The city was called Astralis. A city of glass towers and neon light, of endless chatter and hurried footsteps. People said its streets gleamed like fallen starlight at night, and perhaps that was why its children seemed born brighter—louder, sharper, harder to contain.
At the corner of Astralis' third district, nestled between a bakery that smelled of sugar and a bookstore that smelled of dust, stood Astralis Central Elementary. A school with squeaky floors, fading walls, and enough chaos to convince any adult that teaching was less an occupation and more an extreme sport.
And within one particular classroom of second graders, chaos had a name.
No—two names.
Altair and Cassian.
---
Altair, at the tender age of eight, was already something of a phenomenon. Born beautiful, with hair that caught the light and eyes that dared anyone to look away, he had the aura of someone who ought to be an Omega—graceful, delicate, elegant. His mother often sighed that he was "too pretty for his own good." His teachers often sighed that he was "too clever for anyone's good."
For Altair had the peculiar gift of words. Words borrowed from his older brothers, words polished into sharp little knives, words that could make a crowd laugh or cry or—most often—riot.
And Altair adored the attention. He was adored back, naturally. The other children orbited him like moths around a flame, dazzled by his mischief, enthralled by his clever tongue. He basked in it, delighted in it, ruled it.
There was only one flaw in this perfect little kingdom.
Cassian.
---
Cassian lived next door, a boy the same age, which meant they'd been forced together since the dawn of time—or at least since kindergarten. Where Altair was whimsical, Cassian was rational. Where Altair was playful, Cassian was serious. Where Altair shone like a mischievous star, Cassian burned like a steady flame.
He was not as pretty as Altair—because who was?—but handsome in a way that felt irritatingly solid, irritatingly reliable. His teachers adored him for his wisdom, his parents for his calm, his classmates for his strange ability to untangle the most complicated problems.
And Altair hated him.
Or rather, he hated that Cassian never bent. Never yielded. Never surrendered in their endless battles of wit.
It was intolerable.
And so, every day, their classroom became a stage for war.
---
Today's battlefield? The Case of the Missing Crayons.
It began simply enough: a box of thirty crayons had been placed on the table for the class art project. Five minutes later, only twenty-eight remained. Panic, of course, ensued. For what is an art class without crayons? What is childhood without unnecessary drama?
The teacher, foolishly hopeful, asked the children to "share nicely."
Which is when Altair and Cassian locked eyes.
"Obviously," Altair declared, standing atop his chair as though it were a podium, "the culprit has committed a crime of artistic sabotage." His little hands flew dramatically to his chest. "Two crayons—gone, stolen, devoured by greed!"
"Or," Cassian replied coolly from across the room, "someone misplaced them. Like a normal human being."
The class gasped. Altair's loyal audience turned their faces toward him, waiting for his retaliation.
Altair tilted his head, smile sweet and poisonous. "Oh, Cassian, darling, I didn't know you fancied yourself Sherlock Holmes. Do tell us more about these mysterious misplacements."
"Elementary," Cassian said with maddening calm, "someone borrowed them, forgot them, or dropped them. No theft. No sabotage. Just clumsiness."
Altair scoffed. "Clumsiness? Please. You mistake this classroom for a barnyard. My fellow scholars"—he swept his arm toward the giggling students—"do we look like chickens who misplace their feed?"
Half the class cheered. The other half, loyal to Cassian's logic, muttered their dissent. The room split in two: Altair's army of dramatics and Cassian's brigade of reason.
"Where's your evidence?" Cassian asked, folding his arms like a miniature judge.
"Evidence?" Altair's eyes glittered. "My very existence is evidence. Look around you! The crayons were here. Now they are not. Only a thief could explain it. Unless—" He narrowed his eyes. "Unless the thief is you."
Gasps erupted. Cassian raised a single brow, unamused.
"Accusing me," he said slowly, "is the weakest move you could've made."
"Then prove your innocence!" Altair demanded, pointing at him as though he were on trial. "Empty your desk!"
"I will," Cassian said simply, pulling out neat stacks of papers and books. Not a single crayon to be found. "See? Clean. Unlike your desk, which looks like a nest."
Altair sniffed. "Genius is always messy. Einstein said so."
"You don't even know who Einstein is."
"I don't have to," Altair shot back, grinning wickedly. "You already look like him—old, wrinkly, and boring."
The class roared with laughter.
Cassian didn't flinch. He never flinched. He simply leaned forward, eyes sharp as glass. "You're deflecting because you took the crayons."
Altair gasped, clutching his chest with scandalized flair. "Me? A thief? I, who bestow beauty upon every page I touch?" He shook his head gravely. "Cassian, jealousy is an ugly color, and it doesn't suit you."
Cassian smirked. "Neither does lying."
The tension grew unbearable. Children leaned in as if watching a gladiator match. Even the teacher, exhausted beyond repair, rubbed her temples and let the battle rage on.
Finally—finally—the truth revealed itself.
The missing crayons were discovered beneath the chair of a boy named Riko, who had been using them to draw moustaches on his notebook characters.
Cassian crossed his arms, victorious. "See? Misplaced."
Altair refused defeat. "No. Clearly, Riko was the thief all along! I suspected him from the start."
"You accused me."
"That was a decoy accusation."
"That's not even a real thing."
"It is when I say it is."
Cassian groaned. Altair smirked. Their classmates cheered, half for logic, half for flair, all for the spectacle.
And so the battle ended, not with peace, but with the teacher confiscating the crayons entirely. The art project was canceled. The class groaned.
But Altair and Cassian?
They grinned. Because in their minds, the war had only just begun.
---
This was how it always was. Altair dazzling with mischief, Cassian countering with reason. Altair adored attention; Cassian tolerated it. Altair thrived on chaos; Cassian thrived on order.
And yet, despite all their bickering, despite all the insults and accusations, one truth lingered beneath it all:
The two of them were inseparable. Rivals, yes. Enemies, perhaps. But bound together in ways no one could yet name.
One day, the world would give them their second genders. One day, pheromones would flare, bonds would threaten, instincts would burn.
But for now, they were just children, two stars colliding, two storms clashing, two boys at war over crayons.
And oh, how glorious that war was.