A / N :

I used to be Benjamin > Terrence all day, but now that I'm 70% done writing Terrence's prequel, I've developed a major soft spot for T. So, at the moment, it's 50/50 between my boys.

Are you team Benji or team Terry?  (Your answer might affect how you perceive this chapter, hehe.) Or team someone else?

Enjoy!

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EARLIER THIS MORNING, BENJAMIN AND the rest of Carsonville's two Eastern League teams left for the third round of the competition, held, again, at another school. He calls me when they arrive, with not much time left to spare before the competition kicks off.

Despite his best efforts to smooth his voice, I can still hear his shaky breaths in every word, though it may just be amplified by the static of the phone call. "How was the ride?"

"Terrible," Benjamin replies glumly, "I spent the hour going over formulae, theorems, sequences, everything."

"Well, I know you'll do really well today."

"But there's no guarantee we'll win."

"I never said you'd win," I point out mirthfully. "I said you'd do really well, and I know that. You're competitive, you're intelligent, and for some crazy-ass reason, you actually enjoy solving puzzles. You're made for this."

Nothing can be heard from the other side of the line except for a breathy, whirring noise and the background chatter from whatever hall the competitors are waiting in. "Hello? Come on, I'd like some feedback on my pep talk."

He eventually replies, sounding distracted. "Sorry. I'm not feeling so great—"

"—understandable—"

"—but, thank you," he says relievedly. "I feel a bit better."

"No problem."

"I, um, have to go. They're collecting all the phones as a precaution. Talk later."

"Okay, good luck."

I pocket my phone, walking to my classroom. Benjamin would never admit it, but I could hear it in the way he spoke that all his self-confidence had fled, despite all his training. Impressively, Benjamin has been part of the Mathletes for all of his high school career.

Kyler has even shown me some newspaper archives, from what we managed to salvage after the Monarchy destroyed them, with a young Benjamin smiling unnaturally at the camera. Admittedly, he's not very photogenic. But, he looked happy.

I have mixed emotions toward mathematics, but anyone can see how happy — and competitive — it makes Benjamin. His history with Mathletes spans more time than I know. He wants to win as much as I want the Revolution to succeed, so much that it consumes him.

Though the Revolution is practically my life right now, there's always been something else driving him through high school. If anything, I'm glad he has other priorities to keep him grounded, keep him from being sucked into this mess.

He keeps in mind that there was a time before the Monarchy, and there'll be a time after.

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One of the school rules highlights how students are not to stray too far from Carsonville's main buildings.

But Drew, Delaney, Leah, and I have snuck away from the cafeteria, into the staff car park, which will surely land us in detention if a teacher catches us. Benjamin texted me last period saying that the competition is over and that they'll be back at school by lunchtime.

He didn't mention anything of the results, despite knowing how much we'd all like to know. The higher the stakes are, the more and more serious Benjamin gets about even the topic of maths. As a result, we're all as invested in this as he is.

We're his friends, after all, so how could he keep us in the dark and not expect us to all rush for answers? Even Delaney, who is about to start her own Debate season. However, as a seasoned President, she tells me that she's perfected her technique into a science. She's not nearly as nervous as Ben.

No-one speaks, and the only sound is that of birds flying away, startled away from the cigarette butts at which they were pecking. Most of the snow has now melted, and the night frost on the roads disappears by noon.

We walk closer to the exit, the furthest we can get from school while still being in it until we stand one exhilarating step away from technically ditching. I was the one to suggest coming here to welcome Benjamin back, and while most of it was due to a genuine interest in the competition, some part of me just wanted to be out of the cafeteria.

Since talking to Terrence, I've had a lot to think about. I haven't told my friends, for fear of them thinking that I'm being manipulated and doing exactly what they warned me not to. I'm not: just questioning if a different strategy would work better. Until I am certain of my next steps, I plan to just avoid the Monarchy at every possible instance. Including lunchtimes.

Waiting for the Mathletes to arrive is slow and painful, because every time the distinct sound of an engine draws near all of us look intently, only to sigh disappointedly when we see it's not the white taxi van in which Benjamin left. They had to squish the A and B teams into a twelve-seater, with their teacher chaperone.

Drew kicks the gravel, watching as his shoe flings pebbles across the car park, "This is so boring."

The space we occupy is too quiet and the low noises of suburban nature only bring that to our attention with the rumbles of sporadic passing vehicles, bird chirps, and the rustling of branches. School has always seemed very loud and alive, filled with bells or laughter or songs or footsteps. It's much quieter from the outside perspective.

My head automatically turns to the oncoming vehicle, because even though it might not be his, it might be. And — thank God, I couldn't wait anymore — it is.

