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There's a corner of the library that Barou Shouei has staked a claim on. It's an informal one, but that unspoken rule carries indisputable weight when an naive drifter searching for their first study spot two months into the damned semester happens to meet Barou's eyes and realizes, "ah, not that one."
Barou is set on this particular spot for good reason. It's close to the windows, but set back in a far enough corner that he's never too close to anybody else. The large table is accompanied by one of the scant few chairs that have cushioning in the back. As a university athlete, he's well aware that he needs more room, too. Good view over campus, close to the ceiling vent, spacious and private; what more could he ask for? He's not the kind of guy who would rent one of the private rooms regularly. They're always either cramped spaces with shitty chairs, or entire rooms that would be better suited for a club or a group project meeting.
But along with his third-floor spot, comes a few things Barou Shouei cannot stand about the library. Namely, it's occupants. The section he's claimed is a part of a silent hall. No talking, no phones; yet it somehow always manages to carry a low murmur consisting of grating whispers, obnoxious chewing, or both.
Filthy assholes leave crumbs from their dining hall lunch, or never learn how to shut the fuck up and read a sign. Barou's studying is more important than any useless gossip whatever first-year student needs to spill. It's beyond disrespectful, of course, to break library rules and disrupt everybody's hard work as well. This, Barou does not tolerate. Making the cleaners jobs harder? Distracting commuter students?
But of course, somebody has to break every morsel of patience Barou has. Somebody always does.
"Oh," the red-head in front of him wipes his mouth with his thumb. "Hey, are you looking for a university card? I found one left here—"
"You're in my seat."
"… Hm?" He tilts his head, so his hair falls over his shoulders. It's well-taken care of, which Barou can respect. Too bad he's making a terrible impression. "Didn't realize we did assigned seating in University. I didn't see your stuff here, anyhow."
"You're eating."
"So what?"
"So— fucking cut it out!" A few students peer over their textbooks and laptops to stare at them, but Barou doesn't give enough of a shit to yell at them to stop. "It's obnoxious! And you're in my seat, so get up!"
"What, you think you can intimidate me into leaving? How about you find another seat?" He rolls his eyes. Before Barou can retort, he continues. "Y'know, I know a ton of guys like you. Rarely ever have the balls in the end."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, you're being a dick."
"Wouldn't have to be one, if you kept your shitty lunch relegated to the dining hall."
One of the students coughs. As if to prove a point, the guy in front of him stares him down as he spoons another mouthful of kimchi into his mouth.
Disgusted, he reels back from the sour scent. "You're disgusting. You better clean that when you're done." He receives only an eye-roll in return before he decides to just leave it alone. He's not about to actually wrestle for the damned chair. He'll just settle for another seat, and deal with being uncomfortable.
As he walks away, he hears a mutter of something. He ignores it.
Barou hates to linger on an event. He thinks of himself as a person who's self-motivated, entirely independent of whatever happened in the past. People who bother him don't stick around his his mind, squished and forgotten like helpless gnats because Barou has an actual life to live. He's not petty; if they don't matter, then they don't matter. He doesn't see the point in reminding himself about the assholes he encounters in everyday life. He's self-aware. He knows he's easy to anger, so why dredge up all of those memories over and over again? All it does is illicit uncontrollable frustration. Who gives a shit if a clumsy barista spilled his drink? So long as it gets cleaned up, the floor shouldn't be sticky anymore. Then, it's fine.
He loathes not knowing if his favorite table is going to reek of fish sauce tomorrow.
Miraculously, Barou encounters the red-haired man again a week later. There's a twinge in his gut when he realizes he remembers his face. He's working as a cashier at his favorite campus cafe. He doesn't come by often, as his diet for football doesn't often spare him time for sugar-rich lattes or carb-filled pastries, but occasionally he'll squeeze in a treat so he doesn't go verifiably insane. Barou likes eating good food, despite his strict adherence to treating his body with the utmost dedication.
He's wearing their blue uniform apron, which complements his shiny, braided red hair. That's about where his compliments begin and end, because he's lazily leaning on his elbow and yawning as the person in front of him prattles off his order. Again, the sheer disrespect he eludes for the people around him is astounding. He doubts he even got their order right.
"Ha ha," the man— Chigiri, as his name tag informs him— laughs humorlessly. "Nice to see you again. What can I get you?"
