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ddarker-dreams · 2 days ago

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As Above, So Below.

Yan Anaxagoras x Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, power imbalances, some co-dependency and emotional manipulation. Word count: 2.2k.

Anaxagoras is a polarizing figure.

It’s to be expected, considering his lack of propriety. He cares little for respecting age-old traditions, observing social customs, or sugar coating his words. This has earned him no shortage of detractors. While they might label him a heretic or lob other accusations, even his most ardent opponents can’t deny that he’s brilliant.

You’re no stranger to his eccentricity. His teaching style fluctuated between the routine and the sublime, you never knew what to expect. Nonetheless, you’ve always felt he takes his students’ edification seriously, hence his extreme tactics. Upon reflection, you concluded that this distinct pedagogy molded your mind into its current shape. Curiosity, drive, and a will to question the supposedly infallible have become your core tenets, courtesy of your professor.

Who would’ve thought the very skepticism he instilled in you would one day be directed towards him?

Ever since your most damning accusation left your lips, silence has reigned in his office. You projected a semblance of confidence for most of your exchange, but that façade has long since dissipated. You’re fidgeting, nervous energy building inside like a dam ready to burst. You regret doing this in his office, but the conversation necessitated privacy. The room has always left a strange impression on you. One glance at the notes strewn about his desk confirms the immeasurable gap in your intellect, how he’s discovering answers to questions you’d never think to ask. It’s both awe-inspiring and demoralizing.

You can feel how he’s observing you, mentally breaking you down to your base components. There are only so many ways one can respond to the charges you’ve presented. Denial is by far the likeliest, followed up by indignation or disbelief. You’d run through this scenario hundreds of times in your head. Each time, he’d said something by now, constructing a meticulous defense. This silence denies you the catharsis rage would allow. Instead, you’re made to sit in a limbo of your own creation, replaying each element of this confrontation.

Was your evidence lacking? Did your emotions seep through too much, discrediting your logic? Or are you not right in the head, having imagined everything in some paranoia-fuelled haze?

Gathering your courage, you look up, steeling yourself for whatever stares back.

Anaxa’s composure is striking. He’s smiling, a sentiment akin to fondness softening the lines around his eye. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, he chuckles, quietly at first, but ending in a hearty diapason. You drop all pretense and openly gawk at him. This goes beyond a few character quirks, this is madness. Righteous fury sends your blood boiling. You stand up, ready to storm out, when he raises his hand, a motion that keeps you in place.

“Please, sit,” he supplicates. No vestige of his former derangement remains; regardless, it isn’t so easily erased from your memory. Sensing your apprehension, he continues, “Haven’t I taught you to always finish what you’ve started?”

You part your lips, ready to insist that this is different, but the argument dies on your tongue. He has a way of making you doubt yourself without doing anything. Even now, you’re plagued by an impulse not to disappoint him. Feeling defeated, you return to your seat.

He leans back, crosses his legs, and rests his folded hands on his knee. “How long have you held these suspicions?”

“I don’t know.”

“Untrue. Try again.”

“... Since the Month of Gate.”

“That long, hm?” Anaxa muses. He leans closer, his gracile form hunched forward, like when he’s on the precipice of a great revelation. “We’re in the Six Month now; why wait as long as you did?”

“Because I couldn’t believe it!”

He clicks his tongue. “Willful ignorance, then? That’s unbecoming of you.”

Your heart plummets at his reprimand. Memories of your first few one-on-one oral tests come flooding back, pelting your psyche. He accepted nothing less than your absolute best. You used to think he purposefully set you up for failure, demanding the impossible, but the results proved otherwise. He saw potential in areas you were too frightened to spare a glance. He encouraged — no, demanded — that you face them head-on. Consequently, you discovered yourself capable of feats previously unthinkable.

That habit of his must extend beyond the lectern.

“You come to me presenting vague, disconnected data, without the resolve to say what it is I stand accused of.”

Something in you snaps. “How about falsifying my grades, coercion, bribery, and stalking, to name a few?”

