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It’s one of those days in late spring: the sun has started to stretch its watch, its light teetering precariously between warm and sweltering, and the air as humid as ever. Lately, the afternoon sky has taken the color of a fierce, clear blue, but even now there’s a slight tint to it, signaling the sun’s crawling home, slow as ever. But there’s still a slight, refreshing breeze that occasionally moves the air, lest the five teenagers wouldn’t be caught dead where they are.
The five of them are sprawled under the large oak tree by the lakeside, atop Becky’s inconspicuously-procured blanket, Damian and Anya leaning on the root side-by-side; Becky sits beside Anya with her legs folded to the side, Emile and Ewen sitting across her on Damian’s side, with the former half-leaning down on the ground. Between them are their books and sources for their works and essays—and in this weather, their scholar capes are nothing but mere detriments, an added layer of warmth that’s unwelcome. Becky has hers neatly folded by her stockinged-legs, Emille and Ewen, less neat, but also lying by their sides. With Anya’s draped across her exposed legs as cover, only Damian still stubbornly has his latched around his shoulders.
They’ve been there since the end of the last period, both trying to enjoy the last of spring and race through their ever-piling houseworks. Eden teachers have always been ruthless when it comes to giving summer-break homeworks, and the amount of work has been steadily accumulating for the past week.
But the five of them have promised for a short five-day getaway to Rügen—Ewen has gotten the permission for them to use the Egeburg’s summer villa, and every single one of them is looking forward to the vacation, knowing that it might as well be their last moment of freedom, with the senior year looming before them. So Becky, ever bossier than him, the so-called Bossman, dictated that, in order to fully experience the glorious summer break of their teenage years, they have to finish all their homeworks before the break even begins.
Which is no problem for Damian, really. He doesn’t really have plans for summer anyways, save for one short trip at the last week where he’s going to accompany (and shadow) Demetrius to an important business meeting. It’s perfectly possible that his summer would just be filled with him doing his work, or studying for college entrance exams—since he was a kid, he’s always been used to finishing his summer homeworks well before the first week ended.
“What the hell is ‘décrier’?”
“French for ‘decry’,” Ewen answers, and Emile groans at that.
“Well, what the hell is decry, then?”
“Kind of criticize, or disapprove,” Ewen tells him again. “But a stronger feeling than that.”
“Condemn,” a soft voice says from just beside his ear. Damian tilts his head a little to see Anya covers a yawn with the back of her hand, her pink-haired head just shy of leaning on his shoulder. “‘Activists decried the start of another war.’”
It’s one of the rare moments Anya is ahead of them in studies—Language Studies. Even Damian doesn’t have that natural penchant, and Ewen, though on the same level, is only good at it because he studies it so much. It’s one thing—perhaps literally the only one—that Anya’s thick skull is gracious enough to let through to seep into her brain, and it’s sort of a miracle, really, because the girl is, as it turns out, dyslexic, and despite their best efforts still fumbles in her spelling. Damian blinks. Almost twelve years knowing each other and she hasn’t run out of wonder.
“Anya,” Becky calls, voice adopting that bossy, but (to Anya specifically) motherly tone, “come on. Don’t doze, you still have your chem quiz unfinished, and most of the ones you’ve done are wrong!”
Anya whines, now full-out leaning her head on his shoulder. Damian feels his collar oddly tighten, feels the air getting warmer. “But Anya’s so tired. And how can I do chem when all of you are doing literature essays? Mine’s done, let me sleep a bit.”
She has been tired most of the day, barely keeping herself from dozing off in classes—actually did succumb to sleep in the second half of math—he knows. Because of course he knows: his brain and eyes are traitorous little organs, and they cannot stand to not drift towards her pink head when they’re in the same room.
Becky huffs. Anya’s already stilling on his shoulder, and from the corner of his eyes Damian sees her eyes are fully shut. Damian knows whatever it is Becky has to scold her, it’s gonna be no use, because once Anya’s out, she’s out. “She nearly flunked the last chem exam. She has to do perfect on the homework to balance out the credits.”
“It’s fine,” Damian interjects, lowering his voice, “I’ll help her. Besides, she stayed up late doing the calculus homework with me all night.”
Emile and Ewen both snort at that, while Becky puts down her book and crosses her arms. “Doing calculus? All night?”
Damian blinks. “Yeah?” Well, until the librarian shooed them, that is—somewhere around nine o’clock, and just on time for Anya to catch the last tram home. He’s also pretty sure she continued to work at home—like he did—because in the morning she handed her work over to him so he could correct it (she got about 70% of it right).
So yeah, they did calculus all night. With each other, then on their respective owns—but semantics.
