He was right – Sam did come, guarded and jittery, making him all the more fun to poke and prod, though the discovery that Sam had other friends (friends!! He was so proud. Maybe a little annoyed that Sam never let slip that.) outside of anything was an intriguing, intrusive one. It didn't feel right for Sam to be friendly with anyone. At times, he seemed annoyed by Marissa's presence (maybe that was more social necessity than genuine affection), but Sam's softening expression, the ease in his posture, when talking to Liam Dvořák annoyed him, pressed cold on a spot inside him that left his feet unable to stop moving.

Nate waved it off, sliding it into the back of his mind. If Sam knew about his brother, why couldn't he know about Sam's supposed “best friend”?

He roamed, searching for something to occupy him as the indifference crept through him, but found his parents preoccupied with discussions about whatever boring nonsense with the other parents. Nate didn't mind all that much, though; he could drift from group to group, gathering students like a mother hen collecting her children, enjoy himself and the attention from being as nice and bright as possible, and when the apathy started to take hold of him, he'd drift away.

After some time, he checked his wristwatch for the umpteenth time and beeline for the mock-debates.

Picking a spot in the last row was an obvious choice. Easy escape. Sure, he'd have to suffer though the underclass's “shocking” debate about abortion rights and whether or not Lunchables was an acceptable meal for growing children, but at least he would be there to watch the disaster unfold.

Sam strolled in with his mother and Liam Dvořák like he belonged there, stiff-backed and buttoned-up, with the same faintly annoyed expression he wore whenever Nate was around. His eyes swept the room – calculating, judging – and when they landed on Nate, his brow twitched, just enough to make Nate’s grin stretch wider. He had to raise his hands and say, again, that he was just there for the debate club. Nothing else, and Sam clearly did not believe him. Neither did Liam Dvořák, which made him all the more curious to Nate.

He knew, too, that Sam's sister was presenting the Pro-Life side of the argument. When she spoke there was a tremor, nerves that hung on every word until no letter rested perfectly upright. She glanced down at her brother from time to time, steadying herself carefully, before continuing.

The debate was neither electric nor interesting (the year before, Nate and Sam argued about whether or not to cede Hawai'i and return it to its status of Kingdom, and that had left people lightheaded), but the parents still cooed at how eloquent a bunch of fourteen-year-olds argue about the semantics and consequences of unprotected sex.

Still, the debate ran through its time, and by the time the applause had died down, Nate’s heart hadn't. He leaned forward, fingers drumming on his knee, as the debate head shuffled the manila envelopes at the podium. He bit back a grin as they thumbed through them quickly.

This was it.

Nate sat forward, shivering with anticipation.

“So, every year, as...glamorous as debate can be –” A few chuckled, and the debate head took that to mean they were a comedian. “– we try to reward the students who have stayed with us through the year. No 'Most Likely to Succeed' or 'Most Likely To Dress Best', though some of them are certainly going to succeed and are...better dressed than me –” A single, lonely cough, and Nate had to hold back an embarrassed cackle. “– but, but something more fun. For the kids.” The debate head motioned to the side. “So, presenting them this year is our very own Mr. Samuel Watson.”

Okay, that he hadn't expected. His feet itched to move.

Sam ascended the stage, hiding his ever-moving hands behind his back, and the debate head continued: “Some accolades of Mr. Watson, here, is he and Mr. Quinn cinched Brookfell's regional debate award runner-up the year before, and won the Regional Award last year.”

Sam's smirk broke, his lips less upturned and more a level snarl, either uncomfortable from the undivided attention or the sheer indignity of having one's accomplishments laid out in such a graceless way. Liam Dvořák snorted loudly, and the sound was deafening.

“Some of you might remember him from last year, as well, where he and Mr. Quinn gave an impassioned debate about the restoration of the kingdom of Hawai'i.”

Affirmative sounds moved through the crowd, but Sam's expression continued to fall despite it moving so little, returning to the serious, deadpan face Nate knew. The debate head motioned to the podium, and Sam stepped up to it.

Nate smirked, anticipation building back up. Maybe this wasn't the hitch he had initially thought, especially when Sam finally finished his diatribe about the importance of debate and how it can help see differing sides.

The first award went to a sophomore who decorated her shoes with glued-on pompoms; undoing the manila envelope revealed her “Best Dramatic Pause” Award, which the audience chuckled at. The second went to a gangly, nervous junior whose hands trembled like tree branches in a storm; they received a “Most Likely To Turn A Debate Into A Comedy Routine” award, which a few cooed sympathetically at. One received “Most Enthusiastic Hand Gestures”. “Most Persuasive Use of a Made-Up Statistic”. “Most Likely To Drop Their Notes”.

The debate head butted in, pressing his hand to Sam’s shoulder, but by then, the audience had warmed up, loose with the silliness. “Mr. Watson, before we continue, I have the honor to give one specifically for you.” The debate head offered a manila envelope, but Nate still held his breath, hoping to hear the positively awful and wonderful, “Most Likely To Be A Suck-Up”.

