It would be a lie to say Surya never bickered with Daichi, especially when Daichi seemed to delight in escalating every minor disagreement to dramatic ultimatums and standoffs. But for someone like Surya, who hated confrontation, those moments made his skin prickle.

Weeks after becoming roommates, Daichi managed to provoke a genuine outburst from him. He’d actually shouted before clapping a hand over his mouth, feeling a sense of shame, and yet, nothing came of it. He wasn’t ignored at the table or rejected at all. In fact, at the party that same night, Daichi still drunkenly tied a balloon to Surya’s hair so he wouldn’t lose him in the crowd.

Surya kept telling himself that fighting was normal. Some conflict was inevitable, even healthy, because it meant he wasn’t sacrificing what he liked or disliked for the sake of peace.

What wasn’t acceptable was cornering some first-year, and blackmailing him into studying. He also shouldn’t have shamed Akira over a mere hickey. He didn’t really care about it, but he’d taken a jab at it anyway, and he wasn’t proud of that.

He normally wouldn’t bother waiting after class for anyone but Daichi, and always spared himself the tedious effort of convincing anyone of anything, but today he’d crossed those lines without realising it.

He’d taken that final dig at Akira’s hickey, even after watching him awkwardly crouch to pick up his pencil. Something about the sight of Akira’s angry, flushed cheeks and clumsiness made him unable to help himself. The words slipped right out, cruel and provoking.

He’d felt a twinge of guilt only when the satisfaction of seeing Akira run away hit a little too hard. He knew that made him a bad person and a terrible mentor, but he was kind of grateful that Akira was his mentee and not Daichi’s. He needed to talk with him again and make amends, because it was better to be a neutral party around Akira than a bully.

That was why he was here.

He found himself sneaking up the fire escape, where Daichi waited. The moment he lowered his hood, Daichi’s emotionless (practically psychopathic) expression melted into a grin. He began brushing the snow off Surya with enthusiasm, though Surya still tracked wet footprints into the gym.

The stands were eerily empty, which amplified every sound like they were sitting in a tin can. Their ears rang with the players’ shouts, the ball smashing into the court, and the cluster of photographers by the railing. Sitting in the second-highest tier, it felt like watching ants frantically darting around.

When the referees signalled that the match was starting, the players peeled away from their huddle, and Surya finally spotted Akira.

The tiny first-year was using animated gestures to explain something to Asahi, who nibbled on the lip of his bottle. One of their teammates knocked into Akira, cutting his conversation short, and he squeezed himself onto the bench. The reserves sent him staggering to the very end of it, and without missing a beat, he perched on the narrow edge.

“Uh, remind me what the positions are?” Surya asked, scratching his neck.

“As if I’d know something like that.” Daichi lifted his hand to catch Erik’s attention. When that failed, he whistled sharply and looked visibly startled when both Erik and Akira looked up.

Surya instantly stiffened. He felt like he’d been caught peeping through a window. Maybe he was being too shameless, turning up here only a few hours after picking a fight.

Daichi tried to save him by giving an awkward but cheerful wave, like he’d meant to catch Akira’s attention. Akira, ever the sweetest, offered him a brief but beaming smile. Then he turned back to the referees, who were checking the Cobras’ fingernail length again.

“I’m guessing that was a mistake,” Erik laughed as he climbed up to join them.

“I never make those,” Daichi replied coolly. “Now give us some context.”

“For newbie fans? It’d be my pleasure.” Erik excitedly began to point. “The Cobras are infamous for their dirty plays. They rack up fouls like they’re trying to beat a record nobody else knows about, which is why this match is private. Last year, things got so heated that the crowd started fighting. They were breaking bottles, pulling hair, the works. That man there, Miyazaki, nearly wrecked Riggs’ ankle in a forced collision.”

Daichi looked uninterested, so he surprised them by nodding slowly. “I thought it was how Riggs landed.”

The whistle blew, and Otsuka leapt high for it. It was won by the Cobras, who ploughed towards the basket.

“I’m the one who told you about that,” Erik said. “It took watching the video with Akira before I saw the forced collision.”

Daichi looked at him. “You’re watching videos with him?”

“Yeah, man, it’s called making friends.”

Before they could start bickering, Surya interjected, “But Miyazaki isn’t opposite Riggs right now.”

“Riggs is too by-the-book to handle Miyazaki’s plays, so that’s why Asahi’s on it.” Erik broke into a proud grin. “Asahi’s like an impregnable wall.”

“You’re blind,” Daichi said. “Pretty sure I saw the last team get passed Asahi more times than I could count.”

“Shut up,” Erik snapped. “The Cobras are fifth in the league and probably would’ve been higher if they didn’t get blown for so many fouls.”

“Tell us more about our team.” Daichi gestured toward the court. “Who are those two?”

Erik balked. “Seriously? You’re that out of touch?”

“I’ve never been interested in basketball.”

“So what’s caught your interest now?” Erik demanded.

Surya didn’t miss how he tore his eyes away from Akira to glare at Erik. “We’re here because Surya needs to handle his mentee,” he said flatly.

Surya nodded. “I’m going to be the best mentor.”

“As a veteran shepherd of the little people,” Erik told him, “my advice? You can’t go wrong with chocolate.”

Daichi’s mouth curved into a grin. His gaze mostly bored as he tracked the game.

Suffice to say, the match was brutal, with Miyazaki tearing through the Little Bears. Asahi couldn’t keep him out of the paint, so he viciously dunked one ball after another. The tension boiled over when he nearly took out Dassin’s eye, forcing the coach to call for a timeout.

