Chapter Text
“Dig savner. Du fehlst mir. Tu me manques
All these expressions can mean ‘I miss you’.
Back to our lesson, Te desidero. Desire, the one who desires is the one lacking.
But desidero doesn't entirely correspond to 'lack'; its original phrase is 'de sidere' ,from stars.”
Astarion's eyes had been fixed placidly on the blackboard, but now he felt the gaze of his Latin teacher, Aiden Urge, settle upon him. It was a gaze he could not evade, one that he had grown accustomed to yet still feared.
But this time, if it came from Urge, perhaps it meant something different.
Astarion shivered, though the classroom was warm. How many lessons had he sat through, hyperaware of the master's presence yet unable to meet his eye? The drone of conjugations and declensions faded away, until there was only that gaze probing him, seeing through his skin and bones to bare his innermost secrets.
"Desiderium," Urge’s voice softened, weighted with unspoken longing. Astarion's breath caught in his throat. Desire - to yearn for a distant star. For so long he had burned under that relentless gaze, never dreaming it could hint at hidden depths, an aching chasm beneath that worldly exterior. Dared he hope that the master might return his own furtive desire? The gaze enveloped him, tantalizing, terrifying, irresistible.
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It started three months ago.
The winter wind bit through Astarion's coat as he hurried from the administration building to the dormitory. He had just finished registering as a transfer student at Gymnasium, arriving halfway through the term. This city was far colder than he expected.
Seeking respite from the chill, Astarion detoured to the University botanical gardens. The biting cold lingered as Astarion entered the Palm House. Now the humid air enveloped him, rich with the earthy fragrances of soil and blossoms. He wandered slowly past aquariums bursting with exotic mangroves and lilies. Entering the Warm Subtropics zone, he was enveloped in the sights and scents of rainforest foliage, waxy greens glinting in the filtered light.
At the end of an aisle, half-hidden by medicinal herbs, stood a man examining a flowering bush. His focus was absolute, brow furrowed in scholarly concentration. He seemed a part of the tranquility that infused this place, as if he too had taken root here.
Astarion paused, arrested by the timeless quality the man exuded. Reluctant to disturb the sanctum they both inhabited, if only for a moment, Astarion slipped away silently. The man never stirred, lost in contemplation of delicate petals and medicinal veins. Astarion carried the memory of that transcendent peace with him back into the cold winter streets.
They were strangers still.
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Astarion slid into an empty seat just as the Latin teacher entered the classroom. He recognized him instantly as the man from the greenhouse, though he still did not know his name. Up close, the intensity in his dark gaze was even more apparent.
As the conjugations began, a balled up note landed on Astarion's desk. Unfolding it, he saw a crude drawing of a white-haired figure with red eyes. Scrawled underneath was the word "misfoster."
Astarion's cheeks burned as muffled laughter broke out. He stared straight ahead, struggling to ignore the taunts, but his strange features had made him a target once again.
Without a word, the teacher strode over and snatched the note from Astarion's desk, his movements sharp and precise. His dark gaze bored into the laughing students, glinting with a peculiar ferocity that bordered on menacing. Deliberately, he tore the note in half, then quarters.
Astarion watched, as Urge methodically ripped the note again and again until it was confetti scattered. The laughter died abruptly. A tense silence fell over the classroom as Urge crossed to the window and tossed the shreds outside with a violence that seemed barely contained.
Turning back to the stunned students, Urge's manner was once again academic and detached, as if the eruption had never occurred. Still, Astarion knew he had glimpsed something dark stir within him, something that lurked beneath that scholarly reserve.
After class, Astarion approached Urge hesitantly. "Thank you for what you did, sir..."
"I'm in a hurry," Urge interjected briskly, already gathering his books with sharp, jerky motions. His tone was cool and impersonal, as if addressing a stranger.
Astarion faltered, taken aback. Just minutes ago, this man had come to his defense with a ferocity bordering on feral. Now he brushed past as if the incident had never occurred, no flicker of recognition in his shuttered gaze.
Watching Urge's retreating figure, Astarion felt oddly bereft, like witnessing a mask abruptly slip back into place. He had hoped for some evidence of the unspoken connection he was so sure they shared. But Urge moved on with detached indifference, any insights failing to penetrate the social barriers he maintained.