Chapter Text
The first time Duncan loses his temper, it happens on polished wood.
The gym is mostly empty after hours. Overhead lights hum. The echo of a basketball still lingers in the rafters like a ghost of effort. Aerion is there because he likes territory. Dunk is there because he works for everything he has.
They’re supposed to be studying.
They’re not studying.
Aerion sits on the bleachers in his practice gear, hockey bag at his feet, lazily spinning a basketball on one finger like he owns gravity. He does not play basketball. He does not need to. He’s just good at most things.
He starts with small jabs. Comments about scholarships. About charity cases. About how exhausting it must be to constantly prove you deserve to exist.
Duncan shrugs it off.
He always does.
Aerion pushes further. Because he wants to see it. He wants to crack the composure. Wants to know if Duncan’s patience is real or just survival stitched tight.
He says something cruel. Personal. Deliberate.
The ball stops spinning.
There is a shift.
Duncan steps forward. Not loud. Not reckless. Controlled.
He takes the ball from Aerion’s hand and sets it aside. Then he backs him against the bleachers; not violently, not to hurt him—but firmly enough that the metal rattles under the impact.
The height difference becomes obvious. Duncan’s shadow swallows him.
“You don’t get to decide what makes me less,” Duncan says, low and steady.
No yelling. No wild swing. Just strength. Contained.
Aerion’s pulse spikes.
There it is.
Not chaos.
Power.
Duncan steps back first. Always the one who steps back first.
Aerion straightens slowly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his shirt. His expression is composed. Almost bored.
But something electric coils behind his ribs. He wanted to see Duncan lose control.
He did.
And it felt like standing too close to a flame you’ve been daring to touch.
He smiles, sharp.
He will absolutely push him again. Because controlled burns are the most dangerous kind.