Chapter 11: Morning Routine
Rohan woke to the particular silence of a room that had been filled with sound and breath just hours before. The space beside him in the bed was empty, the sheets cool where a heavy warmth had been. He blinked, his vision blurry without his glasses. The dawn light was stronger now, cutting sharp, golden lines through the gaps in the blinds.
A rhythmic, controlled sound drew his attention to the floor.
Arjun was there, a few feet from the bed, performing one-handed pushups. His body was a straight, powerful line from his shoulders to his feet, rising and falling with a fluid, piston-like precision. Each descent brought his chest within an inch of the floorboards; each ascent showcased the breathtaking definition in his shoulder, tricep, and the corded muscles of his forearm. The tattoo on his other arm, a complex geometric pattern, shifted and flexed with the motion. He wasn't even breathing hard.
Rohan propped himself up on his elbows, the sheet pooling around his waist. He watched, transfixed. It was less an exercise and more a demonstration of pure, unthinking capability.
Arjun’s eyes, focused on some point on the floor, flicked up and met his. A slow, easy smile spread across his face. He didn’t stop.
“Morning,” Arjun said, his voice steady, betraying no strain.
“Hey,” Rohan managed, his own voice rough with sleep.
On the next upward push, Arjun didn’t pause. In one seamless, impossible motion, he planted his palm, shifted his weight, and his other arm snaked out. Before Rohan could process what was happening, that arm hooked around his back and under his knees, and he was lifted from the mattress.
It was so sudden, so effortless, that Rohan’s gasp was swallowed by the movement. Arjun straightened, now holding Rohan cradled against his chest with one arm, his other hand still planted on the floor, his body still holding the perfect pushup position for a breathtaking second. He was supporting both their weights with one arm.
“What are you—Arjun!” Rohan yelped, his hands flying to Arjun’s shoulders for stability.
Arjun just grinned, pushing up from the floor and standing in another fluid motion, Rohan secure in his grasp. He felt like a bundle of feathers in his arms. The cool morning air raised goosebumps on Rohan’s bare skin.
“Morning weights,” Arjun said by way of explanation, his voice a low rumble against Rohan’s side. He carried him out of the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom without a hint of effort.
Steam was already beginning to curl from the showerhead, filling the small room with a damp, warm haze. The mirror was fogging at the edges. Arjun didn’t set him down. Instead, he walked them both into the shower stall, the warm spray immediately misting their skin.
He gently pressed Rohan back against the warm, wet tiles. The contrast was startling—the cool, hard ceramic against his back, and the solid, living heat of Arjun against his front.
“You’re insane,” Rohan breathed, water beading on his glasses, which he still hadn’t had a chance to put on. The world was a soft, warm blur.
“You mentioned something about that last night,” Arjun murmured, leaning in close. His nose brushed against Rohan’s damp throat. “Right before you…”
“Don’t,” Rohan cut him off, his face heating, but he was laughing, a breathless, disbelieving sound. He slid his hands up Arjun’s slick shoulders, the memory of tracing these same muscles in the dark flashing through his mind with vivid clarity.
Arjun pulled back just enough to look at him, his dark eyes serious despite the playful set of his mouth. Water dripped from his dark curls onto Rohan’s chest. “You okay? For real.”
It wasn’t about the shower, or being carried. It was about the night, the vulnerability, the way the world had shifted on its axis.
Rohan met his gaze. The blurriness without his glasses somehow made it easier. “Yeah. For real.”
The tension that Rohan hadn't even noticed in Arjun’s shoulders seemed to melt away. He smiled, a genuine, unguarded thing that transformed his entire face. “Good.”
He reached for a bottle of shampoo, but Rohan stopped him, his hand on Arjun’s wrist. “Let me.”
A flicker of surprise, then a slow nod.
Rohan took the bottle, squeezed a dollop into his palm, and worked it into a lather. Then he reached up and began to massage it into Arjun’s hair. His scalp was warm, his hair thick and surprisingly soft under Rohan’s fingers. He worked methodically, his programmer’s mind finding a rhythm in the task, his thumbs pressing circles at Arjun’s temples.
Arjun let out a low, deep sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. His head tilted forward into the touch, his entire body seeming to slump in surrender. The mighty rugby player, brought to his knees by a scalp massage.
“No one’s ever…” Arjun began, his voice thick.
