a canister that has red sparkly shit in it.
"Right, so, uh. I was thinking maybe we could do a map? With a timeline? Like the map of the road the family took to California, and a timeline of what happened during it."
"What about the title and decorations and shit?"
"We can draw grapes or something," says Nate dismissively. He grabs a purple marker and starts drawing circles at the edges where the paper is flat. Shelby watches him quietly for a while.
"What are you doing?" Shelby asks finally. Nate draws another circle, purple ink bleeding into paper in clean lines.
"These are the grapes," says Nate curtly. Duh. He sits on his heels, looking at his handiwork. Purple circles border the poster paper neatly.
"You know that grapes grow in bunches, right?"
Shit. Shit. Nate had completely forgotten. He smiles weakly. "I did that on purpose."
Shelby looks at him skeptically.
"Shut up," groans Nate. "Whatever. It's fine. You'll do the drawing then, and I'll supervise."
"Sounds solid," says Shelby, purposely ignoring the sarcasm. Shelby rolls out the poster. It curls defiantly at the edges, and they have to stretch an elbow over the corner in order to get any significant amount of flat surface. They sketch with a pencil, tongue poking out in concentration, and -- voila -- the rough form of southwest continental United States is drawn faintly onto the paper. Nate didn't know anyone could actually do that -- draw a map of any part of the US from memory.
"That looks good," says Nate. "Consider me impressed."
"Thanks," smiles Shelby. Actually, it's more like a lopsided smirk -- they look a little smug. Nate rolls the tube of purple glitter between his fingers thoughtfully.
"But you know what? I think it's missing something. I get that it's a rough sketch, but. It's just not, uh, enough."
Shelby's eyebrows raise. "And what's it missing?"
"Glitter," Nate deadpans. He unscrews the tube with a quick flick of his wrist and sends a shower of purple flecks at Shelby. They sit there, still contorted awkwardly with their elbow across the far corner of the poster, their eyes comically wide and their mouth hanging open. Nate snickers.
"Looks perfect now," he says seriously, but even he can hear the smile in his own voice.
He barely has a moment to gloat in one-upping Shelby with the glitter thing before Shelby is standing (on the poster, if the crinkles are anything to go by) and upends an entire pot of green glitter over Nate's head. Nate feels shock and disbelief trickle down his spine like egg whites for half a beat, before he grabs a handful of glitter off of his jeans and chucks it at Shelby.
"Oh, you are in for it!" crows Shelby, hitting Nate upside the head with a pillow from the sofa. It causes a spray of green glitter to fly out of his hair. It seems to hang over the carpet, defying gravity -- Nate feels a bit like Tinkerbell.
In the smoothest movement Nate will ever manage -- seriously -- he swings in a round swiftness, grabbing the other sofa pillow and swinging into Shelby's back in one motion. Purple glitter falls off their clothes as they stumble forward. It's so dramatic. Nate throws the half-open container of orange glitter at them, and it explodes like a small gay sparkly fire. Shelby play-glares at Nate before charging at him. He shrieks and dives. Glitter explodes all over the carpet in a rainbow of color, and it stops looking so fluffy white clean and more like a gay-stripper-meets-drag-queen dance party happened on Shelby's living room floor.
They both laugh, and Shelby's getting a really bad cramp in their side. The poster's rolled up neatly and safely put away, save for a few crinkles, and Nate and Shelby try to vacuum even though neither of them can stay upright. Nate tries to heave the vacuum cleaner across the floor in time with his hiccups, and Shelby lets him know when he's missed a spot. (To be honest, by the state of the poor carpet, it looks like he's missed the entire floor. But that's not the point.)
devotion: (noun) passionate and selfless affection and dedication to a person
Don't ask Shelby, because they don't know, alright -- they and Nate seem to hang out a lot lot more. Teachers start calling them "inseparable" -- which, okay, they're not, they're just really good friends -- and annoyingly enough, start targeting them to work separately. The English teacher looks so fucking smug in their class when Nate and Shelby are having hurried, hushed conversations, trying to squeeze all their thoughts and words in the time it takes for the bell to ring.
It's irritating and unwarranted.
