Archive of Our Own

Anya stifles her laughter with her hand as Becky discards yet another (beautiful) dress from her closet onto the acacia-panelled floor of her bedroom.

“Ugh! None of these are right!” She shoots Anya a glare over her shoulder when Anya snickers again. “Don’t you laugh at my misery. I need the perfect outfit! You only get one first-last party and I cannot look anything less than drop dead gorgeous.”

Anya rolls over from her back to her stomach on the cushy mattress of Becky’s ornate, lilac-curtained canopy bed, kicking her sandalled feet up behind her. “You’ll look good in anything, Becky. Promise.”

“Well, obviously.” Becky turns back to her gigantic closet, determination flashing in her brown eyes. “But I refuse to just look good—I will look great.”

At this point in their friendship—a dozen years of it, to be precise—Anya is entirely used to Becky’s outfit adamance, and she knows her best friend will eventually land on a dress or a skirt and shirt pair that she likes. And to be fair to Becky, tonight is a big deal for her. Becky has hosted numerous parties at Blackbell Manor throughout their Eden years, especially as they’ve gotten older, but this one is the biggest—it’s the first party of their class’s final year at Eden Academy, after which everyone will go their separate ways and none of us will ever see each other again!

Becky, of course, has always had a flair for the dramatic—in that proclamation and more—but Anya can understand the intensity of the sentiment. This marks the final time before their last fall term that everyone will be in one place, together, just to let loose and have fun—of course Becky wants the party to be a hit. Which is why Anya has generously volunteered even more of her time than usual to help make sure the shebang goes off without a hitch, including a solemn promise to even help Becky play hostess.

But before those duties come into effect, Anya first has to play best of best friends. She props her chin on one of her hands, unable to stop an amused smile from pulling at her lips as Becky tosses not one but two more (lovely) dresses onto the floor beside her.

“At this rate, Becky, that abandoned clothes pile is going to reach so high you won’t be able to use your mirror.”

With a hmph! and an eye roll, Becky nudges the growing stack of dresses with her foot so they no longer pile directly in front of her gold-framed, floor-length mirror. “Don’t patronize me.”

Anya pushes herself into a sitting position on Becky’s bed, though in doing so she nearly tumbles backwards—Becky’s indigo satin sheets are hard to maintain traction on. She swings her legs off the end to keep her balance, the heels of her gladiator-style silver sandals lightly tapping Becky’s cherrywood bedframe. “Not patronizing. Just making sure you have the perfect view when you finally decide on the dress you like.”

“Don’t you rush me, either!”

Anya laughs. “I’m not rushing you, Becky. I know fashion is a process—you’ve reminded me plenty enough times.” She winks at Becky through the mirror. “But like I said, I also know that you will look stunning in whatever you choose to wear.”

Becky fights off the smile that threatens to soften her features and instead sticks up her nose. “Easy for you to say! You already have the perfect outfit.”

“Yeah, that you got for me!”

Anya half-slides, half-jumps off the side of Becky’s king-sized bed, the lavender rug on the floor muffling the thump of her feet landing, and joins her friend in front of the tall mirror, looping her arm through Becky’s. “You are responsible for me looking this good. So why don’t you think you’re capable of making yourself look even better?”

Becky purses her lips, then promptly spins around to pull Anya into a tight hug. “Oh, Anya, you always know what to say!” Her eyes sparkle as she releases her friend. “And now I know exactly the dress to wear tonight.”

Anya grins, equal parts delighted and amused, as Becky disappears into the depths of her closet. Presumably to soon return. Probably. Hopefully. It’s a pretty endless closet—easy to get lost in. But great for hide and seek, Anya remembers learning during one particular playdate they shared as children.

As Becky searches, Anya takes a moment to appreciate her friend’s hard work in the mirror, because really—Becky knocked it out the park in getting Anya ready for this party.

The dress, of course, was a custom birthday present to celebrate Anya turning 17—secretly 16, which, in Anya’s opinion, worked out better, what with Becky’s coinciding obsession with the Ameriotan “tradition” of Sweet Sixteen. (The time has long since passed since they were able to share dresses with one another, what with Becky continuing to grow into Year 11 while Anya’s height capped out in Year 8. Six inches makes quite a difference between whether a dress does or does not cover one’s ass…!) The subtly ruched fabric of the gifted dress is satin-esque—Becky refused to tell Anya exactly what material it was made of—and matches the vibrant green shade of Anya’s eyes to an almost uncanny extent. Sleek spaghetti straps give Anya the freedom of arm movement she prefers if she’s attending a party where she’s expected to dance the night away, and the v-neck cut of the front and the relaxed dip of the back make the dress plenty breathable. The fit is snug—what had Becky called it? semi-bodycon?—around her waist and hips, but the slit on the left side means the dress isn’t so tight around her legs as to be a mobility issue.

