Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 Anya is growing up faster than the Forgers can keep up with. With buds beginning to bloom for the first time in the year, and thus, pollen making Bond a sneezy, slobbery creature after his daily walks, Anya’s birthday is coming up! And this year, she’ll be hitting the big eighteen. 

But that was the last thing she was thinking about. First, she had to uphold her grades and behavior as an Imperial Scholar to serve as an example for the younger students, who always made her wonder if she was ever that small. Besides, only a few Tonitrus Bolts from expulsion, she had to tread carefully. But she was set to graduate next year, and after that, no more worrying about Stella Stars and Tonitrus Bolts! But then came becoming an adult. Job search, taxes, moving out, more taxes, finding a husband?? What??? STARTING A FAMILY??? 

Oh, it was all too much. So much that she had never considered before, and was suddenly hit with all at once. 

Anya felt like she was about to keel over and cry on the pavement. Rarely had reading her own thoughts caused her so much internal dismay. 

And maybe she was starting to look genuinely unwell. On the outside, because Becky stopped in her tracks at the strange vibe shift and leaned over to get a good look at her deteriorating friend. 

“And eeee! I just can’t wait for the ending of the season, I know everything has been leading up to– hey…. Hey? Anya? Anya, sweetie?”

One big, green eye blinks back. And then the other. Like a frog. Even though she’s usually weird like this, she can sense there’s definitely something wrong. 

When Anya gets in her head too much, some distance from the crowd and a drink usually jumpstarts her back into full consciousness. Leading the delirious girl to a bench under their signature spot– a large oak tree in the back courtyard of Eden, Becky swiftly runs off to the closest vending machine. 

“Just– stay here– okay? Don’t fall over!”

“Wuh….” 

“Oh jeez…”

After returning with a chilled strawberry milk– one of Anya’s favorites, she begins to talk.

“Wow, you look like you just saw the Reaper! What’s going on?”

“I just want to eat peanuts and sleep.” Which really catches Becky off guard. 

“Pardon?”

“I don’t want to grow up!” Anya slumps onto the back of the bench and slides down. Her ragdoll posture is abysmal. 

“Beckyyyyyy~ I just want to watch cartoons and go home to eat Papa’s omurice.” 

“I wish I could come home to your Papa too.”

“What.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Becky urges with a smirk. “-do go on.”

“Okay, whatever. You’re weird, but who am I to talk? Anyways, don’t you ever get scared of growing up? I mean, one day we’re in the same halls and classrooms we’ve been in for the past thirteen years of our lives, and the next you’re trying to find a good job and pay your taxes– but somewhere in that big, busy life, you’re also supposed to find love. And support your family. But at what point does the family become a thing? Who’s got time for that? And then suddenly you’re seeing your parents less. Your friends are always busy with their big jobs and their own big families. How do you prepare for a change like that? Becky– we’re gonna stay friends, right? Us, and Sy-on boy, and all his weird friends–”

“Yes!” Becky interrupts with a great urgency. Of course they’re gonna stay friends— but there’s something else, a more important point, that she needs to get across. “Yes, and also– I think you’re spiraling a little bit. C’mon, sit up. Make some space for your lungs.” 

Anya pushes herself back up onto the bench. Posture fixed, she takes a couple of deep breaths, and yeah– it does make her feel better. Damn it, she hates when other people are right.

Becky sighs. “Truthfully, I don’t think I can relate to everything. I mean, I think I’ll just be taking over the family industry when I get older. And you know I’ve never worried about money.” 

“I think I worry about your money more than you worry about your money.” Anya chuckles. Rich people are weird. 

“But– I’m scared too. What if I end up marrying some rando rich guy with no substance? What if he’s super ugly?! What if I’m bad at leading the company? I think… We're all worried about something coming up. Even Mister-Perfect-Desmond.” 

“Yeah. Especially Sy-on boy.” And with the thought of him in her mind, she can feel her entire body easing. She tilts her chin up to the sky and admires the golden rays of sunlight cutting through the branches and leaves of the towering oak. Oh. The yellow reminds her of the golden flecks in his honey-brown eyes. She smiles a little. And to no one. 

