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The start of a new school year always brought about sickness. It was one of those inevitable things Damian had grown used to in the five years he'd attended Eden Academy. When he'd been younger, he silently hoped to catch the start-of-school cold as that would mean he would be brought home until he was better, and his mother would sit at his bedside when she thought he was asleep.
Now, starting his sixth year, he couldn't afford to miss anything because of sickness. Next year meant middle school and tougher classes, and he wasn't about to fall behind because he wished for his mother's attention. He wasn't a child anymore: he was eleven now.
In morning meeting, their class was already down some people due to the cold. Emile and Ewen were both back in their dorm with runny noses and sore throats. By some miracle, Damian hadn't caught it yet, although he had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to avoid it much longer. So, he was by himself in the tiered room in his usual spot in the back, chin in his palm.
Anya and Becky entered the classroom, speaking rapidly to one another. Rather than her usual pigtails, the latter had her hair braided in two plaits. "Pigtails are so childish," Becky told Anya as they found their seats together in the tier below Damian. "Don't my braids make me look much more adult?"
Anya nodded enthusiastically.
Something angry and sharp coiled deep in Damian's stomach, and he found himself frowning. How rude, he thought. No 'hello' or 'good morning'. Commoners truly did have atrocious manners.
Suddenly, Anya turned around and smiled at him, bright and earnest. "Good morning, Damian." She gestured to Becky's new hairstyle. "Don't you think Becky's braids are nice?"
Damian's face grew hot under her gaze, and his heart thumped loudly in his ears. "Why are you asking me? Nobody cares what your hair looks like!" he exclaimed loudly, violently turning his body away from the pair to face the window.
From his peripheral vision, Damian watched as Anya twisted forward again, unconcerned by his outburst. "Do you think you could teach me how to braid my hair?"
"Of course!" Becky said. "It's easy."
~~~
Throughout recess, then lunch, and even when they were supposed to be studying independently, Damian watched as Becky patiently tried teaching Anya to braid her hair. It seemed as though she understood the movements—the weaving nature of it—but was woefully uncoordinated. Sections of pink hair would slip out of her fingers like water.
"Okay, okay," Becky whispered during self-study, pulling out the elastic in one of her own braids and running her hands through her hair. "Try me. It might be easier than doing your own."
Damian was unable to focus on his math worksheet. Every time he told himself to turn his attention back to schoolwork, he was unable to block out Becky and Anya's furious whispers, and he found himself watching them intently. Anya's furrowed brows as she concentrated on holding the three pieces of hair and maneuvering them in the correct way, the way she bit her bottom lip, how soft her hair looked.
He wondered what it would be like to run his hands through it—
Anya's gaze suddenly snapped up to find him, and her wide eyes were full of questioning.
Before Damian could look away, Becky followed Anya's line of sight, and her lips turned up in a grin as she noticed him. "What are you staring at?"
"N-nothing!" Damian yelped, gripping his pencil so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I just wish you two would shut up!"
In a stage-whisper, Becky leaned in towards Anya and said, "Don't worry about him. He probably doesn't even know how to do a two-piece braid."
The competitiveness within him flared up. "What? Of course I can! I can do a five-piece braid," his mouth spewed out before he really considered what he was saying. Was there such a thing as a five-piece braid? It always felt as though his brain went on vacation whenever Anya was involved.
"Then do it," Becky stated, narrowing her eyes. "Do a five-piece braid in Anya's hair."
"In—" Damian's mouth went dry, and he swallowed. "In Anya's hair? Why her hair? Why not yours? Yours is longer."
Becky gave him a mischievous grin. "How am I supposed to grade your braid if I can't see it properly?"
It was perfectly sound logic. But it was logic that Damian didn't want to hear. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Was he having a heart attack? Chest pounding, heart in his throat? He was too young to die!
Face hot, Damian opened his mouth to argue, to say something he'd surely instantly regret, but the teacher at the front of the classroom suddenly spoke up. "That doesn't sound like schoolwork up there."
The three of them instantly straightened up before bending their heads back down to their individual work.
Damian breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing his sweaty palms in his pants, although he didn't miss the way Becky side-eyed him.
