Chapter Text
A rich, warm stroke of sunlight pierced the dim room, striking the glass ornaments and clay figurines, scattering a kaleidoscope of out-of-place vibrancy throughout the boy’s room. The paintings, those finished and those in recreational progress stacked against the wall shimmered with the touches of gold and pearlescent paint in the brushstrokes.
Damian coughed the Chimera violets up as the purple, artificial-looking stripes on their pristine white form floated to the floorboards.
The thick luminous petal of a moonflower drifted down beside them, already added to the pile of asters in the box.
He squeezed his eyes shut; fingers tangled in his Imperial Scholar’s robe.
How could he have forgotten that the season started today?
It was already horrible hiding it throughout half of last year's season on his birthday. He ended up suffering through his party as they (really just Blackbell) waited eagerly to see whether he would cough anything up.
That had been one fiery hell and a half, only salvaged by Anya Forger when she conveniently tripped with an entire bowl of fruit punch for some reason, dousing their seated group in the drink in the middle of some game Blackbell had dug up from her romance dramas.
He owes Anya so, so much.
He closed the box when he heard the stampede of the lacrosse team's feet through the corridor, shoving it in his cabinet with a sigh. Someone will be coming up to get him for classes soon.
He’s glad for the privacy he received as an Imperial Scholar, the allowance of a private room – although he does miss the large, shared dormitories with the others. His room is sparsely decorated in his opinion. The large hardwood bed takes up a portion of the space, and the tables on either side are filled with all his art pieces.
No, his and Anya’s paper Griffins from eleven years ago aren’t on display at the forefront of the glass, why would you think that?
He hasn’t had much of a chance to hang up his paintings, what with the recent dormitory reshuffle due to graduations and a sudden intake of new students due to improved Westalis-Ostania relations.
He wished his relationship with his father was improving like those relations.
He glanced at the paper griffins behind the shining glass, seated alongside a framed photo of his mother, one of the few his father didn’t burn after her death.
His chest stings at her memory.
Hanahaki is a fault, a stain on the Desmond name. Don't be like your mother, coughing up her putrid mess everywhere.
Part of Damian was curious to know what flowers his mother had ended up with. They said the flowers you coughed up in the season reflected your love.
Actually, maybe it was more pitiful that his mother had suffered from unrequited love right until the end.
But what flowers would reflect such an emotionless, unemphatic husk of a father?
He scolded himself as he thought it, already feeling his lungs begin to shudder with the production of flora.
So – since it was the only logical solution – he pushed his thoughts to Anya Forger.
He had no idea what moonflowers, asters, and Chimera violets had to do with the girl who'd carelessly, obliviously pierced his heart with a punch, a sparkling green stare, and a sobbed apology.
He supposed that on new moons, for some bizarre reason, she tended to study obnoxiously, holed up in the library, stacks and stacks of books set beside her. His gaze drifted to his desk, drowning in textbooks – some were probably overdue – and cleaned paint brushes strewn haphazardly beside the boxes of pigment.
It was remarkable how much she could memorize when she put her mind to it.
Even her test scores would be dramatically better. I wish I could focus sporadically, like her.
No. Father told me to keep striving to not sully the Desmond name.
Damian ignored a twinge in his chest, opting to think about the Chimera violets.
It was probably her familiarity with Chimeras.
She'd run up to the bronze statues in the Ostanian Museum whenever they visited for a history class, admiring their shape, often imitating their violent poses to Becky who would snort and giggle.
At this point, she could probably recite the little information plaque off by heart.
Damian was immensely proud of his family's noble crest, the Griffin, but there were days when he did wish he had a choice in what to admire.
There were even days when he despised the crest.
Griffins are a symbol of protection. Since when has Father ever provided any protection for me? Even the Forger family and Blackbell has done more than he has–
No! You can't think like this!
He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath that rattled his lungs in an uncomfortable manner, wincing at the slight pain.
Again, he drifted his thoughts back to the flowers.
The asters were reasonably easy.
Everyone knew that Anya Forger had been the first in their grade to get a Stella.
Everyone also knew that she was determined to become an Imperial Scholar due to her father, whom everyone in Cecile Hall had met at least once.
They all, no matter how much they disliked or admired Anya agreed on one thing.
Mr Forger was a formidable man. He'd gotten on good terms with multitudes of the elite's parents in some miraculous manner, as if he was systematically bulldozing through a checklist of connections to manufacture.
And yet, the banter and softness he provided for his daughter was unparalleled. It was jealousy-inducing, the familial intimacy the Forgers had.
He smiled at the memory of their first Imperial Scholar gathering. Total chaos when it turned out some spy named Daybreak had snuck in, hired to ruin something for him until Yor Forger had kicked seven hardwood tables at the supposed spy, and Anya Forger had punched the fleeing person in the face. The spy had preened at the attention until some of the Secret Police had shown up to take him into custody.
Apparently, he’d managed to escape shortly after being taken away.
Once, a student asked her why she worked so desperately for Stellas, and she'd told them she'd promised her father she'd work hard in school.
That was left at that for most of the Cecile Hall students. It was understandable, really, Damian mused.
But even if Anya brings home Tontriuses, he doesn't treat her any differently. Father on the other hand…
Damian grimaced at the memory of his first graze with a Tontrius throughout his entire life at Eden.
It wasn't even a logical thing.
It was the small, pitiful lack of a handkerchief and Anya Forger had taken the fall for him. She was always doing that.
But… if she didn't, would it make it easier to pretend he disliked her?
He coughed up another round of flowers and hearing the rhythmic rapping on his door, Damian shoved them into the hidden pocket in his robe.
"Lord Damian?"
"Emile?"
"Uh, you're not sick are you? Your voice sounds hoarse?"
Surely my Hanahaki isn't noticeable? I need to keep working for perfection. I can't afford to waste time.
"No," Damian lied. "It's all good. I just need to drink some more water, that's all. Is Ewan waiting at the class?"
"Uh, yeah, but Boss, are you sure you're okay–"
Damian strode over to the door, pulling it open. "See? Nothing to worry about. Let's hurry up, shall we?"
An ache began to rumble in his throat, but he forcefully suppressed it as he had always done. Emile talked rapidly in a one-sided conversation about how difficult Classical Language was lately, which only caused the ache to multiply with the passing thought of how talented Anya was in the subject.
He awkwardly choked the cough down, stopping their trip to the classroom. Emile made a concerned expression. “You sure you’re okay, Boss?”
Damian nodded, resisting the urge to throw up, straightening with a forced, controlled clear of his throat.
I cannot sully the Desmond name.