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Damon never thought he’d be the one saying it first but he did; on one of the many rainy days of 2005. The door slammed shut behind him and something in him must have snapped. There is a spike of sudden bravado and he turns around to face the other man.
“Liam?”
The younger man looks back at him with tired eyes. His new hairstyle is downright atrocious even for a face like his. “What?”
Damon can hear the heavy grind of gravel in his voice; years of smoking had finally caught up with him. He had stopped telling him to cut down the fag, jesus because Liam is Liam and in the end Damon has his own life to worry about. But he notices, everyone notices, even Liam himself. That’s part of the reason why lately he gets angry a lot; at his voice for failing, at his brother for losing faith, at the world for letting it happened. When Damon touches him he can feel it thrumming beneath his skin, hissing and twisting for a way out.
It will, someday.
They are in one of Liam’s many apartments. It’s empty at the moment but Damon can easily tell that it’s well-lived. Kid’s toys scatter messily on the floor. Fuzzy, child-sized slippers arranged neatly behind the door. Family pictures are hanging on the hallway; of Lennon, of his younger brother, of Nicole. Damon has Missy’s picture in his wallet and the smell of her strawberry shampoo on his t-shirt from where she had been snuggling all morning. He takes a deep breath and fires his shot.
“It doesn’t feel like we’re going anywhere good.”
Liam doesn’t even bat an eye; his face a trained mask of indifference. Somewhere along the years, Damon had suddenly found it harder and harder to read him. But Liam’s a smart lad; he gets what Damon was saying. At least Damon knows that much.
“Well,” Liam clears his throat after a long stretch of silence. He steps aside, clearing the way back to his front door. His tone is calm and the only thing changing on his face is the raise of his eyebrows. “The door’s not locked if you want out.”
The momentary determination vanishes. Damon glances at the wooden door, the weight of it, and he can’t bring himself to move. The door is unlocked but it doesn’t feel that way for him. It’s locked since the day Liam told him—after months and months of battling himself—that he loves Damon back after all. It’ll take far more than Liam showing him the way out; more than Liam dragging him kicking and screaming by the hair before slamming the door shut on his face.
Liam laughs when it becomes clear that Damon doesn’t go anywhere. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
It comes crashing down. The sight of the door—of leaving—makes his chest tightens with panic. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Damon says quickly. He’s lying, of course, everyone can tell. Liam scoffs, turning away, and dread sinks into the pit of Damon’s stomach. He steps closer to Liam, face burns with shame when he leans down for a kiss. Begging for it. “Liam, please.”
The pictures on the wall stare at him, burning the skin off his back and the scent of strawberry threatens to suffocate him. But Liam eventually kisses him back and Damon almost forget about them. Almost.
“Fucking cunt.” Liam mutters under his breath when they pull away.
It has somehow become a term of endearment for him. Damon feels himself sag with relief, at least until Liam slams him down onto his bed. He’s rougher than usual and that’s the only way Damon knows of his anger. Liam’s skin flaming hot beneath his fingers, resentment spilling from him into Damon and suddenly Damon is angry too. He grapples with him for a moment, at that point and that point only he feels like he finally can understand Liam again. Then he relents, as he always do, letting Liam shoves him into his hands and knees.
It’s not the worst sex he’s ever had, but Damon can tell that Liam doesn’t try to make it good for him. He still comes from the pumping of his hand and Liam’s familiar groans in his ear, feeling slightly used. He moves to press a kiss on the other man’s face but Liam pulls away.
Neither of them talk after that so Damon decides to. His anger fades quickly and now he just feels drained. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Liam.”
“You meant that.”
A flashback. Liam, almost a decade younger. Even back then he wasn’t his; never been and would never be but it didn’t matter because he just told Damon that he loves him. Damon believed it but he kept asking for reassurance so he could hear it again, so he could see the way Liam flushed beneath his gaze. I meant it. Swear on me life.
“I didn’t mean it.” Damon hides his face beneath the crook of his elbow so Liam doesn’t have to see him tearing up.
“I won’t stop you.” There is a ruckus when Liam stands up, starts gathering his clothes. His voice is cold. “But I’m not the one who leaves. I kept the promise. Remember that.”
Damon doesn’t say anything. He feels like throwing up.
“Oi.” The bed dipped next to him. Liam smells like fucking sandalwood. That’s not how he’s supposed to smell like. “Look at me. You okay?”
Liam has a particular kind of maturity in his eyes. Still reckless, still a cunt, still howling insults to everyone who looks at him wrong but he had grown past the cocky, wide-eyed brat Damon fell in love with. Damon forces himself to meet his eyes.
“Yeah.” He swallows. “I love you.”
It doesn’t matter than Liam is no longer the same person he used to be. None of them are. Damon loves him just the same and that’s where everything goes wrong.
“I know.”
“Won’t you say it back?”
“I love you too.” His voice falls flat. Damon had heard that tone somewhere. Justine.
Liam leans down to kiss him. There was a time where his kisses were so demanding and Damon was more than happy to give him what he wanted. This time it’s barely a kiss; just a quick peck on the lips. Damon kisses back, at least tries to with the short moment he was given but Liam pulled away too fast and he thought this is it.
That’s not quite the end but it’s a start.
Few months later everything falls apart.
***
Damon gets over it.
