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The rumors started, as most things did, with a single lecture that went wrong.
Or right—depending on who you asked.
By the second week of term, the course titled “Foundations of Truth and Deceit” had become the most attended lecture at the academy.
Not the most enrolled.
Attended.
There was a difference.
Students packed into the hall long before it began—some perched along the steps, others leaning against the back walls, a few bold enough to sit on the edge of the professor’s platform itself. Those actually registered for the class had long since given up their seats to spectators.
Word had spread quickly.
Two professors. Opposing disciplines. Shared lectures.
And an… ongoing disagreement.
Or, as one student had very helpfully written on the board before being erased:
“They’re either going to kill each other or get married.”
No one knew which.
No one wanted to miss it.
The doors opened.
Silence rippled—not because it was demanded, but because it was expected.
The Fount of Knowledge entered first.
Calm, composed, as always. He carried his notes loosely, though no one had ever seen him actually look at them. His gaze swept the room once—taking in the crowd, the extra bodies, the barely-contained anticipation.
He adjusted the lanterns without comment.
Dimmer.
A few students exchanged looks.
“…he does that every time now,” someone whispered.
“For who?” another whispered back.
They didn’t have to say it.
The second presence didn’t enter so much as arrive.
Truthless Recluse appeared at the edge of the platform like he had always been there—half-shadowed, expression unreadable, gaze already distant.
He didn’t acknowledge the crowd.
Didn’t acknowledge the Fount.
He set his materials down with quiet precision and turned toward the board.
A pause.
Then, in clean, deliberate chalk:
DECEIT REQUIRES PARTICIPATION.
The room leaned forward.
“Deceit,” Recluse began, voice even, “is not imposed. It is accepted.”
He turned slightly, not enough to face the audience fully.
“A lie only functions when the listener chooses to believe it.”
A student raised their hand—hesitant.
“…so people are at fault for being lied to?”
Recluse didn’t look at them.
“People are at fault for preferring comfort over truth.”
“And yet,” came the quiet interruption, smooth as a breath, “comfort does not alter reality.”
The shift in the room was instant.
Heads turned.
The Fount hadn’t moved much—just enough to step into the light beside him.
Recluse didn’t react.
Visibly.
“Reality,” he said, just as calm, “is remarkably flexible in the right hands.”
“It bends in perception,” the Fount replied. “Not in fact.”
“Fact is a luxury,” Recluse returned. “Most people settle for something kinder.”
“Kinder is not inherently better.”
“It is when the alternative is harm.”
A student whispered, “oh here we go—”
The Fount folded his hands behind his back, thoughtful.
“So you would argue,” he said lightly, “that lying is moral when it is… considerate?”
“I would argue it is moral when it is useful.”
“That is a dangerous standard.”
“That is a realistic one.”
“It allows for abuse.”
“So does truth.”
A small ripple went through the room.
The Fount’s mouth twitched—just slightly.
“Explain.”
Recluse turned now—just enough to look at him properly.
“Truth without restraint is cruelty,” he scoffed. “Honesty is often an excuse to say what one wants without consequence.”
A student in the front row mouthed, oh my god.
The Fount nodded, like he’d been given something interesting to work with.
“And lying without restraint?”
“Efficient.”
A pause.
“…and selfish,” the Fount added.
“Of course it is,” Recluse said flatly. “Most decisions are.”
“That does not make them defensible.”
“It makes them real.”
The Fount tilted his head.
“I think you’re excusing harm.”
“I think you’re ignoring it.”
“I am accounting for it.”
“You’re sanitizing it.”
“I’m refining it.”
“You’re avoiding it.”
A student whispered, “they’re flirting.”
“They are NOT—”
“this is foreplay for them—”
“SHH—”
The Fount turned his head slightly, a look of something close to adoration clouded his expression.
Not toward the class.
Toward him.
“I find your interpretations consistently engaging.”
There it was.
The class exploded—not loudly, but in that contained, shaking, silent excitement. Shoulders bumping. Hands covering mouths. Someone in the back actually ducked down like they’d been hit.
Recluse went still.
Slowly—slowly—he turned his head fully, their eyes locking.
“…that is not relevant to the lecture.”
