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The cafeteria was a jungle of noise—cutlery clinking, chairs scraping, the occasional teacher calling out a reminder about assignments due next week. But all of that faded into the background at Table 4, where the real battle was happening.
Per and Tar had claimed the spot like always: trays dumped haphazardly beside their drinks, phones propped up on water bottles like improvised stands, and an invisible barrier of competitive energy radiating off them like static.
“Use your ult now!” Tar barked, not even looking up from his screen.
“I did, dumbass! You ran in and got knocked out before it landed!”
“You aimed it like a blind goldfish!”
“Oh yeah? At least I’m not the one who keeps getting KO’d by bots!”
Their voices pinged across the cafeteria. Shane, sitting two tables away, slowly slid down in his seat like he wanted to melt into the floor. A nearby Year 7 flinched and dropped a fish ball. But at Table 4, none of it mattered.
Under the table, their feet tangled again. A bump, then a press. Per kicked lightly. Tar kicked back harder.
Footsie wars were sacred between them—an unspoken, constant game that neither admitted to starting or finishing. It was like their own hidden language: a love tap here, a revenge kick there. Competitive flirtation, Per called it. Tar called it kicking the annoying out of his stupid boyfriend.
“Why are you even using that character again? You suck at controlling her,” Tar scoffed as he launched another combo.
“Wow. Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Per replied, chewing on a spoonful of fried rice with zero shame. “She’s literally carrying this team.”
“You’re only winning ‘cause you keep stealing my kills!”
Per tilted his head, eyes still glued to the screen. “I thought we didn’t believe in my kills and your kills. Isn’t it our scoreboard, baby?”
Tar stopped mid-combo, gave him a slow, deadpan stare. “You don’t get to say ‘baby’ after robbing me five times in one match.”
“Six times, actually,” Per said, grinning. “And counting.”
Tar kicked his shin again. Per yelped.
A teacher shot them a warning glance from across the room. Per waved politely and smiled like a model student. Tar rolled his eyes.
“You’re gonna die alone. In a lag spike.”
“You’d still visit my grave. Probably just to scream at it.”
“Only after unplugging your charger first.”
They burst out laughing—loud, unfiltered, like the sound only people truly comfortable with each other could make. The tension between them never really lasted long. It fizzled out like soda in the sun, only to be replaced by more teasing, more affection hidden in chaos.
Per reached across and stole a sip of Tar’s lemon soda.
“Mine now,” he said, licking the straw for good measure.
“YOU GREMLIN!” Tar lunged halfway across the table to grab it back, nearly knocking over both their trays.
“Jealous I taste better than the drink?”
“Jealous I haven’t buried you alive yet.”
They settled back, still fuming, still smiling. Their phones buzzed with the next match loading. Per's hand, hidden under the table, found Tar’s knee. He tapped it twice. Tar nudged his ankle in response. And just like that, peace was briefly restored.
For a moment, the chaos died down.
“You know,” Tar said between bites of his chicken nugget, “normal couples actually talk during lunch.”
Per blinked at him. “We talk.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“Your bad aim. My superior gaming skills. And how I’m the cuter one.”
Tar snorted so hard he nearly choked on his drink. “You? Cute? You literally bit me last week because I wouldn’t give you the last chicken nugget.”
“I was showing affection,” Per said with mock innocence. “It’s called love bites.”
Tar narrowed his eyes. “It’s called being feral.”
They both paused as the game screen counted down: 3… 2… 1… FIGHT.
And just like that, they were back in sync. Arguing. Laughing. Screaming in coordinated chaos.
Anyone walking past might think they were fighting.
But everyone who knew them—really knew them—could see it plain as day: this was love.
Not the quiet, hand-holding-in-the-library kind. Not the romantic, picnic-under-the-stars kind. No, Per and Tar had the loud kind of love—the messy, competitive, electric kind that clashed and clanged but always found a rhythm.
Under the table, their feet stayed tangled.
Above the table, their voices rose in perfect dissonance.
And in the middle of it all, between the fries, the trash talk, and the stolen drinks, there was a rare kind of peace: two chaotic hearts beating in the same off-beat rhythm.