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The school was quiet.
Not the normal kind of quiet, either.
It was the strange, almost unnatural silence that settled over the building after everyone had gone home. No chatter from the hallways. No footsteps. No teachers calling after students who were late for class.
Just the faint scratching of a paintbrush against a wall.
Nathaniel leaned back, squinting at the mural.
He’d been working on it for hours.
The original assignment had been simple enough: brighten up one of the school’s blank walls with something that represented the students.
Somehow, Nathaniel had turned that into an enormous, sprawling scene filled with plants, books, music notes, stars, and dozens of tiny figures.
He’d been so focused on the details that he hadn’t noticed the problem until now.
He blinked.
Then he blinked again.
There, near the very back of the mural, partially hidden behind a painted tree, was a familiar red-haired boy sitting beneath a window and sketching.
Nathaniel stared at it.
“Oh.”
He slowly lowered his paintbrush.
“I painted myself into the background.”
For a moment, he just stood there.
Then he snorted.
Of course he had.
It was almost embarrassingly appropriate.
He’d spent hours painting everyone else into the center of the scene and somehow managed to hide himself behind a tree.
Nathaniel laughed quietly.
“That’s actually kind of funny.”
Except…
He kept looking at the little painted version of himself.
The tiny figure was barely noticeable.
If someone wasn’t looking for him, they probably wouldn’t even realize he was there.
Nathaniel’s smile faded.
He didn’t know why that bothered him.
It was just a mural.
He’d never liked attention anyway.
So why did the thought of being overlooked make his chest feel strangely tight?
“You’re still here?”
Nathaniel nearly jumped out of his skin.
He turned around.
Marc stood at the entrance to the room, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Marc!”
“Sorry.”
“You scared me.”
“I noticed.”
Nathaniel gave him a look.
Marc smiled apologetically and walked over.
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to show you something.”
“Could it wait?”
Marc glanced at the mural.
“You’re still working?”
“Apparently.”
“You’ve been here for hours.”
Nathaniel shrugged.
“I lost track of time.”
Marc studied him for a moment.
Then his eyes moved to the mural.
“It’s really good.”
Nathaniel smiled faintly.
“Thanks.”
Marc looked closer.
“I like the little details.”
“That’s the point.”
“Is that you?”
Nathaniel froze.
Marc pointed toward the tiny figure beneath the window.
Nathaniel stared at him.
“How did you even see that?”
“You made the hair pretty obvious.”
“It’s supposed to blend in.”
“I think you failed.”
Nathaniel laughed.
“Great. So much for subtlety.”
Marc smiled, but it faded when he noticed Nathaniel’s expression.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m just tired.”
Marc didn’t look convinced.
Nathaniel picked up his brush again.
“Seriously. I’m fine.”
Marc nodded, though he clearly didn’t believe him.
“Okay.”
He didn’t push.
Nathaniel appreciated that.
⸻
The next morning, Nathaniel walked into class expecting absolutely nothing unusual.
That lasted approximately thirty seconds.
“Kurtzburg!”
Nathaniel looked up.
One of his classmates hurried toward him, looking far too excited.
“You got entered into the art competition!”
Nathaniel stared.
“I what?”
“The school competition!”
“What competition?”
“The art competition.”
“I know what it is.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I didn’t enter it!”
His classmate’s smile faltered.
Nathaniel’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
Someone had submitted one of his sketches.
Without asking.
He found the notice on the bulletin board a few minutes later.
His name was right there.
Nathaniel Kurtzburg.
Selected entry.
He stared at it.
Someone had taken one of his drawings from the art room and submitted it.
He felt his face heat.
“Who did this?”
“I don’t know.”
Nathaniel turned.
Marc was standing behind him.
He’d apparently arrived during the last few seconds of the conversation.
“Someone submitted my drawing to the competition.”
Marc’s eyebrows shot up.
“What?”
“Without asking me.”
“That’s not okay.”
“I know.”
Nathaniel pulled the notice from the board.
“We’re finding out who did it.”
Marc nodded.
“Okay.”
⸻
It took them most of lunch to figure it out.
Eventually, they found the classmate who had submitted the drawing.
Nathaniel crossed his arms.
“You submitted my sketch.”
The boy looked nervous.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s good.”
Nathaniel blinked.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I thought you’d want people to see it.”
Nathaniel opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The boy looked genuinely confused.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I…”
Nathaniel looked down at the sketch in his hands.
It was one he’d drawn late at night.
It wasn’t even finished.
He’d never intended for anyone else to see it.
“Next time,” Nathaniel said quietly, “ask me first.”
“I will.”
The boy nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Nathaniel accepted the apology.
But the strange feeling in his chest didn’t go away.
Later, he sat beside Marc on the steps outside the school.
“I don’t understand myself.”
Marc looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I hate this.”
Nathaniel gestured vaguely toward the competition notice.
“I hate people looking at my art. I hate people looking at me. I hate being singled out.”
Marc listened.
“But…”
Nathaniel sighed.
“I also want people to like my art.”
Marc nodded.
“Okay.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It feels stupid.”
