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Chair pulled out beside his oakwood desk, Damian—desperate, verging on hopeless—sits in the privacy of his shared dorm room, Emile and Ewen cross-legged on Emile’s bed across from him. Damian made the (foolish) mistake of going to them for Anya-related advice, and he is now… reaping the consequences.
“I’m telling you, you have to ask her out somewhere she’ll never forget. Maybe—under the stars, at Stella Lake!” Ewen’s eyes twinkle. “Ooh, even better, ask her in the stars! You can afford a spaceship, right? As a Desmond, I bet you can bypass the necessary astronaut training for such a short trip—”
Damian holds up a hand to silence him. “This is getting ridiculous. Sorry, no. It started ridiculous.”
Emile snickers. “Sounds like Ewen would prefer you were confessing to him, Bossman.”
“If it meant I could go to space, I would agree to date Damian in a heartbeat—”
Damian pinches the bridges of his nose. “And, somehow, it just got even more ridiculous.” With little—in fact, no—more hope for anything useful, he turns to Emile. “Please tell me you have a better suggestion.”
Emile shrugs. “I don’t think asking Anya out needs to be so complicated. Just do it over her favorite meal. Extra romance if you cook it yourself.”
Damian scowls, shaking his head. “Her favorite meal is hamburger steak. There’s no way whatever version of it that I could throw together would favorably compare to her dad’s.” Curse Loid Forger for being such a good cook!
On the cusp of defeat, Damian groans as he slumps down in his chair. “This has been pointless. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to do it.”
A chorus of protests leave Emile and Ewen, the likes of “Come on, man!” and “You can’t give up that easily!” and “Seriously, dude, if you don’t finally ask her out, someone else is going to.” None of which is reassuring, and all of which causes Damian to mournfully (pathetically) slide out of his seat and onto the hardwood floor.
“Just kill me now.”
Because Damian has discovered that the desire—nay, the courage, the daring—to ask Anya Forger out isn’t enough to actually… get him to ask her out. No, as in all of Damian’s ventures, he needs a plan. Steps from A to Z. He needs to ask her out in a memorable (but not overwhelming), enjoyable (but not overbearing), romantic (but not sappy) fashion, and for the life of him, not one idea has proven worthwhile.
Of course, seeing as Ewen and Emile have yet to go on more than two dates with a single person, perhaps his friends are not the best sources of advice.
When Damian sighs and massages his temples, Ewen and Emile exchange a knowing look.
“Bossman…” Emile gives him a not unsympathetic—though not as genuine as Damian would like to see, given the tremendous vulnerability he’s expressing in this moment (that he absolutely despises himself for)—smile and reaches down to pat his shoulder. “If you want advice about romance, shouldn’t you go to someone who’s… you know. An expert in the field?”
“Tch.” Damian’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “The last thing I want to do is ask Blackbell.”
It’s not as if he hasn’t considered it. But the idea of consulting Becky Blackbell for advice about asking Anya Forger out…
He’ll never live it down. Assuming he can even get Becky to stop screaming.
Ewen shrugs. “I think it might be your only option.”
Damian tries to melt into the floor. Fails, but tries nonetheless. “Please don’t tell me that.”
“I mean, unless you don’t want to ask Forger out and are fine if Arnold takes her to a second production of Antigone since he knows it’s her favorite show and they end up having another surprisingly good time together…?”
Damian sits bolt upright. “No. Never again.” (Damian had even bought tickets for that stupid show, and he still hadn’t managed to actually ask her to come with him—dammit, screw Arnold Crowley. But also screw himself, for always succumbing to cowardice.) He clenches his fist. “I will figure this out.” His shoulders slump. “Even if… Even if I have to ask Blackbell.”
“That’s the spirit!” Emile cheers, and Damian offers his friends a weak smile.
Why did asking Anya out have to be so complicated?
~*~
The next day, Damian manages to pull Becky aside before she enters the cafeteria.
“Wha—?”
“Shh!” he snaps, looking around as he drags her by the elbow into the nearest empty classroom he spots. “Come on, Blackbell. We don’t need people getting the wrong idea.”
Becky snorts as he releases her elbow and closes the door behind them. “As if I’d be caught dead dating an idiot like you.”
Damian scowls. “Glad the feeling is mutual.”
Becky hops atop the nearest desk, crossing her legs at her knees. “Let me guess—you have an Anya-related question that you didn’t dare ask within the near vicinity of her presence?”