Length-wise, the dress stops just above her mid-thigh—the perfect length, in other words, because Anya is fairly certain her thighs are her best feature, what with the martial arts training she has done with her mom since she was eight. Will she ever be as strong as her mother? Absolutely not, but it’s nice to spend the time with Mama and at least grow stronger at her own pace. And now Anya has—in her humble opinion—incredible thighs to show off.

The cherry on top is the beautiful silver glitter Becky dusted on Anya’s cheeks, the perfect match to the silver eyeliner Becky also provided, not to mention the silver scrunchies that secure Anya’s space buns atop her head.

Aha! This is what I’ve been looking for…

Becky’s celebratory cheer—in her mind, that is—snaps Anya out of her reflective reverie. After so many years, Anya is almost a master at suppressing her telepathic abilities. (Though “almost” is still the key word.) If she’s focusing intensely on something, sometimes stray thoughts still slip in—Becky’s enthusiastic revelation a case in point. But at least Anya has a much better handle on crowds now, especially gatherings where the energy is positive, allowing others’ thoughts to flow in and out of her mind like music instead of catching and slamming against the sides of her skull.

“Found it!” Becky shouts from within the abyss that masks as her closet. Seconds later, with a brilliant grin, she waltzes back into her bedroom holding a deep red dress not dissimilar in style and cut to Anya’s, though—characteristic of Becky’s luxurious preferences—with more ruched ruffles.

“If I did such a great job in making my best friend look beautiful,” Becky says, teasing, “then if I dress like her, it follows that I should look equally beautiful, right?”

Anya laughs, unable to stop herself from grinning, too. “Foolproof logic, as always.”

With a speed and dexterity that Anya can only admire because she knows she will never possess it, Becky shimmies out of her black silk chemise and into the red dress, slides on a pair of sparkly gold stilettos, pulls her hair up into matching space buns with gold scrunchies, and dusts her cheeks with golden glitter before expertly applying gold eyeliner.

“Okay!” Becky squeals, grabbing Anya’s hand to drag her forward so they stand side by side in the mirror. “We look amazing.” She winks and gently elbows Anya. “And something tells me you are going to knock Damian dead in that dress—oh, sorry, not literally.”

Anya rolls her eyes at the playful addendum—it’s a bit that has lasted since their first end-of-term dance, way back in Year 1, so sorry she used to (and maybe, definitely, consistently still does) take some things too literally!—but still finds herself returning Becky’s elbow with her own nudge. “Listen, we don’t even know if Damian will show up.”

Becky gets out her disposable camera, and Anya knows the drill, posing back to back with her friend in the mirror. After a series of photos are snapped, Becky asks, “What do you mean, we don’t know if he’ll show up?”

Anya shrugs, feigning disinterest. “I mean, knowing him, he’ll skip the party in favor of studying to get a head start on the semester.”

Becky’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Ugh, Anya. How dare you suggest such a thing.”

“I’m just saying—”

Becky holds up her hand in a halt motion. “Nuh uh. No more saying. Not unless it’s a vow that you’re finally going to ask Damian out when he recovers from his unconscious state after he sees how motherfucking gorgeous you look tonight.”

Anya rolls her eyes. “Come on, Becky. You know I’m not asking him out.”

Becky groans, frustrated. “But I don’t understand why! You know he’d say yes!”

Anya shrugs. “And that’s the problem.”

Becky shakes her head, staring at Anya in disbelief. “I can’t begin to make a dent in the steel beams that support your logic, girl. But whatever you say.”

As long as you don’t mind waiting. Like, maybe forever.

And, okay, Anya knows her logic is weird. Really, she does. But she can’t ask Damian out. Or rather, between the two of them, she can’t be the asker. Damian Desmond—his last name, for better or for worse, important—has more social and political burdens on the plate of his life with still more to come than Anya could ever imagine. If he wants a relationship with her, if he thinks he can be in a relationship with her, then he should be the one to ask.

Besides the point, Anya had in fact asked him on a date back in Year 9, and he dropped the ball and rejected her (though not in a way that had done any—well, much—damage to their dynamic at the time). So really, it was his turn to ask, anyway.

Also, deep down, deep, deep down, the selfish part of Anya wants to be asked. For Damian Desmond, Eden’s biggest heartthrob (somehow, despite his attitude) and academic success (otherwise known as being a major nerd) to ask her out. Her, Anya Forger, who became an Imperial Scholar alongside Damian at the end of their first year at Eden with perhaps not the grades to show it but certainly the chutzpah to defend her title. Her, Anya Forger, who has no real life successes to her name (beyond her reputation—well-earned—of defending others and always fighting for justice). Her, Anya Forger, who sticks out like a sore thumb as a commoner amidst the elite of Eden Academy, even after all these years. (Not that it’s weird to be applying to university after completing secondary education—many of her friends are—but Anya has no doubt the percentage of people at Eden moving straight into the working world, cushioned by Daddy’s and Mommy’s nepo jobs, is a lot higher than most other educational institutions.)