She looks absolutely insane.

Becky is completely and utterly unamused. Things like this have been happening for the past twelve years, and frankly, she’s unfazed by now. “Wow, that was easy. Well, it looks like you crossed off one thing. Finding love, I mean.” Which immediately snaps Anya out of her daze. 

“What?” 

“You have got to be kidding me right now.” Twelve years! She’s gotten twelve years to figure this out!!

“Sy-on boy? Damian? Damian Desmond, second son of Donovan Desmond? Creepy eyeballs man? Oh– no way. Nonono.” 

“Well, Damian’s eyeballs aren’t creepy, so who cares! You love them! You mumble your thoughts, you know?” Well, shit. Anya really hates it when people are right, and why is it always Becky? 

“I don’t want to talk about eyeballs anymore! What does it matter anyway? He wouldn’t settle down with a commoner girl. He can’t.” Which anyone at Eden would know. Rich marries rich– if not richer, so there’s no doubt Donovan Desmond’s baseline expectation would be a proper, wealthy, refined woman for his son. And besides, Damian loves his father the most. His wants would come first. They always have.

“Being friends is… fine,” Anya says, the last word like it’s painful to squeeze out of her throat. 

“Really? Just, fine?”

“It’s good enough.” 

“ Really? ” Becky persists, and it’s because she knows the answer alread–

“Ugh! No! It’s not!” Yup, there it is. “And I hate it so much, but there’s not like anything I can do to see if he likes me back or prove to his dad that I can be a proper lady too so I think I’ll just lie down and cr-” But little did she know, Becky had her own evil plans cooking up, and it was all thanks to that romance show she had been so obsessed with. 

“Ohoho… my sweet little Anya. Sweet, lovestruck Anya. But what if there is ?” She’s starting to exude menacing energy and Anya doesn’t like the sound of it, but she’s so desperate that she might actually listen to Becky for once. 

“Um… sure. You know what, sure. What do I have to lose?” With a triumphant and conniving grin, Becky pulls out her phone with the episode already paused on the screen. She really was obsessed with this show, huh? 

It’s in the smack-dab middle of this episode with lots of girls in white dresses and boys in funny-looking suits, and really no other context that Anya learns what a debutante is. Becky explains that it’s like a coming-of-age ceremony. High-class girls between seventeen and twenty-one have a big party where they are essentially ‘presented’ to society. Her family is there, lots of other high-class people are invited, and they act as possible connections and suitors for her in her adult life. The night is full of dance, socialization, and celebration of the debutante’s achievements. There’s a strict dress code and multiple rehearsals leading up to the real thing. It’s the epitome of proper, wealthy, and refined.

“I did something similar last year, remember?” Becky refers to her own ball held around the summer of last year. With little to no budget limit and her taste for designer, the event was easily one of the grandest things Anya had ever seen. However, she barely had the chance to enjoy the festivities over the overwhelmingly loud thoughts of the large crowd. Waiters, suitors, parents— they were all practically yelling their thoughts, and it was all too much for her to remember anything else.

“Huh?”

“Girl, no way you forgot that huge ball. Around June, white dresses, stuffy dances?” 

“Oh! Ohhh… yeah, I remember. Those tea cakes were so good. Can I have those for mine too?”

“You’re hopeless.”

What Becky saves for last, though, is that the debutante must choose an escort. A young man, usually a brother, close family member, or friend, who will stay with her throughout the night. Tending to her comfort, keeping her company, and acting as her primary dance partner. Anya gulps nervously.

“Ah, it’s perfect! I’m a genius! Your 18th birthday is coming up, which means you’re in the perfect age range. You’ve never had a big celebration for your birthday, right? Eighteen’s the time to do it! You’ll get to talk to all the important people who could ever land you a kushy job, and you’ll get to spend the whole night with Sy-on boy and show his dad that you can be a proper lady too! He’ll be so impressed that there won’t be a doubt about his blessing for your marriage!”

