Chapter Text
“You've got to stop this, seriously,” says a frustrated, tired voice. It echoes a little in the dorm room. “I'm not here to be your nurse every damn week.”
“Aw, but then I wouldn't get to see you, like, ever,” comes the reply, cheeky and sarcastic—as if they don't see each other literally every day—that gets quickly shot down by an equally frustrated, tired groan in response.
A freshman student, still young in his years and awkward in his limbs—most times—now glares at the boy sitting on his couch in his room with the metaphorical force of a hundred hydraulic presses. It’s a deadly scowl, but seems to have no effect, as usual. His eyebrows scrunch, deep, his dark hair falls over his face, unusually unkempt, and his dimples remain nowhere to be seen, not since they met for the day ten minutes ago. The mission to make this guy smile had been an immediate fail at the door.
Said guy groans, closing his eyes. “I wish you wouldn't get to see me, like, ever. Life would be so peaceful.”
There's a gasp. “You don't mean that.”
A raise of the eyebrows. A challenge.
“Pran, you jackass. That hurt my feelings."
“Okay, okay, fine.” There's a resigned but fond sigh, and a practiced look of exasperation. “I don't mean it. Happy, now?”
This is Pran.
He lives next door. My dad told me our families almost got caught in a rivalry of jealousy, once. See, our own business had been a success, so they'd followed in our footsteps. Some of dad's employees even quit to work for them, at first. We nearly lost all our workers and our customers, and almost went out of business. Luckily, my dad had a brilliant idea. He'd asked if Pran's dad would be willing to do business together, instead of competing for the same resources and the same market. That way, there wouldn't be any unnecessary jealousy and bad blood, and both parties would get to do the jobs they love in peace. Pran's dad had miraculously agreed. So, from then, they became business partners.
“I don't trust you,” the figure on the couch whines, complete with a silly pout that suits his silly face just right. “I bet you're just thinking of ways to kick me out, right now.”
His friend sits next to him. “I will start thinking of those ways, if you don't stop acting like a dumbass five year old.”
A huff. “Fine.”
A young man with a bruised face sits, with his arms crossed, on the couch in a room that is not his. He's a student, too, just like the other, though first impressions and rumors tend to say otherwise. This one has a reputation of being somewhat of a menace around campus. Legends say that if you’re from Architecture and catch a glance of a guy with messy brown hair swept over his forehead, ice cream in hand, and the iconic Engineering uniform jacket donned on, you'd better, better run.
He won't admit that today, he's the one who ran, because the professors caught them in broad daylight. Rookie mistake.
“You told me last week you'd stop this crap,” comes the expected chide. They've had this exchange enough times to remember some of their lines now.
“And I stuck to it, see! I didn't do anything for a whole week!”
There's a heavy sigh, one that makes guilt churn in his guts for the first time in the day. Oh, it's that type of a conversation, then. “Pat, stop making a joke out of this. I'm seriously worrying my ass off here.”
There's a long, quiet pause. They give each other frustrated looks.
“I can't do anything about it, you know that,” the boy mutters back, frowning now. “Our departments are just both dumb.”
This guy with the fierce eyes is Pat.
Doesn't he look like a cheater, like my mom said? I swear, she's never going to get over that one single time I let Pat copy my test answers. Anyways, the joint business ended up a huge success, and it's only been growing since then. Both our fathers ended up working shockingly well together. And, look at… that! They even ended up buying neighboring houses, by coincidence. There were no hard feelings at all about it—the two households still laugh over it, even—and dad always told me that being neighbors actually helped them work even better together. Our families got pretty tight-knit over the years, because of that, and that's why Pat and I—we've been friends since before we were even born. Up until now, I'd lost track of just how well we know each other.
“And you're just as dumb as them. Maybe even more,” Pran points out, twisting open the tube of ointment in his hands. “Who told you to get involved, anyway?”
“Hey, like you're any better!” Pat retorts, offended. “Whenever that Wai calls for backup, you come running to fight us, too. Who told you to get involved?”
“I'm not the one starting those fights, at least!” Pran throws back. “Wai's my friend. I’d like to see him not get beat up, sometimes.”