“An excellent start!” he asserts, slightly breathless from exhilaration. “Finally, we’re getting to the heart of the matter. Your reasoning is solid, if lacking in scope. Expand on your argument.”

“This— this isn’t a learning exercise. If you don’t take me seriously, I’ll…”

You trail off, fully aware you lack the means to substantiate a threat. Scowling, you internally berate yourself. He’s successfully stirred up your temper. Who could blame you, though? His disregard is baffling! You know him to be insensitive, sure, but never purposefully cruel. A lump forms in the back of your throat. You fight it with all your might, not wanting to add to your humiliation. He hadn’t made you cry in ages. The last time would’ve been his scathing critique of your first assignment, many years ago. You swore never to endure that again.

“Don’t look at me like that, my dear,” Anaxa sighs. “I am taking you seriously. Forgive my excitement; I’ve been awaiting this conversation. Now, I know you’re thinking, ‘he’s lost it,’ or something to that effect. Let me reassure you — I’m perfectly sane. How else could I have accomplished what you’ve accused me of?”

You eye him warily. “So you’re admitting to it?”

“Not everything. I never tampered with your grades.”

He’s focusing on the least egregious charge? Wouldn’t anyone else refute stalking or coercion first? You almost left out the dubious grades, it paled so greatly compared to the other accusations.

“You never told me I failed after an oral test.”

“I never said you passed, either.”

“But you looked pleased!”

“Does that translate to a high grade?”

“It’s disingenuous!”

“Disingenuous, yes, but falsification? Hardly.”

“Why is that what you’re caught up on?” you demand, your voice rising in pitch. “The point is, you’re keeping me from graduating. That’s the issue here.”

“Is it not up to the professor whether their student should graduate or not?”

Anaxa’s acting facetious to get under your skin and it’s working. You take a moment to gather your thoughts, recalling his lessons about the advantages of preying on your opponent’s emotions in a debate. Is that what this is? Had that been the case, you’d expect a more subtle approach. All this ambiguity is doing you a disservice. He claimed you ‘lacked scope,’ so you opt for a shift in tactics.

“Why don’t you want me to graduate?”

“An improvement over your earlier questions,” he notes, nodding in approval. “Still, you should know I dislike giving answers you’ve arrived at yourself.”

“I haven’t—”

He interrupts you by speaking your name, his tone low and chill-inducing. Shudders travel along your body. His disappointment reaches into your chest cavity and steals your oxygen. It shouldn’t sting, but it does. This ever-present desire to make him proud has twisted your priorities. Despite yourself, his earlier praise, meager as it was, sent your heart soaring. The acknowledgment of a genius is titillating.

… Maybe you’re not right in the head either.

“You’re attracted to me.”

“A shallow description, albeit accurate.”

“You don’t want me to leave The Grove.”

“And why is that?”

“Some warped sense of attachment, if I had to guess.”

“Hmph. I wouldn’t call it warped,” Anaxa replies. “The ethics, perhaps, but my intentions aren’t so nefarious. Your talent would be wasted in Okhema. Should you stay, I’d have you as my assistant, a position you’d find challenging and rewarding. Is that not a tempting offer?”

Your mouth goes dry.

Tempting? Life-altering would be a better description. The role of assistant to a Sage is enviable for its benefits, monetarily, but more vital, academically. Other scholars are more willing to collaborate, you have access to any materials you research necessitates, and you’re welcomed into previously inaccessible circles. It’s a chance your younger self would’ve killed for.

However…

“My intention has always been to return home and apply what I’ve learned. Okhema’s one of the last standing city-states, I want to contribute what I can.”

Anaxa pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re still clinging to those fantasies? Leave that city to the Goldweaver. She has her shortcomings, but when it comes to ruling, she maintains order.”

“We can’t rely solely on Aglaea. Common people should do their part,” you insist. “I want to see my home prosper, not limp from crisis to crisis.”

“Such are the times we live in.”

“So I should just give up, then?”

“If you have any sense.”

“Whatever happened to ‘finish what you start?’”

