Chapter Text
The corridor outside the examination hall smelled faintly of old paper and floor polish, the kind of sterile, institutional scent Damian Desmond had long since learned to associate with judgment.
Students clustered in loose knots along the walls, some animated, some hollow-eyed, voices overlapping in a low, restless hum. A few laughed too loudly, the sound sharp and brittle. Others hunched over their phones or notes, pretending not to care. Damian stood apart from them, posture straight, hands in the pockets of his coat, his expression carefully neutral.
He had always been good at looking composed. Even now.
A notice board hung crookedly across from him, freshly pinned papers fluttering slightly whenever someone brushed past. Exam results. Final marks. He already knew where his was. He’d seen it the moment the sheets went up.
78.
He stared at the number again, as if it might change if he looked long enough. As if the black ink might blur, smear itself into something else—an 8 becoming a 9, a 7 nudged upward by some clerical miracle.
It didn’t.
Seventy-eight.
It wasn’t a bad mark. Damian knew that. Rationally, objectively, academically—it was solid. Above average. Respectable. Plenty of students would have been relieved to see it.
But Damian wasn’t ''plenty of students.''
A familiar, sour knot twisted low in his chest. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening.
He had studied for this exam relentlessly. Weeks of late nights hunched over dense texts, cross-referencing historical frameworks, memorizing political theory until the words blurred together. He’d written practice essays until his wrist ached, refined arguments, anticipated counterpoints. He’d walked into that hall confident—not cocky, but assured. Certain that he’d done enough.
Certain that he should have done better.
Behind him, someone groaned loudly. ''You’ve got to be kidding me. I failed.''
Another voice replied, ''At least it’s over.''
Damian didn’t turn. He didn’t react. He simply stood there, eyes fixed on the notice board, shoulders stiff beneath his coat.
Seventy-eight.
He’d scored higher than this before. He should have scored higher than this. Especially in political history—one of his strongest areas, the very discipline he was meant to excel in. The irony tasted bitter.
He turned away abruptly, the soles of his shoes clicking sharply against the tiled floor as he headed down the corridor. His reflection flashed briefly in a glass case displaying ancient coins—dark hair neatly styled, expression cool, composed, Desmond-perfect.
Inside, though, something churned.
Outside, Berlint University unfolded in pale stone and autumn air. The campus was alive with movement: students crossing the quad, bicycles rattling over cobblestones, a professor gesturing animatedly as he spoke to a small group near the steps of the main building. The trees lining the paths had begun to turn, leaves mottled gold and rust, some already crunching underfoot.
Somewhere across campus—he knew this without looking—Anya was probably bouncing between buildings with her bag slung crookedly over one shoulder, complaining loudly about ancient grammar rules while secretly enjoying every second of it. She’d told him once that studying ancient languages felt like arguing with ghosts. He’d said that sounded exhausting. She’d grinned and said that was half the fun.
Classical languages were housed on the opposite end of the university, far enough that their paths didn’t cross during lectures this term. It annoyed and saddened him. Much more than he thought possible.
Damian adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and walked.
Every step felt heavier than it should have.
He told himself, firmly, that this was ridiculous. One exam did not define him. One mark did not negate his intelligence, his effort, his future. He knew that. He’d lectured himself with those exact words more times than he could count.
And yet.
He could already hear it, that relentless, internal voice that sounded uncomfortably like his father—cool, exacting, unimpressed.
A Desmond should do better.
His fingers curled slightly inside his pocket.
He had grown up under the weight of expectation like it was gravity itself. From the moment he could read, his accomplishments had been measured against an invisible standard that was always just out of reach. Tutors, advisors, instructors—all of them polite, all of them quietly evaluating. All of them aware of the name attached to him.
Desmond.
It followed him everywhere. It opened doors. It cast shadows.
