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“It’s such bullshit.” Tartaglia is hanging off the side of his bed, his orange hair sticking out due to his upside down position. “I could sue the university for this!”
“Considering this is your fault,” Scaramouche deadpans. “You really can’t.”
He’s at his desk, probably studying or doing something productive like that. Tartaglia didn’t understand him. A total buzzkill, like the rest of his friends. Actually, that Sethos guy wasn’t so bad. Tartaglia didn’t know why such a bright guy hung around drowned cat Scara, but hey, whatever floats his boat.
“Uuuugggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Tartaglia groans, closing his eyes. “I don’t know why I moved here. Everything sucks.”
“For the opportunities, and because you wanted to meet Mitchell Hooper, or something.”
Tartaglia perks up at this. “Yeah, I do!” Who wouldn’t want to meet the strongest man in the world ? He could lift Tartaglia with one hand, one finger even. Do you know how amazing that is?
“He lives in Ontario,” Scaramouche sighs. “Why would you go to the United States?”
“I thought Ontario was in Maine, or something,” Tartaglia whines. When Scaramouche doesn’t respond, he opens his eyes to find the older’s headphones on again. He sighs and flings himself upright on the bed. Sparing a quick glance at his phone, he realizes they’ve spoken for five minutes–a true record! He was really growing on the brat.
As much as he would like to spend the next twenty minutes tossing paper airplanes at the other’s head, Tartaglia needed to go speak to his advisor.
🗡
“It’s really not my fault I read the date wrong! The calendar is confusing here,” Tartalgia complains, his knee bouncing up and down restlessly as he tries to convince Dr. Doofenshmirtz to stop being plain evil. (Was he being dramatic? Probably, but he had accidentally put plastic in the microwave earlier and made the machine explode so he wasn’t in the best mood).
“Mr. Ajax, does that imply you thought course selection was in the thirteenth month–which, to my knowledge, does not exist?” The professor pushes up her glasses and gives Tartaglia a look . The one that his dad gave him when he ended up with blood all over his clothes because he gutted the char wrong.
Okay, so Dr. Doofenshmirtz made a good point. Tartaglia had figured there was no thirteenth month when he saw the date “8/13” under ‘CHOOSE COURSES’ message. But still! It was confusing, and an… infringement on his rights as a student, or something!
Apparently Dr. Doofenshmirtz wasn’t having it, because Tartaglia walks out of her office with a piece of paper that was the new bane of his existence (prior to this, it was the fact that they don’t use the metric system, and before that, it was the height of water in toilet bowls—he called Scaramouche to the bathroom in a panic only to realize that the small pond in his toilet was normal).
He sighs for what must have been the fifth time this morning and checks his schedule. As a business major, Tartaglia figured he would only be taking business classes. But no, of course not. There were course requirements in science, math, foreign language (that was covered for him, thankfully), and the social sciences.
His adviser placed him in History of the Russian Empire because Tartaglia had insisted that if he had to take a history class, it better be something that he actually knew. Though, honestly, he didn’t know much practical Russian history. Just the revolution, and a few other random things. Did you know that there were around seventy cats living in the Hermitage Museum in 1745 and that one of them, Achilles, was psychic? Well, now you do.
All in all, Tartaglia didn’t have the best feeling about this class. He was going to hate it, he was sure.
🗡
He, decidedly, did not hate it here. How could he, when he just spotted the most handsome man in existence walk into this room?
Tartaglia watches the Handsome Guy stop by the classroom podium, and he feels a moment of dread. Please, please, please, please don’t let Handsome Guy be the professor. Tartaglia did not want to get kicked out of university because he was too busy staring at the professor to learn anything.
But, then— then— Handsome Guy pivots and walks towards the student seating. Tartaglia’s eyes widen. Does he have a chance? Sure, maybe he would still fail the class because he’s definitely going to be staring at Handsome Guy for the rest of the semester–but at least it’s legal!
Oh, Handsome Guy seems to be heading to the left side of the room—which is where he was! Great, that means he would get a better view. Oh, and he seems to be heading towards the upper rows–where, coincidentally, Tartaglia! Oh shit he’s heading straight for him holyshitholyshit holyshit.