Barou tells him his order and name directly, then watches as Chigiri puts something in. He can't see whatever it is, but he knows the price is wrong as soon as he opens his mouth to let him know.
"That's not what I ordered."
"No?" He asks. "I see a latte with oat milk, medium, hot?"
"… Yes," he says. "That can't be the price."
"Ah." The line behind him is getting impatient, from the way the foot-tapping is starting to get louder. "Sure. Cheaper, right? Don't worry about it."
His nostrils flare. There's a massive chance he's wasting money on an entirely different drink than what he wants. All because a cheeky cashier feels like fucking with him.
As if reading his mind, Chigiri repeats himself as says, "Don't worry about it," as Barou pays for the drink anyways. He leans in when it goes through, and before Barou can read the receipt Chigiri leans in to add, "And relax— I'll make it personally," with a stupid little customer-service smile.
When he gets his latte, it's up-sized and decidedly the best one he's ever had from the place.
He stops thinking about him, pretty red hair and all. Barou doesn't linger on these things, after all, so it isn't difficult to immerse himself back into his tight schedule of class, studying, practice, and cleaning. He picks up a volunteer shift for one of the outdoor university events, helping set up tabling and handing out complimentary t-shirts and free water bottles. It's a bright day, the beginning of true summer etching across the sky as rain clouds become sparser every week. It's a good sign that student engagement is going to be high for the event, as the still-blooming peonies seem to think it's not too hot for them yet.
Students come crawling at the promise of free food and clothing, as they always do. Usually freshmen who have yet to find themselves too busy for extra, extra-curricular appearances. Barou takes great pleasure in snapping his fingers and shouting at them when they try to litter, carelessly flinging plastic bottles and empty paper cups onto the stones behind them or ignoring them as they leave without picking up. Yet as he turns to glare at a hapless student about to do just that, a flash of red picks up the trash.
"Should've known you'd micro-manage events, too," Chigiri says. His hair is tied up in a ponytail, so Barou can see the pale expanse of his neck when he tilts his head to the side in— not mirth—
"Wouldn't have to micro-manage if donkeys like him—" he gestures to the kid with an accusatory finger. "—didn't feel the need to pretend that a trash can wasn't a step away."
"Easy now." Chigiri finger wags at him. Then, he dangles the paper cup between two, nimble fingers. "I've got it. See? You can even watch as I place it in the trash."
Barou fumes at his laissez-faire approach to a situation that didn't even call for it. Idiot first years should be held accountable for their equally idiotic actions. All that besides, Chigiri isn't a volunteer; he shouldn't have to clean up anybody's mess. The thought has him furrowing his eyebrows and watching nonetheless as the trash is put in it's proper place.
A tilted feeling of respect nestles in his chest as a flame he wants so badly to tamp out with the smack of a washcloth.
"Good luck tormenting the rest of the first years, Barou!" Chigiri tells him before bounding off into the crowd, leaving him to mull over his thoughts.
What a condescending brat.
He comes to expect another incidental meeting in the days to come. His room mate even catches on, despite his perpetual absence from their apartment. That was part of the reason why he chose him— too busy with interpersonal nonsense to get in Barou's way, and not so vain as to clutter up his personal space with filth or useless shit like video games or figurines. Nevertheless, he's equally obnoxious as the company he keeps.
"You've been out more," Karasu points out to him, early in the evening on a nondescript Thursday. "Another club? I thought you were done for the week."
Casting him a careful glance, he says, "volunteering."
"Right, right." Karasu nods as though Barou had told him his plans beforehand. "Spare some opportunities for the rest of us peasants, yeah? Some of us would like to build a decent resume.."
"Then don't procrastinate," he says. "Not my problem you miss opportunities."
"Just sayin', you seem to be more keen on findin' them then most people. Do you ever sleep?"
"Not your business," says Barou. Ever the nosy crow, eyeing him like what he does is a personal issue. The thing about Karasu is that for somebody as kept as him, he's got a way of searching for meaning where there is none.
Karasu sighs, back falling against their couch. He's lounging comfortably in plain house pants, thankfully not snacking on anything that leaves crumbs. Mindful, but he'd have you believe he isn't. He always takes the blame whenever his shitty pastel boyfriend comes over and doesn't clean up the messes he makes; Barou sees right through that act.