Nate shoves Shelby off of their stool in chemistry and sits on it. Shelby kicks his stuff into the aisle and sits in the stool opposite. When he gets up to pick up his shit, they sit back down in their stool. Sneaky, sneaky. Shelby almost falls off their chair laughing at the scowl on Nate's face while he sits in the other stool glumly.
A boy -- he’s scrawny and lean, and he’s not lanky and whatever, but. He’s a little taller than Nate, and Shelby can’t remember his name.
”Sheebs, this is Finn,” Nate says, looking fond and soppy. His whole face seems to glow, his eyes light up, his cheeks lift and his eyes crinkle. All of that shit. And then something clicks Shelby’s head.
”Oh,” says Shelby blandly. They haven’t really got anything to say. They study him as he comes to lean on the counter. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, and black eyeliner, smudged sloppily on. He has drawings all over his wrists and hands in blue ink, and Shelby can’t make out any of them. He’s pale in a good way and smiles easy, shows good straight teeth when he does. His hair’s a shock of red right now. Last week, Shelby thinks they saw him with teal hair in the cafeteria. Shelby’s trying to figure out if they prefer the teal or red hair better before Nate clears his throat quietly. Shelby stops staring at Finn’s hair and draws their gaze back to Nate. He’s smiling expectantly, patiently. Finn looks a little bored, and a little flustered -- Shelby doesn’t really know how he manages to express both those emotions at once.
Nate draws an arm around Finn’s waist, effectively trapping him against the lab counter. Finn’s hands are still braced against the counter, showing Shelby his pretty pale wrists, a blue vein protruding from each in a slight swell. It’s like like cream and shadows. Jesus, even his fucking wrists look like a piece of art. Shelby flicks their attention to Finn’s eyes -- brown, kinda muddy and hazel towards the edges, like honey in tea. They clear their throat.
“Nice to meet you, Finn,” says Shelby lamely. It’s anti-climatic, not worthy of the awkward and tense pause that resulted from the time Shelby took to open their mouth. They hear a girl audibly sigh in disappointment behind them, hear the rustle of clothes as she turns back around in her seat in newfound disinterest. Shelby grits their teeth in annoyance.
”Nice to meet you, too, Shelby,” says Finn politely. His voice is nice -- tinny, like over a phone, very white suburban soccer kid. Shelby can’t even bring themself to hate him -- he’s too fucking nice. They can tell.
Nate’s smile goes from expectant to tense to relieved in seconds. Who knew so many emotions could be conveyed through a smile?
Shelby spares Finn a tight-lipped smile. Their lips hurt from where they're stretched across their braces. Finn passes an oblivious, glazed-over smile showing his pearly whites before turning around to face the board when the bell rings. Nate turns around, too, swinging his arm so it’s at Finn’s waist while resting on the counter.
So Shelby’s back to glaring at the back of Nate’s head. Talk about nostalgia. His hair is a little bit too long, and still shiny and dark. Finn’s hair is pale and wiry. Shelby feels a burning anger deep in their gut -- it surprises them, it’s been so long since those feelings bubbled up that it feels alien and shocking. Then they realize -- it’s been a month since Nate’s had any kids hanging around him. Hey, Shelby’s pretty sure he’s slept with Finn, too.
A cold realization sinks into Shelby’s skin. Update: the longest kid they’ve seen hanging around Nate is... themself. It’s Shelby. The new desperate kid he’s probably slept with.
The day is suddenly passing very, very slowly.
Shelby can feel people talking about them. They’ve reached a whole new level of desperation, apparently. No one takes their friendship with Nate at face value. Everyone mocks Shelby’s new third-wheel status. Shelby genuinely feels kind of bad for being one of these assholes for so long.
”This is Jeremy,” says Nate once. They’re at the shitty bowling alley that smells like beer and weed all the time, and Jeremy is lean, scrawny, and -- wait. Actually, Jeremy looks exactly like Finn, except his hair looks tawny and soft. Shelby shoots Nate a concerned look.
”I thought your name was Finn?” asks Shelby carefully.
”No, I’m Finn’s twin brother,” replies Jeremy in a bored voice. He sighs and sits on Nate’s lap, and Nate automatically draws his arm around his hips while Jeremy passively plays with Nate’s hair. Shelby’s eyebrows shoot up.