He does so because that’s the only thing left to do. After Justine, there was Suzi to help him picking up the pieces, to distract him from the heartbreak—bless her. After Liam, there is no one. Damon waits it out until the pain lessens into something he can handle and stuff into an imaginary box before carrying on with his life. He watches from afar as Oasis crashes and burns for good and tries to mend things with Graham. He gets his old band back together, crawling its way back into his life and suddenly he’s back in the studio, messing around with old friends that he thought are long gone. Missy introduces her first boyfriend to him, sneakily growing up faster than Damon could realize the etched of age on his face.
At times he still catches his mind wanders; bits of memories or just fragments of imaginations but enough to make his chest tightens with something he doesn’t want to name. From an affair with someone as explosive as Liam—who went from punching him on the face to crying his eyes out on his shoulder—it died way too peacefully that it doesn’t feel like it had died at all. A part of him misses Liam; that much Damon can admit; either him or just the person he used to be. At the worst periods of his life he dreams about hoarse laughs and blue eyes framed by thick lashes. Later, in the fleeting moment between sleep and wakefulness, when his consciousness hasn’t told him yet that his dream isn’t real, Damon feels content.
One day he wakes up to a chat from Noel. Check this out.
There is a blurry picture etched beneath his text. Damon clicks on it and waits patiently for it to be downloaded, squinting through the grogginess of sleep. It’s a screenshot from twitter with a name written so clearly at the top part of the picture. Damon glances at it and feels utterly pathetic at the way his face heats up and heart pumps into a race.
That gobshite out of blur might have turned noel Gallagher into a massive girl but believe you me nxt time i see him there's gonna be war.
Oh, fuck.
***
‘The war’ comes in an unmemorable party in London which Damon doesn’t even plan to attend in the first place. He stands next to Jamie, cracking polite jokes at people he doesn’t know and wondering if it’s polite to make an excuse to go home fifteen minutes after he arrived. At some point, his eyes wander and suddenly he realizes who’s standing across him on the other side of the room.
Their eyes meet before Damon can pretend to look elsewhere and there is no way the two of them would mistake the other as someone else. He freezes, suddenly realizing how much Liam still owns part of his arse from the way his stomach twists and his throat constricts; the way they usually do when he thinks about Liam for too long. He stays still, not sure what to do but watching the other man wearily. It’d be a good thing if Liam looks away first and go back to his girlfriend, pretending that he never noticed Damon right in front of his eyes so Damon can do the same. But that’s not what he wants. He wants Liam to acknowledge him and Damon knows he will.
His wish—or nightmare, depends on how you look at it—comes true when Liam raises his eyebrows, tilting his head vaguely towards a door on the opposite side from the one they came in from. He doesn’t wait for Damon to react and leans down to whisper something to his girlfriend—some bullshit about needing some air maybe—and makes his way out of the crowds. No need to glance back to see if Damon is following him; Liam knows he would. That’s the most frustrating part of this whole issue.
“Be back in a five,” Damon says to Jamie and doesn’t wait for his answer either.
He pushes his way through the crowd, trying to spot the familiar figure. It isn’t that hard; Liam is Liam with all his presence and gait and stupid fucking swag no matter in his twenties or his forties. Damon spots him walking into a darkened corridor and quickly follows, feeling somehow like he’s walking into a lion den.
He walks past an unnamed storage room, its door has been left ajar and he hears Liam calls out to him from the inside. “Oi.”
Damon stops. Turns around. Slips through the narrow crack and finds himself in a surprisingly well-light room. Liam is leaning against a giant box of equipment, his burgundy suit looks expensive and uncharacteristic of him. If Damon were to guess before coming here whether or not Liam would actually dress up or just wear one of his favorite parkas, he would choose the latter. Maybe he doesn’t know Liam that well anymore. A decade is a long time.
“Hey.” He says almost breathlessly, closing the door behind him. Should he lock it? They’re not doing anything…wrong but he always did back then, with Liam pushing him against the door and his mouth latched on his neck. So Damon does, turning the key into place and cringing internally at how loud it sounds. “So—”
“Light.” Liam cuts him off, pulling something out his back pocket. He doesn’t look at Damon.
“What?”
“You have a light, mate?”
“I—yeah.” Damon’s hand automatically goes to his breast pocket, where he can feel the weight and solidity of his lighter. “Do you—”
“Please.” The corner of Liam’s mouth curls into an almost smirk. He’s being polite but Damon can’t shake off the feeling that Liam is mocking him; that all his hospitality would just lead to a bomb exploding on Damon’s face. Yet he finds himself crossing the room obediently, lighter gripped tight in his hand. His palm is a little sweaty as if he were nervous. Maybe Damon is nervous. He hasn’t been for years.
Liam leans closer to the fire, holding the cigarette with his lips but let Damon holds the lighter for him. He looks thinner, yet still retaining the youthful, almost childish look behind the little wrinkles here and there. His hair is cropped short in a way that makes him look almost similar to Noel; and if Damon isn’t painfully familiar with every inch of his face he would say that they both do look alike, after all.
Thinking about Noel makes his throat dry up with guilt. He shouldn’t have, but Damon feels guilty nevertheless. He barely has enough time to twist the guilt off his face when suddenly Liam leans back, blowing smoke to Damon’s face.
Alright, he’s mocking him.
“Congratulations,” Damon offers, trying to appear casual but he feels painfully out of his depth. “On the album.”
“Thanks, mate.” Liam answers and it doesn’t seem real that they both are talking to each other again. He looks at Damon straight in the eyes. “Wish I could say the same.”