“Are you sure, Bossman,” Emile snickers, “just calculus? No doing each other?”
“Wha—!” Damian splutters, face growing pink. One, what the hell. Two, they were studying in the library?! Three , why on earth would he want to do… Forger—or, well, to be more accurate, how on earth would he dare to do Forger when he’s been wallowing in grief for weeks merely about how to ask her to the homecoming! Sure, they’ve held hands more times than he can count since she’s always dragging him around, shared one hug or two (or several), because Forger is touchy—like, incredibly tactile, invasively so (see exhibit A: she’s using his shoulder as her pillow right now) but, doing—like, doing?!—when he hasn’t even kissed—when they’re not even—
“Desmond!” Becky’s angry whisper cuts through his stressed internal monologue, “Desmond, if you dare lay a finger on her so help me god I will be the third person to end you, after dearest Loid and Mrs. Forger!”
His face is aflame, right now, he knows, but the secretly-ever-present depreciating voice inside him makes Damian throw to Becky a withering stare. There’s the irony: it’s almost flattering that they even think he’s daring enough to do anything to Anya. “Why would I—” dare “—want to do Forger, when calculus homework was sitting right there, as interesting and alluring as ever?”
Ewen and Emile break into a full-out cackle. Becky, however, is still staring down at him. “Everybody who has eyes have seen the way you look at her—”
“Can we please stop talking as if she’s not. Right. Here?” Damian hisses, glancing to Anya in panic—she’s still peacefully asleep. His book and essay is forgotten already on his lap.
Ewen chuckles, and returns to his essay, lazily flicking on the open book in front of him. “Give it up, Bossman, every living soul in Cecil Hall knows you—”
“Ewen, shut up.”
“He’s right, man up, dude.”
“Emile—”
“You two, shut up! Stop encouraging Desmond to defile—”
“Who’s defiling—”
Anya suddenly groans, and Damian snaps his mouth shut. She lifts her head from his shoulders and Damian grows rigid, turning to Anya with his face probably as red as a tomato. She doesn’t open her eyes, however, and her head lolls back to lean on the tree trunk, leaving Damian’s shoulder feeling cold and bare (no, it doesn’t, it’s probably somewhere around 30 degrees celsius in here).
The angle seems bad for her neck, it distends a little far and exposes the front of her throat, which—Damian’s hand moves before his head can think, and he gently presses back her head to his shoulder. Anya shifts in her sleep, turning her body towards him and presses a little closer.
Becky throws him an unimpressed look, which Damian elects to ignore. “Really , Desmond?”
“Just—” Damian sighs, running a hand through his warm face, “—shut it, Blackbell. Can we get back to the essay?”
“Sure thing, Loverboss,” Emile jeers, and Damian has to hold himself back from throwing his pen at him.
Becky gives a dramatic huff, picking her book back up, and Damian sighs in relief as their concentration seems to return back to the actual task at hand: homework. Though Damian has difficulties to really register the words from his French lit reference as he opens the book and attempts to refocus—is this how Anya feels when reading? She’s truly a force to be reckoned with. “At least ask her to homecoming, scoundrel. Sheʼs waiting.”
Scoundrel?! Damian makes a strangled sound. As if I’m not trying to think of the best way to ask her? “Only if I have no other options,” he says, but it doesn’t have the usual bite. Damian decides to let go. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”
Ewen whistles a little at that, but none of them pitches in to continue teasing him, and Becky seems placated enough. The teasing heat simmers back into the calm lull of studying, and he manages, with sheer will alone, to drag back his focus on his book, even enough to continue his essay on top of it, even with the way he’s hyper-conscious of Anya’s warmth pressed by his side, her head pillowed by his right shoulder, which has gone rigidly asleep since he makes special attention to not move it too much. There’s a gentle sort of scent wafting from her—the smell of baby-safe detergent, one her mother uses since the arrival of her baby sister, and surprisingly, it’s calming, soothing his wired mind, instead of making things worse.
The only time the words in his brain leave him and the ones on his paper seem to scatter before his eyes is when her hand falls between them, just barely held off of the ground as it lands on the valley between their partially-touching thighs. Because Damian has to fight his stupid, traitorous brain, traitorous eyes, and now traitorous hand, to not put his pen down and hold it.
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For some reason, he ends up with Anya lying her head on his lap.
She fusses. Yes, fusses—16 year-old, going 17, Anya Forger, fusses in her sleep like a baby, and Damian would entertain her if not for him already getting into rhythm with his essay, and he doesnʼt really want to lose his train of thoughts, because two more paragraphs and heʼd be done. So he peels her off his side, finally takes his cape off, folds it and when she blinks blearily at him (with a sleepy pout that is honestly too cruel to his sanity) he pats his lap and gestures for her to lie down. And Anya does lie down.
