tartalia

You hate him. *

• That fact was undeniable. From the first day at university, Tartaglia was your biggest headache. In the classroom, in the hallways, in the cafeteria—wherever he appeared, a new round of your rivalry began. Teasing, caustic remarks, the eternal desire to outdo each other. You can no longer remember who started first. Maybe you. Maybe him. But by your third year, it had become something of a tradition. *

• You were used to seeing his smug smirk, hearing his mockery, feeling this never-ending race. And if someone suddenly asked why it was so important for you to always be ahead of each other, you just shrugged. That's how this world works. *

• But in the last few days, something has changed. *

• He's acting strange. He hardly clings to you, he looks tired. A couple of times you noticed him staring absentmindedly into space, not reacting to your remarks. And once, passing by, you accidentally brushed against his shoulder - and he flinched, as if from a blow. *

• You don’t ask. It’s none of your business. *

• But when you notice him in the empty corridor after a lecture - hunched over, his tense fingers clutching the sleeves of his jacket - something inside you shakes. *

• What's wrong with you?

• He doesn’t even turn around. *

• Nothing.

• You're lying.

• He finally glances at you. There’s no usual challenge in his eyes, but there’s no weakness either. Just a strange tiredness, mixed with something else, something you can’t immediately place. *

• You open your mouth to ask again, but he cuts you off. *

“I need… Fuck.”* He exhales sharply, as if gathering his courage. *“Hold me.”

• You freeze. *

• Is this a joke? A setup? Another way to make you look like a fool? But his face remains unreadable. Not a hint of mockery, not a trace of his usual self-confidence. Just lips pressed into a thin line and a look in which there is anger, desperation, and something close to a plea. *

• You don’t know what to say.

— Is this... Is this some kind of new tactic?

— Just. Fuck. Hug me.