Sam undid it with a degree of suspicion, smirking when he slid the card stock out. “Oh, my God,” he muttered, chuckling.

Nate’s expression broke.

Sam turned it around, hiding his flushed embarrassment. On the page read, “Most Likely To Take Over The World, Someday”. Liam Dvořák snorted a laugh. The audience took that with glee and applauded the achievement.

Nate’s heart started falling. He pressed himself to the edge of his chair, watching. Waiting.

Sam’s sister stepped forward, and Liam Dvořák hooted and hollered with such aggression it made the girl shy away from it. Everyone stared. Sam offered the manila folder.

The crooked golden star in the corner.

He had to move. Rage tore through him, and Nate swore that if he ever saw that underclassman again, he would tear them to shreds and leave them for dead. How could someone mix up something that was so simple, so easy? This whole thing should have been criminal based on of how simple it was. How could someone mess up such a simple task?

He was on his feet when Sam’s sister slid the page out.

Sam met Nate’s eyes for a moment, disapproving and cold. He turned back to his sister.

He could've run away. He could've run up, snatched the card stock, and ran. He could have done something to avoid the fallout playing out right in front of his eyes, but fear and disbelief tied him down. Nate knew no matter what he did or didn't do, Sam would never look at him the same way again.

Sam's sister's softly bright expression fell immediately upon reading the title, and her stare turned distant as everyone waited in anticipation. She glanced at Sam, whose own expression fell in confusion before she spun the card stock around. “Most Likely To Be A Suck-Up”. It had Sam's name on it. It had Sam's name on it.

Laughter. Applause.

It was hollow in Nate’s ears.

Sam’s eyes shot back to Nate.

He was a dead man.

Nate’s foot caught on the seat in front of him. “Sorry,” he whispered, reaching for the door.

Footsteps.

He turned and felt the world disappear around him. Sam glared with such intensity it made their debates look like dying embers, and Nate’s stomach fell as he backed away.

“You fucking bastard,” Sam hissed, loud enough for everyone to hear him, and his knuckles wrapped around Nate’s collar before he had the chance to move. His face betrayed him in a way Nate knew how to provoke out of him, but this was painful. His features were wracked with rage, with hurt, with disbelief. He slammed Nate through the opened debate room door and pressed him to the floor leaning in close enough to smell the garlic dinner lingering on his breath. Sam shook him, head smacking against the floor.

“Before we do anything stupid –” Nate started, but Sam had already pulled back his fist.

The first punch split his lip. Voices ricocheted over them, growing more and more intense the more punches Sam inflicted on Nate’s face. He couldn't stay down, so Nate replied in earnest with his hands, socking Sam in an attempt to slow him down. People started chanting. Others called for this to end. Hands reached for them, trying to pry them away, but rage brought them back together in a cascade. Nate elbowed someone in the face. Sam pressed his hands against someone and used them to launch himself towards Nate. The two rolled – Sam on top, Nate on top, Sam on top again, fists flying into sides and arms, nails leaving cherry-colored lines on skin – before they were finally pulled away from each other.

Sam fumbled to his feet quicker than Nate expected. His composure came full force despite the swelling skin and the blood dripping down his nose, but the glimmer of tears in his eyes made the sight all the more difficult to look at. He ran his fingers through his hair, his face flushed. His freckles stood out.

Nate clenched his jaw.

Around them, people stood, wide-eyed and horrified and stunned. Students who knew them waited for either’s next move, while parents and teachers shook their heads, frowning, muttering worriedly to themselves. Above them, the smell of fresh pastries had faded, and the sound of classical music continued playing.

And with a deep breath, Sam smirked, gesturing to the crowd of parents, teachers, and students. “Sorry to startle everyone,” he said, tone desperate to remain even, “but my lovely colleague –” He spat the word. “– and I just showcased what our drama club has been working on the past few weeks. The blood –” Sam touched his face. “– a bit of movie magic, shall we say? Did we fool you?” He laughed, wincing slightly, and pressing a hand to the underside of his ribs.

Nate stood slowly, carefully, watching Sam with guarded apprehension and wonder. A part of him was wildly impressed at the animalistic display, and he was tempted to crack a joke.

He held his tongue. He broke their rule.

Sam bowed with the grace of someone from the football team, and the tension did not dissipate; in fact, it seemed to amplify. Sam took no notice as he cut through the crowd, hugging his sister tight while Mrs. Watson held his face. Even Liam Dvořák got in on the hug.

People murmured. Few clapped. They started dispersing. They asked questions, concern in their eyes, as Nate brushed himself down. ‘Okay,’ Nate thought, wiping his face as his parents came into view. ‘This might not be all that bad.’

“Mr. Quinn,” Sam said, the name pressed so thin it was nearly invisible. He turned to Nate, the tense smile on his face was unrelenting, but the glower in his eyes was something painful. It made Nate smirk nervously. Behind him, two teachers and the principal trotted quickly towards them. “Shall we go clean ourselves up?”