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They haven’t talked to each other for over an hour when they go to sleep, and by the time Team wakes up for good, Win has already left for his first class. Team rolls his eyes at what he assumes was a calculated move on Win’s part and knocks Win’s pillow off the bed for some petty vengeance.
He doesn’t pick it up on his way out for his own class, either.
“Morning,” Manaow says as Team sits down at the desk beside hers.
He responds with a grunt.
Pharm’s seat on his other side is still empty, so Team decides to entertain himself the best way he knows how when it’s just him and Manaow.
He leans across the aisle and pretends to watch along with her in her compact mirror as she adds a thin stroke of eyeliner. Just as she’s arcing up into a curve, he gasps.
She squeaks out his name, visibly startled, but her hand remains still as stone.
Deeply unnerved by this, he asks her, “How’d you do that?”
She purses her lips, finishes the stroke, caps the eyeliner, and then hits him in the arm with it. “You’re such a pain!” she complains. “Why would you do that?”
He says, “Bored,” and then grins. “Hey, if I’d snuck up behind you would you have jumped?”
She gives him a murderous scowl. “If you ever try, I will jam this up your nose,” she says, brandishing the eyeliner with violent intent.
Team tips his head up, inviting her to try.
She seems tempted, but they’re prevented from finding out just how far he’s pushed her when Pharm rushes in and practically throws himself into his seat, panting. Manaow and Team exchange a startled blink behind his back and quickly pat the Pharm arm nearest to them.
“I ran all the way from my car,“ Pharm manages to say, thoroughly winded. He holds his chest and coughs out a sheepish laugh.
“Why’d you run?” Team asks. He glances up at the classroom clock. “You still have two minutes.”
Pharm shakes his head at him and puts his head down on the desk so he can catch his breath. Team rubs the sweat-soaked back of his shirt while Manaow pats his hair gingerly.
Their professor turns up five minutes late, so she ends the class five minutes late as well. Every moment of it is agonizing, with Team’s mind wandering back to Win over and over throughout the lecture. He winds up paying the bare minimum amount of attention and winds up with a blank sheet of paper. Now he’s not only wasted the class, but he’s created more work for himself later.
When he whines about this to Manaow and Pharm in the hallway, Manaow says, “Just ask your boyfriend to teach it to you,” with a dismissive handwave. “If you can concentrate long enough.”
“He’s a business major,” Team says.
Pharm gives him a dubious smile. “Team, that was English.”
“Yeah,” Manaow says. “And P’Win’s fluent, isn’t he?”
Team makes the rudest noise he can through his nose. “No,” he says. “He makes mistakes all the time. He just has a good accent.”
“How would you know if he makes mistakes?” Manaow laughs. “You can barely say ’good morning’ in English.” She shoves his arm and barely moves him, so he raises his eyebrow at the attempt.
“’Good morning’,” he says, flat and carefully enunciated.
Manaow stops in the middle of the hallway and snags Team’s bicep with worrying strength. “Wait,” she says, her eyes steely. “Are you two fighting?”
Team frowns with puzzlement at her hand on his arm, then aims a more vexed version at her. “What’s it matter to you?” he demands. “Let go.”
Pharm turns around and walks back the few steps he’d gotten without them. “You’re fighting with P’Win?” he asks.
Team jiggles his arm with experimental curiosity and finds Manaow still attached like a determined lobster.
“No,” Team lies.
Manaow points at his nose, rises onto her toes, and leans in until he’s genuinely concerned about her intentions.
Then she says, “You’re a liar.”
Team sighs in her face and walks around her to get to his next class. Even though she’s still hanging onto his sleeve and whining at him, he manages to pretend she’s become a wisp of air.
•
He knew his first class went poorly when he failed to take any notes, but he’s even more concerned about the state of his brain when he walks out of the second class wondering what the subject even was.
In the canteen, Manaow sees Del and peels off from them without so much as a goodbye, leaving Team at least slightly more relaxed about getting interrogated.
Until—
“Team,” Pharm says. “Did you sleep at all?”
Team says, “Not really,” before he remembers that he can lie about that kind of thing. His body aches all over. Normally it only does that when he falls asleep on Win’s arm, but Win kept his hands to himself last night. Team rolls his head back until the tension between his vertebrae releases with a pop. “I’m breaking up with him,” he grouses.