“And I'm your best friend,” Pat declares, watches as Pran reaches out towards his injured cheek. It doesn't hurt as much, in comparison. “You should be taking my side, here.”
“You think I don't want to?” his best friend says, gently. His thumb smears the balm over Pat's reddened skin. “If you stopped dragging out the seniors' rivalries for no reason, maybe I'd actually get to even stand next to you on campus, for once, but you keep being an idiot.”
“It's not for no reason,” Pat argues. “Our departments have been fighting since my dad's time. I can't just walk in and magically make it stop.”
Pran rolls his eyes but says nothing in return, knowing Pat is right. He'd heard about this legendary feud between Architecture and Engineering from Pat's dad as well, but hadn't thought it would be this bad. Even him announcing to his new friends—on day fucking one—that he knows Pat personally, it hadn't at all stopped the three from egging the conflict on as fresh-faced newcomers to the war. Pran had even gotten dragged into some of these back alley brawls himself, to defend their department's reputation, or whatever.
“It's so stupid,” he mumbles to himself, because it is. What could he even do? The university's staff and security themselves have been stumped for ideas. Apparently, even threats of suspension did nothing but simply make the two parties take their fights to outside locations for a while, until school grounds were free game again. Nothing seemed to work, all these years, but there has to be something that can put an end to it, right? He just has to think of a good, creative idea—
“Ow, hey, watch it—” Pat winces, jolting him out of his bubble. He'd absently pushed his thumb too hard onto Pat's cheek. “Gently, Pran!”
“Shit, sorry,” he stammers, and goes over that area again with more ointment and a softer hand. The muscles on his friend’s face relax again.
Pat gives him a look, for a while. “You're thinking too much.”
“Mm, just wondering,” Pran replies, “If there's a way to make our departments tolerate each other, at least.”
He gets a tired smile from Pat in return. “If there was, wouldn't someone have tried already?”
“True.” Surely, there must have been some rational students in the past who also thought the same and tried doing the same. He has that much hope. “Maybe they didn't try hard enough, though.”
Pat laughs, bright. “What would you do, Mr. Intellectual?”
This time, Pran makes a sour expression, flicks Pat's nose, and stands up with his hand on his hips. “Not actively take part in the fights, unlike a certain someone, that's for sure.”
Pat laughs harder as his friend walks off to the other room. Gets comfortable on Pran's couch—like he owns the thing—and closes his eyes with his arms behind his head. “What if there was a couple in the two departments?”
He completely misses the way Pran freezes in front of his open closet. “Huh?”
“Think about it,” Pat throws out, “Two people using the power of love to make everyone in our departments friends with each other. So poetic.”
“You're such a kid,” Pran comments, sets the tube of balm back in his wardrobe with slightly shaky hands, and pads back to where Pat’s sitting. “How would that even work?”
“Well, if these two people just started making out in the middle of a fight, everyone would have to stop, right? It would be awkward to keep beating someone up, with that happening.”
He imagines it for a second, and his entire body recoils from the mental image. “Eugh, Pat. That's gross.”
“You're such a kid,” Pat taunts back in a poor imitation of the other’s voice. “I think it’s genius. I bet it would work.”
“I highly doubt that, but sure.” Pran takes up the edge of the seat on his own couch. “There needs to be a couple like that who can do it, first. You know any?”
A shrug. “Not that I've heard of.”
“Me either,” Pran says, and falls silent. An architect-engineer pair would be the undying gossip of the university, and he would’ve definitely heard of it, if it existed. Too bad it doesn’t.
A dead end, then. Do they really just have to live with this for three years? He’d rather transfer somewhere else, then, but the Architecture faculty here is really great, and he’s spent so much time and effort moving in. He'd have to go through the whole university hunting process again, and that sounds arguably worse than standing in the middle of this glorified gang war right now.
The cogs in his brain turn for a solid moment. There isn’t a pair like that, yet, but what if— “What if we do it?”
Pat blinks, sits up slowly, squints his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“We could be the couple,” Pran blurts out, stops in his tracks, gets hit with the mortifying realization of what it sounds like he’s saying, and immediately changes directions. “Pretend to be the couple, I mean.”