“I know,” Rohan said softly. He understood. No one had ever done this for the giant. They probably only saw the strength, the confidence. They didn’t see the person who needed to be taken care of, too.
He rinsed the shampoo away, his fingers combing through the clean strands. Water cascaded over both of them, a warm, private rain.
When he was done, Arjun didn’t move for a long moment, his forehead resting against Rohan’s. The steam wrapped around them, a cocoon of heat and sound.
“We’re going to be late for Algorithms,” Arjun finally said, his voice reluctant.
Reality, with its schedules and deadlines, seeped back into the room.
“Professor Gupta will have my head on a spike if I’m late again,” Rohan agreed with a sigh. The magic of the moment began to gently recede, replaced by the mundane press of the day.
Arjun straightened up, his playful energy returning. He grabbed a bar of soap. “Right. Well. Can’t have that. Turn around.”
Rohan complied, turning to face the tiles. Arjun’s soapy hands began to move over his back, his touch firm and efficient, washing away the last traces of the night. It was practical, but the intimacy of the act, the casual ownership of Arjun’s hands on his skin, sent a fresh shiver through him that had nothing to do with the water temperature.
As Arjun worked, Rohan stared at the fogged-up tiles, his mind already clicking forward to the day—the code he needed to debug, the lecture he couldn’t miss. But beneath the practical thoughts, a new, steady certainty hummed. The memory of Arjun’s weight, his breath, his whispered words—I can feel all of you—was now a part of his architecture. He was no longer just Rohan Sharma, the nice, smart guy. He was the person Arjun Patel carried to the shower after knowing him, all of him, in the dark.
“Hey,” Arjun said, his voice cutting through the water’s roar. “After class… my place again?”
Rohan smiled, a slow, sure feeling spreading through his chest. He didn’t need to turn around. “Yeah. Your place.”
Your place.” The words hung in the steam between them, a promise that made the coming hours feel unbearably long.
Arjun’s smile was a quick, bright flash in the humid air. “Good.”
He reached past Rohan to turn off the water, the simple movement making the muscles in his arm and side contract in a way that was both casual and deeply impressive. The sudden silence was broken only by the drip of water and their breathing.
They stepped out onto the bathmat, trailing puddles. Arjun grabbed a towel and began rubbing his hair vigorously, a whirlwind of motion.
Then he tossed the damp towel to Rohan. “Here.”
Rohan caught it, the fabric already warm from Arjun’s use. He started to dry himself, the terrycloth rough against his sensitive skin.
He watched as Arjun, with an almost dismissive ease, picked up his rugby kit bag from the corner. It was a monstrous, heavy-looking thing, bulging with gear and probably weighing as much as a small person.
Arjun hoisted it onto his shoulder with a single, fluid motion that involved no apparent strain. The thick strap dug into his muscle but he didn’t even adjust it.
Rohan looked down at the towel in his own hands, then back at the colossal bag. A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
“What?” Arjun asked, his tone genuinely curious.
“Nothing,” Rohan said, shaking his head. “It’s just… you pick that up like it’s filled with popcorn. I think I’d topple over trying to drag it.”
Arjun glanced at the bag as if seeing it for the first time, then back at Rohan. A thoughtful look crossed his face.
He walked over, the bag still on his shoulder, and stopped in front of Rohan. “Here.”
Before Rohan could process it, Arjun was guiding his hands, placing one on each of Rohan’s slender wrists. He then lifted Rohan’s arms and placed his hands firmly on his own bare waist.
“Feel that?” Arjun said, his voice low.
Rohan’s fingers splayed across the solid, unyielding flesh of Arjun’s hips. He could feel the powerful groove of muscle framing his pelvis, a structure built to anchor and drive immense force.
“Now,” Arjun murmured, his eyes locked on Rohan’s. He slowly, deliberately, flexed.
It wasn’t a dramatic pose. It was a subtle, internal coiling. The muscle under Rohan’s palms hardened from stone to iron, a terrifying density awakening under his touch. It was like feeling the foundation of a building settle.
Rohan’s breath hitched. His own grip felt feeble in comparison.
Arjun relaxed, the iron melting back into mere rock. “That’s what carries the bag.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And that’s what held you.”
The truth of it was a physical shock. The ease of the carry, the stability against the tiles, the relentless, gentle power of the night before—it all traced back to this latent, terrifying strength he could now feel humming under his hands.
