Untitled

my brain: malfunctions severely.

the scar across his eye, the shown blindness, the goddamn POSE, way he looks at the viewer and little piece of chest window bc of his unbuttoned shirt got me FERAL and meowing for this man i swear to god-

make a wish.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is an original series written by me. It's a teen love story. Trope: junior x senior. Please don't mind the grammatical errors. English is not my first language so please try to ignore it. This is my first time writing a series like this. Also, this is Part 1.

Bhaiya: a term used to refer to older brothers or any boy older than you as a term of respect

Didi / Di : a term used to refer to older sisters or nay girl as a term of respect

WARNINGS: none. fluff, mild cursing, mentions of insecurities and deaths, slightly angst, romantic

SUMMARY: Meenal is an insecure teenager who only ever sees the faults in herself while everyone around her sees the real beauty. Aakash, her older brother's junior and her senior, falls in love but Both Meenal and her brother Amrit suddenly leave. After 2 years of longing, when they finally meet again and Aakash gets to drop her off home, he confesses to her fearing they might not meet again. He knows that to date her, he'll have to deal and impress her brother first. Which he will do at any costs to have her.

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2 YEARS AGO

Life one

Meenal

I stared at myself in the mirror and sighed heavily. I despised the image that looked back at me from this shiny piece of glass that reflected everything. I hated the acne scars on my light brown face and the scars that were there on my forearms from picking and scratching. it was too much — too many. often people approached me and asked about them which made me uncomfortable inside but i would just brush it off. i looked in the brown eyes of the 15 year old girl in front of me, her shoulder length jet black hair pulled back in a braid.

i fixed my black oversized shirt which hid my chubby body. i wish i could cut it all off. the doctor said i had a different kind of fat stored in my body which could only be lost with medication i refused to take. why the hell is my body like this? 

i picked up my tennis kit and slung it over my right shoulder as my older brother, Amrit called for me from the entrance hall of our apartment in which my small family of me, my older brother and mother lived in. i turned to look at my late father’s portrait, who had passed away 5 years ago due to heart cancer,hanging on the wall one last time before turning towards my brother who was waiting for me with his own tennis kit hung over his shoulder.

“i’m ready, bhaiya. let’s go.” since the past few months after i started, we both had been going individually because of the change in the timings of our batches, him being a senior and me being a junior. but now that the timings for reporting were same, we went together.

Amrit, who had just turned 19 a few weeks ago, nodded and opened the door. “ma, we’re leaving! close the door!” 

i followed him out and we walked to the tennis centre.

Life two

Aakash

“shit, shit, shit,” i muttered under my breath as i rushed towards the gate of the tennis centre. i was almost half an hour late. Coach Anil will kill me for sure. i can’t believe i was taking a power nap of 15 minutes and it turned into a whole 2 hour deep sleep. 

i pushed open the entry gates and stumbled in, almost tripping over the muddy ground that was still wet from the rain two days ago. 

“hey! sign your entry!” the clerk that sat near the entrance gate yelled at me. 

“later!” i called out and rushed over to the second court of the three courts that the centre had. the first court was for the seniors, the second for the sub-seniors and the third for the juniors. i walked inside he court, my shoes making a scratchy sound from walking over the sandy ground as i took off my kit and set it down. 

“Aakash!” Coach Anil called. i’m dead. i took out my tennis racquet from the kit and turned to him, rubbing the back of my neck nervously. i looked down, hoping my shoulder length black curly hair would hide my eyes. i know he must be looking furious right now.

“is this the time to come? why are you so late?” he snapped.

“ehh…sorry, sir. i overslept,” i could feel my cheeks heating up from embarrassment.

