Chapter Text
"One might as well establish a Department of Astrology!"
The beginning of the academic year is a time when the university arguably lives its most vibrant life. Nervous freshmen are only just getting used to higher education, while sophomores and above diligently imitate a deep, heartfelt enthusiasm for studying. In a large lecture hall that, at any other non-teaching hour, would have been filled with silence broken only by the scratching of a philosophy professor’s pen against paper, today that quiet space had become an arena for debate between two evidently very bored souls.
“Then I must ask directly about the subject you teach—about philosophy itself…”
Clashes between the professor of philosophy and the orchestra assistant had happened more than once. It seemed that every encounter between them inevitably led to a collision of polar worldviews. Perhaps, in truth, they enjoyed these collisions.
“I would leave philosophy outside the brackets of this discussion,” the professor replied. “But I will say this: philosophy, unlike theology, does not rely on revelation. If a philosopher were to say, ‘I believe Kant is right because I was struck by divine insight,’ he would be laughed out of the room.”
The young lecturer sat at the desk with his arms carelessly crossed over his chest, his full attention focused on his interlocutor’s argument. According to the very same orchestra assistant, he practically carried the entire department on his shoulders—always rushing somewhere, occasionally interrupted by extremely important work calls. The silver-haired man somehow always found time for one more debate on any sharp topic. How ironic that a head with little wings should be named after the day God rested after creating the world—Sunday.
“Theology also deals with interpreting ancient texts and similar matters,” Sunday replied. “In my view, if we focus on that, it becomes much easier to classify it as a science.”
His slender fingers tapped quietly against the tabletop while his other hand desperately tried to hold onto the documents in a folder he had been carrying around all morning. The professor sitting opposite him seemed never to let go of a book or pen, always grading student papers. And yet, every time the Galovian appeared in the doorway, the book would be set aside, and that ambiguous smile would appear on the professor’s lips. Despite the intensity of their disputes, the professor himself never irritated Sunday. His somewhat messy hair and the unruly shirt collar—so tempting to straighten—were another matter entirely. How ironic that a man with such a profession should be named after an ancient Greek philosopher: Anaxagoras.
“Any interpreted text—especially an ancient one—is a conjecture,” Anaxagoras said. “Usually grounded in facts, but still a conjecture. And what do you mean by ‘easier to classify as a science’? Did you just admit that theology doesn’t quite deserve a place among the sciences?”
A barbed hint of mockery flashed in the scholar’s single visible eye.
Sunday opened his mouth to offer a counterargument, but his ability to think on the fly faltered under the weight of his own inconsistency. Anaxagoras seemed rather amused by this. Sunday inhaled, had barely formed the first syllable of a word, when his phone rang. A light, rhythmic melody filled the lecture hall as the man reached into his pocket to answer. All Anaxagoras could do was look at the Galovian with bored resignation. It seemed their small session of philosophical reflection had come to an end.
“My apologies, but I must be going.”
Anaxagoras didn’t even have time to respond before the man in the light jacket hurried out of the room, leaving behind the very documents he had originally come for. Well then—someone would evidently have to cross the university once again to retrieve them. Physical exercise is never a bad thing.
And replacing one white head in the lecture hall came another…
The philosopher lifted his gaze at the student standing before him, almost skeptically. Phainon—a young man with undeniable potential, the one whom Anaxagoras (strictly behind closed doors) called his best student—had chosen music as the topic of his interdisciplinary project, apparently deciding it was the easiest option. Laughable.
“You’re asking me to supervise you?”
The white-haired student nodded, boring into the professor with hopeful, sky-blue, puppy-like eyes. The professor snorted softly and crossed his arms.
“Then you should have come a bit earlier. The man who tied his life to music was here just a few minutes ago.”
“It seemed like you were having a tense discussion with Mr. Sunday,” Phainon said. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You wouldn’t have bothered us. And if you’d joined the discussion and argued your position, you might’ve earned a good philosophy grade. Provided your position matched mine, of course.”
Anaxagoras smirked slightly. Phainon pouted in response.
“Professor Anaxagoras, pushing your position by manipulating grades isn’t fair.”
Anaxagoras snorted. Correcting him this time didn’t even feel worth the effort. His tone shifted from sarcastic back to serious.
“Listen. If you want to do this properly, you’ll need two enthusiasts willing to supervise you. Preferably someone with a musical education as well.”
And so the wandering of the poor student continued—now in search of Sunday. Phainon’s logic was simple: he already knew Professor Anaxagoras, and he didn’t seem overly demanding, which meant it would be easier to get through the process—and easier to work together. The case was practically in the bag. The incredible adventure of finding the orchestra assistant lasted a good half hour. From one professor to another, asking where he might be; then to the staff room; from the cafeteria with terrible food to a tired security guard—and oh, there was the grand prize.
The man Phainon was looking for had been in the assembly hall the entire time.
Phainon stopped at the entrance to the spacious event hall. There were more people inside than he had expected: some were energetically discussing something near the stage, others were meticulously hanging decorations. Some kind of event? He vaguely recalled hearing something about it. The person he needed stood on the stage itself, explaining something to students—apparently freshmen. It felt awkward to interrupt someone at work. But Phainon hadn’t run a marathon through the corridors for nothing.
