For my mutual; the one who's inspiration hits me square in the face every day.
Every ounce of pizza and cake in the world belongs to you.
Nero sat all alone in the mini auditorium for his one and only class at ten in the morning. The time on his cellphone blinked nine thirty eight as he waited for the class to fill; most of the lectures ended on the precipice of the oncoming hour, so he had a good couple of minutes before any of his classmates ran into the room out of breath from the other side of campus.
Though the thought of skipping the class hung heavy in his mind every week, he would always find himself dragging his body through his empty dorm and getting ready at the multiple save points scattered in his solitary ten by fifteen metre bedroom. It was his favourite class, the one he waited an entire week to look forward to, and once it was over it was home free to a weekend filled to the brim with endless nagging and complaints. There was a vague time in his life when he generally missed home, but he soon realised it was the familiarity of the house itself and not the people contained within it; like a reasonably tame version of Resident Evil without the killing and the zombies. He took the thought back – without the killing.
He would heave himself across the room for some clean clothes while the kettle boiled for his traditional morning English tea and enjoyed the solitude that came with being a master's student in a campus dorm; having a roommate was a luxury he chose to not divulge owing to him hating people in general, and it wasn't the people per say, but rather the humanity within them that irked his sanity to its very core. There were lists of reasons he chose to live alone, but the line that remained at the top of them for countless years had to be 'peace and quiet'; he was a jumbled, messy, chaotic soul, but there was always a method to his lazy madness. Having another living and breathing person in his space would count as counter-productive to his disordered world.
Simply put, he was a genius. Whether he smeared it across his face with peanut butter or had a sign hanging around his neck, the fact remained known to everyone in the faculty including his lecturers; he enjoyed one subject and one alone, reducing him to the most adorable, straight-faced seat filler in two out of his three classes. He sipped at his bitter, creamy tea, contently thinking about the topic of today's discussion with his fellow students.
He was in his final six months of his Master's degree in classical literature, flying through its predecessors at the lowest time required to complete them; with three years as an undergrad and one spent on his honours, he climbed up the literary tree with ease thanks to his ultimate love for the genre introduced to him by someone he considered a complete stranger, even after knowing her for almost twelve years – the memories of his years at the orphanage reading the numerous books on display in a corner by himself held a special place in his head with him having to dig a deep enough hole for them to never be resurrected ever again.
His signature spot lied in the dead centre of the room: he counted the number of rows and met it halfway, shimmying to the column closest to the middle where he hit the acoustic sweet spot of the hall; it was considered his seat, so much so that people refrained from sitting in it. If he was forced to sit anywhere else, he would punish his fellow students by keeping his mouth shut for the duration of the lesson, allowing them to answer the hundreds of questions spewed forth by their favourite lecturer. Even though he loved being interactive as much as possible, his guilty pleasure lied in hearing the like-minded perspectives and interpretations of their set-work piece of literature among his peers; there was no better feeling than being proven wrong and essentially providing a better understanding of your craft. That was what he lived for – the constant stream of knowledge flowing through the sands of time, completing a compelling picture of an untold story yet to be discovered.
Rock opera blared in his noise-isolating headphones as he flipped through his notepad to doodle a few minutes away, grabbing a clutch pencil out of his satchel and clicking it an even number of times as an unhealthy habit. He began in the left corner of the page, ignoring the general margin and drawing small, loopy bunnies running across the paper, jotting them down with a variety of accents that made them different from the next. While he drew, his eyes blinked slowly to the soothing drown of the music pulsing in his eardrums; he lazily rested his head on his arm, moving and circling the lead across the open canvas in front of him too much in his element to notice the unfamiliar figure walk straight past him to the front of the room, neither giving a hint of acknowledgement to the other.
