Things were changing.
Akira’s training was no longer solitary. He didn’t know how Asahi discovered his early morning runs, but after the Cobras’ match, Asahi started showing up at the track. He counted the stretches with Akira, managed four laps before collapsing, and shakily joined the cool down. He also continued to find Akira between classes so they could watch basketball videos together.
Then, three days ago, Riggs had appeared at the track, bleary-eyed and sluggish. He’d nailed the stretches, sprinted two laps at Akira’s pace, then crawled aside to throw up. Akira had to help carry him up to the gym afterwards, but the fact that he’d let him? Definitely progress.
Akira knew that their sudden interest in him was because they weren’t too thrilled about their last match. They were egocentric, skilled players, who were obsessed with basketball. The fact that they’d relied on him to win didn’t sit well with them, so here they were. Constantly watching him, badgering him with questions, and nagging him about his routine.
It began to feel a bit overwhelming. He wasn’t used to it, and sometimes it made him feel awkward, but they were strangely persistent. So it felt like only a matter of time before they intruded on his nightly training, too, or Riggs found out about him watching videos with Asahi.
The oddest change, however, was the time Akira spent with his two seniors.
Take today, for example, when he’d brought groceries to Surya’s dorm and stocked the fridge like he lived there. He’d even washed the dishes, racking them up exactly like Surya liked.
Not to mention, he was practically sleeping on Surya’s couch four nights every week. He kept accidentally passing out there while watching a movie or chatting with Daichi.
Maybe he was getting a little too comfortable there. It was getting harder to go home.
His flat (if it could even be called that) was far from campus, and it always had something that needed fixing. The electricity shorted, and the gas stove leaked, and his threadbare mattress was falling to pieces.
Whereas in Surya’s dorm, the couch cushions and blanket were thick, and the background noise was comforting – no blaring car alarms or gunshots. Surya would even check on him late at night with a glance, and Daichi would often prowl over before flopping onto the couch with him, demanding attention. They’d watch an episode or take a nap, and he’d feel safe.
They really did seem to care about him. For all of Surya’s sharp comments, he poured his heart and soul into tutoring him. He even practiced his lectures with Akira, then waited after class to check Akira’s notes and whether he understood. And despite Daichi’s intimidating presence, his sarcasm and tricks, he liked to lay along the length of Akira just for the warmth of it.
“Pay attention,” Surya said. “You’re almost done.”
Akira’s head actually throbbed with how hard he was concentrating, but Surya’s small encouragement motivated him tenfold. He finished the problem and nervously handed it over for inspection.
“Not bad,” Surya smiled.
Akira lit up. He reached behind him, patting Daichi’s leg to get his attention.
“What?” Daichi asked, pausing his video.
He was so happy that he giggled, “He said my answer wasn’t bad.”
“Well, isn’t that something?” Daichi ruffled Akira’s hair. “Does that mean you’re finishing early?”
Surya thought about it, pretending not to notice Akira holding his breath. “I guess so,” he said. “Should we go out for dinner?”
Akira cheered.
“I finally get to treat my little junior?” Daichi leant his full weight against Akira, which sent him toppling into Surya. He got his arms around the both of them, and squeezed until Akira’s laughter turned into a wheeze. “You’re so lucky to have me.”
“You’re crushing me!” Akira squirmed, trying to escape, but Daichi was surprisingly strong.
Daichi’s weight mashed him against Surya’s lap, wedging him between his thighs, until he was pinned there. He tried to push himself upright, but Daichi was heavier than he expected, and his elbows gave out. His cheek was soon crushed against Surya’s chest.
Surya reached up to grab a fistful of Daichi’s hair, and Akira hoped he’d reprimand him, but suddenly he was wrestling with him.
“Not the hair! Not the hair!” Daichi yelped. “I’ll go bald!”
“That would be a tragedy,” Surya agreed, yanking harder until Daichi sat up.
The solid heat at Akira’s back disappeared, and he immediately shot upright, feeling embarrassed when he realised his hands were fisted against Surya’s chest. He could feel Daichi moving behind him, straddling Surya’s thighs.
“Is this mutiny?” Surya asked him, and he grinned.
“Not without torture,” Daichi laughed and managed to catch Surya’s hands, which Akira neglected in favour of tickling him.
Surya bucked beneath them, biting his lip in an attempt not to laugh, but Akira persisted until he was laughing uncontrollably.
“M-mercy! Mercy!” Surya gasped.
Daichi looked at Akira. “Sir, your order?”
“We spare him today,” Akira declared solemnly.
“Too soft.”
Akira shot an impish grin over his shoulder at Daichi, and there was an odd, almost tense moment of silence that passed between the three of them.
“Akira.” Surya drew his attention with a smile, which he only ever used when there was something amusing him, but he didn’t want Akira to know exactly what. “You should shower and change into something warmer before we go.”
He was confused, but he thought it better to listen, so he hopped up. He glanced back only once when Daichi gave a low groan, holding his crotch with one hand and his chest with the other, bending over like someone had kneed him, while Surya laughed.