Damon recoils internally. “Alright. You’re pissed at me.”
Liam’s eyes glint, eyebrows raised. “Why would I?”
“Because you think I’m taking your brother’s side.”
The eyebrows go higher. They are not as prominent as they used to be in Liam’s youth but they are still a riveting part of his face. Liam takes his cigarette off his lips and knocks the ashes down to Damon’s shoes. Damon lets him.
“No.” He says but he doesn’t look at him and it’s clear even to a blind bat that Liam is bullshitting.
“Come on, it was just a joke.” Damon tries because deep down he just can’t bring himself to not care about what Liam thinks of him. “Just…poking fun at the old days. You know people fucking love it.”
“A joke.” Liam’s eyes harden. It’s only now that Damon realizes that he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have the moment he involved himself in the brothers’ feud. “Go on then. Show me where it’s fucking funny.”
“Christ, Liam.” They are too old to argue in a storage room at a stranger’s party. Yet Damon doesn’t walk away. Doesn’t want to. “Don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
Liam leans back against the box, widening the height difference between them, and yet Damon is the one who feels vulnerable. “I do what the fuck I want, you fucking cunt.”
“Alright. Fine. But it doesn’t mean—” Damon closes his eyes. “—it doesn’t mean I’m taking his side.”
Liam’s expression doesn’t change but Damon feels his tone softening a bit. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah.” His resolve crumbles at the smallest sign of affection. Damon pushes his luck, heart pounding. “I’ve been thinking and uh, maybe I still, you know, love you.”
He doesn’t know what he expects Liam to do but certainly not him laughing on his face. “Now that’s fucking funny.”
That fucking stings. Damon wonders if getting a fist on the face would be a better answer than the one he just got. However, often enough Liam is all bark; acting with his emotions instead of his brain so Damon pushes his luck a little further. It’s pure stupidity and desperation at this point but it’s hard to bring himself to care. “Can I kiss you?”
It wipes the laughter straight off Liam’s face. Damon watches his lips part and braces himself for more insults but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s taken aback, or considering whether or not he should let Damon kiss him. Damon dares himself to move, closing the gap between them by an agonizing inch and Liam snaps into action, shoving him away until he stumbles backward.
“You touch me.” He stands up to his full height, violence thrumming beneath his skin. “And I’ll break your fucking legs.”
Damon steps back quickly, face burns. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
They stare at each other. Damon feels shaky, not sure what to do, and if he should do it at all. Liam’s anger used to be something he can handle but now he steps away, standing wearily with enough space between them. There is still a little voice in his head telling him to step closer as if this Liam would still melt with just gentle voice and careful touches.
“Oh, fuck off with your fucking sorry, arsehole.” Liam steps around him. He, too, seems to carefully maintain a certain distance between them. “Go suck my brother’s dick.”
Damon doesn’t move until Liam slams the door shut on his way out, until his steps are echoing away on the corridor outside. Then he slumps onto himself, shoulders heavy with shame and guilt and fear and chest tight with boiling emotions that make him feel thirty years younger. They should have stayed away from each other the way they did for the past decade, exchanging only socially-demanded greetings and friendly insults. Nothing more.
But here is the thing; knowing himself, it would be just be a matter of time before he finds a way to gravitate towards the other man. Damon can already feel the itch dancing beneath his skin; patient, persistent. He takes a deep breath, taking in the faint smell of Liam’s cigarette and wonders if it’s still the same kind he used to nick all the time.
He calls Graham later, smoking alone in his hotel room after hours of lying awake on his bed. Graham is picked because he had been the one telling him to talk to Liam again, not at all because he has the misfortune to be the one person Damon ran to for a wound licking session.
“I fucked up.”
Graham sounds barely awake. Bless his soul. “—what?”
“I talked to him and I fucked up.”
There is a long silence on the other side before Graham audibly sighs. “Alright. Tell me how bad you fucked it up.”
***
Noel sits across him in Damon’s home studio and they spent a whole afternoon mindlessly plucking random strings on their guitar until gradually, they create a rhythm pleasant enough to stand on. It’s a simple, calming melody—the ones Noel likes to play nowadays—and they go over the chords over and over again until Damon can turn his brain off and let his fingers do the job instead. He watches Noel’s move in front of him, fluid from years and years of dancing on the same instrument. He can’t help it that his brain goes back to a certain man and Damon hears his own voice before he realizes that his mouth is moving.
“Saw your brother last week.”
Noel’s face doesn’t change, still focusing on his guitar but Damon feels the sudden sharpness of the plucking of his strings; turning the rhythm somehow sinister. “Yeah? Still a knobhead, I take it?”
Damon doesn’t look at him. “We didn’t talk much.”
“But you both talked?”
“A bit.” He can feel Noel’s eyes on his face.
“About what?”
Damon doesn’t even think twice before constructing a wall of lies. “Asked him how he’s doing. His kids. His girlfriend. Stuff like that.”
Silence stretches between them. Noel doesn’t say anything but Damon feels like he’s expected to continue which is confusing in itself. Nothing he could say about Liam would make Noel happy and yet he wants Damon to talk about him. “He said he’s doing great.”
“Of course he is.” Noel scoffs and Damon’s fingers start losing their flow. “The moron would be too thick to see a train weight comes after his arse.”