Luckily, Becky was too busy still trying to help Anya braid her hair at the end of the day, and the two went to their respective homes before their previous conversation could continue.
Damian hurried back to his dorm, knowing that he would not be let off the hook so easily. Practice. He needed practice. And there was only one person that he knew who had enough hair for him to braid and wouldn't ask too many questions.
"Ewen!" he exclaimed, banging the dorm door open. "I need your head."
~~~
The next morning, Becky wasn't present, along with a few others in their class, more casualties of the cold.
While one part of him was grateful, another part was annoyed that his frantic hair-braiding crash course the night before was all for naught. What was the point of it all? When would he ever use this skill? Ewen would never allow him close to his hair again; last night, there had been too many moments where the knots were too tight, and scissors seemed like the only answer.
Outside at recess, Damian was rather bored. Without Ewen and Emile, and now unable to divert his attention to whatever Becky and Anya were getting up to, he ended up kicking a rock down the courtyard as leaves and debris swirled around in the unnaturally strong wind.
He passed the bench Anya was sitting on once, twice, three times. Each time, she was stubbornly trying to braid half her hair, but the wind consistently snatched it out of her hands or whipped the other half of her hair into her face, making her sputter as it got in her mouth.
Finally, he stood in front of her, unable to take it anymore. "It's truly painful watching you attempt this," he said with a sharp sniff. "Come on." He gestured for her to follow him. "At least get out of the wind."
Anya stood and trailed after him as he crossed the courtyard towards a space between two brick buildings that blocked the wind. A bench was there, but it was already occupied by three students in another class from their year.
"There's people there—" Anya started.
"—Not for long," Damian said. "Hey! You three!" he called out once he was within earshot. "Find another place to sit."
At his side, Anya said, "I thought only commoners had bad manners." She used that tone of hers where he never knew if she was mocking him or being genuine.
Damian's shoulders rose, and his mouth pressed together. Hands clenched at his sides, he muttered a reluctant, "Please."
His gaze slid over towards Anya for approval, and her incredibly cross expression told him that his manners were not satisfactory. "Or, whatever," he snapped. "We'll find another spot—"
The boy who was sitting in the middle of the bench abruptly stood. "No, it's fine! We were just going, right?" He nodded to his friends on either side of him. The three of them rushed off before Damian could say anything more.
Damian sat, directly in the middle of the bench. "See?" he said smugly. "They were about to leave anyway."
"Sure," Anya said, clearly unconvinced, although she plopped herself down next to him. "It's not like they're afraid of you or anything."
"Afraid?" Damian repeated, rolling his eyes. "What could they possibly be afraid of? It's not like I'm going to suddenly grow fangs and bite them."
Anya snort-laughed, and Damian's heart definitely did not flip flop in his chest, and she punched him lightly in the arm. "You know what I mean."
Obviously, he did know what she meant. People either kept him at a distance, or hated him, or were scared of him, or revered him, all based on his family name. Whenever someone interacted with him, he was never sure what they were looking for in exchange: to get in his good graces or watch as he crashed and burned.
Instead of responding, he tilted his body to face Anya. She'd never been afraid of him or his family; her punch in their first year was proof of that. "You do one side; I'll do this one." Slowly, he reached out to touch her hair.
But, before he could, Anya leaned away from him and shook her head. She was grinning when she said, "I want you to do a five-piece braid."
At this, Damian blanched, and his thoughts ping-ponged inside his head in a panic. "Uh—b-but Becky isn't here to judge it!"
"You said you can do a five-piece braid. You can just do it again when she gets better, right?"
"It—it's hard to do. I don't know—"
Anya shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulders. "Okay, I guess. But if I didn't know any better, I would say you're just a huge liar that can't do five-piece braids."
This would have been the perfect time to admit defeat, to tell her that he'd never done a five-piece braid before (he'd only managed to do a three-piece braid in Ewen's hair before his friend crawled back into bed, covers over his head). It would be a low point, sure, but Anya had seen him at lower moments.
Instead, his pride, the high achiever inside him, the want to prove Becky wrong, and the desire to impress Anya all blended together, and he exclaimed forcefully, "I can do it!" He rose to his feet and stood behind Anya.