Akira stripped and jumped into the shower, though he kept his cycling shorts within reach. It was usually fine to show his upper body, since there was only the occasional mark needing to be covered, but his hips were a different story.
The scarring there was somewhat beautiful, swirling in patterns that Nomura had inked and carved. Though Nomura’s masterpiece wasn’t finished, Akira didn’t want him tattooing anything more than delicate roses, which curved generously along the sharp lines of his pelvis.
“Do you have anything casual to wear?” Surya’s voice startled him badly, nearly causing him to slip and crack his head against the side of the tub.
He slapped against the curtain to keep it pinned shut. “W-what?” he croaked, staring shakily at his water-speckled fingers.
What was Surya doing in here?
He sounded like he was just on the other side of the curtain. “I’m leaving one of my jackets here. And I’m dumping the rest of your clothes in the washing machine.”
“Not the shorts!”
“You’re lucky they’re black. Or are they black from all the grime?” Surya sounded disgusted. “I haven’t seen them washed once. Let me have them for one night.”
“N-no way. They don’t even smell, I checked. A-and I wash them regularly.”
There was a significant pause, then, “You’re really attached to them, huh?”
They were initially a compression suit to reduce swelling, but they hid his scars so well that he always wore them. He didn’t want to be ogled in the boys’ locker room.
Akira closed his eyes. “You – you can take them, but I want them back l-later tonight.” Heat crawled up his neck as he stammered. “So c-can you please leave the bathroom?”
Surya hummed shamelessly, like he wasn’t interested at all.
After a painful minute of silence, Akira peeked around the curtain to check that he wasn’t being tricked. His clothes were gone, along with his cycling shorts. A pile of neatly folded clothes from Surya and Daichi’s cupboard had taken its place.
Maybe they were all getting too comfortable with each other. To be wrestling on the ground like children, barging into the bathroom mid-shower, and sharing clothes.
The curtain had never felt so flimsy. He hastily dressed himself, and sighed. Daichi’s sweatpants were way too large. He had to wrap the strings twice around his waist to keep them up, and he was forced to roll up the ends. His tolerance hit its limit when he held up Surya’s hoodie.
“What is this?” he muttered.
From outside, Daichi called, “Did you say something?”
“Are you making fun of me?” He stormed out of the bathroom, shaking the hoodie. “I’m going to drown in this.”
His seniors were sprawled on the bed, heads lifting in sync at his dramatic entrance.
Daichi’s eyes widened. He probably found it hilarious that Akira had to hike up his pants, and that he was holding what must’ve been Surya’s largest hoodie in his fist. Or – wait, his gaze was on Akira’s bare chest, which was water-slicked and glistening.
Mortified, Akira slapped the hoodie over himself.
“You look ridiculous,” Daichi laughed, and he ignored the sting of those words.
“It’s not my fault!” he hissed. “Don’t either of you have something smaller?”
Surya gently shook his head, amused. “All my jackets are that size, and it’s too cold for anything lighter.”
“Don’t pretend to be worried about the cold. You didn’t even give me a shirt to wear under this!” But he wiggled into the hoodie, shifting through an ungodly amount of fabric before his head popped out and he could breathe again. He miserably said, “I do look ridiculous.”
“I like it,” Daichi grinned.
Surya, at least, swept to his feet to help Akira with the sleeves. Then he absently caught a wet lock of Akira’s hair, twirling it gently around his finger. He nudged him to sit at his desk and took out a hairdryer, which blasted Akira in the face the instant he plugged it in, earning watery eyes and a gasp.
While Surya worked his way carefully through Akira’s hair, his touch was indescribably soft. His fingers glanced over the nape of his neck, tangling in some locks, and Akira shivered, closing his eyes. It felt good. More than good. He ached to have a little more pressure from Surya’s hand.
“Your hair is long enough to braid,” Daichi mused.
Akira snapped out of his daze and found Daichi leaning his hip against the desk. He took in those crossed arms and that heavy, quiet gaze, and sheepishly ran his fingers through his hair.
“It’s dry enough,” he chirped, jumping up. “Dinner time!”
Surya slowly unplugged the hairdryer, grabbed his jacket, and joined them at the front door. They slipped on their shoes and pocketed their phones. Then Daichi looped one of his scarves around Surya’s head, and earned a hip-check into the wall.
Akira could be pretty oblivious about most things, but he wasn’t blind to Daichi and Surya’s closeness. Their friendship was the talk of the campus, since Daichi dominated the art department and Surya was, well, the Angel. Both were Kaoru’s stars, practically celebrities, and they preferred keeping each other’s company.
Maybe lending their clothes or couch to someone else meant very little to them, but it meant the world to him. He’d never met people who knew that he had nothing to offer, and still wanted to stay up late watching movies together. He was really lucky that they’d found him. That they were friends.
“Let’s go before I turn sixty!” Daichi towed Akira after him with mock impatience.
“No way you’ll live that long,” Surya sighed.
Daichi jabbed him in the ribs, then fled ahead of them before he earned a smack.
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