It’s been years but Damon still wonders if Noel knows. Perhaps he’s unaware because Damon feels like a topic like that would come up eventually, on the nights they got drunk together and poured their heart out. Something like hey, you used to fancy my brother, didn’t you? but Noel hasn’t brought that up yet. Maybe he has no idea. Or doesn’t want to know. Or doesn’t care.
He tries to slip back into the melody but the mood has changed. Noel stops playing and sighs, staring at nothing in particular. “He used to go on and on about you.”
Damon keeps his face neutral but he feels embarrassingly giddy like a teenager. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Doing my fucking head in. Albarn this, Albarn that. Until we did a record in Abbey studio and it was all Lennon this, Lennon that. Dumb prick.”
“He named his son Lennon,” Damon said. He remembers.
Noel laughs. “Of course he fucking did.”
Damon almost thinks that there is a fondness in Noel’s eyes but a shrill ding jolts the two of them and it’s gone. Noel grabs his phone where it had been lying forgotten on an empty chair, checking a message and suddenly it hits Damon that they are no longer in the nineties. Things changed. Maybe Noel does hate his own brother now, just the way Liam apparently hates Damon.
After dinner Damon sits down and whips out his phone, typing a dozen messages before deleting them again. He’s not drunk but maybe he should be, loosen up his tongue—well, thumb—a bit. At last, he comes up with a standard text that hopefully doesn’t seem desperate enough: can we talk?
He sends it before he can think any further and feels horror washes over him instantly. What the fuck did he just do, who the fuck told him that would be a good idea—ding. Oh.
woh is thi?s
That was quick. Damon stares at the typo-laden message and briskly types an answer. Damon.
tfalk tdhen cumt
He’s fucking drunk, isn’t he? Lucky for him Damon has lots of experiences in deciphering drunk texts. He hesitates for a moment and takes yet another leap of faith. Directly?
Silence. Damon stares at his phone, heart thumping against his chest. The seconds passed by and soon it becomes painfully obvious that it takes Liam longer to respond to this one message compared to the others. Damon waits for another ten minutes before putting his phone down, internally cursing himself. He can’t decide whether he’s relieved or disappointed at the lack of response but it seems to be the latter. He goes to sleep and lay awake on his bed for hours again, listening to Suzi’s measured breathing next to him and suddenly feeling sick in the stomach.
He checks his phone in the morning—late morning, as it’s nearing afternoon already—and realizes that Liam had replied to him at six. Of course, he’s up at six in the morning despite drinking himself stupid the night before.
the missus gone tsih weekend
Liam is still fucking insane, isn’t he? Damon stares at the message and he must have done it for too long because Suzi’s concerned voice snaps him out of it from across the room.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Damon closes the messaging app quickly and here it is again; the sickening shame and excitement in the pit of his stomach that shouldn’t be there at all because he is too fucking old for this. “Just planning to see a friend.”
***
He thinks Liam must have purposely made him wait for ages on his porch, stretching his torture until the last second as if Damon hadn’t felt sick with nerves all the way here. It’s pouring and he’s almost drenched just from the short walk to the porch. Suzi had told him earlier—it’s going to rain later—and Damon hadn’t been able to look at her in the eyes. Liam is a friend; one who couldn’t keep his hands off Damon back in the day. He genuinely wants to talk to Liam; not shag him. Whether or not he’ll relent if Liam asks him would be another matter.
The sound of rushed of movement comes from the other side of the door. Damon isn’t sure what he’s expecting but it’s not Liam in a crumpled t-shirt and cargo shorts, looking like he was just being woken up from a nap. They stare at each other and Damon has a sinking feeling of fuck he doesn’t remember the fucking texts, does he?
But then Liam tilts his head. “Albarn.”
Don’t fucking call me that, he’s about to say but Liam steps back, opening the door wider for him. Damon swallows his protest back and steps inside, feeling almost naked from the way Liam’s eyes gazing hard at him. He stumbles over something, catching the streak of black and white fur speeding past his legs from the corner of his eyes. An angry yowl cut through the air and Damon genuinely feels bad for the cat but at least Liam takes his eyes off him for a while.
“Fuck, sorry.” He manages, grabbing the door frame for balance. “I didn’t—”
“Yeah, she does that a lot.” Liam bends down, makes a grab for the ball of fur but it dashes past his hands and he just gives up. “She’s a cunt.”
Liam closes the door behind him, muffling the comforting sound of rain. He turns to face him and suddenly Damon can’t remember what he came here for. Maybe he doesn’t even have a reason other than to see Liam again and somehow convince the younger man not to hate him. Maybe he just misses him. Him, and not just the memory.
Liam nods to the vague direction of his upper body. “Take those off.”
Damon’s blood turns into ice. “What?”
“The jacket. The hat.” Liam explains, then he must have caught on because a smile cracks the stern line of his jaw and he chuckles. It’s a sincere one; eyes crinkling and all. Damon hasn’t heard it personally in years. “You’re soaking wet, you twat.”
“Fuck off.” Damon bites back, cringing internally but at least he can feel the tension melt between them. He reaches up to unzip his jacket and actually finds it safe enough to throw a banter. “You did that on purpose.”
Yeah, that was bad. But Liam laughs so it couldn’t be that bad. He takes Damon’s jacket and hat from his hand and goes to hang it. It would be a surreal sight back then as he used to just throw his jacket to any nearest flat surface and left Damon to tidy up after him.
