1 Work by dogdigginguptheground
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Squinting, he noticed those stupid lovebeads that Damon always wore were there. Of course they were—he’d worn them from the day his mother made them to the day they broke onstage, a performance shortly after Graham had—well, left. He supposed. This photo was from when Graham still wore them every day. He glanced to where he now kept them, in a dish on his dresser. Maybe the daily exposure to the beads made the memory less sore.
The rain outside started coming down harder, tapping insistently on the flat window like it wanted in. Graham picked his way across the room to lie prostrate on his bed, steps careful as if he was nervous to let the rain know he was home, and just ignoring it knocking.