The final lecture of the day felt like an eternity. Dhatri sat in the back of the hall, his knee bouncing restlessly. He wasn't thinking about the musculoskeletal diagrams on the projector; he was focused on the two-hour basketball intensive starting at four. As a star recruit for the university’s freshman representative team, the pressure was already mounting for the inter-varsity tournament in two months.
"Lunch was a mistake," Dhatri muttered, feeling the heavy grease of a double-patty burger and a liter of sugary soda sitting like a brick in his gut.
He wiped a hand across his forehead, feeling the grit of salt and oil. His skin was flaring up, a bright red breakout creeping along his jawline from a week of neglected hygiene and a diet of convenience. To Dhatri, caring about "nutrition" or "macros" was for the weak—real men just ate until they were full.
"You alright, bro?" Kael asked, noticing Dhatri’s glazed-over expression. "You look a bit grey."
"Just the heat," Dhatri lied, shifting his weight. "And that freak in my room. Thinking about him makes me nauseous."
"Don't let a little flower boy ruin your game," Kael laughed, gathering his gear as the professor signaled the end of the session. "Save that energy for the court. We need you hitting those three-pointers, not worrying about whatever perfume your roommate is spraying."
Dhatri stood up, his joints popping with a dull ache. He felt sluggish, his body protesting the lack of proper fuel and the dehydration from last night’s bender. He ignored the stinging itch on his cheek—probably a cyst forming—and shoved his way out of the lecture hall.
He had to be the best. He had to be the fastest. He had to prove that his way—the loud, messy, "alpha" way—was the only way that mattered. As he headed toward the gym, he spat on the grass, trying to wash the metallic taste of the soda out of his mouth, unaware that his "dignity" was already starting to show its cracks.
The basketball court was a blur of squeaking sneakers and heavy breathing. Dhatri pushed himself until his lungs burned, crashing through screens and driving to the hoop with a raw, unrefined aggression. He was good—one of the best in the freshman crop—but he felt sluggish, his movements lacking the sharp precision of a true athlete. In his head, he just needed to lift more, run more, and shout louder.
By the time he trudged back to the dormitory, his muscles were screaming and his head was pounding with a dull, rhythmic throb. He expected the familiar gloom of a messy room, the kind of lived-in chaos he’d shared with his bros back in high school.
Instead, he pushed the door open to a space that felt disturbingly serene. The overhead fluorescent light was off, replaced by a warm, indirect glow that illuminated the room without stinging his tired eyes. The air was cool and lacked the usual humid funk of a men’s dorm.
Dhatri scoffed, dropping his sweat-soaked gym bag with a heavy thud. "What is this? A spa?"
Leutik was sitting perfectly upright on his satin-covered bed, his legs stretched out in front of him. A pair of thin, silver-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, catching the light and giving him an air of cold, intellectual arrogance. He didn't even look up from the thick scientific journal in his lap at first.
"You’re late," Leutik said, his voice as calm as a steady heartbeat. He finally looked over, his gaze sweeping over Dhatri’s flushed, sweaty face and the visible grime on his jersey.
Dhatri bristled, opening his mouth to snap a retort, but Leutik pointed a slim finger toward the small desk.
"There is salmon, brown rice, and steamed greens in the containers," Leutik stated, his tone clinical. "I made extra in the communal kitchen. It’s balanced for muscle recovery. Eat it while it’s still warm."
Dhatri jolted, his heart skipping a beat in a weird mix of confusion and irritation. A homemade dinner? From *him*?
"I don't eat bird food," Dhatri spat, though the smell of the seasoned fish was making his mouth water painfully. He felt cornered by the gesture, his homophobic defense mechanisms flaring up at the thought of accepting anything from a guy who looked like a girl. "Keep your charity, Biochem. I’m not interested in whatever 'science' you put in there."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel and stormed toward the bathroom, slamming the door to hide the fact that his hands were shaking from exhaustion—and the unsettling realization that Leutik had been waiting for him.