Before the vehicle has fully rolled to a stop, the door slides open, rattling, grating, as the team jumps from the knee-high step. Benjamin comes out third last, carrying a trophy as big as my torso.

Immediately, I'm filled with joy, pride, and relief. There's never been a doubt in my mind that Benjamin is a smart guy, and I don't need him to prove it with trophies but it's different for him. He wants validation. Veneration. Glory.

Before he can come over to us, his teacher chaperone stops him and gathers the team in a circle. From here, I can only see the teacher's balding head and gesticulations as he talks. Cheers sound from the team, and then they file away from the van.

Benjamin quickly strides over. "We won! We're going to New York!" He raises the trophy in the air, "And the team voted me MVP."

"MVP? I thought that was a sports thing?" Drew asks.

"Mathematician of Valued Proficiency," Benjamin replies elatedly. "Means exactly the same thing. I'm going to take the trophy to admin. Apparently, it's going into the trophy case in the hall. See you guys later."

The others leave the car park with intentions of eating in the cafeteria. I haven't eaten yet, and I don't plan to because I want to follow Ben. He said he was going to deliver the trophy to the administration block. Most of the staff should be on their lunch break, and I head towards it in hopes that Benjamin won't leave before I find him.

The trophy case is the first thing visitors to our school see when they walk in, displaying our most prestigious achievements to them. But at this moment in time, all I notice is Benjamin's tall frame leaning against the wall opposite from it. The Mathletes trophy is nowhere in sight.

I walk closer to him and make my presence known with a small sigh. Benjamin doesn't react as I lean my hip on the wall next to him. "Where's the trophy?"

I consider repeating the question when the silence stretches a bit too far between us, but then he speaks. "I gave it to one of the admin staff. They're just going to clean it and put it in here, after the lunch break."

"Oh."

From my vantage point, staring at Benjamin's side profile, every flicker of his dark blue eyes and furrowing of his forehead and twitch in his jaw is highly noticeable, compared to how very still the rest of him is.

Barely glancing at the sporting and performance trophies, he moves straight to the academia awards — plaques and cups, all older than the rest — arranged in the middle. Placed in the centre of Benjamin's line of vision and the sole focus of his sight is a grand cup, legendarily old.

The valedictorian's trophy. Of course, the award for the student with exceptionally high grades across all areas of the curriculum. Chipped into the metal are names upon names, each adjacent to a year. The oldest I see is 1934.

"Are you going to eat lunch?" I wonder.

"Hm? No." Benjamin jerks his head towards the end of the hallway. "I'm going to go to the library to study. You can join me if you want."

"I—" For a moment, I'm tempted to. I can't figure out the last time we properly hung out. The last time we talked about anything other than maths or the Revolution. My stomach whines impatiently. I chuckle. "I'm pretty hungry."

Benjamin smiles gently. "Next time then."

"You should eat, too. Calculations take a lot of energy."

He shrugs. "I'll eat my sandwich while I walk there."

"Is that what you do of late?" I ask jocularly. "I wondered how you eat when you're off studying."

"Wolf it down," Benjamin chuckles before his gaze wanders back to the valedictorian's trophy. "It'll be worth it anyway. In the end."

"You want to be valedictorian."

"Duh." And then, almost like he surprised himself, "Excuse that teenager vocabulary."

"You don't have to be smart all the time, Ben. You're a teenager, you can use teenager vocabulary if you want."

"I don't want to be just a teenager. I want to be different." He notices my breath, the twitch of my lips, and interrupts wryly before the words can tumble into the air. "Not how everyone is different. Impressively different."

"You're the smartest guy I know. You're already impressive enough."

His eyebrows pinch together. "That's nice of you to say, but I'm not. There are three-year-old prodigies smarter than me."

"There's also, you know, regular three-year-olds dumber than you."

"But I'm just in between, I'm in the middle of the bell curve. Or maybe upper right, but still."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Benjamin's usually a good sport, but I can tell today whipped up some intense emotions for him. I say comfortingly, "At eighteen, you're already smarter than most people will be their whole lives."

"But what do I have to show for it? I need everything to go right from here on out. Carsonville has never placed at the Eastern League, and the one year we had a chance, Derek took it from us!" He sighs after the outburst, rubbing his palm down the length of his face. "This is my last shot to make sure these four years of hell weren't for nothing."

I fix Ben with a pitying expression. "Look, I don't know what it's been like for the past few years, but look what you just did." He won a freaking state-wide competition. Carsonville High School is the state champion, even if we might not be the Eastern champion. "You're still on top of your game, and nothing is going to stop you from staying there if you just keep trying."