“It is relevant to my current argument.”
“You do not have an argument.”
“I do,” the Fount said calmly. “You are demonstrating it.”
The Fount smirked mischievously.
“I am simply citing a source.”
“You are misusing it.”
“I can provide further examples.”
“You can remain silent.”
“I have attempted that,” the Fount said thoughtfully. “It did not improve the discussion.”
A hand shot up in the third row.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
The student kept their hand up anyway.
“…is this,” they started, already smiling, “going to be on the test?”
Recluse answered immediately.
“Yes.”
The Fount, at the same time:
“No.”
The class lost it.
Recluse exhaled, sharp through his nose.
“Deceit prevents harm,” he repeated. “That is sufficient.”
“It prevents immediate harm,” the Fount corrected. “And risks greater harm later.”
“That is hypothetical.”
“That is inevitable.”
“That is pessimistic.”
“That is consistent.”
Recluse’s eye twitched, his irritation sharpening.
“You would rather someone suffer now than be comforted with a lie?”
“I would rather they not be manipulated.”
“Comfort is not manipulation.”
“False comfort is.”
“It is still comfort.”
“It is still false.”
The Fount stepped closer.
Just slightly.
Enough to be felt.
“Would you lie to someone dying?” he asked, almost gently.
Recluse didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
The Fount studied him.
“And you believe that is moral.”
“I believe it is kind.”
“It is dishonest.”
“It is merciful.”
“It is avoidance.”
“It is relief.”
A student whispered, “this is insane—”
“I’m writing this down—”
“WHY are you writing this down?—”
The Fount’s voice softened—not weaker, just… more precise.
“You remove their right to the truth.”
“I remove their burden to carry it.”
“You decide for them.”
“Yes.”
“That is control.”
“That is care.”
The tension snapped tight.
“And if they would have chosen differently?” the Fount pressed.
“They won’t,” Recluse said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“That is arrogance.”
“That is experience.”
The Fount smiled again.
There it was.
That same infuriating amusement.
“I think,” he said, “you prefer lying because it allows you to shape the outcome.”
“I think you prefer truth because it absolves you of responsibility.”
A pause.
The room leaned in.
“Interesting,” the Fount said softly. “You think honesty is an escape.”
“I think it is a shield.”
“And deceit is not?”
“Deceit requires effort.”
“So does care.”
“Care is inefficient.”
“And yet,” the Fount said, tilting his head, “you just justified it.”
Recluse’s grip tightened—just slightly.
“…do not twist my words.”
“I am clarifying them.”
“You are distorting them.”
“I am refining them.”
“You are annoying.”
“I’ve been told.”
A few students physically leaned into each other trying not to laugh.
Recluse’s eyes flicked toward them—sharp enough to silence the entire row instantly.
Then back to him.
The Fount tilted his head, studying him with that same unbearable ease, gaze drifting—briefly, deliberately—upward.
“…no wonder they gave you such a big hat,” he murmured, almost thoughtful. “There’s a great deal to contain.”
A beat.
Silence.
For a moment, Recluse didn’t respond.
Then his expression shifted—just slightly at first, like something behind his composure had snagged. His mouth tightened, not quite a scowl yet, not quite anything contained. The chalk in his hand stilled.
“…continue taking notes,” he said, but it came out thinner than before, almost clipped too carefully, like he was forcing it into shape.
The room went still.
Even the air seemed to hesitate.
Recluse didn’t look at anyone after that. Didn’t acknowledge the shift. He simply turned back to the board as if nothing had happened, shoulders a fraction tighter than before.
“Deceit,” he continued, voice steadier now, but restrained in a way that made it worse, “does not require elegance. It requires timing.”
Behind him, the Fount went quiet.
Not dismissive.
Not teasing.
Just… attentive.
For once, he didn’t speak.
He just watched as Recluse adjusted the brim of his hat—slowly, absentmindedly—like he had forgotten he was doing it.
Like it weighed more than it should.
And something in the Fount’s expression softened, faint and unreadable, as if the joke had landed somewhere it hadn’t been meant to.
He didn’t apologize.
But a few minutes later, he stepped away without a word—
and when he returned—
the Fount set something down on the desk.
