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Diesel isn't someone who frequents the library for pleasure; he’s usually only there when his faculty assignments force him to write endless essays. He was in the middle of a crisis, tapping his pen against his laptop and furrowing his brow, when he saw Day.
Day was standing in front of a table organizing the books he had picked out. It wasn't just that he was incredibly attractive —tall, with a sharp jawline and large hands— but the calm he emanated was drawing.
Diesel, impulsive as ever, slammed his laptop shut, making a noise that earned him annoyed glares from the others. Totally indifferent to them, he gathered his things and walked straight toward him. He didn’t have a plan; he just knew he needed to find out who this guy was, the one who seemed to be in control of his own universe.
Diesel brushed past him and «accidentally» knocked the neatly stacked books on the table with his backpack.
Day didn't even flinch; he looked at his books and then looked at Diesel with a small smile.
"You seem to be in a hurry."
Diesel was speechless for a moment at the casual response. He expected a startled apology, an insult, or an annoyed sigh.
"The table is in the middle of the way. You should watch where you put your things if you don’t want people walking into them," Diesel snapped, arching an eyebrow. His eyes swept over Day from top to bottom, lingering a second longer than necessary on his hands, which were now calmly reordering the books.
Day let out a light laugh.
"The table has been here since the university was founded; I doubt it moved just to get in your way today," Day replied. "But I accept the advice. I'll be more careful."
Diesel felt a sudden heat rush up to his ears.
"How considerate of you," Diesel spat with sarcasm, then peered brazenly over the pile Day had finished aligning. "You have a lot of books there. Are you studying meditation strategies or something to help you sleep?"
Diesel was only asking to fish for information to find out which faculty he belonged to.
Day looked down at the spines of the books and then fixed his gaze back on Diesel. He didn't seem offended; on the contrary, his eyes sparkled with a spark of amused curiosity.
"Editing theory and color theory, among other topics," Day tilted his head slightly. "I study Cinema."
Diesel felt a spark of satisfaction settling in his chest. Cinema. So the guy with the big hands and the pretty face spent his time observing the world through a lens.
"Cinema..." Diesel repeated, dragging out the syllables with a feigned disdain that didn't reach his eyes. "How useful. I guess someone has to make sure the popcorn makes sense."
Day remained unfazed, looking at him with amusement.
"Whatever. Get back to your things, «director»," Diesel said, turning around with a sharp movement that caused his backpack to hit the table again, this time genuinely by accident.
He walked toward the exit with a stiff back, feeling Day’s gaze fixed on his spine. He didn't turn around, but as he crossed the library threshold and the fresh afternoon air hit his face, Diesel finally allowed himself to reveal the smile he had been hiding.
He already knew who he was. And more importantly: he already knew where to find him.
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During the following week, Diesel looked for excuses to show up at Day’s faculty...
Diesel found out that Day’s class had an open screening of experimental short films in the faculty auditorium. He sat in the last row, arms crossed.
Day’s work was the last one. The screen projected abstract images, plays of light and shadow that Day, focused, supervised with attention. Diesel didn’t understand half of what he saw, but he couldn’t stop looking at Day’s silhouette; he looked damn comfortable in his element.
When the lights came on and the students present began to leave, Diesel waited; he watched as Day went up on stage to start disconnecting cables and packing up equipment.
Diesel stood up. His shoes echoed against the wood of the auditorium stairs. He stopped as he stepped onto the stage, a few meters from Day.
"Too much blue," he blurted out, projecting his voice with the confidence of someone who believes they hold the absolute truth.
Day, who was crouching down coiling a cable, didn't flinch. He took a few seconds to finish securing the cable before looking up. His eyes met Diesel’s, and a spark of amused recognition crossed his face.
"Excuse me?" Day asked, though he knew perfectly well what he was referring to.
"The rain scene with the guy with the dark circles... it was pretentious. It looked like you were trying to scream «look at me, I'm sad»."
Day stood up slowly, taking advantage of every inch of his height. He hung a couple of cables over his shoulder and took a step toward Diesel. He looked him over, from the tips of his shoes to his furrowed brow, and smiled calmly.