At Eden, he’d learned quickly that excellence wasn’t optional—it was assumed. Anything less than exceptional was a disappointment, whether spoken aloud or not. Praise, when it came, was reserved. Conditional. A nod of acknowledgment rather than warmth.
He had carried that with him into university, even as he’d told himself things would be different here. That he was older now. More independent. That his achievements would be his own.
But standing in the quad, watching other students laugh and sprawl on the grass without a care in the world, Damian felt the old pressure settle firmly across his shoulders.
He took a sharp turn toward the political science building, climbing the steps two at a time. Inside, the air was cooler, the stone walls echoing faintly with footsteps and murmured conversation. He headed straight for the lecture hall, even though he had no class scheduled there at that hour.
He just needed somewhere quiet.
The hall was mostly empty, rows of seats stretching out in orderly lines. Damian took a seat near the middle, setting his bag down beside him. He leaned back, staring up at the high ceiling, ornate with age-darkened beams.
Seventy-eight.
He closed his eyes briefly.
He thought of the exam paper—the questions he’d hesitated on, the argument he’d reworked halfway through writing, the moment of doubt that had crept in despite his preparation. Had he been too cautious? Not bold enough? Had he second-guessed himself into mediocrity?
His hand tightened around the edge of the desk.
He hated this feeling. The uncertainty. The creeping suspicion that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as capable as everyone assumed he should be.
That the name carried him further than his merit ever would.
The thought sat like a splinter under his skin.
He straightened abruptly, rolling his shoulders back as if he could physically shake the doubt loose. He had earned his place here. He worked for his grades. He wasn’t coasting on legacy or influence.
Wasn’t he?
The question lingered, unwelcome.
He pulled his notebook from his bag and flipped it open, though he didn’t really see the notes inside. Dates, theories, annotations in his precise handwriting stared back at him—evidence of effort, of discipline, of care.
So why didn’t it feel like enough?
Around him, the hall remained quiet. Somewhere down the corridor, a door closed softly. Damian became acutely aware of his own breathing, the faint rustle of paper as he turned a page without meaning to.
Anya would have laughed at him for this. She’d probably tell him he did a great job. That seventy-eight was good. That one exam didn’t erase everything else. She’d poke his forehead, grin, and remind him—annoyingly—that he was allowed to be human.
She wasn’t here, not in this hall, not in this moment—but she wasn’t far either. Just another building, another schedule, another long day ahead.
Damian exhaled, slow and controlled.
He missed her.
Not in the dramatic, aching way—this wasn’t separation or longing stretched thin—but in the quiet, grounding sense. The way he knew she’d meet him at his apartment later, kick off her shoes, complain about her classes while stealing food from his kitchen. The way she made his space feel less sterile, less like a place he merely occupied and more like somewhere he lived. In moments when the world felt sharp and evaluative, when the expectations pressed too close, he needed someone who saw him without weighing him on a scale.
He needed her.
He shut the notebook with more force than necessary and stood.
He checked his watch. He still had a full day ahead of him—two seminars, a reading group, a meeting with a professor. Obligations stacked neatly, relentlessly, one after another.
It felt daunting.
But beyond all of it, beyond the lectures and expectations and silent comparisons, there was the simple, comforting thought of going home. Of unlocking his apartment door, hearing Anya's voice echo down the hallway, feeling the tension bleed out of him the moment he saw her.
He left the lecture hall and headed back out into the quad, moving with purpose even as his thoughts churned. Students passed him, oblivious. Somewhere nearby, a group was arguing animatedly about a philosopher Damian had already read cover to cover.
He wondered, distantly, if any of them felt like this too. Or if the weight he carried was uniquely his.
By the time he reached the edge of campus, the sun had climbed higher, burning away the morning chill. Damian paused near the steps, looking back at the university buildings—imposing, historic, unforgiving.
This was where he was meant to prove himself. Where he was meant to excel.
He squared his shoulders.
Seventy-eight or not, he would keep going. He always did.
