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The thing about living on campus is that you can never truly escape. It’s a curse and a boon. The Freelancer was trying to figure out which one it was.
Categorization. Order. Cause-and-effect patterns. They were good at that. They were good at a lot of things, really - that's why they were one of D.A.M.N.’s best. But they had to prioritize some skills over others.
So, categorization.
It was a curse when they spent hours studying, poring over tests and notes and textbooks, only to be second place by one point. It was a curse when Damien, he-who-never-smiled, managed a smirk just to gloat. It was a curse when all they wanted to do was fade into the din of the academy, but all they could do was run into Damien seemingly everywhere. It was a curse when they felt like they could see him around every corner - a glance at his hair, his voice floating in through the gaps under their door, the unmistakable sound of his shoes on wooden floors...
Completely unbiased scientific evidence. Next column.
It was a boon in some cases. When they were up again at some ungodly hour, the clock reporting something like sixty-six minutes past two a.m. When they realized that they had been staring at the same page for far too long, and not a single sentence made sense, and the test was in six hours. It was a boon when they finally got off the floor of their dorm room, creaky joints and hazy brain, to look out of their window and see one specific dorm room still lit up across the quad. It was a boon when they were looking for some company (but they’ll never admit to that), maybe even some snark to brighten their day (but they’ll never admit to that either.) It was a boon when they were looking for some help with this chapter, and Damien was six minutes away.
The Freelancer examined the mental column they drew up. With all that evidence at hand, they would categorize D.A.M.N.’s campus that night as a boon. But they wouldn’t admit to that either. Nor would they tell you how they knew Damien's dorm was exactly six minutes away, and they could make it undetected if they ducked through certain corridors.
What they would admit to, if Damien ever asked (and he wouldn't, obviously, because he didn't care) was that they had been up studying for hours, and the topics were melting in and with their brain. And maybe, just to butter him up a little, they'd say something about needing his help (pretty please).
There. That should do it.
They slipped out of their dorm room and into a maze of corridors, somehow navigating their way through it with impeccable accuracy. They avoided as many drunk, high and lipstick-stained people as they could - a kind of silent past-curfew agreement. They wondered (completely offhandedly, they assure you) what Damien would say or do when they knocked on his door.
He'd sputter, no doubt. He always did. Maybe even scorch his floors, or let steam billow out of his ears like those cartoons. That was a sight they had to see. Maybe he'd pull them into his dorm room and shut the door behind them, muttering about “you shouldn’t be out past curfew” and “you're gonna get both of us in trouble”.
(Or maybe he'd just slam the door in their face, and they'd be made to do the walk of shame back. He'll get a perfect score again, and he'll smirk at them again, and D.A.M.N.'s campus would become a curse once more.)
He didn't do any of those things, actually. Or maybe he did. Because when he opened his door in his sleepwear, caught mid-yawn (endearingly), all thoughts of scientific inquiry left the Freelancer's head. He asked them a question - something they didn't exactly hear, but they saw his lips form the words (why the hell were they looking at his lips?).
He spoke, and every line they rehearsed on the way was replaced by one single, succinct answer:
“Whuh?”
D.A.M.N.’s academic weapon, everybody.
He might have rolled his eyes. Or maybe that was just their brain filling in the spots - he was always rolling those gorgeous eyes of his (which almost seemed brighter in the dark, like little fireflies). But he definitely grabbed their hand, definitely pulled them into his room, and definitely motioned for them to sit as he closed the door.
“You look like shit. Are you okay?”
Damien asked them about their health. The first of many miracles that night.
“I'll survive.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I'm fine, Damien.”
He sighed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
This was when the Freelancer should have felt the excitement of taking a test and coming across a question they had practiced for. But the scowl had been a part of their rehearsal, dammit, and he was decidedly not scowling at them. No, he was… staring. Curiously. Like his vision hadn’t adjusted to them in his chair yet.
“Uh. I… needed help. I was studying.”
“Studying?” There was that scowl. “It's two in the morning. Why the hell were you studying?”
“Why were you up?”
An excellent quip from our prodigy, folks. Maybe they'll win this one after all.
“How did you know I was up?”
