"What about this one? Why didn't I score full points for this one?" the uniform-clad youth queries, rhinestone eyes wide and pleading behind his spectacles.

Akari sighs the sigh of the quintessentially long-suffering professor. "I do not reward mediocrity, Hirato. You'd have earned the full twenty points had you gone into finer detail regarding the chemosynthetic reactions that take place in Varuga mitochondria."

"No one could have done that, sensei. You didn't give us enough time." If the older man didn't know his pupil's pout was more a function of chicanery rather than genuine disappointment, he might be enticed to generosity. Fortunate, then, that he's acutely aware the duplicitous imp before him is incapable of proper human sentiment.

There's a moment, a fleeting one, where the young lecturer entertains the idea of reaching across his desk and throttling the frustrating lout with his own necktie. Needless to say, he does not indulge in said fantasy. Instead, he stiffly crosses one leg over the other, interlacing his fingers in his lap (so they do not surrender to violent temptation). Akari's subsequent words are offered with remarkable acerbity and a malevolent glare: "Impossible as it may seem to your amoebic intellect, there are students in this course more talented than you."

"Who?" asks Hirato, the cant of his head intimating challenge.

"I am not at liberty to discuss another student's performance."

"You can't mean Tsukitachi."

"Hirato," Akari says resignedly, "I'm not going to change your grade. You'll need much more than protests or negotiation to effect that."

Glossy black hair falls into Hirato's face as he bows his head in pretend dejection. This deflated affect is a calculated artiface, sensei knows, but even so, his elegant fingers unfurl and instinctively reach forward to comfort. And then he stops himself, abruptly settling them atop the desk before Hirato can intuit his designs. What am I thinking? Not only is mollifying petulant children outside his professional obligations, it's absurd that he feels any impetus to make efforts toward this particular youth. Hirato is, to put it mildly, a classroom menace—brilliant enough to defy authority figures, infectiously charismatic, forever inciting mischief amongst his compatriots, and perhaps most dangerously, quite obviously enamored of his instructor.

Still, something about seeing those vibrant amethyst orbs dull in discontent burrows under Akari's skin. I'll regret this. Regardless, he relents. "Ninety-five is a perfectly acceptable score. I have no doubt your overall score will be above a ninety-eight."

"You're just saying that because you want me to leave," the brunet responds sullenly.

Damn right. "Well, I have some research to conduct this afternoon, so if you've exhausted all your concerns, I really must be going."

"I haven't."

Akari mentally counts to ten and takes several deep breaths. I'm going to crucify Tokitatsu for convincing me to teach this course. "What else can I do for you?" he asks, the words ground out against gritted teeth.

Hirato stands and leans over the desk, flattening his exam paper against it, long, gloved fingers pointing to a hastily scribbled answer in miniscule writing. "Look, sensei. I do give details about Varuga mitochondria."

Akari sighs. Again. Nevertheless, he indulges the whelp in hopes of making satisfaction. The sooner he can rid himself of this nuisance, the sooner he can attend to his cradle cell experiments. Unfortunately, the lecturer cannot make out Hirato's usually-immaculate handwriting. Cramped into a corner of the test paper is a string of tiny, copperplate lettering in nonsensical sequence: "ABTEFICKAH GNIRE OENIKFS YFUR." The blond shakes his head as though doing so might render the incoherent babble into one of the many languages with which he has facility, but the words remain unintelligible. Realizing then that Hirato is wasting his precious time with puerility, Akari looks up, ruby gaze hardened in fury.

He's prepared a litany of curses that dissolve on his tongue when he feels the brunet's lips brush against his. It's a brief kiss, almost innocent in its lack of passion and lasting less than a second, but it's enough for him to push away with such alacrity that his chair nearly topples backwards.

"What the hell?" Akari growls in shock, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That was exceedingly inappropriate! Do you want to be expelled? Shall I inform your brother?"

Inscrutable as his facial expression is, there's a sparkle of deviltry in Hirato's eyes. "You said changing my grade would require more than protests or negotiation. I was taking your suggestion."

Whatever modicum of patience Akari manages to feign is obliterated by the insolent remark. He snaps. "Get out! Now!" he yells, throwing a book at the retreating student for good measure.

The future captain evades, ducking smoothly and seeing himself to the door with a mocking bow. "As you wish, Akari-sensei."

"Don't you dare come to office hours again!"

It's unsurprising that Akari is later reprimanded for making himself too inaccessible to his students. Such behavior is not congenial to a productive learning environment, he's told. Less surprising, however, is that Hirato shows up for office hours next week, this time with innumerable inquiries on lecture material.

Sensei keeps a large reference volume of Varuga physiology at the ready.

This story was prompted by an idle musing precipitated by the previous chapter: When was the first time Akari threw something at Hirato?

I've really missed writing 'Karnevalesque'. Thanks for reading my ill-conceived head!canons.