Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eden Academy, with all its baroque grandeur and suffocating traditions, had never felt quite so stifling to Damian Desmond.

Not when he was a wide-eyed first-year, burdened by the weight of his surname. Not when his father’s expectations pressed against his ribs like an iron vice.

No, this was a new kind of suffocation. One that settled under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. And it had everything to do with the pink-haired enigma sitting beneath the autumn-gold oak tree, laughing.

The vibrant hues of the leaves seemed to bleed into the glow of the late afternoon sun, casting a soft halo around her as she sat there, far too at ease, her legs tucked beneath her in the grass. The warm light caught the edges of her hair, turning it into a soft shade of peach. The way it fell around her shoulders, a little wild, a little untamed—it made her seem more like a creature of nature than the chaos of a typical Eden Academy student.

And when she laughed?

It wasn’t the forced, awkward chuckles of someone trying to fit in, nor was it the sharp, dismissive sound of someone who thought too highly of themselves. No. Her laugh was light, like the breeze shifting through the trees, genuine and unburdened. It made everything around them feel lighter, as if time itself slowed just to listen to her.

Damian couldn’t stand it.

But he couldn’t look away either.

She was not supposed to make him feel like this. Anya was supposed to be a nuisance. A silly girl who couldn’t even keep up with the simplest lessons. Her grades—barely passing at best—were supposed to define her in his mind.

So why was it that, in the quiet rustle of her laughter, with the sunlight dancing across her skin, it all suddenly seemed… irrelevant?

He didn’t want to think about it.

And yet, here he was.

Her eyes, wide and shimmering with warmth, seemed to catch the light differently, like they were reflecting something that wasn’t his to touch. They sparkled with a quiet sincerity, unguarded. And when her lips curled into a smile, Damian felt an ache that he couldn’t place—something deep in his chest, something tight and uncomfortable.

She was making a fool of him.

Damian clenched his jaw.  

Her gaze flicked briefly to Hugh Grantham—that ridiculous tutor. Transfer student. Son of an oil baron. A name spoken in polished, reverent tones among the children of power. He was the kind of person Damian was supposed to respect, to recognize as a peer. 

He was standing beside her, talking about something Damian couldn’t be bothered to hear, but the way she looked at him—soft, focused, as though the world had narrowed to just that moment—felt like a punch to his gut.

Instead, all he could see was the way Anya’s eyes crinkled in amusement. The way she tilted her head just so, listening as Hugh murmured something Damian couldn’t hear.  

Something unfamiliar curled in his stomach. Something ugly.  

He ripped his gaze away.  

Who cares?

Anya Forger was irritating. Loud. Uncouth. A barely-average student who somehow fumbled her way through exams with sheer dumb luck. She had no tact, no grace, no reason to be worth his attention.  

And yet.  

“Tch.”  

“Geez, are you trying to glare a hole through their heads?” Ewen nudged him, smirking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”  

Damian scoffed, folding his arms tighter. “Don’t be stupid.”  

Emile leaned in, grinning. “Man, it’s actually kinda funny. She used to follow you around like a lost puppy, and now it’s like she doesn’t even see you.”  

That was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous.  

Because it implied that she had ever—ever—thought about him in the first place. And that he would care whether she still did.  

He forced out a laugh, sharp and hollow. “Tch. As if I’d care what some peanut-brained failure does with her time.”  

And yet.  

His feet carried him closer.    

...

Anya wasn’t noticing him.  

Which, frankly, was unacceptable.  

For years, she had hovered at the edge of his world, poking and prodding at his patience, annoying him with her very existence. She had been *there*—unrelenting, persistent, infuriating.  

And now, as if on some cruel cosmic whim, she had simply… stopped.  

And all because of him.  

Some rich-boy genius with perfect hair and a perfectly smug, perfectly unbothered demeanor.  

It was embarrassing how much it irked him.  

Not that it did irk him.  

Not at all.  

Not even when she smiled, tilting her head in that thoughtful way she did when she was actually paying attention. Not even when she laughed again, light and unguarded.  

