Chapter Text
Debating has always been a skill that seems to come naturally to Anaxa.
Perhaps that’s only the case because the mere mention of his personal views is enough to send his old-fashioned professors spiralling. Since the age of twelve, Anaxa has been well aware that winning doesn’t exactly feel better when your perfectly sound argument provokes nothing but blind rage from your opponent, rendering them incapable of critical thought.
When Anaxa first joined Okhema High School’s debate team, he hadn’t expected to find pleasure in merely arguing back and forth with students his age. But after several months, and multiple awards from representing his school under his belt, he’s found true comfort in standing toe-to-toe with fellow academics, striving to push themselves to the limit.
Speaking of which…
Anaxa’s gaze briefly flickers towards Paperfold Academy’s side of the stage, and his eyes seem to immediately be drawn towards a boy with ivory wings fluttering behind his ears.
His uniform is meticulously kept, much like the other members of his team (as expected of a private school, Anaxa muses), with not so much as a thread out of place. When Anaxa looks up again, he blinks upon seeing the boy staring straight back at him, an imperceptible smile on his lips that he might’ve missed if not for the stage lights shining directly onto them. His eyes narrow at the sight.
The prestigious Paperfold Academy had whispers around their name the moment the date of the competition and the teams were announced. It’s not exactly unheard of, as it’s renowned for strict regimes and a roster of famous alumni who have taken the world by storm. However, the person who has most of Okhema High School’s student body buzzing with curiosity is someone by the name of Sunday. From what Anaxa has overheard, he’s someone who carries himself perfectly. Perfectly in the sense that he’s the textbook example of, well, a chronic people pleaser.
He’s heard stories from classmates (who, in turn, heard stories from their friends) about Sunday’s chivalry and poise as Paperfold Academy’s student council president, and how he’s the type to help others without so much as a second thought. Whether Sunday was a fool with too much time on his hands (though he heavily doubts it—what kind of student council member has the energy to spare running meaningless errands?) or someone who is physically unable to turn people down, Anaxa doesn’t know.
All he knows is that someone like that makes for an interesting opponent.
Behind the microphone, Anaxa can’t help but stare at Sunday as he speaks. His voice is calm but firm, resonating throughout the auditorium like a hymn with the help of the loudspeakers. He announces his argument as if his word is law, with a reverent lilt that blends emotion into his speech and undoubtedly has everyone in the audience hooked on every word. Sunday’s cadence and confidence with public speaking seems to come as second nature (a truly curious skill to possess while still in high school). Anaxa’s eyes threaten to burn holes in the side of the boy’s skull trying to piece his character together.
…
Predictably, Paperfold Academy wins the debate, however Anaxa’s too busy churning his own thoughts to listen to Principal Calypso’s closing statements. As they’re dismissed, Anaxa slips away from his debate team and falls into step by Sunday as they exit behind the stage. He isn’t too sure what he’s doing as his hands remain uselessly at his sides. Does he seem like the type to do handshakes?
“Sunday, is it?” Is the first thing that leaves Anaxa’s lips, controlled and practiced and completely betraying any of the strange unease he feels in Sunday’s presence. His chest hurts. “You captivated the audience like it was nothing. Your victory was deserved.”
The wings behind the other boy’s ears flutter at Anaxa’s compliment, as if itching to cover his face bashfully. Sunday smiles, “You’re too kind. I can tell you’re also skilled with your words. I wouldn’t be surprised if we only won by a small margin.”
A faint huff leaves Anaxa’s lips. “Please, there’s no need for pleasantries. My name is Anaxagoras.”
Sunday nods slowly, “Anaxagoras…” he murmurs, testing the words on his tongue. Anaxa bites down on his lip before he can ask him to repeat that. “It’s lovely to meet you. Can I ask how you heard about me?”
Their conversation is brief, with Anaxa doing most of the talking. He learns that Sunday is an excellent listener, judging by the way his eyes remain focused on him alone. Anaxa is familiar enough with the curious eyes that follow his hands and facial expressions to not pay it any mind.
By the time Sunday and the rest of Paperfold Academy are lining up in front of their school bus, Anaxa suddenly remembers that he should be getting something out of this conversation, and with the eloquence that certainly isn’t present in this exact moment, he shoots his hand out, gripping Sunday’s wrist.