The Little Bears trudged to the bench, their tempers running high. Otsuka barked something at Asahi, who shoved him in response. When Riggs threw himself into the scuffle, Asahi elbowed him aside and stormed over to Akira, who shrank away from him.

“Is he going to hit him?” Daichi quietly asked.

Surya glanced at him, surprised by the flicker of tension in his jaw.

“He can’t,” Erik said, though he sounded uncertain. “He won’t risk getting another card.”

Akira stood up and hurriedly explained something to Asahi. The whistle cut him short, and his pleading look toward the coach was met with a finger pointed at the bench.

Erik leant closer to gossip with them. “Rumour has it that the coach has to let Akira play in the last quarter if they’re losing. If his leg’s all healed up, then it’s only the goal difference that’ll pose a problem.”

One of the photographers chirped, “The regulars shouldn’t be relying so much on the squirt, though.”

“The squirt’s our saviour!” Erik cheered.

Surya became engrossed despite himself. He watched the Little Bears falling apart, steadily being out-manoeuvred and overwhelmed. By the second quarter, they were down by fifteen points and snapping at one another.

Meanwhile, the Cobras grew cockier, making little quips that further demoralised the Bears. Riggs’ shots kept rebounding off the rim, while Asahi and Dassin were continuously screened and beaten back. The latter was nearly blown for numerous fouls.

It was awful to watch such a pitiful ending. Their teamwork was falling to pieces.

“Half-time might break the Cobras’ momentum,” Erik hoped.

It didn’t. The third quarter was somehow worse. Most of the Little Bears were battered, winded, and limping from multiple collisions. Otsuka was nursing a bruised rib and ego, courtesy of Miyazaki, and Asahi was painfully slow. With their difference in speed, he seemed incapable of grabbing even a fistful of Miyazaki’s shirt.

Then, out of nowhere, Akira shot to his feet and shouted, “Left! Left!”

Asahi and Riggs turned too late. The ball found Miyazaki again, and he scored a three-pointer over Asahi’s head.

“Just trap–!” Akira choked as one of the reserves caught his collar, yanking him down. “Trap the point guard, not –”

“Malay!” the coach bellowed.

Akira immediately shut up.

And then it happened: Asahi pointed at Akira. Then Riggs, too. Much to everyone’s shock, Otsuka called for their second and last timeout, and waved him onto the court. Akira shot towards him like a bullet, and it was quite the sight to see all those giants crowding around him.

The whistle blew, and he started for the bench, but Otsuka caught him by the collar, nearly lifting him off his feet. Dassin threw up his hands, striding for the bench instead. 

And Akira was finally standing on the court.

When the ball was tossed, Abe easily caught it and sent it to Miyazaki. It startled him when Otsuka stayed stockstill and grounded, and not even Riggs charged. So Miyazaki lazily lifted his hands to catch.

But the ball never connected.

Akira materialised in front of him like a bolt of lightning, somehow intercepting the ball mid-air and redirecting it straight to Riggs, who sank a clean three-pointer. Scoring in under a minute. It was the smoothest, cleanest play of the game.

That was the last time Akira beat the ball to Miyazaki, but again and again, he stuck to him like gum. If Miyazaki passed too low, the ball was stolen. If he hesitated, he found himself screened. Akira forced countless turnovers and fed perfect assists to Riggs, who capitalised on each and every one of his passes.

Miyazaki couldn’t shake him no matter how hard he swatted, and he did swat. For all of Akira’s assists, he earned a new bruise, because it was inevitable that the Cobras would retaliate.

When the game reset, Akira held up a finger to Otsuka. The ball was tossed high and hard, and Abe leapt for it, sending it to his shooting guard and not Miyazaki. In the blink of an eye, it was stolen mid-air by Akira, who hurled it into what should’ve been open space.

Rylen caught it and scored, looking utterly stunned.

It was all playing out exactly like Akira wanted. He was setting the Cobras up for plays three sets before it happened. He’d cast doubt on Miyazaki being a viable pass without being ambitious about it, and he’d cut short Miyazaki’s rampage in the paint. In fact, he riled Miyazaki up so much that he was hounded in return, and they drew each other out of the game.

At the final buzzer, Riggs sank two free throws. The Little Bears scraped out their second win of the season, and the gym erupted with scattered applause.

Surya just watched the two players who stood apart. Miyazaki was breathless and visibly fatigued, while Akira was limping and looked light-headed. They’d run themselves ragged, yet none of their teammates clapped them on the back or thanked them.

Once Erik left them, Daichi discreetly laced his fingers through Surya’s, their hands hidden between their legs. “He might deserve a chocolate just for this game, huh?”

Surya wouldn’t admit how impressed he was. “I brought some for Nugget, too,” he said.

“He and I thank you.” Daichi shot him a teasing smirk. “We’ve both got a baby to attend to.”

“I don’t want to ruin my one’s after-game high.”

“You’ll make it better by revoking your threat.”

Surya frowned. “I still want him to meet the conditions I set.”

Daichi quirked a brow at him. “Without feeling threatened?”

“Maybe.” He reluctantly realised he was being unreasonable. “Maybe I don’t really care.”

“Yet here we are.” Daichi gave his hand a squeeze. “I have to run, honey. Do the right thing, but do it better.” He grinned. “Now, I’m off to rescue the Nugget from soccer. Be brave!”

Surya didn’t think apologising would be all that easy.