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He's holding his breath against her lips as the song comes to a close. It would be so easy to bridge that distance, brown eyes against brown eyes against—the last centimetres as their dance stills and the threat promise of something bigger looms.
Now, to get the hang of this situation, imagine you're an heir (or a second son) to a prominent Ostanian family. The future holds great things for you, has been ever since the news of your arrival reached your father's ears.
Your family is so prominent in fact, that a foreign government sent a child-spy to infiltrate your life when you were barely six. And what an infiltration it has been. Your first love. Your first maybe nothing is wrong with me. Your first...
Well. That was before the SSS stormed the school, the child-spy and her (fake?) family gone, along with their dog. You, of course, shouldered on bravely and elegantly in the face of such betrayal.
Now you're looking at one other person in the whole world unfortunate (fortunate?) enough to understand you. That person has an unbearable personality and all the other excellent qualities expected of Ostanian elites. It's like looking in the mirror, if said mirror was particularly obnoxious. But it's a very pretty picture, still, incomplete as it is.To preserve the dignity of persons concerned, the colour pink and certain names will not be mentioned.
Becky pushes him away by the shoulder, gently. Just as the pit inside his stomach is about to open, she adds a "not here". Damian nods in relived understanding.
They don't waste time on discussing how this is a bad idea. They've already done that, a few months ago, amidst trying to keep cool and carry on between the betrayal, the questionings from SS, whispering of their classmates, side glances from teachers and heavy dinners with their families where they sat silently and onediently across each other.
It resulted in nothing but the feeling of isolation multiplying tenfold.
And even then. So what. So what if she was spying on them? She didn't know anything important — only their childhood fears. The bitter way Damian had to go alone to the hospital after breaking his arm. The route Becky used to sneak out after hours...
They were a little drunk then, shellshocked after the Desmonds crawled out of reclusion to the Blackbell manor, a formal dinner to "consolidate".
The fathers spoke in concerned grave tones, talking about stock market and 'pushback'. The mothers exchanged whispered pleasantries and cast worried glances at their unfortunate children. No one asked Becky or Damian what they thought of the whole affair. Or what they wanted. If they wanted anything at all.
First opportunity, the moment the main course was over, they fled.
Becky's room welcomed them with her stash of fancy champagnes and rose wines, and cigarettes.
"I didn't know you-" "I don't. Not really." She just needed something a little ugly and a little bad, after Anya.
Apologies, dear reader, the earlier proclamation was a lie. You see, this mention is quite necessary and it wasn't even voiced out loud, so one might conclude that it almost doesn't count.
They smoked on her balcony in silence.
They drank on Blackbell carpet talking over each other.
They-
"I- didn't think you even liked men."
"I generally don't," she was kissing him insistently for someone who- "but you're pretty enough, so-"
Bitterly, Damian pushed away from the embrace that was just another confusion and future heartbreak: "Pretty enough for a boy?"
It's an old point of hurt. He got his wish and none of his features resembled his father. Except when he was scowling.
Everything else, delicate lines and long lashes were a copy of his mother's. And no matter how hard he trained with Jeeves and ate his weight in protein—his limbs stayed slender with barely any real muscle, just like hers.
His parents' genes conspired, finally agreeing on something, to spite off their least-favourite offspring.
The girls (one) found him cute. The men, his father's associates at Imperial Scholar mixers gave him sideway glances and snickering pats on the shoulder. His brother and Bill never got such treatment, of course.
Becky blinked a few times. She hadn't considered it quite like that, no. She found him pretty in the most vain sense, if anything. They looked proper, miserable, down there with their parents, and in all the Anya-less class photos. It was fitting. Too easily fitting.
And his hair was shiny just like hers.
"I'm sorry, thats not what i meant."
"Forget it, Blackbell. I'll get going."
She didn't stop him as he left her room and stumbled down the stairs to find his butler. Proper ladies didn't chase, anyway, she told Martha when she came to check on her young charge, finding her collected and determined and mostly sober.
Suffice to say, some reconsidering and reconciliation had to happen before the next part.
Becky stopped him after class before he had a chance to run away, Ewen and Emile eyeing her warily from few steps away. The self-proclaimed bodyguards, as Connie and Meg waved her to join them.
"Meet me at the old chem lab, after the class." "What for?" "Damian." "Alright."
"You're.. not too pretty, ok?" Was Becky's grand admission. What? It didn't even come with an insult. "Just as you are."
"That's it? I'm going."
Becky didn't stay there amongst empty glass cabinets to cry angry hurt tears for long long minutes in silence, a pink-haired ghost smiling over her shoulder as she clutched the sheep charm. That's not what happened at all.
"Listen, am sorry." Footsteps, hesitant and a little remorseful (fuck, he couldn't do anything right, could he?). "It's just when I see you-" "I am not her. I know." "That's not-" "It's ok, I get it." His eyes widened in disbelief. "Do you?" "You're not so Anya-shaped yourself, you know."
Oops. Oh no. The forbidden name has been called upon. But what is it? The universe didn't end? Nothing even exploded? Huh. What a shocking development!
"This is not the prom that I pictured," she tells him when, after fighting off girls and boys hungry for the Desmond name, and maybe not only that, he resignedly offers her his arm. Keeps his tongue down on how she stands a few centimetres taller than him in her heels (an offence that 13 year old Damian couldn't forgive until his own growth spurt hit finally).
"Not enough sparkle for you?"
"And too little pink, yes."
His smile is a little choked, but genuine. Her lipstick is pink, and the details on her dress. His attire is absolutely pink-less, and he didn't even think about buying that eyesore tie perfectly matching Anya's hair.
There's whispering and not so subtle gawking as they spin, someone a much better dancer than they used to be (but not all that much).
Eden has officially forbidden any proposals or engagement announcements on the school grounds years ago, after one too many influential offspring scandals.
The wedding invitations are practically writing themselves anyway though, as the Blackbell and Desmond heirs disappear from the dance floor hand in hand.
They're pushing against each other, both used to leading, at home, at parties, on dates. The wall is hard and unforgiving against Becky's bare shoulders, and she makes sure it is even less so when Damian gets pushed into it.
"Fuck got you so built?" He traces her upper arm, with a bit too much muscle than was perhaps ladylike. Even their strength is almost equal, thanks to whatever insane regimen Mrs Forger had the girls follow.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Fuck, my hair-" "Do you mean my hair? It's-" "Whatever."
They're careless in navigating to the nearest bench, a secluded corner having served well previous generations of Eden alumni, just like it's about to serve them.
Hair a disaster, his tux in no standing condition, her dress worse for wear. The proportions, the weight of them are all wrong against what they got used to, before. They carry on, regardless.
"I- I miss her," Damian sobs out into her neck suddenly. Freezes, terrified by the admission. Isn't this the treason men in uniforms and Donovan have been trying to frighten him with?
"I do, too." Becky admits in a whisper, arms around his shoulders, meeting his bravery for what it is. "I do."
They slow down, every touch a failed attempt of escapism, keenly aware of who and where and why they are. Doesn't make them stop, though.
Afterwards, they help each other righten their appearance in the nearest washroom, and glare at someone from Cline hall stumbling in a little drunk with matching cold gazes.
They will work it all out. They will.
And then they will bankrupt their families in the effort to bring her back.