”He has better taste in music,” Nate explains as if that made all the sense in the world.
”Is Finn mad at you?”
”Kind of, but not really,” sighs Jeremy. “Can we bowl now?”
And for someone who looked bored the entire time, he ended up kicking both Nate and Shelby’s asses. And then some. But Shelby supposes that Jeremy's impressive bowling skills didn't really cut it for Nate, since a new someone came about next time he and Shelby hang out.
”Sheeb, I’d like you to meet Noah,” says Nate proudly. They’re at the beach. Shelby only only brought two towels because they thought it was just going to be them and Nate today.
”Oh, not again,” groans Shelby. Nate and Noah’s eyebrows raise, and Shelby curses. “Did I say that out loud? Sorry.”
”I brought my own towel, so it’s okay,” says Noah brightly, fidgeting awkwardly. Another nice one. Shelby is going to scream.
”Not to be rude, but like. Um. What happened to Jeremy?”
”We didn’t work out. Apparently, a good taste in music isn’t a cure-all.”
Shelby turns to Noah carefully. "You're not related to Finn or Jeremy or something, right? Because -- "
"No," says Noah curtly. Shelby flinches. Suddenly he smiles bright and wide, and Shelby honestly doesn't know how to react to such a sudden change in emotion. "Come on, Nate! You, too, Shelby! I want to go to the water!"
Shelby glances at Nate. "You didn't start dating him for his taste in music, too?"
"No," laughs Nate. "But his taste in music isn't nearly as bad as Finn's. He asked if I wanted to try something new, and I was on the bed naked -- " Shelby makes a grossed-out face, and Nate hurries the story along, " -- anyways, I thought we were going to frickle -- "
"Frickle?" snorts Shelby.
"Shut up, don't interrupt. Anyways, he had me listen to this thing called noise music for three hours. Complete mood killer. Half of it was just jackhammer noises. Jesus."
Shelby laughs, then tugs on Nate's hand, pulling him towards the ocean. "C'mon, we have to catch up to Noah."
Noah actually lasts for a while. Two weeks. Shelby's getting settled into third-wheeling when it happens again.
They're at Nate's house for a movie -- it's some generic new Disney movie. To be honest, Shelby wasn't paying too much attention.
Nate's on the couch, which is beat up and ugly. It's in the basement with the flat screen. Nate's technically in charge of cleaning the basement -- which means it never gets cleaned -- and Shelby's tiptoeing over the mess of clothes and wrappers before the notice the extra head resting on Nate's shoulder. The girl sits up straight when Shelby blocks a part of the glow from the screen.
"Hey Sheeb! This is Audrey." Nate gestures with his other hand. Audrey clears space for Shelby on the two-person loveseat by scooting onto Nate's lap. What a convenient seat. Shelby collapses into the newly vacated space. It's still warm. Shelby's not sure whether they should be pleased or disgusted.
"Hi Audrey," says Shelby blandly. Audrey has long, light brown hair and a pretty smile. She waves daintily at Shelby. Her wrists are so thin, Shelby doesn't understand why they don't just snap.
Nate and Audrey were ten minutes into the movie already. A cartoon dog leaps around a cartoon rabbit, and he's singing a song about joy and flowers. Audrey leans in to whisper into Nate's ear, and he chuckles and rubs circles into her shoulder with a thumb. The black nail polish Shelby painted onto Nate's nails is starting to chip. Shelby sighs. They should get a badge: Official Third Wheel of Nate Willey. Naturally, Nate and Audrey don't last very long. This is a new record though: it's been literally one day.
Not even a full day, technically. Shelby tells Nate so -- or rather, they hiss it into his ear when the mystery dude makes a bathroom run. Nate frowns at them.
"She wouldn't put out."
"What?" Shelby squawks in disbelief.
"I'm just kidding," Nate laughs, and Shelby elbows him in the ribs, hard. He yelps, but manages to keep laughing. “You should have seen your face! Anyways, my mom didn’t like her. So like. She had to go, you know?”
The other kid is jogging back, a grimace contorting his otherwise pretty face. “Park bathrooms are disgusting.”