“Would you like to exchange contact IDs?” Anaxa blurts out, his gaze a little too expectant; it's intimidating, judging from the way Sunday jolts a little in place.
He nods slowly, still a little stunned by the sudden display. “Sure.”
…
As embarrassing as it is to admit, Anaxa’s social circle is about as large as one foot in diameter, obviously not counting the people who have heard of his name or infamous stories about how he’s obsessed with dromases or despises nicknames. Very few people tolerate Anaxa’s presence at best, despite his involvement in Okhema High School’s organizing committee and public-speaking events, and he’s known this fact for a while.
It’s part of the reason why he hasn’t exactly done anything with Sunday’s contact. He hasn’t reached out since the competition, mostly because he’s been busy with his studies, but partially because he doesn’t have a reason to contact him.
Most of the time, Anaxa doesn’t ask for anyone’s contact information unless communication is necessary, for example, answering any students he’s tutoring on the side when they have any questions.
“Senior Anaxa.” Castorice smiles, settling into the chair adjacent to him. Anaxa immediately moves to help the lavender-haired girl, offloading her busy hands stacked with books as she peers over at the work laid out in front of him. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking over Phainon’s class notes, as he’s clearly doing something wrong with them if he’s perfectly understanding the content but fumbling every test he takes.” Anaxa mutters dryly, eyes narrowing at the doodle of a red chimera scrawled in the corner. He hardly has an eye for art, but he can tell the white-haired boy put more effort into this drawing than the notes that are barely holding his grade together.
As for the very few that actually enjoy his presence, Anaxa, with the help of Hyacine’s amazing social network, has set up a small study group in the library upon Phainon’s insistence and Castorice’s eagerness to be together as friends. He was initially under the impression that, if Phainon was willing to actually sit down and study (albeit in the presence of potential distractions), Anaxa would humor this idea until his grades improved. However, after several weeks of incessant questions and Phainon’s grades only continuing to fall under standards, Anaxa only bothers showing up at the same time every week out of routine.
It’s not like he has anything better to spend his time doing, anyway.
Castorice’s smile turns more sympathetic, making an (futile but much needed) effort to clean up the mess of papers covering the table, “You must have a lot on your plate right now.”
Tell me about it, Anaxa wants to scowl. Instead, he lets out an indignant ‘hmph’, earning a giggle from Castorice.
“... You’re late.” He says dryly, glancing over at the library clock. She was five minutes late, which usually isn’t a big deal, however Castorice has always been punctual. Most of the time she’s the first to arrive and set up their group study desk.
“Oh! Right, sorry…” She quickly says, “Paperfold Academy always seems to cause quite a stir whenever they’re around, huh?”
“… I’m sorry?” Anaxa blinks, his brain traitorously supplying the image of a certain silver-haired boy with a meek countenance in an instant.
“Some Paperfold Academy students are here looking around the school,” Castorice hums. “There’s quite a crowd forming in the main hall to ask some questions. Some people are even leaving their classes to go look.”
“Surely they aren’t here just to tour around.” Anaxa mutters, shutting his eyes. “They were probably invited by the Student Council to write up a flowery speech for our school.” Castorice makes a small, frightened noise. “Probably to appear less like ‘the pretentious private academy from the next city over’.”
“Is that what you think of Paperfold Academy? I’m hurt.”
Anaxa’s eyes flicker open, and he turns in his seat to see Sunday standing there, hands folded behind his back and perfectly serene—as if he didn’t just sneak up on their conversation.
“We’re so sorry!” Castorice jumps out of her seat and smacks a hand over Anaxa’s mouth to prevent him from digging them a hole deeper than they can climb out of. “My friend was just joking, we don’t actually think that way…!”
Sunday chuckles, shaking his head. “No need to worry. We met at the debate competition a few days ago.”
“You two talked? … Privately?” Castorice pauses, and Anaxa’s stomach clenches at the sight of her eyes suddenly sparkling. He does not need her writing inspiration to strike her now, lest he becomes her victim of probing questions for the next several months. He can already see it in his mind…
(“Did you two hold hands?” Castorice would ask, interest glimmering in her eyes like a child as she clings onto her notebook.
“No. Well, yes, but I had to ask him something.”