“seriously? this is the fourth time this month,” he sighed and shook his head. “whatever, just go join the others in line. we’re doing backhand slice practice.”

i nodded and immediately rushed over to the other side of the net, standing in the line in the last. i watched as coach passed balls with his racquet one by one to the players for them to hit it.

my eyes drifted over to the entrance gate and i immediately lit up. my favourite senior — Amrit Bhaiya — had come in. playing with him was always fun and tedious. 

i noticed a girl behind him, she looked to be around 14 or 15. my eyebrows lifted in curiosity. i had never seen her with Amrit bhaiya before. but her facial features matched his, except for the fact he had a bright smile on his face and the girl had a sullen look.

she turned and lifted her eyes to look around and that was when they met mine. my breath hitched. i almost forgot how to breathe. DAMN. those eyes. those fucking eyes. what a beautiful black. like a void. i could drown in it. how could those eyes be so beautiful? i have seen many black eyes in my life. many. more than i can count. but something about hers is different.

they look like they’re holding an entire universe behind them. as if there is an ocean beneath them, ready to flow out the moment she would widen them. i can’t look away. but she did. oh shit, i didn’t creep her out, did i? i probably did. damn it.

Amrit said something to that girl before he turned and walked away to the first court. the girl turned and walked towards the third court. i racked through my brains and remembered Gayatri di, one of the other seniors telling me about Amrit bhaiya’s sister. Meenal, i think she said her name was.

she had started tennis about 4 months ago, that’s what Gayatri di had told me last week. and when she was younger, before she turned 10, she often used to come along with Amrit bhaiya to cheer him on on his game and just to watch the other players too. 

“everybody on the court, coaches included, loved her. still do. she was like a walking ball of sunshine. whenever she used to come, even our seniors at that time used to get so happy at here mere sight.” Gayatri di had told me.

weird. she looks…sullen. i wonder how someone as pretty as her could be so sulked. maybe it’s the teenage phase. wait. why am i thinking so much about her? i need to focus. focus, Aakash. you’re 17 for fuck’s sake. damn it.

Meenal

i stood behind my best friend, Nisha in the line,who spun her raquet in her hand and watched as our coach Nishant threw the balls over to each player one by one for them to hit it in forehand style. she grinned at me. “aye, sup?”

i chuckled softly. “nothing much. just hungry.”

“you’re always hungry. i have brought some money today though. so after tennis, maybe we could go to the bakery across the street and get something to eat,” she said. rich girl. 

“fine, rich ass, i’m so happy you have money on you. as if that’s a new thing,” i said sarcastically.

Nisha huffed and rolled her eyes. “oh come on, i’m not that rich. i just have spare money at my disposal.”

i gaped at her. is this girl for real?“not that rich? your father is a businessman in automobiles factory! and your mother owns the best surgery clinic of the city! you live in a fucking bungalow.”

she shrugged as if i had just predicted whether it would rain tomorrow or not. “well, that doesn’t make me rich.”

“uh-huh, sure it doesn’t,” i pushed her forward. “anyways, are you coming to the tournament opening ceremony this weekend?”

Nisha shook her head. “no. i’m not. i’m going to visit my grandparents out of town this weekend. so…sorry, i can’t.”

i sighed, “i see. it’s fine. i have my brother’s batchmates. they know me and i get along really well. but it would be boring not to have someone to gossip about the couples in the tennis centre,” i smirked at her.

she let out a dramatic sigh. “oh my. but please, do message me if you get any gossip, would you? we’re best friends. this is your duty.”

“of course, Lady Nisha. i will inform you on anything new stirring up here and there. so please kindly rest assured,” i did a mock little bow to her.

“good, good. i appreciate the chivalry from you, since it can be no longer expected from the men,” she held her chin high as if she was getting ready to barge in the prime minister’s house for cookies and then walk out.

“can’t argue with that.” my mind drifted off to that boy with whom my eyes had met earlier. i had seen him in photos that Amrit Bhaiya had shown her from his previous tournaments. his name was Aakash. i thought of his curly hair. i liked that. i always loved curly hair. i wish i had too instead of this paper straight hair. that was a reason why i always had my hair up in a braid in a hope it would get curled.

he had such a smooth, perfect skin. honestly, boys don’t deserve that. he was tall, probably almost 5'10". damn, he probably has girls swooning over him.

