Chapter 2: Vertical Conquest
The dull ache in Rohan’s knuckles had finally faded to a memory, a ghost of a sensation that only flared when he caught sight of Arjun across the lecture hall. It was Thursday, and the air in the main sciences building was thick with the anticipation of the weekend. They found themselves walking in the same direction, pulled by the current of students flowing toward the north wing.
“Hey, man. Networks project giving you trouble too?” Arjun asked, falling into step beside him. He seemed to take up more than his share of the hallway.
“A bit. Gupta’ expectations are… precise,” Rohan replied, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
They reached the bank of elevators. A small crowd had gathered, muttering in frustration. A piece of torn notebook paper was taped crookedly over the call button. OUT OF ORDER.
Arjun let out a low whistle. “Five flights up. That’s a hike.”
Rohan’s heart sank. Five flights. His legs already felt heavy at the thought. He glanced toward the stairwell door, a heavy, industrial grey thing marked with a faded ‘EXIT’ sign. It looked like the entrance to a particular brand of torture.
“Come on,” Arjun said, already pushing it open. “It’ll be good for us.”
The stairwell was a world apart from the polished corridors. The air was stale, carrying the scent of old dust and dry concrete. Faded posters for long-past events clung to the walls, their corners curling. Graffiti, some artistic, some merely crude, scarred the concrete. The light was a sickly yellow from infrequent, caged bulbs, casting deep shadows in the corners. The hum of the college was distant here, replaced by the echo of their own footsteps.
By the third landing, Rohan was breathing heavily. His calves burned. Arjun, ahead of him, seemed unaffected, taking the steps two at a time with an easy, rhythmic grace. He paused, looking back.
“You good?”
“Peachy,” Rohan wheezed, leaning against the cold railing. “Just… enjoying the architecture.”
Arjun grinned, that easy, uncomplicated smile. “Your architecture looks a lot like suffering.” He jogged back down the few steps to where Rohan stood. “Tell you what. I owe you one for that algorithms help last week.”
Rohan eyed him warily. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll give you a lift.” Arjun said it as if he were offering a spare pen.
“A lift.” Rohan’s mind flashed back to the computer lab, the dizzying, weightless feeling of being plucked from the floor. “Arjun, no. It’s five flights. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s efficient.” Arjun’s tone was light, teasing. “Come on. It’ll be funny.”
“For you, maybe.”
“For both of us! I need the workout. You need to not have a coronary. It’s a win-win.”
Before Rohan could form another protest, Arjun had turned his back to him, bending his knees slightly. “Just hop on. Piggyback. It’s easier than the fireman’s carry.”
The offer hung in the dusty air between them. It was insane. It was humiliating. And yet, the thought of those remaining two flights of stairs was a profound and physical dread. He could still feel the phantom ache in his hand from their handshake, a warning and a temptation all at once.
“This is insane,” Rohan muttered, but he was already stepping forward.
He tentatively put his hands on Arjun’s shoulders. The muscle there was like sculpted stone beneath the soft cotton of his hoodie. Arjun reached back, hooked his hands under Rohan’s knees, and pulled him up with a single, fluid motion.
It was nothing like the lab.
This was sustained. Intimate. Rohan’s chest was pressed against Arjun’s broad back, his arms locked around his neck. He could feel the shift and bunch of every major muscle group with each step Arjun took. The trapezius, the latissimus dorsi—they weren’t just anatomical terms anymore. They were living, moving geography under his hands and chest.
Arjun started climbing again. His breathing was even, his pace steady. He wasn’t even straining.
“See? Not so bad,” Arjun said, his voice a low vibration that traveled through his body into Rohan’s.
Rohan couldn’t answer. He was too focused on the raw mechanics of it. The powerful contraction of Arjun’s quadriceps as he drove upward off each step. The solid flex of his glutes. The effortless stability of his core. Rohan held on, his grip tight, his own body rendered completely passive, a mere passenger. He was hyper-aware of the heat radiating through their clothes, the scent of Arjun’s shampoo—something clean, like cedar—mixing with the faint, honest scent of sweat.
He felt every jolt of the ascent, each step a testament to a strength so profound it was mundane to its owner. This wasn’t a show. This was just how Arjun moved through the world.
They reached the fifth-floor landing far too soon. Arjun eased him down, his hands releasing their secure grip under Rohan’s knees. Rohan’s feet found the solid ground, but his legs felt unsteady, his body still thrumming with the memory of the climb.
Arjun turned to him, barely winded. “Told you it was efficient.”
Rohan just stared at him, his own breathing shallow. The faded graffiti on the wall behind Arjun seemed to swim in his vision. He could still feel the imprint of every muscle, the ghost of that relentless, easy power etched into his skin, his nerves, something deeper.
He opened his mouth to say thank you, or maybe to make a joke to break the strange, charged silence, but the words died in his throat. All that came out was a shaky, quiet breath. The distant hum of the college rushed back into his ears, but it sounded different now. Everything sounded different.
Everything sounded different.
Rohan’s heart was still hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the raw power he’d just been pressed against. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, the old ache from their handshake flaring in sympathy with the new, all-consuming memory of Arjun’s shoulders under his palms.
“You good?” Arjun asked, his head tilted. “You’re looking a little… spacey.”
“I’m… yeah.” Rohan’s voice was thin. He rubbed his arms, a self-soothing gesture that did nothing to calm the static buzzing under his skin.
Arjun reached out, his movement casual and unthinking. He gave Rohan’s forearm a few pats. Then he stopped, his fingers lingering for a second. “Whoa.”
Rohan froze. “What?”
“Dude. Your arms.” Arjun’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re like, crazy soft. I’m not even kidding.”
He patted Rohan’s arm again, more deliberately this time, his calloused fingers a stark contrast against the skin. “Seriously. Softer than my girlfriend’s. It’s wild.”
Heat flooded Rohan’s face, a swift, burning tide that crept up his neck and set his ears on fire. He stared at the floor, at the scuff marks on the concrete, anywhere but at Arjun’s genuinely astonished face. “It’s just… lotion,” he mumbled, the words feeling utterly inadequate.
Arjun just laughed, a bright, easy sound in the dusty silence. “Nah, that’s a genetic gift.”
Before Rohan could process the compliment, or the strange, intimate comparison, Arjun’s hands were on his waist again. The world tilted violently. In one smooth, powerful motion, Arjun lifted him clean off the ground.
“What are you—Arjun!”
Arjun didn’t answer. He just grinned, his grip firm, and spun. Once, twice, three full rotations. The graffiti-scarred walls became a dizzying blur of color and shape. The dim lights streaked into orange lines. Rohan’s stomach lurched, a mix of vertigo and something else, something electric.
A startled gasp escaped him. He flung his arms around Arjun’s neck, holding on for dear life, his face buried against the solid muscle of Arjun’s shoulder. The cedar-and-sweat scent filled his lungs. He could feel the incredible stability of Arjun’s core, the effortless control as he completed the third spin and stopped, holding Rohan aloft as if he weighed nothing at all.
He was still blushing, he could feel the heat radiating from his own skin. His arms were locked tightly around Arjun’s neck, his body pressed close. For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was Rohan’s shaky, embarrassed exhale against Arjun’s hoodie, and the low, even rhythm of Arjun’s breathing.