And now Damian is confident he resembles the same shade of red as a candy apple. (As he is wont to appear… any time Anya is mentioned. Mortifying) “I, uh…” He ducks his eyes from Becky’s. “Fine. Yes. Happy?”
Becky smirks at him, clearly relishing his complete and utter humiliation. “Overjoyed. Now spit it out, Desmond.” She leans back on her hands. “What sage wisdom in the realm of Anya Forger do you seek from me today?”
Still beet red, Damian lifts himself onto the desk beside her—requiring less of a hop than Becky, considering the few inches in height he has on her—and clears his throat. “I… want to ask Anya out.”
Becky raises a brow. “Okay? And?”
Damian’s head snaps to stare at her, baffled despite himself. He expected…
Well. Screaming. Shrieking. A more extreme reaction than whatever the underwhelming hell she’s directing toward him now.
As if sensing his confusion, Becky rolls her eyes. “Sure, Desmond. You say you want to ask her out, and I don’t doubt your want, but there’s no commitment. You’ll think about it, dream about it, your heart will open and close, and you’ll chicken out with the hope of asking her another day.”
Damian opens and closes his mouth, an offended goldfish. “I—what—no—!”
“Don’t pull that tone on me,” Becky says, placing a hand atop her chest in mock offense. “Not my fault you like to always ride the same rollercoaster with easy, familiar highs and lows because you already know how it ends—in the safety of not having to open yourself up to Anya.”
Damian isn’t sure he’s ever truly wanted to punch Becky before… Until now. But as his eye twitches, he finds himself refraining from violence—not from a sense of inner morality but because he knows Becky would, like Anya, kick his ass from all her training done with Yor. And so Damian satisfies his frustration by slamming the heel of his right foot against the front panel of the wooden desk, and he doesn’t wince at all because it doesn’t hurt a bit.
“I… I just want to know how you think Anya would want to be asked out,” he finally says, an admission that manages to hover above a whisper. He pretends his shoulders don’t fall with the words. “I want it to be memorable for her.” Heat rushes to his ears, and he drops his gaze from Becky’s once more. “A good memorable, unlike my past track record.”
There’s a pause. When Damian forces himself to spare Becky a glance, he sees her expression shift from careful contemplation to wide-eyed incredulity.
“Holy. Shit.” A shriek escapes her as she clasps her hands together, and Damian immediately jerks away.
“What—”
“You actually mean it this time!” Becky squeals, all but flying off the desk to bounce up and down on her heels. “You’re really going to do it! I have been waiting for this moment my entire freaking life, Damian Desmond, you are about to make me the happiest girl in the world!”
Damian gives her a dubious glare. “I’m not fucking proposing to you, Blackbell.”
Becky fans herself, shaking her head. “I don’t care. I don’t care! This is a joyous day!” She beams at him, and Damian swears her eyes actually—like, literally—sparkle. “Okay, to ask her out, you’re going to want to set the romantic mood. Maybe arrange a gondola on Stella Lake? Ooh, and you should have an orchestra stationed somewhere, ‘Mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix’ from Samson et Dalila is a personal favorite of mine, and—oh! End with fireworks! It could spell out her name in the sky, or maybe both of your names, and it could—”
No. Absolutely not. Damian can’t believe this.
“Can you please take this seriously?” he snaps, sliding off the desk to glare at Becky. “A fireworks display? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Becky crosses her arms over her chest, and Damian ignores the flicker of hurt that flashes in her eyes. “Well, what are you asking my input for if you aren’t going to take it?”
“Try giving actually good advice, then!”
“I am!”
“No, you’re—argh!” Damian runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to know what you would want, Blackbell! Save that for whatever Sisyphus ends up signing himself up for the eternal torture of being your fucking boyfriend.”
Silence.
Becky’s jaw clenches. “Right. I see.”
And when she bites her bottom lip to disguise a quiver, Damian winces. “Wait, Becky—”
She’s already turned on her heel and started walking toward the closed classroom door. “Fuck off, Desmond. You’re a piece of shit.”
“Becky—”
“No, and you know what?” Mere feet away from the door, Becky spins back around to glare at him. “I hope Anya tells you fucking no, because you don’t deserve to date someone as incredible as her if this is how you treat—”
“I’m sorry!”
It’s two words, it’s not enough—it’s never enough, not from him, not when he is who (what) he is—but it’s true.