"It's melancholy," he corrected softly. "But if it seemed pretentious to you..." Day tilted his head. "Maybe it's because you identified with it. Sometimes we project into art what we don't want to admit about ourselves."
Diesel felt his blood boil. He opened his mouth, chest puffing out with a biting retort about pop psychology and lack of narrative technique, ready to explode and make a scene that would echo throughout the auditorium.
"Identified?! Are you calling me pretentious? You, who spends the day looking through a lens and thinks..."
He couldn't finish. Day, with a quick movement, placed a roll of thick adhesive tape directly into the palm of his hand, closing Diesel’s fingers over the object.
"Hold this," Day ordered without sounding aggressive. "Since you're here and have so many opinions, help me pack up the gear, «film critic»."
Diesel froze, looking at the roll of tape and then at Day’s back, who had already turned around to continue disconnecting the monitor. His natural impulse was to throw the tape on the floor and walk away screaming, but Day’s malice-free tone stopped him in his tracks.
"I'm not your assistant!" Diesel grumbled, though his feet were already moving toward the center of the stage.
"No, you're my new critic," Day replied without looking at him, a trace of laughter in his voice. "Pass me that box over there, please."
Diesel let out a loud huff, muttering something under his breath about "arrogant students" and how this was a "waste of time," but he ended up bending down to pick up the box. As they worked in silence —a silence only interrupted by Diesel’s constant complaints about the weight of the equipment— Day observed him every now and then while answering him.
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The garden of the arts faculty was a visual chaos of students painting the landscape, others chatting on blankets under the shade of trees, and theater people rehearsing loudly. But for Day, all of that was background noise. He was focused.
He had an analog SLR camera hanging around his neck. He was crouching near a pond of pink lotuses, adjusting the focus ring manually. He was looking for the perfect composition: the reflection of the afternoon sunlight on the water, contrasting with the rough texture of a nearby stone statue.
He had his eye glued to the viewfinder; one more second and the light would be perfect.
Suddenly, everything went black in the viewfinder.
A sudden shadow blocked the sunlight completely, ruining the framing and exposure that Day had taken ten minutes to calculate.
Day sighed internally but didn't move. He didn't need to lower the camera to know who it was. That scent of expensive perfume and the sound of impatient tapping on the grass was unmistakable.
Diesel was standing right in front of the lens, less than half a meter away, arms crossed and a smug smile on his face. He had purposefully positioned himself between the sun and the objective.
"Looking for a pretentious shot, or are you just wasting time, director?" Diesel asked, projecting his voice over the noise of the garden, looking for a fight, but there was a glint of anticipation in his eyes; he expected Day to get annoyed, to yell at him to move, to react with the same explosiveness he usually experienced.
But Day didn't lower the camera.
He stayed still, kneeling on the grass. His finger left the shutter and moved to the focus ring. With a precise movement, he began to turn the ridged metal of the lens.
In the viewfinder, Diesel’s blurry figure began to gain sharpness. First his crossed hands, then the texture of his expensive clothes, and finally, his face.
"Don't move," Day ordered in that soft voice that made Diesel freeze by instinct.
Day continued adjusting the focus. Through the analog viewfinder, the intensity in Diesel’s eyes became crystal clear. The light created an interesting backlight that highlighted the contour of his clenched jaw and the messy texture of his hair.
"High contrast is hard to handle, but sometimes, the shadow is more interesting than the light," Day continued, talking more to himself than to Diesel, while his finger returned to the shutter. "You have beautiful features. It's a pity to waste them on anger."
Diesel tensed, feeling a violent lurch in his stomach, a mixture of indignation and something dangerously close to panic. A pink flush appeared on his cheeks.
Click.
The mechanical and definitive sound of the old camera's shutter echoed between them.
Only then did Day lower the camera slowly. But he didn't move away. He stood up, closing the little distance that already existed between them.
Diesel felt his pulse skyrocket. For once, Diesel’s mind went blank. He couldn't think of any insult or any way to complain about his personal space being invaded, mainly because he had been the first to invade Day’s. He stayed there, caught by Day’s gaze, feeling strangely exposed.
Day looked down at the camera hanging on his chest, stroking the metal with his long fingers, and then looked back at Diesel with a lopsided, almost imperceptible smile that nearly made Diesel’s knees shake.
