Chapter Text
“Isn’t there anything else I can do? Extra credit or something?”
“I’m afraid not.”
You’ve been in the registrar’s office for twenty minutes trying to wrap your head around this news.
“But… I’m not a liberal arts major - I’m a Hunter Trainee.”
“Even so, you need four credits in the arts to graduate. Every student must meet the core curriculum requirements.”
She sniffs as though your resistance is personally offensive to her.
“I took Introduction to Art History in my first year, though. I thought that was enough to cover the requirement?”
She moves her small reading glasses up and down the bridge of her nose, scrolling on the outdated computer terminal to review your transcript. Despite the cozy cardigan set, roller curled grey hair and beaded eyeglass lanyard, she was anything but grandmotherly.
“Yes.. I do see that, but the lecture you took was only three credits. You needed to opt into the accompanying discussion section for the additional one credit to meet the requirement.”
She sniffs again, clearly satisfied at finding the crux of the misunderstanding.
Leaning up onto your tippy toes, you try to find her name tag on the other side of the plastic partition.
“Look… Phyllis,” You put on your sweetest smile, “You know and I know both that Linkon City needs Hunters and we also both know that art isn’t going to help me defeat wanderers. Can’t you just check that little discussion section box and we can both go on our merry ways?”
She doesn’t look up from her computer screen before answering.
“No.”
Oh.
“But, my schedule is already packed. I told you, there’s no classes that can fit into my schedule.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to graduate next semester.”
Next semester was a non-starter. Even with scholarships, tuition was expensive and the Hunter’s Association only covered four years.
“I can’t stay another semester, is there any way we can make this work?”
Phyllis is not sympathetic and continues to type away, acrylic nails clacking on her keyboard.
“Please? If I were your granddaughter,” Phyllis glares above her glasses, “er- daughter, I mean, - what would you tell me to do?”
With a great heaving sigh, she punches a few more class codes into the computer and finally says.
“Well, there is one option…”
“You are so lucky!”
Tara was a great roommate but not particularly sympathetic to your scheduling troubles.
“How is it lucky? I have physical training on the other side of campus ending at 7:50AM and then I have to make it to his lecture by 8:00AM every other morning.”
“Do you know how many girls tried to get into his class? Simone stayed up until 3:00AM trying to sign up and still got waitlisted.”
“I’m going to be gross and sweaty all morning every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And I’m probably going to be late every time.”
“So?”
“I already took an Art History class in our first year. This sucks.”
Tara doesn’t take your pouting in stride.
“Chin up, at least you’ll have some eye candy to enjoy while you recover from training.”
The day before classes start, you map out the route from the training grounds to the Art building. It’s a full mile. Physically, you were what the trainers called a jack of all trades - good enough across the board on strength, agility, grappling etc. but sprinting was your least favorite. Your strengths lay in marksmanship, precision, stealth - what you really believed was needed for both recon and defeating wanderers.
Kitted out in your running shoes, you set your stopwatch outside the doors of the Hunter gym and sprint your route, bag bouncing on your back and when you get to the Art building you stop the stopwatch and check it.
10:30:00s. Well. Fuck.
In normal circumstances, a ten-and-a-half minute mile would be nothing to sneeze at but this meant that even in the best circumstances door to door you would be cutting it close. Hopefully your resident trainer would be sympathetic and let you leave a little early most days.
“Get lost?”
Any hope you had of sneaking into the lecture hall quietly and hiding in the back row evaporates. As soon as you click the door open the professor snaps his head to you in offended disbelief.
His voice is mocking and his piercing eyes glance over your figure with one raised eyebrow. You can only imagine what he thinks as he takes in the sweat dripping down your temple, damp ponytail clinging to your back and dummy sword hanging at your hip (advanced melee week).
“Sorr-”
Your apology is cut off by his palm raising in the air.
“Don’t care. Take a seat or leave.”
A quiet chorus of snickers echoes through the hall as several students laugh into their sleeves.
It’s only 8:02, your training instructor hadn’t let you leave any earlier than 7:50 on the dot and you’d shaved a few seconds off your sprint record to try and get there on time.
The lecture hall is packed and there are no open seats in the first several rows you walk past. Boys and girls alike look at you with open disdain as you squeeze through the back row and sink into the only open seat at the very back in the middle of the row. A loud creak from the old hinges adds insult to injury and the girl in front of you turns to glare.
Not a great first day of your last semester.
As quietly as possible in the old chair, you take out your notebook and pen to commence taking notes as the professor resumes his lecture. It passes relatively quickly - the concepts and terms are unfamiliar and, despite your low expectations, it’s an engaging topic.
A sigh of relief escapes you when the clock strikes 10:00AM and you quickly pack to escape back to your dorm.