He understood then that Arjun’s strength wasn’t for show. It was his fundamental language, and last night, he had used it to write poetry on Rohan’s skin.
The truth of it, that his strength was a language, left Rohan speechless. His hands remained on Arjun’s hips, feeling the residual heat from the shower and the dormant power beneath the skin. He finally found his voice, a soft, awed whisper. “Okay. I feel it.”
A slow, pleased smile spread across Arjun’s face. He leaned in, pressing a warm, damp kiss to Rohan’s forehead. “Good.”
The spell was broken by the blaring alarm from Rohan’s phone in the other room. He jumped, the sound a violent intrusion into their quiet space. “Gupta’s lecture,” he groaned, already mentally calculating the fastest route to campus.
“Relax, we’ve got time,” Arjun said, effortlessly shouldering his heavy kit bag as if it were a light jacket. He followed Rohan back into the bedroom, where clothes were still scattered from the night before.
Rohan pulled on his jeans and a clean t-shirt, his mind already clicking into a different gear. He found his glasses on the nightstand, and the world snapped back into sharp, high-definition focus. He grabbed his backpack, pulling out his laptop. “I just need to check one thing on the distributed systems problem set. The consensus algorithm for the last part is kicking my ass.”
He booted up the machine, the screen illuminating his frustrated expression. He’d been stuck on this for two days.
Arjun, who was pulling a tight university rugby shirt over his head, paused. “The Byzantine Generals problem variant?”
Rohan looked up, surprised. “Yeah. How did you know?”
Arjun finished adjusting his shirt, the fabric stretching across his chest. “Gupta reuses his tricky questions. That one’s a classic.” He walked over and peered at Rohan’s screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Your issue is in the message signing. You’re overcomplicating the cryptographic verification.”
He leaned over, his presence a warm wall beside Rohan. His fingers, thick and capable, danced across the keyboard with a startling, fluid speed. He didn’t just type; he rewrote three lines of code in a blistering ten seconds.
Rohan stared, his own thought process completely derailed. The elegant solution materialized on the screen, so simple and correct it was embarrassing he hadn’t seen it.
“You… you just…” Rohan’s words failed him. His eyes widened, his jaw going slightly slack. He looked from the screen to Arjun’s face, then back again. This wasn’t just a rugby player who happened to code. This was a different kind of strength entirely, one he hadn’t known to look for.
The raw, unadulterated shock on Rohan’s face seemed to short-circuit something in Arjun. A dark, intense heat flared in his eyes, erasing the casual academic focus. He made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.
“That look,” Arjun murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
In one smooth, practiced motion, his hands were on Rohan’s waist. He lifted him from the desk chair as if he were made of air, the same way he’d lifted him from the bed, the same way he shouldered his kit bag. Rohan let out a small, startled gasp, his hands automatically gripping Arjun’s shoulders.
Arjun held him aloft, their faces level, and simply looked at him. His expression was one of pure, unvarnished adoration. “You’re brilliant, and you have no idea,” he said, his tone utterly serious.
He didn’t kiss him. He just held him there, suspended, letting the moment stretch. Rohan could feel the solidity of the arms supporting him, the same arms that wrote code and poetry on his skin. The duality was dizzying.
“We’re really going to be late now,” Rohan whispered, though he made no move to get down.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Arjun’s face. “Let him spike my head.”
The late slip from Professor Gupta’s stern assistant felt like a condemnation in Rohan’s hand. He slumped onto the lumpy couch in Arjun’s common area, the faded fabric smelling faintly of old energy drinks and fabric softener. “He took attendance first thing. I’m doomed.”
Arjun just dropped his kit bag by the door with a heavy thud. “It’s one lecture. You already aced the last quiz.” He rummaged in a cupboard, emerging with two packets of instant noodles. “Brain fuel?”
Rohan ignored the offered food, his brow furrowed. He pulled out his tablet, the problem set glaring back. “Okay, wait. Back in your room, you fixed the signing. But I still don’t get why the synchronous model fails here if the network delay is bounded.”
Arjun paused, the noodles forgotten in his hand. A slow, speculative smile touched his lips. He walked over and settled into the room’s only armchair, a massive, worn thing that seemed built to contain him. He patted his thigh. “Condition for the lesson. You sit here.”
Rohan blinked, then a slow smile of his own emerged. He pushed himself off the couch and crossed the small space, settling sideways onto Arjun’s solid legs. The position was shockingly intimate, his back against the armrest, his legs draped over Arjun’s. A firm arm encircled his waist, anchoring him.
