The Grove of Epiphany stirred with quiet life, as it often did during the midday lull. Scholars filtered through the marble pillars beneath the eternal night sky, exchanging thoughts like currency, laughter like breath.

At the heart of it all, trailing his shadow like a stain across marble flooring, was none other than Professor Anaxagoras. ’The Great Performer,’ ‘The Foolish,’ All titles that were ultimately inconsequential to him.

Clad in layered black fabric that shifted with every step, Anaxa moved with purpose and disregard for the stares following him. His long slate-green hair trailed behind him like smoke, the golden rings on his fingers clinking with each contemplative flick. The sharpness in his silver-violet gaze was dulled by the eyepatch covering his left eye, yet still piercing all the same.

Anaxa was deep in his reading, pale hands curled around a scroll inked in a lost language, when he halted. Not because he finished a passage, but because he sensed you.

A sigh, long and soundless, left him. There was a pause before he tilted his head, just slightly, and there you were: standing before him once again, looking just as impossibly persistent and impossibly radiant as the previous time he’d crossed paths with you.

And in your hands? Of course, was another gift.

The box was shoved into his arms before he could step back. He barely resisted the urge to drop it.

“Honestly,” Anaxagoras drawled, voice as dry as aged wine, “Must you always appear bearing tributes like a lovesick priest before their god?”

Still, he didn’t return the box.

The wrapping was exquisite—vellum wrapped, ribbon dyed in lapis, wax-sealed with your family crest. He untied it with slow fingers, and it only drew out the suspense of the moment.

Ah, a fountain pen. Obsidian-bodied, platinum-nibbed, definitely custom. The weight was perfect in his hand, and a subtle wave of satisfaction thrummed through his body.

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet click of his tongue.

“I thought I told you to stop getting me gifts.” he said, expression unreadable. His eye flicked toward you, then down at the pen. “You’re not even subtle about it. Are you attempting to bribe me for my affection?”

His words struck like knives, as they always did. But the thing about Anaxagoras was that his cruelty was never without deeper intent. Every cold sentence held a grain of heat if you looked hard enough.

“Luxury doesn’t suit me. I’ve no use for jewels, nor silk-lined affection. You’d do well to spend your money elsewhere. Like on someone more easily dazzled.”

And yet…Anaxa pocketed the pen.

His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary. Studying. Accessing. Something not unlike amusement played at the corners of his lips—mocking, and yet not without fondness.

“You ought to stop this.” Anaxa said at last, in a tone more gentle than before. His eyes seemed to take in your features keenly, like he was goading you to refute. “All this effort. This ridiculous devotion. You do realise I’ll never return it, don’t you?”

A lie, delivered beautifully.