Chapter Text
something is wrong. that’s what you think when you wake up with a start. something feels wrong. is damien gone? no, he’s…
when you reach out to take ahold of his shirt or hair or hand or arm, you meet nothing but sheets and blanket. you lift your head.
“damien?” you ask, and your voice is quiet. “baby?”
you roll over and check your phone.
3:17 AM
where… why isn’t damien in bed at this hour?
you sit up, and ignore the thoughts that you must have done something wrong. nothing happened, he’s not mad. right?
you swallow against the lump in your throat.
when you sit up, you’re in nothing but a pair of damien’s silky sleep shorts, but it’s fine. you just want to know where your boyfriend is.
at three in the morning.
you make a beeline for the kitchen, and you freeze as a chill rushes up your spine. all the lights are off.
…
all the lights are off oh no.
you always have damien with you, and you try to appreciate the dark and everything, but you’re alone right now.
again, you swallow the lump in your throat, it’s harder this time.
time to check the library.
your walk is careful and paranoid, but you eventually get there, pushing open the door haphazardly. it’s empty.
but there’s a book on the floor.
against your better judgement, you walk into the moonlit room and grab it. it’s a bible.
oh.
it’s flipped over to something. some verse. you almost don’t want to close it, but you do and put it back on the shelf. a shiver runs down your back.
the… garden?
you make your way downstairs, and you’re getting upset. you’re tired and he’s probably tired too and you just want to go back to bed but you can’t sleep without knowing you… you didn’t do something wrong and damien is okay.
you push open the door to the patio, and your heart is already sinking by the time you step out. it’s useless. he’s not there, either. still.
you step out and slide the door shut, and you tug at the sleeves of your sweater as you walk along the smooth path that directs the garden, and you sit down in front of a patch of orange lilies.
orange lilies mean something bad, you think. anger?
you take a breath, and then run your fingers over the petals of one. your hands look a lot different than damien’s holding flowers. Yours are short and rather stubby, and your nails are worn from being chewed. damien’s fingers are long and thin and look delicate holding blossoms. His nails are always perfectly trimmed and shaped, usually coffin-shaped or occasionally the sharp ones that you don’t know the name for. and usually black. black or purple. recently they’re purple.
you don’t expect yourself to tear up, but you do, cursing yourself and rubbing your eyes. your breath hitches.
no. you’re not going to start sobbing. randomly in the middle of the night. in damien’s garden.
you run your hands over your face and take several deep breaths. there's a layer of panic hiding right under your thoughts, and it’s stupid and doesn’t make sense but your anxiety still feeds you bad ideas.
maybe it’s time to get out of the garden.
you stand up again and dust yourself off, and trail back to the house, but hesitate to go inside.
“damien?"
…
no answer. you head inside.
at this point you feel even more exhausted, but you head to lucien’s room. it feels like a hike and your feet are dragging. you peek open the door, and of course, the teenager is asleep, phone charger tangled up in his bed, headphones wrapped around his neck. you can just barely hear music still coming from them.
after a moment you head in and decide to fix that. you’re slow so he doesn’t wake as you untangle the headphone wire, unplug them, and set his phone on the table nearby. after that you roll up the headphone cable and set it on the table as well.
lucien didn’t even twitch. he’s probably exhausted.
like his father.
you close the door near-silently and then head back to damien’s room. still no dark-haired angel. just some furniture and you.
you sit on the edge of your bed and check your phone.
3:29 PM.
you send him a text asking where he is, and then jump as you hear his phone buzz on the other side of the bed. damnit.
your head hits the pillow and you curl up, and your breath keeps hitching, tight in your throat. no. you will not let yourself cry.
…
you fall asleep with a wet pillow.
when you’re awoken, it’s to a warm hand on your cheek, and a gentle, cooing voice. damien’s. you smell lavender.
your eyes open.
you’re greeted with a sight of a bit too much light, but that’s fine with you, because it comes along with damien’s smiling face. he’s dressed in an oversized t-shirt emblazoned with the 1974 in a cool font on the front and plain black shorts. his hair is up in a bun and his glasses are nearly slipping off his face.
you feel exhausted. like. extra exhausted.
oh.
“damien!” the word is sorta slurred and it’s embarrassing but you sit up and pull him down, and he lets out a yelp of surprise as you hug him.
“oof— oh, uh, yes?” he gets no choice as your arms wrap around him and squeeze. his hands settle, one on your head and the other on your hip. you bury your face into his chest, and then pull back. “you’re not wearing a binder?” is the first thing you blurt out. he laughs. “no. i’m not. is that okay?”
you feel guilty. “oh— oh, no no it’s fine. i dunno. you’re always wearing one. it’s weird to feel cushion.” he lets out an almost-giggle and it’s cute. “not a lot there anyway.”
wait. you’re upset. right. stupid cute damien.