Slipping between your classmates, you’re about to head into the hallway when the professor calls out to you.
“Wait - you. Stay back.”
Without pausing, you keep walking as another girl next to you turns around and makes her way to the broad desk.
“No. Not you - you! With the sword!”
That stops you. The stairwell door beckons to you and you consider making a break for it but pause and return sheepishly.
The remainder of the students have cleared out and it’s just the two of you remaining in the cavernous lecture hall.
He doesn’t speak at first, just wipes off the chalkboards with an old-school eraser. There are six total. Overkill in your opinion.
He slides the blank ones up and pulls down the back ones removing the evidence of his scribblings.
After a long two minutes, he finally speaks.
“Why are you here?”
He’s still facing the chalk boards.
“You asked me to stay back.”
“No,” he turns to face you, “why are you in my class?”
Removing his glasses, you have to look away when he makes direct eye contact. You can see why all the girls - and half the boys - in your class were clamoring to sign up. Up close, he was even more gorgeous. Captivating eyes set on either side of a long, straight nose, petal pink lips all underpinned by something dangerous that raised goosebumps on your arms.
When you don’t answer, he continues his work, shuffling papers and packing them into his briefcase.
“I don’t tolerate tardiness. There’s a long waitlist to get into my classes, you know. So, I’ll ask you again: why are you in my class?”
A pink flush burns its way up the back of your neck and ot the tips of your ears but you can’t help the slight defiance when you answer:
“It wasn’t exactly my choice.”
“Oh?” He looks up again at you, “and who exactly is forcing you to be here?”
Damn you Phyllis.
“I’m one credit short on the arts requirement and I need it to graduate this semester.”
“I see.”
You don’t answer and he continues,
“And you couldn’t take one of the other dozens of arts classes this semester?”
“No.”
“In that case, keep in mind that participation - and attendance - is 30% of your grade. Don’t be late again.”
“I’m sor-”
“Dismissed.”
“But-”
He walks out of the lecture hall and disappears into the hallway.
“But,” you finish, speaking to no one in particular, “I ran a sub ten minute mile to get here.”
Your arms stay crossed over your chest the whole walk home and for the rest of the day. Those liberal arts professors were all the same - they had to be total hardasses out of their own insecurities and need to be taken seriously.
Most professors gave hunter trainees a little slack. It was an honorable profession: one built on duty and sacrifice, hunters kept ongoing, normal life in Linkon possible. The standards for physical fitness and mental acuity were extremely high so, when a trainee was a few minutes late or drifted off in class, none of the teachers said anything. Except this one. Bastard.
Thought he was so important just because the eighteen year old girls with nothing better to do pined after him.
On Wednesday, you make it there at 8:00AM on the dot, precisely on time, but find yourself shocked to still be the last one. Other than the professor that is. The lecture hall is packed. You turn to your right to the girl on your right,
“When did you get here?”
“7:30 but, honestly, I’ll have to come earlier on Friday. Still ended up with a shit seat.”
She looks you up and down with obvious disapproval.
The two of you spend the next ten minutes in silence as the class awaits Professor Rafayel. Any other time this happened, some student would inevitably say: ‘if the professor is fifteen minutes late - we can all go home!’
That doesn’t happen this time.
It’s a moot point when he walks in at 8:11AM. Without any apology or excuse he launches into his first question,
“Who did the reading?”
The hands all around you fly up and you sink into your chair hoping to melt into the floor and avoid his scrutinizing gaze.
Of course, his eyes are drawn to you immediately despite your slouching. He makes eye contact and raises both eyebrows but blessedly his eyes slide away towards another student and he calls on them to summarize it.
This time, you pack up before he even finishes his lecture and try to sneak out of the lecture hall as quickly as possible.
Without your distinct sword to slow you down you hope you’ll evade another scolding. You don’t. He calls your name and, again, you freeze in place as the other departing students flee around you like fish from a shark.
How did he even know your name? He mostly called others as ‘the girl in the green shirt’ or ‘the hair guy’ or similar. Just like last time, he’s tucking away his glasses and cleaning off the chalkboards.
You don’t have time to wonder when he opens his mouth to speak:
“You didn’t do the reading.”
It’s not a question but you answer anyways, “I didn’t know we had reading.”
“It’s in the syllabus.”
You don’t apologize, ego still wounded from your last encounter. He finishes his work with the chalkboards, puts away his lecture notes and comes to stand a few inches from you.
“You’re running out of excuses baby hunter,” your cheeks burn - what a presumptive moniker - and he clearly notices, looking down his nose at you with a smirk, “that’s two demerits against you in as many classes.”
“What do you want from me?” You ask, entirely unamused and slightly embarrassed.