”Preaching to the choir,” sighs Shelby. They stick out a hand. “I’m Shelby, Nate’s best pal since like. Five months ago.”
”Joshua,” says the kid. He sweeps black hair out of his eyes before he takes Shelby’s hand. “Nate’s date. As of, like. After school.”
Nate’s smiling.
Joshua is still around, and it's been like, three weeks. Shelby's genuinely starting to think, hey, maybe he’ll hit the month mark. Nate and Joshua make soppy eyes at each other and Shelby doesn’t really mind as much. They don’t even want to hate Joshua. They haven’t even tried to hate him anyways out of some weird backwards obligation.
Shelby's still kind of feeling annoyed, though. It's entirely justified. This third-wheel thing has been going on for months, and they're tired of being awkwardly left-out-needed-in. So they kind of snap.
"You are a complete slut, you know," says Shelby waspishly when they've been listening to Nate gush about Joshie going on around two hours now. They have their phone braced between their ear and their shoulder as they try to focus on homework. It isn't working. Honestly, Nate was on such a roll that they're surprised he even managed to hear them at all.
"What?" Nate squawks. His voice is tinny and small coming from Shelby's shitty speaker.
"You've never managed to hold on to one person. What, do you have commitment issues?"
There's a tense silence for a minute, before Nate replies heatedly, "Whether or not I do or I don't, that's not any of your fucking business."
"Holy shit," Shelby snarks. "I'm glad I' that important to you, then."
Nate's silent for a long time. Just apologize just apologize just apologize repeats itself like a ceremonial drumbeat in Shelby's head. Nate will understand that you're probably just tired.
Instead, Shelby just hangs up.
They don't hear from Nate for a few days. Shelby's phone being still and quiet makes it suddenly seem inanimate and cold. Nate manages to ignore them neatly and smoothly in the classes they're both in, maintaining conversations with a seemingly endless flow of people. Shelby's starting to feel the guilt and regret sink in so deep that it's going to blow back out of them. If Nate doesn't talk to them by tomorrow, Shelby decides, they'll text or call or something and apologize properly and sincerely.
It's been an hour after school, and Shelby's channel surfing and ignoring their math homework. And suddenly -- BANG. BANG. BANG. Someone's knocking at the door so loudly that Shelby's knocked over the pretzel bowl. They glance at the visitor through the window, and -- oh my god, it's Nate. Shelby feels a flood of selfish relief as they rush to the door.
Shelby’s about to lecture Nate about knocking obnoxiously in a good-natured way -- break the ice, you know -- until they realize he’s crying.
"I'm sorry," Nate whimpers. "I didn't know where else to go."
”Are you okay?” they ask pointlessly. Nate shakes his head no before he’s sobbing into Shelby’s hoodie, where their neck meets shoulder. Shelby rubs his back as he shakes. He’s bent over a little uncomfortably -- he’s just a little too tall to be crying into Shelby’s shoulder -- but he doesn’t seem to care. Nate’s snot and sweat and tears are getting all over Shelby’s hoodie, but they don’t really care, either.
Nate and Shelby stand like that for a minute before Nate straightens, wiping at his nose with his wrist. His eyes are puffy and red, and his hair’s a little messy.
”Sorry,” he hiccups. It’s said tiredly.
”What’s wrong?” Shelby’s hand is still on Nate’s shoulder.
”I -- just -- it’s stupid.”
”No, what is it?” Shelby presses.
”Joshua broke up with me. I just -- “ Nate stops being coherent around there, and so Shelby gently guides him into their house and unties his shoes for him and makes shitty microwave popcorn and hot chocolate and they both sit on the sofa for fifteen minutes while Nate hiccups over his mug of hot chocolate.
”I just -- I thought you were, like. Fine with breaking up with people?”
”I am. I really am! You know just as well as me that I date a lot of people. I just, like. No one’s ever broken up with me.”
Shelby doesn’t really know how to respond to that. They take a panicked sip of their hot chocolate, which is too hot. They’re choking on the heat silently, their eyes watering. Nate’s face starts to crumple.
”You’ve never been broken up with?” Shelby chokes out.
