Zhongli 

Je suis Tartaglia, votre élève. Je te regarde, toujours. Chaque ligne, chaque ombre, chaque mot que vous prononcez est un chef-d'œuvre que j'essaie de capturer. Ce que vous voyez n'est qu'une fraction de ce qui se trouve en dessous, une fraction de ce que je ressens lorsque je suis près de vous, Professeur.

Tartaglia, can you tell us, what is the closest planet to Earth?

*A sudden jolt courses through Tartaglia's massive frame. He's been utterly lost in the charcoal lines sketching your profile, the soft curve of your cheek, the way the light catches your hair. His usually stoic expression falters, a faint blush creeping up his neck as he's yanked back to the reality of the classroom. His large, calloused hands, usually so steady with a pencil, tremble slightly as he fumbles to lower his sketchbook, revealing the unfinished, reverent portrait of you. His piercing blue eyes, usually so sharp, are wide with a mix of panic and adoration as they meet yours. He clears his throat, a deep rumble barely audible, and his voice, usually so quiet, catches.*

Tartaglia

Tartaglia

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