Whispers are like gnats—annoying, insistent, and impossible to swat properly.
Altair walked through the hallway, chin tilted just so, expression smooth as glass, while his classmates buzzed like cicadas behind his back.
"Did you hear how he talked back to Cassian yesterday?"
"They argued like professors!"
"Altair always wins debates, but Cassian—he didn't back down."
"They know each other, right?"
"Maybe childhood friends… or rivals… or lovers—"
Altair's steps faltered. Lovers? He nearly whirled to scorch the offender with a verbal inferno, but no. No, he would not dignify such filth with acknowledgement. His dignity was precious, and besides—he wasn't blushing. His ears simply ran warmer in the mornings. Entirely unrelated.
He swept into the locker room like a prince into court, unbothered and aloof.
Until he saw Cassian already there, tying the laces of his sneakers.
Their eyes met. Cassian's lips quirked, maddeningly slight.
Altair looked away so violently he almost sprained his neck.
---
Gym class. Basketball today. The court echoed with sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, voices overlapping.
Altair pulled his jersey over his head and instantly regretted it. The whispers multiplied.
Because here was the problem: in uniform, Altair looked refined, elegant, almost delicate. But in a sleeveless jersey? His toned arms and broad shoulders betrayed him. The faint definition of muscle along his torso drew stares like moths to flame. He wasn't as tall as an alpha, no—but he radiated confidence, grace, and that inexplicable spark that made hearts misbehave.
He knew the effect, of course. He always knew. Still, the way the eyes followed him like hungry shadows made him bristle.
Across the court, Cassian stretched lazily, the lines of his body equally honed, equally distracting. His height, his build, his steady poise—it was alpha perfection. He didn't flaunt it. He didn't need to. Presence clung to him like a second skin.
Altair hated him for it.
The whistle blew. Teams divided. By cruel trick of fate, Cassian and Altair landed on opposite sides. Perfect.
---
From the first bounce of the ball, it was war.
Altair darted across the court, quick as a fox, weaving through defenders. Cassian, predictably, shadowed him. Every move Altair made, Cassian anticipated. Every feint was countered, every dash blocked.
"Move, fox," Cassian murmured as they collided near the three-point line, voices drowned in the roar of sneakers and shouts.
"Don't tell me what to do," Altair hissed back, shoving off and spinning free. He passed, dashed, received again, leapt—shot. The ball arced, clean, and swished through the hoop.
Cheers erupted. Altair landed gracefully, smirk cutting like a blade.
He turned, eyes locking on Cassian. See? his smirk said. Outplayed.
Cassian only smiled faintly, infuriatingly, as if the game had just begun.
---
They clashed again and again, their rivalry turning the match into spectacle. Teammates became accessories, the crowd became background noise. It was Altair versus Cassian, fire versus steel.
Altair was swift, unpredictable, all sharp turns and daring plays. Cassian was calm, precise, efficient, making every move count.
The class watched in awe.
"Altair looks amazing!"
"Cassian's unstoppable—did you see that block?"
"They're insane—like watching pros!"
"They're… glowing. Both of them."
Indeed, sweat gleamed along Altair's neck, catching the light as he sprinted, leapt, twisted. He hated the stares but also craved them, feeding on admiration like nectar. He was beautiful, and he knew it.
But Cassian—Cassian looked like he belonged on the court, like the ball obeyed him, like gravity itself cooperated. His calm clashed maddeningly with Altair's fire, and neither bent, neither yielded.
When they collided chest-to-chest mid-play, the gym seemed to hold its breath.
Cassian's breath brushed his ear. "Still think restraint is weakness?"
Altair shoved him away, cheeks hot. "Still think you're in command of yourself?"
The ball flew, the game resumed, but their words lingered, sharp as knives.
---
By the final whistle, both were breathless, flushed, slick with sweat. Their teams were tied, a perfect stalemate.
Of course.
The class erupted in chatter as players dispersed. Admirers swarmed Cassian with towels, water, adoration. He accepted none of it, brushing them off with polite indifference. Instead, his gaze slid—inevitably, inexorably—to Altair.
Altair, toweling his hair with exaggerated nonchalance, caught it. He caught every single look.
And he hated—hated—how his stomach flipped each time.
"Good game," Cassian said as he passed by, voice low, almost teasing.
Altair scoffed, tossing his towel over his shoulder like royalty dismissing a servant. "Don't flatter yourself. I carried half that match."
Cassian paused, leaned just slightly closer. "And I stopped the other half."
Altair's heart stuttered. His smirk didn't falter. "Then it seems we're cursed to balance each other. How tragic."
Cassian's eyes gleamed, unreadable. "Tragic for whom?"
Before Altair could conjure a retort sharp enough to cut that smugness, Cassian walked away, shoulders broad, stride unhurried.
The whispers began again, louder than ever.
"They're unstoppable together."
"Like rivals in a storybook…"
"No, like… destined."
Altair stormed to the lockers, jaw tight, every fiber of his body buzzing.
He told himself it was irritation. He told himself Cassian was unbearable. He told himself the whispers meant nothing.
But his reflection in the mirror betrayed him.
A faint flush lingered on his cheeks. His lips curved, almost smiling.
He scowled and slammed the locker shut.