“But I’ve never done anything like this, I—”
“Professor Anaxagoras will help you!” the student blurted out anxiously.
It was his last hope. If Sunday refused, he’d have to go to the local music professor—a grumpy old man. At that point, it would be easier to do everything himself and pray for the best.
“Professor Anaxagoras,” Sunday murmured thoughtfully under his breath.
His shoulders slumped slightly. Something inside him stirred at the mention of that name—not unpleasantly. It prickled with a gentle tenderness and a certain lightness. That was how the name “Anaxagoras” felt on his tongue.
“All right,” he said at last. “But don’t expect me to have much time.”
Phainon beamed. His sky-blue eyes filled with triumph, as if half of the student project were already complete. If the boy had had a tail, it would have been wagging like a puppy’s.
And so the academic year went on. The city turned golden with fallen leaves, sinking into autumn—a season of cozy blankets, rainy days, and schoolchildren’s autumn break. Student life, however, tolerated no rest.
17:32. Late again. To meet both supervisors at the same time, Phainon had sacrificed a trip to the cafeteria with Cipher—and quite a few nerves—to gather the two of them at a time convenient for all three. His hopes for an easy project submission crumbled with each passing day. Professor Anaxagoras was familiar territory. By his third year, Phainon was used to his nitpicking, his criticism, and his booming laughter. But Sunday… that was a surprise. The image of a kind little angel Phainon had built in his head slowly fell apart. He’d hoped for goodwill and minimal revisions? Instead, he got corrections on nearly every paragraph. Worse still, their advice often contradicted each other. That was why Phainon decided there was nothing better than letting them clash head-on. Let them argue. Phainon would simply take note of whatever conclusion they reached. Hasty footsteps echoed down the corridor. The bag with materials bounced against his shoulder, dragging him back. The lecture hall was just ahead. Phainon pushed the door open and exhaled.
“Phainon, late as always,” the professor said ironically, taking a sip of coffee.
The scene before him was unusual. Professor Anaxagoras sat at his usual place behind the desk, and beside him—on the adjacent chair—was Sunday. The atmosphere between them seemed unexpectedly friendly.
“Even Mr. Sunday managed to arrive on time, despite his inflexible schedule.”
Phainon sighed, stepped closer, and set his bag on the table, muttering apologies. Well then. Time for execution—or praise—or both in succession. The laptop with his work was handed over to the merciless critics. Anaxagoras squinted at the screen; Sunday leaned closer, tapping his finger against the table—a habit Phainon had often noticed. Reading their expressions was impossible. What now? Complaints about too few sources? Insufficient score analysis?
Anaxagoras broke the silence first.
“Phainon, why did you include a key analysis in the ‘Methodology’ section? What is that supposed to be? A method? That’s just music theory.”
There it was—the beginning of the end. Now, united, his supervisors would tear his carefully crafted work to pieces. Sunday immediately picked up the cue.
“Also, the analysis of the third movement. You identified the theme correctly, but the analysis itself is very brief.”
Phainon nodded, making mental notes. This would never end.
“On the contrary,” Anaxagoras said. “The problem is that you tied the analysis to the category of ‘existential experience.’ This isn’t existentialism at all. It’s closer to the aesthetics of form.”
His sharp gaze shifted, drilling into Sunday’s face.
“But doesn’t it describe emotional dynamics?” Sunday countered. “There is an element of existential tension.”
Anaxagoras resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Emotional dynamics are not the same as existentialism.”
Phainon looked from one to the other like a spectator at a tense match. Gently, almost imperceptibly, the focus shifted away from his work and onto their disagreement over differing interpretations of theory. They seemed to have completely forgotten about the confused student. It felt like being on one of those YouTube debate shows—except watching it live was far more entertaining, especially when your professor played a starring role. Castoria would have gone mad from the academic tension between them. Phainon jotted down fragments of their remarks in his notes: “Restructure the content” right next to “Sunday goofy pouts when Anaxagoras jokes about his name.” Eventually, he managed to slip away just as the philosophical debate died down and their attention began to return to his work. How convenient it was to have an excuse in the form of an upcoming training session with Mideus. After hurriedly thanking them both, Phainon left the room with a light heart and lifted spirits, leaving the two of them alone with their reflections. Outside, the autumn sun was setting. The lecture hall—usually filled with monotonous lectures or debates—felt almost cozy in that light. Natural sunlight fell artfully on the fidgeting Sunday, who kept nervously checking the time on his phone. There was no reason for him to stay any longer.
“Running late?” Anaxagoras asked familiarly, arms crossed.
“I’m always late.”
“May I ask where to?”
“Oh, believe me—many places,” Sunday replied, carefully returning the chair to its place and smoothing his already perfectly pressed jacket. “Especially with preparations for the upcoming festival. I’ve taken on a bit more responsibility than I should have.”
“A festival?” Anaxagoras repeated.
It wasn’t surprising for him to be detached from university life, but even he usually heard about events like that. Had his constant refusals led to people no longer asking him? Outrageous.
“Come,” Sunday said. “My sister will be singing on stage. You won’t regret it.”
“And you?”
“There’s an orchestra in the program. I’ll be conducting. Nothing special.”
Anaxagoras chuckled.
Nothing special.
“If I find the time.”
Oh, he would come.
He absolutely would.