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She was different from all his other classmates ( even Emile and Ewen ). But she was... definitely not a friend. And it wasn’t like she was smart enough to be his rival, either ( but she was the first in first grade to get a stella star, she got hers even earlier than Demetrius did, earlier than anyone did ). So she was his. Crus— classmate . Frenemy. She was annoying and dumb and cute and said things that didn’t make sense. But she somehow got his art piece first place and defended him in front of a teacher. Well, she better start focusing on her own studies than trying to help others first, her grades definitely need it!
She. Was right in front of him. He did not jostle his lunch tray at seeing her eyes and hair cones sticking out above the edge of the table. “Sy-on boy, what are you doing for the holidays?”
The Blackwell girl had settled herself and her lunch right next to Anya’s sneaking place, and Ewen was yelling at her for presumptively sitting at their table without permission as Emile chewed out Anya for trying to pull her schemes on Damian.
“What’s it to you, you lowly commoner?!” he stammered, because he guessed he owed her a reply.
"How about running a study group at your house before the next exam?" she asked, letting his question slide off her like water off a duck. Then he realized it wasn’t so much ignoring him as it was answering his question with a question.
"’m not going home for the holiday," he mumbled, though he had no idea why he decided she would be the first person (other than Jeeves...and the dorm staff...and Ewen and Emile... anyway, the point still stood) that he’d tell about that specific detail. After all, if he told all his classmates (or at least, the ones that swarmed him aside from Ewen and Emile), he’d be met with thinly veiled pity or mockery. Maybe even both. If he was even turning down his best friends’ requests to spend the holidays at their family estates, why would he go to anybody else’s?
Anya, uncharacteristically ( could he even say that? She was unpredictable, at best. Chaotic g—evil, definitely evil ), was silent and made no further attempts to drag the conversation along. He couldn’t even find a trace of pity in her big, sky-blue—in her smarmy eyes ( pretty sure you’re not using that word correctly, Boss man, a traitorous voice in his head whispered) that always looked like they were piercing his soul.
He spent the rest of lunch in fear-trepidation-nerves waiting for her to say something, anything to follow up on the incomplete conversation, but she didn’t. She also expertly evaded Blackwell’s attempts to organize some sort of joint visit (to either of their houses, or a third place entirely) between their families. It couldn’t be...she was treating him like he was particularly special, in comparison to her best friend? She had no reason to, seeing as they weren’t even friends, and if they were, it wasn’t like he was good enough to be special to his father, let alone anybody else.
When he looked up, she was still staring blankly right at him, at which point he decided to hastily make an exit from lunch. Loudly. Not that it changed her expression or prompted any verbal acknowledgment. Not that he wanted any.
He put the conversation right out of his mind as soon as lunch ended...is what he told himself he would do. He would have, if not for the fact that it wasn’t quite over yet. In the week leading up to the holiday, between occasionally helping Ewen or Emile pack and assuring them he’d be just fine staying at the dorms by himself (was there even anybody else from their class staying at the dorms over the holiday?), he could’ve sworn Anya kept looking at him with that owlish look of hers. But she never brought up the topic again, and it wasn’t like he cared, so obviously he wouldn’t if she didn’t.
Maybe he should have mentioned it again. But what would that have served to do? Would it have changed the situation he found himself in, not even the second, but the first day of the break?
“What are you doing here?!” He couldn’t help but yell and point, jaw dropping to the ground ( like his heart ) at the sight of Anya, in an admittedly cute garish dress, holding her backpack while the girls’ dorm mother carried a trunk. He wouldn’t look at the large dog next to her, he couldn’t. Not yet.
Besides, not looking at the oh-so-fluffy dog meant he quickly noticed the dorm mother quirk an unamused eyebrow at his behavior, to which he straightened his posture and coughed into his hand like he saw some adults do.
“I mean, aren’t you a commuter? Why aren’t you going to spend the holidays with your parents?” he asked, and the dorm mother’s eyebrow returned back to its proper place. As should this girl.
“I’ll only be here for a few days while my parents are on vacay-shun,” she answered, almost robotically. Was that even allowed? He supposed he didn’t see any reason for it not to be. “And this,” her eyes narrowed with that familiar glint he hadn’t seen in a while, “is my dog. Bond.” Bond let out a short boof, as if in greeting, and Damian had to restrain himself from asking if he could pet him.
The dorm mother let out a laugh and rolled her eyes ( what for?!), “I’ll let you two kids play. Miss Forger, I’ll take your trunk to the room you’ll be staying at in the girls’ wing—if you get lost, just come find me or any other dorm staff to show you where it is.”
