The fallout from Family Night was slow, tainting every part of school life like a nuclear mess. The bated breath the student body kept waiting for – a raindrop to signify the arrival of an encroaching thunderstorm, the last strains of an orchestra before applause – never came. Condolences were uttered through glances, disappointed or disapproving or otherwise. Teachers used them continuously as examples in the passionate pursuit of knowledge, of friendly competition and sportsmanship. The paper-thin excuse to reignite their back-and-forth was agonizing.

For the next several days, he approached Sam and apologized. On some days (most days), he said it at least three times. And for the next several days, Sam Watson looked through him, expressionless, like his soul had been sucked out of him, leaving only a husk of a body.

The world tipped out from under Nate Quinn's feet. This wasn't fair. Nate would not experience a loss of this caliber lying down. Regardless of how wide their point chasm became (Sam: 9; Nate -3), Nate wouldn't stop. He would run headfirst into a freaking burning building if it meant Sam would talk to him.

Still, he felt like he was drowning.

~

Nate slammed his hand on the cafeteria table, tossing his tray of food to the side with a vigor, with enough force for half the students to stop and stare. “Look, man, I don't know if you need help untangling your panties, but this has gone on too long. I miss you, darling,” he pressed through his teeth. “I miss us.” Nate gestured to his loosened tie. “Look at this. Look at this. Sloppiness at its finest, right? What're you going to do about it?”

Sam stared. The indifference that had characterized the first week had become tinted with melancholy, which Nate took as a good sign.

Sam: 10; Nate: -5. Still, he groaned. Nate's hands flopped at his sides. “Jesus Christ, Sam. This isn't funny, anymore.”

He glanced down at his lunch and stood. He hummed (the closest thing Nate got to a reply since Family Night), swept his tray into his arms, and started strolling towards the garbage cans.

Nate trotted alongside him. He knew everyone was staring. “Golden underdog” be damned, he didn't care at this point. “Sam, come on. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for your sister to get that. It was meant for you. You know that, right? Are you happy, now?”

Sam's eyes stayed forward. He tipped one end of his lunch tray into the dark, smelly trash hole and placed the tray to the side.

His arms flopped at his sides as a bubble of hurt welled in his chest. He hated this, the loss. It wasn't even a struggle for power, or the fact that Sam was still winning (Sam: 11; Nate; -6). Nate couldn't even really describe the feeling as “annoyed” anymore. This was visceral, like a stab wound that's been reopened and twisted. “I don't know what you want me to do, Sam.” His hands trembled as he grabbed Sam's arm. His fingers squeezed, begging for his attention. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he ground out. “I miss us. I'll grovel. I'll fucking grovel right here. I'll do it. Just say – just say something.”

Sam glanced down at Nate's hand and shook him off in one hard motion. He crossed to another cafeteria table and touched a student's shoulder. “Not to you,” he clarified, loud enough for Nate to ear, “but I just want to study and work.”

The student's lips puckered, almost in surprise, glancing between Nate and Sam with nervous anticipation.

Nate's jaw set. Maybe “annoyed” was what he was still feeling, especially with that slight. “I'm right here, you fucking jagweed.”

Sam hummed again, a long slow sound that stretched for seemingly eternity, and left Nate fuming and upset in his wake.

And Nate, that November thirtieth afternoon, wanted to burst into tears and scream.