"Thanks for the shot. It turned out perfect; I owe you one."
Without waiting for a response, Day winked at him, turned around, and began walking toward the faculty building with his calm and steady pace.
Diesel stayed rooted to the grass feeling more confused and flushed than ever. He put a hand to his chest, trying to calm his racing heart, and watched Day’s back receding.
«Damn director», Diesel thought, but there was no disdain in his thought.
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Diesel was already becoming an expert on the arts faculty schedules. He knew when Day finished at the campus cafeteria, a chaotic place full of people with paint on their hands, glitter, and scripts under their arms.
His faculty, political science, was at the other end of the university complex, and he needed another dose of that irritating calm that only Day possessed.
When he entered the cafeteria, he saw him. Day was in line checking his phone. Diesel didn't think twice; he walked with a firm step, ignoring the complaints of the students who had been waiting, and threw himself directly into the space in front of Day.
As he did, he gave him a sharp shove with his shoulder, an intentional impact that would have made anyone else snap.
"Wow, seems the director also needs caffeine to survive," Diesel blurted out without turning around, his voice laced with a sarcasm that hid how fast his heart was beating from the proximity.
Day, who had barely moved from the impact, put his phone away.
"Survive is a strong word," he replied. "But late-night editing doesn't do itself. Are you lost on the way to your debate, Diesel?"
Diesel huffed, ignoring the question. When his turn came at the counter, he tapped the surface with his fingers.
"A black coffee. Plain. And make it extra strong," he requested, throwing a sidelong glance at Day.
Diesel hated black coffee; the bitter smell was already making his stomach churn; he preferred anything that had more sugar than caffeine, but his pride demanded he project an image of toughness that matched his personality.
Day, for his part, ordered with a quiet smile:
"A latte and two brownies, please."
They moved toward the pickup counter. Diesel was the first to receive his cardboard cup. Without hesitation, and under Day’s attentive gaze, he took a long, deep sip. The scalding, bitter liquid burned his tongue and made his throat constrict. Diesel had to make a superhuman effort not to spit it out or make a face of pain, but his eyes watered slightly from the impact.
Day, who already had his coffee in one hand and the brownies in the other, observed him in silence. He didn't laugh. He didn't make a mocking comment about his "lack of manliness," like his father would. He simply slid a sugar packet and one of his brownies across the counter to Diesel.
"You're going to ruin your stomach," Day told him simply.
Diesel froze, the bitter coffee cup halfway to his lips. He looked at the sugar packet and then the brownie, which still gave off an aroma of freshly baked chocolate.
"I only accept because my coffee is disgustingly hot and I need something to cool my palate," he muttered a silly excuse, snatching the sugar packet to dump it into his coffee before grabbing the brownie.
"Sure," Day simply nodded.
Diesel felt the heat rise up his neck until it dyed his cheeks a deep red as he took a bite of the brownie.
"It's... acceptable," Diesel muttered with his mouth full, his cheeks adorably puffed out, trying to regain his dignity while the taste of chocolate erased the bitterness from his tongue.
Day let out a low laugh, one that sounded like satisfaction, and began walking toward an empty table, gesturing with his head for him to follow.
Diesel wasn't one to follow orders, but the trail of sugar and chocolate in his system seemed to have clouded his combative judgment. He walked behind Day, dragging his feet with exaggerated reluctance to compensate for the fact that, indeed, he was following him, like a cat that had found a sunny spot.
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Diesel discovered that «hating» Day required an exhausting physical effort. The problem wasn't that Day was arrogant —according to him— but that he was inviting. Every time Diesel showed up to interrupt him, Day assigned him a task: holding a reflector, noting the timecode of a scene, or, like today, accompanying him to an old camera shop in a poorly lit alley in the city.
"Why do I have to come?" Diesel grumbled. "Surely you have friends in your faculty who don't hate the smell of dust and old things."
"My friends are too technical," Day replied, walking with his hands in his pockets, his steady pace forcing Diesel to pick up his own. "I need an outside eye. Someone who doesn't know about lenses, but knows about... temperaments."
Diesel narrowed his eyes, suspecting a hidden insult, but before he could complain, Day stopped in front of a storefront full of cameras.
"Go in," Day said, opening the door for him.