Nero was at the final loop in his professional doodle when a bush of white hair caught his blind spot; in the corner of his eye stood a complete stranger, unpacking a duffel bag with a spread of notes on the table while a laptop bag sat over his shoulders. He was meticulous in his actions, sorting through the stacks of paperwork in the duffel and laying them out neatly in chronological order as he placed their set-work reader to its right, then placing it back in the duffel with furrowed eyebrows, keeping enough space for him to move the overhead projector should he use it. Nobody dared use the piece of equipment owing to the rusting pieces inside that hummed together to make the most horrible noise imaginable. He swiftly cleaned the writing board leaving no traces of chalk or residue; he earned a few points on Nero's scorecard because he was old school.
Rather than study his cleanliness and attention to detail, Nero took a good, sly look at what they would be dealing with today, and unfortunately for the sole student in the empty room the man in front of him looked impeccable: dressed in black head to toe, the cotton shirt was figure hugging and his pants hung loosely on his hips; modern, half-rimmed glasses sat comfortably on the bridge of his nose; the straight, white hair stood out most as tufts of it tickled on his forehead and he mercilessly glided his fingers through his hair, pushing it back. A slim waist, bulging arms, and broad enough shoulders that would make you weak in the knees stared him square in the face, hoping with all of his might that it wasn't going to distract him and the overall learning process.
Nero unknowingly glared across the chasm of air in disgust: if the substitute had a brain on him, the world was officially deemed too unfair for his own taste. Without having to admit it out loud, he was undeniably attracted to the man; there was something so familiar about him yet so foreign that it intrigued him to the extent of wanting to engage in a conversation outside the boundaries of his current literary box. He almost immediately wiped the idea from his head, knowing a conversation outside of anything that didn't come from a book was outright insanity, but he couldn't deny the magnetic pull that the stranger held on him from nowhere. He moved the headphones off one ear to hear if he mistakenly began talking to him in not seeing the humungous red fluffy balls covering his ears. It's enough that he looked the way he looked, but if he sounded the way Nero thought he did…
The man at the front of the room sensed the lone heartbeat at its centre, increasing in pace with every single one of his movements; it could be nervousness; it could be fascination; it could be displeasure at a new face – he had encountered many new classes before and had all of them wrapped around his long, pale, creamy finger, and this one would be no different; all it took was a quick raised eyebrow and an intense look with deep cerulean blue eyes in Nero's direction and the routine, sombre echo ringing in his ears dissipated for half a second. The room was silent as his heart skipped a beat, and the man couldn't keep the smugness from his face. "Just breathe."
His logic had paid off, yet he barely heard the words leave his mouth: his voice was irrevocably deep and soothing, soft, and dripping in ecstasy. "What-"
"Only two hours, three minutes, and eight seconds of having to look at me." His smirk shifted to the side as he pushed his glasses further up his nose using a strategically positioned middle finger. "And I don't think your classmates would let you live after finding a weakness."
Maybe he wouldn't be so bad - Nero wouldn't go easy on him though. "What weakness?"
"You're kidding, right?" His face was pure steel, but everything about him implied the direct opposite: the sass as he relaxed his hands on his hips and tilted his head to the side, tongue in cheek, reverberated from him as the class began to fill: the bottleneck at the door grew thick as the female half of his class stopped in their tracks to take him wholly in, gasping over threshold at the overhaul of expectancy of their lecturer. Many of them did a double take at the room number on the outside wall.
"Please, come in." The man moved to the base of the stairs and called to the group bunched in the corner at the door. "You're the classic literature with Mr Kent?" A majority of the group nodded – the females who assumed the brute of a man spoke to them and them only – and he waved with his hand for them to move faster. "I can't be the only one wanting a weekend."