"That's your best advice?" Benjamin raises his eyebrows, forehead wrinkled. "Keep trying and all that positivity shit?"

"As your friend, you sound really spoilt," I tell him bluntly. "It's not like you're suffering. Some have problems—" I see Terrence's anguished on the bus flash in my mind. "—more pressing than being the smartest person in any room they enter."

Benjamin snaps back like I hit him. Clarity floods into his eyes, and for a moment I think I got through to him. But then his eyes shutter and freeze over, like frost creeping astride a windowpane. "Like Terrence?"

"Yes—" I answer instinctively. Mistake. I see the hurt on his face as clear as day. I wish I could take that back and stuff it back into my mouth, swallowing it out of existence. "I mean, no." But that's a lie. Terrence is going through something stressful. "I mean, it's complicated."

"No, I get it. Drew told me you were getting obsessed." Benjamin shakes his head like he's disappointed in me. Somehow the sight makes my lungs squeeze as if someone is sitting on them. "He's dealing with bigger stuff than I am. He's suffering, and I'm spoilt. I get it."

That's not what I meant at all! I don't want to discount Benjamin's insecurities, but at the same time, he has no reason for it. He's intelligent, unrivaled, fucking perfect. What is he even on? "What I do for Terrence is just like what I do for you guys. I don't want anyone having to live on someone else's terms."

"Yeah, but you can't help us and him without throwing someone under the bus. You help him, and he'll make someone else's life hell again. I guarantee it."

It hurts, hearing my fears voiced aloud. That is what I've struggled with the whole year. Trusting the wrong people. Helping the wrong people. Believing in the wrong people. It's not bad to care. But is it bad to care too much?

"Is this about what Terrence has done, or what I might do?"

Benjamin declines to answer. Instead, he takes a step closer and stares me down, blue eyes unyielding. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"This is not a game to me," I retort defensively. What is it with people and their games? Must everything be about keeping score? "I hate seeing any of my friends hurt."

The instant that sentence slips out, my eyes widen. Benjamin notices, too, what I just admitted. Even after all the betrayals, all the back-and-forth between helping and hindering us, hurting and healing other people, I consider Terrence my friend. I care about him.

How could I?

Benjamin echoes my sentiments, but it's too late for me to take it back. "How could you be friends with someone like him?"

"I— I— That's not what I meant," I say pathetically. "I just..." Benjamin rolls his eyes and starts walking away, but I can't let him end things on these terms. I grab the sleeve of his sweater, making him turn around and face me. "Ben, wait. Why are we arguing? Whether you get valedictorian or not, whether I help Terrence or not, it won't matter in the long run, right? But we—"

He tugs his hand away, face shuttered and stony. "It won't matter? Glad to know you think four years of hard work won't matter."

Now he's yelling, angry, and it occurs for a second that any other day would have been better for us to fight, rather than the day he won his competition.

"At least, not any more than you: some girl with a hero complex who caused more trouble than she should have and stuck her head in everywhere it wasn't wanted. Or maybe you'll matter so little, I won't even remember you."

It hurt me to hear Derek say that. It shatters me to hear Ben say it.

My breath catches in my throat. The air is suddenly thin and I don't know why my eyes are stinging. Actually, I do know why. He's one of the people I care about the most, and I just went and majorly put my foot in things. Or he put his foot in it, but either way — I hurt him, and he gave it back tenfold.

My voice is shallow and husky when I croak, "Ben." Intuitively, my hand reaches for him but he flinches back before I can make contact. What would I have done if I touched him anyway? Taken his hand, or pushed him angrily, or pulled him closer?

"I'm out." Benjamin is always calculating, and it's no different now. He always thinks before he talks, and I've never seen him get so angry that he loses control. Therefore, every word and every breath is aimed directly at me and shot with purpose. It hurts, and it's all because of what I said.

"What? Of the Revolution?"

"You bet. I'm not wasting any more time helping you, just for you to turn around and help our bullies," he says wearily. The anger is long gone from Benjamin's voice, but I wish it would return. Like this, all flinty and resolute, I know I stand no chance of changing his mind. "And, as you said. It won't make a difference if I'm involved or not. None of it will matter in the long run. Right?"

I know now that I fucked up. It hurts to be talked at so dismissively, but all the things I want to say — apologies, explanations, comforts — are clogged at the back of my throat. More and more unsaid sentences pile up until my chest strains with the pressure.

There's no more yelling. Just deep, restrained breaths and lowered heads.

Don't leave.

But I can't get it out, in my distress, so Ben turns and walks away. I'm left in silence after he turns the corner. I suppose I should be glad things are calm, but this is so much worse.

Like the storm has come and gone, leaving a crystal clear view of miles and miles of damage.