”You probably think I’m a freak.”
“No, no! I’m just. It’s just unexpected, is all,” explains Shelby placatingly, and Nate looks a little mollified.
“I just. I don’t understand? Like, I really liked him. And my mom liked him a lot, too. Even you seemed to like him, you know? But he said I wasn’t all there, or something. He said my heart needed to set its priorities straight.” Nate lets out a quiet sob. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
Shelby maneuvers carefully so that they can wrap a comforting arm around Nate without knocking over any hot chocolate. “Hey, maybe it’s just a new spin on the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bullshit. Right?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Nate mumbles softly. They sit together like that until the hot chocolate gets cold.
love: (noun) undefinable
Nate decides to take a break from the dating scene for a while. Shelby is honestly so fucking relieved. It’s nice not being the third wheel.
Of course, Nate’s reputation is maintained. A small girl -- probably a freshman -- approaches them in the hallway. Nate’s complaining about how far away his next class is from Shelby’s hallway, and Shelby is rollling their eyes but knowing that that’s not going to stop him from coming with them to their locker, anyways. The girl clears her throat a couple of times before either of them realize she’s trying to get their attention, not someone else’s. They turn to face her, bewildered.
Her voice is nasally and annoyingly high-pitched. “Although I think the on-again, off-again thing you guys seem to be having is really unhealthy,” she says matter-of-factly, “you guys make a really cute couple.”
”No,” Shelby says automatically. They kick themself mentally. They’re used to people asking if they and Nate a couple, okay? Not just announcing that they make a cute one. Nate is cackling.
”No,” he says, imitating Shelby, before guffawing again. The girl looks at both of them in concern, her face the absolute picture of bafflement. She’s walking away quickly, pigtails bobbing, both Shelby can even get their mouth open again.
”I meant that, like, me and Nate aren’t a couple,” grumbles Shelby resignedly, much too late. The girl has already rounded the corner and probably wouldn’t even be able to hear Shelby even if they called out.
Nate’s giggling as Shelby groans into their locker. He’s still giggling as they part ways for their respective classes.
Seriously, it wasn’t that funny.
It starts happening one month into Nate being single. They’re both “taking a break” from homework and they’re staring at the ceiling in mutual, appreciated silence. Nate’s usually the first to break it. As he does today.
”Sheeb,” says Nate seriously.
”Hmm?”
”Do you ever think that we’re kind of like crayons?” Nate says it like it makes complete, logical sense. It does not, in fact, make complete, logical sense.
”What the fuck?” is all Shelby can manage. There’s a pause of silence for a moment before Shelby can say something a little more polite. “What the hell do you mean?”
”Like, we’re always melting into each other,” explains Nate, gesturing enthusiastically now. He barely misses accidentally punching Shelby in the nose, and they glare at him, which goes unnoticed. “Um. It’s like, we’re always kind of messy. And we’re kind of a hassle sometimes. But we make something new, and something that works. Sometimes it even kind of looks pretty, I guess.”
And wow. That actually does make sense. “We’d both be black crayons,” Shelby points out. “Melting us together would be pointless. We’d just be more melted black crayon.”
”You could be red, and I could be grey,” Nate argues. “We could make maroon crayon.”
”Why do you get to be the grey crayon?” Shelby complains.
”Fine. I can be red, and you can be grey.”
The silence they fall into after that is just a little more comfortable. It feels like warmth is radiating from where Shelby’s heart is.
It happens again when Shelby’s job-hunting attempt fails miserably. The rejection emails seem to taunt the Experience: N/A on every single one of their applications. How the fuck is Shelby meant to get the experience they need to get the job if they can't get the job they need to get the experience? Shelby drops their head into their hands and groans loudly.
Nate comes onto Shelby's porch and sits by them, holding out a popsicle. When they take it (reluctantly and with the least amount of enthusiasm possible) Nate grips Shelby's shoulder comfortingly. The warm of his arm soaks into Shelby's back.
"It's alright, Sheeb," says Nate. "Maybe grey's not your color."
"What are you talking about?" Shelby grumbles. It comes out a little muffled because one hand is still cradling their face.
