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He’s more than willing to settle for just friendship.
Maybe it’s because he’s got low self-esteem issues (which he’s just barely begun to process) or maybe he’s afraid that confessing will negatively affect what they have between them. He isn’t sure, but he’s far too afraid to find out.
(Also… he isn’t even sure if she swings that way. Anya’s never expressed any interest in–well, anyone, not including a fictional Bondman from TV.)
And he has to focus on school, anyhow. He’s just become the first Imperial Scholar in his class, but his journey is far from over. His father wouldn’t be pleased if he only stopped there.
But that stubby-legged shrimp is way more perceptive than he gives her credit for. And he realizes this a little too late, when they’re in a supply room looking for extra chalk for a classroom.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says conversationally. Not sounding hurt, only curious and sympathetic.
As if she knows.
Damian puts his hand down from where he’s been rummaging in a few drawers, and he can already feel his palms going clammy, heart cantering into a gallop. He hears the voices of his friends, tired and annoyed at his lovesickness, telling him he should just tell her and get over it now instead of torturing himself with not knowing.
“Sorry,” is all he’s able to say, a dry patch forming on his tongue. It’s dim in the storage room, but her eyes are as bright as ever. Boring into him. He looks down.
“Was it something I did?” She asks, prying gently. She’ll back off at hostility, but right now it’s just the two of them and he feels oddly vulnerable.
“No… it’s more…” he lets the words slip out, but he needs to sit down, or else he won’t be able to finish the sentence. He plants himself on a stepping stool, but his knees are still trembling. “It’s more something you’re doing right now.”
He grimaces as soon as he finishes speaking. That did not come out right, but she only lets out a quiet laugh in confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
His breathing becomes shallower, faster. If he doesn’t say it now, he fears he’ll forever hold his silence and never tell her, and that seems more terrifying than doing it right now.
Fuck it. He can’t bear the silent yearning any longer.
“You… you make me so…” A gasp kicks into his throat but halts on its way out, with nowhere to go. She steps a little closer, eyes wide with concern because he really looks like he’s about to have a panic attack. It feels like it, too.
“Nervous,” he rasps out, and it’s hardly the right thing to say and he knows that, but it’s still the truth in its barest form.
“I make you nervous?” Anya repeats, and if his vision wasn’t swimming in front of his eyes he could’ve sworn that she nearly smiled.
“Yes,” he swallows, and puts his face into his hands. If he can’t see her, maybe it’d be easier to say. If he loved her a little less, he could talk about it more.
“I like you, Anya. you’re a really good friend. I think of you as one of my closest. But… I like you more than Becky, and Ewen, and Emile. I like you a lot. So much that it scares me a little. And every time we–we hold hands, or hug, I know it’s platonic but it makes me like you even more. I’ve felt this way ever since… ever since you punched me in first grade, but I thought it would go away. And it hasn’t. And I just… I just can’t handle being around you. It’s too much. I like being friends. I want us to stay friends. But I just can’t stop feeling this way.”
He breathes a little raggedly as the confession expires into the air. He’s sure none of the rambling makes any sense, and he wants her to do something, run away, tell him he’s being stupid, punch him again maybe, or…
She peels his hands away from his face, holds them in hers. “Hey,” she says quietly but insistently. “Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, and she seems to have received the news well enough, because her gaze is level and even.
“We can still be friends,” she tells him, her voice low. “And… I also like holding your hand platonically, and hugging you platonically. I kind of figured… I mean, we don’t have to label anything, or go too fast.” Anya starts to lean in, and his pulse becomes so tachycardic it very nearly stops. “But if you want… we can kiss, platonically, too?”
The first thing Damian thinks is, How long has she been waiting to use that line?
The second thing he thinks is how sweet she tastes, soft mouth pressed against his, and he’s lost in the fruity scent of chapstick and perfume as they get closer, hands reaching greedily for each other.
And he eventually realizes, to his chagrin, that the classroom didn’t need any chalk. She was just tired of waiting for him to confess.
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“Fucking finally!” Ewen roars when he stumbles back into the dorm lounge, with his hair tousled and lips smeared red. His pupils are blown wide like he’s just done a line, and he blinks at his friends a little stupidly.
“What? Did something happen?” He demands, and for some reason, Emile smacks his own forehead hard enough to leave a mark.
“Boss, I think she might’ve taken all of your brain cells,” he says completely seriously, because Damian’s got a thousand yard stare and the girl only needs two more stella stars to become an Imperial Scholar.