Instead of responding, Pat just gapes.
Fuck. If Pran could eat his words back up, he’d be gourmet feasting right now. Damage control, then. “N—nevermind. It's a stupid idea.”
“No, no, no, wait!” Pat sits up even straighter, his eyes sparkling, almost—like Pran has seen countless times before in their shared eighteen years. Oh, no. It's always bad news. “Pran, you’re so smart! That would totally work!”
“No, it wouldn’t,” he says, extremely quietly, adding nothing else. Most of his conscious effort goes into backing away as far as possible. He already knows it’s a weak argument—no need to bother fighting a hopeless case, not when he knows it’s going to go unheard anyway.
“Yes, it would,” Pat corrects, excitedly grabbing Pran’s shoulders. “In fact, we’re literally the only two people here who can actually do this.”
“Right.” Pran exhales, and thinks about it for a bit. This is a bad idea, he knows. This is a horrible, horrible idea, in fact, he also knows. This won’t end well, he very much knows. But it could work, if they play it right. They could do what no one else has been able to do before. And, after all, it’s Pat, and he’s never once been able to say no to the guy, so, really, there’s not much to contemplate. Fuck it. “Fine. Let’s pretend to date.”
Pat lights up like the goddamned sun. Pran closes his eyes and leans back into the couch.
“Tell me the plan, first,” he adds, because he is still Pran Parakul, and plans are his thing, and he’s not going into this mess without one.
The glow of Pat's smile does not dim, not one bit. “We act all lovey-dovey in front of everyone, until they get so sick of us that they start hanging out with each other, instead. Sounds good?”
That is not a plan in the slightest, but Pran doesn’t bring that up. Instead, he adds, “And once that’s done, we—” he puts air quotes around the next words, “—break up.”
His best friend scoffs, looks down at himself. “Who’d want to break up with this?”
Pran wouldn’t, but he has to—for his sanity’s sake. There’s plenty of others who have, though. “I can give you a list of names.”
“Asshole,” he gets told back, “Fine. Anything else?”
“We have to come up with a story.”
“That’ll be easy,” Pat says, “We’re best friends. That's story enough, isn't it?”
Pran bites the inside of his cheek. Easy. “We have to commit, Pat. That means no more of you starting any fights, if you can help it.”
Just then, the light finally gives way to a serious expression, for once. “Okay.”
He pauses at the surprisingly instant acceptance. It’s just so unlike Pat, that for a split second, he's caught completely off guard. So they’re really doing this, then. “If it doesn’t work, we call it off.”
“It’ll work,” Pat tells him, with a soft smile, “We’ll make it work. Just watch.”
That is probably the last thing someone would want to hear or see right before fake dating their best friend who they’re secretly in love with, Pran thinks. Just as he processes what he’s really, really agreeing to do, he decides he doesn’t want to think too hard about it anymore. “I am not going to make out with you in the middle of a fight.”
Pat leans in and winks. “We’ll get there. Just watch.”
Pran pretends to throw up and shoves him away. Pat laughs. Eventually, Pran laughs, too, dimples on full display. He always does.
In their usual fashion, Pran puts up his right hand, curled into a fist: an offer. Maybe this way, he would take it just as seriously as their other pacts—which is to say, not take it seriously at all. Maybe this way, he wouldn’t have his heart crushed brutally down the line.
“Wait,” Pat says, all of a sudden. “I have a condition, too.”
Pran stills. “What?”
The boy’s face splits into a mischievous grin. “The first one to actually fall in love, loses.”
Easy. Pran has had years and years of experience in pretending he’s not already at that point. What’s a few more days of it? Besides, seeing Pat lose is always fun. “Done.”
“Cool,” Pat says, and raises his arm, too.
Their fists meet in the middle, in a gentle bump.
“Deal,” they say, at the same time, and that's that.
✧ ✧ ✧
“Hey, man, can I sleep over tonight?” Pat asks, later. “I'm too tired to walk back to mine—”
“No,” Pran says, all but throwing Pat out of his dorm and towards the one across the hallway, and that's that.