If there was one universal truth in high school, it was this: gossip traveled faster than wildfire.
By the time the bell rang for lunch, Altair's proclamation had already mutated into three different versions, spreading down every hallway like pollen in the wind.
"I heard Altair said Cassian belongs to him—like, belongs belongs."
"No, no, he said only he could mess with him. Isn't that basically the same?"
"Does that mean they're… dating?"
"They argue too much for that."
"Or maybe that's exactly why—"
Cassian, of course, remained perfectly calm as he collected his books. The storm that had weighed on him all morning had long since dissolved, replaced by a quiet amusement.
Beside him, Altair strutted out of the classroom with his chin high, as if his furious outburst earlier hadn't nearly shaken the walls. His dignity was intact—or so he told himself.
"They all look like startled chickens," Altair muttered, his nose in the air. "Clucking nonsense, whispering stupidity. Pathetic."
"Mm," Cassian replied.
Altair shot him a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Cassian said, though the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him.
Altair narrowed his eyes. "You're enjoying this."
"A little," Cassian admitted.
Altair gasped dramatically. "You're insufferable. First you ruin the mood with your brooding, then you drag me into the spotlight of public opinion, and now you have the audacity—the sheer audacity—to enjoy it?!"
Cassian glanced down at him, unruffled. "You're the one who shouted across the classroom."
Altair sniffed. "Because you needed defending."
"I didn't."
"You did!"
Their bickering carried them through the corridors, drawing glances and stifled laughter from their peers. By the time they reached the cafeteria, the hum of gossip had grown louder. Students parted instinctively, some pretending not to watch, others failing spectacularly.
And then it happened.
"Look at them," a girl whispered loudly as Altair grabbed a tray. "They're having a lovers' quarrel."
Altair froze.
"What?!" He spun around, glaring at the offender. His voice carried over the cafeteria, silencing conversations in a five-foot radius. "Lovers?! Are you blind? We're not even friends! Where in the seven circles of absurdity do you get lovers from?! Look at him—does he look like my lover?!"
Cassian, standing beside him with infuriating calm, arched a brow. "Careful. You sound defensive."
"I am not defensive!" Altair snapped. "I'm correcting the record! This is slander of the highest order!"
Half the cafeteria stifled laughter. The other half stared, bewildered at the sheer passion radiating from the proud omega.
Cassian shook his head, lips twitching. He hadn't needed to say a word—Altair's theatrics were enough to fuel the rumors for months.
Tray in hand, Altair marched to the food counter, muttering insults under his breath. Cassian followed, unhurried, his steady presence shadowing the fox's storm.
When they reached the self-serve section, Altair stopped dead. His sharp eyes locked onto a bowl of pickles.
Cassian didn't notice at first, reaching for a roll. But then Altair scooped every pickle from his plate onto Cassian's tray with deliberate precision.
Cassian blinked down at the sudden offering. "…What are you doing?"
"Giving you these vile things." Altair's nose wrinkled. "I don't like them. And you, Cassian, are like pickles—disgusting to me, yet somehow surviving no matter how many times I wish you'd disappear from my plate."
Cassian stared at him, momentarily caught off guard. The insult should have stung—or at least irritated—but instead something unexpected tugged at his memory.
He was back in elementary school.
A festival day. A cafeteria decorated with ribbons. Little Cassian sitting at the end of a table, sulking because his plate was missing a pickle. He hadn't admitted it aloud—because alphas didn't sulk—but he'd been silent enough for it to show.
And then… Altair. Marching over with his plate, shoving a pickle at him with the same exact disdain.
"You're pathetic," little Altair had huffed. "Sulking over something as stupid as a pickle. Take mine. I hate them anyway."
Cassian remembered the way his sulk had disappeared in an instant, replaced with a secret satisfaction. He'd eaten that pickle slowly, savoring it more than he'd ever admit, while Altair berated him the whole time for being childish.
And now, years later, the scene replayed—almost identical. Same complaint. Same disdainful tone. Same fox, still oblivious to how much those small gestures meant.
Cassian looked at Altair for a long moment.
"…You haven't changed."
Altair paused, mid-complaint. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Cassian said softly, but his eyes lingered, ocean-deep, pulling from memories that Altair clearly didn't remember—or pretended not to.
Altair clicked his tongue and turned away, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. "Don't look at me like that. Just eat the stupid pickles and stop being mysterious."
Cassian chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. He lifted one of the offered pickles and ate it without complaint.
Around them, the cafeteria was abuzz with murmurs and sideways glances. Students who had long admired Altair for his untouchable pride and sharp tongue were now whispering to each other.
"He's… different, isn't he?"
"Yeah. Livelier. Louder."
"He's always been proud, but since Cassian came, it's like… he shines brighter."
Altair, oblivious to the interpretations of his audience, launched into another tirade about Cassian's infuriating calmness, his arrogance, his annoying habit of smirking at everything.
Cassian, meanwhile, let him rant, watching with the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. The fox was unaware, but Cassian wasn't. Altair's world, for all its fire and fury, had shifted just slightly since he'd walked back into it.
And Cassian… found himself grateful.