And later—after the long day had run its course, after the expectations loosened their grip—he’d go home. Back to his apartment. Back to Anya.
Still, as he walked away, the doubt followed him like a shadow—quiet, persistent, and very hard to ignore.
By the time Damian left his final classroom, the sky had already begun to dim.
Late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of the faculty building, turning the dust in the air golden, catching on the edges of desks and the worn stone floor. The seminar had run long—of course it had—and his professor’s voice still echoed faintly in his ears, dense with theory and critique and expectations that never seemed to end.
Damian gathered his things with practiced efficiency, slipping his notebook into his bag, aligning his papers so they wouldn’t bend. His movements were precise, controlled, automatic. He said a polite goodbye when required, nodded at classmates he vaguely recognized, and exited the room without lingering.
The door closed behind him with a soft but final click.
For a moment, he just stood there in the corridor.
The building was quieter now, the earlier bustle of the day replaced by low murmurs and distant footsteps. A few students leaned against the walls, talking softly. Others passed by with tired expressions, shoulders slumped under the collective weight of deadlines and expectations.
Damian adjusted the strap of his bag and started walking.
His head throbbed faintly—not a headache, exactly, but a pressure behind his eyes that had been building all day. Every lecture, every comment, every offhand comparison had added to it. He felt stretched thin, pulled tight between who he was and who he was supposed to be.
The thoughts had been relentless.
You should have done better.
A Desmond doesn’t settle for ''good.''
You can’t afford to fall behind.
You don’t get excuses.
They had followed him from building to building, class to class, like shadows he couldn’t quite outrun. Even now, as he moved down the corridor toward the exit, they pressed close, sharp and insistent.
He had spent the entire day holding himself together through sheer force of will. Sitting upright when he wanted to slump. Answering questions calmly when his chest felt tight. Taking notes when his focus slipped. Smiling politely when someone made a remark about his family name, his future, his potential.
Potential.
He hated that word.
The front doors of the building loomed ahead, glass panes reflecting the dimming sky. Damian slowed slightly, bracing himself for the cold air outside, for the walk back to his apartment, for the quiet that would leave him alone with his thoughts again—at least until Anya arrived.
He pushed the doors open.
And froze.
She was standing just outside.
Anya was perched on the low stone wall near the entrance, legs swinging idly, her coat unbuttoned despite the chill. Her pink hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was humming to herself, off-key as always, focused intently on the paper bag she was holding.
For a split second, Damian wondered if he was imagining her.
The day had been long. Exhausting. His mind felt frayed enough that hallucinations didn’t seem entirely out of the question.
Then she looked up.
Her face lit up instantly, eyes wide and bright, the way they always did when she saw him—like he was something she’d been looking forward to all day.
''Sy-on boy!'' she called, hopping off the wall and waving enthusiastically. ''There you are!''
Something inside him loosened.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden. Just a subtle easing, like a fist unclenching in his chest without him realizing how tight it had been.
His shoulders dropped a fraction. His breath came a little easier.
For the first time all day, the noise in his head dimmed.
Anya jogged over, stopping a few steps in front of him. She tilted her head, studying his face with that uncanny perceptiveness she’d always had.
''You look... tired,'' she said, gentler than her usual cheer. Then she grinned. ''Like, extra tired. Are you okay?''
Damian opened his mouth to respond—and found that for once, the automatic retort didn’t come.
''I—'' He cleared his throat, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. ''What are you doing here?''
She beamed, clearly delighted by the question. ''I finished earlier than I thought I would! Professor Galen went on one of his weird tangents about verb forms, but then he let us out early, so I thought...'' She shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ''I’d come find you.'' She gestured vaguely at the building behind him. ''I figured you’d still be stuck in here, being all serious and smart.''
Damian huffed faintly despite himself. ''You came all the way to my faculty building just to wait for me?''
''Yep!''
''You could’ve gone home, weirdo.''
''I know.''