Aakash

i fixed the tie of my blue-white three piece tuxedo while looking at myself in the mirror. tonight was the tournament opening ceremony. i looked over at my best friend, Adarsh who was scrolling on his phone and was wearing a black and white three piece tuxedo.

“come on, buddy, let’s go. you got the car keys?” i asked.

“yep, i did. come on,” he pocketed his phone and we walked out of my house.

 — — — — — — — — ~

“hey brats. i see you both are here,” Gayatri di grinned towards us. she was wearing a pastel green sharara with the matching dupatta and pink earrings to go with it. she walked over to us and i braced myself for the hard smack she always gave on our backs.

Adarsh grimaced beside me and i let out a low chuckle,used to her unusual form of displaying affection. “you know, there are other forms of showing affection to your juniors, right?” Adarsh said sarcastically.

Gayatri di chuckled and shook her head, “yeah, i know. but i can’t think of any way else for the both of you assholes”.

“excuse you, we’re not assholes,” i said looking at her with a mock offended look. she ruffled my hair, messing up my curls at which i groaned.

“oh yes, you both are! my stupid, yet loving assholes,” she laughed.

“oh, look! there comes Amrit bhaiya and Meenal,” Adarsh suddenly exclaimed.

Gayatri di’s and my eyes darted towards where he was pointing an we saw the siblings walking upto us. 

“damn…i swear these siblings are the most attractive siblings in the world,” Gayatri di muttered under her breath.

i had forgotten what it felt like breathing. i stared at Meenal. someone could tell me i was looking at a goddess and i wouldn’t be surprised. Beside her was Amrit bhaiya, wearing a black glimmering sherwani and a silver bracelet on his wrist. he smiled confidently at us. Meenal was wearing a white Lehenga which had beautiful long skirt with intricate light pink borders and designs and a sleeveless blouse which showed off her beautiful arms. a light pink dupatta was draped over her arms and her hair was down, slightly wavy. her makeup was light but radiant- most of it was the maroon lipstick on her lips which i suddenly had the urge to touch.

Or what if Toji was from Rajasthan & a good dad? Previous Chapter - [Tumblr/Ao3]

There was no air conditioning in the Zenin ancestral haveli.

Just ceiling fans that creaked like unpaid interns and the lingering smell of itti incense trying—and failing—to cover three generations of suppressed caste guilt and child-marriages.

Toji stood near the old jharokha like a bouncer at an Indian wedding—arms folded, gym t-shirt soaked in regret. Biceps pumped. Brain buffering. Calculating how many minutes he could last in this mausoleum of male ego before pretending to get an urgent call from “the warehouse” and dipping.

Across from him sat Naobito Zenin—kurta stiff, spine stiffer. Anger simmering just beneath a turmeric-stained Rajput mustache. The kind of man who still believed in “izzat” over ROI and thought Google Sheets was “western propaganda.”

Next to him sat Naoya. White-on-white kurta-pajama, loafers with no socks, chewing Mentos like it was Adderall. iPhone lock screen was a quote in cursive: “Hustle is my love language.”

“Toji beta,” Naobito began, in the oily tone of Indian uncles about to sell you a pyramid scheme, “yeh ladka bigad gaya hai.”

Toji sipped his chai. Steel tumbler. Pinky out. “Aapko ab samajh aaya?”

“Zindagi mein ek bhi kaam theek se nahi kiya has isne,” Naobito snapped, slapping Naoya’s arm lightly. “Sirf reels banata hai, angel round pe angel round udaata hai. Aur coffee startup mein ₹40 crore jala chuka hai!”

Toji didn’t react.

Naoya blinked. “I have vision, Dad.”

“You have brain damage,” Megumi, standing awkwardly by a pillar like a fresher forced into a family drama, muttered.

“Toh,” Naobito leaned forward now, voice low, like this was a real estate mafia meeting, “tum training le lo. Do mahine. Tere saath warehouse ghoomega. Toh discipline seekhega.”

Toji raised a brow. “Mai koi IIM nahi chalata hoon, bade bhaiya. Aur internship toh paid hoti hai. Yeh toh mere mental health ka surcharge ban jayega.”