A cup.
Steam curled faintly from its surface.
Recluse didn’t look at it.
“…what is that.”
“Tea.”
“I am aware of what tea is.”
“It is prepared to your preference.”
A pause.
“…you assume much.”
“I observe more.”
“…I did not ask for it.”
“No.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Recluse reached for it anyway.
Took a sip.
Didn’t comment.
The class collectively lost all composure.
By the time the lecture ended, no one had taken notes.
Not a single page.
But every student left with something far more valuable:
Confirmation.
The rumors weren’t exaggerated.
If anything—
they hadn’t gone far enough.
Recluse gathered his things quickly.
Too quickly.
“…class dismissed.”
No one argued.
No one lingered.
They were gone in seconds.
Silence settled.
Recluse stood there, back facing the Fount.
“…you’re an asshole.”
“I’ve been informed.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating it like one.”
“I’m not.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“I just like talking to you.”
Recluse’s grip tightened.
“…lying would be easier,” he muttered.
—
By the time the academy stopped pretending this was just another pair of professors, the story had already written itself into the building.
The Fount of Knowledge had been teaching at the royal academy for years. Long enough to earn reverence from nobles, quiet awe from scholars, and the kind of respect that didn’t need to be requested—it simply followed him into rooms. He was the kingdom’s most trusted authority on truth: not just what was known, but how knowledge itself behaved when examined closely enough. His lectures were clean, precise, almost gentle in their structure, as if clarity was something he believed people deserved.
He had never been challenged in any meaningful way.
Not truly.
Until Recluse.
Truthless Recluse arrived like an argument the academy hadn’t prepared for. A scholar of deceit—not in the vulgar sense of lies, but in the architecture of perception itself. Where truth was stable, he insisted it was fragile. Where honesty was praised, he pointed out its convenience. Where the Fount built understanding, Recluse dismantled it with unsettling ease and then refused to offer comfort in its place.
They were placed in the same department almost as an administrative decision. Shared curriculum. Shared subject matter. Shared responsibility for a course no one expected to survive the semester.
It was meant to be collaboration.
It became collision.
At first, it was formal. Distant. Two minds occupying the same space without acknowledging the pressure between them. They disagreed constantly, but only in the language of academia—definitions, frameworks, methodologies. The students who attended their joint lectures came for novelty at first. Then for spectacle. Then because something about the room changed whenever both of them were present, like the subject itself had stopped being theory and started behaving like a living thing.
And then came the forced proximity outside the lecture hall.
A shared office was assigned under the assumption they would “learn to align their approaches.” Instead, it became something far more unstable. A space where arguments continued without audience, where silence was never empty, and where neither of them ever fully left even when they technically could.
The Fount began noticing things he never wrote into his lectures.
The way Recluse corrected himself mid-thought when he caught an error, even if no one else would have noticed. The way he never dismissed a student question outright, even when his answer came out sharp enough to feel like rejection. The way he always positioned himself slightly away from the door, as if proximity to exit mattered more than comfort. The way he adjusted his hat without realizing it when thinking too long—like grounding himself in something physical when ideas became too loud.
At first, these observations were just that: observations. Academic interest. Curiosity without implication.
Then they became habits.
Then anticipation.
The Fount started arriving earlier to their shared office, not because he needed the time, but because he had begun to notice the exact moment Recluse would appear in the hallway outside. He started preparing tea without asking, adjusting small details in the room—lighting, distance, silence—in ways that made Recluse pause longer than necessary before speaking.
Recluse, for his part, noticed everything.
He always did.
He just rarely acknowledged it directly.
Instead, he responded in quieter ways: refusing the tea, then drinking it anyway when he thought no one was watching. Standing just slightly longer in the office before leaving. Allowing arguments to stretch instead of ending them immediately, even when he had every opportunity to do so. Rolling his eyes at the Fount’s attempts at levity, then pausing afterward as if replaying the moment in private.
Their disagreements never softened. If anything, they sharpened with familiarity. But something else began forming underneath them—less visible, more persistent.
The Fount called it curiosity, at first.
Then fascination.
Then something that made him abruptly stop speaking mid-sentence when Recluse looked at him too directly.