Leutik watched the bathroom door vibrate from the impact of the slam. He didn't flinch. His intention wasn't sentimental; as a scientist, he simply viewed Dhatri as an inefficient machine—overheated, poorly fueled, and prone to systemic failure. If his roommate wanted to let a perfectly balanced meal go cold out of some misplaced sense of tribal "alpha" pride, that was a variable Leutik couldn't control.
He turned a page in his journal, his expression returning to its natural state of clinical indifference. If Dhatri wanted to starve on principle, Leutik wouldn't waste the breath to argue.
Inside the bathroom, Dhatri stripped off his sweat-soaked jersey with a grunt of pain. His muscles were tight, and the steam from the shower began to cloud the small space. He reached for the communal soap dish, but his hand hit a sleek, frosted glass bottle instead.
Leutik had replaced the generic, drying bar soap with a high-end body wash that smelled faintly of sandalwood and sea salt.
"Stuck-up brat," Dhatri muttered, his vision blurry with exhaustion.
He didn't care about the scent. He didn't care that the bottle looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel. He pumped a massive glob of the pearl-colored liquid into his palm, lathering his chest with aggressive, jerky movements. He was halfway through scrubbing his hair with the same soap when he caught sight of another bottle on the ledge.
It was a heavy, dark glass container with a minimalist label and a price tag that made his eyes widen even through the stinging suds. It was Leutik’s specialty shampoo.
A spiteful grin touched Dhatri’s lips. *You want to bring your expensive, pampered lifestyle into my room? Fine. I’ll use every last drop.*
He didn't care if it was "girlish." He didn't care if his gym bros would crucify him for using a product that cost more than his basketball shoes. In his exhausted, spite-driven mind, using Leutik’s things was a way to win. It was a way to take something back from the boy who made him feel so constantly on edge.
He rinsed the expensive foam down the drain, the rich lather stripping away the grime of the court and the scent of the bar. For a moment, the heavy fatigue in his limbs seemed to lighten, the premium ingredients cooling his inflamed skin. But as he stepped out of the stall, wrapping a towel around his waist, he refused to admit it felt good. He was just "reclaiming" the space, one stolen pump of expensive soap at a time.
The bathroom door creaked open, emitting a cloud of expensive, sandalwood-scented steam. Dhatri stepped out, scrubbed raw and smelling like a luxury boutique instead of a gym locker. He was ready to throw a sharp comment Leutik's way—something about his "girly" soap—but the room was silent.
Leutik was already curled up on his side of the room, his back turned toward Dhatri. He looked small under the charcoal satin sheets, his breathing steady and shallow. He hadn't waited up. He hadn't even looked to see if Dhatri had used his products.
Dhatri’s eyes drifted to the desk. The meal was still there, neatly covered with a lid to trap the heat. A small post-it note was stuck to the side: *Eat. Your glycogen levels are depleted.*
His stomach let out a treacherous, high-pitched growl that echoed in the quiet room. Dhatri scowled, his pride warring with a hunger so sharp it felt like a physical aches.
"Whatever," Dhatri hissed under his breath, stomping over to the desk. "You think you're so smart? Fine. I’ll eat your rabbit food. I’ll drain your bank account one meal at a time."
He shoved a forkful of the salmon into his mouth, expecting it to taste like the bland, steamed cardboard his mom used to make. Instead, the flavors hit his tongue with a precision that made his eyes widen. It was seasoned perfectly—savory, rich, and light.
He ate aggressively, shoving the brown rice and greens into his mouth as if he were winning a fight.
"Yeah, get that," Dhatri muttered through a mouthful of salmon, glancing at Leutik’s sleeping form. "I used your soap. I used that overpriced shampoo. And now I’m eating your dinner. I’m taking everything, you little freak. Who’s the boss now?"
He finished the entire container in minutes, licking the fork clean. He felt a weird, unfamiliar surge of energy—a clean fuel that didn't leave him feeling heavy or bloated. But as he crawled into his own messy bed, smelling the scent of Leutik’s shampoo on his own skin, the "victory" felt strangely intimate.
He closed his eyes, his muscles finally relaxing, refusing to acknowledge the fact that for the first time in weeks, his skin didn't itch and his stomach didn't hurt.
ns216.73.216.116da2
and then Add to home screen.