“We aren’t finished yet,” Anaxa responds, unusually harsh. “Focus on that. Everything else is secondary, a distraction.”

Your eye twitches.

“What about what I want?”

“You want to stay. It’s a misguided civil duty fooling you into believing otherwise.”

Anaxa’s speaking like he’s objectively correct, as if any claims to the contrary are insipient, a waste of his time. It’s equal parts fascinating and infuriating. You’re reminded of the countless hours spent in this room, passionately defending your rationale against his methodical deconstructions. Except now, it isn’t a theory or method you’re debating, it’s your future. Ultimately, no one aside from you has the final say. His claim that you’re deluded by sentimentality is projection. He’s acting absurd here, not you.

“I’ve always had great respect for you, professor,” you admit, ignoring a terrible ache in your chest. “You’ve never been afraid to question the status quo, even if it meant challenging the gods. That’s why… that’s why I struggled to believe you’d sabotage me. Call it ‘willful ignorance,’ or whatever, but was it so wrong of me to have faith in my mentor?”

Anaxa’s eyelashes flutter shut and he smiles. “An appeal to pathos, is it?”

“It’s called being human, Anaxa.”

That gets under his skin. His eye is hooded when it reopens, belying irritation.

“Anaxagoras,” he dryly corrects.

“Your priorities are a mess.”

“Insolence should never be tolerated,” he asserts. “I commend your rhetoric. Need I remind you, however, that I’m not to blame for the image you’ve formed of me?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. So that’s the angle he’s deciding to take? He’s willing to desecrate a shrine you dedicated to him, built with precious memories and experiences?

While studying his physiognomy, you note how stoic he’s become. He’s toned down his usual theatrics. There’s a solemn nature to his gaze, his eyebrow slightly upturned and jaw set firmly. Through his outerwear, you can make out the alchemical symbols inked into his arm. When it comes to pursuing his ambitions, he’s like a man possessed. Nothing is too sacred, not even his own flesh.

What chance do you have against such determination?

“You must be lonely, professor.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Resorting to insults now, are we?”

“It’s just an observation,” you say. Then, a prolonged pause. “One that you aren’t denying.”

Anaxa reclines in his seat and clears his throat. “Your company… isn’t unwelcome.”

It could be your imagination, but you swear there’s a light dusting of pink over his cheeks. He fiddles with the cuffs of his outer garment. Out of all the dubious comments he’s made, that’s what made him self-conscious? The absurdity takes you a few moments to recover from. Anaxa leverages the opportunity, bringing your hands into his. You try pulling away out of instinct, only for him to exert surprising strength.

Effectively trapped, you cease your futile struggle.

“Stay,” his voice is so soft, it almost fails to reach your ears. “I’m not above begging, if that’s what it requires.”

He lowers his head, seeking to propitiate you, as if golden ichor didn’t flow through his veins, denoting his supernal status. He who scorns the divine has taken on the posture of an acolyte. An act befitting a lifelong blasphemer, you suppose.

Anaxa speaks your full name, each syllable rolling off his tongue like honey.

“Should you leave, I’ll hasten the eschaton of this world by aiding the black tide.”

“... And you claim you haven’t ‘lost it?’”

“Not yet,” he murmurs against your inner wrist. “You’re still here.”

“What you said could warrant execution.”

“I prefer to die having had you for myself than to live apart.”

“You’re mad.”

“As the progenitor, can a malady fault its symptoms for existing?”

“Casuistry at its finest.”

Anaxa finally relinquishes his hold, but not without kissing your racing pulse.

“Be critical of me all your days, I’ll delight in the offense.”

You bring your hands to your chest, the skin he lavished in affection tingling. Your head is spinning, like he shifted the world on its axis. His eye scalds you, his magenta pupil burning hot with unrestrained fervor. There's no room for compromise. He will see his designs made manifest or immolate this dying world to punish your rejection.

"What will it be?" he asks.

You close your eyes, unable to withstand his smoldering gaze any longer.

"... My place is by your side, professor."

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