The classroom smelled like desperation and sugar.
Altair wrinkled his nose the instant he crossed the threshold. There, at the back of the room, sat Cassian—already enthroned like some smug monarch of the newly-transferred. His desk was buried under offerings: cookies in pastel wrapping, bento boxes tied with ribbons, chocolates arranged into heart-shapes. The only thing missing was a crown.
And oh, the stench. Not of the food itself, but of the pheromones clinging to every gift.
Altair stopped mid-step, lips curling. It was revolting. Like someone had sprayed cheap perfume on fruit and called it a feast. How absolutely undignified.
Cassian noticed. Of course he did. His gaze flicked up, caught Altair's disgusted expression, and in the next moment—without so much as a twitch of hesitation—he swept an arm across his desk.
The tower of gifts toppled in one magnificent cascade and landed on the desk beside him, startling the poor boy sitting there. Gasps rippled through the room.
"I don't like them," Cassian said simply, voice calm but firm, like a blade pressed against silk.
The boy who inherited the pile blinked, then grinned, already tearing open a box of cookies. The class buzzed with laughter, relief, whispers. Admirers pouted, but no one dared protest.
And Cassian—infuriatingly—looked unruffled.
Altair rolled his eyes and sashayed to his seat with the grace of one utterly unimpressed. "So dramatic," he muttered under his breath, though a traitorous curl tugged at his lips.
---
The teacher arrived, restoring a semblance of order. Altair slumped in his chair, chin propped on one hand, radiating elegant boredom. Cassian, seated beside him, occasionally darted subtle glances his way. Too subtle for most, but not for Altair. He caught them all. He catalogued them like sins.
Halfway into the lecture, the teacher clasped her hands. "Before we begin today's unit, let's review. Tell me—the key characteristics of omegas and alphas."
Her eyes scanned the room. Inevitably, inexorably, they landed on Altair.
He straightened, mask sliding into place. "Omegas," he began, voice rich with disdainful confidence, "are not the fragile ornaments society paints them to be. They are adaptable, cunning, wielding influence not by force but by persuasion. And alphas, while typically defined by dominance, too often confuse aggression with strength. A true alpha, rare as they are, is one who masters restraint as much as power."
The teacher nodded approvingly. But before the praise could crystallize—
"I disagree."
The words dropped like stones into still water.
Cassian.
The class collectively turned, eyes widening. Only Altair rolled his own, very slowly. "Of course you do."
Cassian's expression was mild, but his gaze burned. "Your definition of omega relies too heavily on cunning, as though every omega must be sly to survive. That interpretation is limiting. Their strength can be found in empathy too—instead of persuasion through manipulation, persuasion through trust."
Altair arched a brow. "And what is empathy if not another tool of manipulation? One merely sugar-coated for easy swallowing."
A ripple of ooooh swept the class.
Cassian didn't flinch. "It's the distinction between intent. Empathy seeks connection. Manipulation seeks control."
Altair tilted his head, fox-like smile unfurling. "And you think the world cares about intent? Results are all that matter. Whether you coax someone with kindness or corner them with wit, the end is the same."
"The path shapes the end," Cassian countered smoothly. "A bridge built on trust lasts longer than one built on deceit."
Altair leaned closer, eyes glinting. "Unless the bridge collapses anyway, and the clever survive by swimming."
Gasps, whispers. The class was eating it up like theater.
The teacher, instead of stopping them, watched with concealed amusement. This was pedagogy at its finest.
Cassian rested his chin on his hand, mirroring Altair's posture. "And what of alphas? You accuse them of mistaking aggression for strength. Yet you praise restraint. Isn't restraint simply another form of calculation—no different from the cunning you assign to omegas?"
Altair smirked. "Ah, but here's the difference. When an omega is cunning, it's survival. When an alpha shows restraint, it's evolution. An alpha who cannot leash himself is merely a beast. An omega who cannot scheme is merely prey. There is balance in that distinction."
Cassian's lips quirked. "So you admit both rely on performance. Roles crafted, masks worn. Power is never inherent, only perceived."
"Perception," Altair purred, "is the sharpest weapon of all."
The air between them crackled, words weaving tighter and tighter, like twin blades clashing in rhythm. The class sat spellbound. For once, Altair's wit was not simply slicing unchallenged through the air—Cassian parried every thrust, deflected every jab, countered with maddening calm.
It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.
And the worst part?
He knew Cassian's rhythm.
Altair could almost taste the words before they left his rival's tongue. As if all those years of bickering in childhood had etched Cassian's logic into his bones. Their arguments weren't chaotic; they were a dance. Predictable, inevitable, endless.
The realization made his chest tighten.
With one final flourish, Altair leaned back, voice smooth as silk. "So, Cassian, after all your contradictions and pretty philosophies, what do you truly believe defines an alpha?"
Cassian met his gaze steadily. "An alpha is not one who commands others, but one who commands himself."
The class exhaled in unison, impressed.
Altair's smile sharpened. "And yet, here you are, sitting beside me, unable to stop glancing my way. Tell me, Cassian—are you truly in command of yourself?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cassian's lips curved, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The bell rang, shattering the tension.
Chairs scraped, chatter erupted, and the students buzzed with excitement over the spectacle they had just witnessed.
Altair gathered his things with an air of exquisite boredom, though his pulse thrummed like a drumbeat. "Pathetic," he muttered, brushing past Cassian. "You'll have to do better than that."
But the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest, most treacherous smile.