The place was narrow and smelled of wood. Diesel stood by the entrance, arms crossed, while Day talked to the owner in a technical language that sounded like Latin to him. He felt out of place, small among so many objects with history.
Suddenly, he felt Day’s presence at his back, leaning toward him.
"Look at this," he commented and handed him a small rangefinder camera. "It's an Olympus Pen E-P1. It feels solid, right?"
Diesel took it out of obligation. The metal was cold, but it had a satisfying weight. As he touched it, his fingers brushed Day’s.
"It's heavy for something so small," Diesel murmured, trying to regain his usual complaining tone. "Like you. You seem calm, but you're a heavy nuisance."
Day let out a genuine laugh, one that made his eyes crinkle in a way Diesel hadn't seen before.
"Exactly. Try it, look through the viewfinder."
Diesel obeyed. He raised the camera and looked for a target. By instinct, he turned toward Day and focused on him, as he had stayed still in front of him.
"I don't know how to use this thing," Diesel said, though he didn't lower the camera.
"Just turn the ring until the two images in the center merge," Day instructed, placing his hand over Diesel’s to guide the movement.
The contact was electric. Day’s hand was large and warm, almost completely covering Diesel’s. For a second, Diesel’s internal chaos stopped. The world was reduced to that small viewfinder and the warmth of Day’s hand.
"There it is," Diesel whispered when the images aligned.
"See," Day said, without letting go of his hand. "It's all a matter of patience, Diesel. If you stop hitting things, you start to really see them."
Diesel lowered the camera slowly, meeting Day’s gaze.
"Shut up," Diesel replied, but his voice had no venom. He cleared his throat and lowered his hand. "Buy it already. I'm hungry and you're going to pay for making me waste my afternoon."
Day smiled, putting the camera away.
"Deal."
They stayed a while longer.
"I know a place near here. But you have to promise me you're not going to yell at the waiter if the soup is too hot."
"I promise nothing, director," Diesel shot back, walking out of the shop first so Day wouldn't see that, once again, he was smiling.
That was their first «unofficial date».
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The weeks that followed that afternoon at the camera shop transformed the constant friction into an inevitable collision. Diesel no longer looked for excuses to go with Day; now he simply appeared in the arts faculty editing studio as if he were part of the furniture.
It was a Thursday night, and the building was almost deserted. Day was sitting in front of the monitor, light reflecting off his reading glasses, focused on the structure of his script.
Diesel, who had arrived a few minutes ago, had already grown tired of pacing around the room. Without saying a word, he approached Day’s chair.
"Move," Diesel ordered, though his voice lacked its former edge.
Day didn't even look away from the screen, but a small smile curved his lips. He knew exactly what that meant. Instead of moving, Day simply pushed his chair back, opening his legs to make space.
Diesel, with the naturalness of someone claiming their territory, sat directly on Day’s lap. He settled with a sigh, leaning his back against the director’s chest and resting his head on his shoulder.
Day wrapped an arm around Diesel’s waist to maintain balance, while with his free hand he continued typing and correcting paragraphs of the script. Diesel stretched out his legs, taking over the space completely, and began playing distractedly with the cord of Day’s hoodie.
Half an hour passed before Day spoke:
"You move too much," Day murmured without looking away from the screen.
"How much longer? You've been at this forever," Diesel protested, though he didn't make the slightest attempt to get up, letting his nose brush the other’s jawline. "Aren't you tired? I'm tired."
Day finally let go of the mouse and exhaled a long sigh, sinking into the chair.
"If you go blind from looking at that screen, I'm not going to be your guide. I'll let you trip over every table in the library," Diesel muttered, though his tone was unusually soft while his hands went to stroke Day’s hair.
Day let out a low laugh and closed his eyes, enjoying Diesel’s clumsy but genuine caresses.
"Liar. You'd be the first to yell at people to get out of my way."
"You're a conceited idiot."
Day didn't respond, just tilted his head a little, opening his eyes and smiling softly.
Diesel turned slightly in Day’s lap, resting his knees on either side of his thighs to face him. His hands, which were previously stroking Day’s hair shyly, now moved down to firmly grip the collar of his hoodie.
"Stop smiling like that," Diesel ordered. "You're getting on my nerves."