“You can want people to appreciate your work and still hate being the centre of attention.”
Nathaniel looked at him.
Marc shrugged.
“Those aren’t opposites.”
Nathaniel was quiet.
“I’ve always worried that my art isn’t good enough.”
Marc’s expression softened.
“It is.”
“You have to say that. You’re my friend.”
“I don’t actually.”
Nathaniel frowned.
“What?”
“I don’t have to say anything.”
Marc reached into his bag.
Nathaniel watched as he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Then another.
And another.
Nathaniel stared.
“What’s that?”
Marc hesitated.
“Nothing.”
“You have drawings.”
“Yes.”
“My drawings.”
Marc’s face turned red.
Nathaniel’s eyes widened.
“Wait.”
“No.”
“You keep my drawings?”
“A few.”
“How many is a few?”
Marc looked away.
“…Define few.”
Nathaniel laughed.
“Marc!”
“It’s not weird!”
“You have a collection!”
“I don’t have a collection.”
“You have multiple drawings!”
“That’s not a collection.”
“You keep them in your bag!”
“Because I like them!”
Nathaniel stopped.
Marc froze.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Marc’s face became even redder.
“I mean—”
Nathaniel grinned.
“Oh my god.”
“I just appreciate your art.”
“You have a secret Nathaniel Kurtzburg art collection.”
“I do not.”
“You’re a collector.”
“I’m an appreciator.”
“Of fine art?”
Marc groaned.
“Yes.”
Nathaniel burst out laughing.
Not a small laugh.
Not the polite little chuckle he’d been giving people all week.
He laughed until his stomach hurt.
Marc watched him, embarrassed but smiling.
“You’re impossible.”
“You have an appreciation folder.”
“It’s organized.”
Nathaniel laughed harder.
“That’s worse!”
⸻
Later that afternoon, Nathaniel sat with Marc in the art room.
He opened his sketchbook.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
“You can look.”
Marc smiled.
“I know.”
“No, I mean…”
Nathaniel hesitated.
“You can actually look.”
Marc nodded.
Nathaniel slowly turned the pages.
Most of the drawings were unfinished.
Some were messy.
Some had been abandoned halfway through.
There were characters with strange proportions, landscapes with terrible perspective, random doodles he’d drawn when bored.
Nathaniel usually hid these pages.
Now Marc was seeing all of them.
“Which one’s your favourite?” Nathaniel asked.
Marc pointed.
Nathaniel followed his finger.
His eyes widened.
“That one?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I like it.”
“The proportions are wrong.”
“A little.”
“The perspective is awful.”
“Definitely.”
Nathaniel frowned.
“You’re supposed to defend me.”
Marc laughed.
“I’m not saying it’s perfect.”
Nathaniel looked at him.
“I’m saying I like it.”
“Why?”
Marc looked at the page.
“Because it feels alive.”
Nathaniel’s expression softened.
“You can tell what you were thinking when you drew it. It’s messy, and unfinished, and some of it doesn’t make sense…”
“Rude.”
Marc smiled.
“But I like it.”
Nathaniel looked down.
Nobody had ever described his art like that.
Usually, people told him something was pretty.
Or impressive.
Or talented.
Marc had noticed something else.
Something Nathaniel hadn’t noticed himself.
“Thanks.”
Marc smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Nathaniel stared at the sketchbook for another moment.
Then he turned the page.
“Want to see some more?”
Marc’s smile widened.
“I’d love to.”
And so they stayed.
Page after page.
Nathaniel gradually stopped apologizing for the unfinished drawings.
He stopped hiding the embarrassing ones.
He even started pointing out his own mistakes before Marc could.
“Okay, this one was a disaster.”
Marc looked at it.
“I kind of like it.”
“Of course you do.”
“See? I’m consistent.”
Nathaniel smiled.
Eventually, they reached the final blank page.
Nathaniel stared at it.
Then he looked at Marc.
He picked up a pencil.
“Want to draw something together?”
Marc’s eyes lit up.
“Sure.”
They started.
Nathaniel drew the outline.
Marc added details.
Nathaniel erased half of them.
Marc added them back.
At some point, they stopped trying to make it good.
When they finally finished, they put the pencil down.
They stared at the page.
Silence.
Nathaniel tilted his head.
Marc tilted his head.
“What…”
Nathaniel pointed at the drawing.
“…is that?”
Marc frowned.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I think that’s supposed to be a cat.”
“I thought it was a dog.”
“Why does it have six legs?”
“I panicked.”
Nathaniel stared at it for another second.
Then he started laughing.
Marc joined in.
Soon they were both laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
The drawing was awful.
Absolutely, catastrophically awful.
Nathaniel looked at it again.
And smiled.
He picked up the pencil and wrote their names underneath it.
Nathaniel & Marc.
Then, after a moment, he added:
Do not judge.
Marc laughed.
“That’s probably the worst thing you’ve ever drawn.”
Nathaniel smiled.
“Maybe.”
He looked at the page.
For once, he didn’t care.
It didn’t have to be perfect.
It didn’t have to win anything.
It didn’t even have to make sense.
It was theirs.
And somehow, that was enough.