Marshall was down to his last index card, he realized, as he shoved the last one through those harsh metallic locker slants. There was always the option of looking for work, but he had no car, and if he was going to start thinking financially, parchment should probably not be his first priority. Food and electric bills definitely fell a little higher on the list, regardless of personal infatuations.

Marshall had a way of going about this little note game. Near the end of his last class he got a bathroom pass and snuck off to Bubba's locker. Not complicated really, but it kept him from being called out or caught in the act, it kept him from the risk of any confrontation regarding a process so awkward and embarrassing.

Or so he thought.

As Marshall pulled his fingers away from the rusted metal slots, a boy beside him cleared his throat. Lee nearly leaped straight out of his skin at the mere sound, the hairs along the back of his neck stood completely on end like bunched up animal dander. Due to his miniature outburst he came quite close to slicing open his finger open on that rigid middle lining, and his body tensed at the narrow escape. Typical of his clumsy self, to end up with an injury even after the simplest of tasks. Bubba would've just shaken his head at the sight.

"This isn't your locker."

In case it wasn't obvious. Just in case Marshall wasn't well aware that he was several turns and hallways away from his typical spot, because all he would have needed to keep from losing all sense of direction was a not-so friendly reminder from some one he could hardly stand listening to.

The voice certainly did not belong to Bubba. The very pitch was centuries off, instead of flowing honey it was nails forced across screeching chalkboard. Marshall looked down to see a squinting vision in yellow, appearing just as mean as ever. Perhaps suicide would have been a more desired outcome, perhaps the removal of one's testicles with a rusty butter knife. Now that he had been caught, it appeared he had only one logical option.

Run. Far away from here, transfer schools and grow out his facial hair to accompany a quite necessary name change.

He was just about to make a run for it, before he realized one particular detail that he had entirely neglected.

If he ran away and never returned, who would buy more index cards?

Stupid brain, always thinking of these things…

Marshall inwardly groaned. If he didn't gather his bearings, he was basically dead, might as well jot down his will with that leaky ink pen that remained uncapped and protruding out of his front pocket. All of his belongings might as well go to Fiona, Bubba had no need for poor people clothing and his ex wasn't getting shit.

Marshall's body awkwardly shifted a little from side-to-side as he debated what he might say or do to justify his actions to the tiny nosy demon; all the while fully unaware that his movements were causing friction betwixt the top of his pen and the inside of his denim pocket. Black smudges grew blacker with every swaying motion, the outside upper corner of his blue jeans had not quite been leaked through to the extent that someone unaware of what was occurring would see for themselves, but it was certainly heading in that direction.

"It isn't yours either!" he finally blurted, resting at last on his two feet. His words would have been rated three stars at most by a professional dialogue critic. They weren't exactly witty or clever or unique, but they seemed fitting for his particular scenario, and you really can't expect much of dialect formed by a teenage boy's impulses.

Three stars would have to do.

The writing utensil jammed so forcefully into his pocket was still seeping that blue-black color and ruining what was quite likely his last good pair of blue jeans, and when Marshall discovered this he was sure to be pissed. Shopping was an unwelcomed hassle, thousands of families overpopulating sweating buildings, screaming to their loved ones from glorified caves meant for stripping, always needing larger sizes. Shopping was animalistic. And not in a good way.

Not to mention, there was always the potential humiliation of arriving at the counter with only the cheapest and most poorly made items, and discovering you don't even have enough cash to cover the bare necessities of clothing.

Angel seemed taken aback that Marshall would even bear the audacity to declare such a statement. His squinted at him as if he had grown a second head of some sort, because to him it seemed the only logical explanation for Marshall to be spouting such jibberish. The "squinty glare" was practically his signature look, not only did it allow him to appear more toad-like in appearance, it somehow caused him to come off as even more of a nuisance than he did naturally.

Marshall almost felt bad for him really. He was a joke to everyone, even his plethora of friends. He strung his words awkwardly and had a stupid name, and honestly Marshall was starting to wonder if he was mean out of meanness or was by now just playing the part society had cast him. It was like he was too much of an asshole to honestly be an asshole. Maybe that's really why Bubba hangs out with him all the time.

"I'm his friend, unlike you," Angel finally retorted, placing his scrawny hands on his hips like a sassy soccer mom. His own clothes seemed hesitant to follow him; his body was so bone thin that his extra small designer shirt drowned his upper half like layers of the wild sea. Angel probably never ate, or if he did, his body surely didn't hold it for long. Was he even "prep" material? The poor kid stuck out like a sore thumb, like a half empty can of beer surrounded by well-aged champagnes and elegant ice sculptures. Egg boy wasn't elegant; he smelled like poor cooking and never managed to quite reach the back of his head with his expensive hairbrush.

And yet another thing happened along with the movement of those baby hands, Marshall caught sight of a glimmer of silver, a flash of gray tucked sloppily betwixt the other boy's fingers. At first his mind jumped straight to "knife", but then he came to his senses.

