Chapter Text
The life she has now does not come naturally.
It’s not easy, it does not fall seamlessly into place no matter how much she wills it to. The change is quick and apparent, though she doubts there’s a way it wouldn’t be; get zapped away from her world and have the weight of it placed on her shoulders, then come back after it all to fall into a perfect, conventional life.
Sometimes, she thinks she’ll float away.
Her head drifts above it all, and there’s no real way to ground her without that suffocating pressure, that weight of importance. And other times it’s still got its grip on her, and she can’t tell if it’s better or worse.
Long story short, it sucks.
Highschool sucks, too. Though she thinks - hopes - that that sentiment is shared with just about anyone who’s caught up in it.
She’s not sure; the friendships she makes feel too flimsy or brittle, and she can’t tell if it’s just because they’re growing up or if it’s born of her unwillingness to bend, or their inability to understand exactly what she’s been through.
The halls are louder than they need to be, filled with cacophonous voices and the old crackle of their school’s intercom system. Or maybe it’s just as hellish as middle school was, and she just notices it more now.
There is one thing that she knows is different, and it makes its presence known through the overwhelming emptiness in her gut. Her feet, surrounded by hundreds of others, walk in the absence of their echo, and she knows it’s supposed to be a good thing. She’d been through hell and back just because they needed to learn to give each other space, it’s good that Marcy is moved away and that she and Sasha have new friends. She just can’t convince her stubborn little brain.
And because of that, her first hour math class becomes - in the least dramatic sense - the life-raft keeping her afloat and the one thing keeping her anchored to herself.
Algebra is one of the lesser miseries in her life, somewhere between skinned knees and self-sacrifices. One of the more manageable ones, so long as she keeps her eyes on the board and her thoughts on track; she rarely does, though.
How can she be expected to, really?
It’s not her months away from Earth that lead her astray, nor her experience fighting other-worldly monsters and moons. It’s simpler than that - one of the few things that makes her feel human.
It is bleach-blonde hair tucked carelessly behind his ears and bubblegum pink lipstick and bright, bubbling laughter that she’s only ever graced with during their bi-weekly calls with Marcy. It is the smile she gives in return, the sweet little ‘hello’s that she’s sure will give her away each and every morning.
“Hey Sash,” she says, the same as she always does.
Her bag falls gracelessly to the floor as she sits down at her desk, legs wrapping around those of the chair.
The grin he gives her is too bright for dim-dull classrooms on a Tuesday morning, but she’d never dare complain.
“Morning, Annie.”
Butterflies creep up her throat and her heart leaps in her chest, even though they do this every morning. If nothing else, this is easy. This makes her feel like maybe it’s okay to just be a kid again, even if it means sitting restlessly through boring lectures. Even if it means she spends more of the class period calculating the distance between their hands and how to close it than she does paying attention to the questions on the board, even if it means he stutters through a question about today’s date when she thinks he should just ask her on one instead.
“You always ask me,” she laughs. “Y’know they go in order, right?”
Careful fingers lace through his hair and his face turns away, flushed.
“I didn’t, actually, thanks” he says with the softest smile. “You're so smart.” She thinks it’s meant to be a tease, but his eyebrows pinch just the slightest bit and the reflection of the lights makes little heart shapes in his eyes, and all she can do is smile back.
She hears the dull tapping of his foot as she turns her attention back to the front and away from his skittish gaze; she’s never been the most persistent, though, and it’s only about five minutes in that she looks back over at him again to find his eyes stuck in place.
They meet hers for little more than a second before darting to the front of the classroom.
She giggles, soft and betraying, before reaching her foot across the aisle.
“Sash,” she whispers, tapping his leg softly. “-did you forget a pencil again?”
He tugs a short strand of hair again and huffs out a laugh. When she reaches down to scoop her bag off the floor and ruffle through its contents, she pretends not to notice the eyes that linger on her back.
Her hand brushes his as he laughs out something close to an apology, and she hopes maybe today he’ll remember to give it back to her - she doesn’t need it, no, she’s learned to keep plenty of extras. But maybe then she’ll have an excuse to grab his hand and tell him he doesn’t need to apologize to her.
She doesn’t say it now, just watches as his face crinkles near his scar and wonders what he would do if she placed a kiss there.
She wonders if he’d want her to.
She doesn’t ask that, either.
Instead, she moves to pinch his wrist and tease him for forgetting things like needing a pencil for class, even though they both know that’s not what he’s really forgetting. To make it known, they share whispers until the teacher turns her gaze to them and asks a question neither knows the answer to. Then they seal their lips shut, but it stays said - ‘You can talk to me’ - like it’s a secret worth keeping.
And it’s almost scary, how she thinks maybe she could get used to the little adrenaline rush that comes with passing notes and hooking her legs around his in the aisle as opposed to the one she gets from wielding a sword.
---
The bell rings louder than it ought to when class is over, signalling their escape.
Almost instantly, she can hear the sound of lockers slamming open and shut, open and shut, as she grabs the strap of her bag and lifts it onto the desk. Elbows rest in front of her, his head carefully balanced on top of his hands, as she arranges her books and folders in careful patterns before placing them in her backpack.
She keeps her pencil pouch out until last, but he seems to have forgotten all about it - she’d bet he didn’t even put it in his bag, just shoved it in his pocket to fiddle with later.
“So, Sash” she starts, and she doesn’t have an excuse to hold his hand so she instead hooks her arm with his after hefting her bag onto her shoulder. “Did ya hear that Rico’s apparently having, like, the biggest New Year’s party? Said his parents would be out of town and I guess that means going entirely all out.”