“You going all domestic, mate?” He asks carefully, but still with enough sarcasm so it can pass as a joke.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Low blow. He shouldn’t have told Liam about his fights with Justine because of course, he’s going to throw it back to his face. Liam appears back in front of him, the challenge in his eyes is something really similar to the one he used to have. The one in his eyes when he shook Damon’s hand for the very first time and told him you’re a cool cunt, mate, but your music is shite.
Damon tries not to, dear god he really does, but he’s feeling bold and there is never a time when his tongue feels as light as it does now. “Maybe I’d like that.”
Liam leans against the wall across Damon. There is not much space between them. He looks relaxed, accepting, like maybe he’ll let Damon—
“You still want to snog me?”
No, you smug cunt, Damon imagines himself saying that, imagines watching the hint of smirk on Liam’s face vanishes into embarrassment. Yet in reality he can’t stop himself from closing the distance between them, noticing the way Liam doesn’t move even an inch, keeping his posture open and unthreatening. He stills himself, letting seconds tick by through the impossibly narrow space between them. “Are you going to punch me?”
“No,” Liam admits and that’s all the permission Damon needs.
He starts slow, mapping the once familiar lips until Liam grabs his face and kisses him back. It’s almost overwhelming; the desperation and the hunger in it, the way Liam pulling him in so hard that Damon feels crushed and smothered. It mirrors the intensity of his own kiss perhaps, too many emotions crash in his chest and multiply tenfold. Damon pushes harder against him, trying to claim back as much of him as he could. For the first time in a decade—since the last miserable days of their affair—it feels like Liam truly loves him again.
He doesn’t know how much time had passed when Liam bites down on his lower lips, hard, and Damon realizes that the two of them need to breathe after all. He pulls back reluctantly, breathing in the faint smell of Liam’s aftershave. It’s clear that he’s crushing the younger man against the wall but Liam doesn’t seem to mind. He wraps his arms around Damon and pulls him back before burying his face into the crook his neck.
“Fucking hell,” Liam mutters under his breath. Damon can feel his lips moving against his skin, sending shivers all the way to the tip of his fingers. “—should have fucking slug you.”
He wouldn’t mind that. Damon places a careful hand on the back of Liam’s neck, thumb rubbing comforting circles. “I miss you.”
“Shut up.”
“I miss you.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m serious. I—”
“Fuck off.” Damon blinks, eyes slowly burning hot. Liam can’t see him but he wonders if he knows because his tone becomes so, so much gentler. “Me too.”
Liam gives him enough time to compose himself that by the time he finally pulls away there is no trace of tears in Damon’s eyes. He steps back, at last, finally noticing the sting on his lips. His thumb comes away bloody when he touches it gingerly.
Liam only shrugs. “You deserve it.”
Damon thinks of kissing him again, giving him a taste of his own medicine but he doesn’t. “Fair enough.”
Liam grins, slapping his back playfully but as usual, a little too hard. He looks ten years younger, eyes bright like a child despite the apparent wrinkles around them. “Too fucking right, mate.”
***
Accepting the can of beer Liam offers him feels like a bad idea. The house is both well-kept and littered with random things at the same time, eerily different and similar with Liam’s past houses that Damon had frequented. The cat that almost broke his neck jumps on top of the kitchen table and hisses at him.
Damon stares at it. “It hates me.”
“Of course,” Liam says helpfully, popping open his can. “She fucking hates everyone. Except me because I feed her. And Deborah.”
Damon tries to pet her anyway. It flinches and yowls loudly before running off to hide in another room. “What’s her name?”
“Nancy.”
“So there is a Sid?”
“Planned to. Haven’t trust myself enough to take care of more than one cunt, you know?”
“You’ve had two cats at the same time.”
“Yeah. Until one fucking died.” Liam scratches his nose. “Cried myself to sleep that night. Rough times.”
“Oh, man.” Damon fumbles awkwardly. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
Liam gives him a pointed look. “I’ve had rougher times.”
The atmosphere changes. Damon wishes they were sitting down instead of standing around in Liam’s kitchen when this topic comes up. He steps back and leans against the counter, trying to get as comfortable as he possibly could. “Is it because—“
He trails off.
“Well, what I meant is—“Liam shrugs. On a glance he looks unbothered but Damon recognizes the tension on his jaw. “—it was like getting…you know, fucking dumped.”
“Christ, Liam.” Damon pinches the bridge of his nose. He had gone his entire life thinking Liam is the one less affected but it seems now that he had just fooled himself all along. Of course Liam had gone on with his life thinking that Damon had cast him aside. “Look, I’m sorry about—“
“Stop fucking saying you’re sorry. That’s proper pissing me off.”
“No. Hear me out.” His voice comes out harsher than he intended to, enough to make Liam falls silent. Damon takes a deep breath and tries to make himself sound nicer in compensation. “Let me be straight. It ended the way it should be. I’m sorry it hurt you.”
The flash of pain in Liam’s eyes hurts him too. Damon has to look away. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Okay, maybe I should’ve phrased it better—“
“Fuck off, that’s that. Don’t fucking sugarcoat it.”
“It’s not sugarcoating, it’s called being ni—”
Liam slams his can onto the table; the loud clang cutting Damon off. “Oh, fuck off, mate. The fucking the nerve of you. You went licking my brother’s fucking arse then came groveling at my door. Fuck off with that, man. You can’t have everything.”