So yeah. Anya wants to be asked. Is that really such a crime?

Becky pulls out her disposable camera. “One more for the road?”

The question tugs Anya out of her Damian-induced contemplation. And good—why waste mental time and space on someone who might not even show up?

Grinning, Anya loops her arm through Becky’s. “You got it.”

“One more” turns into way-too-many more, but once Becky’s camera is just about out of film, the two of them finally head downstairs to model the behavior of perfect hostesses both before and as people begin to arrive. They make sure the bartenders are well equipped with cocktail ingredients for any mixed drinks they might be asked to prepare—and confirm they’ve all signed their NDAs to never speak of anything unspeakable that they may or may not witness amongst inebriated children of the rich and famous—as well as double check that coolers are filled with beers and canned cocktails for partygoers who won’t want to wait for a specialty. They ensure the downstairs rooms of Blackbell Manor have been clearly though unofficially designated for different purposes: dancing, chatting, games, fucking (that last one the only one unallowed to bleed between spaces). They confirm the DJ is ready to accept song requests but also still has a playlist on hand of sufficient length. And, as friends and peers—plus, characteristic of Becky’s blowout parties, a few strangers—start to mill into the massive foyer, they appropriately socialize.

“Tertius!” Anya exclaims, allowing him to tuck a pink rose behind her ear, though they both know it will later go in a pristine Blackbell vase. “I know you were worried about the timing of your flight back from Septevia. Glad you made it!”

“Meg!” Becky squeals, squeezing both hands of the taller girl. “So good to see you. How’s your summer been?”

“Freddy, my guy,” Anya teases, offering a hand to twirl Freddy into an all but professional dip. “Becky and I are still on for bowling with you and Sue next weekend, right?”

“George,” Becky says with only partially faux primness, tapping her cheek for George to delicately kiss. “I made sure the bartender knows how to make a black widow cocktail, just for you.”

“Connie!” Anya pulls her friend into a tight hug. “That’s a new tattoo, right?” Grinning, she points to the violet-adorned skull held atop a pale palm on Connie’s exposed back. “It looks sick.”

“Bill Watkins, don’t you dare—”

Anya doesn’t have time to turn around before she feels herself being scooped up into a firm embrace, a half-laughing, half-protesting Becky caught in Bill’s other arm as he raises them both to sit on either shoulder.

“If it isn’t my two favorite ladies!” he booms, keeping a hand firmly—though, in classic Bill fashion, also respectfully—on top of their knees to prevent them from tumbling downward. “Do you need any assistance with party preparations?”

Becky laughs, shaking her head. “As if I would be caught dead unprepared for my own party. Who do you think I am?”

He chuckles. “Touché.” Turning his head toward Anya, Bill wiggles his eyebrows. “I don’t suppose you’re finally ready to take me up on that arm wrestling challenge, Forger?”

Anya gently knocks the back of his head. “Yeah, right. I’m not gonna enter a challenge I can’t possibly win! That said…” Flexing, she winks at him. “I like to think the boxing I’ve been working on with Mama has been paying off.”

Bill whistles appreciatively. “Damn straight.”

As Bill lowers them both to the ground, Anya can’t help but throw another taunt.

“Of course, if you really insist on beating me at your own game, Bill…” She shrugs with faux innocence. “Well, then I have to return the ask. Should we see which of us can crush a watermelon between our thighs first?”

Becky mock gasps, throwing both hands over her mouth. “Anya! You can’t challenge him to something he’ll so utterly and pathetically lose!”

Bill grins. “It sounds like we both just want to show off.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all, Forger. Not at all.” He holds up a fist, and Anya beams as she bumps it with her own.

It doesn’t take long for the party to kick into high gear. Not when it’s a Blackbell party, and not when it’s this Blackbell party, the endlessly important first-last. Though this is the first time she’s embodied the role to such an extent, Anya doesn’t find it too difficult to be hostess with Becky, either, as it’s certainly not detracting from her enjoyment to have a given excuse to talk with her friends, some of whom she hasn’t seen all summer. And Becky already promised that she would do the hardest parts of hosting—one, kicking out anyone being disrespectful, and two, getting the people trying to fuck out of the main party rooms and into any of the million bedrooms available on the first floor—which meant Anya was pretty much coasting.