“but— but i woke up at three in the morning and you weren’t here!” you sit up better.
oh. guilt blooms on his face, and he almost looks like he’s going to cry.
“oh— oh no, dear, i’m sorry.” you blink. “i… oh, i was hoping you wouldn’t notice, this is… embarrassing.”
“what were you doing at three in the morning?”
he bites his lip.
“i was… out.” damien that does not make me feel better.
“out?”
he breaks. “i was at the store.” he swallows. “um. groceries.”
“damien.” you cup your hands around his face. “sweetie. why?”
he’s extremely flustered. his eyes dart down and his hands cup around yours. “i-i…i wanted to do something nice.” his voice his soft. “it was just something that happened into my mind.”
oh, god, he’s too cute.
you laugh lightly and press your forehead against his. he half-smiles. it’s cute.
“you know we could have gone today, right? and not at three-thirty?”
he whines. “well, you’re not making me feel any better about my decision.”
“i know. i love you, damien.”
“i love you too. breakfast is in the kitchen.” he finally looks at you again. “i was going to wake lucien after you.”
you would just ask to lie down with him for awhile, but he cooked. damn you, perfect boyfriend.
“okay,” you sigh dramatically. “go get your troubled teen son and i’ll get dressed.”
he scoffs.
“am i dressed? you—”
“damien, i need a shirt.”
“oh.” it seems like he was not fully aware of your lack of a shirt. he’s flustered again. “okay.”
you giggle as he leaves in a flurry and opt for a pink t-shirt. is that damien’s? you can't be sure. your clothes have sort of just been jumbled together. you’d think his closet would be more organized. it’s not.
you head down after you’re at least semi-dressed and are greeted with the smell of grease. which is surprising. damien is no health nut, but he’s definitely healthy. you almost want to say you smell bacon, but no, that wouldn’t be right.
(you’re right, there’s no bacon. that's okay, though.)
damien catches you just as you pull up a chair from the table and he smiles wide, eyes glittering. it’s… really cute. you smile back.
“what’s cookin’, daddy?” you ask mockingly, and he lightly sticks out his tongue, cheeks turning pink. “what we have every morning,” he says, voice light, “leaves.”
“brilliant,” you respond. “and leaf juice?”
he holds back a laugh. “yes, leaf juice, if you’d like some.”
he motions to a kettle on the stovetop, sitting on a light burner, as he goes to retrieve two— no, three mugs. “lucien on his way?”
damien grins a bit. “ah, yes. he…” he stifles a laugh. “when i went to wake him, he ah… he fell out of bed. perhaps we should expect more complaining than usual this morning.”
“thanks for the warning.” your response is dry. he pours everything by himself and picks out the tea, steeps them, removes the bags after you chatter for a few minutes, and brings them over, then adds cream and sugar to the table.
“would you like to look over everything, or should i make you a plate?”
“damien, i can get my own food.”
he frowns at you disapprovingly. you hold your hands up in an “okay, okay” gesture. “you can just make me a plate if you want. i always like everything you make or buy, so i don’t think today’s gonna be much different.”
he turns away to hide his embarrassment. uh-huh. that’s right.
while he’s assembling your plate, lucien makes his way down, frown in place along with a messy, edgy outfit to match the aesthetic. “morning,” he says, or more like mutters, but damien still chirps back a “good morning!” to him as lucien takes a seat, placing his head on the table. you hold back laughter.
“i… heard you fell out of bed this morning.”
“dad is an ass,” he mutters.
“excuse me?”
“i said dad is a peach,” he says louder, and damien raises an eyebrow, frowning. you grin, despite the fact that you shouldn’t be. damien melts up and after he huffs a bit, goes back to his activity of perfectly putting together a plate.
you pat lucien on the back. “it’s all good. don’t worry, your face isn’t damaged or anything.”
damien comes to you with a fully assembled plate. speaking of peaches, there’s one with slits cut into it and spread out, as well as eggs and hashbrowns and some blueberries. you have to stand up to give him a quick kiss. “thank you,” you say, flustered. “you’re too good for me.”
“i-i only made breakfast.” his hand rests on your waist. “it was no trouble.”
“i know.” you kiss his cheek again. it’s warm from his blush. “but you are.”
he smiles a bit, and kisses your own cheek. “thank you.”
lucien groans.
“can i have breakfast now?”