"Listen, I'm gonna be gone for the weekend," Karasu tells him before Barou can reach for the door. "So you've got the apartment entirely— do with it what you will." He doesn't let his face betray his thoughts, but Barou knows that means he's going to his nasty boyfriend's place. And whatever they do, he cringes just thinking about.
"I always do what I want," he says, snide. "If you leave any dishes before you go, I'm kicking you out."
"Wouldn't have it any other way!"
Chigiri's not there this time. He wants to punch himself in the face when the resounding emotional conclusion is a pathetic lump of disappointment in his gut. What gives him the right to feel this way? He hardly knows him; if he really wanted, he could go back to the cafe to see him. He isn't so desperate as to track his work schedule though, nor is he willing to sacrifice his carefully crafted diet for…. This. Except.
He's not at the next event, either. Every flash of red hair gives him false hope.
Or the next. He wasn't expecting him to attend an ice cream social anyway.
The week passes him by, and he finds himself at the gym for the entire blessed weekend his roommate spends with his boyfriend. He's not granted his usual satisfaction, and that means he's got a problem. What the Hell is he supposed to do with that? A man he's seen maybe twice, ruining his rhythm and disrupting his private, intimate time at the university gym. Nevertheless, he continues to sign up for volunteer opportunities between practices. His classes rearing towards the end of the semester are starting to keep him busy, but his brain is running away from him. When Karasu asks him what he's gotten up to, he doesn't have an answer for him.
He studies at the library, and throws everything into his future.
He spots Chigiri before he even sits down in the auditorium.
His red hair is difficult to miss even in the darkest of rooms. The warm lighting of the lecture hall paints the stage a mirage of sunset hues, complementing him. He's sat center left, wearing one of the physical therapy student shirts marking him as a participant in the lecture. Despite Barou not looking for him in the crowd of his volunteer events, it makes sense that the one time he's found him unintentionally is the one event where their positions are reversed.
Barou, as a pre-med student, tries to attend whatever health and medical lectures that he can. This way, he can more thoroughly trample his peers and gain helpful insight into various medical fields. Attending Dr. Snuffy's guest lecture was an obvious decision for him. He can't show up to every guest speaker event, but he's an avid reader of Dr. Snuffy's published journals.
He sits in the first row.
Chigiri spots him, and smiles briefly before wagging his fingers at him. It's cheeky gesture, in that way Barou has come to know and recognize him. He wouldn't have guessed Chigiri to take interest in this field— he'd assumed he was the humanities sort, or even a psychology student with the way he's wormed his way into his mind.
Dr. Snuffy spends most of the time talking about the importance of mental and physical health's balance, their proximity to each other and how that forms part of the dynamic between a patient and their therapist. Chigiri's eyes don't stray from him, fully enraptured by the lecture just as Barou is. Eventually, Dr. Snuffy reveals the reason why he has student guests at all. He hands his microphone over to a student in a wheelchair, and they have a conversation about accessibility at the university. When Chigiri is handed the microphone, Barou's left wondering why.
"I don't think an ACL tear is the rarest injury in the world," he says. "But, you know, it really changed how I interacted with the world around me. I think I hated physical therapy, or at least the idea of it.
"The place I went to— lots of older people. So it didn't feel right for me. But my parents insisted I kept going anyway. I especially hated the feeling of people watching me struggle and sweat, feeling like I accomplished something and then leaving only to realize that I still couldn't play soccer."
There's a twinge of sympathy, realization sluicing over him. He knows where a story like this ends.
Barou doesn't live in the past— but he often finds himself stuck in the future, swimming in hypotheticals for motivation, that extra push to keep moving when he feels hopeless. It's not something he loves admitting, but fear can keep him on track. It's every athlete's worst nightmare to think about a sudden, violent halt to their career due to factors outside of their control.
And control is what it's all about.
"I had to leave the team when I wasn't healing the way I was supposed to," Chigiri continues. "Really, that was my fault. I started pushing my body too far and too fast, because I was terrified of falling behind and not going to nationals. I'm lucky I can walk without an aid.
"As much as it sucked, I can't say that I hate it all. I've found some real, genuine community that I wouldn't have otherwise."