Naoya scoffed. “Mental health? Aap toh dumbbell ke alawa kuch nahi uthate.”

Toji grinned, slow. “Aur tu sirf investor ke paise uthaata hai.”

“Beta—” Naobito started.

Toji stood, muscles tense, voice flat. “Dekhiye, mujhe bhi toh nikaala tha, yaad hai? Kyunki main ‘unfavored baap ki aulad’ tha. ‘Corporate etiquette’ nahi tha. Na Angrezi accent, na whiskey-swirl networking. Par main padha-likha tha. Aur maine ground-up infrastructure khada kiya, supply chains optimize ki, aur pan-India delivery standards fix kiye.”

He pointed at Naoya. “Isne kya kiya? Logo copy kara, ₹2 crore ke deck mein Helvetica daala aur investors ko bola, ‘We’re the Starbucks of Bharat.’”

Naoya glared. “It’s brand poetry.”

Toji cracked his neck. “It’s bakchodi.”

Megumi was trying very hard to control his facial expressions.

Naobito slammed a hand on the antique table. “Main isko ghar aur jaydaad dono se nikaal doonga!”

Toji tilted his head, predator calm. “Nikaal do. Jaise mujhe nikaala tha.”

That hit.

Naoya’s unrepentant smile faltered.

Naobito froze. Something in his old spine cracked—maybe regret, maybe just arthritis.

Silence stretched. A fan groaned above. Outside, a pigeon made a sound like “chhi.”

Then Toji sat again. Calmly picked up a mirchi pakoda. Ate it like vengeance.

“Ek condition,” he said. “Main isko jaisa hoon, waisa hi train karunga. No filters. No ‘corporate mentorship’. Aur agar beech mein bhaag gaya toh… investor deck mein disclaimer likh dena: ‘Founder was a liability.’”

Naoya opened his mouth.

Toji raised a finger. “Aur agar mujhe kisi din Uncle ji bola office me... toh terrace se fenk dunga.”

Naoya closed his mouth.

Naobito sighed like an old man who’d just accepted that his legacy now ran on Google Calendar.

“Chalega,” he muttered.

Toji pulled out his phone. Texted Sukuna:

Chhota Zenin aa raha hai. HR ko bol CPR ready rakhe.

Naoya looked between them. “So when do I start?”

Toji smirked. “Kal subah. Paanch baje. Lajpat Nagar warehouse.”

He paused. “Jo late aaya usko main aise tight slap maarunga—legacy lineage sab bhool jaoge.”

Megumi, who’d stayed silent until now, finally spoke up. “Wait. Why are we here again?”

Toji looked at him, tone changing. Softer. Quieter. “Because this property used to be mine. And I’m making sure it goes to you now.”

Megumi frowned. “I don’t even want it—”

“Exactly,” Toji said. “You’re an IIT backend engineer with a MacBook and morality. That’s why I’m doing this. So that if another COVID comes, and I die in some Bikaner Express gym or whatever—”

“Jesus, Dad—”

“—you’re not unemployed AND HOMELESS.”

Megumi sighed. “I live in a studio flat. With a functioning AC. Unlike this place.”

Naoya sneered, “Wow. You’re like, middle class?”

Toji snapped. “Aur tu toh IQ class dropout hai, bhen ke taake—”

Naobito cut in, exhausted. “Bas karo. Dono.”

“Toh likhwa do,” Toji said. “Megumi ke naam property transfer. Naoya intern. Simple.”

“Done,” Naobito grumbled, rubbing his forehead.

Toji grinned. “Karma's a bitch, bade bhaiya. And so is Lajpat’s 5 AM warehouse shift.”

---

They had just wrapped up the property transfer paperwork in the Haveli’s side office, which still had Windows XP, a stack of red files no one had touched since GST was implemented, and one haunting calendar from 2014 featuring a Jain temple and a motivational quote:

“Time is precious. Don’t waste it unmarried.”

Toji stretched his back, annoyed. Megumi was standing next to him, holding his Aadhar card, looking like a traumatised intern who came to help his dad sign forms and instead became the lead in a generational curse.

