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Clavis was already bored.
He sprawled in his seat
like it was a chaise longue,
one boot perched arrogantly
on the edge of the desk in front of him.
A pen twirled between his fingers
with the lazy dexterity
of a street magician
and the attention span
of a cat in a sunbeam.
His gaze wandered through shafts of light
and floating flecks of air,
like his thoughts were unraveling
thread by golden thread.
The professor—
a tweed-wrapped relic clinging to tenure
and some long-faded dream of Socratic glory—
opened the floor with a classic:
“Is beauty a form of truth?”
Half the class parroted Keats.
The other half tried defining
truth
in language so dense and self-important,
Clavis considered faking death
just to end the discussion.
He sighed.
Then, slowly—
like it might cost him something—
he raised
his hand.
The professor flinched.
Subtly.
“Mr. Lelouch?”
Clavis smirked like a knife dressed for dinner.
He shifted languidly,
crossing one leg over the other
with a flourish.
The hem of his long coat fanned open.
His outfit, as always,
toed the line between costume and rebellion:
tailored blazer,
layered textures,
collar tilted just a little wrong—
like a dare no one had taken yet.
He looked like he’d wandered out of a museum exhibit
on decadent student revolutionaries—
structured, dramatic,
and disheveled enough
to make one question whether he was headed to a philosophy lecture
or a coup.
“Beauty’s not truth,” he drawled,
twirling his pen between long fingers.
“It’s a costume. A very useful one.
Dress a lie up nicely enough,
and most people will kiss it
before they question it.”
A few students laughed—
nervous little exhalations.
He caught the pen mid-spin,
held it like a scalpel,
then let it drop
with a soft
clack
against the desk.
“Or, to put it another way—
if I whispered sweet nothings
while handing you a poisoned drink,
you’d probably still call it romantic.
Until your lungs gave out.”
More laughter now,
edged and uneven.
Clavis leaned back,
hands laced behind his head,
gaze sweeping the room
with the lazy satisfaction
of a pyromaniac
watching the first curls of smoke.
He adored the slightly scorched silence
he always left behind.
Except this time—
A new voice drifted in.
Smooth as dusk,
and just as certain.
It struck him like piano keys
played by moonlight—
soft, deliberate,
impossible to ignore.
“So you’re saying truth is meaningless
as long as people are easy to manipulate?”
Clavis turned,
curiosity piqued
against his will.
She sat two rows back,
half-claimed by the afternoon light
slanting through the high windows.
Curled into the old window seat
no one ever chose—
tucked
like a bookmark
between sun and shadow.
Her notebook lay open across her lap,
its pages gently curled at the edges,
well-loved and used.
One foot was drawn up onto the cushion beneath her,
the other barely brushing the floor.
Her pen hovered motionless in her hand—
poised, not idle.
Dark hair spilled in wild waves over one shoulder,
lit at the edges like ink brushed with fire—
smoky, fluid, half-written.
There was something still about her.
Not stiff—just settled.
Like she belonged to the space
more than a desk or chair ever had.
A wildflower
in a room full of trimmed hedges.
Her tone had been calm.
Even.
Not deferent.
Not mocking.
Simply—engaged.
Clavis blinked,
the shift in atmosphere tangible—
like someone had opened a door
to rain.
His golden eyes narrowed,
feline and gleaming,
the way they always did
when something caught his interest mid-prowl.
Maybe a flirt.
Maybe a clever little know-it-all.
Or maybe
—
something else entirely.
She hadn’t smiled when she spoke.
Hadn’t leaned forward,
didn’t coat her words in charm
or force.
No.
She hadn’t thrown her voice like a dart.
She’d placed it.
Soft.
Steady.
Unapologetically certain.
And somehow,
that was more dangerous.
Clavis tilted his head,
golden eyes glinting—
not with amusement,
but with the cool appraisal
of someone spotting a hidden blade
in what looked like lace.
“Not meaningless,” he said,
voice smooth as silk over glass.
“Just easily replaced.”
“Then you’re not talking about truth,”
she replied, resting her chin in her hand.
“You’re talking about perception.”
His smile held its shape,
but his gaze cut sideways—quick,
clinical, already dissecting.
“Ah, so you believe there’s a difference?”
“Of course.”