Nevermind.
They resorted to the snarky academic rival persona again. It was almost frighteningly easy to slip into, to scowl and roll their eyes and scoff. Maybe even throw a few insults here and there.
‘Frighteningly easy.’ Alright, 2 a.m. brain. This is Damien we're talking about. Of course it's easy. You hate him, remember? It's easier to hate. But also easier to notice that he had been studying, too; his books were on his bed. Damien studying on his bed instead of at his desk? Truly the end times.
It was easy to hate, but somehow easier to know him better than anyone else.
“Why are you here?” He pressed again. Maybe it was because their vision was blurry from the lack of sleep, but he almost looked concerned.
The Freelancer sighed, slumping back into his chair. They saw him frown - he always hated them slouching. They were half tempted to prop their legs up on his desk. That would make him burn clean through the floors.
“Look, Damien, I just really need to pass this test. I've been studying for hours, and my brain is melting. I just need to go over one chapter.”
So far so good. They swallowed and looked away. If they had been counting, which they hadn't, they'd tell you it took them twenty-three seconds to push their ego down and choke out one little word.
“...Please.”
But they wouldn't tell you that Damien waited for that word, not because he was cocky, but because he somehow always knew when the rhythm of their voice reached its lilting end and when they expected a response. Because that wasn't true, obviously. Why would it be? Get it together, omnipresent reader in their head.
Another pause. There was the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips, that mix of amusement and pity that was oh-so familiar, and the Freelancer wondered if they could somehow make the earth swallow them whole.
“Are you… quite sure you're alright?”
“Don't rub it in.”
He laughed. It was more like a small huff, but you know. It was still something. And it shot through their veins like a firework (but that's just the previous three cups of coffee, really).
“Alright. fine. Which one was it?”
They blinked. He agreed? He agreed. Huh. 2 a.m. brain affected everyone, then. They filed that information away, intending to use it against him at some point. Because what kind of academic rival would they be if they didn't?
They flipped the pages of their textbook, opening to page 87. “...This one.”
He braced his arm on their chair and leaned closer. His vision was terrible, and he never wore his glasses, so he had to lean closer, of course. That was logical. Except it wasn't entirely logical, and the Freelancer needed a moment to gather their thoughts.
The first thing they realized (after their last brain cell short-circuited) was this: he was warm.
Of course he was. Fire elemental and all that. But it was December, and they were cold, and it was a noticeable heat. A welcome one, too, but they weren’t going to tell him that.
The second thing they realized was that his cologne hadn't completely worn off yet. It was something that smelled professional (because of course it was), something you'd catch a whiff of in an elevator in some fancy hotel. Something very Damien.
The third thing they realized, at the same time as him, was that they were both too close. If there was such a thing as too close… which there was. Obviously. And that's what they were.
He backed off with a sharp inhale. “Sorry.”
Oh, he's apologizing. Great. The end is near.
The Freelancer leaned back, closer to him. “It's fine, really,” they whispered. Why were they whispering? “It's, um. cold.”
Holy shit. What the hell did that imply? Damien just froze, and suddenly neither of them were looking at the textbook. They hadn't even tried yet.
Then he leaned forwards again. Just a little bit. He put his arm on the back of their chair. The Freelancer vaguely registered how they weren’t really that cold anymore. Their traitorous mind had instead pinpointed one thing, and one thing only: the scant few inches between their bodies.
But they didn't care. Because they had to pass the test. That's it, that's all it was. And if he had to lean in to see their textbook, then so be it. Everyone makes sacrifices for academic success, and they were sacrificing whatever was left of their sanity.
His voice picked up again, conveniently changing the topic from “practically cuddling for warmth” to “the mechanics of transmogrification”. And they were trying to focus. Really, they were. But the words slipped through their head like a sieve, leaving only the low thrum of his voice behind. That had never happened to them before. How the hell does that even happen? Christ. He leaned closer to trace his finger over the words - words that blurred together and oh, how did he get that scar on his knuckle? That wasn’t there yesterday - and said something about elements and cores.
He was a terrible teacher. They didn't register a single fucking thing.
