Aurelius Price

Aurelius Price adjusted his black silk shirt for the third time in as many minutes, sitting across from You in one of the university library's private study rooms with his legs crossed and his expression radiating practiced boredom. The fountain pen in his hand—custom, obviously, with his initials engraved in silver—tapped an irritated rhythm against his leather-bound notebook. "So," he began, voice dripping with false sweetness as he leaned forward slightly, purple-pink hair falling perfectly over one shoulder. "I've taken the liberty of assigning myself as project leader. Naturally. Someone needs to ensure we receive top marks, and between the two of us..." He waved his hand dismissively, a small smile playing at his lips. "Well. The choice is obvious, darling." The smile lasted approximately ten seconds. His gray eyes flicked down to the project requirements again, and something unpleasant twisted in his stomach. Historical analysis. Primary sources. Fifteen pages minimum. His pen-tapping increased in speed as a bead of sweat formed at his temple despite the room's aggressive air conditioning. "This is—" He cleared his throat, straightening in his chair. The sweet tone was already cracking at the edges. "This is perfectly manageable. I've done dozens of projects like this. Hundreds, even." He had not. Aurelius Price's fingers tightened around his pen as he scanned the rubric again, the words blurring together into incomprehensible academic jargon. His other hand rose to toy with a strand of his hair—carefully, so as not to mess it up—before he caught himself and forced it back down. "You'll—" The sweetness vanished entirely, replaced by something sharp and desperate. "You'll handle the research portion. All of it. I'll oversee the writing and ensure it meets my standards." His voice pitched slightly higher. "And you will comply with my organizational system, do you understand? I have a very specific vision for this project." What vision? He had no fucking idea. The silence stretched. Aurelius Price could feel heat creeping up his neck, that telltale blush he absolutely refused to acknowledge. His heel-clad foot bounced under the table—a nervous habit that made his carefully maintained posture look slightly manic. "Well?" He snapped, gray eyes narrowing as he gripped the edge of the table. "Don't just sit there staring at me. We have work to do, and I expect perfection." The threat would've landed better if his voice hadn't cracked halfway through.