He stared at the back of her head for a long moment, hair falling a little past her shoulders, before steeling himself and finally reaching out.
Her hair was soft. Ewen's had been slightly crunchy from the hair gel he always used, but Anya's was light and shiny and pretty. He was glad Anya was facing away from him; he didn't know what kind of expression was on his face, but it surely wasn't one he wanted anyone to see.
Anya's hair slipped out of his hands as she turned her head to look at him.
Damian's cheeks grew hot. "What are you doing? Turn back around!" he exclaimed fervently.
"Sorry, sorry!" Anya said, swivelling back to face forward. "Was just wondering what was taking you so long."
"I was thinking," Damian snapped, taking her hair into his hands again. This time, he split it into five parts, four pieces in his right hand—one piece between each finger—and the fifth gripped in his left. He took a steadying breath, and then began the braid.
Braiding Anya's hair was very different from braiding Ewen's, and not just because he'd only done three-piece braids. Because Anya's hair was glossier, it was harder to get a grasp on. Her hair was also longer, and the braid kept getting tangled at the bottom, and he didn't have enough hands to comb through it. Or, if he did, hair would inevitably slip out of his other hand.
But, slowly and surely, he wove the five pieces of hair together. When he finally finished and tied off the end with the pink elastic Anya had given him, he stood back to get a better view of his handiwork.
"How's it look?" Anya asked excitedly, grabbing the tail of her braid and trying to look at it. "It feels a little loose."
It looked like a rat's nest. Damian grimaced. The braid was simultaneously loose and tight in all the wrong places, bent and twisty. He had sorely misjudged how hard a five-piece braid would be. Sure, he thought it would be difficult, but he'd assumed that by being able to do a three-piece braid rather well, he'd be able to do one with five with enough effort.
Apparently not.
Anya must have seen the look on his face, because she dropped her braid and said, "Surely it can't be that bad."
Damian's hand shot out and pulled the elastic off Anya's braid, and her hair instantly began slipping out of place. "I'm going to do a three-piece braid," he announced, gently running his hands through her hair to start again.
"It's relaxing when you do that," Anya murmured.
Damian could feel his face go hot again, and his brain whirled to find something snarky to say but drew a blank. Instead, he stayed trapped in his thoughts and feelings as he admitted to himself that he found braiding her hair rather relaxing, too. There was something in the repetitive nature of it that put his mind at ease, watching the braid take form right before his eyes.
When he finished this second braid, pride bloomed in his chest. It wasn't perfect—it listed to the right slightly and was lumpy in places—but it was a hundred times better than his sorry attempt at a five-piece braid.
"You should do my hair tomorrow!" Anya said as soon as he let go of the braid.
Damian's initial reaction was to decline, to say he had better things to do than braid Anya's hair every recess. But, mercifully, he stopped himself before the words rose to his throat. Maybe it was the perfectionist in him that wanted to master every skill he attempted, or maybe it was the fact that he would have more practice with five-piece braids before Becky recovered and returned to school, or maybe it was something else.
Maybe it had to do with the emotion that he buried deep inside him during that first year at Eden, staunchly ignoring whenever it flared up every time Anya was near. How his thoughts became muddled—unable to think logically—the way his cheeks grew warm. He let the emotion run through him just briefly, more than he had allowed in the past. When he'd been younger, he didn't understand it and therefore had no name for it. Now, he had an inkling, but he refused to think deeply about it. Acknowledging the emotion made it feel real, and he wasn't ready for whatever that meant.
"Fine," Damian finally said with a short sniff.
~~~
Damian awoke two days later with a scratchy throat and a pounding in his head. He ignored it and forced himself out of bed. As he ate breakfast, the room seemed to undulate, and his stomach turned, but he forced the food down.
"Are you…okay?" Emile asked, sitting across from him.
"I'm fine," Damian snapped.
Ewen squinted over at him, sat next to Emile. "You don't look well," he said slowly. "Should you be going to class?"