''You didn’t have to—''
''I wanted to,'' she said simply. She then held up the paper bag like it was a prize. ''Also, look what I got!''
Damian’s gaze dropped to the bag automatically. The familiar logo of the campus cafeteria stared back at him, slightly crumpled.
''...Is that—''
''The brownie you like,'' Anya said proudly. ''The one that’s kind of too chocolatey and makes your teeth hurt and you pretend you don’t love it.''
''I don’t pretend,'' he muttered.
She grinned wider. ''You do. A little.''
He stared at the bag.
Then at her.
Then back at the bag.
The weight of the day crashed into him all at once.
It wasn’t one thought, or one feeling, but a flood of them—exhaustion, frustration, doubt, pressure—everything he’d been holding back finally surging forward now that there was no reason to keep it contained.
Anya standing there, cheerful and warm and entirely unconcerned with grades or expectations or names, felt like the last thread holding him upright.
And suddenly, it snapped.
His chest tightened sharply, breath catching in a way that startled him. He swallowed, hard, but it didn’t help. His vision blurred, the campus lights smearing slightly at the edges.
His eyes burned, hot and insistent, tears welling up before he could stop them.
Anya noticed immediately.
''Damian?'' Her voice shifted, the brightness softening into something careful. ''Hey—what’s wrong?''
''I...'' He swallowed. His throat felt tight, thick, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. ''Today was just... bad.''
That was all it took.
Anya stepped closer without hesitation, searching his face. ''Bad how?''
He let out a breath that shook on the way out, a small, broken sound he didn’t bother to hide from her. His eyes burned, and when he blinked, they were already glassy.
''I tried so hard,'' he said quietly. ''And it still wasn’t enough.''
Anya’s expression softened completely.
Damian didn’t look away. He didn’t try to pretend this wasn’t happening. He trusted her too much for that. His eyes filled properly now, tears spilling over and tracking down his cheeks as the weight of the day finally caught up with him.
''I keep thinking I should be better,'' he said, voice trembling but honest. ''Because I’m a Desmond. Because everyone expects me to be. And I keep trying, Anya, I really do—''
His voice cracked.
''But I’m so tired.''
The bag slipped from Anya’s hand.
She didn’t even notice it hit the ground.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, immediately, firmly, like there was never any other option. Her forehead pressed against his chest, her arms snug around his waist, holding him as if she’d been waiting to do exactly this.
Damian melted into her.
No hesitation. No resistance. His hands came up at once, gripping the back of her coat, fingers curling tight like she was the only solid thing keeping him upright. He leaned into her fully, forehead dipping down toward her hair as his breath shuddered out of him.
''I’ve got you,'' Anya murmured softly, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. ''Let it out.''
The words broke something open in his chest.
He let himself cry then—not loudly, not dramatically, but honestly. Tears slipping free, his shoulders trembling as he held onto her, pressing his face briefly into her hair like he needed the reassurance that she was real, that she was here.
''You don’t have to be anything else with me. Just Damian is perfect,'' she whispered, rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. ''It’s okay.''
He shook slightly, breaths uneven. ''I didn’t mean to—this isn’t—''
''I know,'' she said, not interrupting the rhythm of her touch. ''You don’t have to explain.''
Her words were soft, steady. Grounding.
He pressed his face into her hair, the familiar scent of her shampoo filling his senses. Something inside him gave way completely.
''I tried so hard,'' he whispered, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. ''I studied, and I prepared, and I did everything I could, and it still wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.''
Anya tightened her arms around him.
''They expect me to be better,'' he continued, voice low and raw. ''Everyone does. Because of my name. Because of who I’m supposed to be. And today it just felt like... like I’m constantly chasing something I can’t reach.'' He laughed weakly, a broken sound. ''Like if I stop for even a second, they’ll realize I don’t deserve to be here.''
She pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Her hands stayed on him, thumbs warm against his cheeks, anchoring him there so he couldn’t retreat into himself. Her eyes were wide and shining, filled with a seriousness that cut straight through the noise in his head.
