Chapter Text
Baruch Spinoza was a philosopher of Portuguese-Jewish origin, born in Amsterdam, the Dutch Republic, and mostly known under the Latinized pen name Benedictus de Spinoza. One of the foremost and seminal thinkers of the Enlightenment, modern biblical criticism, and 17th-century Rationalism. At least, that’s what your notes say. And you hope to God it’s all correct, because all throughout your evening lecture, you had not been paying attention. Your brain was fried after waking up at six in the morning for the free breakfast in the dining hall. And even though your body couldn’t afford loosing any more sleep, your wallet definitely couldn’t afford any groceries, so it was your only chance to eat all day. What was even more disheartening was that your very last class was scheduled to start at nine o’clock at night. At. Night. When you would usually be snuggled up in bed, fast asleep after reading a few chapters of the book on your bedside table.
So there you sat, nodding off every few minutes, trying desperately to stay conscious as your mind weaved the professor’s words into a lovely little dream for you to quickly slip into.
And every time you tried to zone back in, your professor’s five-syllable words and complicated “if this then that” curriculum just left you all the more discouraged. You ended up doodling in the margins of your notebook hopelessly until he called for the end of class. The room shuffled around you as college students from all walks of life stumbled sleepily to their dorms, slamming textbooks shut and slinging bags over their shoulders. You just sat there, yawning, waiting for an opening to join them in the trudge back home. It reminded you of a war movie you had seen with your dad one time, watching the people file out like a brigade of soldiers, thousand yard stares and dry blood-shot eyes on every face.
Except one.
One bright, young face in particular stood out from the crowd, not just his face, but his whole being. It’d be hard not to stand out with red hair like that.
His eyes were clear as they searched the room calmly, he moved- not necessarily energetically, but it was clear he seemed to have an abundance of energy.
That was a guy who was used to the late-night schedule. Easily descending the stairs to the door, he carried his backpack like it weighed nothing. Which you knew was impossible, if he indeed had all the required reading in there. You didn’t quite make out what he was saying, but he turned to a friend who walked next to him and began to speak.
His friend looked pretty much like how you felt.
Slouchy posture, languid steps, dark circles under his grey eyes, messy blonde hair pointing this way and that. It looked like he was trusting his more enlivened friend to walk him in the right direction. And given how the other brought his arm around his slouchy friend to lead him through the doorway, instead of smacking into the frame, that was probably the case.
You watched as the pair disappeared down the hall and you slowly pushed yourself up out of your seat as an opening in the crowd presented itself. Slowly making your way down the steps, you followed the brigade of students out of the room and onto the campus, into the cool night air, dorm room bound.
The interesting pair of friends lingered in your mind as you drifted off to sleep that night. You’re pretty sure you’ve heard talk of them around, but, you’ve never seen them yourself, until that point.
The “polite young foreign genius” and his “less polite, gangly friend”. There were stories, oh were there stories, but you never payed any attention to them. Gossip always left a bad taste in your mouth, as much as you loved it, so you just did the adult thing and assumed everything you heard was false. Though, some rumors did give you a good laugh. Like how the younger one was a prince from some European country, and, being so out of touch with society, he payed this poor miserable sob to hang out with him.
It was funnier now having lay your own eyes on them. You could totally see it.
The next night, Nine o’clock returned, and you sat at the same desk with your notebook open, trying to decipher your sleep-deprived hand writing from the other night. You gave up after a few attempts and only being able to make out ‘Baruch Spinoza???’ scribbled in sharp, frustrated pencil. Great, incredibly helpful, as the name was also written on the board right in front of you.
A heavy sigh came from your lips and you rubbed your face in an attempt to clear your brain fog. You had no idea how you were going to graduate if you couldn’t even stay awake for the classes. On top of that, barely surviving on free cereal and hash browns in the cafeteria was certainly not optimal brain food. You considered laying your head down on the desk right there and withering away as students began filling up seats. You gave it a shot, resting your forehead on your folded arms and trying to ignore the every growing hunger in your stomach, the tension headache slowly forming behind your eyes.
The quiet and creaky auditorium gradually filled with voices, rising in volume as more and more people began to strike up conversation around you. It irritated you. You were grumpy and you wanted everyone in the world to stop talking. Or, at least give you the answers to the upcoming test. Either one would’ve lifted your spirits.
“No, I didn’t know him personally, Daniel, you’re not very funny.”
A unique voice lifted up and out of the clamor from behind you, catching your interest immediately.
“Now if you would’ve said ‘Giordano Bruno’ we might have had a very interesting conversation,”
He pronounced the Italian name with ease, nailing the accent perfectly.
“-However these ‘professors’ read one book and suddenly they are the masters and we pay them. You’ve read ‘Ethics’, Daniel, take to the stage and give us your best shot. I’m sure you’d be doing a better job than this fop.”
His tone was passionate and irritated, Daniel, you assumed, chuckled quietly next to him.
“I think I should take offense to that.”
As you listened to their conversation, you realized that some actually helpful notes would make your year, possibly save your life and college career. And from what little you’ve heard from them so far, their notes would definitely be better than yours. Well- anyone’s notes would be better than yours, but these two seemed to know what they were doing. You lifted your head from your arms gingerly and turned around to ask.
But you were embarrassingly dumbfounded.
You don’t know how you didn’t realize it last night, it must have been the sleep deprivation or the lighting, or the fact that he sat very near to you now, but the red head was possibly the most beautiful person you had ever seen in your life.