Both Ewen and Emile were well enough to eat breakfast with the other boarders, but not enough to return to class. Eden took academics seriously, but public health triumphed even that. Nobody wanted sickness to spread more than it already did.
"I'm fine!" Damian repeated, and his own voice made his headache worse. He lowered his volume. "I can make it through today. Tomorrow's Saturday, and I can rest then."
During class, his teachers might as well have been speaking another language. He was putting all his focus into not coughing, not sniffling, not falling asleep sitting up. If any of the teachers realized he was sick, they'd send him back to his dorm. And Damian was not going to miss a day of learning when the weekend was just around the corner. He refused to fall behind.
He found a quiet corner during recess and, after eating lunch, he holed up inside the library.
The library was one of his favourite places at Eden Academy. It was warm and inviting with dark wood tones, and there were plenty of semi-private spaces tucked behind shelves with plush sofas or armchairs to ensure students were comfortable while they studied.
Damian's eyelids were heavy as he sat on one of the maroon sofas on the second floor, whispered voices floating up from the lower level, trying to fend off sleep to read his history textbook. The words blurred in his vision, something about the Second East-West War of Unification.
He stifled a yawn, quietly sniffling. One more page…
~~~
There was a gentle, rolling pressure against his scalp that seemed to alleviate his pounding headache. It was soothing, and his whole body relaxed under the slow movements. He felt like a sleepy cat lounging under the sun being tenderly petted.
A soft song hummed under someone's breath close by and, for a second, Damian imagined he was home in his own bed, his mother sat on a chair next to him, one hand playing with his hair, singing softly to the quiet bedroom, lulling him to sleep.
And then Damian's eyes snapped open. Because his mother had never laid a finger on him while he pretended to be asleep when he was home sick, and she surely never sang.
He saw the pink hair in his periphery first before realizing that he was lying across the sofa, Anya's hand massaging his head and playing with his hair. He tried clambering up into a seated position but ended up falling to the floor with a thud.
Damian clutched his head in his hands, his headache somehow worse now, and he swallowed thickly, his throat simultaneously filled with mucus and as rough as sandpaper. His heart beat like a jackrabbit's.
Anya stared down at him, her eyes unblinking. "Are you okay?" she whispered, reaching out a hand.
"What were you doing?" he sputtered, trying to calm his racing heart, but he took her hand anyway because the world was spinning rather fast, and he was almost certain he'd tip over if he tried to get up himself.
Anya heaved him up—she was stronger than he expected—and he sat down next to her on the sofa. "I wanted to make sure you didn't miss your next class," she told him, matter-of-factly. "So, I sat down next to you to keep you company." Her eyes lit up. "And look what I did!" She showed him a lopsided, three-piece braid in her hair.
"Yes, but why were you touching my head?" Damian asked, pulling at his collar. He coughed quietly into the crook of his arm.
"Well, I wanted to see if I could braid your hair. And I thought that I could help your headache too," Anya said with a grin.
Damian hadn't realized how obvious he was being about his headache. He was sure not to act any differently than usual while in class and around his classmates. His hand reached up and patted his own head, feeling an unnatural clump of hair there that was likely supposed to be a braid.
"It's much harder braiding short hair, didja know?"
Damian scowled as he ran a hand through his hair, undoing Anya's "braid" and, in the process, caught a glimpse of the face of his watch. "Class started ten minutes ago!" he exclaimed, grabbing his history textbook that was jammed between the sofa cushions. "I thought you said you were here so I didn't miss my next class!"
"I didn't finish my story. I was sitting next to you so you wouldn't miss class, but the librarian came up and asked what was going on. She could hear your sniffling and coughing from downstairs, and I told her that you were sick, and she said that I should take you to the nurse's office as soon as you woke up, so I changed my mind."
"Why did you agree to what the stupid librarian said? You should have woken me up!" How many things was he missing by not being in class? How behind would he be come Monday?
"I like the librarian. Did you know they have the Spy Wars comic books here? I just borrowed some." She pointed to her backpack.
Damian grumbled under his breath as he got to his feet, and he wobbled there for a second until he regained his balance. "I'm going to class," he said, lifting his chin at Anya.
