Damian's not nervous about who will win the right to dance with him. He doesn't care. Obviously.
Except Anya Forger is now lagging behind in the trivia quiz. She rattled off her first few answers with ease (genuinely surprising, how would she know about the milk and his dog? He can't imagine Ewen or Emile would tell her), but now she's struggling and giving out ridiculous answers. Who on earth is Benjerpoop Peeface GooFallo? Is Anya really that stupid? And why is he getting anxious about Anya not winning??
Someone has four points. One more point and this random girl will be dancing with Damian. Damian gulps nervously. Anya only has three points. The next question will determine his fate, and he doesn't trust Anya will know the answers to these highly specific questions—
Wait.
Highly specific question.
Damian can ask a question that only Anya knows the answer of.
Damian is so frazzled that he barely questions why Anya is the only one he wants to dance with. Or the integrity of him helping Anya win. All he wants is to the stop the imminent danger of someone snatching Anya's (rightful?) spot.
Damian raises his hand. "Ewen, can I ask a question to the ladies?"
Ewen looks a bit surprised by how the reluctant Damian is suddenly involving himself. "Sure thing, bossman! It's your dance partner after all. Come up!"
And now Damian's faced with the intense scrutiny of the five girls. Anya's stare seems particularly piercing, but she always has that effect on people. It's almost like she can read minds.
Anya suddenly jolts and looks away like she's nervous. Huh. Right, she's probably nervous because that other girl is one point away. Damian has to think of a highly specific question that the other girl will never know the answer to, and a question that only Anya can answer. It shouldn't be that hard considering they're in the same class and they did a lot of stuff together... Damian blushes at the thought of their extensive history.
But wait! Focus! This isn't time to blush. Except he's not blushing. Totally not.
Damian clears his throat. Everyone is looking at him. They're at question 13— an unlucky number, and coincidentally the number pinned on Anya's dress, so maybe it's a lucky number after all?
"Question 13: name one food in my ration can during the bus hijacking!"
There's a ripple of surprise when Damian mentions the bus hijacking. The other four girls look nervous. That's right, Damian knows Becky and Anya have suitors who admire their bravery during the hijacking, but no one seems to have mentioned that to Damian so far... and that scratches an uncomfortable scar in his heart. Hey, Damian was also involved in saving the class. Why didn't anyone admire his bravery, then?
See, this is a strategic question. None of the other girls seem to care about the hijacking, but Anya was right next to him on the bus. Her best friend's company provided the rations. Moreover, this is about food, and Damian knows how Anya invested is when it concerns food. She'll know the answer. He knows she knows.
In addition, Damian thinks he made the question quite open ended. She only has to name one food. Damian tries to recall them in his head: beef jerky, mints, digestives, hmm, what else...
"Salted nuts," Anya says.
A hush falls over the crowd. Everyone's looking at her, but she's looking at him. Damian's heart does an odd little thump.
"... I remember that because Sy-on boy gave the nuts to me."
Damian wasn't even thinking about that connection. Honestly, he had been so stressed that he could barely remember giving Anya her favourite nuts. Well, more power to Anya.
"That is correct," he says, and he can hear Becky cheer from the sidelines. Suddenly flustered and overwhelmed by how Anya remembers that little detail, Damian steps away and lets Ewen continue with the quiz.
Anya is up to four points, and she's tied with the other girl. That thought makes Damian nauseous. Anya only needs one more point, and they absolutely cannot let the other girl win—
Ewen begins what could be the last question. "Question 14: Which person does Damian love best?"
Damian instantly whips his head towards Ewen, his face beet red. "HUH?!" he screeches. He was already feeling fluttery and jittery from earlier, and now Ewen has to do this? Does his best friend want him to die, huh?!
At least it seems like everyone else is equally flustered. They yell out wrong answers, and Damian feels a rush of relief upon seeing the other girl with four points get it wrong. But wait, she isn't the only one with four points—
Anya presses her button. Her eyes are wide, as clear and as beautiful as glass, shooting a devastating arrow into Damian's resolve.
And before she says a word, Damian knows she knows. From her expression, he can tell she has the correct answer. Because of course she knows him the best out of these girls. Anya Forger, the commoner who stole him away.
He knows exactly what she'll say, and he's almost terrified by how she pinpointed that, but at the same time endlessly relieved that she knows such an important part of him. They're just kids who want their fathers to love them, aren't they? She understands him. She sees through him.