“I’m sorry,” Damian repeats. His hands fall to his sides. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean that. I just…” His fingers curl into his palms, and he shakes his head, frustrated. “I just want to get it right. For her.”
Because I care, he can’t quite say, but Becky’s hot gaze gradually cools.
“Damian, you know you could ask Anya out offhandedly over lunch in the cafeteria and she’d say yes, right?”
Damian flushes. “I will not be asking Forger out in a public setting.”
Becky slowly walks back over to Damian, her eyes intensely searching his falsely neutral expression. “Still. Why are you so worried? Why does it need to be ‘memorable’?”
“I…” Damian can’t answer. Can’t he? He can’t answer what he doesn’t know. He wants it to be memorable for Anya because…?
Because he likes her? Because seeing her smile (at him, for him) gives him a high he rides for a week? Because she deserves more appreciation than a single sentence (will you go out with me?) could ever contain?
Because he’s never seen his father express even a modicum of affection for his mother and sometimes he wonders if the only thing his mother remembered remembers will remember is the total lack thereof?
Because he doesn’t want to follow this abyssal, abysmal example of absence?
“I just want her to be happy,” Damian finally says, and it’s nothing but it’s everything.
Becky smiles, soft. “Then you don’t need to follow anyone’s heart but your own. You know Anya! You know what she likes—what would make her happy.” She winks at him. “And for what it’s worth, there’s no reason you can’t make this a memory that will be happy for you, too.”
What Anya likes…
What would make him happy, too…
An idea dawns.
Damian can’t quite stop a grin from inching onto his lips. “There’s the good advice I was looking for, Blackbell.”
Becky sniffs. “You could stand to sound more grateful, but I suppose I’ll accept your paltry thanks.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she heads back toward the door. “Come on, Desmond. If we’re in here alone any longer, the rumor mill will really start to spin.”
Damian shudders. “The last thing either of us need.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth!”
~*~
Anya almost catches him.
Damian is tucked away at his usual back corner table in the library, having specifically chosen a time he knew Anya would be at her gardening extracurricular with Meg and Freddy. David Kahn’s The Codebreakers is open to its section on the sixteenth century and Horace Gregory’s The Poems of Catullus is open to the fifth poem and both books are covered in scraps of paper documenting the trials and tribulations of his (pain-fucking-staking) efforts.
Somehow, the cipher was easier to craft than this stupid translation, which makes absolutely no sense. Sure, he hates classical language, but at least he’s had training in it—so why is working with this poem proving to give him such a headache?
“‘Rūmōrēsque senum sevēriōrum… omnēs ūnius aestimēmus assis,’” Damian mutters under his breath, as if saying the inscrutable phrases aloud will suddenly (spiritually, psychically) illuminate their meaning to him. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, just—just do what Anya would do. Start with the verb.”
His eyes retrace the lines. “‘Aestimēmus.’ First person plural. ‘We estimate.’” He frowns. “Wait, that’s the…” Damian groans. “The fucking subjunctive.”
What did the subjunctive mood mean again? It wasn’t that different from the indicative, at least not in translation, right?
Come on, Sy-on Boy!
Anya’s teasing voice floats into his head despite her absence. It’s embarrassing, truly, how often she’s on his mind.
“Subjunctive” sounds like what? Subjective! Because the subjunctive is the mood that expresses an opinion or want of the speaker!
Admittedly, this little voice of hers had always been handy when Damian needed to study for classical language—back when he was still enrolled in that class, at least—so he supposes he should be grateful that he hasn’t forgotten all the tips and tricks she tried to impart unto him.
“‘Aestimēmus,’” Damian repeats under his breath. “We… should estimate. We may estimate. Might estimate?” He hunts for a noun. “‘Rūmōrēsque’—‘rumors,’ duh. Rumors and… No, and rumors. ‘And we may estimate the rumors…’”
Senum sevēriōrum. Genitive plural. Of…?
Damian swallows a sigh and opens the classical language dictionary he was hoping he wouldn’t have to use. Clearly his translation skills are even more subpar after several years of taking courses in other foreign languages.
“Senum… Oh, senex.” He rolls his eyes. “No shit.”
Okay, senum sevēriōrum. Of severe old men. Now he just needs to put it together…
“‘And we may estimate the rumors of severe old men’—no, wait, there’s ‘omnes.’” Damian rubs his temples. “Try again. ‘And we may estimate all the rumors of severe old men at one…’”
Assis. That was one of those classical coins, wasn’t it?
