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after what feels like hours of tossing and turning, anya grabs her phone off her pillow and unlocks it. she tabs to her favourites and hits the first name, pressing the facetime button and setting it upright against her pillow.
damian answers on the second ring. it’s dark in his room, and his voice is groggy and rough. “what, forger?”
“i dunno. i can’t sleep.”
“how is that my problem?”
“it’s not… i was just hoping you’d pick up.”
“well, i did. so what now?”
“how are you?”
“tired,” he sets his phone on his night stand against his alarm clock and folds his arm over, leaning on it and looking at her. her eyes are tired and sad and it makes his heart heavy. he maintains his gruff disposition as he rubs his eyes and yawns into the bend of his arm.
“help me sleep?”
“mm. close your eyes,” he grumbles as he closes his own.
he opens them a second later and she’s still staring.
“anya.” he grits his teeth.
“i can’t.”
“you can’t what? close your eyes?”
“no,” she sighs.
“we have class in the morning.”
“i know, i’m gonna die—i will not survive class unless i go to sleep right now. but i can’t go to sleep.”
“ugh.” he growls into his pillow. “just say what you want, then.”
“can i come over?”
he sits up on his elbow and looks out the window of his flat to the city lights below. he’s living on his own now, thank god he’s out of the dorms. it’s more comfortable here… and he can do things like take anya’s frequently increasing midnight facetimes without worrying about being overheard.
“why?”
“remember that one weekend where i called you and couldn’t sleep and you sent me a car and then you were my big spoon?” she rambles.
“i was drunk and you looked pathetic. what was i supposed to do?”
“i dunno,” she whispers. “do it again, maybe?”
he wants to bash his head against the wall.
he has to stop falling asleep with anya.
not because it’s annoying or because he doesn’t like it… it’s that he likes it too much.
getting out of the car together raises eyebrows.
not always—he’s been picking her up on and off since he got his license because she’s lazy and an idiot and misses the bus all the time. and then sometimes it’s cold. or rainy. or sunny, and she just looks so pathetic standing at the bus stop.
he grumbles again.
he’s gotta stop falling asleep with her because it makes his heart pound in his chest.
“fine. be ready in 10.”
“but that’s not enough time—” she knows his drivers take a while to leave the county. he’s not sending her one. he clicks the ‘end call’ button and pulls a shirt on.
he’s there in 8 minutes. she comes down the stairs in a wayward jacket pulled over a pyjama shirt so long it’s practically a dress with a pair of thin lilac pants beneath it. she’s got a bag on her shoulder and her weird pink and green goblin animal in her arms.
he knows its name is mr. chimera.
and he hates that he knows that.
she gets into the passenger seat and before he can scold her for the whole ordeal, she wraps her arms around him and hugs him so tight it makes his heart strain against his ribcage.
“what do you want to eat?” he changes the subject and shifts gears before he says something stupid like ‘i’ve missed you.’
“what’s in your fridge?”
he rolls his eyes. she’s a pink and green goblin.
she plays with his radio. he’d kill anyone else for daring to try. she fumbles with the dial a bit more until she finds something instrumental and folds her legs into a criss cross.
“don’t do that,” he glances down in her lap and regrets it immediately. “you’ll fold like an accordion if we crash.”
“then don’t crash,” she says cheekily and puts a lollipop in her mouth.
“get your fucking shoes off my seat.”
“i’m not wearing any.”
“what?!” he glances down again, then back at the road. “what is wrong with you?!”
he’s gonna have to carry her up the stairs, isn’t he?
•••
he does. he feels very silly about it. she’s light as a feather so it’s no trouble… she locks her legs around his waist and nestles her cheek into his shoulder, already cozying up as he nudges the button to close the elevator.
“sy-on boy?”
“hm?”
“you’re the best.”
“yeah, yeah. we need to sleep, immediately.”
she yawns and rubs her eyes as he closes the door to his condo behind him, tossing her on the couch.
“wait!” she hops up. “i don’t wanna sleep on the couch!”