Not even when it was him making her smile.  

Hugh Grantham.  

Damian clenched his fists.  

“Hey, Forger.”  

Anya looked up, blinking.  

And then— “Oh. It’s you.”  

Oh. It’s you.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?  

Before he could stop himself, Damian scowled. “Don’t tell me you actually need a tutor to do basic math. That’s pathetic, even for you.”  

Ewen and Emile exchanged looks of oh god, here we go again.

Hugh, to his credit, barely reacted. He just smiled, easy and unshaken. “Oh, don’t worry. Anya’s been improving. She just needs the right guidance.”  

The right guidance?

Damian bristled. “Tch. As if you’d know the first thing about it.”  

Hugh tilted his head. “Oh? I take it you’ve tutored her before?”  

That was a trap.  

Damian knew it was a trap.  

And yet, he scoffed. “Of course not. What kind of idiot would waste their time on that?”  

At that, Anya hummed.  

Not a sound of offense.  

Not a sound of hurt.  

Just a slow, knowing hum, like she was reading him.  

Which.  

No.  

That was ridiculous.  

Absolutely ridiculous.

“Uh-huh,” she said at last, turning back to Hugh without so much as a second glance. “Aw I hate studying! Guess I have to for the test, huh?”  

And just like that.  

She dismissed him.  

Like he wasn’t worth her time.  

...

He wasn’t in love with her.  

Obviously.  

That would be absurd.  

Just a silly phase he was going through.  

And yet.  

That night, Damian lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way she had smiled at Hugh.  

And the way she hadn’t smiled at him.  

Chapter Text

The bell tower of Eden Academy rang out, signaling the end of the school day, but Damian didn’t leave immediately.

He never did.

As his classmates scattered to their various activities or homes, he remained seated in his usual corner, silently watching the world unfold around him. This place, for all its grandeur and history, felt more like a gilded cage with each passing day. The sprawling halls of Eden Academy, with their vaulted ceilings and ornate marble floors, had never felt more suffocating.

The expectations placed upon him, the suffocating weight of his last name, pressed against him with an intensity that seemed to leave no room for anything else. No room for himself.

“Damian.”

The voice cut through his thoughts, low and commanding.

He didn’t need to turn around to recognize the voice. His father’s tone alone had the power to freeze his blood.

“Still here?” His father’s voice was indifferent, but the glint in his eyes told Damian everything he needed to know. There was no kindness in it. Only that cold, calculating gaze—the kind that looked straight through him.

“Just thinking,” Damian replied, forcing his voice to stay neutral. He could feel his father’s eyes narrow at the lack of immediate obedience.

“Think harder, then. There’s a dinner party tonight. Be there. And don’t embarrass yourself again.” His father’s voice was sharp as he turned to leave. He hadn’t even waited for Damian to respond, nor had he made any attempt to mask his dismissal.

Damian stood frozen, staring at the retreating figure of his father, a slight scowl tugging at his lips. He had no idea why he even bothered trying to seek approval. It was always the same. His entire life had been shaped by the suffocating grip of the Desmond family’s reputation—and yet, no matter how hard he tried, he never quite felt like he belonged.

Shaking his head, he shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced out the window, watching as the last rays of daylight bathed the campus in gold.

Dinner parties, expectations, legacy. It was all so tiring.

...

The following day, Damian walked the courtyard with the usual air of disdain, his shoulders tight with the knowledge that he was bound to be dragged through the same cycle again and again. The sun was high, casting sharp shadows beneath the towering oaks that lined the walkway.

He was heading for the library—where, as usual, he would spend his free period getting ahead of the assignments that everyone else would scramble to finish later. He liked the quiet, the predictability of it.

“Damian! Over here!”

The shrill voice cut through the air, and he immediately froze in place. His heart sank.

Of course it was her.

Anya was sitting by the central fountain, her legs curled under her in the grass. She waved enthusiastically, her pink hair catching the sunlight in wild, uneven streaks, and for the briefest moment, Damian felt the air grow heavier.