“Drop my class.”
“What? No. I can’t.”
“Hmm. You know I can just have the registrar remove you right? Phyllis is a dear friend.”
Your willful eyes roll of their own volition before you can stop them.
“Don’t believe me?” He asks.
“I do - I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
Damn you, Phyllis!
“Or what?” He asks, head tilting and a curious expression dancing across his face.
“What?”
“What will happen if you’re late or skip your homework again?”
“You’ll.. uh.. drop me?”
Was psychological warfare a core requirement too?
“Hmm. It seems like you need me, baby hunter, yeah?”
“It’s ‘Trainee.’ ‘Hunter Trainee’ and, yes, I know I need this credit. It won’t happen again.”
He clears his throat once.
“See that it doesn’t.”
He waves lazily to the door, dismissing you again. But before you can leave a defiant accusation bursts from you:
“Then why were you late then today?”
Clapping your hand over your mouth, you immediately regret the question.
Before he can stop himself, a beautiful, twinkling laughter spills out of him - musical and magical.
You almost smile in reply before he says, “see yourself out.”
A sharp tongue has always gotten you into trouble. Grandma Josephine’s voice rings through your head - ‘knife mouth, tofu heart’ - she was right but you couldn’t help it.
Clearing your throat, you make quick work of the space between you and the door without looking back.
If you had, you might’ve seen that back in the lecture hall, Rafayel was still smiling to himself.
After your endless complaining, your roommates eventually find you a shoddy old bike that you use every Monday/Wednesday/Friday to schlep to and from physical training to your art lecture. It shaves five minutes off of your commute and, although it does nothing to fix the drying sweat that leaves you itchy and grumpy by the end of class, you are at least no longer late.
Thankfully Professor Qi leaves you alone for the most part, cold calling you just once and you’re able to recall the artist's name without panicking (much).
“Alechinsky, 1967. Acrylic on - uh - paper? I think.”
“Acrylic on paper, mounted on paper, but yes I’ll give it to you. And what do you make of it?”
“Me?”
Tittering echoes around you until Professor Qi gives them a harsh look.
“Yes, you. What does it make you feel?”
The picture is blown up on the screen in front of you, far beyond life size to show its details and you try to really consider it for the first time.
It’s an all blue tonal painting with a music-like whorl at the left and a couple of pseudo-humanistic figures on the right. But what could it mean? You try to recall what the textbook author had written about it.
“Um, I don’t know.” Coward - you chicken out. Still, the professor doesn’t mock you. His eyes soften and his lips turn up slightly at the corners.
“Yes,” he insists, “you do. Tell me.”
Your voice is smaller than the first time you answered - vulnerable to share how a painting resonated with you personally.
“Um, it makes me feel… sad. Like there is a longing for human connection but an unbreachable distance.”
You can feel yourself blushing as two-hundred eyes stare, waiting for you to finish before they swivel back to the professor to hear his judgement of your interpretation.
“I agree,” he tilts his head, “although, perhaps that longing isn’t only human. Now -” he claps his hands once and continues his lecture. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding slides out of you and your shoulders relax. Maybe he was willing to let go of your earlier infractions.
A few weeks pass and you feel like, despite your impossible schedule, you are actually making things work. You get to training, classes and seminars on time. Complete homework assignments, pass training assessments and even manage to stay on top of your copious laundry.
Even the art history lecture has been going well. Maybe you are really starting to get this whole 'art' thing.
So, when you flip over your graded midterm paper from Professor Qi one Friday you are feeling pretty confident. That is, until you get to the last page to see a bright red ‘F’ staring back at you.
After class, he doesn’t ask you to stay back but doesn’t seem particularly surprised when you do.
“Yes?” He asks, without turning around.
“You failed me?”
“Did I?”
“Yes!”
“Huh. So what do you want to ask me?”
“Why did you fail me?!”
“Hmm. I don’t remember, you’ll have to come to my office hours to discuss. They’re online. Have a good weekend.”
Absolutely fuming, you all but stomp out of the classroom, down the hallway and out of the building.
Hours later, you are still fuming when Simone invites you out for drinks. Usually you wouldn’t but a night out sounds like just the thing you need to blow off some steam and soothe your wounded ego.
The wine bar you’d both planned to go to is fully booked so you have to improvise and make your way to a popular bar down the road. The music inside is pounding and it makes you hesitate but you’re both in little black dresses and high heels, versatile enough to go anywhere.
It’s still pretty early - just half an hour past nine and not too crowded, yet.
Settling into a lounge area, Simone texts the other hunter trainees in your group and before you know it you are surrounded by your peers who, excited for a first real night out since the semester began, order a few rounds of shots.