“‘And we may estimate all the rumors of severe old men at one dalc,’” Damian decides on, not displeased with the final product, and he immediately scribbles down this (mostly) literal translation before he can start to doubt himself.
“Sy-on Boy?”
Damian startles so hard he almost falls from his chair, and it’s a miracle he manages to shove his collection of books into his satchel before Anya turns the corner in the library and stops beside his table.
“Sy-on Boy!” she repeats, beaming. “What are you doing here? Don’t you usually study with Emile and Ewen in your dorm on Thursdays?”
Damian flushes at her accurate knowledge of his weekly schedule. “Yes,” he admits, flipping the top of his satchel shut as subtly as possible so she can’t—wittingly or unwittingly—look down and catch a glimpse of the title of his books. “I just… needed to be alone for a bit. To—To concentrate better.”
“Makes sense!” Still smiling, she slides into the seat across from him. “What are you working on? Is it for any of the classes I have with you?”
Damian immediately flips his notebook over—the cipher and the beginnings of his translation had been in full view, dammit, all he can do is pray she hadn’t noticed—and forces a calm and cool and totally (completely) composed smile onto his face. “You mean the only class we’re both in, because after all these years we’re both still shit at language studies?”
Anya pouts. “Well, you didn’t have to put it like that.”
Damian chuckles, his plastered smile gradually becoming more genuine. “I thought you’d applaud my newfound willingness to admit my weaknesses.”
“Mm, not when it’s through grit teeth.” Anya’s eyes follow his hands as he—normally, so normally!—closes his notebook and slides it into his satchel. “Oh. Were you leaving?”
Damian glances down and sees that she’s in the middle of pulling out her own study materials from her bag. “I… was.” He grabs a different notebook and a random textbook from his satchel. “But I can stay.” He definitely doesn’t blush as he looks away. “If—If you want me to.”
He knows she’s smiling. He won’t—can’t—turn and look, but he knows it.
“I would like that very much, Sy-on Boy,” and her voice is light and warm like a summer breeze rustling the leaves of a crape myrtle and Damian is so, so screwed.
Clearing his throat, Damian opens his notebook to a blank page. “So. What am I helping you with today?”
“Physics, please! What the hell is Coulomb’s law supposed to be again?”
And if eventually Anya invites him to sit on the same side of the table as her, and if eventually their chairs are so close together their shoulders brush, and if eventually Anya leans over to tap his nose with the tip of her pinkie, Damian can’t say he regrets the lost time on his translation.
(Nope. Not one bit.)
~*~
The day is here. And by “the day,” Damian does mean Friday, as in, the next day, as in, he put his plan together in less than 24 hours because he doesn’t think he could forgive himself if he waited a moment longer to finally—finally—ask her.
To confess.
Leaning against the wall beside a green-cushioned bench, one hand holding a folded note and the other a bag of Anya’s favorite brand of peanuts, Damian discreetly (not) checks his watch. 3:52 PM. Assuming Anya has decoded the cipher—which of course she has, he doesn’t doubt her abilities in the slightest—then she should be here in eight minutes.
Eight more minutes.
He can wait that long, right?
(Shit. Not with these heart palpitations.)
Damian’s palms are damp with sweat. He switches the note into the same hand as the bag of peanuts just to shake one palm, cooling it slightly with the manufactured breeze, before he inverts the process and attempts to cool his other hand. To little avail, but better than nothing.
He needs her to show. He’s terrified for her to show. She has to be here. She can’t be here. What if she accepts him? What if she rejects him? What if she laughs at his translation—well, she will laugh, but what if she means it? What if she thinks someone else put this all together because there isn’t a world in which Anya Forger can imagine that Damian Desmond actually cares this much, so much about her? What if some other guy (fucking Arnold and his fucking expertise in classical language) has already done it all better? What if she—What if she—
“A Vigenère cipher? Really, Sy-on Boy?”
Damian slips his hands behind his back and ignores how his shoulders stiffen as he turns around to see Anya approaching from the opposite end of the hallway, smirking as she holds up a small slip of paper between two fingers that he already knows the contents of: byrv tt qugyt bnrwthrf awy brwdmvvl dz yqct ug hpgmg upvbg. hvjl gjph usvlghbqu.