What Nero heard next was a collective fit of giggles as every one of his classmates of the opposite species filled in from the front row, needing a close up of the creature capable of quenching their hormonal thirsts one by one. He walked up the stairs two at a time, closing the door behind the last student and speaking as he carefully stepped down them. Classy. "Good morning everyone. My name is Dante." He popped the buttons on his cuffs and they flailed with gravity as he moved. "Not Mr Dante, not Dr Dante, Dante." He curled one sleeve to his elbow. "I was asked to present this class not on your set-work but on something completely different-" then the other sleeve, "-to get your juices flowing in more than one direction." He reached the bottom and flattened his hand on the wood, turning all of the girls' eyes to the piece of him that was closest; his veiny arms and hands didn't disappoint and you could see the strength flowing through them in his immobile state. "I was also told that there is a particular person in here that is shouldn't be allowed to answer any questions I ask and that the rest of you wouldn't dare point him out for the sake of keeping face." He leaned forward on the desk and swung his feet behind him, strangely making the whole room laugh. "Wherever you are, please state your name."
Dante burned Nero with his icy eyes daring him to speak; where would he come to a lecture not fully prepared? The room went silent and everyone's chair turned to a rehearsed spot at the centre of the hall where he inadvertently raised his hand for the sake of his class. He moved his glasses again, giving the room a clear view of his toned forearms. "Well, Nero, I urge you to answer as much as you can – the piece we're looking at today is quite challenging."
The class caught the underlying comment. "I didn't say my name-"
"I asked you to, so joke's on you, hah!" Dante pointed a playful finger at Nero to accentuate his retort before going through several transparencies on his desk until he found the correct one. The class chuckled heartily at the easy going substitute, thinking him a well-deserved break from the all serious and diligent Mr Kent.
Dante quickly found a plug for the projector and switched it on, the dreadful sound bouncing off the poorly balanced walls. Everyone in the room expected it except for Dante, so the element of surprise didn't shake them. Nero spoke for the first time after the official start of the lesson. "I think it's best for it not to be-"
Out of nowhere, a dull thump caught the class off guard as they watched him hit the side of the whizzing box with a calm and unwavering slap, and the grinding sound from all the years of overuse vanished into thin air. "For it to not be what?" The class was too busy picking their jaws up from the floor to answer, so Nero just shook his head and urged the substitute to carry on with the lesson. He reached in front of him for the transparency and placed it over the light, the image reflecting on the white screen he pulled down after cleaning the green board behind it.
The words staring back at them made no sense; apart from it being in a peculiar font and shape, it bared no resemblance to the English language. On the surface they could make out a few of them, but they fought against their better instincts in assuming the correct translation without the proper cohesive knowledge of the foreign script. "Anyone familiar with this one?"
A voice came from the front row. "We can't read it."
"You can't read Latin?" Dante looked around the class for confirmation of the sad fact. "You're studying classical literature and you can't read Latin?" In a short space of time, his charisma and understanding of the subject matter compelled the class to believe and hang on his words and tone for their dear lives, and each grave face grew worried in their pursuit in having to learn a new language. As if life couldn't get any harder. Thankfully, the atmosphere softened as a cute laugh fell out of his mouth and to the floor. "I'm kidding – there are little instances where you would encounter this language in classical scripts, and it also depends on which aspect you choose to cover in your research." He removed the original and replaced it with a handwritten one. "When you see the English version, it might make more sense. I took a chance, that's all."
The newer version made more sense, yet still didn't; the class was able to read it, but recognising it was extra feat by itself; most of the students in the class got stuck with the title of the work that Dante had not translated in the English version. They all took a jab at trying to guess what it meant based on the feel and emotion evoked from the lines that followed it, shouting out every word they knew that vaguely resembled it. Nero had a pen and page on standby, ready to strip it line for line and find the deeper cause that was hidden by the pretty words and the pictures it painted. "I don't think you need to copy this down, Nero; I have a feeling you may know it." The challenging eyebrow was back, much to the delight of the first row. "If you're the spark Kent thinks you are, of course."
It was the class's turn to have fun as a collective 'oooooooooh' washed through the rows of students. They saw the look on Dante's face and guessed he wouldn't like it one bit; Nero was always up for a test, but dare demean his love and comprehension of the only thing that had kept him sane for most of his life and you were asking for a world of hurt and brains splattered on the floor. Now it was a matter of pride – twin minds having it out to prove who of the two were more capable of giving the due interpretation it deserved. He gave Dante a face that meant business, but upon seeing the poem in front of him he came to that he wasn't being provoked; the substitute's face acted as a mere shell to a honest hope that he knew the passage above. "This is Vergil. I'd recognise that style anywhere."