Naobito, now mildly redeemed after signing over ancestral land to a 22-year-old backend engineer who wore Gojo’s borrowed LVs, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and called out, “Champa, paani laa.”

That’s when the rishta talk began.

“So... Toji beta,” Naobito said casually. Too casually. The kind of casual where you just know betrayal is coming. “Ab toh sab set hai. Property bhi transfer ho gaya. Business bhi chal raha hai... shaadi ka kya socha?”

Toji blinked. “Excuse me?”

Naoya, from behind a pillar, smirked. “He’s like fifty, Dad. You’re so late.”

“I’m thirty-nine,” Toji growled.

Naobito leaned back in his chair like a saas watching Balika Vadhu. “Wahi toh. In Rajasthani years, that’s like fossil level. You’re practically expired.”

Toji squinted. “I bench 240 and can squat your net worth. Don’t push it.”

“Dekho,” Naobito continued, now opening a velvet file, “mere paas kuch achhe proposals aaye hain. Ek hai Bhansali saab ki beti—gayi thi IIM Lucknow. Ghar ka kaam bhi karti hai aur German Shepherds ke shelter chalati hai.”

Megumi looked up from his phone, alarmed. “Wait. Shelter?”

Naobito beamed. “Haan. She loves dogs.”

Toji deadpanned, “That’s a red flag. They always love dogs. Until they meet me.”

Naoya fake-coughed. “Too much protein, not enough serotonin.”

Ignoring him, Naobito continued, like this was an MTV Splitsvilla but with more turmeric. “Doosri hai Gupta saab ki beti. Amazon mein data analyst thi, ab toh uska startup bhi hai—kombucha banaati hai.”

Toji flicked sweat off his forehead. “Mujhe acid reflux hota hai usse.”

Megumi flatly muttered, “It’s literally fermented tea.”

Toji shrugged, “It’s pretentious vinegar.”

Then came the final blow.

Naobito smiled. Slowly. “Aur teesri... Shukla ji ki niece. Bareilly se. Simple hai. Instagram pe sirf bhajan follow karti hai.”

Toji stared at him, horrified. “Bareilly? You want me to marry someone from Bareilly? That’s my villain origin story.”

Megumi cleared his throat. “Can we not shop for stepmothers while I’m still here?”

Toji pointed at him. “Don’t act like this doesn’t concern you. If I marry someone with kids, you’ll have to share WiFi.”

Naobito clapped his hands once, grandly. “Look, all I’m saying is—shaadi kar lo. Property sorted. Ladka settled. Now only one thing is missing: a woman who can handle your temper and your macros.”

Toji cracked his neck. “I don’t need marriage; I need bandwidth.”

But it was too late. Somewhere in the Haveli, Champa Mausi had already started telling the cook to make extra samosas for a “ladki waale wale rishtedaar.”

Megumi texted Nanami under the table:

Help. Dad might marry.

into kombucha.

I want to die.

Nanami responded in 3 seconds:

Tell him to get a pre-nup.

Kombucha girls cheat.

-sent from client offsite

Naoya, now sipping Sprite like he was in a K3G reboot, added fuel, “Uncle, just do love marriage. Swipe right. Even you deserve happiness.”

Toji turned to him like a demon. “Say 'uncle' one more time.”

Naoya gulped. “Sir. Sorry. Sir.”

Toji patted his legs, muscles stiff with generational shame. “I’m leaving. This place is cursed. And if I hear the word ‘kombucha’ again, I will burn this Haveli down and make a protein shake out of the ashes.”

---

Sometime later, they were still in the sitting room—three cups of chai cold, the mirchi pakode congealed with regret—when the rishta talk took a darker, dumber turn.

After rejecting every match like he was a 2009 Salman Khan with better hair, Toji thought the assault was over.

He was wrong.

Naobito cleared his throat dramatically, a smug thakur-on-his-final-move expression returning. “Thik hai, tu nahi karega. Then what about your son?”

Toji glared. “Hain?”

