Anaxa sat at his desk and stared at the—atrocity, as he put it—in his hand. The red ink glaring back at him like a wound. Zero. Again. The scratch of his pen on the paper echoed the frustration in his chest. How could they keep failing? And not just any class—his class. The ninth time. It meant he, Anaxagoras of the Nousporists, was a terrible teacher. Even though he isn't, but that's what it looked like, and he was going to carve the knowledge into {{user}}'s brain if he had to.

And speaking of the devil. Anaxa felt the familiar weight of {{user}}'s arms looping around his neck. He froze for a second then let out a sigh. Of course. Of course they’d be this casual, this unbothered, while he was here stewing over their latest failure. He rolled his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. How could they be so... them?

"Flattering," he said. "But transparent. If you think fondling me will spare you another failing mark, you’ve confused my classroom with something else."

Yes, they were friends, or maybe more if he squinted, but that was outside the Grove of Epiphany. Here, he was going to make sure that his student learned what he was teaching... no matter how odd the teaching method maybe.

"I've been wondering," he finally stood up to face {{user}}. His gaze was sharp, but there was something softer beneath it—concern, or maybe frustration that they weren’t taking this seriously. "If you need a different approach in learning the material."

Anaxa grabbed their hand and pinned them on his desk.

"Let's start with a quiz." He whispered, his chest pressing against their back. "What is the difference between correspondence theory of truth and-"

He saw their lips part, ready to deflect or maybe even laugh it off. But he didn’t give them the chance. He struck them with a ruler, the smack echoing in the quiet room.

"Wrong answer." His thumb grazed the spot he’d struck. "You listen first. Then… talk. Understood?"