Tartaglia is fully red in the face when Handsome Guy plops his perfection down into the seat to the right of him. Was he sweating? No, that would be ridiculous.
“I’m sweating because it’s really hot here like who even lives above 23 degrees celsius?” Tartaglia blurts out in that rambly tone that his sister told him was far too fast to comprehend.
He turns even red and is about to repeat what he said, but slower, Handsome Guy tilts his head and says, “You aren’t from California, I presume.”
“No, I’m from Klimovsk,” Tartaglia says, running a hand through his hair. He was trying not to giggle or do something equally embarrassing because Handsome Guy was talking! To! Him! And he could understand his so-called ‘incoherent rambling’. Take that, Tonia!
“Ah, that’s about an hour from Moscow, correct?” Handsome Guy regards him with what Tartaglia hopes is an inquisitive gaze and not a forced look of interest.
“You’re familiar with Russia?” Tartaglia says with surprise. He wasn’t expecting that–but then again, this was a Russian history class. “Yeah, it’s about one hour if you take the train!”
“I see,” Handsome Guy says.
He seems content to leave the conversation at that, so Tartaglia panics and blurts out, “My name is Tartaglia! Well—it’s technically Ajax—but everyone calls me Tartaglia!” He was not going to reveal his other nickname that Signora thought was so funny to call him back in primary school. Childe was not good for his rep.
Handsome Guy looks surprised that Tartaglia continued the conversation, but not displeased. At least, Tartaglia hopes. “My name is Zhongli.” Tartaglia nods eagerly at the newfound information–Zhongli, that was a nice, nice name. “Ajax. Isn’t that from Greek mythology?”
Oh, so Handsome Guy—or, Zhongli—was smart. Noted. That was very okay with Tartaglia. “Yeah, my dad named me after him. Kind of morbid, huh?” He laughs, but it comes out more as a wheeze. Get a grip!
“It is quite the tragic story,” Zhongli agrees. “However, it’s important to judge a character not just by his death, but his life before. After all, Ajax did assist in the burying of Achilles’ body with his lover, Patroclus.”
“You think they were lovers?” Tartaglia asks, momentarily forgetting the point of the conversation. “Weren’t they just written as companions in, um, the history books?” He had to admit he thought they were definitely gay. Like—super, super gay. But he had to scope out Zhongli, especially if he was going to make a move later.
Zhongli nods. “Yes. Plato even explicitly writes, through the character of Phaedrus, that the two were young lovers.” His golden eyes meet Tartaglia’s as he continues, “If it was not obvious through their closeness through life, it was extremely evident after Patroclus’ death. Achilles expressed his grief very similarly to which Hector mourned his wife.”
So, probably good with the gay thing then. “Right.” Was Tartaglia sweating again? “So–”
“Ah, did I finally get this thing to work?” Tartaglia’s eyes snap to the front of the room where the professor—oh right, he was here to learn—was standing in front of the podium. She had kind blue eyes similar to the shade of Tartaglia’s own, and brown hair that ended at her chin.
She looked really nice, but Tartaglia wasn’t feeling exactly fond considering she interrupted the very nice conversation that Zhongli and he were having.
“Welcome to the History of the Russian Empire,” the professor says. “This is one of my favorite classes to teach, and I’m sure that all of you will have an amazing time in this class this year.”
Tartaglia spares a glance at the man seated to his right. Yeah, he had a feeling that he was going to have a great time.
🗡
“Scara you don’t understand this is the most fabulous, amazing, gorgeous, beautiful, eloquent, smart, brillant, cultured–” His face twists unnaturally as he tries to think of another word. “красивый мужчина I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Scaramouche asks, his back turned to Tartaglia as he flips a page in his textbook.
“Handsome man. Which he totally is. If I didn’t mention that already.” Tartaglia sighs dreamily and flops down on his bed, hugging his narwhal plushie. When he bought his boxing gloves at eleven, the lady at the cash register had handed the plush to him with a wink. He still doesn’t know why she did that, but the plushie was soft, so he’s decided that it doesn’t matter.
Scaramouche grunts, apparently unimpressed by his spot-on description of his future husband. “Did this guy even talk to you?”
