#welp womp

Given the circumstances, it was odd that Nate was taking his time packing his things. One would think he’d want to get out of Arkwright as soon as possible, scuttle to Ellsworth and hide in his shame until everything blew over. But a strange sort of calm had settled over him after Marcus had passed his verdict. The sheer hypocrisy of it left him too irate to rage and too scorned to sulk. So, he meticulously folded all of his clothes, arranged his books alphabetically in his suit case, and organized his art supplies because he wasn’t going to be swept under the rug like some dirty little secret. He wanted everyone in Arkwright to feel his presence there, especially because it was the last time they ever would.

Hoisting a duffel bag onto his shoulder, he was somewhat surprised to find Marcus staring critically at him from the doorway.

"I’m leaving," Nate said shortly, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. "You don’t need to hover."

"You’re leaving very slowly.” Maybe Nate was imagining it, but he could have sworn there was a hint of smugness in the younger boy’s voice, as though he was gloating. Nate did his best to reign in his anger, zipping his bag with more force than necessary, his jaw clenched tight.

"Don’t worry, Marc,” he said, sarcasm oozing out of every syllable, “I’ll be out of your hair for good in a minute. You won’t have to deal with me sullying the prestigious Arkwright name any longer.” He tugged his suitcase off his bed — or what used to be his bed; it would probably go to some over eager freshman now, and everyone would whisper about how Nate Wayland probably did blow on every flat surface in the room — and slammed it onto the floor.