“Okay,” Arjun began, his voice a low rumble close to Rohan’s ear. “Think of the bounded delay not as a guarantee, but a probability curve.” He used his free hand to sketch shapes in the air. “A malicious node can still create a perception of delay that falls within the bound but desynchronizes the core logic. Your model is too trusting.”
The simplicity of the explanation, the way it cut through the complexity Rohan had been wrestling with, was dazzling. “So it’s a flaw in the fault assumption, not the timing,” he breathed, his mind racing ahead. “You’re a genius.”
Arjun’s arm tightened around him. The low rumble of his explanation ceased. He turned his head, and his mouth found the sensitive spot just below Rohan’s jaw. The kiss was not soft or questioning. It was a claiming. His other hand came up to cradle Rohan’s face, his thumb stroking his cheekbone with a possessiveness that stole the air from Rohan’s lungs.
Later, tangled in Arjun’s sheets again, Rohan propped himself up on an elbow. The afternoon light was long and golden. “The stochastic gradient descent paper for Machine Learning,” he started, tracing idle patterns on Arjun’s chest. “The convergence proof on page forty-seven. Is it really that elegant, or did they hide the ugly math in the appendix?”
Arjun’s eyes, which had been drowsy, sharpened with immediate interest. He shifted, rolling partially onto his side and patting the space on his chest. “You know the rule.”
Rohan didn’t hesitate. He moved, straddling Arjun’s waist and settling back against his torso, using his chest as a backrest. He could feel the deep, steady thump of Arjun’s heart against his spine.
“They hid it,” Arjun said, his voice vibrating through Rohan’s body. His hands settled on Rohan’s hips, a warm, heavy weight. “The proof relies on a lemma from a nineteen-eighties statistics journal that they don’t even properly cite. It’s academic sleight of hand.” He began explaining the missing link, his words precise and cutting.
Rohan listened, mesmerized. This wasn’t just textbook understanding; this was a deep, critical dissection of the material that their professor had presented as gospel. The sheer scope of Arjun’s knowledge, hidden beneath all that muscle and calm, was breathtaking.
He felt Arjun shift beneath him. The hands on his hips tightened. The scholarly tone evaporated from Arjun’s voice, replaced by a dark, warm hunger. “You asking me these questions… it does things to me.”
He moved with sudden, startling power, flipping them over in one smooth motion that left Rohan pinned beneath him. The look in his eyes was fiercely possessive. He kissed him, deep and searching, as if trying to consume the very curiosity that sparked the questions.
The next time, it was about a complex regex pattern for their compilers project. Rohan stood by the desk, pointing at the screen. “This should be catching the nested comments, but it’s failing on the edge case.”
Arjun, who was pulling a clean shirt from a drawer, looked over. He didn’t point to his lap. He just looked at it, then back at Rohan with a raised eyebrow.
A slow smile spread across Rohan’s face. He walked over and settled himself down, the denim of his jeans rough against Arjun’s sweatpants. Arjun’s arms came around him, his chin hooking over Rohan’s shoulder to see the screen. His presence was a solid wall of focus.
“You’re overthinking it,” he murmured, his breath warm against Rohan’s neck. His hands covered Rohan’s on the keyboard, their fingers interlacing. He guided them, typing out a succinct, powerful expression that solved the problem in three lines. “See? Stop fighting the language. Let it work for you.”
The elegance of it, the feel of Arjun’s capable hands over his, the sheer intellectual force—it was more intoxicating than any touch. Rohan leaned his head back against Arjun’s shoulder, a sigh of pure admiration escaping him. “How are you even real?”
That did it. The keyboard was forgotten. Arjun’s arms constricted around him, turning the chair. The look on his face was one of raw, unfiltered want, a need stoked by Rohan’s intellectual reverence as much as his physical presence. He stood, bringing Rohan with him, his mouth descending on his with a desperation that felt brand new.
“Every time,” Arjun breathed against his lips, walking them backward toward the bed. “Every time you look at me like I’ve hung the moon just because I can read a textbook, I lose my mind.”
He laid Rohan down, his weight a familiar and welcome anchor. “We’re skipping the rest of our classes,” he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. His hands were already pushing the fabric of Rohan’s shirt up, his touch incendiary. “The entire day is ours.”