His eyebrows shoot up on his face and he laughs, big and bold, and she’s eternally grateful to him for holding her down to earth.
“New Year’s? That’s, like, over a month away.”
Anne giggles in return, even though she’s not sure what’s so funny. Maybe the joke has nothing to do with the party at all; maybe it’s just the idea that things could be so easy as long as he’s holding her.
“I know, right? Who even plans that far?”
Maybe people do plan that far. She’s not really sure.
Sasha doesn’t correct her. She doesn't know if it's because he's not sure, either, or if he's just too afraid.
“So why’re you bringin’ it up then, Boonchuy?” His legs bump into hers as they walk, even though he’s looking at her when he says it. “You wanna go with me or something?”
Footsteps echo through the too-thin hallways, elbows and shoulders jab into her side as people weave circles around them. The mix of shouts and whispers makes it near impossible to think. But she doesn’t really need to, does she?
“If you’re up for it,” is what she settles on, just one more voice among the many.
His arm moves from where it’s linked with hers, instead moving to wrap around her shoulders.
He doesn’t give a direct yes or no - it’s a hesitant little thing, with gaps left for worries that she knows he’ll have. About too loud noises or too bright lights, cramped spaces where he won’t be fully able to avoid peoples’ touch.
His fingers snap in rapid succession, and he says something about needing to get his grades up first to get his parents off his back. It’s never something he’s complained about before.
Still, she nods all the same with a few reassuring little words, and then he’s tugging her down by the shoulders and their flustered faces are up close to each other’s, and he’s saying something about a race and suddenly the crowd doesn’t matter at all as they dart to the cafeteria as fast as they can; he stays in the lead, but she pushes harder if only to catch another glimpse of his pink-flushed face.
---
It becomes habit, then, along with everything else - because their life now isn’t natural , per se, but they’ve gotten a hell of a lot better at pretending it is.
There are little things that they simply know , even if it's never been discussed.
He visits her tennis tournaments and, although she insists it isn’t necessary, her practices as well. There isn’t much to do for him there, aside from running alongside her around the track or providing water in-between matches, and so he says that she owes him. She, in turn, is a near-permanent mark on the bleachers during football seasons when he thinks the cheer team needs just one more practice. The sense of timing doesn’t come naturally to her, the way it does in battle, but she keeps watch just in case he needs a break or decides to flash her a show-stopping grin.
They’re simply an ingrained part of them, as are their video-call movie nights or intertwined hands or rose-red cheeks.
And this, too, becomes another sugar sweet routine; their math class haven is extended after school on Wednesdays and Fridays in the library. Sasha brings his book and a million complaints about whichever parent he’s stuck with for the week, and Anne provides extra pencils and a shoulder to lean on so he doesn’t forget, and they don’t really study but she’s not sure how else she could get away with calling it a date.
Sunlight filters in through the library windows, and the light doesn’t quite make a halo in his blonde hair unless she blurs her vision, but her heart skips in her chest all the same. His hand tap-tap-taps anxious little rhythms along the spine of his unopened math book.
She’s tempted to take it in hers.
She doesn’t.
Her shoulder presses into his as she leans her head against him, complaining about a sore back and how she should just let him carry all her books for her instead.
“You’re insufferable, y’know that?” he laughs.
Brown curls cover her vision as she pushes further into the crook of his neck. It’d be easy to leave a few kisses there, she thinks, and play it off as another joke about how ticklish he is.
“You would fail all your classes without me,” she grins. “Besides-”
She ignores the burning heat in her face as it draws nearer to his. Her eyebrow raises in mock-confidence. The tips of her fingers are burning into his arm and all she can think is how she’s seen this all before, in stupid rom-coms and novels, and isn’t this everything they’ve been fighting for?
“-what’s the point of strength if you don’t put it to use?”
He shoves her face away, though never far. They’re a mere few inches apart when he scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, yeah, not like I was in like, a bajillion sword fights that I used it for. Not like we fought the moon.”
She shoves his shoulder in retaliation, even if all she wants is to pull him closer.
“Please,” she starts, allowing her confidence to take over. “-you barely helped for two minutes before you needed a break. And, if I recall correctly, I won all our sword fights.”
He scoffs again, and her heart races when he leans the slightest bit forward.
“That’s only ‘cause you don’t play fair.”
“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, and it’s easy to trail off looking into his eyes.
They’re so close now, forever in each other’s orbit, forever growing closer - she wonders when they’ll finally collide. She’s out of her seat now, practically in his lap, her hand moved up to push him one last time, for emphasis. He catches it, instead, in his own. Her fingers slide easily between Sasha's.
“All's fair in love and war,” she says, little more than a whisper.
“We’re not in a war anymore, commander.”
The reminder falls oh-so-close to her lips, and she shakes her head.
“No,” she smiles. “I guess not,” but she thinks her point still stands.
Calloused fingers trace little shapes into her knuckles, and she wonders if he also thinks about the kisses pressed into them in harder times. She wonders, in that moment, if he’s like her- if he’s holding on because there’s something in her expression that makes him feel like he’s floating.
Her fingers squeeze tight and she gives the biggest grin she can, because they’re tethered together anyways.
Their paperwork is long forgotten, all care thrown to the wind.
She leans in.
But the library is closing soon, so he picks up his books faster than he ever has after class and is out the door in seconds, and it all comes crashing down.