About an hour into the party, she and Becky are taking something like a break next to one of the bartenders, Becky in the midst of leaning over the glossy wooden countertop to request their drinks, when they’re interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Oh, wow. What kind of hosts hide away in the corner like this?”

They turn around to see Ewen, Emile, and Damian approaching, Ewen’s shit-eating grin designating him the source of the joking barb.

“Make that five Hurricanes, please,” Becky says to the bartender before she gives Ewen a glare that Anya can tell is only half-pretend. “Listen, I don’t want to hear any complaints about our hosting from the people who weren’t here in the beginning when we were doing the real legwork.”

“Ignore him, Becky,” Emile says, elbowing Ewen in the side. “The party is great. Thank you for having us.”

“Fashionably late, as always,” Anya teases, locking eyes with Damian, whom she is certain is the primary cause of the trio’s delayed arrival.

He looks… Good. Of course, when does he not? But he looks slightly less put-together than usual, his dark hair a little more tousled, his green shirt unbuttoned an extra button, his black jeans a little less starched. “Unkempt” has always been a good look on Damian.

Anya pretends she doesn’t notice that Damian’s shirt is not just any green but in fact the same vibrant shade as her dress. She suspects one Becky Blackbell had a hand in this so-called “coincidence.”

Emile juts his thumb out toward Damian. “This loser just had to get a head start on studying for his poli sci class—”

Damian flushes a deep scarlet. “Alright, alright. If I remember correctly, it was less my studying and more the two of you taking a hundred years to pick your clothes—”

“Just because your outfit was planned in advance—”

“Boys, boys,” Becky says, silencing them with a raised hand. “You’re both smart and beautiful. So shut up and get drunk, why don’t you?”

Anya watches the bartender barely withhold a snort as they slide five Hurricanes—each glass containing a beautiful sunset gradient—across the counter toward their group.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Ewen says, picking up his drink, and soon the rest of them follow suit.

As they sip and catch up, having not seen one another in person for the past couple weeks, Anya can feel Damian’s eyes tracing her up and down, and she uses every bit of willpower in her body to fight the urge to dip into his thoughts. If he has something to say—if Becky was right and Damian does think she looks to die for in this dress—then she is going to wait for him to speak up.

Becky is eventually summoned away to deal with a couple in the midst of a messy breakup, and Ewen and Emile offer to accompany her so Becky has backup while Anya finishes her Hurricane. Just in case “messy” dissolves into “kicking and screaming.”

Which leaves Anya and Damian, still at the makeshift bar, though the bartender has long since moved on to serving other guests.

“So,” Anya says, placing her nearly empty glass down on the counter as she gives Damian a mischievous—knowing—grin. “Tell me the truth, Sy-on Boy.” She gets on her tiptoes to lean closer to him, which doesn’t do much to narrow their nine-inch height difference but does have the intended effect of making Damian’s cheeks tint a deeper pink. “Were you really studying before Becky’s biggest party ever?”

Damian’s eyes immediately widen, and Anya no longer needs a direct answer.

“You absolute nerd. I can’t believe you!”

Damian scowls. “It was hardly of my own free will.”

“Right. Sure. Mister ‘Head Always in a Book—’”

“Forger, there’s nothing I’d rather talk about less than school right now.”

Huh. Anya tilts her head. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yeah. Well.” Damian pushes his straw aside to swallow half of what’s left in his glass in a single gulp. “First time for everything.”

If Damian wants to let loose—or the Desmond equivalent of it, he’s still and will likely always be way more uptight than most—Anya is hardly going to discourage him. In fact, she wonders if she can do the impossible and convince him to get on the dance floor with her. But before she can ask—

“By the way, Forger.”

Somehow, she thinks Damian’s face has gotten even redder. Whether it’s the alcohol or the second step she takes closer to him—truly an innocuous move this time, an effort to better hear his voice over the thumping bass—she can’t be sure. “Yeah?”

Damian swallows hard, avoiding her eyes. “I, uh… I wanted to say that you—you—ah, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You look—”

“Damian? Is that you?”

Anya instinctively pulls back as a tall, slender girl whose sleek blonde hair stops just above her waist crowds into Damian’s personal space, reaching out to put a French manicured hand on his forearm. Does she know this girl? Maybe. Anya has always been horrible with names, even when she was a kid, but this girl certainly looks like someone who might attend Eden.

Until corrected, Anya makes the mental decision to call her “Blondie.” Which could be taken as a compliment—she might be implying that this girl is sweet as the dessert.

She isn’t. But she could be.

“Damian, I haven’t seen you all summer,” Blondie gushes, tucking her hair behind her ear with her free hand while squeezing Damian’s forearm with the other. “How have you been?”