Why did she have to exist like this, so utterly carefree and... unbothered?

She wasn't just a distraction anymore—she was an irritation. One that he couldn’t shake.

Damian sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He had no choice but to approach. The teachers had decided that, for once, the groups in today’s assignment would be mixed up, and of course, he was paired with Anya.

Great.

As he neared, she was laughing at something under her breath, her voice light and unassuming, as if the world didn’t exist beyond the bubble she had created for herself.

He took a deep breath, trying to summon the patience he had long since lost.

“Damian! You’re here!” she greeted brightly, oblivious to the internal struggle he was fighting.

“I’m here,” he muttered, his tone flat as he took a seat beside her—though not too close. He wasn’t sure if the proximity would drive him mad or keep him from completely losing his composure.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Anya asked, her eyes flicking over him. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

Damian opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Hugh Grantham’s voice interrupted.

“Hey, Anya, do you need help with that problem?” Hugh was standing just a few feet away, his expression relaxed as he smiled down at her.

The sight of him made Damian’s blood run cold.

Hugh Grantham. That perfect new student.

Damian had seen him around—he was the son of some oil baron, one of the so-called “new money” elite, and already his presence was making waves in Eden’s high society. In every class, the teachers were praising him, the students were fawning over him, and now—now he was here, tutoring Anya, as though she needed any help at all.

Damian gritted his teeth. Hugh’s posture, his calm, collected demeanor, his easy smile—everything about him grated against Damian’s nerves.

But it was more than that.

What bothered him more than anything was the way Anya looked up at him.

She was smiling—that wide, open smile, the kind that made his stomach twist for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge.

What the hell was it about that idiot that made her act like that?

“Damian?” Anya’s voice brought him back to reality. She was looking at him curiously, clearly sensing the tension radiating off of him.

He blinked and looked away, his fingers tightening against the sides of his seat. “What?”

“You’re all red,” she said, her voice carrying a note of concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

It was her again. Always her. And, as usual, he couldn’t escape her. Her innocent, oblivious smile made his blood rush to his cheeks, burning him from the inside out.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice harsher than intended. “Just… focus on your work.”

Anya blinked at him, clearly puzzled by his reaction, but instead of pressing further, she simply shrugged and returned her attention to Hugh.

Damian clenched his fists, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them.

“You know,” Hugh said casually, turning to Damian, “Anya’s been making a lot of progress. She’s just a little distracted sometimes, but it’s nothing she can’t handle.”

Progress.

Damian’s teeth ground together. He could barely hide his disdain. “Really? You actually think she’s capable of handling anything?”

Hugh didn’t even flinch, his smile still intact. “Of course. You’d be surprised what people can do when they have the right guidance.”

The words struck Damian like a slap, but it was the way Hugh said them—so sure of himself, so composed—that made his pulse race.

“Whatever.” Damian stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with a screech that made the entire table jump. “You can have her, then.”

Anya turned to him, that same unbothered look on her face. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Damian could feel his face flush, and his chest tightened with frustration. God, she was so—so annoying in her simplicity.

“I don’t care anymore. Just do whatever.” His voice was colder than he intended. Without waiting for a response, he stormed off, his fists clenched at his sides.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the towering stained-glass windows of Eden Academy, casting long, colorful streaks across the polished marble floors. The grandeur of the academy was something Damian Desmond had grown used to—baroque columns, regal chandeliers, and corridors so immaculate they reflected one's image like a mirror.

But despite the pristine environment, Damian felt anything but at ease.

Because sitting next to him, bouncing her legs against her chair with an air of complete silliness, was none other than Anya Forger.

Damian glanced at her from the corner of his eye, frowning. She had that usual carefree look on her face, her pink hair slightly disheveled as if she hadn’t bothered brushing it properly that morning. And of course, her expression was unreadable—like she hadn’t a single thought behind those big, round eyes of hers.

How someone like her had managed to worm her way into his life over and over again was beyond him.