Her thumb tapped idly against her cheek
as she considered.
“If a rose smells sweet,
but you’re allergic —
is it still beautiful?”
“Depends who you ask.”
“Exactly.”
The corner of her mouth twitched—
not sweet, not smug,
just the quiet amusement
of someone who’d already filed him away.
“Which makes truth
not the rose,
but the reaction.”
The room had gone still.
Even the clock seemed to hesitate,
as if it, too,
didn’t want to interrupt.
Clavis stared at her now—
not smiling.
Watching.
Measuring.
She hadn’t laughed at his joke.
Hadn’t flushed,
hadn’t shrunk,
hadn’t tried to charm.
She’d parried.
And worse—
she’d
meant
it.
And then,
without meaning to,
he laughed.
Quiet.
Low.
Genuine.
The kind that cracked out
like a forgotten note
from some earlier version of himself.
“Well, well,” he murmured, lips curling again.
“Looks like someone came to class
with her brain switched on.”
Her lips curved—barely—
and one brow arched
with quiet amusement.
“Looks like someone came to class at all.”
Laughter again.
Sharper this time.
A few students turned to glance his way—
some smirking,
others grateful
the fire had shifted direction.
Clavis grinned wide—
sharp and white.
The kind of smile
that sparkled enough
to distract from the burn.
He leaned back in his chair
like he’d won something.
And yet—
Something flickered beneath the grin.
Just for a breath.
Not weakness.
Not quite.
But some flash
of old ache
or hollow pride.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Most people never did.
But she wasn’t laughing.
She was still watching him—
not with the smugness
of someone who’d gotten the last word,
but with a quiet, open stillness.
Like she was listening to something
no one else could hear.
No judgment.
No performance.
Just presence.
Interesting,
he thought,
throat dry.
She sees too much.
The professor cleared his throat—
voice slightly cracked,
as if grateful the room hadn’t devolved
into smoke and property damage.
But Clavis?
He was already plotting.
Already intrigued.
Already cataloguing.
The precise shade of ink she used—
violet.
Unusual.
Personal.
The kind of detail
most people wouldn’t notice.
But he did.
The way her smile
didn’t reach her lips,
but tilted at the edges
like a thought she hadn’t spoken yet.
The cadence of her voice
when she’d said it—
“Which makes truth
not the rose,
but the reaction.”
It echoed still.
Like a refrain.
Delicate.
Dangerous.
Delightful.
And beneath all of it,
that terrible, persistent itch—
Would she say something like that again?
Would she look at him like that again?
Like he wasn’t a spectacle.
Like he was worth
the bother of understanding.
He glanced her way again—
nonchalantly, of course.
She turned back to her notebook,
tucking a strand of hair behind her ear
with a slow, absent motion—
as if clearing space
for something sacred.
Then her pen began to move.
Not fast.
Not frantic.
Steady.
Purposeful.
Not the way students wrote lecture notes.
The way
someone wrote
beliefs.
The kind of writing you did
when the words already lived inside you.
He hadn’t meant to think of her as beautiful.
But the thought had arrived anyway—
unannounced
and certain.
Slipped in through the way
she tilted her head,
the way her gaze held his without wavering
when most would have looked away.
He couldn’t see what she wrote.
But he knew.
It was something
chosen.
She wasn’t predictable.
That was a problem.
Most people flinched
when they saw the wires.
She only tilted her head
like she wanted to understand the mechanism.
She’d wandered into the snare without flinching.
And somehow,
that made him want to redesign it entirely—
just to see how far she’d follow.
Ethics and Aesthetics
,
the syllabus had called it.
He supposed this was both.
She looked like she belonged
in a painting no one had finished—
something caught in brushstrokes
and golden light,
still waiting for a name.
There was beauty in her, yes.
But not the kind people complimented at parties.
It was the kind you stumbled into by accident—
and couldn’t forget,
no matter how you tried.
And as he watched her—
sunlight brushing the slope of her cheek,
ink flowing like conviction across the page—
he wasn’t sure:
Was it her honesty
that made her beautiful?
Or just the way she wore it—
like it didn’t cost her anything?
Either way—
he’d already started
studying the shape of her.
Already wondering
what it might take
to unmake her—
before she found a way
to undo him.