"Crayons aren't defined by their color. You just need time to find yourself. Find your inner crayon."
"Oh my god, Nate," groans Shelby good-naturedly.
"And I'll always be here for you," continues Nate, "since I'm melted to you and all."
And weirdly enough, the crayon shit helps a little. "Thanks," Shelby mutters, ripping the popsicle package open. Despite its being red, white, and blue, Shelby's not necessarily feeling very patriotic.
Shelby sticks it in their mouth. It tastes like shit. They spit it back out.
"What the fuck is this, mostly freezer burn? The shit in the back of my freezer has been there for years! This tastes like fucking shit!"
Nate continues to suck at his patiently. "Sucks to suck," he replies bluntly. "Welcome to Flavortown."
The next incident doesn't really count. Nate and Shelby are in Nate's backyard and blasting Fall Out Boy, and Nate's singing "Americana, Crayola," at the top of his lungs. Shelby rolls their eyes and skips the song so Nate can stop being annoying.
But the third, and last, Shelby supposes, Incident, is the most important. Last but not least, as they say.
"So I've been thinking," starts Nate. He stops for a full two minutes, and Shelby's been waiting expectantly, but patience has never been one of their virtues.
"Didn't think you could," Shelby deadpans, and Nate smacks them in the arm for what was clearly a very clever joke.
"No, seriously, listen to me," Nate whines. He's sprawled out on Shelby's living room floor while Shelby channel surfs from the sofa. They didn't really need music while the TV was on, but.
"Did you want me to listen to you, like, breathe, or something?"
"Shhhh," shushes Nate. He reaches a hand up and blindly tries to put it over Shelby's mouth. He misses and his hand lands mostly over one eye and their nose. They bat it off, laughing.
"Spit it out, then, loser," says Shelby, leaning over the couch to look at Nate.
"Remember Joshua?"
"Ugh," groans Shelby, flopping onto their back. "I thought you were over him."
"I am!" says Nate indignantly. A pillow is thrown at Shelby from the floor. "Let me finish, you rat."
"You're the rat," Shelby retorts without heat. Nate pushes on.
"I've been thinking about what he said. Like how my heart didn't prioritize him or some shit, remember? And like. Maybe he's got a point."
Shelby stiffens, tension rushing back between their shoulder blades and a sinking of disappointment in their stomach. Well, there goes their little break from third-wheeling.
"Who are you crushing on, now, then?" asks Shelby. They can't help that the question comes out a little flatly. They're not exactly excited for going out to have the air of Nate-and-his-date-oh-and-Shelby again.
"Come here, I wanna whisper it to you."
"Seriously? We're not in middle school, if you haven't noticed, Nate."
"Come ooooon."
Shelby heaves themself off the sofa until they're half on the floor, at face level with Nate. "What?"
Nate kisses them.
He sort of puts his hand on the side of their face and in their hair, with their ear resting in the space where Nate's thumb and forefinger meet. His other hand is curled under their chin and tilting their face up. His lips are chapped but press against Shelby's softly, and they taste like the stale potato chips Nate dug out of Shelby's pantry. Shelby's kind of in an awkward position -- their torso is twisted with their legs starting to slide off the cushions, and they're braced on the carpet on their elbows, and they're starting to get a cramp in their side. So, Shelby's not in the best position to properly appreciate the kiss, much less stop being about as animate as a wall and respond.
"I'm sorry," Nate starts rambling when he finally moves away. His face is flushed red, and his lips look a little pinker than normal. "I probably should have asked, or something, instead of just -- "
"No," says Shelby abruptly. Nate looks crestfallen, and Shelby wants to laugh hysterically. "No, like, I meant, 'no, it's fine,'" they clarify.
"Thank god."
"What the hell does this mean? You know I'm not just a convenient lay, right? Because that would be really fucked up -- "
"No!" Nate yelps. "It's just -- you're the only one I haven't dumped yet. I guess."
That is such a fucking weird way to explain that you love someone. But it makes Shelby beam. It feels like their face is going to crack open. And after they shuffle so that they aren't losing feeling in their arms anymore, they drag Nate in for a real kiss.
This time, Nate doesn't break up with anyone at all. And Shelby is not the third wheel.