He began attempting things that could only generously be described as “social strategies.” Casual remarks that came out wrong. Jokes that landed too carefully or not at all. Observations that slipped closer to personal than academic before he could stop them.
Recluse, in response, did what he always did: treated every misstep as if it were part of a controlled experiment.
Until, eventually, he stopped correcting the pattern so aggressively.
That was the part neither of them commented on.
The students noticed first, of course.
They always did.
Because what had started as opposing lectures had slowly become something else: a shared rhythm of interruption and continuation, where neither professor truly yielded, but neither truly withdrew either. The arguments were still there—sharp, precise, often cruel in their honesty—but they no longer ended in separation.
They lingered.
They accumulated.
They followed them out of the classroom and into the office and stayed there, even when the room was empty.
And beneath it all, in the quiet moments neither of them labeled, there was a strange consistency beginning to form.
The Fount found himself watching for Recluse’s arrival more than he admitted.
Recluse found himself staying longer than he had any academic reason to remain.
Neither of them called it anything.
Neither of them agreed on what it meant.
But they both kept showing up anyway.
—
The assignment came from the academy board.
Which meant it was non-negotiable.
Which meant neither of them was pleased.
“You will be collaborating on the final examination for the joint course.”
Recluse didn’t even look up from the document.
“No.”
The administrator smiled politely.
“It is required.”
The Fount, beside him, leaned in slightly.
“…this seems reasonable,” he said.
Recluse turned his head just enough to look at him.
“…you would think that.”
“I do think that.”
“Of course you do.”
It started as an argument.
Of course it did.
“This is imbalanced,” the Fount said, scanning the draft between them. “You’ve weighted the exam too heavily toward deceit.”
Recluse didn’t look up.
“It is a course on opposing principles.”
“Yes. Opposing.”
“Correct.”
“…this is not opposing,” the Fount said, tapping the page. “This is you winning.”
Recluse’s pen paused.
Then—
“…then fix it.”
The Fount tilted his head.
“Or,” he said lightly, “we could make it fair.”
Recluse finally looked up.
Suspicious.
“…define fair.”
“We each write half.”
“No.”
“We each defend our half.”
“No.”
“We test which half performs better.”
A pause.
Recluse’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“…what does that mean.”
The Fount smiled.
Not wide.
Just enough.
“A competition.”
Silence.
Then—
“…explain,” Recluse said.
And that was how it happened.
Two versions of the final.
Same structure.
Different philosophy.
One built on truth—clarity, logic, clean answers.
The other built on deceit—misdirection, interpretation, traps hidden in plain sight.
They sat across from each other, papers spread between them.
Refining.
Adjusting.
Quietly ruthless about it.
“You’re making this too easy,” Recluse muttered, marking something on the Fount’s section.
“I’m making it solvable.”
“It should not be obvious.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is to me.”
“That’s not the standard.”
“It should be.”
The Fount watched him for a moment.
“…you want them to struggle.”
“I want them to think.”
“You want them to fail first.”
Recluse didn’t deny it.
“…failure is instructive.”
A pause.
Then the Fount, softer:
“You don’t like when things come easily.”
Recluse’s pen pressed just slightly harder into the paper.
“…that is irrelevant.”
The Fount smiled faintly.
And didn’t push it.
Hours passed.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like work.
“Fine,” the Fount said at last, leaning back. “We’ll test it.”
Recluse glanced up.
“…test it how.”
“We each argue for our version.”
“That’s not testing.”
“It is to me.”
“It’s subjective.”
“So are you.”
Recluse stared at him.
Then—
“…you first.”
The Fount blinked.
“Really?”
“You proposed it.”
A pause.
“Alright then.”
He sat up a little straighter.
Gathered his thoughts.
(He had them. Of course he did. He always did.)
But—
He also had something else.
“…an exam should measure understanding,” he began, steady. “Not endurance. If a student can demonstrate clear reasoning, they should succeed without needing to navigate unnecessary confusion—”
He continued.
Calm. Logical. Convincing.
Exactly what you’d expect from him.
Recluse listened.
Actually listened.
No interruptions.
No corrections.
Just watching him.
“…and so,” the Fount finished, “clarity isn’t weakness. It’s respect for the student’s ability to learn.”