Anya chokes on her strawberry milk. “MARRIAGE?” 

“Okay, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. But let’s say, worst case scenario: things don’t work out, which I highly doubt, there are tons of other eligible bachelors at your disposal! See? It all works out and I’m the bestest friend in the world.” 

The whole idea is a lot for Anya to process, but it doesn’t sound bad. Not bad at all. 

Hm… pretty dresses, all her friends from Eden, Sy-on boy being her personal escort, dancing with him… and best of all, those crunchy tea cakes! This was the best idea ever! 

“Oh Becky, you’re amazing! Where do we start?” 

And so it began. Blackbell and Forger’s Mission: Damianya! Debutante Ball!

“You want to have a what? Where did you even learn that word?” Loid puts down his newspaper on the coffee table, switching to sip on a mug of black coffee. He always had his coffee the same way in the mornings. And in the afternoon. And the evenings. Anya thinks he consumes too much caffeine. But right now, it was the morning after she had come home for the weekend, so she wasn’t going to mention it. 

“A day-boo-taunt ball!” 

“Debutante?”

“Yeah, that one! Becky showed it to me! One like the one she had last year! Remember?” 

“Yes, I do remember. I remember that bill for all the clothes we had to buy for the dress code.” WISE had been less than happy to cover the costs, even for a mission as important as Operation Strix. 

Anya’s face drops, the glimmer in her eyes shifting aside alongside her mouth turning into a pout. Papa’s tone didn’t sound promising. “So… I’m guessing that’s a no?”

“Oh, come on Loid,” Yor chimes in, attention now directed away from the fried egg she was attempting for breakfast. “Our Anya has grown so much! And she’s made such a big name for herself at Eden as well. Shouldn’t we treat her to something special for her big birthday? Ah- my egg yolk!” 

The moment that the ping travels up his spine, that distinct feeling of dread he’s only ever felt when things are about to go awry in a mission, Loid knows he’s done something wrong. So, he thinks. Thinks that perhaps that was the wrong response. 

World peace is at stake! Think, Twilight, think. Indeed, this is what normal, high-class families do. Big, grand parties - and maybe we haven’t been congratulating Anya enough. She did exceed all of our agents’ expectations and became an Imperial Scholar. If I, as her father, don’t appreciate her accomplishments, she might rat me out to the SSS in revenge! And then Yor may see me unfit as a father and husband and help her in the scheme! You must do this to keep your family together! An unhappy daughter will make the entire mission fall apart. And as he thought about it more, he began to realize just how valuable this event could be. 

Just think of all the important people there; all the connections to information you could make, all the favors you could gain, and becoming friendly with the upper-class, no one will ever suspect you of espionage! Yes, this idea is perfect, and essential to the success of Operation Strix. WISE will surely understand. 

“Okay, fine. Consider it your birthday celebration. And a celebration of your status as an Imperial Scholar. And an… early graduation party.” With the estimated costs of hosting an entire ball, Loid had to try checking as many boxes as he could. 

“YAY! Really?!” He huffed and gave her a quiet smile, nodding his head.

And as quickly as the gleam left her eyes before, it was back. “Papa, Mama, you are the best parents ever! I love you guys!” Her excitement and gratitude practically bursted out of her as she jumped at her father for a hug, and then ran over to her mother to do the same. 

It was moments like these that made everything worth it. 

“I’ll just get a copy of today’s news, please. Along with the groceries.” Loid requested as he slid an extra dalc over to the department store cashier. 

“Blub.” Ah, today must be the F cipher. 

Back in the safety of his own home, he began to decode the message from the Handler. He heard it was urgent.  

TWILIGHT WHAT THE **** IS THIS BILL WHO IS THE LEGION OF YOUNG OSTANIAN WOMEN AND WHY ARE WE PAYING THEM SO MUCH ALSO WHY ARE WE RENTING ANOTHER ******* CASTLE WASN’T THE FIRST TIME ENOUGH WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO M–

Loid crumples the newspaper into a ball and throws it across the living room, which Bond promptly goes to fetch. 