Smooth auburn hair in delicate curls and waves rested just above his shoulders, a richly deep color that you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing naturally. Dark brown eyes that held your stare unblinkingly, almost against your will with an oddly cold and unforgiving expression. It unnerved you slightly.
Pale round face and dignified posture, his mouth in a slight pout or frown. You would’ve been surprised if he wasn’t a prince.
You cleared your throat, breaking away slightly, realizing you were being incredibly rude.
“I’m sorry- I was just wondering if you guys had any notes I could copy? I must have fallen asleep in the middle of the lecture and…”
You held up your notebook to them, showing your sad and pathetically empty page, and shrugged.
The blonde nodded, mumbling a “sure” and reached into his bag, pulling out a crumpled spiral-bound composition book that looked water damaged, and began flipping through pages.
“Thank you so much, I just- I don’t usually do this, it’s just this schedule.” You replied, feeling a bit like a burden as he flipped through page after page, looking for the correct notes. One of the pages was brown and wrinkly, as if someone had spilt a full cup of coffee all over it.
“It’s no problem, I have it somewhere…”
You shifted a little, noticing the other staring at you still. You glanced back and met his gaze again, unsure if you did something wrong.
You wanted to ask him what his problem was, but he cut you off.
“You don’t often fall asleep during a lecture? Is this correct?”
He had a hint of an accent you couldn’t quite place, but it was all around enjoyable. His voice was oddly clear and sharp, it penetrated the noise in the auditorium easily.
“Yeah, that’s right.” You answered him, feeling a little judged.
“Why is that, do you think?”
He spoke unapologetically, never breaking eye contact. You suddenly felt like you were at a job interview. You furrowed your eyebrows and unconsciously stood up straighter. Were you going to have a bully? He seemed young enough to be bullying people still.
“I’m sorry?” You said, finally.
“What do you think of this professor? Do you think him adequate for what you are paying for tuition?” He rolled the “r” on the word “professor”.
“Oh.”
A bit of relief washed through you as you realized he was complaining about the teacher again, not taking a dig at your academic determination. Although, it felt like a loaded question. He looked like he had a plethora of opinions waiting to be released as he awaited your answer.
“I don’t really- yes? I think I do. I’m not sure really. I haven’t been awake for any of his lectures yet.” You laughed nervously.
He turned his head calmly to look at his friend, who ignored him as he still flipped through the pages.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about, Daniel. This poor girl can’t even keep her eyes open.”
He gestured to you with an open hand, still facing Daniel, who finally ripped out a page from his composition notebook and handed it to you, his tired grey eyes meeting yours.
“There it is.”
And before you could thank him-
“Are you a pantheist yourself?”
You looked from one to the other, feeling a bit of whiplash beginning to fester in your neck.
“A what?”
“A pantheist. Such as Baruch Spinoza, the topic of the lecture.“
His brown eyes bore into yours, he barely ever moved, and when he did, to gesture with his hand or adjust his seat, he did it with a sort of biblical grace. Like how you imagined Jesus moved. Your eyes caught the motion of his hand and noticed pale fingers decorated with rings.
“I was raised Christian but…” You said, writing the notes hurriedly into your own notebook, squinting at the messy handwriting.
“My relationship with the big man is a bit complicated now.” You gave him a tight smile “What about you? You seem to know a lot about it.”
He gave you a slow and understanding nod before replying.
“It is one topic of many that interest me, however I’m no loyal to it than yourself.”
He stared down at you with regal posture and stillness as you hunched over your paper, scribbling the last few sentences. With these few paragraphs alone you were already thinking of all the books you needed to borrow from the campus library. In all honesty, with the amount of class you slept away yesterday, you were looking at an all-nighter surrounded by books and a bucket sized coffee cup.
“Again, thank you so much. You have no idea how much this helped. I‘ve got my work cut out for me.” You looked up and smiled gratefully, giving the paper back to him.
“Sure.” Daniel replied. He began opening his notebook to place the paper back inside, when the paper was delicately taken out of his hand. He didn’t even take pause and he closed his notebook anyway, as if used to his friend’s sticky fingers.
“It was such a pleasure to talk with you. It is not very often I find someone so willing for a conversation like myself, I tell you.”
As he spoke to you, he took a pen which rested atop his desk, very sleek and elegant, it looked like it had a nice heft and weight to it as it shifted between his fingers. He jotted down something at the bottom of the page, dark eyelashes resting on his cheekbones as his eyes cast downward before flitting up again and handing the page back to you.
Curiously, you took it again with two fingers, glancing at Daniel for any sign of correction or confusion. He merely placed his notebook back into his bag, uncaring.
“We do not need it.” Daniel’s friend assured you, “Please keep it.”
You stared at him for a second, and smiled. Something about his energy was…addicting. His subtle feline movements, his confident tone and gestures, the cool, pointed expression that never wavered from his face. He was all too perfect.
It was almost eerie…
The auditorium around you had quieted down gradually as the professor walked in, his heels thumping on the old wood floor. Desks creaked and chairs scooted in as friends departed from their conversations to sit down.
“Again, thank you so much.” You whispered, giving both a grateful nod, which they returned, before finally turning around in your seat again and peering at the page you were gifted.
Immediately it caught your eye. In rich black ink and curling neat cursive, was a short paragraph on the bottom of the page, an odd contrast with the lazy and dull pencil writing above it.
It was an apartment address, in a neighborhood you passed frequently just outside campus. A very wealthy neighborhood, if you remembered correctly.
Under the address, was a short note written in handwriting that matched his looks perfectly, small, neat, and clean.
“If ever you should need help again, please have no hesitance in coming by our apartment.”
-Armand