“Alright, class!” their teacher’s voice rang out, commanding the attention of the students. “As high-class citizens, it is essential to uphold proper etiquette in both public and private settings. Today, you will be working in pairs to create a poster on public etiquette—an informative visual that reflects the values expected of society’s elite.”

Damian smirked.

Easy.

He could already imagine the perfectly crafted poster he would make—flawless handwriting, elegant diagrams, sophisticated word choices. A task like this was nothing to someone raised in the Desmond family.

“And the partner assignments are as follows…”

Damian barely paid attention, too caught up in his own self-assuredness—until the teacher spoke his name.

“Damian Desmond… you’ll be working with Anya Forger.”

A sharp clunk sounded as Damian’s pencil slipped from his grasp and hit the desk.

You have got to be kidding me.

He whipped his head toward Anya, whose reaction was… utterly indifferent.

“Nice,” she said simply, giving him a little thumbs-up.

Damian stared at her, his eye twitching. Nice? That was all she had to say? Did she not realize how utterly awful this situation was?

Before he could protest, the teacher clapped her hands. “Now, I want you all to work outside of the classroom so you have space to spread out your materials. Find a quiet place in the hallway and get started.”

And just like that, they were dismissed.

The hallway was quieter than usual, besides the occasional murmur of other students working on their projects. Anya and Damian had found an empty space near the end of the corridor, where a small table and chairs were placed against a grand window.

Damian immediately took control, pulling out the poster board and markers with an air of authority.

“This is going to be easy,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles as he positioned the poster in front of him. “Public etiquette is something ingrained into people like me. You can just sit there and—”

“I wanna help!” Anya interrupted, leaning over to grab a marker.

Damian recoiled slightly, scowling. “Help?”

Anya nodded. “Yeah! Etiquette is important and stuff, right? I gotta learn it too.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Tch. Fine. But don’t get in my way.”

As he began outlining the poster’s title in flawless, elegant script, Anya watched curiously.

“Whoa,” she murmured. “Your handwriting is super fancy. Like one of those rich snobby people in old-timey books.”

Damian froze mid-stroke.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s all swirly and perfect and… proper.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure if he should feel insulted or praised.

“Obviously,” he muttered, flipping his hair. “It’s called having class.”

Anya nodded as if she understood. “I wanna try!”

Before he could stop her, she grabbed a marker and began scrawling letters on the poster.

Damian watched in absolute horror.

It was awful.

The letters were uneven, crooked, some parts too big while others were barely legible. It looked like a toddler had taken a crayon and attacked the page with reckless abandon.

“What… what is this monstrosity?!” he exclaimed, pointing at her handwriting like it had personally offended him.

Anya blinked at him, confused. “Huh? It’s my handwriting.”

“That’s what you call handwriting?! It looks like—like a chicken scratched it out in a fit of rage!”

Anya tilted her head, frowning slightly. “I think it’s pretty good.”

“It’s not.”

She huffed, puffing out her cheeks. “Then help me make it better!”

Damian was about to retort, but then he paused.

Helping her meant getting this done faster. And getting this done faster meant he wouldn’t have to suffer through this ridiculous situation any longer.

“…Fine,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

He grabbed a spare piece of paper, set it in front of her, and—without thinking—reached for her hand.

The moment his fingers wrapped around hers, a shock of realization hit him.

What am I doing?

Her hand was tiny compared to his—warm, soft, and completely still as he guided it across the page. His heartbeat stuttered for a split second, and he felt a sudden, uncomfortable heat rise to his face.

But Anya, of course, was utterly unfazed.

“Whoa,” she said, watching intently as he moved her hand in slow, steady strokes. “It’s like you’re controlling me with your mind.”

“I’m just showing you how to properly write,” he snapped, trying to ignore the fact that his ears were now burning.

She let him guide her for a moment longer before attempting on her own. And while it was still far from perfect, it was better.

“There. Improvement,” he muttered, pulling back quickly and crossing his arms.

Anya beamed. “Hey, hey, not bad! You’re a good teacher, Demonic.”

