Walking into school with Nolan Skinner at my side is more strange than I could have possibly fathomed. It's not as if it's some big, earth-stopping event. No one stops, no one stares, no one's jaw drops to the floor. There aren't many students around, actually, so it's more like wandering into a ghost town than anything.

One of the daytime janitors strolls by with his usual jovial smile and slight limp. "Morning, Jack," he says with a wave.

Maybe it's sad that I'm friends with all the teachers and staff at the high school. But they're all just so nice. "Hey, Tom, don't work too hard today."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Same to you, Jack." He goes off in his own direction and I take a turn toward the library. I almost forget that Nolan is following me, but there he is, following me tight around the corner.

"You're friends with the janitor?" he asks, this scrunched, incredulous expression plastered across his face.

Of course he needs to point it out. "Tom is really nice. We love Tom."

"So you show up to school early to commiserate with staff folk?:"

Okay. Why am I surprised he knows what "commiserate" means? "Yep. That's the only reason I come here in the mornings."

"Huh, whack."

"That ... that was a joke."

"Oh. Well. Still. Whack."

Nolan stops without warning and drops his backpack, unzipping it in one fluid motion and rifling through it. He pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper—a class schedule, which I know from my own experience will have his locker number and combination at the top. He peers at it with that intense amber gaze.

"Where the hell is locker 422?" he mutters.

"Oh," I say immediately, "that's next to mine."

"You're locker 423?"

"No, 421."

"One away from greatness," he says with a soft smile.

I almost roll my eyes, but I do appreciate a good 420 joke every now and again. Wren has the locker next to mine, actually—the one that should have been 420, if someone hadn't stolen the number plate years ago, before our time. She's still upset about it. "Here, we're right around the corner."

I point it out to him, his locker one away from the very edge of the hallway, right next to mine. Nolan stops in front of his rust-red locker and holds the paper in front of him. Veins in his forearm shift as he spins the lock around. His long, slender fingers fumble to find the correct numbers once, then twice, then a third time. Each time, the door won't open, as if jammed.

"You good?" I ask him as he struggles with the door. It's a pitiful sight to behold. One that is slightly abated by the sight of those fucking forearm veins, oh my god.

Nolan looks at me and bites his lip. And, okay, I should not be this fascinated by a cute boy biting his lip, but I am. "You wanna give this a whirl?"

I shrug, hoping it's as nonchalant as I need it to be. "I mean, sure, why not."

I shift in front of the locker. Nolan takes a step back to allow me space, but I'm all too aware of his presence behind me, of his breath on the back of my neck and his gaze focused on my hands, just as I'd only just been watching his.

It's a simple combo. I'm way too exposed while he watches me spin it around, number to number, till it finally pops open with a squeak. Mine also squeaks, but my locker is full of organizational tubs and Post-It note reminders plastered on the insides and has a door covered with locker signs from my various activities. Nolan's is completely empty, except for a small message scrawled up in the corner. My neck heats up.

Oh shit.

Nolan's hand reaches above my head and holds onto the door. He peers at the message like he forgot his glasses at home. "'My locker neighbor is a homo,'" he says. I stare at the inside of his empty locker.

This is so disgustingly embarrassing. I am going to die.

"I—it was my old neighbor. I ... he was an asshole."

"You're good," Nolan says, pulling his arm away and stuffing his hand in his pocket. "I get it. We've all been there."

This gives me pause. His phrasing. "All been there, like—"

"Like homophobic schoolmates? Yeah, man."

"Oh." For a second, this gives me a sense of relief, but then I realize he's saying that he's had this bullshit too. I'm not out, not really—Wren and Sarah know, and I think Jordan has to know at this point, but otherwise, it's just up for everyone to assume. I don't actively try to hide it. I mean, it was obvious enough that the dickhole in the next locker figured it out.

"I'm sorry," I tell him.

Nolan shrugs. "It's cool, man. It teaches you tolerance, at least." He shoves his backpack in the locker and shuts the door. I keep mine on my back and start walking towards the school library.

"I hate that word," I say, because if Nolan Skinner knows what it's like to have people rag on you about being gay, then maybe he's down to talk about what it's like to have people rag on you about being gay. Or queer, I don't know his story. "'Tolerance.'"

"Really?" His footsteps are quiet on the freshly-polished linoleum. My sneakers make little squeaking noises. "I think it's necessary."

I shake my head. "No, I think 'acceptance' is a lot better. I don't like the idea of thinking it's fine just to pat yourself on the back for not voicing your hate for someone. It doesn't solve any issues."

"It doesn't make things better?"

"Yes, exactly." I look over at him. His hair is wispy and fluffy, and it bounces just slightly with his footsteps. "If I hate you and just pretend I don't, I still hate you, and I don't think that's what we should strive for."

"So you're an idealist," Nolan says. We turn the hallway corner in sync.

It's too early for this shit, I swear. I stopped doing Lincoln-Douglas debate for a reason. "How does not wanting people to hate me make me an idealist?"

"Because, you're thinking about harmony right now. Like, a utopia. There are enough conservatives around here that you know you have to get along with them, even if you don't like them. That's tolerance."

I frown. "Okay? So, it's hypocritical. I guess. But, you can change your opinion. You can't change your sexuality, or your race, or the other kind of shit people hate."

"Sure." Nolan shrugs. "I don't know much about this. I would prefer acceptance over tolerance, but I also don't care much about what other people think of me. If I don't care, then tolerance is a lot better than getting hate crimed."

We stop in front of the library. "Huh," I say.

"Mmhmm," Nolan says with a wink. My heartbeat flutters for a second.

"Well. That was an intense, albeit brief, conversation for seven in the morning."

"It's seven in the morning," Nolan mutters, quiet, but in the same cadence as that one meme, enough so that I recognize it.

I roll my eyes and open the library door. The lights are on in the back room, and I can hear Mrs. Wolf's coffee machine buzzing. "C'mere, I need to use the printer."

Nolan follows me to the back corner of the library, right where the giant, industrial printer is set up. He watches while I take out my school laptop from its spot between my AP textbooks and my pristine five-subject Five Star notebook, and he says nothing when I go to print off five copies of my study guide.

"That's a lot of paper," he says, watching the printer begin its task of printing 105 pages of blood, sweat, and tears. "What's it for?"

"AP Bio," I say, a two-word explanation. With AP Bio, who needs to say any more?

Nolan nods. "Gotcha. APs. Ew."

"Big ew," I agree, flipping the first stack one direction so that I can separate each of the study guides. "I hate the class so much. I'm already killing myself to get an A."

"Why kill yourself to get an A?"

Of course. The conversation I avoid with my mother on the daily. "Because. College."

"Mmhmm, okay? I think 105 pages is probably overkill for one exam."

"Look." I sigh. I don't have the patience for this, not this early. Maybe if I'd have had my walking alone in blissful silence time, I would have. "Are you a therapist?"

"No."

"Okay."

"So...."

"So. Don't ask me personal questions like this at seven a.m., okay? I'm not up for them now, and I'm not up for them later. So."

Nolan shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him. And, why should it? I wouldn't expect it to. "Alright, then."

The rest of the pages print off in silence. He leaves before it's even completed without so much of a 'bye.'

I hate that I wish he would have said bye.

A/N - WOOT WOOT WHAT'S UP GUYSSSS!!!

not me posting this in my senior-level class (i'm a second-year slayyy) that i didn't finish the homework for (it's our first class) anyways ENJOY