This is where Dr. Snuffy cuts in, and he and Chigiri have a short back and forth about what the continued recovery process looked like. Chigiri admits he only went to a counselor months later, when his parents realized how he was struggling socially because of the change. It's all too easy to imagine a younger Chigiri, frustrated and upset because he's stuck sitting on a bench watching a losing game, knowing he can't do anything to help.
The rest of the seminar goes by quickly, falling into the more STEM and research based conversation that he was expecting. Still, it's Chigiri's short story that he rolls around inside his brain on repeat.
Chigiri finds him when the lecture ends and the mingling Q&A begins.
"Didn't expect to see you here." He has to speak up because of the noise of chatting students and eager professors, but talking to him like this still feels intimate. "What'd you think?"
"I've read a lot of Dr. Snuffy's work," he says. "… I wasn't expecting to hear from you, too."
Chigiri shakes his head. "I wouldn't expect me either, but here we are. Are you pre-med? I haven't seen you at any of the student meetings."
"More interested in Chemistry."
"Really?" Chigiri's eyes blow wide open with surprise. "Wouldn't have guessed. Hey, isn't it busy being a soccer player and all?"
"Didn't think you'd be interested in watching our games, all things considered."
Chigiri waves him off. "Somebody's gotta keep an eye out for you freaks of nature when your shins get busted. Then you'd be grateful!"
That shocks a laugh out of him.
"Oh, you like dark humor?" He says. "It's a wonder I could make you laugh. I kinda thought all you did was skulk around campus and yell about crumbs."
"I'm not fucking delusional," says Barou. "Stupid fucking first years have no respect for their environment."
"You sound like my grandmother."
"You sound like an edgy teenager!"
Chigiri laughs and laughs at him, gaining some unwanted attention from the student body around them. Once again, everybody's got to be nosy as shit when the two of them are out in public. He's never cared for being ogled at. Chigiri's eyes flit around the room briefly, before they land right back on him.
"You wanna get out of here?" Chigiri nods to the doorway. If Barou accepts this, he's acquiescing to spending more time with the man in front of him. He's not naive, and he's certainly not blind. Chigiri is… attractive. He'll bite. Judging by the way Chigiri's been staring at his own biceps, he'd say the feeling is reciprocated.
"Yeah," he says, apprehensive. It feels like the right answer when Chigiri leans in closer to him, as if he were going to grab his hand. Barou moves out of the way too fast for that. Would his hand be soft, or manicured? The thought pops into his mind, unwanted. He takes good care of his hair. It's not hard to imagine Chigiri takes good care of everything else, too. Unblemished skin, rosy cheeks and clear eyes.
Chigiri nudges ahead of him on the way out, nimble while avoiding knocking into anybody else.
He wants to ask Chigiri a million questions about himself, and isn't that new? He can't recall the last time he gave enough of a shit about anybody else to ponder over their skincare regimen, their nightly routine; their cleaning products, how they lived their lives. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat themselves, beyond how they treat others. Barou likes people with enough self respect to listen to their body's needs.
It matters.
"I liked your speech," Barou tells him as soon as they've exited the auditorium. Chigiri looks bemused.
"Well, I'm glad," he says. "I didn't really share everything, though. It's hard to put experiences like that into words."
"Are you going to be a physical therapist?"
"Yeah," says Chigiri. "And I like the way you said that so certainly. What if I had a terrible GPA? You wouldn't know."
"I doubt it."
"Hm," he says. "You'd be right. Well, what about you?"
Barou squares his shoulders. "I'm going professional."
"Should've guessed that. I've seen you play, so— checks out. Why bother with Chemistry?"
"I like it. Listen the first time, and I won't have to tell you twice." Chigiri shoves him in the arm for that, unexpected enough to make him stumble right out of the exit.
The walkway out reveals a glimmering night, light cast by rows of street lamps to illuminate their way back to the center of campus. The warmth hugs his skin immediately, though not humid enough to make his skin feel sticky. Regardless, Chigiri tucks himself close to his side as if it were cold.
"Hey." Chigiri nudges him again. "Not sure if I'm reading this wrong, so push me if I'm being too forward."
He rocks back, then close again on the tips of his toes. Barou only sees a flash of his brilliant, bright eyes before a hand cups his face and soft lips meet his own, just briefly. It ends before it even gets started, but his heart beat falters anyway.
"Guess not?"
"… Guess not."
He figures he can deal with the heart palpitations, if it means he gets to keep Chigiri around.