Sam had never been to the drama wing before.
It felt like entering a different ecosystem entirely — one powered by caffeine, eyeliner, and the distant echo of show tunes. The hallway buzzed with theatrical chaos: people reciting monologues to the walls, someone crying dramatically on a beanbag (possibly for real, possibly for a scene), and a whiteboard that simply read:
> NO BLOOD EFFECTS BEFORE 3PM, PLEASE.
He clutched his sketchbook tighter and looked for Hayden, who had said, "Come by, we can work after rehearsal — it's informal, just warmups."
Sam had imagined six people in sweatpants doing tongue twisters.
He had not imagined twenty-five students in sweeping scarves, twirling chairs, tossing invisible balls of energy with names like "Steve" and "Murder."
He spotted Hayden instantly, halfway down the room, standing on a paint-splattered platform, arms outstretched as he demonstrated... something theatrical involving a fake sword and what appeared to be a tragic limp.
"—and then he collapses," Hayden said dramatically, dropping to one knee as the crowd around him clapped and whooped. "But not because he's wounded. Because he's been emotionally undone by betrayal."
"Hayden, you're so extra," someone shouted.
"You love it," Hayden replied, flipping imaginary hair.
Sam stood in the doorway, a little stunned.
He hadn't quite realized just how magnetic Hayden was in his natural element — charming, loud, dazzling in the way only people who knew exactly how to fill a room could be.
Everyone seemed to orbit him.
People called out to him — "Hayden, fix my blocking?" "Can you look at my monologue?" "Are we still doing emotional karaoke Friday?" — and he responded to each with a grin or a wink or a flourishing bow.
Sam shifted his weight. He wasn't jealous, not exactly. Just...
Wishing someone would look at him the way everyone was looking at Hayden.
Hayden caught sight of him mid-spin, froze theatrically, and gasped, "Sam!"
Every head turned. Sam almost stepped back.
Hayden jogged over — actually jogged — slipping through his crowd like Moses parting a sea of jazz hands. He stopped just in front of Sam, slightly breathless, eyes bright.
"You made it," he said, softer now.
"You said to come by," Sam mumbled.
Hayden looked over his shoulder. "Guys, this is Sam — my project partner. Be nice."
A chorus of greetings, a few curious glances.
Hayden turned back to Sam and smiled. "Come sit. I'm only doing warm-ups — nothing tragic. Yet."
Sam followed him to a patch of floor just off center, and despite the buzz of energy and questions and people constantly drifting toward Hayden like magnets, Hayden never let the space between them grow.
When someone tried to pull him away to watch a scene, he said, "Not now."
When another actor called, "We need you for the improv sketch!" he replied, "Later, dramatic gremlins."
And when he sat, legs crossed, beside Sam, he leaned close and said, "You okay?"
Sam nodded. "You're, uh... very popular."
Hayden grinned. "Threatening, isn't it?"
"Kind of," Sam said honestly.
Hayden's smile softened. "Don't worry. My favorite artist is sitting right here."
Sam blinked. "You mean that?"
Hayden shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "You make me look good. I'm just the glitter. You're the canvas."
Sam flushed, laughed, and looked away — but not before Hayden saw the little curve of his lips.
They stayed like that for the rest of the rehearsal: close enough to share a quiet world in the middle of chaos. Hayden offered sarcastic commentary under his breath. Sam sketched doodles of the actors mid-pose. Neither minded when their knees bumped.
And later, when the crowd finally swelled again — begging Hayden for notes, advice, gossip, and rides home — he stood up, looked around, and said, "Not tonight. I've got art to make."
Sam looked up.
Hayden held out his hand.
"Coming, peanut butter?"
Sam rolled his eyes and took it. "Let's go, expired aioli."
And they walked off together — not arm in arm, not hand in hand, but together in that unmistakable way two people do when neither wants to be anywhere else.
Later ...
The drama wing had finally quieted.
Sam and Hayden stepped out into the dusk, the sky an ombré of lavender and burnt gold, clouds suspended like forgotten props. The sidewalk sparkled faintly with leftover glitter from someone's costume — magic, spilled.
Hayden jingled his car keys once and said, "So, tiny problem."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Define tiny."
"My car won't start."
"That feels medium-sized."
"I'm choosing optimism. Maybe it's just being dramatic in solidarity with the theatre department."
Sam snorted. "Do you need a tow or a eulogy?"
"Neither. I'll have it towed tomorrow. For now..." Hayden looked down the street. "You live, what? Fifteen minutes by foot?"
"Twenty if you insist on narrating every streetlamp as a metaphor."
Hayden placed a hand over his heart. "What else am I for?"
They started walking.
The streets were quiet, just the soft rhythm of their shoes on pavement, the occasional rustle of leaves, the distant hum of a bus. They didn't rush. The air felt like it was holding its breath — waiting for something to be said.
"So," Sam said after a block, "you're kind of a big deal in your club."
Hayden shrugged, hands in his coat pockets. "I've just... been around. Helped out. Showed up."
"People really like you."
Hayden gave him a sideways look. "Do you?"
Sam blinked. "What?"
Hayden grinned. "I'm just saying. I've seen your doodles. You drew me in five different poses today."
"I was bored."
"You gave me eyelashes that would make mascara jealous."
Sam turned a little pink. "Fine. Maybe I don't hate you."
"I'll take it."
They walked in silence for a few more steps before Hayden added, "You held your own, though. With all those theatre people. They're a lot."
"I noticed."
"You were calm. Like... you didn't need to perform."
Sam looked at him, surprised. "Is that a compliment?"
Hayden shrugged again, this time smaller. "I think so."
When they reached Sam's building, the porch light flicked on automatically. Hayden looked up at it, then back at Sam.
"I could call a cab," he offered, half-hearted.
"It's late," Sam replied.
"Yeah."
Sam unlocked the door and nudged it open. "Come in. Couch has a decent track record. Plus, you smell like stage makeup and existential longing — you might scare the cab driver."
Hayden grinned. "You sure?"
Sam hesitated just long enough to be honest.
Then: "Yeah. Stay."
---
Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and cinnamon toast. Sam handed Hayden a blanket, a pair of old sweatpants ("They're probably too short,"), and a bottle of water "because hydration is character development."
Hayden changed in the bathroom and emerged with damp hair and rolled-up sleeves. Sam looked up from the couch, blinked once, then quickly looked away.
"You, uh... good?"
"Very," Hayden said, plopping down beside him. "Though these pants are an assault on my dignity."
"They've got charm," Sam said, smiling into his tea.
They stayed up another hour — talking about anything and nothing. Favorite weird snacks. Most cursed childhood performances. Why the moon always feels a little nosy.
Eventually, Sam nodded off mid-sentence, his head tipping slightly, gently, onto Hayden's shoulder.
Hayden froze. Then relaxed.
He didn't move. Not even when his arm went numb.
He just leaned his cheek against Sam's hair and whispered, "Goodnight, peanut butter."
Sam didn't answer.
But in his sleep, he smiled.