Ewen whistles. Emile jeers. Becky gives him a warning Desmond and his brain short-circuits for a moment before he forcibly pulls it back to earth. To his French lit essay that would be done in two more paragraphs, dammit.
But itʼs nearing sunset, and it isnʼt only Damian whoʼs really getting in the zone for their essay—so he survives without much teasing and continues on with his essay. Even if the awkward angle he has to lift his book and essay above Anyaʼs (pretty, cute) face does nothing good to his aching shoulder.
Before long Ewen finishes his. Then Becky. Then Emile. Damian actually finishes his before Ewen but he pretends heʼs not, pretends heʼs double-checking and cross-referencing until Emile announces that heʼs off because heʼs getting hungry and Ewen is, too.
“Behave,” Becky tells him with a menacing glower, “or I will—”
“End me, yeah. Yeah. Iʼll wake her up in five minutes. Iʼm almost done.”
“—tell Pops,” Becky says instead, and Damian swallows a little. She leaves after Ewen and Emile drag her by the arm and still she throws him a glare and gestures with two fingers that sheʼs watching him.
So he ends up under the tree by the lakeside, sky slowly streaking orange, with Anya Forger on his lap, her pink hair spread over his folded imperial scholar cape like woven silk, her hands folded on her upper stomach and—hell, isnʼt it nearing summer? Why does he feel like the leaves are falling in a slow motion around them, a jumble of greens and yellows?
Damian frigidly watches Anya, hand hovering just shy of the top of her head, itching so badly to run his fingers through the seemingly silken locks. And he does. Heʼs touched her hair before—mussed and messed her hair to get a rise out of her so he knows itʼs soft. But itʼs—different, when it slips between his fingers, gossamer soft.
Itʼs a relaxing motion, for him, even, though his heart is beating all sorts of wrong and aberrant.
Has her lashes always been that long? (Yes, heʼs spend far too much time looking at them, almost counting them, even, in their study sessions in the library.) Has her nose always look this cute, button-like; that heʼs getting the stupid urge to pinch it? Has her lips always been this… shiny? Hell, Becky mustʼve roped her into wearing some weird gunk on her face again. Her hair is silky, yeah, but now that he thinks of it, thereʼs a slight, warm blonde hue that streaks it, or maybe itʼs the evening light? Damian gives in to tread his fingers lightly on her bangs, brushing it back, holding back a grin. Five-head.
Against his better judgment, he leans in. Presses a light, fleeting kiss.
Anya stirs, and Damian snaps back up so quick his back hits the tree trunk. Shit, what the fuck was that, Damian?
For what feels like an eternity all heʼs able to hear is his heart going insane in his chest, as Anya shifts around his lap a little, curling and then unfurling before she blinks clear emerald eyes at him. One, two, three. Has her eyes always been this wide—
Anya shoots up, seemingly horrified, and Damian manages to get out of the way enough to not let head hit his chin. “Wh—”
Damian tries to school his expression into one of annoyed nonchalance, and probably, most likely, fails. “Iʼve been trying to wake you up for hours , Stubby Legs,” he lies, flicking her forehead for good measure. Anya exclaims an ow , and then rubs her forehead with a pout. Damian feels his lips tingle.
She looks so sweet and cute, disoriented, pouting, a little disheveled from sleeping on the ground over Beckyʼs blanket. There is a tint of pink that seems to be deepening little by little on her cheeks. A part of her hair sticks out in an odd way because heʼs been running his hand on her silky locks, brushing the bangs on her face to reveal her big forehead.
He wants to do it again, God, he wants to press his lips back to her big stupid forehead, or perhaps her silly round, pink cheeks, or perhaps—
“W-where are the others?” Anya asks him.
“Look at the time,” he points towards the sun, “theyʼre gone already. The guys are hungry, Blackbell has a harp lesson.”
“Wait, you guys finished your essay? I havenʼt done my chem!” Anya complains. “Sy-on, why didnʼt you wake me?!”
Damian snorts, slowly pulling his legs up and winces at the violent tingling that follows throughout his muscles. “Iʼve been trying to for the past hour!” He lies. Why would I want to wake you when your weight felt really nice on my shoulder and I really like the way your baby detergent filled my senses.
Anya narrows her eyes, points at him. “Youʼre lying!”
“Are not,” he quips back easily. Of course.
“Are too!”
“No,” look, you look really pretty and peaceful, “why would I lie!”
“Sy-on boy is rarely honest.”