And yet, here they were. The Freelancer with the sharp tongue, who would have told him he was a shitty teacher without any hesitation, holding their breath just to hear his voice ebb and flow.
Great. Maybe they were coming down with something.
“Did you get that?” he asked, turning to look at them. They didn't meet his gaze.
“Yes.”
They most certainly did not.
There was that look again - amusement and pity. “...Are you sure?”
Know-it-all ass. Could he not be all-seeing for one single moment?
“Yes.” And then, just for good luck: “I'm not that stupid, Damien.”
In hindsight, this is where things went to hell. The Freelancer resorted to their categorization skills again.
What he should have done: pulled away. Rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, scoffed. Snarked something along the lines of “yes you are, remember when…” and so on. General assholery.
What he did: decidedly did not pull away. Went quiet, held his breath - don’t ask them how they knew. And then, slowly, whispered:
“I know.”
A beat. The Freelancer felt their brain work through those two words slowly.
“What?”
Then he pulled away. But this only let them snap to face him, wide-eyed and confused.
“You aren't that stupid. you're pretty smart, actually.”
“What?”
Case not in point, apparently. He rolled his eyes, stepping away completely, and the Freelancer felt the distinct loss of heat.
“I'm not saying it again, you ass. God. I was trying to be nice for once-”
“No! No, no no no. I, um. I heard you. I was just confused.” A pause, with a bewildered stare. “...Thank you?”
He raised an eyebrow. Crossed his arms. “You're welcome.”
The Freelancer took a moment to articulate their words. This was when they should’ve, would've sassed him. You're stupid, though or Well, it only took you a year to admit that.
Instead, they settled on: “You're… not bad yourself…?”
Great job. Truly the compliment of compliments.
He frowned deeper like that was even possible. “This is why I'm not nice to you.”
They rolled their eyes at him, their need to prove him wrong apparently taking over their need to compliment him. Which didn't exist because they hated each other. Of course. Rivals and all that.
“You aren't nice to anyone.”
He crossed his arms defensively. “Not true. I'm being nice right now.”
“You're being tolerable. There's a difference.”
“Did you walk across campus at 2 a.m. because you tolerated me?”
Oh, for fuck's sake. Pompous, whip-smart prick. They glared at him. If he wanted to be snarky, they could be snarky.
“I walked across campus at 2 a.m. because I need to pass the test tomorrow, and you're the only competent one on this campus. So call it what you want: tolerance, courtesy, all-consuming true love, et cetera.”
And Damien did something they never thought he could: he laughed.
Like, actually laughed - something nearing a chuckle, almost. Their heart leapt. Holy shit, they were coming down with something. Was this what tachycardia felt like?
“I think I'll settle for desperation.”
They were hit with that insatiable need to poke and prod, to rile him up. To see if he could laugh again, or at least smile. “Not a fan of true love? What about adoration? Infatuation?”
He flushed. Huh, there's an expression they haven't seen on him yet. Many firsts tonight. “Ah, no.”
“What about you're the only one for me?”
“Terrifying thought.”
They laughed, bumping his leg with theirs. He jumped like he was scalded. “C'mon. I'm not that bad.”
A pause. The pause where you can see the gears turning in his head like he was deciding what to say. Or rather, if he should say anything. The pause where they stared at him, and he stared at the floorboards, and everything was suspended in normalcy.
His voice was strained when he spoke. “No, you aren't.”
They chuckled, tipping the chair back as far as it could go. They relished in the nervous look in his eyes, not realizing just yet. Looking back, Damien had been right: they are stupid. But so was he, really, because who the hell says that to their rival?
“Aww, Damien! Are you being nice to me? Careful, it almost seems like you like me.”
Categorization. What he should have said: No I don't, you're despicable, so on and so forth.
What he did say, after he curled his hands into fists: “Is that so bad?”
Oh.
Oh.
They blinked. Yes. Yes it is, you idiot. We're rivals. Competitors. We can't be liking each other. We should be plotting and scheming and bringing each other down. Not sitting in the dark, alone, whispering words with implications that heavy.
But they were practically asking for this when they knocked on his door in the middle of the night. And honestly? It wasn't that bad. A few drinks in, and they'd probably also say it was good. Maybe even that they had hoped he liked them.
