Driver or Lover? || Damianya Fanfic || ✔️

trust me (like I trust you)

It's not only once.

In fact, it's not even close to once. Anya is late. Every. Single. Day.

It's almost amusing. It would probably be amusing if it isn't so fucking annoying.

It doesn't even seem accidental at this point. She looks more than happy when she's slipping into his car after the traffic light conveniently turns red when he passes by the bus stop. And she doesn't even have the dignity to look ashamed about her lack of time management.

So now she's sitting in the passenger seat with her shoes off and legs crossedーdespite Damian's many worried protests. She's upgraded from backseat to passenger seat, which means that Damian is no longer a chauffeur.

The only thing is that fucking Anya keeps messing with his radio and changing the music.

"Country roaaaaaads~" she sings/screeches, her voice overpowering the song. "Take me homeeeeeee~"

"Are you an old grandma or what? Your tastes are so old-fashioned," he interrupts, slapping his hand over Anya's mouth to save his ears. He would need them in class later.

Anya pries his fingers off and glares at him. "Says the one who listens to podcasts and classical music all day long. You're just like my dad."

"It wouldn't hurt for you to learn something once in a while," Damian retorts, incredulous at her boldness while she's sitting in his car, listening to his radio because she missed the bus. "And classical music is the best kind of music."

"Says who?"

"Says me. And I'm always correct."

"Only nerds listen to that fancy-shmancy classical shit. The fuck is this Harry Potter shit?!" She threw her hands up in exasperation and Damian tried not to chuckle. He didn't want to encourage her rogue and disrespectful behavior.

"This 'Harry Potter shit' is a musical masterpiece-"

"Sonata No. 20 in C Major Op. 360 - fuck, I'm acing Classical Language but I can't read a word of this! Who the heck even is Beethoven?" She pronounces it as "Beet-hov-in".

Damian is horrified by her lack of knowledge. He understands that Anya's stupid and doesn't have taste, but even three-year-olds know who Beethoven is.

"Who's Beethoven? Only one of the best composers in the history of-"

He's about to go on a long ramble to educate Anya about the art of Beethoven, but he can see that little smirk on her lips that tells him that she knows exactly what he's talking about and just wants him to blabber on and look silly.

"Oh, shut up, shitface. You know who Beethoven is."

"Do I?"

"I don't know, do you?" he snorts at his joke and Anya makes a face at his poor sense of humor, but she laughs too. "Classical music is top tier. Relaxing and sophisticated. I'm honored to share similarities with your father."

"You can be my dad-"

"Please don't finish that sentence," Damian groans and almost bangs his forehead against the wheel. Of course he's not going to do that though. He's not reckless like a certain someone sitting next to him.

"Okay, fine. I'll save my dirty jokes for Emile," she rolls those pretty eyes and crosses her arms.

Damian tuts but there's a small smile on his face. Anya and Emile have been inseparable ever since they realized their shared love of sweets and dogs. And they both say the most unhinged things ever at random. Their relationship was almost cute. The cute part being Anya, not Emile.

"You think I'm cute?" Anya leans her chin on her palm and tilts her head toward him with a soft smirk resting on her lips.

How does she know that? Anya's supposed to be the one with no poker face. But suddenly the roles are reversed and she's the crazily perceptive one and he's the one who wears his heart on his sleeve.

"No, you're ugly."

What a lie.

Anya has her iconic weird little smirk and Damian turns away, heat rising to his collarbones. It's like he's the little kid even though he's more than a year older than her. She has a knack of making him feel that way despite her childishness.

But even if he hates feeling helpless, maturity is a good look on her.

"Hey," Anya says suddenly, sitting straight with seriousness, "don't tell anyone that I'm sixteen. I know you're bad at keeping secrets but I'm gonna get kicked out of Eden if they find out that I'm not seventeen or eighteen. Even Mama and Papa don't know."

Ah, right. The first thought that popped into Damian's mind when Anya told him two years ago that she's actually a year-and-a-half younger than everyone in their grade was no wonder she's so short. And then he didn't know whether to feel flattered or embarrassed or another feeling that he couldn't identify because she trusted himーand not anyone else.

And Damian is good at keeping secrets. Just not around Anya.

"I won't."

Ever. He adds silently. He would never even think of betraying her secret, accidentally or not. Any of her secrets.

"Pinky promise?" She holds out her pinky finger but he can tell from the shine in her eyes that she knows he won't say anything even without a pinky promise. But Damian's just as bad at reading emotions as keeping his emotions hidden, so he wouldn't know.

He scoffs and doesn't accept. He's driving. That's dangerous.

But at the next red light, her finger is still hanging hopefully and he begrudgingly latches his with hers.

The rest of the ride is filled with silence, but silence speaks volumes. And Damian can hear every word it's saying.

(But he doesn't know what it means. School skills have not proven to help him much in the real world.)