“You’re telling me you couldn’t get your hand on one of Scherbius’s Enigma machines?” Anya continues, still smirking as she comes to a stop in front of him, and Damian scoffs.
“Some of us still like to do things the old-fashioned way, Forger. Besides—” He raises a brow, matching her smirk with his own. “You like cryptography. I like the sixteenth century. Seemed a fair compromise.”
“Hmm.” Anya’s eyes glimmer, amused. “I suppose that’s somewhat reasonable.”
“And give credit where credit is due—Bellaso invented this cipher, not Vigenère. I assumed you already knew about that misattribution.”
“Meh.” Anya makes a so-so gesture with her free hand. “I don’t care who makes them. Just whether I can use them!” She reaches out to gently knock his shoulder. “Also, the key being ‘punch’ was hilarious. The opposite of love at first sight is hate at first punch, I assume?”
Damian grins. “Hate doesn’t begin to capture how I felt about you then. Try ‘loathing.’”
Anya snickers, shaking her head. “How far we’ve come.”
Yes. How far. A decade later, standing in the same place where they each received the worst first possible impressions of each other.
“Anyways!” Anya tucks the solved cipher into the pocket of her skirt. “What did you want to meet me here for?”
Damian’s heart skips a beat. Or maybe several beats. (Has his heart stopped beating entirely?) He’s supposed to do it now. Say it now. Just like he planned.
“Damian?”
Anya’s voice, inquisitive but laced with quiet concern, snaps him out of his spiral.
“Are you okay?” she asks. Frowning, she places the back of her hand on his forehead. “You’re pretty red. Are you feeling alright?”
He can’t tell if she’s serious or teasing him. Knowing her, probably both.
“I’m fine,” he manages, then takes a deep breath. “Anya…”
She tilts her head, an amused smile inching onto her lips. “That would be me.”
He hates her. He loves her.
He has to do this.
“Ōdī et amō,” Damian blurts before he can stop himself. “I hate you, and I lo—like you.”
Anya’s eyes widen, but he plows onward. If he doesn’t keep going, he’ll never start again.
“Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris. Why am I like this, you’re probably wondering? Nesciŏ. I don’t know. Sed fierī sentiō et excrucior. But lately I feel everything—and I am… tortured by you.”
Face flushed like a maple tree in fall, Damian shoves the folded note and the bag of peanuts at Anya. “These—These are for you.”
Blinking, a beat passes before Anya processes his words. “Oh. Oh!” She accepts both items, though her eyes never leave Damian’s. “Thank you. I, uh…” Her mouth opens and closes, wordlessly. “Did you just—confess that you like me but also hate me in classical language?”
“No, that’s—that’s not—!” Sputtering, Damian shoves his hands in his pockets. “That wasn’t the confession. Not technically.” His eyes flicker down to the note, still clutched in her hand, and Anya’s gaze follows.
“Ah. I—right. Got it.” Sticking the bag of peanuts under her armpit, concentration causes the tip of her tongue to stick out (in a way Damian definitely doesn’t find enchanting and adorable) as Anya carefully unfolds the note. In a matter of seconds, recognition dawns across her face.
“Catullus 5.” She grins at him. “Someone has an obvious theme today.”
“I didn’t—well, not intentionally—” Muttering a curse, Damian shakes his head and sits on the green bench. “Just read it already.”
“Oh, out loud?”
Damian tenses. “No, please don’t—”
“Too late!” Anya clears her throat, and Damian groans as he buries his face in his hands. He’s never going to live this down. Never.
“‘Vīvāmus, mea Lesbia, atque amēmus,’” Anya begins, spoken with the firm cadence of a professional orator that really, in Damian’s opinion, undercuts the romantic tone this poem is clearly meant to carry. “Ooh, very cute how you put your corresponding translation under each line of classical language! Thus—‘We live, my Anya, and we should love.’” She winks at him. “So in writing you’ll admit you love me. Got it.”
Heat flares across the back of his neck. “It’s a poem. Call it hyperbole.”
“Uh huh. Sure.” Still smirking, she returns to the note. “‘Rūmōrēsque senum sevēriōrum omnēs ūnius aestimēmus assis!’ ‘And the harsh slander of…’”
Anya trails off, and Damian winces, closing his eyes to avoid witnessing her reaction. For this was where he diverged. Well, maybe not diverged, because Anya has told Damian enough about translation studies for him to know that a good translation transcends the literal to capture the spirit, but he can’t say if he succeeded in that aim.