Oops. 

Chapter Text

Escort. Right, she needed an escort. For her big, debutante, ball– party– thing. And there was only one ‘young man’ in her life she could think of who was perfect for the role. But she still couldn’t do it. 

“A letter? What am I, ten years old?”

“No, I swear it’s romantic! It’s sincere and from the heart and he’s gonna love it!” Becky was practically squealing with anticipation. This step was crucial to any romantic scheme, she had claimed. No loopholes, no substitutions, no skimping. It also had to be handwritten, it had to have a cute sticker on the envelope (Anya opted for a funny-looking peanut one, which Becky disapproved of, but the stubborn girl wouldn’t budge), and it absolutely MUST be given in person. No slipping it in lockers or desks. “You’re a big girl now, and you gotta act like it!” Becky had described it.

“My handwriting is awful! What’s the point? He won’t even be able to read it and then he’s gonna laugh at me.” Anya had written 3 copies of the letter, actually. Last night, she had agonized over her sloppy penmanship for hours, starting each page with a deep breath, a freshly sharpened pencil, and ten times more determination. But that was between her, herself, and maybe Bond. 

“No! He’s. Going. To. Love it!” Becky reiterated. “He’s going to blush all over like a tomato like he always does, and say yes while trying to act nonchalant. Besides, you know he’s the only one who learned how to read your handwriting. You’re just making excuses.”

“God, when did you get so good at reading me?” Anya reluctantly admitted. “Can you read my mind?”

“After twelve years I might as well be. Now go! No more stalling! Gogogo!” Becky nagged while simultaneously shoving her towards the direction of Damian’s class. Anya glanced over at the clock. 2:58 p.m. Two minutes until his supplemental political science lecture was over. Two long minutes. 

Amid her anxiety, she couldn’t stop her fingers from fidgeting with the paper. And to make things worse, she could feel her hands sweating, leaving the corners of the envelope curled and frayed.

2:59 p.m. One more minute. Her entire body felt like it was starting to shake. Anya paced up and down the hall, attempting to calm her nerves. She looked over at Becky, who was waiting just down and around the corner. Despite Anya’s awfully panicked expression, Becky gave her two thumbs up and a grin. “ You can do this!” She whispered as loudly as she could. Amidst her enthusiasm, a thought slipped through. 

“Let’s go Anya! I’m already picking out bridesmaid dresses for the wedding. I'm so excited! I better be the best woman!”

And strangely, something about Becky’s insane confidence filled Anya with a similar determination. After all, if Becky Blackbell– Becky who watched romcoms like the SSS had her strapped to a chair, Becky who read romance novels like they were her holy scriptures– was so confident in her, maybe she should be a little more confident in herself too. 

The clock kept the seconds going by. She takes a long, deep breath– the kind her mom trained her to do before striking. “I can do this.” She reminds herself. “I can do this!”

Honestly, she was so confident, she was practically just waiting for the clock to hit thr–RINGGGGG!

3 p.m. Class was dismissed!

“I CAN’T DO THIS–” Anya whips around and starts booking it down the hall. But before Becky could notice her outburst and drag her back while scolding her all the way, one opposing force of greater mass and volume puts her motion to an instant stop. 

She slams into what feels like a wall draped with the familiar smooth silk of the Eden uniform. Wait, what?

“Do what?” She looks up to see an expression of confusion, concern, and then smug curiosity across warm, amber eyes and a stupid grin looking back down at her. Oh my god, this is the worst day of my life. 

Somewhere around fourteen, Damian had shot up in height. When Anya had her little growth spurt, they were neck and neck for a couple of years, bickering back and forth about who was truly taller. Then suddenly, it felt like Anya had lost the battle overnight. In the midst of her grieving the loss, she had never truly grasped just how much taller Damian had gotten. 

Now, it was clear that at the very least, he had a solid head over her. The top of her head just reached his chin, and if she were to look forward, or perhaps, run– it would be straight into his chest. 

Hm. Interesting. Very, very interesting. Wait– shit, is my nose bleeding? 