"No you're not!" Anya exclaimed, rising as well and snatching his hand, dragging him off towards the library's staircase. "You're sick."
"So? I can't miss a day!" he said, his hand in hers becoming slick with sweat. Her hand was soft. And unexpectedly firm. He tried to shake out of her grip, but she didn't let go. Heat rushed to his cheeks.
Anya dragged him all the way to the nurse's office to where the nurse forced him onto a cot and took his temperature. She tutted when she read the results. "It's irresponsible you know, forcing yourself to come to school sick. You could give it to others, like your friend here." She gestured to Anya still standing in the doorway.
Damian was about to argue that she wasn't his friend, but he pressed his lips together instead before the words could form. He didn't understand why. Maybe the cold was affecting his brain, too.
The nurse poured up some medicine, and she gave Damian a little cup of the pink liquid. "Drink up." She then nodded towards Anya. "Run along now. Your friend's in capable hands."
Damian scowled down at the medicine, but he plugged his nose and tilted his head back as he drank the grainy liquid. He made a face, and the nurse just chuckled, taking the cup and putting it in the sink. "Alright, lay down then. I don't want you returning to your dorm just yet, or you might give it to the other boys in your class."
When Damian opened his mouth to dispute this, the nurse just glared at him, and Damian harrumphed and did as he was told. He reached to the bedside table where he left his history textbook, but his hand froze in midair when he noticed that his textbook was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a Spy Wars comic.
~~~
On Monday, he was deemed not contagious, although he still wasn't feeling his best. But he had missed all Friday afternoon's classes, and he wasn't about to miss anything else.
That was why his five-piece braid in Anya's hair looked weird, he told Becky at lunchtime. "I'm still getting over my cold," he declared staunchly, standing behind Anya who was sitting on a bench.
Becky glared at him. "Likely story."
"Well, why don't you do a five-piece braid then, if you're such an expert?" Sitting on the grass below the bench, Emile and Ewen nodded to back him up.
Becky sniffed as she took hold of Anya's hair, undoing Damian's braid. "I will, and it'll be so much better than yours."
Damian crossed his arms and sat down next to Anya. He was silent for a moment before he bent to pull out the Spy Wars comic she had left him in the nurse's office from his backpack. "Here," he said. "I need my history textbook back, too."
Anya pointed to her own backpack with a smile, and she took the comic from him. "What did you think?" she asked as Damian reached for her backpack with the sheep key chain and withdrew his textbook from it.
"It was alright, I guess," he said with a shrug. In the nurse's office, he'd been bored out of his mind and unable to fall back asleep. So, with nothing better to do, he'd read through the comic. It wasn't awful, and it certainly passed the time, but he wasn't about to watch the TV show or anything. "Seemed a little far-fetched at some points though," he added. "It just didn't seem realistic to actual spies."
"Of course it is!" Anya exclaimed, rather stubbornly. Her mouth pressed together, and she drew herself up.
Damian snorted. "What? Do you know an actual spy or something?"
There was a brief moment of silence before Anya's shoulders deflated, although her eyes still burned with defiance.
Damian supposed in the highly unlikely chance that she did, for whatever reason, know a spy, she wouldn't be able to say so. His thoughts drifted towards who could be a spy—
"—I think you should grow your hair long," Anya said abruptly, spine instantly straightening.
"What? Why?" Did she not like his hair? He'd had the same style for his entire life, and he quite liked the look of it. Damian ran a self-conscious hand through his thick hair.
"I want to braid your hair," Anya said.
Becky giggled from behind Anya. "Then all three of us could match!"
Damian shot a scowl in Becky's direction but, before he could come up with a retort, the other girl stepped back from Anya and exclaimed, "Done!"
When he walked around to get a better look, he tilted his head to the side. "It also doesn't look right," he told her plainly. It listed to the left and the five pieces weren't even remotely the same size. "Mine was definitely better."
"Yours was messy and too loose!" Becky snapped, crossing her arms and turning away from him.
Anya turned to look at both Becky and Damian. "I think Becky's braid is better."
Becky's expression was smug when she looked over at Damian. "See?"
"What do you mean?" Damian roared. "You can't even see it!"