Only she can.
Only she can decide.
“‘And the harsh slander,’” Anya begins again, voice soft, “‘of my father… we must value less than a single dalc.’”
There’s a low creak of wood shifting as Damian feels the soft cushion of the bench dip slightly as Anya lowers herself into the spot beside him. Even through their Eden uniforms, her thigh is warm, pressed as it is against his own.
“‘Sōlēs occidere et redīre possunt,’” she continues. “‘Suns may die but are always reborn.’ ‘Nōbīs, quum semel occidit brevis lūx, nox est perpetua ūna dormienda’—‘and once the brief starlight fades, the night is our unyielding rest.’”
Damian stiffens. He knows what part of the poem is next. It was the easiest to translate by far, because it’s the simplest. The most direct.
It’s probably the most truthful expression—confession—of his feelings to Anya. More than he’s ever dared to admit, even to himself.
“‘Dā mī bāsia mīlle, deinde centum!’” Anya exclaims, and Damian can hear her smile even as he keeps his eyes shut. “‘So give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred!’ ‘Dein mīlle altera, dein secunda centum, deinde ūsque altera mīlle, deinde centum,’ ‘then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand, then a hundred.’”
A pause.
“So, do you want those kisses now, or…?”
“Just—finish the poem!” Damian snaps, but the ferocity is weak (if not entirely feigned), and Anya snickers.
“Sure, Sy-on Boy. If you can wait that long for your kisses.”
Damian wants to die. Why did he think this was a good idea, again?
And then Anya slips a hand into his, and Damian’s eyes fly open.
“‘Dein, quum mīlia multa fēcerīmus, conturbābimus illa, nē sciāmus, aut nē quis malus invidēre possit, quum tantum sciat esse bāsiōrum.’” Anya’s classical language pronunciation remains perfect as always, her v’s expertly softened to w’s and every c crisp and firm. “‘Then, after we’ve outnumbered the count, we won’t know my kisses from yours, and my father’s cruelty we’ll forget in favor of our immeasurable love.’”
Another pause. But not an awkward one. It’s… comfortable. Almost gentle.
Then Anya squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Sy-on Boy.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper. “This is the sweetest thing you’ve—maybe that anyone has ever done for me.”
And Damian can’t help himself.
He looks at her.
He’s stunned to see that Anya’s cheeks, too, are dusted over with a pink blush, as she refolds the poem and tucks it into her pocket. “Anya…”
His eyes drift down to her lips. She doesn’t wear lipstick—unless there’s a party, unless Becky puts it on her—but her tongue has wet them with gloss all the same. Her lips are a bit cracked, too, equally characteristic of Anya and her many lost tubes of chapstick, and their shade of pink is nearly as vibrant as her hair.
He wants to kiss her.
(A thousand times, a hundred, another thousand, a second hundred, yet another thousand, another hundred—)
As if she can read his mind, Anya leans forward and presses her lips to hers, chaste and gentle and breathtaking before she almost immediately pulls away.
“One,” she teases, smiling, and Damian cups her face in his hands to pull her back for another kiss. This time, the kiss lingers, their lips slotting together like puzzle pieces as Damian feels Anya reach out to clutch the fabric of his shirt in both hands.
Damian could do this forever, over and over and over again, which means Catullus was clearly onto something when he said he would kiss Lesbia so many times they’d lose count.
(Maybe, then, classical language isn’t so bad after all.)
When they break away, Anya doesn’t pull back, instead touching the tip of Damian’s nose with her own.
“Two,” she whispers. “So…”
“So,” Damian echoes. Still cupping her face in his hands, he traces the soft roundness of her cheek with his thumb. “Will you… go out with me?”
“Hmm… That depends.” Anya’s eyes twinkle. “Tune domī manēbit parēsque nōbīs novem continuās futūtiōnēs?”
Damian blinks. “Huh?”
“Actually, don’t translate that. It’ll give you a heart attack.”
And then Anya is kissing him again, the bag of peanuts falling from beneath her arm and down to the hallway floor as she grabs his wrists to move his hands from her face to her waist before she proceeds to entangle her own fingers in his hair. She presses one kiss after another after another after another (after another after another after another—) to his lips until counting is beyond possibility and it doesn’t take Damian long to decide that classical language ought to be the last thing on his mind.
Well. Except for one phrase.
Amo eam. Amo eam, amo eam, amo eam.