“No, it isn’t,” they said, stone-cold sober and equally as honest. “It’s… good. I like that you like me.”
Hm. Well, that’s not… ideal.
“Oh.”
Good to know he was equally lost for words. The Freelancer didn't know what they'd do if he was somehow still smug.
“Yeah.”
He was quiet for a moment. Here’s another thing the Freelancer wouldn’t admit: Damien looked positively enchanting when he was thinking. He stood there, inches away from them, leaning on his desk while they sat in his chair. He ran his tongue over his teeth, flexing his jaw. He stared at the floor, his fingernails running over the skin of his elbow when he crossed his arms. His brows were furrowed, just so. All sharp angles and sparks.
One more thing for the list: Damien looked positively enchanting in general.
“Is that, ah... all you like?”
Jesus Christ.
One thing the Freelancer would admit to (just to switch things up): he was a dumbass sometimes. But so were they. This felt so juvenile. This was playground material. And yet, their magic was beating out of their goddamn chest. Every bulb burned brighter, every sound was clearer. There was only here and now.
“What the hell was that?” they laughed, partly amused and partly trying to regain their confidence. “You sound like a child!”
Because of course they said that. Because it was childish, and they were emotionally constipated, and they liked him too, dammit. Because they had to manage one last jab before they possibly kissed him senseless.
“Oh my God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. He didn't notice them standing up. “Cut me some slack, will you? I haven’t done this before. Just… answer the question, please.”
Categorization to the rescue. Things the Freelancer knew: Magic. Success. Rocket science, to some extent.
Things the Freelancer did not know: how to tell Damien, in no uncertain terms, that he was beautiful. That he was passionate and driven and so much better than them. That they liked him in a way they couldn’t quite phrase yet, but they will one day if he just let them stay by his side.
Things the Freelancer did: laugh softly, sincerely, then speak. “Obviously I like you too, you idiot.”
He stared at them with a pained expression that almost - almost - melted into laughter. It hadn’t hit him full force yet, and it wouldn’t for a good few moments. It hadn’t hit them either. It certainly felt like it was just banter - not a confession.
“I lay my heart out for you and you call me an idiot? This is why I didn't say anything. I knew you'd be annoying-”
No time to waste. They stood up and put their hand on his cheek, the cold stark against his skin, and he froze. His eyes shot open, and he stared, slack-jawed.
Fireflies.
Then it hit them, both at once. “Do you want to finish that sentence, or will you let me kiss you?”
He did not finish that sentence.
His wide-eyed gaze dipped lower, fixed on their lips. He leaned forward and rested his hands on their waist, his movements almost trance-like, with a grace so natural you'd think he practiced. They raised their other hand to his face, then pressed their lips to his. Slow. Gentle. Soft. They had never been any of that to each other. They had always been rough, bracing, aggressive. But it was three in the morning, and they were in his room, kissing him against all odds. They'll be damned if they were anything but soft.
Heart to heart. Skin to skin. His hands, low on their waist, were warm.Every part of him was. There was the faintest sizzle of wood burning up, but quite frankly, it was hard to hear over the loud thrum of their heartbeat. They were sure their magic was also in a frenzy, ready to blow every fuse in the building. Or sprout plants through the floorboards. Or a multitude of other wonderful things that would, no doubt, make Damien positively geek out.
How the hell did they get here? They were supposed to study. They had a test in five hours, dammit, and for the first time in their life the Freelancer wasn’t thinking about their grades. It was just Damien. Damien’s attempt at a confession. Damien burning his table. Them kissing Damien, and Damien kissing them back.
It was just him, and they wouldn't have it any other way.
He pulled away first, his chest heaving. The Freelancer wanted to say something about finally shutting him up, but they couldn't form words either (for the first time). He collected himself, visibly finding balance again. The image of him standing up in class and arguing his point came to the Freelancer’s mind unbidden, juxtaposed against the heaving, blushing mess he was in front of them. And to think the one thing that could shut their rival up was them.
He sighed, though his lips were already quirking up in a smile. Pretty. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, will you?”
They laughed, a little delirious. “You know me so well, Dami.”