"Oh, yeah? And what are you going to do to stop it, future politician?"
Diesel didn't give him the pleasure of answering with words. He leaned forward, eliminating the little distance left, and kissed him.
It was a kiss that reflected exactly who Diesel was: chaotic and hungry. His lips crashed against Day’s with urgency, biting the older man’s lower lip a little as if he wanted to mark his territory once and for all. And like the first time they kissed, he expected Day to be surprised, to pull back, or at least let out a gasp of surprise.
But Day was Day.
Instead of pulling away, Day’s hands encircled Diesel’s waist. Day took control of the kiss with devastating patience; he didn't fight against Diesel’s explosiveness but molded it, returning the contact with a calm that forced Diesel to soften, to savor the kiss, and to melt against him.
When they pulled apart slightly, panting, the political student had flushed cheeks and swollen lips, looking more vulnerable than he would ever admit.
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Diesel was in Day’s room. It wasn't the first time Diesel had invaded this space, but this was the first time they weren't sitting on the floor discussing an edit or on the sofa watching a series.
They were in Day’s bed, and the air between them felt thick. Diesel gripped Day’s shoulders, alternating between possessive tugs and light shoves, true to his explosive nature even in intimacy.
However, when the temperature rose and Day’s hand finally slid under the fabric of Diesel’s shirt, brushing the sensitive skin of his abdomen, something changed.
Diesel’s body tensed and he let out a gasp that wasn't of pleasure, but an internal alarm he couldn't even explain.
"I don't want to," Diesel’s whisper was barely a thread of a voice, breaking the fog of arousal.
The instant the last syllable left his mouth, Day stopped all movement and pulled his hand out. There was no «please» trying to convince him to continue, no sigh of frustration, no hand that lingered a moment too long «by accident».
Diesel, who is used to his explosive character being what sets the limits, or having to fight for what he wants, freezes when Day stops instantly. The silence in the room becomes heavy for Diesel, and seeing Day sit by his side in silence makes Diesel feel vulnerable.
But Day didn't pull away out of annoyance. He simply sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing deeply to regain control and calm his own arousal, and then he turns to look at Diesel without a hint of anger or annoyance.
And before Day could speak, Diesel did:
"Aren't you angry?"
"You said no, Diesel. My desire for you will never be more important than your comfort."
"And you're not going to ask why?"
"I don't need a why to respect a no."
Diesel, someone impulsive and spoiled, realizes that Day, despite being visibly affected by desire, prioritizes Diesel’s comfort over his own satisfaction; Day values his consent above his own pleasure.
"I feel... ridiculous," Diesel blurted out, clutching the sheets with his hands, his voice, usually projected to dominate, sounding small. "I was the one who sought you out, who kissed you first... and now I cut the moment like this. I'm a mess, right?"
"You're not a mess. You're a person with limits, and our relationship isn't a transaction; you don't owe me anything for having started it yourself."
Diesel stared at Day, processing his words.
Without saying a thing, Diesel crawled across the bed until he was sitting next to him, resting his forehead on Day’s shoulder.
"You make me feel... like I don’t have to scream to be heard," Diesel whispered, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.
"Sometimes screaming is necessary, but you have to raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder."
Diesel, who had always used his temperament as a shield so no one would get close enough to see his cracks, allowed himself to relax.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" Day asked.
Diesel nodded slowly against his shoulder.
Day stood up, pulling away from Diesel gently to look for his laptop, but before moving away, he left a short kiss on the crown of Diesel's head.
They settled against the headboard of the bed. Day selected a romantic comedy.
"It’s... objectively bad," Diesel murmured as he settled onto Day’s chest.
Day shrugged.
"The technique is questionable and the script is predictable," Day admitted as the movie started. "But the colorimetry is warm and the comedic timing is pleasant; it’s hard to do comedy. And sometimes, you don’t need art to change your life or make you cry; you just need it to make you laugh."
The rest of the night passed in a silence that, for the first time in Diesel’s life, didn't feel awkward or empty. Listening to the director’s heartbeat was more soothing than any coffee or tea he had ever tried before.
Diesel falls asleep on Day’s chest, confirming that Day’s room is, effectively, his safest place.