When the majority of the table goes out to the dance floor, you find yourself bitching about your horrible art history professor to Tara and anyone else who will listen to you.
She’s nodding sympathetically as you explain,
“And then he said he didn’t even remember why he gave me an F!”
“Ugh. That’s awful.”
“I know! And he tried to get me to drop the class!”
“Really? I’ve never heard of a professor doing that.” Tara sounds a little confused.
“Right! And he knows I can’t graduate without it.”
“What an asshole.” Some other trainee whose name you can’t remember chimes in.
“I know right? He’s honestly such a bastard.”
“Awful.” The trainees around the table nod in agreement.
“Seriously! And I bet he’s not even a real artist. Probably only got the job because he’s so good looking.”
The table guffaws and eggs you on.
“Like, is this man even qualified to teach? Or is he just making it up as he goes along? Gorgeous eyes aren’t enough for him to dictate when I can graduate!”
“Uh-” Tara tries to interrupt you, but you aren’t done.
“Plus his art isn’t even that good! Like anyone can smear blue paint on a canvas and call it art. Children do that. What does he know?”
“Girl-” Before you can continue to rant though another voice interrupts you:
“If you’d like to know more about my art, I’m happy to answer your questions.”
His deep voice cuts through the pounding club music. You don’t turn around to confirm what you already know.
“He’s right behind me isn’t he?”
Tara can only nod and grimace, mouthing “Sorry!”
As if through some telepathic group decision, the table quickly empties and the other trainees flow out onto the dance floor. The violet haired man comes around into your field of vision, watching as they scurry away. Tara presses one additional shot into your hands and you pound it back without thinking.
He quirks an eyebrow and you start to apologize.
“Sorry Professor Qi - um I-”
“You can call me Rafayel outside of class.”
“Um, okay, Rafayel. Sorry, I think your art is really good I’m just-”
“Pissed?”
You nod unable to come up with a sufficient answer or appreciate the double entendre in his choice of words.
He laughs low, under his breath.
“Are you even old enough to drink?” He asks.
“Are you even old enough to be my professor?”
The retort is quick but this time, you don’t look away and see the smile that crawls across his face.
You mirror it, despite yourself.
“Touché.”
He doesn’t take the seat across from you at the circular table and, in your inebriated state, you think it’s a good idea just to scooch down the bench and gesture for him to sit next to you.
Hesitantly, he sits gingerly next to you, face a few inches apart from yours.
Stupidly, you’re still just smiling at him - drunk and happy he’s here. Even though you were supposed to be mad at him.
He starts to say something but the music is too loud. Leaning forward, you shake your head and point to your ear.
“I re-read your paper. I failed you because it was unoriginal and, overall, had a kind of naive perspective that seemed more shallow than anything else.”
Oh yeah. That was why you were mad. The smile slips off of your face and you scowl at him.
His smile only widens.
“That’s mean.” Not your most brilliant retort but an honest reaction.
“Is it?” His enigmatic smile is so mesmerizing that, once again, the glare fades off of your face only to be replaced by another dazed smile.
“You’re too beautiful. It’s not fair.”
Oops.
Did you just say that out loud?
You’re beginning to slur and think you might be drunker than you realized.
He laughs, low and sweet but looks a bit concerned.
“Thank you. But I think it’s time for you to call it a night.”
“What? I just got here.”
“You're drunk, baby hunter.” His eyes narrow in harmless accusation.
“It’s ‘trainee!’” You do your best to enunciate but he doesn’t look too convinced. Especially when a squeaking hiccup accentuates the exclamation.
“C’mon I’ll walk you home, yeah?” He nods towards the exit and starts to stand up.
“Yes, sir!”
You give a salute that’s meant to be mocking but his eyes darken with something else.
Finally starting to follow him out of the booth, you find yourself more wobbly than you expected.
“Will you hold my hand?” You ask.
“If you need me to.”
Beaming and glassy eyed you delicately place your hand on top of his. He quickly winds your arm into his side to steady you when you stumble a bit getting out of the booth. It’s a cold February night when you step outside and, despite the alcohol flowing through your system, you find yourself shivering against Professor Qi or - Rafayel rather.
Before you even notice him pulling it off, his warm parka is wrapped around you, held in place by one arm around your shoulders and another at your waist keeping you steady.
You hum appreciatively and lean into him.
“Thank you Prof- Rafayel.” The correction comes out a bit mumbled and you beam at him. He only hushes you slightly and rubs your arms to keep you warm.
Without needing to ask you for directions, he guides you both back to your dorm and stands outside the glass door watching you head inside and up the elevator.
Across the street, he waits until he sees your apartment light flicker off before he finally makes his way home, sans parka.