A pause.
“That’s my argument, applause, applause.”
Silence.
Recluse looked down at the papers.
Then back at him.
“…you’re wrong.”
The Fount smiled.
“Of course.”
Recluse leaned forward slightly.
His turn.
“They will not have clarity in practice,” he said. “They will not be given direct answers, or fair questions, or environments that reward honesty.”
His voice stayed even.
Controlled.
Sharp.
“An exam should reflect reality. If they cannot navigate uncertainty here, they will fail elsewhere.”
A pause.
“They should struggle.”
The room went quiet again.
The Fount held his gaze.
Longer this time.
“…that was very good,” he said softly.
Recluse blinked once.
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…I concede.”
Recluse stilled.
“What?”
“I concede,” the Fount repeated easily. “Your version is stronger.”
The Fount leaned back in his chair, his hands crossing behind his head like he’d already decided the debate was over.
Recluse studied him.
Carefully.
“…no,” he said slowly. “You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You argued against it.”
“I did.”
“And now you’ve changed your position.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
The Fount hesitated.
Just slightly.
Because he’d seen it.
That moment—
when Recluse spoke.
The way his voice had steadied.
The way he meant it.
The way—
he cared.
“…because,” the Fount said, a little lighter now, “you’re more convincing.”
Recluse didn’t look away.
“…that’s not sufficient.”
“It is for me.”
“You don’t yield without reason.”
“I just did.”
“That’s inconsistent.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Recluse’s eyes narrowed.
But not sharply.
Just… thinking.
“…you’re letting me win,” he said.
The Fount smiled.
Small.
Warm.
“Maybe.”
A pause.
Recluse looked down at the papers again.
Then back at him.
And for a second—
just a second—
something shifted.
“…you’re an idiot,” he said.
A smile.
Not fleeting this time.
Not accidental.
It stayed—small, restrained, but undeniably there.
The Fount froze.
“…you’re smiling,” he said, like he’d just discovered something illegal.
Recluse didn’t correct him.
Which was worse.
“I’m glad your eyes still work after all this time.” he said, stepping closer instead.
Closer.
Too close for something that was supposed to be professional.
“…give me that,” Recluse added, reaching for the papers.
The Fount, suddenly very aware of his own hands, attempted to pass them over like a normal cookie.
He failed.
Their fingers brushed.
And lingered.
Not long.
But not short enough to be nothing.
The Fount’s brain shut off instantly.
(Oh.)
(Oh that was on purpose.)
(That was— that was deliberate contact—)
(I am going to pass away—)
Recluse took the papers.
Calm.
Composed.
Still faintly smiling like this meant absolutely nothing.
“…I’m glad we’re using my version,” he said.
“Yeah,” the Fount said immediately.
Too fast.
Too agreeable.
“I mean—yes. Obviously. Yours is—better. Superior, even. I’ve always said that. Frequently.”
Recluse glanced at him.
“…you argued against it for twenty minutes.”
The Fount didn’t hesitate.
“I was wrong.”
A pause.
Recluse’s smile twitched.
Just slightly deeper.
“…you’re inconsistent.”
“I’m evolving.”
“You’re folding.”
“I’m choosing my battles.”
“…you’re strange,” Recluse said.
“Only around you.”
Silence.
Recluse blinked once.
Like he hadn’t expected that.
Like he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
“…that sounds like a problem,” he said finally.
“It is,” the Fount agreed.
Very sincerely.
A beat.
Recluse looked away first.
Clearing his throat—subtle, but there.
“You’re annoying.”
“I’ve been told. Usually by you. Repeatedly.”
Recluse huffed.
Quiet.
Almost amused.
He turned toward the door, papers in hand—
paused—
“…your argument wasn’t weak,” he said.
The Fount straightened slightly.
Trying very hard to act like a person who was not currently unraveling.
“…it just wasn’t correct.”
“Right,” the Fount nodded. “Of course. Naturally. I’ll—adjust my entire worldview accordingly.”
Recluse hesitated.
Then, just barely—
that smile again.
“…don’t,” he said.
The Fount blinked.
Recluse didn’t turn around.
“…I like you much better like this.”