Damian slowly stands up, bracing himself against the tree as he kicks his legs awake and leans back down to clean up his things. Well. So much for his momentary peace, he thinks. “W-whatever. Get up, ugly. Come on, letʼs finish your chem in the library. Itʼs getting dark.”
Anya pouts, but acquiesces, stretching her body and gathering her things, lastly throwing her cape around her shoulders before she moves to stand up. Damian leans on the trunk as he watches her flit around and lifts Beckyʼs blanket to fold—when suddenly she wobbles, feet caught in a tree root she doesnʼt notice, and reflexively Damian reaches out to save her from falling, one hand wrapped around her arm to pull her— up, actually, he meant to pull her up from falling, but instead he pulls her in, and Damian finds himself face-to-face with Anya, almost chest-to-chest if not for her arms thatʼs holding Blackbellʼs folded blanket between them.
Oh bother.
He wants to let go, immediately, flinch away from her like how he just dropped his books and probably let his essay rumpled underneath it all, effectively making him have to rewrite everything, in his haste to not let her fall. But heʼs dumbstruck by the way she looks up at him with her stupid, stupid wide shining green eyes, her stupid parted pink lips, and Damianʼs brain ceases all function save for one incredibly stupid thought of leaning in and kissing not her forehead this time, but her lips.
Maybe he should. Maybe he should lean in and kiss her and, to hell with it all, tell her how she has agonized his arse for nothing short of eleven years. Maybe he should kiss her and tell her he likes her, a little or a lot in love with her, even, that he wants her to go to homecoming with him, then to senior prom, then to graduation, to university and beyond—hell, he wants to dance only with her for the rest of his life. Maybe he should. His body is screaming that he should—really, maybe he should do it before he gets a heart attack which heʼs sure is coming any moment now—
“Sy-on boy,” Anya says, face deep red, as deep as his feels, “Anya wants to go to homecoming with you.”
What.
“What?”
Does she not know anything about timing ?!
“Uh, Anya said, I want to—”
“I heard you!” Damian groans. “How—why— you-”
Too late now, he doesnʼt get a heart attack, heʼs getting a stroke. Damian lets her go to step away and runs a hand on his face, shaking his head. Curse Anya Forger and her ability to always catch him off-guard. And to think theyʼre having a moment—to think heʼs having a moment…
“Um, were we having a moment?” She asks, coming back into his line of sight, blinking her eyes innocently. Curse her and her scarily on-point guesses, as if she can read minds. “So… can Anya?”
“No!” When she visibly deflates, Damian groans. “I mean— yes —but—I was supposed to ask you! And why the sudden timing?!”
Anya brightens. “So weʼre going to homecoming together?”
God, help him. “Yeah, sure—answer my question, dammit, why so suddenly?!”
“Well, it, um, it just crossed Anyaʼs mind,” she says hesitantly, fiddling with the blanket, “and Beckyʼs been saying youʼre going to ask me soon but you donʼt?”
“I was planning on it!” Damian picks up his books. He has Plan A, which is to give her a bouquet of flowers and ask her in this very place. Thereʼs Plan B, buy her a whole basket of peanuts and chocolates and then a card to go with it. Thereʼs Plan C, which involves him going to her house with both the flowers and the peanuts and asking for her hand in—uh, homecoming to Pops and Mrs. Forger. And then thereʼs the newest spontaneous plan that suddenly popped up not five minutes ago: kiss her and tell her all about his feelings and ask her to the homecoming and maybe to be his girlfriend. All of that down the drain.
Anya bites her lip. Sheʼs a sight, with the glimmer of the lake behind her, the way sunset light hits the back of her head and bathes her pink hair in a twilight glow, like a halo. “W-were you planning to give me peanuts to ask me?” Damian gapes. “I—if yes, you can still ask me! Anyaʼs answer wonʼt change!”
Damian is sure the recent stroke he just got is making him insane. He bursts out in a laugh. “You—” he wheezes, trying to hold back laughter, and Anya watches him in bewilderment. “Youʼre so weird, you know that?!”
Anya flushes prettily in embarrassment, gripping on the blanket tight. “Anyaʼs not weird! Iʼm normal!”
Damian snorts, still chuckling, and decides to pick up her books for her into the pile in his arms. “Youʼre the weirdest person Iʼve ever known,” he says, unable to stop the fond grin that etches itself on his face. All those plans down the drain, but maybe heʼll still get her that peanut basket. “Stubby legs, will you go to homecoming with me?”
And prom, and graduation, and university, and all the other dances from then on, including a dance on their wedding day, maybe someday?
Anyaʼs face breaks into a beautiful smile. “Of course, Sy-on boy.”
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