From Liam’s perspective, it’s a fair point. Damon is willing to take a lot of Liam’s nonsense but he won’t accept this one no matter how bad it makes him feel. “Easy. I’m not shagging your brother.”
“You better fucking not. You just fucking snog me you cunt.”
Damon knows better than to get baited by now. “What the fuck is it that pisses you off? That I quit or because I get on with Noel?”
Liam shuts his mouth and stares at him in silence. That’s how Damon knows he has him cornered. The younger man doesn’t back down though, still with the carefully schooled face and steely defiant eyes. He used to wear his heart on his sleeve back in the day until he realized that some people took advantage of it.
The silence drags until Liam looks down, clucking his tongue. “A bit of both.”
There is more to that. Damon waits until Liam meets his eyes again. “Alright.” He admits reluctantly. “More of the latter maybe. But both.”
Damon expected this. “Liam.” He says carefully, hope blooming in his chest because at last Liam seems reasonable now. “I meant no harm in that, okay? I’m not picking sides. I told you it was all a joke. A shitty one, alright, and maybe I shouldn’t have said it. But I didn’t mean it as some kind of personal attack.”
Liam raises his eyebrows, poison dripping sweetly from his voice. “Noel is nice to you, isn’t he?”
It’s a trap. Damon doesn’t see any other way to get around it so he walks straight into it. “Yeah.”
“Right, let me tell you something.” Liam closes in on him. “The other day he told me mum that he hates my fucking guts. Cut off my Molly because she wants to start talking to me. And the witch wants me to drop fucking dead but good for you that he’s fucking nice because you let him sing on that shite song of your shitty cartoon band.”
Damon opens his mouth only to find out that he has nothing to say. Liam spoke of a Noel he had never met but Noel also spoke of a Liam that doesn’t feel like Liam for him. Liam’s eyes are all fire, hardened over the years. Damon knows it’s not directed at him but he can’t handle it; Liam looking at him like he wants him dead. Like Damon wants him dead.
“Look, I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.” He says at last, tasting defeat in his words. “This is a bad idea. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Leave.” Liam scoffs, turning away to reach for his can of beer; its contents had spilled all over the table. “Go on. That’s all you’re fucking good at.”
His anger flares and for a moment Damon thinks he might punch him. But he had never had enough guts to do so, either out of love or the knowledge than Liam can kick his ass in turn. He can handle aggression—being beaten so many times during high school did that to you—so he thinks it might be the first one.
He put the can down the counter, unopened. The condensation leaves his hands damp but it wouldn’t matter as the rain pours ever heavier outside. It’s way overdue but for once he thinks he has enough in him to walk through the fucking door.
Until Liam calls out to him. “Damon.”
He’s so close to the door. Damon stops. Turns around.
Liam looks defeated. “Just fucking stay.”
***
‘Just fucking stay’ shouldn’t be an excuse for him to kiss Liam again, and shouldn’t be an excuse for him to slip his fingers past the lower hem of Damon’s t-shirt either, rough fingers brushing over Damon’s skin. Shouldn’t be an excuse for Damon to let Liam steer him into his guest bedroom and press him into the mattress, the light turned off but it’s still bright enough outside to see the outlines of his face.
Liam’s voice is tight as he yanks Damon’s jeans down to his knees. Impatient. “Anyone else after me?”
The palm of his hand is too dry. Damon pushes up against it nevertheless, grimacing a bit. “No.”
“No?” Liam stops just as it starts getting good, looking genuinely surprised. “Why?”
Damon kicks his jeans off his leg and grabs Liam’s wrist, trying to get him to continue. “Couldn’t be arsed. You?”
Liam’s hand starts moving again. He’s quiet for a while before leaning down until Damon can feel the brush of his slight stubble against his skin. “Occasionally.”
Of course he did. Damon lets the thought sinks in before pushing himself up to claim the other’s lips. “Yeah?” He teases. “Anyone half as good as me?”
Liam clicks his tongue at that, thumb swiping the head of Damon’s cock a little too precise to be an accident. A moan slips past his lips into the thick air between them and the glint in Liam’s eyes grows darker. He presses Damon further into the bed, grip tightening. “Still a smug bastard, aren’t you.”
“—take it that there is none.” Damon pants. He wraps his legs around Liam’s waist, the movement so familiar that it shocks him for a split second. “C’mon. Less talking, brat.”
It hurts like hell when Liam pushes in, as slow and careful as he is. Damon scrunches his eyes shut and grinds his teeth together to muffle the sound simmering in his throat. A whimper escapes him still, loud enough for Liam to catch. Damon feels him fall completely still, murmuring a train of apologies into his ear. A flash of Liam again in front of his tightly shut eyes, two decades ago, hey, you’re going to tell me if I’m hurting you, yeah?
“Am I—“
“No.” Damon sinks his nails into the back of Liam’s neck. “Go on.”
It gets better when Damon starts to relax, then better and better in a way it shouldn’t be. Liam feels the same and different at the same time; the unfamiliarity of his present-self intertwines with Damon’s distant memory of him. But it barely matters; he’s still Liam and his skin is still burning hot and if they were to stay still long enough Damon would feel the same anger in him—now tamed and subdued—but still there. Ready to burn at the slightest gush of wind.