He bristled. “It’s Damian.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off. “This was kinda fun.”

He scoffed, looking away. “Whatever. Let’s just finish this already.”

As they continued working, Damian found himself sneaking occasional glances at her. She was still the same dense, irritating, utterly impossible person she had always been.

And yet…

He swallowed, glancing down at his hands.

Damian was still acutely aware of the warmth lingering on his fingers when a new voice cut through the hallway.

“Oh, you two are working hard.”

Damian’s expression soured immediately.

Of course.

Standing a few feet away, casually adjusting the cuffs of his pristine uniform, was Hugh Grantham.

As always, Hugh looked effortlessly put-together—his blond hair neatly styled, his golden cufflinks gleaming under the sunlight filtering through the window. He had the kind of composed, aristocratic aura that made the other students admire him instantly. And Damian hated that.

Hugh’s gaze flickered over to the poster, scanning it with mild interest. “Public etiquette? Seems like a good topic for you, Damian. Must be second nature by now, right?”

Damian tensed, hearing the implied insult beneath Hugh’s words.

Of course, it was second nature to him. He was raised in a family where etiquette wasn’t just expected—it was demanded. Yet somehow, the way Hugh said it made it sound like a backhanded compliment, like he was humoring a child playing dress-up.

Anya, still obliviously focused on her handwriting, greeted Hugh with an easy smile. “Oh, hey, Tutor Guy.”

Damian twitched. Tutor Guy?!

Hugh chuckled. “It’s good to see you too, Anya.” His tone was warm, polite—like he was speaking to a charity case. It made Damian’s skin crawl.

Hugh leaned in slightly, examining the poster again. “Ah, I see you’re teaching Anya proper penmanship, Damian. That’s… commendable. Though, I suppose even with effort, some people just aren’t suited for refinement.”

Damian’s jaw clenched.

There it was.

The subtle way Hugh belittled others while still maintaining a mask of politeness. Damian knew the type. He had spent his whole life surrounded by people like this—people who looked down on others while pretending they didn’t.

And yet, before Damian could snap back—

“I'm learning,” Anya said simply, shrugging. “Unlike you, who probably came outta the womb knowing how to eat soup with three different spoons.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

Pfft.

Damian barely stifled a laugh.

Hugh, for the first time, looked mildly taken aback.

Anya, still clueless as ever, just tapped her chin. “Actually, is that how rich people work? Are you born knowing which fork is for salad?”

Hugh let out a soft chuckle, but there was an unmistakable flicker of irritation in his expression.

Damian smirked. Finally, a crack in Hugh’s perfect mask.

“Anyway,” Anya continued, stretching her arms, “me and Demonic gotta finish this thing. Oh! Actually—” She turned to Damian. “Wanna come to my place to finish it? I got snacks.”

Damian stiffened.

“Wh—” His face immediately burned. “What?”

Anya tilted her head. “I mean, we gotta finish this thing, right? I don’t wanna work on it alone, and if we stay at school too long, I’ll get hungry and die. So let’s do it at my place.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Inviting a classmate over? How forward.”

Damian knew Hugh was just teasing, but for some reason, his ears grew even warmer.

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Pft. Whatever. It’d be… interesting to see how a peasant lives.”

Hugh’s smirk widened. “That’s generous of you, Damian. I hope you don’t get culture shock.”

Damian shot him a glare, but Hugh only chuckled again, stepping away.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt. Have fun with your project,” he said before strolling off down the hall, his polished shoes clicking against the floor.

The moment he was out of sight, Damian exhaled sharply, rubbing his nose.

That guy is insufferable.

Anya, meanwhile, was already packing up the supplies like nothing had happened.

“Alright! Let’s go, Demonic.”

Damian bristled. “Stop calling me that!”

And yet, despite himself, he found his feet moving forward.

Somehow, against all logic and reason—he was following her home.

Chapter Text

Sorry for not updating, I was hit by a car.
I had to stay in the hospital for about a ones and I am still recovering.

I likely will not update again