''Damian,'' she said softly. ''Hey. Look at me.''
He hesitated, breath still uneven, then slowly lifted his gaze.
Anya reached up, her thumbs brushing beneath his eyes, wiping away the tears that had gathered there. She didn’t rush it. She didn’t tease. She treated the moment like something fragile and important, like him crying in front of her was something precious rather than embarrassing.
''You know what I see when I look at you?'' she asked gently.
He swallowed and shook his head, barely there.
''I see my Sy-on boy,'' she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ''The one who thinks too much and sleeps too little. The one who carries everything on his shoulders.''
Her thumbs traced slow, soothing arcs along his cheekbones.
''I see the boy who stays up late studying because he doesn’t want to disappoint anyone. The one who pretends he doesn’t care, but actually cares so much it hurts.'' Her voice wavered just slightly, not from uncertainty, but from how much she meant it.
Damian’s chest tightened painfully. His breath caught, and he leaned into her touch without thinking.
''I don’t see your grades,'' Anya continued. ''I don’t see rankings, or expectations, or some stupid name that people think defines you.'' She shook her head, curls bouncing softly. ''I don’t see a Desmond, and I never will.''
She looked at him with absolute certainty.
''I just see you.''
Her lips curved into a small, earnest smile—not playful, not teasing. Real.
''And you're enough for me. More than enough,'' she said quietly. ''You always have been.''
Damian’s breath stuttered.
Anya kept going, because she could see the doubt still clinging to him, still whispering in his head.
''You’d be enough if you aced every exam,'' she said. ''And you’d be enough if you failed them all.'' Her hands tightened slightly on his cheeks, firm but gentle. ''You’d be enough if you were top of your class. And you’d be enough if you decided one day that you were tired and didn’t want to do this anymore.''
His eyes burned again.
''I don’t love you because you’re smart,'' she said softly. ''Or because you’re ambitious. Or because you’re trying to be perfect.'' She leaned closer, her forehead brushing his. ''I love you because you’re kind. You're caring, and sweet, and gentle. Because you worry about people even when you pretend you don’t. Because you hold me like this when I need it.''
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
''I’m so proud of you, Damian. Not for what you achieve—but for being you.''
That was it.
Something inside him finally gave way—not sharply, not painfully, but like a knot loosening after being pulled too tight for too long.
A quiet sob slipped free before he could stop it.
He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, eyes squeezing shut as tears spilled over freely now, unashamed. His hands came up to grip her sleeves, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Anya didn’t move away.
She wrapped her arms around him again, pulling him close, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his back. She rocked him gently, slow and steady.
''I’ve got you,'' she murmured into his hair. ''No matter what. Even if you fail everything. You'll always be enough for me.''
Her voice was soft, but unshakable.
Damian breathed her in, the familiar warmth of her, the quiet certainty of her presence. His crying eased, slowing into shaky breaths, his body relaxing against hers in a way he never allowed himself with anyone else.
With Anya, he didn’t have to earn love.
He already had it.
For a long moment, Damian didn’t speak.
He stayed there with his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in, letting the last of the tightness in his chest ease into something warm and manageable. His hands loosened their grip on her sleeves, sliding instead to rest at her sides, thumbs brushing absently against her coat.
When he finally pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes were still red, lashes damp—but the panic was gone.
''I...'' His voice wobbled at first, and he stopped, clearing his throat. She didn’t rush him. She just looked at him, patient and open, like she had all the time in the world.
''I don’t know what I’d do without you,'' he admitted at last.
Her expression softened, but she didn’t interrupt.
''You make everything better,'' he said simply.
Anya blinked.
Once.
Then her lips quirked, just a little.
''Well,'' she said thoughtfully, tilting her head, ''you are talking to your girlfriend. So you might be a teensy bit biased.''
He let out a startled laugh—soft at first, then real. It surprised him how easily it came.
