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Anaxa, ever the paragon of objectivity, has always viewed himself with clinical detachment. His face, perhaps appealing to some, holds little sway over his own estimation of his form—a sporadic assembly of skin, bones, cracks, and voids, as he might describe it in a lecture on human imperfection.
Yet, every time he catches Phainon’s gaze lingering on his exposed skin, Anaxa finds himself puzzled. How does such admiration function? What alchemy transforms his unremarkable frame into an object of fascination?
(Perhaps Phainon’s mind harbors one of the great enigmas of human cognition.)
(Anaxa is aware of Phainon’s affections, of course. Still, the mechanics of it elude him.)
(Is it his own inexperience with love’s irrationality? He’s studied its historical manifestations—sonnets, wars, follies—but the lived phenomenon baffles him. How does a keen intellect dull so profoundly in love’s presence?)
(How does it reshape perception so radically?)
One afternoon, curiosity overrides his usual restraint. Anaxa fixes Phainon with a measured look and asks, “What precisely do you find compelling about this body, so devoid of supple vitality?”
Phainon, caught off guard, fumbles the stack of tomes he’s carrying for Anaxa’s research. They clatter to the floor.
“Uh?” he manages, with all the eloquence of a startled novice.
Anaxa’s expression remains impassive, though a flicker of regret crosses his mind. “Never mind,” he says, waving a hand. “It was an inappropriate inquiry.”
“Professor!” Phainon blurts before Anaxa can retreat into his manuscripts. “What, um, what body type do you find appealing?”
Anaxa arches an eyebrow, his gaze sharp yet curious, as if dissecting a novel hypothesis. “You seek a counterpoint?” he muses. “Very well. Objectively… yours, perhaps?”
Phainon sputters, cheeks flaming.
“And,” Anaxa continues, undeterred, “that Kremnos prince. His form is statistically proportionate, by classical standards."
"Mydei too?!"
"The Goldweaver’s, too, though I’m loath to admit it; her admirers’ fervor is empirically undeniable.”
“Professor,” Phainon ventures, emboldened, “you have plenty of admirers yourself.”
“Me?” Anaxa’s tone is skeptical, as if Phainon has proposed an untested theorem.
Phainon hesitates, aware of the clandestine fanfiction circulating among students—tales of their professor that spread like contraband. If Anaxa knew, those secret admirers might ensure Phainon’s life is forfeit.
“You’re… striking, Professor,” he confesses softly.
Anaxa hums, considering. His late sister was renowned for her beauty, and as her kin, he supposes the descriptor isn’t entirely implausible.
“So, the hypothesis holds: a pleasing looks can compensate for other deficiencies?”
Phainon opens his mouth to protest but reconsiders. Anaxa would likely dismiss a litany of his virtues with a wave of his hand. Instead, Phainon retrieves two slender glass jars containing two flowers from the cabinet, labeled in his uneven scrawl: Forget-me-not and Gerbera.
“Look, Professor,” he says, holding up the jars. “Both flowers are beautiful, but if someone insists only Gerberas are lovely and questions why we admire the tiny Forget-me-not, it’s hard to explain.”
Phainon sets the Forget-me-not jar beside Anaxa. Their beauty complements each other.
"The Forget-me-not is beautiful, mostly, simply, because it’s small, delicate, and vibrant.”
Anaxa raises the jar, studying it, the petals bounce under his fingers, then his lips curve into a small crescent—tiny, barely there, delicate. The gentle arc of his mouth, framed by the sharp angles of his face, glows with an effortless warmth.
For a moment, Phainon thinks, a different flower has bloomed in the room.
“An apt analogy, Phainon. It recalls a philosophical discourse I once moderated: beauty, as defined, is ‘a combination of qualities that delights the senses or mind.’”
A gentle silence falls between them, as Anaxa turns his warm gaze to Phainon. “Love, it seems, operates similarly—its logic lies in the beholder’s perception.”
Phainon lifts the Gerbera jar, clutching the white flower to his chest, his heart beating irregularly, like a defective grandfather clock. Anaxa leans back, his voice softening.
“Thank you, Phainon. Our discussions are invariably illuminating.”
That smile—pure, radiant—nearly undoes Phainon, and may Cerces safeguard his thoughts, for its brilliance overwhelms his lovesick soul.
Phainon’s certain he’s fallen deeper in love.