From the impact, obviously. Her hands fly over her face, still pinching the envelope. If anything, it doubles in helping to hide more of her blushing face. 

“Whoa, are you okay?” He reaches out to urge her hands downwards. Damian has always made it clear: he doesn’t like it when Anya hides her face behind her hands. It’s a strange habit of hers: when she eats, laughs, or even just rests her head on her hand because she’s bored in class. She read somewhere that it was good etiquette for ladies, and has done it subconsciously ever since. But Damian tells her not to. “It’s unhygienic to touch your face.” He insists on being the reason. 

“Hm… what could this be, Forger? A love letter, perhaps?” Damian teases, tapping the paper a couple of times with his finger, referring to the envelope still slipped between her fingers. His hands were still resting gently over hers. 

She was freaking out over his hands. Big hands, much larger than hers. Slender, but still masculine— and neat, aside from the few hangnails she knew he had a habit of picking when studying a particularly difficult concept.

Damian’s hands were just a little bit veiny while resting; she had noticed when he handed her strawberry milk or peanut snacks- or when he had pulled her to the side of the hallway to avoid crashing with a third-year student who tried sneaking a skateboard onto campus (he promptly ran after him to give him a Tonitrus, leaving Anya stunned). But they were more so when he honed in on a free-response question, fingers gripped around a pencil writing at the speed of light. 

She had left a third of that history quiz blank. 

Am I really freaking out over his hands? I’m eighteen years old and freaking out over a boy’s hands? I need to get a grip. 

At this point, Damian's thoughts had spiraled as well, apparent by the characteristic rogue starting to overtake his face. 

“They’re so small— I almost can’t take it. Is that a peanut sticker? God, that’s so cute, I actually can’t handle this. I hope it’s for me.“ Anya picks up from his rapidly intensifying thoughts. Wait.

Peanut sticker?… The letter! Anya had almost forgotten the whole reason she was here. 

Oh my god. I NEED TO GET A GRIP ON THIS LETTER I’M NOT READY— 

“NO IT'S NOTHING!” She says a little too loudly, hiding the envelope behind her back. “Nothing! It’s nothing, really. Don’t worry about it.” Which makes Becky groan a few feet away and Damian frown a little. A letter with a cute sticker on it? Damian isn’t an idiot. It has to be a confession letter– but clearly it doesn’t concern him at all. But if not him, then who else? Confusion gives way to sadness, and then an ugly jealousy. Anya feels like her world is crumbling apart, and she doesn’t know what to do about Damian’s sour expression. 

His hands are veiner, she notices, as they curl into fists at his side like he’s trying to push something down. She turns back to Becky for help. 

Peeking from around the corner, Becky’s expression has turned into a full-on scowl- and Anya swears that she can see steam coming out of her ears. She keeps violently pointing to her head: a signal to use her telepathy. 

She must’ve been yelling a message in her head, certain that Anya would pick up on her thoughts. And with a bit of concentration, she does. 

“Just do it, you bum! You stupid, stupid, stupid bum–” Okay! Jeez, I get it. 

Anya turns back around to meet Damian’s face, but he can’t seem to look her in the eyes right now. 

Then he shakily sighs, looking more pained than angry as he says, “Nice prank, did Blackbell help you out?” Anya’s face falls. Now she really feels like a stupid bum. 

“Well, if that’s everything, I’ll just… be on my way.” 

He can barely turn before Anya latches onto his arm. 

“Wait! I don’t want you to go!”

Where have I heard that before? Damian wonders, the familiarity of the proclamation freezing him in place. 

“Maybe we can… go somewhere more private? Please?” Anya asks hesitantly, making Damian flush red all over (Like a tomato! Becky, you crazy woman!) , even though he knows she doesn’t mean it like that. Does she really not know what it sounds like she’s asking for? 

“Uh– um… ye-yeah. We can. But wh-” He can’t even finish before Anya takes his hand and runs off to the Imperial Scholar courtyard. 

He lets her.