As Anya debates whether she needs to deck this girl with her famous—though now more refined—Killer Punch for completely disregarding Damian’s boundaries, Damian smoothly removes his arm from Blondie’s grasp under the guise of switching his Hurricane from one hand to the other. So no Killer Punch required. (Which she wasn’t disappointed about. Of course not! She would never choose violence. Not at Becky’s big party.)

Anya should’ve known Damian was unfortunately familiar with how to extricate himself from unwanted physical contact. Such skills came with the surname.

“Busy,” he says, noncommittal. “You?”

“Oh, so busy,” Blondie says, placing a hand over her heart. “I mean, my family and I went on a cruise for a month, but after that, I spent every week working at my father’s fashion company. It was hard work, but it was so worth it, because now I’m going to be featured in a spring/summer line this October!” She giggles, twirling a lock of hair around her ring finger. “Isn’t that exciting?”

“Very,” Damian confirms, ever neutral, taking a sip of his Hurricane. “Congrats.”

Blondie shifts closer to Damian, and Anya once again finds herself stepping backward. But, contrary to once-popular opinion, Anya isn’t an idiot—she can tell when her presence is not desired. If Blondie wants to flirt with Damian, and if Damian doesn’t have it in him to ask (or outright tell) Blondie to leave, then Anya is going to find somewhere more fun to be at this party. Why should she endure this—this schmoozing saccharinity when she could be… Could be competing with Arnold to see who can remember the most obscure words in classical language as they both get increasingly drunk?

As if she can sense Anya’s growing distance, Blondie turns her gaze toward Anya with fluttering fake eyelashes. “Oh, Anya, by the way. I wanted to tell you that you’re so confident to wear a dress like that. Really, I’m in awe!”

Anya frowns. Something about this girl’s “compliment” is clearly off. “Okay…? Thank you?”

Blondie laughs, a tinkling sound like a broken wind chime. “I just mean that I don’t usually see girls with your figure in that type of dress! Especially after my fashion internship this summer. They’re usually given to taller models with a slimmer build. It’s so brave of you to wear it anyway. Like, yes ma’am!”

She laughs again, and Anya’s stomach curdles. The music around her dampens, the pressure around her grows, and it’s like she’s been plunged thousands of feet underwater. The chill that stiffens her spine is as icy as the deep blue sea.

What’s humiliating isn’t the girl’s comment. Anya knows she’s not conventionally attractive, per se, standing at five feet tall on a good day and with a frame that’s not as slender as other girls at Eden, and she’s fine with that. Her body is good not because of how it looks but because of what it does—it lets her laugh, jump, run, dance, hug her friends, train with her mother, be carried by her father, play with an aging Bond.

So what’s humiliating isn’t the girl’s comment itself.

What’s humiliating is that the girl says it in front of Damian.

Anya’s breath catches in her chest, stinging as if she inhaled the ocean. Her concentration wavers as thoughts from passing partygoers begin to bleed into her consciousness, shouts and screams and pleas from dozens of drunken teenagers beating like waves against her skull.

                —come on, just one more shot, just one more—

                                                                                —I swear, if he doesn’t kiss me right now—

        —I wonder if Becky will let us start Spin the Bottle: Truth or Dare yet—

                                                                                                        —WHEN I HAD YOU TO MYSELF, I DIDN’T WANT YOU AROUND!—

                                —yikes, he doesn’t look so good—

                                                                                                        —ugh, I think I’m gonna be sick…!—

        —wait, where did Eileen go again?—

                                                                                                                                                                                        —I WANT YOU BACK!—

                —ah, fuck, there goes the heel of another pair of shitty stilettos—

                                                                                                                                        —something’s not right—

“Forger?”

Anya blinks, and she realizes she has one hand cradling her forehead while the other clutches the edge of the marble counter with a ferocity that will undoubtedly leave a painful indent in her palm.

“Forger?” Damian says again, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding music. “Are you okay?”

But Anya can’t look at Damian. Not right now. Not like this. Not with Blondie’s cold, gloating eyes on her, a hint of a smirk tugging at her peach-painted lips.

“Yes,” she says, forcing herself to drop both hands to her sides. “Totally fine. I’m just”—going to give this girl exactly what she wants and get the fuck away from here, and it’s the last thing Anya herself wants to do but the only thing she can do—“gonna go find Becky. Catch you later?”

With a weak smile and without waiting for a response, Anya lets herself disappear into the crowd, hoping her perceived attempt at mingling is convincing enough before she ducks back into the foyer and heads up to the stairs.

Only once the door to Becky’s bedroom has clicked shut behind her does Anya allow herself to exhale.

“Idiot,” she mutters, shaking her head and rubbing her bare forearms as she moves further into the room. “Letting some asshole get to you like that…”

Anya trails off as she finds herself standing in front of Becky’s mirror, just as she was mere hours ago. The difference, now, is that she’s alone.

