The campaign of psychological warfare continued for some time. Soon, December rolled around, bringing with it a slight chill in the air and absolutely zero relief for Aarav. Unfortunately for him, Nikhil had gotten bored. Again. It seemed like even chaos, when sustained at nuclear levels, eventually became routine for Nikhil. And Aarav, poor soul, had just about accepted his fate and had mentally filed it under unfortunate but inevitable disasters of life, right next to viva questions he hadn't prepared.
And oh no, Nikhil couldn't have that.
Acceptance? Peace? Stability? Disgusting.
It happened on a random evening. Nikhil was sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan like it had personally offended him, contemplating the tragic state of his entertainment levels, when the thought hit him.
All this time—all this time—he had been calling the senior either "boss" or "daddy."
And all this while, this one realisation had missed his notice.
He didn't know his name.
The realization sat heavy. Wrong. Deeply, personally offensive. Like finding out you've been stalking someone's entire personality but forgot to check their actual name tag.
He frowned.
Because yes, the name must've been on the apron. And yes, he had seen the senior in uniform countless times. But somehow, impossibly, criminally, he had never actually caught it. Never paid attention to it. Never looked.
And now it felt like a gap. A missing piece. A loose thread in an otherwise perfectly woven masterpiece of torment.
Boss and daddy suddenly didn't feel like inside jokes anymore. They felt like placeholders. Temporary labels slapped over a very obvious ignorance.
Other people knew his name.
That tall senior definitely knew it. His friends knew it. Half the second year probably knew it.
And Nikhil didn't.
Oh, this wouldn't do.
This absolutely, categorically would not do.
Now, Nikhil could've taken the easy route. He could've simply… read it on the apron next time. A quick glance. A blink-and-miss-it moment. Efficient. Sensible.
But Nikhil had never been sensible.
And he had never taken the easy route when it came to that senior.
(Or, frankly, in life. But that's a separate issue.)
The plan formed in his head with the kind of clarity that usually precedes either genius or disaster. Or both.
At exactly 1:30 in the afternoon—a time when he had already finished lunch on most days but had very carefully, very creepily gathered intel about—Nikhil entered the mess. Thursdays, apparently, had a second-year crowd spike due to a class ending then.
He had done his homework.
The mess was crowded, buzzing with voices, clattering plates, and the faint smell of something that was trying very hard to be food.
And then he spotted him.
There.
Near the salad counter.
Aarav.
Standing with that taller senior beside him, carefully scooping cucumbers onto his plate with the precision of someone performing microsurgery. Avoiding tomatoes. Avoiding onions. Selective. Picky. Of course he was.
Nikhil's grin spread slowly.
Oh, this was going to be beautiful.
"We have the evening free, just an AETCOM lecture," Karan was saying, rolling his neck to ease the stiffness.
Aarav gave a non-committal hum, moving along the counter, eyes scanning the options like none of them deserved his time.
"We should try to complete the syllabus for the pharmac pct coming up—"
His words died mid-sentence.
Because he felt it.
That presence.
That… gremlin-shaped disturbance in the force.
Aarav's spine stiffened. His grip on the plate tightened just slightly. He knew. He didn't even need to look.
But he did anyway.
And there he was.
Nikhil. Standing casually near the line. No plate. Hands in his apron pockets. That grin on his face. The one that meant something terrible was about to happen.
Aarav's blood ran cold.
Nikhil gave a small wave.
Aarav's stomach dropped.
He could see it now. The intent. The purpose. The gleam in those eyes. After days of suffering, he knew exactly what was coming.
He's going to do it.
Here.
In front of everyone.
"…no," Aarav whispered, voice thin, almost fragile. "Not here."
It wasn't even anger anymore. It was plea. Raw, desperate plea.
Nikhil just smirked.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, leaning in, breath ghosting near Aarav's ear—far too familiar a position at this point.
"Well, I don't know your name anyways, do I?" he sighed dramatically, like this was truly a tragic situation. "I tried so hard to find my dear daddy's name, but what to do? It's too hard. Guess I'll have to just call you what I always do… nice and loud… with proper respect…"
Aarav's face went pale.
This was it.
This was how he died.
Not by exams. Not by stress. Not even by lack of sleep.
But by public humiliation in a mess full of second years.
Nikhil straightened slightly, drawing in a breath.
Aarav's pupils widened.
No.
"Good afternoon—"
Aarav moved.
Fast.
Faster than he had ever moved in any exam hall, any emergency, any situation that had demanded urgency.
He slammed his plate down with a clatter that turned a few heads, grabbed Nikhil's wrist, and dragged him away from the line—past the tables, past the chaos, straight to the only semi-private area available: near the washbasins and water cooler.
He stopped abruptly.
Let go of Nikhil's wrist like it had burned him.
For a second, he just stood there, breathing hard.
His eyes—usually sharp, controlled, composed—were a mess. Anger, desperation, humiliation, all tangled together.
When he spoke, his voice was low. Rushed. Like he was trying to outrun his own words.
"It's Aarav," he hissed. "Aarav. A-A-R-A-V. My name is Aarav. Now, for the love of god—stop."
Silence.
Aarav had done the unthinkable.
He knew it.
He, the upholder of rules, the defender of hierarchy, had voluntarily given his name to a first year. His own room child. Without being asked properly. Without tradition. Without process.
It was outrageous.
It was sacrilegious.
It was necessary.
Nikhil blinked.
For a split second, he was actually… stunned.
Not because he hadn't expected a reaction—but because this?
This was better.
He had won.
Not through rebellion. Not through defiance.
But by being an absolute, relentless, deeply irritating menace.
The shock melted quickly, replaced by something warm. Satisfying. Smug.
Very, very smug.
"Aarav," Nikhil repeated.
He said it slowly.
Then again.
"Aarav."
Again.
"Aarav."
Like he was tasting it. Testing it. Rolling it around just because he could.
God, it felt good.
The fruit of patience and persistence—turns out, incredibly sweet.
"Nice to finally meet you, Aarav."
There was something different in the smile this time. Still smug. Still self-satisfied. But underneath it—something a little more genuine.
Something quieter.
He didn't push further.
Didn't add another nickname. Didn't say that word again.
He didn't need to.
He winked.
Turned.
And walked away like he had just had the most fulfilling meal of his life.
"Bye… Aarav," he called over his shoulder, giving a small wave.
He didn't need lunch.
He had already eaten something far more fulfilling.
Behind him, in the middle of the noisy, chaotic mess, Aarav stood frozen.
Defeated.
And very, very aware that things had just gotten worse.