And with that, she was gone. It wasn’t like there was anybody there—except Anya herself—that would bear witness to if he were to get excited over a dog— god did he miss Max. Bond broke the stalemate of silence by trotting up to Damian and showering him with kisses. Anya aside, how could he ignore a Good Boy™ (with a bow tie!)? It would have been criminal.
At some point during ruffling Bond’s ears, patting his head, booping his nose, and telling him that he was a Good Boy™, he realized Anya was staring at him like he’d grown another head. Was it so strange to appreciate any and all dogs? Did she not?? Then why would she make a point of introducing her dog to him? But she did at first tell him her dog’s name was Dog... “What?!” he asked—too defensively, but he couldn’t take it back now.
When she still didn’t answer, he decided to change the subject. Subtly. “What…” he coughed again, “is your dog’s breed?” Unlike his purebred German shepherd, Bond looked like a mixed breed. The tail made him think Samoyed, but the socks seemed more Great Pyrenees or a Ukranian shepherd.
Anya, however, still was giving him a wild-eyed stare. “Um. A mix. Of the big white kinds.” Damian wanted to facepalm, but his hands were currently occupied with giving Bond a belly rub (he had much more fur than Max did, but it was definitely softer…). “What were you doing here anyway, Sy-on boy?” She asked, giving him an out from the breed topic. Not like he was trying to make conversation, the silence was just awkward.
“I...live here,” he enunciated slowly, not sure of what else she wanted to hear. A more specific reason why he wasn’t spending the holidays at home? Because they’d been over that and she didn’t need to know that he didn’t need to stay in the dorms like her—that his brother had gone back home (because he has a home to go back to, where Father will actually pay attention to him).
“Oh, this is your room? Where do you sleep?” She started to poke around the drawers in the coffee table and side tables, though finding nothing of interest. Was...was she serious? She kept trying to go to his house, so he thought she might have been one of The Others, trying to talk to him solely because of his family name, but…
He resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, as he was still petting Bond, “No, this is the common room. It’s where the dorm tutor’s office hours are, among other things.” Like the phone. Which he only used to call Jeeves. And didn’t expect to use for anything else. It was wishful thinking to hope he’d get a phone call from home, not until he was worth caring about. “Like, snacks,” he added half heartedly, although it wasn’t like she knew that he was missing home...especially Max. With that, he gave Bond’s head one last ruffle before standing up. “Which I came here to get,” he said pointedly, “and am going to go back to my room.”
It was a plan to subtly split up, in spite of the dorm mother giving them time to “socialize.” Except Bond ran up to him and started sniffing at his tray of baby carrots. As much as he missed his dog, he wasn’t going to stoop as low as to steal hers (...unless).
“Wanna see what tricks he knows!” she blurted out, but it didn’t sound like a question. At his bland look (he wasn’t curious), she added, “Pa taught him some tricks, with treats.” He bit his lip. Bond sat in waiting, rhythmically thumping his tail against the ground, as if he knew they were talking about him.
Damian reluctantly (he was going to leave to his room and study after this!) placed the bowl of carrots on the table and held out his hand in front of Bond. Bond sniffed it once before raising his paw, allowing Damian to shake it gently. “He doesn’t even need treats for that one…”
“Yeah! Pa also taught him this one.” She grabbed a baby carrot off the bowl (she didn’t ask...but he was going to let it slide for the greater good), let Bond sniff it, then brought the carrot down low to the ground, to which Bond laid down. “Leave it,” she said, and placed the carrot a foot away from him on the ground, and took a step back. Bond stared at the carrot longingly. It gave Damian’s heart pang. “Leaveeeee it,” she took another step back, then ran behind a nearby sofa. Bond made no move to her direction, the direction of the carrot on the ground, or the plate of carrots, but did whine softly.
After a beat, she cheered, “Okay, you can have it!” and Bond eagerly shot forward to chew on the carrot.
“He’s well trained.” Damian commented. Max didn’t have as much discipline to resist food and Damian didn’t have a hand in that at all...it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t resist Max’ puppy eyes. He grabbed a carrot. One more trick, then he was leaving. (Studying, who?) If only because Bond probably shouldn’t eat an entire bowl of baby carrots.
Bond ate the entire bowl of baby carrots.
If Anya cared that he was spoiling her dog, she didn’t mention it. Bond, now full and tired from running about in a new environment, was a huge, fluffy log lying down on the ground, Anya and Damian leaning against both his sides. At some point, Damian’s short break before he’d get up and go back to his room turned into a longer break: a nap. It probably would have been even longer, if not for his back rest abruptly abandoning him.
That, of course, wasn’t Bond’s fault. Good Boys™ weren’t capable of wrongdoing. Bond walked to the door and boofed softly. See? No wrongdoing, and well trained to communicate his needs. Anya...was still sleeping? And just moved to curl up on the ground, despite the disturbance. Well, he wouldn’t be able to ask her for his leash, but Bond was well trained so far anyway.