Once they reach the private area, they stop under a tree for some shade. Damian’s face still feels hot, but he blames it on the running. 

After catching her breath, Anya continues. “I’m sorry for my outburst earlier. But what I said before— I meant I didn’t want you to go before I could give you this.” She holds out the envelope. 

Damian, who always freaks out about Emile’s papers haphazardly thrown in his backpack to crumple, Damian, who thinks dog-ear bookmarking is a criminal offense punishable by death– doesn’t care in the slightest that it’s curled on three corners and crinkled where she kept an iron grip on it. 

“I lied. I’m sorry. I know I said you didn’t have to worry about it, but you should worry about it. I mean!— it does worry you—” 

“Do you mean concern?”

“YES! I mean concern, oh my god ‘worry you’ isn’t even a real thing—“

Damian chuckles, turning the envelope over to study each fiber of the paper. He’s still not sure if this is real or not. Maybe he fell asleep in class and is still dreaming. 

“Goddamn it, what are you waiting for Sy-on boy?? Open it already!” 

“Okay, okay! You’re ever so impatient.” He jabs back with no malice. 

Turning the envelope over, he carefully peels the peanut sticker off the flap, refusing to damage it. Inside is a cream-colored piece of thick paper– the nice kind that you reserve for art or cards.

It’s folded sort of neatly. As in, the corners don’t match up perfectly, but from the overlapping fold lines he notices as he opens up the letter, he can tell that this was her best shot. The thought of Anya scouring her desk for paper that felt fancy and folding it over and over again until the edges lined up neatly—the way she knew he was a stickler for—shouldn’t affect him as much as it does. 

Her handwriting seems neater too, like she took a full minute to write each word. He even spots a couple of places where it looks like the paper was about to tear under the pressure of her pencil. 

All of this effort was for him. From Anya Forger. It hits him that this is really happening. Anya Forger is asking me out, she’s really asking me out! 

Her high-pitched voice cuts through his thoughts. “I’m having a debutante ball! Which was kind of Becky’s idea, I guess, but she told me I need an ‘escort’ for the night, and they’re usually guys and… well– I can’t imagine anyone else but you! So please!” Wait, what? 

And then it hits him that he never really read what the letter said. His eyes dart back down to the paper. 

“Dear Damian, 

I’m having a debutante ball for my birthday! And to celebrate being an Imperial Scholar. And to celebrate graduation, even though it’s a year away. That’s what my Papa said. Anyways, Becky told me that part of the tradition is to have an escort who dances with me, ensures my comfort, and keeps me company throughout the night. She said it’s usually a young man, like a cousin, brother, or close friend. Well, I don’t have any siblings or immediate family, so I need you! Through this letter, I am formally asking you to be my escort! I hope you can accept, but if you don’t, I understand. I know the last time we danced together, I stepped on your foot a lot. Sorry. 

If you can make it, it’ll be held at XXXXXXXXX Castle on March 3rd, at 7:00 p.m.

P.S. The dress code is white tie!”

Huh. So, the letter was never meant to be a confession. Which makes Damian’s stomach drop until he remembers what she said. 

“I can’t imagine anyone else but you!”

“So I need you!” 

It kickstarts his crazy heartbeat again. Was this really that far away from what he was expecting? 

“It’ll be just like last time! When we danced together at the end-of-term gala back when we were six.” Anya starts again, speaking as if trying to win over Damian was part of a debate. “It’ll be fun– I swear! Ewen and Emile can come too, and I’m sure you already have white tie clothes–” 

“Yeah.” He interjects.

“Yeah… to?”

“Um… both. I guess. I’ve been to a debutante ball before,” He thinks back to his cousin’s party from several years ago, when he was around thirteen. The night was honestly pretty boring, as his father paid him no attention, and all the girls who approached him lacked any real substance. He remembered praying for the night to go by faster. 

“-but it was for family, and it was a long time ago. And I do have a white tie suit, so it’ll be fine.” He lies for the last part. Partially. 