That "thing" was far too small and skinny to be a knife, and it looked somewhat dull and strangely twisted, as if it were forcefully straightened.

Despite being unable to see the piece's entirety, Marshall quickly caught on.

"What are you doing with that?" he demanded, pointing at the paper clip. The ink had seeped through his pant fabric by now, creating an ugly bruise along the surface of his clothing, mimicking a squashed beetle that one might find smeared along cold concrete.

Something in the younger boy's demeanor changed at that moment. His previously narrowed eyes widened to the size of sausages, and he quickly crammed his grimy fists into his pockets so as to deny the evidence if necessary.

"Th-that's none of your business, Marshall!" he spat, trying to be threatening although he appeared now much more like a cornered kitten, far too small and delicate to stand even a second in battle.

Paper clips, as many are aware, have two more common uses. Holding paper together, and breaking locks. And if you are hanging around someone else's locker with a paper clip that has been reshaped in a way that more benefits lock-picking, all the while the owner of said locker is in class, it is highly probable that you aren't in that specific location at that specific time to clip homework assignments together.

The beating of Marshall's heart grew faster as his pulse rose up to his ears, for if Angel was going to snoop where he shouldn't he would find the note. Or even worse, he already knew about them, and had been checking in for quite some time.

His vision was red and his heart was a screaming stone, Lee bit his lip so as not to release a low growl that had risen from its resting place in his throat.

"Give it to me."

Foolishly, Angel stuck his pointed nose high in the air out of defiance. There was a strange expression folded in his face, as if he expected to be attacked, almost as if he wanted it.

"No."

Like a rabid tiger free from its cage, Marshall leapt, grabbing the boy by his shoulders in attempt to wrestle the metallic trinket out of his hands before Angel was able to put it to use. It certainly was not a fair fight, for although Marshall was scrawny and unathletic he still had a bit of meat on him, and was much taller and angrier than the boy clothed in yellow.

Angel squirmed underneath the weight of the taller teen, he spit and cried out all the while he twisted his twiggy limbs but it was all to no avail, he was by far inferior in comparison. Still he kept his left hand securely locked into his pocket, holding onto the clip as if his life depended on it.

As if on cue Bubba was standing in front of him. Many words could be used to describe the expression that stuck to his face like super glue, but "happy" was certainly not one of them.

"Is this always how you settle things Marshall, beating the shit out of people?"

The two of them quickly untangled limbs, both struggling to catch their breath under the watchful eye of a man in pink that was not particularly amused.

The whole concept of attacking someone over a fucking paper clip seemed stupid now, and Marshall was repulsed by himself. What kind of a reaction was that? What the hell was his problem?

Even if he had seen the notes, someone was bound to find out eventually, right?

Although he had just eaten a few hours ago, his mouth was dry and his body was shaking, Marshall felt as if his stomach was empty and it made him want to puke until the colored specs interrupting his vision danced away.

"Christ, is this what happens every evening before the bell rings?! We all gather around and brawl it out over nothing around my locker without even inviting me? I guess that's a shame I keep on missing out on the fun."

Angel had a rosy color about his cheeks, despite the fact that his eyebrows were still so angrily furrowed downward.

"What's that in your pocket?"

No response. The oh-so-mouthy brat had nothing left to say, but he stuck his hand out obediently. A thin line of blood sat on his palm, clearly depicting the lack of common sense which one must bear in order to think clutching onto the edge of a potentially sharp object.

At the sight of blood Bubba automatically snapped into doctor mode, reaching into his own pink pastel pocket for a properly sized bandage. He could focus on what Angel had so obviously intended to do later, but for the time being he was far more focused on the miniscule wound that had formed along the canvas of the whiny boy's skin.

"I don't see how you could possibly think squeezing something dangerous like that was anything outside of the epitome of moronic, and it won't be happening again, understood?"

Angel just nodded.

"The whole point of leaving early was so that I wouldn't be late for my appointment, but tending to you two idiots is going to make me late regardless, so I appreciate that."

Marshall merely stood there, feeling justifiably like a complete jerk.

It seemed the prince had completely forgotten of his existence until he finally opened his locker, reaching for the index card. And in one swift movement, he ripped it.

Marshall would have much rather been shot in the face.

"Hand."

It took Marshall amount to register that he was now the one being spoken to, but when he did he awkwardly exposed his palm upward, still feeling quite ashamed of himself.

When their hands touch the sparks was still there, along with the flames, yet somehow it hurt much more than it once had.

"If you can't find a garbage bin, I'm sure your arse would make a very nice storage place."

Did he just…

By now Angle had forgotten entirely about his injured arm, and had returned to a proud smirk since he was not the one receiving the scolding. If Marshall and Bubba were once more against each other, in his eyes it was a win.

Marshall on the other hand, did not feel like such a winner. His pocket was repulsively slimy, and he still had yet to notice. Despite only having a few more minutes before the bell, he trudged back to his class, not sure where else to go.