A pause.
“…you like me,” the Fount said, softer now.
Recluse went still.
Just for a second.
“…you’re tolerable.”
“That’s basically a confession.”
“It is not.”
“It is to me.”
Recluse shook his head slightly, like he was done with this conversation.
(He wasn’t.)
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet—”
The Fount gestured vaguely between them.
“It’s a miracle you haven’t quit.”
Another pause.
Recluse didn’t answer that.
Instead—
he opened the door.
Stopped.
“…you’re becoming a distraction,” he said.
The Fount smiled.
Recluse glanced back at him.
That same look.
Sharp—but softer around the edges now.
“…don’t make it a habit,” he said.
“No promises.”
A beat.
Recluse almost smiled again.
Then he left.
The door closed.
Silence.
The Fount sat there calmly for exactly three seconds.
Then—
he grabbed his own hand like it had personally betrayed him.
“…that was intentional,” he whispered.
A pause.
Then, with absolute certainty:
“…I’m never washing this again.”
He looked at the door.
Completely doomed.
“Oh witches, this is catastrophic,” he added.
“…I am in love with him.”
And somehow—
he looked thrilled about it.
—
The exam room was silent, unnaturally so.
Pages turning.
Pens scratching.
The occasional sigh of a struggling student.
At the front of the room, Recluse sat with a book open in his hands.
Unread.
Completely unread.
His eyes hadn’t moved from the same line in at least ten minutes.
Across the room, the Fount sat at a desk he absolutely did not need.
A crossword puzzle in front of him.
Also untouched.
Every few minutes—
he would look up.
Casually.
Like he was checking the room.
Like he was doing his job.
He was not.
Because every single time—
his gaze drifted.
Right back to Recluse.
Recluse, who was very clearly aware of it.
The first few times, he ignored it.
Professionally.
Calm.
Unbothered.
By the seventh—
his grip on the book tightened slightly.
By the tenth—
he turned a page.
Did not read it.
By the fifteenth, he glanced up.
Their eyes met instantly.
The Fount smiled.
Recluse looked back down so fast it was almost violent.
A student in the third row physically jerked in their seat.
The room returned to silence.
Five minutes passed.
Recluse adjusted his posture.
Shifted in his seat.
Turned another page he didn’t read.
Then—
very deliberately—
he looked up again.
The Fount was already looking.
This time, he didn’t smile.
Just… watched.
Recluse held the gaze for half a second longer than before.
Then—
slowly—
tilted his head.
Not toward the students.
Toward the door.
The Fount blinked.
Once.
Processing.
Recluse looked back down at his book immediately after.
Like nothing had happened.
Across the room—
the Fount stared at him.
(Was that—)
(Did he just—)
(That was a signal.)
He looked down at his crossword.
Upside down.
He hadn’t written a single word.
“…right,” he muttered under his breath, standing.
A few students glanced up nervously.
The Fount walked the perimeter of the room slowly.
Measured.
Professional.
Then passed by Recluse’s desk.
Didn’t stop.
“I’m stepping out,” he said quietly.
Recluse didn’t look up.
“…Why are you telling me.”
A pause.
“Join me,” the Fount added, just as quiet.
Recluse turned a page.
“No.”
Another pause.
“Please?”
Recluse’s fingers stilled on the edge of the paper.
Three seconds.
Then—
he stood.
“Continue working,” he said to the room, voice sharp enough to snap every wandering thought back into place.
“No discussion. No collaboration.”
A chorus of hurried nods.
And then—
he followed.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence.
The kind that felt louder after everything they’d just pretended not to notice.
For exactly two seconds—
they both stood there.
Perfect posture.
Perfect composure.
Perfect lies.
Then—
Recluse made the mistake of exhaling.
It broke first.
A laugh slipped out of the Fount immediately—quiet at first, like he was trying to contain it and failing spectacularly.
“…I— I’m sorry,” he said, not sorry at all. “The one in the third row—”
Recluse’s mouth twitched.
“…the sleeve.”
The Fount nodded quickly, already gone.
“The sleeve. The confidence. The complete lack of physics involved in how they thought that would work—”
Recluse turned his head slightly away like that would help.