He did find a bag to snag from the small kitchenette, thankfully. “Come on boy, let’s take you outside.” He opened the door leading to the boys’ dorm across the courtyard.
He couldn’t see anything. He blinked. The wind sent a gust of snowflakes into his face for his efforts.
Bond had no reservations about jumping through the open door and into a pile of snow about half his height, before going about his business. With the wind and snow covering his socks, blending in with his fur, Bond almost entirely disappeared into the snowscape. Once done, he barreled back indoors, tiny clumps of snow clinging to his fur like Christmas bell decorations despite his attempts to shake them off. Damian numbly closed the door behind him—and it wasn’t from the cold—the bag in hand completely forgotten. A quick check at the door leading to the opposite courtyard corridor to the girls’ dorm yielded the same result.
He should let Anya sleep, since she seemed just fine with sleeping on the ground.
...except “let Anya sleep” translated to gathering up the snow pellets he brushed off Bond, and unceremoniously dropping them onto Anya’s face. “BUAGH—?” she shot up into a sitting position, causing some pellets to bounce off, and turned her head both sides with bleary eyes, before lying down once again and immediately going back to sleep. This child—!
His fists were still clenched, but he took in a deep breath and released it. Of course she wouldn’t be concerned about getting to an actual room to sleep if she wasn’t awake to realize anything. Moreover, why hadn’t any of the adults come to check on them? Maybe it was a test. Eden Academy was meant to push students to excel in all ways. Surviving the night could easily be one of them. Ha, he was (soon-to-be) Lord Damian Desmond, he didn’t need anybody’s help anyway (as if he didn’t check and double check the clock to see if he’d be able to call Jeeves). Maybe he would get Father’s approval for braving out a snowstorm...or even finally concern for his safety… (yeah right)
He huffed out dramatically and rolled up his sleeves. First, he needed to find a shovel.
After many valiant and elegant attempts to find a shovel—including asking Bond if he could sniff one out, and trying to use a paperclip and one of Anya’s bobby pins to pick the lock to the custodian closet—Damian was armed with one (1) dustpan and brush. He threw the door back open and resisted the urge to roll his sleeves back down against the cold, biting wind. He would not be deterred. Using the dustpan, he dug out a chunk of snow then heaved it over his shoulder. Said chunk of snow landed right back onto his frame, soaking into his sweater vest.
“A real Desmond knows when to retreat and regroup. It’s not cowardice, but strategy.” he said to nobody in particular, closing the door behind him once again, and setting the dustpan next to the radiator to dry. Running out of options, he cast another look at Anya (still sleeping) and Bond curled up in the middle of the common room floor. Even if she was just a commoner, he also fell asleep there for a while...clearly it wasn’t that bad… Although this time, since it would be on purpose, he’d grab pillows and blankets from the couch—”A resourceful Desmond is a good one,” he reasoned out loud.
Once he reached the couch, he gathered up a pillow and blankets into his arms, the sheer volume nearly dwarfing him. “I’m just getting spare blankets for you!” he still managed to point at Bond accusingly, who remained curled up around Anya. Bond only let out a low boof in reply, as if to say, “Sure you are, Damian.” And yet, it didn’t sound half as patronizing as Demetrius.
He dropped one of the blankets across Anya’s sleeping form before settling back down against Bond’s other side. The snow would be a problem for tomorrow’s Damian. The carefree lifestyle seemed to work well enough for Anya (and he wasn’t talking about the school-art-project-that-wouldn’t-be-named).
He woke up again, this time to the smell of something cooking and with a distinct crick in his neck and shoulders. Bond, he realized, was also drooling on his shoulder, bringing a smile to his face. He turned his head and lifted his hand, before his eyes sluggishly relayed to his brain that it was not Bond, but Anya, to which he recoiled and let out a muffled screech. Because he was mortified. Disgusted. Absolutely the reason why. He was so mad he could feel red up to his ears.
Anya, despite having slept through the apocalypse the night before, woke up for real this time, rubbing at her eyes without seeming to have any discomfort from sleeping on the floor for so long.
The padded sound of footsteps just barely alerted him to being barreled into by Bond (by proxy, as he was aiming his tackle at Anya), who was closely followed by Henderson. Damian had to admit, although wearing an apron and holding a pan of (really good smelling) food, those did nothing to deter the waves of Disapproval™ rolling from Henderson.