Dante kept as cool as he would, but everyone could catch a glimpse at the seething excitement boiling in his belly. "Do you know it?"
"He's my favourite author, but I've never seen this before." Nero dug as deep as he could, but none of the shining lines clicked in his memory bank. "But it is Vergil; I'm certain of it."
The class turned for confirmation from the substitute. "It is Vergil." They simultaneously smiled and the unseeing bomb inside in class diffused with a pop; the room took a deep breath as the cocky smirk was back on Dante's face. "And that's okay; I asked him to write this one especially for this class."
He wasn't buying it, although it made good reason as to why he had never come across the single verse; unknown to the rest of the class, Nero was obsessed with him, and needless to say he was slightly offended by the comments being made by Dante – how he managed to get one of the most famous, enigmatic writers of the twenty first century to write an entirely new piece just for a master's degree class was impossible. "And how did you do that?"
He haughtily scratched at the back of his head as if caught in a lie. "You don't know what Vergil looks like, do you?"
"Who does?"
"Then I can't explain how I did it." He moved his sleeves up further, wishing for Nero to test him again. The aim was not to intimidate, but already claiming the one up on him would be milked for the next two hours. "Now may we carry on with the lesson, or is there something else you need to interrogate me on?"
The room went silent initially, waiting for any hint of movement from the two; it hung in the air like a proverbial elephant in the room until a faint 'ooooh snaaaaaaaaaaap' could be heard all the way in the back, resuming the raucous laughter that fizzed away a few minutes prior. Nero shook his head, serious yet amused. "I do apologise, sir."
"Not sir: Dante." He cleared his throat for good measure, trying to be stern and lost, pouting in their general direction. "Pretty please." He could practically hear every single one of his female classmates either glaring at him or edging him on for their substitute to become more inappropriate whilst squeezing their legs together for good measure. Even though he hated to admit it, he got the vibe that Dante knew what he was doing. "Could we all take a quick look at the poem and compress all the respective years of our lives into the next two hours or so; if you don't, this is going to hit you harder than you would expect."
The class turned their heads to the screen and carefully read the poem line for line:
Nocumentum:
Alone, I can do nothing;
Lovingly addicted to my own sadness
you sink into me like I have nothing left -
As you chase the forgotten sands of time
To retrieve every piece of my soul
Dancing, joyous for its freedom
Out of the dilapidated frame
That was once yours, but ceasing to exist.
With a gentle tug at my heartstrings
you played a familiar song
That ate me from the inside out:
Feeling my emptiness in your ravaged state
you laugh and cry,
Withering inside me as your final resting place.
Dante sat on the table and swung his legs over the edge, moving his glasses over is forehead. "I assume not many of you are familiar with his work, but in a nutshell it's kinda depressing. Vergil is an author that writes abstract to the max, not really focusing on one topic in particular but writing whatever came into his head; his works are a clearer representation of what actually goes on in an author's mind before the tens and hundreds of editing one piece goes through – he always chose one verse for each point, each feeling and each emotion, because he believed anything beyond that was preposterous, nonsensical babble added for dramatic effect." He placed his hand on his chest and took a deep breath, letting his shoulders drop at the exhale for dramatic effect. "His words, not mine."