It didn’t.
Because now he was laughing too.
Short at first.
Controlled.
Then not controlled at all.
“…they were shaking,” Recluse said between breaths, like it was a personal disappointment. “They were physically shaking while copying the wrong answer.”
The Fount bent slightly at the waist, laughing harder now.
“And I bet they’ll still look surprised when it’s wrong.”
“That part might be worse.”
“No, the best part was the second row pretending to write normally after dropping their entire soul out of their sleeve.”
Recluse let out another laugh—sharper this time.
“…they tried to kick the notecards under the desk.”
“Yes.”
“…while I was looking directly at them.”
“I know.”
That did it.
They both lost it properly after that.
The Fount leaned against the wall, still laughing, one hand covering his mouth like it might help.
It didn’t.
“I can’t believe they thought we wouldn’t notice,” he managed.
Recluse wiped a hand over his face, trying—and failing—to look composed again.
“…they knew they were taking my exam.”
“That’s what makes it worse,” the Fount said, laughing again. “They were taking your exam and still decided confidence was the strategy.”
Recluse shook his head slowly.
“…no respect.”
“None.”
“…no awareness.”
“Not a trace.”
A pause—just long enough for them to breathe again.
Then the Fount tilted his head slightly.
“And you didn’t even stop them immediately.”
Recluse looked at him.
“…I was curious.”
That made the Fount laugh all over again.
“You were curious?”
“I wanted to see how far it would go.”
“And?”
“It went exactly as expected.”
The Fount nodded, still smiling.
“…so you’re saying you engineered disappointment.”
“I’m saying I allowed it to happen naturally.”
“That’s worse.”
“I know.”
Silence again—but softer now.
Comfortable.
The Fount pushed off the wall slightly, still grinning.
“…you’re impossible, you know that?”
Recluse glanced at him.
“You followed me out of a classroom because I tilted my head.”
The Fount didn’t even hesitate.
“That was a very persuasive head tilt.”
Recluse huffed a laugh again—quieter this time.
“…you’re ridiculous.”
“And still,” the Fount said, stepping just a little closer, “you’re laughing.”
Recluse didn’t deny it.
Just looked at him for a second too long.
Then—
“…you’re staying after this,” he said.
Not a question.
The Fount blinked.
“Is that an order or an invitation?”
Recluse considered that.
Then—
“…don’t make it complicated.”
The Fount smiled softly.
“Too late.”
Their hands shifted slightly.
Not apart.
Closer.
Fingers brushing.
Then—
resting.
Still neither of them acknowledged it.
“…we’ve been out here too long,” Recluse said.
“Yes.”
Neither moved.
“…they’re probably cheating successfully now.”
“…unlikely.”
A beat.
“…we should go back.”
“Mm.”
They didn’t.
The Fount glanced down—
paused.
“…you’re holding my hand.”
Recluse looked down.
Silence.
“…so are you,” he said.
Another pause.
Neither of them let go.
“This is inappropriate,” Recluse added.
“Very.”
“We should stop.”
“Yes.”
They didn’t.
A longer silence.
Then—
quietly—
“…just a moment longer,” the Fount said.
Recluse hesitated.
Then—
just slightly—
his fingers tightened.
“…a moment,” he agreed.
Their hands didn’t separate.
Not immediately.
Not even when they should have.
The hallway felt too quiet now.
Not empty—just suspended, like the building itself had paused to listen.
Recluse’s thumb shifted faintly against the Fount’s fingers.
Barely a movement.
Almost accidental.
Except neither of them moved away.
The Fount noticed anyway.
Of course he did.
His gaze dropped for a second—to their hands—then lifted again like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to acknowledge it.
“…we should go back,” Recluse repeated.
But it didn’t land like an order anymore.
More like something he was repeating out of habit.
Something he hadn’t fully committed to believing.
“Yes,” the Fount agreed.
Still.
Neither of them moved.
A pause stretched between them.
Smaller now.
Thin enough to tear if either of them spoke too loudly.
The Fount glanced at him.
“…you’re still smiling,” he said quietly.
Recluse didn’t correct him.
Didn’t defend it.
Just looked at him—properly this time.
Like he was finally allowing himself to.