“Damon. “ Liam gasps and the way his name sounds in his voice—wrecked with pleasure—put all his thoughts into a standstill. Damon doesn’t think he can speak nor last longer if Liam keeps saying his name like that so he pulls the younger man down and presses his lips against his, against the sharp line of his jaw, against the soft skin below his ear where Damon is tempted to sink his teeth and mark him; fucking mine. But he doesn’t, just carefully close his teeth around the flesh in imitation of marking and Liam shudders above him.
A thought comes to him, one that later he’d blame on pleasure. If he’s allowed to pick, if there is no consequence, maybe he would—he would—
Pleasure explodes from the pit of his being. Damon squeezes his eyes shut; his thought vanishes into the blank canvas of white-hot pleasure, never to be seen again. As it should. The room twists and morphs behind his eyelids until the only thing that feels real is just the sound of Liam gasping and the feeling of his damp skin beneath Damon’s fingers. He comes down hard to Liam quickening his pace and holds him as he comes, crumbling apart like waves crashing on the shore.
“Love you,” Damon whispers into the air, probably too quiet to be heard. Liam collapses next to him; a millimeter gap between their bodies and yet it’s enough for Damon to feel the cold that starts seeping into his bones. He feels lightheaded.
“Yeah.” Liam pants. “Love you too.”
The quiet that follows is only broken by the sound of rain outside. Suddenly Damon realizes that he’s shaking slightly, limbs almost numb and he wonders if Liam feels the same thing. “That was a bit quick, innit.”
Liam whips his head towards him, so predictable that Damon can’t help but chuckle. He can feel tension dissolves from the younger man’s body as soon as he realizes that it was a joke.
“Fuck you.” Liam’s hand flies and smacks Damon on the chest. “Get up and do the damn job then, cunt.”
Damon grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers and holds them still as Liam makes for a half-hearted attempt to get away. He waits until he relaxes before bringing the back of Liam’s hand to his lips.
Liam watches him, half-laughing. “What’s that for?”
Damon has no idea why he does it; just something he first did without thinking and somehow became a habit. “Tradition.”
Liam’s stare burns a hole on the side of his face. He still hasn’t let his hand go but Liam doesn’t pull it away either. “You’re gonna bum my cigs while we’re at it?”
“Sure.”
“They’re on the kitchen table.”
“Fetch them.”
“Prick. Fucking fetch them yourself.”
Liam wrenches his hand away and pushes himself up, staring down at him. Damon doesn’t have time to mourn the loss of contact as Liam reaches out to touch his face gingerly, gently, like he’s afraid Damon would shatter under his fingertip. Damon stares back, staying perfectly still until Liam drags his thumb over his lips. Only then he parts them, letting Liam pushes his finger inside and swipes his tongue around it.
Hunger flashes in Liam’s eyes, sending shivers crawling over Damon’s skin. He has always suspected that Liam has a thing for that—for the lack of better word—but Damon isn’t sure if the younger man himself even realizes it. Soon his finger is replaced by his lips, chapped and warm, unfamiliar from the years they spent turning their back on each other. Now that everything is out of the way already—the anger, the longing, the fucking itch beneath his skin that's been there ever since Liam left him on that storage room alone—Damon lets himself melt into the kiss.
“Sorry about earlier.” He murmurs into it.
Liam pulls away and just drops like a log next to Damon, head resting on his shoulder. “Give it a fucking rest.”
“Alright.” Damon gives up. But something lodges in his throat and he’s needs to talk more about it, to reassure Liam that he meant no harm, meant no betrayal, and that he had thought about him every single day since their meeting at that party. “But it’s just…I feel like—”
“Oi.” Liam reaches to his face blindly and smacks Damon on the mouth instead. Maybe that’s just what he’s aiming at. “Enough.”
Damon tries to argue but Liam presses his finger harder against his lips. He falls quiet, almost hates himself at that point; the way he desperately needs Liam’s reassurance and how he bends so easily to his wants. Liam turns his head and meets Damon’s eyes, bright even in the near darkness of the room.
“Easy.” He says. His voice impossibly stern and gentle at the same time. “We’re good about that, yeah?”
He doesn’t realize how much the guilt had been eating away at him until the unexpected relief floods his veins and Damon feels like crying. His voice shakes slightly. “Yeah.”
“That’s good.” Liam presses his lips against Damon’s shoulder, lips warm against the cooling sweat on his skin. “Now if you’re still up for it, why don’t you be a good boy and do something for me?”
***
Damon wakes up in a stranger’s bed in an empty room, nearly giving himself a heart attack before realizing where he is. Liam is nowhere to be found; the space next to him cold already but he has always been an early bird. Damon lays still for a moment, staring at the same ceiling he stared at last night and thinking about how he can still feel him on his skin. On his hair. On the back of his throat.
He drags himself into the conjoined bathroom, stealing one of the still packaged toothbrushes on the sink and brushes his teeth twice. Then slips beneath the shower and scrubs himself raw yet he doesn’t feel any different after that. Like Liam is standing right behind him mindlessly running the back of his finger on Damon’s back, or standing on his toes so he can put his chin on his shoulder, or passing by and steals a quick bite on the back of his neck before Damon can swat him away.
Maybe he should try to live with it.
He finds Liam sitting by his kitchen table, smoking. Damon leans down to kiss him but he pulls away. “One of my kids here.”
The leftover warmth from his shower evaporates from his skin. “I—what? Do they kno—“
“Jesus fuck, of course no.”