He technically had all the pieces, but the suit was practically rotting in his closet, and there was no chance the five-year-old suit would still fit him. He would surely have to get a new one from the tailor, anyway. He didn’t want Anya to feel bad, though, so he left that last part out. 

“So… is that a…?” She asks, confused. He was so hard to read right now, but she still didn’t want to peek into his mind. 

“Yeah–yeah, I can go. As your… escort. Actually, I’d love to go. As your– um, escort… right? That’s what you’re asking?” Damian mentally slaps himself in the face. You idiot, that’s exactly what the letter said! 

Anya chuckles at his sudden inability to speak properly. The sound of her laughter messes up his brain even more. 

She didn’t even realize she was laughing and smiling so much until her cheeks started to ache. She had never felt something quite like this before– a feeling that bloomed in the center of her chest and seemed to rise to her head. It was a mix of giddiness and… something else. 

The closest comparison she could think of was… physics.

I’ve been hanging out with Sy-on boy too much. Anya thought as she realized how uncharacteristic it was of her to think so academically. 

But it was true. The feeling reminded her of helium and its properties, something she had learned about in a lecture last year. The giddiness makes her feel a buzzing in her cheeks, as if they were filled with helium. The heat from her face causes the lighter gas to rise even higher, pulling the corners of her mouth up into a smile, in the same way balloons are pulled up into the sky. She felt floaty all over too, like she could soar with the clouds, and she swears the corners of her vision were getting warm and fuzzy as if she were about to faint from breathing too much of the gas in.

Smiling around Damian Desmond– feeling this way– it felt like a natural principle of the subject. Of nature, and the world. It felt right. It made sense.

“Yeah. I feel like it’s just… right. I wouldn’t want anyone else, ya know?” Anya finally says, looking up to meet his eyes while rocking back and forth on her heels, hands hidden behind her back again.

Oh, that just… that’s just not fair. Damian thinks, and it’s the only thing he can think of when he’s been rendered speechless with high blood pressure and heart palpitations. He actually might just die here. But then Anya would have to ask a different guy to be her escort, and just the thought of something so horrid snaps Damian away from the light. 

He clears his throat. He’s a Desmond. He’s cool, calm, and collected. Totally nonchalant. 

“No, I get that. That makes a lot of sense. Well, um– I should head back to my dorm now… I guess. And…” 

“And?”

“The penmanship isn’t half bad. For you, at least, Forger. Text me any more details, okay?”

“Haha, YES! I spent so lo– I-I mean, I will. Bye, Sy-on boy!” 

And with that silly childhood nickname and a cheerful wave, she was off to commute home. 

It had been quite a while since they ran off, and Anya hadn't bothered to check her phone since. 

47 new notifications from “becky!! 👗💎”

“DID IT WORK??”

“I TOLD YOU!!” 

“OH MY GOD MY LITTLE GIRL IS GROWING UP”

“ becky!! 👗💎” sent one photo.

“becky!! 👗💎” sent one gif. 

“MY OTP” 

“becky!! 👗💎” sent 49 emojis.

“ok so here is my master list of boutiques:” open to read more…

Goddamn it. What was she expecting, really? But truly, she was lucky to have a friend like Becky. Anya grinned and rolled her eyes at her friend’s overreaction as she opened her phone. All this smiling today was really starting to make her face sore. 

Clicking on one of her pinned contacts, she begins to type. 

“it went really well :))” Followed by a more Anya-Forger-esque– “it’s all going according to plan >:) hehehehe” 

“becky!! 👗💎” hearted a message.

Damian didn’t actually go to his dorm first. The truth is, after Anya had left, he had to find the nearest place to sit down and catch his breath. Twenty minutes later, he was still slouched on a bench with his red face in his hands, replaying their interaction together over and over in his head. He wasn't bound to get up anytime soon with the way his face stayed a consistent shade of red with each replay. 

“Dear Damian,” (She had used his real name!!)

“I can’t imagine anyone else but you!”

“So I need you!” 

“I feel like it’s just… right. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

God, what have I gotten myself into? 

Maybe some water would do him some good. 

(It didn’t help.)