“Yes!” Tartaglia shoots up in his bed, his eyes wide. “He did! He sat right next to me and he could understand me when I talk really fast and he knew about my home city and we talked about gays in Greek mythology and everything!” His smile is so wide it almost hurts his cheeks. “I think he’s the perfect man for me.”
“Well,” the indigo-haired man grunts. “If you say so.”
“I do! I can’t wait to see him in two days,” Tartaglia practically squeals. “I wonder if he’s into fighting. Oh my god, if he’s into fighting, I think I might die of happiness.”
“No one enjoys fighting half as much as you do,” Scaramouche says, scribbling something down. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Tartaglia was hoping he was wrong.
🗡
“I did participate in a variety of martial arts when I was younger,” Zhongli says.
Tartaglia didn’t let him get a word in before he quickly asked if he was into extracurricular fighting. Typically, when he had something on his mind, it spun around in it (similar to a hamster on a wheel) until he could get it out.
“Really? Oh, that’s super cool!” Tartaglia grins. “Which types?”
“I am the most adept at drunken boxing,” the golden-eyed man said. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar.”
He shakes his head. “I do, um, regular boxing. I haven’t heard of drunken boxing,” the ginger admits, his smile turning sheepish.
Zhongli’s lips curl up in amusement. “Not many know of it. It is derived from Buddhist and Daoist communities—the Shaolin temple and the tale of the drunken Eight Immortals, respectively. As you may have guessed, the movements try to imitate that of an inebriated person.”
“You should show me sometime! I’m always down to learn new fighting styles, and that sounds really fun!” Tartaglia mentally pats himself on the back for not swooning at Zhongli’s knowledge of drunken boxing. Because—come on. That was attractive.
Zhongli nods. “That does sound entertaining.”
“Entertaining?!” Tartaglia gasps dramatically. “Are you implying that I would be bad in a fight? I assure you, just because I’m a business major and plan on working with probably very sleazy people when I am older doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to use my body effectively!” He blinks, suddenly realizing something. “Wait, what major are you?”
“History,” Zhongli says, his eyes twinkling with something Tartaglia can’t quite decipher.
“Oh, duh–” He gestures to the class and then slaps himself on the forehead. “So, you really like this stuff, huh?”
“Yes. I find discovering the origins fascinating. There is a story behind each object, building, person, and, on a larger scale, empire.” The brunette slides his glasses up his nose, but not in the nerdy way that Tartaglia typically associated the gesture with. No, he did it in a very elegant, enticing manner. God, he was so screwed.
“You’re–that’s really cool,” Tartaglia agrees, nodding his head with a little too much enthusiasm. “Very, very cool.” Just ask him for his number! “Um, well…”
Then, he hears the door open. You see, Tartaglia has always been an impulsive person, so when he realizes his window of opportunity is closing, he blurts out, “Hey, Zhongli. You’re really cool—oh god, I said that already—and I think you’re really handsome and sweet and–” The tell-tale sign of the microphone turning on reverberates across the room. “ Please go out with me! ”
The entire room goes silent. Zhongli is staring at him strangely, and Tartaglia begins to panic. Did he say something wrong? What’s going on? Oh shit, he was going to have to have to drop this class and he moved things way to fast–
“Apologies, Ajax, I don’t speak Russian,” Zhongli says with what looks to be a genuinely apologetic smile on his face. “Could you repeat that last part in English?”
Tartaglia’s face heats up. He could hear whispers across the room and wow, he really just did that. He just fumbled his chance with Zhongli because of course he literally said it in a language the man doesn’t understand.
Just as he is about to open his mouth to say he said he had to go piss or something, he hears a booming, “He asked you out!”
Horrified, Tartaglia turns his head to the front of the room, where the teacher is holding the microphone with a smirk on her face. There’s no fucking way–
“Ah, thank you for the translation Professor Antonov,” Zhongli calls out. Then, he refocuses his attention on Tartaglia. “I think you are lovely, Ajax. I would be honored to go on a date with you.”
The room suddenly erupts with whistles and hollers, and Tartaglia is pretty sure his face is redder than the fireball whiskey his dad liked to drink.
When the lecture starts, Zhongli slips a hand on his thigh. Tartaglia discreetly places his hand on top of his and squeezes.
He sees Zhongli’s little smile, and suddenly, he is so glad he thought Mitchell Hooper lived in the United States.