The difference, now, is that she can only see what that girl wanted her to see.

Shoulders hunched forward, slightly. Lack of confidence. The roundness of her face that Anya steadfastly prized as adorable from the age of five onward now appears childish and unattractive. The curve of her upper arms and of her stomach visible in the fitted dress no longer seem like proof of life well-lived and well-loved but instead appear too prominent, too undesirable. The dip of the dress from behind exposes scattered freckles and dimples of symmetrical back rolls across her sides, features she truthfully never thought much of but now appear in this moment to be too much.

She’s too much.

But that’s what this girl wants her to think. That she’s too much, that she takes up too much space, that she’d be better off doing and being less.

Anya fights the urge to scream. Instead, she turns sharply away from the mirror and lands a punch straight into Becky’s bed, chest heaving as she watches the silky sheets ripple with the force.

Screw that girl. She won’t give that jerk the satisfaction of making her feel—making her feel—

As her fist slowly uncurls, Anya squeezes her eyes shut. Shit.

She knows better than to take an insult like this. Not that all the alcohol she consumed is in any way helping with her rationality and reason.

How many conversations—direct and indirect—with her mother, with her father? Mama is the most beautiful person Anya knows and she doesn’t have a flat stomach. Anya has seen the cellulite, seen the stretch marks on her mother’s thighs and all that ever did was make her admire even more how badass Mama was and is. She understands to the moon and back that her body, all bodies are valuable because they exist—because her body allows her to live.

But when the girl smirked at her, Anya didn’t say any of that. She barely responded at all.

And Damian was there.

Damian saw the whole thing.

Groaning, Anya turns away from Becky’s bed and slumps to the floor, the wooden bedframe cool against the exposed skin of her back. She runs her hands across the tufted lavender rug beneath her. Humiliating. Just plain humiliating.

“Forger?”

Anya startles upon hearing her name called through the door.

“Forger?” the voice calls again, and Anya’s eyes widen as she realizes—it’s Damian. “You in there?”

Maybe… Maybe if she doesn’t respond, he’ll just—

“Anya?”

She digs her teeth into her bottom lip when Damian uses her first name, the pain a successful enough distraction to cease the formation of any tears that might threaten to well and fall.

Anya clears her throat. “Yeah?” she calls, remaining seated on the floor. “What’s up?”

Hesitation. “Uh—I just wanted to…” An awkward pause. “Are you okay?”

Anya laughs, hoping it sounds more confident to Damian’s ears than it does her own. “Totally fine! All the noise was starting to get to me, I just needed a second up here in the quiet. Don’t worry, I’ll be back downstairs soon!”

She can practically hear his frown. “You sure?”

“What, are you doubting me, Sy-on Boy?” she teases, knowing—hoping—the nickname will be enough to fluster Damian and get him off her back. “Seriously! Go back to the party. I’ll meet you downstairs in five.”

“Alright,” Damian says after a pause. “See you then.”

He won’t see her then, but she prays that in those five minutes, someone will whisk him away into a party game or even a dance and he’ll forget all about the most embarrassing of interactions he witnessed.

Sighing, Anya massages her temples. She doesn’t actually plan to stay locked in Becky’s room the rest of the night, which means she needs to center herself and get her telepathic blocking back under control. Staying out of only Damian’s thoughts just now was one thing. Staying out of the entire party’s is another.

Deep breaths… In and out…

Five things she can see: her sandals, the gold frame of Becky’s mirror, the ornate door of Becky’s closet, Becky’s indigo sheets, and… her own hands. (There’s a scar on her pinky finger from when playing with Mama’s “thorns” as a child went poorly)

Four things she can touch: Becky’s fluffy lavender rug, the soft green fabric of her dress, the wetness that escaped her eyes now drying on her cheeks, the warmth of her own skin. (Her skin is not perfectly smooth, especially not the scab near the base of her neck, remnants of a pimple she scratched at too much and too hard.)

Three things she can hear: the booming bass from the floor below, footsteps—

Footsteps?

“Anya!”

Anya jumps to her feet as the door to Becky’s bedroom slams open and none other than Becky herself charges in.

“Anya!” her friend repeats, tears welling in her eyes as she leaps forward to pull Anya into a tight hug. “Anya, Damian told me what that bitch said to you. I guess she doesn’t have fucking eyes, because you are not ugly, not in any universe!”

Anya can’t help but relax into Becky’s touch, returning her friend’s embrace and doing her best to subtly bury her face into Becky’s shoulder—not terribly difficult, since that’s about where her eyeline falls, anyway. “Thanks, Becky.” She manages a weak chuckle. “That isn’t quite what happened, but—”

Becky pulls back from the hug only to take Anya’s hands in hers and hold them tightly to her chest. “Anya Forger. You are beautiful. Inside and out. And I know you know that, but sometimes we need to hear these things from people who love us, and I love you so fucking much, Anya. You’re beautiful. You understand? You hear me?”

