Papers rustled, and Akira blinked awake. His cheek was mashed against the wooden desk, and he was pretty sure he was drooling. He groggily focused on his blank notepad, then glanced at Surya, who was quietly reading beside him.
Surya was?
He choked on his shock, shooting upright. His eyes widened at the dim, empty lecture hall, and a cold panic seized him by the throat.
“It ended half an hour ago,” Surya cheerfully told him, without lowering his papers.
He honestly wanted to be vaporised.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he gasped. “I really – I didn’t mean to sleep this time.”
“Then you meant to sleep all the other times?”
“No?” His face was burning.
Propping his chin on his bracelet-laden wrist, Surya flatly regarded him. “I handed these out earlier. Here we go.” He slid Akira’s test in front of him with two slender fingers, then tapped the unbelievably low grade circled in red. “Am I very boring?”
“No, that – this doesn’t reflect your teaching at all!”
“Well, thank you, but I’m not sure how comforting that is, considering how you’ve been sleeping through all my teaching.” Surya was smiling, but his smile was cold and cutting. “Now, either you’re a narcoleptic and I’ll just have to forgive you, or my lectures have become your personal nap time. Which is it?”
With some hesitation, he sheepishly pointed out, “It’s kind of a compliment that your voice is so soothing, right?”
“How kind of you to say,” Surya replied without much feeling. “Let’s talk about my favourite thing for a moment, shall we?”
He perked up, relieved by the change in topic. “Oh? What’s that?”
“Me,” Surya said. “I’ve pinned the mentor groups on the board there, which you may have missed, but let me be the first to congratulate you.” He raised his hand for a high-five. “I’ll be your mentor for the semester, isn’t that exciting?”
Surya wiggled his fingers until Akira, utterly dumbfounded, weakly reciprocated. He slapped their hands together with very little enthusiasm. Then narrowed his gaze on Akira, who sunk even further into his seat.
At the camp, their brief conversation had flowed easily, but this exchange felt like walking on broken glass. Had it been Daichi’s humour that had tempered this side of Surya, making him seem more approachable? Akira didn’t know what he was doing wrong, but he felt like he couldn’t speak.
“Listen, I’m currently on a trial period as a TA,” Surya said. “If I do well, I’ll be promoted to a position equivalent to that of an interim professor, here at Kaoru or even at Brighthaven. My arrangement with Professor Masami is to ensure that the majority of students pass their exams. That is, from a grade perspective relative to their attendance. Now, look here.”
He casually flipped open his class register, and started trailing his finger down the list of grades.
“One guess as to where you fall?” he asked.
“At the…bottom?”
“Exactly right.” Surya’s smile was far from praising. “You’re my little mentee, you know, and I can’t have you failing any more of my tests.”
He hesitated to say, “But your promotion won’t be affected by one student failing.”
“It doesn’t, or so I’d like to say. Turns out it depends on who that one student is.” Surya yawned, curving a finger through the air until it was pointing at Akira. “Our dear professor made it quite clear to me: basketball players can’t compete with failing grades, and you, Akira, are now my problem.”
“I uh, but I mean, I wasn’t brought here for…actual school,” he tried to tell him, his voice faltering under that flat stare.
Surya’s eyebrows lifted, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Well, the fuss our professor made makes me doubt that very much.”
“I’ll talk to him,” he offered, feeling rather pressured and desperate. “Maybe he can move me to another group or omit my grades from your performance report.”
“Or – and hear me out – you could just study to improve your grades.” Surya peered down at him, like something wasn’t adding up. “You realise a good grade benefits you the most, right?”
“I wasn’t g-given a scholarship for my grades,” he tried to say. “I’m only here for basketball.”
“But,” Surya slowly said, as though speaking to a child, “you aren’t allowed to play without decent grades. Ask Masami if you don’t believe me. They should have you benched already.”
He knew exactly where to cut.
Akira’s gaze narrowed on him, jaw tightening. He battled every day, wondering where to put his body, hour by hour, and how to feel safe inside it. The only time he felt alive and in control was when he was standing on that court. It was all he dreamt about.
There was no guarantee Surya was bluffing. He was notoriously self-serving, and if Akira’s grades threatened his trial period, he’d have no qualms protecting it by any means necessary. Worse still, the coach was itching for an excuse to bench Akira, and if he never played, then he was at risk of losing his scholarship. He’d have to leave Kaoru.
“I won’t tell Masami or the coach,” Surya smoothly promised, as though he wasn’t blackmailing him. “As long as you bring your average up to at least sixty. That means weekly consultations with me, completing your readings and notes, and staying awake during lectures.” He drummed his nails against the desk. “I look forward to your cooperation.”
“Great,” Akira snapped.
“Fantastic.”
Akira walked away before he exploded, his hands curling into fists. His footsteps echoed sharply against the steps, and his pen slipped from his arms, clattering to the floor. He crouched to snatch it up, teeth gritted, and made it to the exit.
“Hey,” Surya called, and he made himself look back at him. He watched Surya point at his own neck. “Next time, I suggest wearing a plaster.”
His hand flew to his throat, clapping over the curve of it, and he covered what must’ve been a hickey. He felt humiliation searing into his chest, heat flooding his face, and dashed out of the lecture hall.
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