Pharm grabs his arm, mouth open. ”What?“
Team blinks at this second lobster claw that’s adhered to his arm today. “What?” he asks, mid-yawn.
“Are you really?” Pharm asks. His face is at least two shades paler then it should be.
Team says, “Am I what?”
“Breaking up with P’Win!”
Team frowns. “When did I say that?”
”Just now!”
“Oh.” Team picks at Pharm’s fingers. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just mad at him.”
Pharm squeezes harder, and—damn, all that whisking has made his grip strength frighteningly dangerous. “Team,” Pharm says. “Tell me what happened.”
Team says, “Ow,” with a sullen whine, giving Pharm his most defeated pout until Pharm releases him.
“Because, look, he’s not here,” Pharm says, pointing to their usual table.
Sure enough, when Team looks, he sees Dean, Del, and Manaow, but the seat where Win usually sits at the end is empty. No tray or backpack, either.
Team says, “He’ll show,” and heads over to take his own seat.
•
Twenty minutes later, he’s a third of the way through his lunch and Win still hasn’t showed up. No one has commented on it, either, but Pharm keeps glancing at Team and then at the empty space beside him with worry transparent in his eyes.
Team yawns against his wrist and contemplates the rest of his lunch with annoyance. He should’ve gotten soup too, but he didn’t think of it. He usually just eats whatever’s left of Win’s.
“Team,” Dean says.
Sitting up higher, Team says, “Yes, Phi?”
Dean’s tray has been cleared except for a crinkled white wrapper that once held a delicious homemade treat sitting alone in the center. Dean himself has folded his arms on the table and has focused all of his attention on Team.
“Are you coming to afternoon practice today?” he asks.
Team tries to stifle how creeped out he is that Dean might be able to tell when he’s thinking about skipping practices.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. He throws in an, “Of course,” for good measure.
Dean nods, and that seems to be all he wanted. He even starts to turn to speak to Del next, but before he can stop his mouth, Team asks, “Is Hia Win going?”
Dean’s eyes narrow at him, and Team realizes this was a setup and he fell for it.
“That’s a good question,” Dean says. “You should ask him.”
The rest of the table give Team varying degrees of a sympathetic wince. It’s never fun to be in the path of Dean’s cold front.
Team’s not about to ask where Win is and give away that he has no idea, so he just nods and returns to finishing his lunch in meek silence.
•
His final class of the day isn’t for another hour, so he walks to the library with Mew instead. He opens his books on the table for show and then props his elbows on the open pages while he texts Win.
[I’m still mad at you,] he writes. He considers it, decides it’s accurate, and stabs the send button.
Sometimes his boyfriend is obnoxious. Sometimes Team lets off too much steam too fast. Sometimes they argue. Sometimes it’s Team’s fault. This time, it’s Win’s.
The longer Team sits here, though, jogging his foot up and down under the table and not getting a response, not even getting a ‘read’—the more Team wonders if Win thinks otherwise.
When it’s time to leave for his last class, Team packs away his books and claps Mew on the shoulder on his way out.
He actively looks for and fails to find a flash of blond as he walks the distance between the library and the economics building.
He tells himself he wasn’t really trying.
•
After his final class, Team takes a shortcut to the pool through the business management building.
His definition of “shortcut” today is…flexible.
He realizes halfway through his casual search of the third floor, however, that Win only had two classes today and if he’s anywhere on campus, he’s probably already at the pool setting up for practice.
Cursing under his breath, Team retraces his steps out of the shortcut.
He shoves against the door to the pool mid-run and the burst of chlorine and echoing voices welcomes him home. A single sweep of the faces present confirms that Win isn’t among them, so Team strides past everyone and goes directly into the locker room.
Where he finds Dean. Alone.
Shit.
“Uh,” Team says. “Hi, Phi.” He adds a quick wai.
Dean turns in his chair and makes his eyebrows do the scary Stern President of the Swim Club thing.
Team shrinks a little.
Dean links his fingers together, one elbow on the back of his chair, one on the desk. He’s the very image of a disappointed professor who has the power to fail his student with the press of a button.
“I don’t want to get in between you and Win,” Dean says.
I would also enjoy that, Team doesn’t say.