“Good morning, Mister Desmond, Miss Forger.” Henderson’s voice quickly turned their messy dogpile to deers in the headlights, frozenly looking forward with rapt attention. “For today, I’ve cooked you two breakfast, since I presume you skipped dinner. However, afterwards, I expect you both to tidy yourselves up,” suddenly, Damian became hyperaware of his still-damp hair and rumpled clothes, “as well as everything else from last night.”
It couldn’t be that bad—sure, they’d have to launder the makeshift bedding, but...as Damian surveyed the room with bright, natural light, he noticed carrot bits and clumps of dog hair, as well as everything overturned while playing with Bond then looking for the shovel. That was to say, he had to suppress the gut instinct to blame the mess on Anya and flushed from embarrassment.
“Sorry, Mister Henderson, we fell asleep. We’ll clean it up.” Anya spluttered out in her adorable childish voice, saving Damian from being stared at with Henderson’s unblinking gaze.
“It may be the holidays, but here’s a lesson for you, Miss Forger. It’s better to say thank you instead of sorry.”
Staring blankly at Henderson with the same face as whenever she answered a question wrong in class, Anya cautiously said, “Thank you?” though it sounded very uncertain. However, it satisfied whatever Henderson was aiming for, and he turned around to finish breakfast, leaving Anya and Damian in awkward silence.
The silence permeated through breakfast and cleaning up the common room, although Anya tried to make stilted conversation about some spy anime she watched. He bit back a comment about how he already had a cartoon about being the very best that nobody else ever was and that he didn’t need another, instead saying “Desmonds have no time for cartoons,” in an almost perfect mimicry of Demetrius.
Maybe she was distracted by cleaning or Bond, or simply less angry without the Blackwell girl around, because she said nothing and just looked at him thoughtfully, no pity or falsehood to be seen.
Damian broke eye contact first, rationalizing it wasn’t a staring contest and that he had better things to do. Like finishing up cleaning. And the studying he didn’t do yesterday. "So instead of cartoons, do you wanna study together?" He turned back to her and tried to gauge if she somehow had any ulterior motive, and she hurriedly added, “Bond is a good study buddy!”
Well. What kind of monster would he have to be to say no to spending time with a Good Boy™? Such was the only reason. It’s not like he was doing it to spend time with her, of course not. “Fine, but you better be quiet.”
After getting the school supplies from his room, the silence lasted for a solid ten minutes before Anya piped up, “Sy-on boy, why do you hold everything like this?” and jutted her pinky finger out emphatically. Damian spluttered, feeling his face heat up (anger at her impudence, of course). He then dropped the subject entirely and began ruffling the spot behind Bond’s ears to indicate that he was very busy with no time to talk, thank you very much.
It wasn’t for another five minutes until he heard, “Psst, you’re good at history, right?”
He scrunched his face, trying not to think about the sheer effort and rote memorization that went into scoring the highest in history in order to try to impress his politician father. “Yeah, of course,” then mentally kicked himself, remembering her usual test scores and willing himself to be... nicer more civil. Like a leader and his constituents. Like his father. “How do you usually study?”
“My Pa tells it like a story, like Spy Wars. He says I remember con-flicks better if I pretend characters are Agent Bond. He’s really good and knows a lot of history.”
“I thought your dad’s a doctor,” then he backtracked and took another route, “You can ask the dorm tutor, now that you’re here.” Ewen and Emile knew he utilized as much help as he could get because he wasn’t perfect. He had to ask the dorm tutor about almost everything. All his hard work hardly measured up to Demetrius’ effortless genius, but he had to do whatever he could to get the upper edge, become an Imperial Scholar, and finally be worth a second look (a redundant investment what with Demetrius already).
“You’re special, Sy-on boy. You’re very important (to the mission).” she said seriously, looking him straight in the eye with an intensity he hadn’t seen since right before she punched him.
“W-what the—that’s so random,” what brought this on, was she going to say she liked him or something?
Except it seemed to have been all she had to say, because she just returned to staring at the sheets in front of her as if he hadn’t just offered up the study resources she kept asking for. He gazed soulfully at Bond as if to search for advice or help, but although dogs were perfect beings, they couldn’t read minds, divine the future, or let alone talk.
Oddly enough, when she was leaving to go back home and spend the rest of the holiday with her (loving, wonderfully perfect) parents, she didn’t say anything about study groups or visiting his house...in fact, he couldn’t really remember the last time she did. (Not that he wanted her to, or anything like that) Instead, she said, “‘Twas fun, Sy-on boy. Bond had fun too,” who let out an agreement boof. “Next time, you can come visit Bond at my house. My Ma—...Pa will cook something nice.”
He couldn’t even find the energy in him to protest her presumptiveness and fake pleasantries, because it hardly felt like such. Saying anything else, though, would just be admitting too much out loud. There wasn’t anything to admit though, of course.
Friendship XP gain/loss: ???