To drive the thought home he stood on the table in clear view of the entire class. "He also decided on writing about topics he didn't fully understand; sure, the more common place, the more readers related to it, but he wanted an audience that chose a challenge in opting to put themselves in his shoes and crave to understand other than directly understanding the subject matter. It was vital to him that readers went out of their way to comprehend him and his work in their complexity as such, which was what separated them from the rest; case in point; your dear classmate over there." Dante shifted his gaze to the one person determined to hold it. "Being loyal and passionate about literature doesn't necessarily mean you knowing every piece off by heart, but rather being thoughtful for the reasons it was written. I can't begin to tell you how many times I've come across writers who write the most creative, draw-you-in anthologies, and upon meeting them they're just empty shells and the complete opposite of how they portrayed themselves on black and white." He jumped to the floor and regained his posture in front of the projector, shifting his glasses back into their rightful place. "I may be biased in saying this, but Vergil is one of my favourite because he makes me think: the easier a work is to see through, the quicker the efficacy fades overtime. The more confused you are the better. I also have to say that owing to him having my balls on a stick if I don't." His eyes rolled into his skull, earning a chuckle from his spectators.
In the blink of an eye the lecture concluded on a high note; Dante had managed to convert the entire room into Vergil's ultimate – albeit baffled – fan group and they could all enjoy their weekend with a fresh poem in their mind destined to ruin them for the next couple of weeks straight. The front row of girls was open in displaying their displeasure at the lesson coming to an end, and Dante was being professional in not welcoming their advances. Instead, he chose to focus on Nero. Why, only he knew. His head flashed up and caught his victim still in his seat, writing notes frantically in his notebook covered in small bunnies; he was patient until he finished, and watched him gather his things slowly, clearly waiting for the room empty out before needing to move to the man in the front of the class. "Nero, could I talk to you for a second?"
He was already en-route, but the class emptied faster, assuming he was in trouble. "Now that I think of it, you didn't use any of the stuff you brought with you-"
"It's just to look professional." Dante lifted the duffel onto the table. "And you seem to be taking too much notice of this general area." He swished his hands in the general area that was him, a tentative smirk showing off his incredible, kissable, plump lips.
Nero couldn't help but mirror him, his mouth seemingly on autopilot at the outlandishness that was his morning. "I'm not going to entertain the theory of you being my weakness."
"So, of all the things I could have called you down for, that's what popped into your head first?" Nero was embarrassed and blushing. It was adorable. "Actually, I wanted to know your plans for the rest of the day. I know you don't have any classes after this, so I was wondering if I could steal you for a couple of hours before you catch the bus home." He put his hands up in front of him in mock surrender. "And before you think I'm some kind of stalker, Kent told me. He has some high hopes for you, but won't stop talking about his concerns of your life outside of our studies."
There was no reason not to trust him. Other than him being a complete stranger much smarter than him, he couldn't ignore that his body didn't trigger the normal alarm when meeting a new face. He didn't shrivel into a corner pondering on things to say nor did he feel uncomfortable by his presence; he felt nice being close to Dante, like seeing a friend after a really long time, only the friend was someone you have never met yet connected to on an intellectual level. He mentally shifted at the poke to his deteriorating home life and focused on Dante's first request. "What were you thinking of doing?"
Dante adjusted the straps on his laptop bag, noticing his shirt and began to roll down the sleeves and button the cuffs. "Taking you to my home. No point in trying to… lie… to you… could you help, please?" He was struggling with the size of the buttons, clearly too small for his big, delicate hands to manoeuvre into the even smaller holes. "There's something there that might interest you."
"Oh really?" The student set down his notepad, faintly amused at the man being set back by a task as menial – he moved an inch closer, taken aback by the heatwave that came out of nowhere, but fixated in not making a fool out of himself for not being able to do it either. Nero purposely touched at the skin of his wrist, and yes, it was as soft as he'd imagined it. "Could I get a clue to what it is?"
"Whatever I say would ruin it, knowing that brain of yours." With his sleeves buttoned and looking presentable once more, they walked up the wide staircase side by side, gradually slowing their pace for the sake of their conversation. "So is that a yes? I can promise you it has nothing to do with me… but does… but also doesn't."
They reached the door and he stood back for Nero to pass him, gesturing with an extended hand. "You are just as confusing as Vergil."
Dante hid a smile away from Nero as they left the class together. "If I had a dollar every time someone said that…"