A lump rises in Anya’s throat. She can only nod in response, blinking back tears as she watches Becky do the same.

“And if you ever doubt yourself, or if another bitch like that tries to tell you otherwise, I’m here. I’ll tell you the motherfucking truth every time. You’re incredible. Got that?”

It’s Anya’s turn to initiate the hug, wrapping her arms around Becky’s middle and squeezing her tight as she feels Becky wrap her own arms around her shoulders.

“You know what’s embarrassing?” she whispers, after a pause, into the hug. “She only got to me because Damian was there.” Keeping one arm still around Becky’s midsection, Anya pulls partially away to brush away the tears gathering atop her bottom lashes. “Isn’t that pathetic? That it only hurt because she said it in front of someone I… care unreasonably and irrationally about?”

“It’s not pathetic at all,” Becky reassures her, using her thumb to further clear Anya’s face of tears. “If anything, it proves you aren’t an impenetrable statue who can take any hit—physical or emotional.”

Anya laughs—loud and genuine, this time. “Okay. You got me there.”

Becky smiles and squeezes Anya’s upper arm. “And for what it’s worth, Damian thinks you’re gorgeous. He always has. Nothing that little bitch said is gonna change his mind.”

And Anya knows that. Like, incontrovertibly, she knows that he does. How many times over the years has she read Damian’s mind—intentionally and accidentally—and overheard him gawking about her? About something she said, something she did, something she wore?

She just wishes he’d say it, too.

“Let’s head back downstairs,” Anya says, changing the subject. “I need a drink.”

Becky steps back and studies her for a moment, as if assessing how truthful her statement is. “I’ll stay up here with you, you know. For an hour. For as long as you need.”

“Please. I can’t deny the party its hostess for an hour.” Anya reaches down to squeeze Becky’s hand. “I’m fine. And I think I’ll be even more than fine if I get another drink in me.”

Becky narrows her eyes. “Alright. But I have permission to punch what’s-her-face if she crosses my path tonight.”

Anya places a hand over her heart in an overly sentimental fashion. “Oh, Becky. You know violence is my love language.”

Giggling, Becky drags Anya out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and back into the mix of the party, and soon they both have Whiskey Sours in their hands as they sway together and shout the lyrics to “Be My Baby.”

At one point, Anya finds herself face to face with Damian, who stands at the edge of the crowd. She can feel sweat beading her hairline from the last half hour of dancing, though of course he looks picture-perfect as always. But he also probably hasn’t been dancing like her—not unless he’s taken his usual “I don’t dance at these types of parties” stick out of his ass.

“Hey,” he calls over the music. “You’re… good?”

“You tell me—do I look good?” Anya teases, unabashedly relishing the crimson blush that spreads across his cheeks. “Yeah. I’m good. Just enjoying the party!”

Before he can respond, she lets herself vanish with a twirl back into the throng of people, spinning and dancing until she finds herself back at Becky’s side once more.

Eventually Anya gets dragged into a game of beer pong—her and Connie against Bill and Freddy—in a drawing room that’s had its furniture switched out for ping pong tables and other party games. Somewhere in the far distance of her peripheral awareness, she realizes that on the other side of the same room, Damian is playing a Spin the Bottle variant of Truth or Dare with Emile, Ewen, Meg, Sarina, George, Alice, Arnold, Blondie, and a few others that a sober version of Anya might recognize but the current, inebriated version of herself definitely does not.

But she pushes this recognition down and focuses on the game in front of her. She and Connie can and will win against these two—they have before, many times. No reason to start losing now.

Anya and Connie take the first match. And the second. Bill and Freddy somehow scrape the third, and Anya—embarrassed as she is to admit it—completely botches the shot that would win the fourth game when she overhears something about Blondie “truthing” Damian to admit which girl in this room he’d most want to fuck.

Damian takes a shot instead of responding, but by then Anya has already missed her throw.

“It’s okay,” Connie reassures her as Anya grimaces and hides her face in her hands when the boys end up snatching a victory. “Next game is the tiebreaker. We got this.”

“As if,” Freddy taunts from the other end of the table. “We’re on a hot streak now!” He and Bill exchange a high five, grinning.

“Don’t listen to them,” Connie says, rolling her eyes. “Besides, even if they do somehow win, I’ll put a hex on them that dooms their dating lives for the next five years.”

Anya can’t stop a laugh from escaping as Bill and Freddy immediately pale. “You’re right. Win or lose, we still win.”