''Maybe,'' he admitted, the sound easing something loose in his chest. He shook his head, smiling now, eyes warm as he looked at her. ''Okay. Probably.''
She grinned, pleased with herself.
''But,'' he added quickly, stepping closer again, his hands settling at her waist, ''even if I am... it’s still true.''
Anya’s grin softened into something small and genuine.
''Good,'' she said. ''Because you’re stuck with me.''
He snorted quietly. ''I figured.''
She leaned forward, bumping her forehead gently against his. ''And for the record? I like you being biased. Means you’ve got good taste.''
He laughed again, this time brighter, the sound carrying just a little into the quiet space around them.
''Yeah,'' he said, smiling down at her. ''I guess I do.''
They stayed like that for a long moment, tucked into their own small world outside the faculty building. Students passed by, but no one stared. No one intruded.
Eventually, Damian let out a slow breath and eased back just enough to look at her properly again. The ache in his chest had dulled to something warm and manageable, but embarrassment crept up his neck all the same, flushing his ears.
''I’m... sorry you had to see that,'' he said quietly, rubbing at the corner of his eye with his sleeve. ''I didn’t exactly plan on breaking down in front of my entire faculty.''
Anya tilted her head, unimpressed.
''Oh, please,'' she said, snorting softly. ''I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while trying to look intimidating. This doesn’t even crack the top five.''
He huffed a weak laugh despite himself. ''That was one time.''
''Mm,'' she hummed, eyes sparkling. ''Sure it was.''
Then her teasing softened, the grin melting into something fond. She reached up and brushed her thumb lightly along his cheek, where a tear had dried.
''I don’t mind. At all,'' she said gently. ''I’m actually really glad you let me see.''
Something about the way she said it—so sincere, so steady—made him pause.
He looked at her. Really looked.
At the warmth in her eyes. The way she stood so close, like distance between them simply didn’t make sense. The complete absence of expectation, of judgment, of anything he had to earn.
''How do you do that?'' he asked quietly.
''Do what?'' she replied.
''Make everything feel... less heavy,'' he said. ''Like I can breathe again.''
She shrugged, like it was obvious, like it didn’t deserve a complicated answer.
''I just love you.''
The simplicity of it hit him harder than anything else had all day. His throat tightened, emotion rising again—not sharp this time, just full.
''I know,'' he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips. ''I love you too.''
He bent down, retrieving the paper bag she’d dropped earlier, the faint scent of chocolate and sugar still clinging to it. When he offered it back, his fingers lingered around hers for just a second longer than necessary.
''You dropped this,'' he said.
''Oh!'' Her eyes widened. ''Right—the brownie!'' She peeked inside the bag, then glanced up at him. ''Do you still want it? Or did the emotional crisis kill your appetite?''
He gave her a look. ''Anya.''
She laughed. ''Okay, okay.''
She slipped her hand into his without thinking, fingers fitting perfectly between his.
''C’mon,'' she said brightly. ''Let’s go home.''
Home.
The word settled warmly in his chest as they started walking, her hand snug in his, her shoulder brushing his arm with every step. After a moment, he slowed just enough to tug her closer, one arm slipping around her shoulders.
Anya glanced up at him, amused. ''You okay?''
He nodded, pulling her into a brief hug right there on the path. ''I just—'' He hesitated, then admitted, ''I want to stay close to you for a bit.''
Her expression softened instantly.
''I figured,'' she said, looping her arms around his waist without hesitation. ''And I’m glad you’re feeling better.''
He pressed his cheek briefly against her hair, breathing her in. ''You did that,'' he said quietly.
She smiled, warm and satisfied. ''Good.''
They started walking again, still tangled together, the brownie forgotten for the moment, the weight of the day finally lifting.
For the first time since morning, Damian felt steady.
Not because the world had changed—but because no matter what the world demanded of him, he didn’t have to face it alone.