“you won’t. what, was i supposed to princess-carry you straight to bed?”
that thought makes her blush. the look on his face tells one story, but the thoughts behind his eyes tell another one entirely.
she follows him to the bedroom. he pulls his shirt off before thinking about it—before considering that she’ll be wrapping her small hands right around his bare chest… god forbid she lays her cheek over his heartbeat and hears how fast it will be… how fast it is right now.
“no chatting. just sleeping,” he pulls the heavy duvet back and she crawls right under it, fitting herself right against him as the little spoon and pulling her stuffed animal against her chest.
instinctively, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her in the same way. he swallows hard. how is he supposed to sleep like this? there’s no way…
she wriggles around and turns over so she’s facing him, burying her face into his neck. he holds the back of her head tenderly. they’re intertwined like lovers. he tries to keep his breathing even as he tucks her curls behind her ear.
she hears that thought and nestles in even closer.
“you’re my favourite,” she whispers in his ear and he feels like he could die right there and be satisfied with the life he’s lived. what a ridiculous thought—he’s hardly made anything of himself yet. how was he supposed to run the country some day with anya haunting his every thought like this?
or perhaps it would be easier having her there in his arms every night. so he could rest easy and not toss and turn about her for hours on end.
he’s still stroking her hair.
he leans in and kisses her forehead.
what was wrong with him?
holding her is pure bliss. he recalls the memory of cramming his stuffed toy into the closet and crying himself to sleep because he needed something to hold but it was childish to cuddle a toy, and he was not a child. well, he was. but he isn’t anymore.
there’s nothing childish about being in love.
in love?! he stuns himself with his own internal dialogue. holding her feels better than his childhood stuffed toy. he thought he’d never get over that stupid thing.
he’ll surely never get over this stupid thing. he cups the back of her head and pulls her closer.
her breathing evens out. she’s fast asleep now, and he’s staring at the wall trying not to think too hard about her. about any of this.
“it’s okay, papa,” she mumbles into his chest. “i’m with sy-on boy.”
“oh—“ his breath catches in his chest when he realizes she’s sleep-talking. “don’t say that.”
“it’s okay…” her tone is soft. it’s notably different than usual. “because we’re gonna get married.”
he swallows hard. is she dreaming about him? is she dreaming about being his wife? the thought of her actually having this conversation with loid drained the colour from his face. pops had kind eyes, but there was something unmistakably intimidating behind them, and he wasn’t interested in being on the receiving end of whatever loid was capable of.
the wretched part of himself that he often buried under a cold disposition wanted to implore her for more.
“oh, yeah? when?”
“bond told me, so i know it’s true,” he could feel a bit of drool drip off her bottom lip onto his chest.
“your dog?” he shook his head. so the dream wasn’t rooted in any semblance of truth, then. just nonsensical slivers of whimsy between thoughts of talking dogs.
what did he mean by ‘truth’? he would be the one who would decide whether or not they marry—it was his job to ask the question. the thought of kneeling before anya made his gut churn. the thought of his father’s face when he broke the news that he was marrying a peasant made him nauseous. how would he tell his parents?
tell them what?! she wasn’t even his girlfriend, for god’s sake! she’d look so beautiful in a white dress—he’s sure she’d pick one that would cinch at the waist and flare out; a dress fit for a princess. anything she wanted, she would have.
enough, he scolds himself silently but he can’t stop. these thoughts just keep getting heavier and more frequent. he wants her. he wants her to be his. it’s taken him a long time to get comfortable enough to even admit it to himself in his own thoughts.
“hey, anya?” he asks quietly before he can stop himself. she’s an avid sleep-talker—it’s cute. he could get some practice without having to bear the shame.
“mm?”
“be my girlfriend?” he asked in the quietest whisper against her ear.
“okay. but i’m already your wife.”
he grinned ear to ear like an absolute fool, bearing all of his teeth—a sight rarer than a blue moon. he was glad she wasn’t awake to see it.
maybe he’d ask her for real in the morning over breakfast.
but then again, maybe not.