... Ah, why does it feel like Anya can see through all of him except for his heart?
Anya opens her mouth.
"Sy-on boy loves..."
"You," Damian thinks, his inner voice suddenly astronomically soft. "You win."
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if there's anything Childe's learned from weeks of observing you, it's that you're high strung. it's a stark contrast from most of the people of Liyue- while they're firm and confident, you jump whenever he calls your name or claps his hand down on your shoulder.
you try to hide it; you're good at it too, only startling very slightly, but even that can't escape Childe's keen eyes. he felt quite bad about scaring you the first time you met- still feels bad about it till this day to the point where he refrains from suddenly touching or poking you, a courtesy he gives to very few people. he tries his best to seem non-intimidating, he really does! you're someone he, strangely, doesn't want to scare or manipulate; he likes you, and is eager to learn more, but you're so constantly tense that it's difficult to interact normally with how cheerful and boisterous Childe can be.
what, he wonders, could possibly be making you so nervous? was it work? stress? anyone he asks tells him that you're like that with almost everyone, even if you're excellent at hiding it.
the next day is Monday, and Childe's sparring with the Traveler as he always does. they've worked out a more sustainable system- one that *doesn't* involve destroying the Golden House- and the Traveler emerges triumphant as usual. he waves them off after handing them and their flying fairy companion some rewards, and slides to the floor to take a breather. Childe huffs behind his mask, wincing at his injuries but feeling accomplished- the sparring with the Traveler has enabled him to use his Foul Legacy form for much longer than before.
the door creaks open suddenly, and he looks up to see you walk in with a stack of papers, intently reading whatever contents is on the top sheet. you're so caught up in reading that your foot catches on part of the raised gold pattern on the floor, sending both your papers and yourself sprawling across the floor. shakily you curse, sweeping the papers into a pile to be reorganized before looking up and staring directly into Childe's eye.
he stares. you stare. then he hears you inhale sharply and stumble up and away, your back pressing against the door. your breathing comes out shaky and uneven, your hands trembling as you stare past them to the floor, heart beating so erratically that you feel lightheaded.
Childe yelps in worry when you fall backwards, surging to his feet to follow you, but he stops when he sees your expression. you're not looking at him- you're not looking at anything. you're not registering him or the world around you, entirely somewhere else, and you're shaking so much that he just wants to reach out and hug you.
Childe's echoing voice dips to a quiet coo as he approaches you, weapons nowhere in sight. now he knows why you're always so on edge- the past few weeks you've been hanging on by only a thread. he slowly extends his hands and curls his claws around your clenched fists, rubbing the backs with his thumbs and keeping his tone at a steady rumble.
something's holding you- holding your hands. but not roughly; the grip is gentle yet firm, brushing soothingly over the backs of your palms. your blurry vision sharpens and focuses slightly, and you're met with the sight of another set of hands wrapped around yours, clawed and clad in dark armor. you should be scared, but you're not, only moving to grip the hands back in return, clinging onto the soft, comforting presence nearby. you want to plead for whoever it is to not leave, to stay like this with you.
Childe croons, sweet and proud, when he feels you hold his hands in a grip that would be crushing to a normal human. he moves closer, leaning his body down and carefully bringing your hands to curl in his lilac fluff. you quietly gasp at how soft it is, moving your fingers through the fur- the texture grounds you, brings you back to reality, and you don't even care that it belongs to a beast with suspiciously familiar ginger hair. Childe purrs in relief as you set your chin in his fluff and close your eyes, and he wraps his arms around you and squeezes gently, wings fluttering ever-so-slightly at the embrace.
you're tired. so tired and thankful that you can breathe again and that your heart isn't fluttering horribly in your chest that you lean on the creature holding you. Childe can easily support your body weight, massaging your temples and listening to you sigh quietly. your eyes begin to slide shut as you feel soft purring surround you, and hear a curiously familiar, if echoing, chuckle. you barely care when you're picked up and cradled in sheathed arms, leaning against an armored chest- it's quiet and peaceful here, after all. more peaceful than anything has been in weeks.
your hand curls in the fluff again as you yawn and snuggle closer, silently asking for the comforting presence to stay a while with you. it's nice here, after all, and you've been deprived of nice things for so long.
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