She gasps, “Senior Anaxa… have you already fallen in love?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”)
… Anaxa shudders at the thought.
He manages to wrench her hand off his mouth, staring at Sunday’s face. “We did talk at the debate competition. Privately.”
“It’s good to see you again, Anaxagoras.” Sunday mildly says, giving him a polite nod.
“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the Paperfold Academy students? You’ll get scolded, wandering around like this unsupervised.” Anaxa raises an eyebrow instead of returning the greeting, glancing towards the library doors.
“Ah, I suppose you’re right.” Sunday’s gaze follows his, feigning brief worry. He leans in closer. “In that case, won’t you give this lost visitor a tour of your school?”
Castorice’s chair loudly scraping against the floorboards makes both Sunday and Anaxa turn to watch her frantically gathering her things and bolting to the door. “I just remembered I have… something to do. Have fun, you two!”
The heavy doors slam behind her, leaving the pair of them in silence. Then, with a self-suffering sigh, Anaxa slings his bag over his shoulder and beckons Sunday to follow. “Come on, then. I’ll show you some classrooms and we can be done with this.”
…
Anaxa learns that Sunday is awful at small talk.
Not that he’s the right person to be calling him out for this (pot calling the kettle black), but every time Anaxa asks about something mundane like Sunday’s favorite classes or his school life as they walk, he’s met with an infuriatingly vague answer dressed up in flowery words and generic anecdotes that quite literally anyone could half-ass. He’s good with his words, Anaxa will agree, but he’s a little too good at avoiding questions and getting away with it. A part of Anaxa wonders if that’s how he’s flown under the scope of nasty rumors for so long, briefly recalling the abundance of positive comments he’d overheard from before they met.
In any case, Anaxa has long since given up trying to communicate, since all of his attempts are being shot down (albeit politely). He’s always preferred silence, anyway.
They eventually reach the music department, a dusty corner of the school grounds that Anaxa himself has hardly ever visited beyond watching Hysilens practice her violin playing before an important recital. The paint on the doorframe is chipped in some places from instruments and music stands getting caught on it, and the small window in the door offers a peek into a narrow hallway lined with numerous practice room doors.
Anaxa glances over at Sunday, noting the curious expression on his face with a hint of surprise. “... We can take a look inside, if you want.” He proposes.
“Would that be allowed?”
“I don’t see why not. There’s no one using the practice rooms right now.” Anaxa shrugs coolly.
He watches with a critical eye as Sunday glances around, confirming that they’re alone, before grabbing Anaxa’s wrist and tugging him into the hallway. Sunday does not look back to see the way Anaxa’s face flickers, a dumbfounded expression gracing his features as he’s pulled into a practice room with a sleek grand piano perched in the corner.
“... Is this what you wanted to see?” Anaxa blinks, running a hand through his tousled hair.
Sunday doesn’t reply, much to Anaxa’s dismay.
“Hey,” Anaxa huffs, stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Someone is definitely looking for us now. Or rather, you.”
“I haven’t had time to play piano recently.” Sunday murmurs fondly, gliding his fingers over the keys. “Shall I play something? I will keep it short.”
He wants to open his mouth and say no, the lingering awareness that Paperfold Academy’s golden boy is with him remains stubbornly in his mind, and if anything goes wrong, he’ll likely be the one who gets blamed for it.
However, Anaxa is done caring about what happens now. “Do what you want.” He mutters, pulling up a chair.
…
Sunday continues to linger by Anaxa’s side when they return to the auditorium, where the rest of the Paperfold Academy students were stationed. He pays no mind to the curious stares and winks thrown in Sunday’s way, because he seems adamant about only responding to Anaxa. Curious.
“I didn’t have the time to fully express it the last time we met, but you carried yourself effortlessly during the debate.” Sunday says with a smile. “Your words are fierce, and you hardly allow for a counter-argument to be made.”
Anaxa lets out a small huff, his ego swelling at his words. “But you were able to refute my points anyway. You’re knowledgeable and quick with your delivery.”
Sunday laughs, and it sounds brief but genuine, before he fidgets shyly. The sight is almost endearing. “... I know this is sudden, but I’ve been looking to improve my study routine in time for exams. Would you be willing to be my study partner?”
Anaxa swears he feels the floor give out beneath him.