“W-Wait,” Bill stammers, “we didn’t agree to those terms before playing—”

Anya silences him when she sinks a ball into the front point of the triangle of cups on the boys’ side of the table. “Too late.” She smirks. “Game’s already begun.”

Just like the last two, this match is neck and neck. Anya and Connie have better aim, but Bill and Freddy are better at defense. The boys also try to play dirty—“Wow, look over there!” type of bullshit—but one particularly threatening look from Connie is all it takes to nip that strategy in the bud.

With an eerie sense of déjà vu, Anya finds herself once more lining up what could be the final shot. Before the orange ping pong ball can leave her fingertips, however, the general volume of shouting and scattered conversation that hangs over the room is shattered by a series of wolf-whistles.

“Go, Damian, go!”

Anya turns around to see Damian walking… toward her? His face is colored with an intense scarlet that rises to the tips of his ears, whether from embarrassment or alcohol or anger Anya has no clue, and he doesn’t meet her eyes as he comes to an abrupt halt in front of her.

“Uh… hi?” she says after a pause.

“Come on, Damian!” Ewen hollers from across the room.

“You got this!” Emile shouts, and the dozen others playing the game—except Blondie, Anya observes, who huffs and rolls her eyes—all join his cheering.

Anya glances between the far crowd and Damian. “So, are you going to explain—”

And then Damian is looking at her, an intensity she isn’t sure she’s ever seen before burning like an autumn forest ablaze in his hazel eyes. And then Damian’s hand is flat on the center of her back, so much skin left exposed by the dress, his touch electric against her bare skin. And then Damian is pulling her in, and then Damian is leaning down, and then Damian is—

Kissing her.

The ping pong ball drops from Anya’s hand as she reaches up to wrap her arms around Damian’s neck, one hand snaking upward to messy his already tousled hair. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Anya can hear the room explode into excited screams around them, but she’s too focused on how Damian’s lips seem to fit perfectly against hers.

He tastes of shitty vodka—must have been the alcohol of choice for the shots—and Anya is certain she still tastes of lemony bourbon, but she opens her mouth to deepen the kiss anyway, shuddering with pleasure as Damian moves his tongue against hers. His free hand feels up along Anya’s bare thigh, thumb brushing softly beneath the slit of her dress, before it then rises to grip her waist while his other hand presses harder against her bare back to compel her forward into her chest.

Is she dreaming? Or is Damian Desmond making out with her in front of half their friends from Eden?

Damian kisses her harder, front teeth awkwardly clacking together, but Anya doesn’t give a damn as she moves her hand from tangling Damian’s hair to feeling his shoulders and tracing the contours of his collarbone, that single extra undone button doing a lot of work in this moment.

Anya somehow—somehow—resists the temptation to nip Damian’s bottom lip, and gradually they both pull away, chests rising and falling rapidly as they remember to breathe again.

Damian reaches up to run his thumb over her no doubt swollen lips. “Anya, I—”

He’s cut off by Emile and Ewen practically launching themselves at him, pulling him away from Anya as they hoot and holler.

“Yes, man, you did it!”

“You fucking did it, Damian!”

And more wolf-whistles echo through the room as Anya—stunned and smiling like an utter idiot, she’s sure—watches Damian get dragged away by his friends, back into the circle of their game.

“Wow,” she finally says, the tips of her index and middle fingers brushing over her mouth. “That was… something.”

“Something?” Connie smirks at her as Bill and Freddy cheer. “I think that was a lot more than something.”

And then Becky is sprinting over from somewhere, who knows where, Anya has completely lost track of reality at this point because all she can think about is the taste of Damian’s mouth melding with hers and the warmth of his hand against her back and the tenderness of his touch across her thigh, and now Becky is screeching as she grabs Anya’s hands and spins her in a circle.

“That motherfucker! I didn’t think Desmond had it in him!” Becky leans in, and with a mock conspiratorial whisper, says, “Alice dared him to kiss the hottest girl at the party.” She squeals, bouncing up on her toes. “And he sure fucking did!”

Anya’s eyes widen, shocked despite herself, and she instinctively turns to look back at where Damian was pulled away.

He’s looking at her, too. His own eyes are similarly wide, though less with shock—more like fear, and maybe guilt, but also complete and utter elation.

She kissed me back. She kissed me back. Holy shit, she’s so fucking hot and she kissed me back—

Damian’s circuitous, enamored thought rings in her mind, clear as a bell, and Anya can’t hold back a grin as she turns back toward Becky.

“Yeah… But I think I’d still like to hear that from him, too.”

Maybe, after this—after this party, after this night, after this kiss—Damian will finally use his words. Finally tell her how he feels. Maybe he’ll finally ask.

And if he does…

Well, Anya already knows what her answer will be.