“…it’s a poor habit,” he murmured.
Not dismissive.
Almost… thoughtful.
Like he was noticing it in real time.
“That’s not an argument,” the Fount said, softer now.
Less teasing.
More careful.
“…I don’t need one,” Recluse replied.
And this time, it didn’t sound like deflection.
It sounded like certainty he hadn’t fully decided to explain.
Silence.
Closer than before.
Not tense anymore.
Just aware.
The Fount stepped in slightly.
Not enough to close distance aggressively.
Just enough that the space between them stopped pretending it was meant to be there.
“…Recluse,” he said again.
Quieter this time.
Like he wasn’t sure if saying his name would ruin something fragile.
Recluse looked at him immediately.
Held.
Didn’t look away.
“…what.”
The Fount hesitated.
A full breath.
Then—
“…if I keep doing this, I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend I don’t care.”
That should’ve made things stop.
That should’ve made space reappear.
That should’ve made it safe again.
It didn’t.
Recluse exhaled once.
Slow.
Like he was letting go of something he didn’t have words for.
Then—
he stepped closer.
Not sudden.
Not hesitant.
Just final in a way neither of them interrupted.
Their hands tightened slightly without meaning to.
Like a reflex.
Like neither of them trusted distance anymore.
Recluse lifted his gaze briefly.
Not asking.
Not warning.
Just checking.
The Fount didn’t move away.
That was answer enough.
Recluse leaned in.
Slow enough that it felt like it could be stopped.
Close enough that it couldn’t be.
The kiss wasn’t rushed.
It didn’t try to resolve anything.
It didn’t need to.
It lingered instead—soft, careful, almost unbearably restrained, like both of them were still trying not to break the moment by acknowledging it too loudly.
For a second, everything narrowed down to just that.
Breath.
Contact.
Stillness.
Then—
S C R E A M I N G.
The blinds snapped open.
Instant regret.
Instant exposure.
A full wall of students.
Already assembled.
Already filming.
Already screaming like they’d been personally blessed.
“OH MY GOD—”
“THEY FINALLY—”
“NO WAY—”
“THIS IS NOT REAL—”
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK
Flashes erupted in rapid bursts.
Recluse and the Fount froze.
Slowly.
Together.
Like this was still an academic subject they could analyze their way out of.
Recluse blinked once.
The Fount stared at the crowd.
“…we are so getting blackmailed by at least three of them.”
Another flash.
Someone screamed like it physically hurt.
Recluse exhaled through his nose.
“…thoughts?”
The Fount considered.
“I think we may have underestimated how fast students learn blinds.”
Recluse nodded once.
“Not our strongest oversight.”
A pause.
“…are we in trouble?” the Fount asked.
Recluse looked at the crowd again.
Then back at him.
“…academically?”
“Yes.”
“…no.”
Another flash.
More screaming.
Someone had fainted.
The Fount tilted his head slightly.
“…socially?”
Recluse paused.
Then—
“…catastrophically.”
The Fount nodded like that was fair.
“…and professionally?”
Recluse finally looked back at the students.
Phones up.
Chaos contained only by glass.
“They couldn’t replace us,” he said, like it was the most absurd idea he’d heard all week.
The Fount laughed softly.
“…good point.”
A beat.
Recluse glanced at him.
“…you’re enjoying this.”
The Fount didn’t even try to deny it.
“A little.”
Recluse huffed—almost amused.
“…you’re hopeless.”
“And yet,” the Fount said lightly, “you followed me out of a classroom.”
“…you invited me.”
“You tilted your head.”
“…that’s was not an invitation.”
“It was in your case.”
Another flash from the window.
Recluse looked at him again.
Longer this time.
Less defensive now.
More… resigned.
“…we should probably go explain ourselves,” he said.
The Fount glanced at the crowd.
Then back at him.
“Or we could let them be entertained for a while.”
Recluse paused.
Then—
“…they already are.”
The Fount smiled.
“…then we’re not in a hurry.”
Recluse didn’t argue.
Which, for him, was basically agreement.
And neither of them moved.
Because at this point—
whatever consequences came next didn’t feel like consequences anymore.
Just background noise to something they were both clearly not done with.