Naoya perked up from his phone. “Oh yeah, Megumi! He’s what—22? You know, in our village, by 10, they should’ve done sagai, and by 16, a proper marriage. Roka ke baad toh jagran hota tha, shaadi ka nahi—reincarnation ka.”

“Shaadi ke baad honeymoon bhi Mathura le jaate the,” Naobito added, sipping his cutting chai like he hadn’t just suggested legalising child marriage.

Megumi looked up, face blank but somehow still broadcasting deep protest. “Uncle, I’ve literally just been employed. And emotionally constipated. Please.”

Naobito ignored him. “There’s a girl in Jaipur. Simple. Didn’t even do school. Knows how to make haldi ghati chicken in mitti ki handi. Good stock. No Instagram. No opinions.”

Megumi flinched like he’d been slapped with a marriage certificate.

Toji’s chair creaked. Once. Loud.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low.

Naobito laughed. “Arey, why not? Shaadi young hoti hai toh zindagi settle rehti hai.”

Toji stood. “Don’t.”

Naoya looked up. “Bro, chill, he just means tradition—”

Toji’s voice cracked open like a fracture. “That tradition killed my wife.”

Silence. Immediate.

Like a generator shutting down mid-loadshedding.

Even the pigeon outside paused.

Toji’s hands curled into fists. His mouth tightened, like he’d swallowed twenty years of pain and suddenly it wanted out.

“She was sixteen,” he said, not looking at anyone. “Barely knew how to cook without burning herself. Couldn’t even handle periods without shame because your pados wali phuphiji kept telling her she was impure. And you—you bastards—married her off to me so you could ‘clean my bloodline.’”

Naobito’s mouth opened.

Closed.

He looked older suddenly.

Like all the Rajput pride in him had calcified into guilt.

Toji didn’t stop.

“She died giving birth to Megumi. Bled out. Alone. Because your family’s ego wouldn’t let us go to a hospital in a city. Said it would bring shame.”

Megumi was frozen.

In typical Indian fashion, he knew bits. Hints.

But Toji never told him this.

Not like this.

Toji looked straight at Naobito, eyes sharp like gym-cut glass. “You think I slept around because I was shameless? I never married again because I didn’t want some new woman raising her hands at my kid. Calling him baggage. Calling him cursed.”

Pause.

“I’d rather let him eat cup noodles every day than risk a stepmom putting poison in his brain like y’all put in mine.”

Naoya whispered, shaken, “…damn.”

Megumi just stared at his father.

The man who grunted more than he spoke.

Who called him “duffer” but added extra chicken in his meal-prep boxes.

Who sent him three-liner texts that looked like death threats but always included Google Pay.

Something inside Megumi ruptured for his father.

Quietly. Without fanfare.

Toji stormed out.

Megumi followed.

Naoya looked at Naobito. Then back at the door. “…Can I come too? I feel like we’re going to get McDonald’s.”

In the car, Toji didn’t speak.

Just turned the AC on full blast, put on Jagjit Singh, and stared ahead.

Naoya was in the backseat, looking like a kid whose summer internship just turned into a Bollywood tragedy.

Megumi sat shotgun, silent.

Then—softly, like it hurt—asked, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Toji kept driving. Jaw clenched. Then, after a beat, he spoke, “What good would it have done? You already hate your last name. You think I wanted you to grow up with more reasons?”

Megumi shook his head. “I don’t hate it. I just didn’t understand it.”

Toji smirked faintly. “Welcome to the club. We don’t even have matching t-shirts.”

Megumi looked out the window. Then back at him. “I’m not marrying anyone either.”

Toji side-eyed him. “Not even once you are of age?”

“Especially not then.”

Toji chuckled. Just once. A low, tired sound.

Naoya, from the back, “So like… do I still have to intern tomorrow?”

Toji, without looking back, grumbled, “Only if you want to die in Lajpat Nagar.”

---

A/N: What did this make you feel like? I really wanna know for feedback :)

Next Chapter (First glimpse of the one you are dating in this fic.) - [Tumblr/Ao3]