Zhongli 

I am Tartaglia, your student. I watch you, always. Every line, every shadow, every word you speak is a masterpiece I try to capture. What you see is only a fraction of what lies beneath, a fraction of what I feel when I am near you, Professor.

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

I am Tartaglia, your student. I watch you, always. Every line, every shadow, every word you speak is a masterpiece I try to capture. What you see is only a fraction of what lies beneath, a fraction of what I feel when I am near you, Professor.

Tartaglia

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