“But,” Dean adds, tone solemn, “Win left campus after our last class, and he wouldn’t tell me why, and I think you have something to do with it.“
“Why me?” Team asks.
Dean stares at him for five seconds, then tilts his head three degrees to the left.
Okay, that’s fair, Team thinks.
“I don’t have anything against you two dating,” Dean says. “I’d just appreciate it if you could put aside your personal problems and attend practice on time.”
Team nods, but although he tries to keep quiet, he can’t help pointing out, “But, Phi…I’m not the one who skipped.”
Dean says, “I know,” and stands up. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He nods over Team’s shoulder.
Ice travels up Team’s spine, and suddenly he can feel the third presence in the room. He very deliberately doesn’t turn around. Not while Dean’s here.
“I went back for a nap,” Win says. “Behead me.”
Dean snorts and snags his timer off the desk. “I’m giving you two five minutes to sort out your issues, and then I want you outside. Got it?” He points the timer at Win, who must do something in the affirmative, because Dean then pins Team with his stern eyes.
“Got it,” Team says.
When Dean passes him, Team watches him go and uses that as an excuse to peer over his own shoulder at Win.
Team last saw Win’s face around five in the morning, deep in sleep, and the sight of it made Team so annoyed and jealous he turned his back, and now it’s four in the afternoon. Thirteen hours.
Win’s already changed for practice, the sleeves of his jersey pushed up his forearms, which he’s folded across his chest in a display of deliberate nonchalance that doesn’t fool Team at all.
Team inhales, building steam.
The salient points of their argument have since scattered across Team’s mind like bits of refuse on a beach, and as Team locks eyes with Win he starts to collect them: the thing about Team’s disorganized study habits; the thing about Win constantly distracting him from his games; the thing about Win agreeing to assist his department with an event this weekend and leaving him no time to spend with Team.
Picked up like this, piece by piece, Team realizes how small they are.
And how little he cares now.
And how he barely slept because Win was next to him but kept from him all night.
And how poorly he functions when he knows things are sour between them.
Win says, “Team—” and nothing more after that, because Team closes the space between them and drops his forehead on Win’s shoulder.
Team breathes deep.
“Sorry,” he says.
Team feels and hears Win inhale, but Win doesn’t try to speak again. Instead, Win rests one arm on the small of Team’s back and wraps the other arm around Team’s neck, enfolding him and holding him.
Team hesitates, wondering if Win will tease him for the impulse he’s resisting. He decides Win won’t—probably—so he takes a chance and kisses Win’s neck.
Win absorbs it silently, motionless, and then whispers, “I couldn’t sleep last night either. I just had my eyes closed while you were moving around.”
Tension vanishes from Team’s shoulders as he hooks his arms around Win’s back. He sighs, “I’m so tired,” against Win’s shoulder and trusts Win to hold him up if his energy drops much lower.
Win’s presence alone is making Team feel drowsy.
Win splays his fingers through Team’s hair and massages his scalp in slow circles. “If I make up a lie to tell Dean about why we bailed, you’ll back me up, right?”
He seems to mean it, but Team still draws back just enough so he can get visual confirmation.
No one’s there to see Team smile up at him or hear him say, “Sure.”
•
Win closes the curtains.
Team plugs in their phones.
Win tugs Team’s shirt off.
Team pulls Win’s arm around him.
“We’re going to wake up at two in the morning,” Win sighs.
“We can do stuff until we’re tired again,” Team says, shoving his face against Win’s chest. “Mm, you’re warm.”
Win draws the duvet over Team’s shoulder and tugs him more snugly into his arms. “Define ‘stuff’ for me, please,” Win says.
“I’m sleeping,” Team says.
“Pretty sure it doesn’t mean that.”
“I. Am. Sleeping,” Team says in forcefully enunciated English.
Win makes a faint noise of amusement in the back of his throat, but despite his claim to have napped earlier, he doesn’t sound much better off than Team.
“G’night, hia,” Team yawns.
“The sun’s still up,” Win says wryly. Then, quieter, ”I missed you, brat.”
Team considers saying something clever to that, but he’s mired in a rush of affection so strong he can’t think of anything aside from, “‘m always here,” because it’s true.
Inside a moment, Win exhales unsteadily against Team’s hair, and Team smiles and savors the peaceful certainty of sleep held tight in Win’s arms.