“Oh.” Damon chuckles, still reeling from the shock. “I mean, aren’t they going to…tell her? “
“He won’t.” Liam doesn’t laugh. Damon can see the gear working in his head, implying that he’s trying to formulate words in a way that wouldn’t get him punched on the face. “Look, I should have told you earlier but…she knows.”
Those words effectively knock the air off his lungs. Damon stares at him in disbelief, doesn’t bother to mask the horror he knows etched to his face and the pure panic in his voice. He grabs Liam by the shoulder, yanking him so they are facing each other. “What the fuck, Liam?!”
“Lower your fucking voice.” Liam snaps but he genuinely looks guilty. “And I didn’t tell her, she fucking guessed it. And I thought—I thought why not? We’re fucking done anyway. Until you came here.”
“But—“
“Not to that fucking extent. Just…she just guessed something happened. Back in the days. And I don’t want to fucking lie to her, you know?”
Damon runs a hand through his face. “Jesus fuck.”
“She doesn’t mind anyway.” Liam looks away. “Everyone was fucking everyone, with them—you know—pills and powder and booze and shits. She gets it.”
“Listen to me,” Damon grabs his chin—making them face to face again—and asks slowly. “If shits going down, would she spill?”
Liam frowns, eyes sharpen in what Damon knows as anger but he stares back unflinchingly. “No.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
“No. Do yours?”
Damon lets him go and turns away, leaning against the table. A weight settles in the pit of his stomach. “No.”
“Fucking look at that.” Liam scoffs. “We still play in the same fucking mud fuck.”
“We fucking are.” Damon bites back, heated. “But if I were to fucking come clean to my wife I’ll have the decency to fucking told you first.”
“Oi, I told you she fucking guessed it.”
“When did she guess it?”
“Two years back. Maybe one.”
“You had a whole fucking year to tell me, Liam.”
He holds his gaze, fully expecting him to argue but Liam surprises him by lowering his eyes. “I know.” He sighs. “Sorry about that. I figured you don’t want me around.”
He sounds so young. He shouldn’t be, not after years or smoke and drugs and shredding his vocal cords on stage. Damon can’t stay mad at him for long anyway. He takes a deep breath and wipes the anger off of his face. It’s not really Liam’s fault that Damon lets him get away with so much shit so he just nicks his cigarette from his fingers as a childish form of revenge. “Okay.”
“Really?”
Damon puts it to his lips and blows a heavy cloud of smoke before handing it back to Liam. It’s different from the ones Damon remembers Liam used to smoke. “Really.”
Liam stares at him. Damon has a hunch that he’s about to stand up and kiss him, probably shove him against the kitchen cabinet while he’s at it, judging from the intensity of his eyes. Damon would gladly let him if not for the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen door. He scoots away, measuring the respectable distance between them and braces himself.
“Oi, dad—“A young man enters the kitchen and stopping dead on his track. Damon recognizes him instantly; the oldest, Patsy’s son, the model one. His eyes fall on Damon and they widen comically beneath strikingly thick eyebrows. “—is that—what the fuck?”
Liam doesn’t even flinch. “Language, you little shit.”
There is a storm on confusion, mostly on Lennon’s part, but eventually Damon manages to convince him that no, his father wouldn’t be on his new album and he wouldn’t be in Liam’s new one either. The trace of Patsy is unmistakably there but Lennon is practically a carbon copy of Liam. Officially, his first word is ‘mom’ but actually it’s docking; from ‘fucking’ because Liam couldn’t stop swearing in front of his kids. One day he caught a peek of Missy’s picture on Damon’s wallet and decided that he wants to do the same. He printed tons of Lennon’s baby pictures and they spent a whole night looking through them. In the end, Damon picked one for him.
He ends up signing a bunch of things for Lennon; the typical gushing fanboy. Liam watches them from where he’s sitting, strangely quiet until Damon glances at him and meets his gaze. He smiles a bit and suddenly Damon feels like he missed something he shouldn’t have.
“You both get on well don’t you.” Liam raises his eyebrows. For some reasons, Damon feels embarrassed. He looks away, back to the poster he’s currently signing.
“My daughter’s around his age.” He says, trying to explain but it only made him feels like he just swallowed a sack of burning coals.
“Fuck off, Dad,” Lennon adds helpfully.
The kid leaves rather unwillingly, having somewhere to be but clearly would prefer staying around all day watching his father and his favorite singer having a catfight. Liam walks him to the door and Damon can hear them outside, laughing over something he doesn’t quite get; an inside joke between them. His sits on the chair Liam previously occupied, playing with his half-empty pack of cigarette. The silence around him is a stark contrast to the laughter outside and he starts thinking about that again; how he could’ve easily had this if only things went a little different back then.
The main door slams shut and Liam appears from the main hallway, his skip noticeably lighter. Instead of entering the kitchen again, he slams himself onto the couch in his living room. Damon watches him through the door frame, flip-flopping between following him there or just carrying on the conversation from different rooms like the morons they are. Then he hears Liam speak again.
“Oi, pass me the cig.”
Damon gathers the cigarette pack and lighter in his hand before making his way to the couch Liam is sitting on. He sits with his foot on the couch, as usual, stubbing the butt of his cigarette to an ashtray next to him. Damon hands him the pack and lighter then sits next to him.
“Do you still have it?” He asks quietly. “His picture that I picked?”
“No.” Liam fishes another stick out of the pack. “Lost it somewhere. But Patsy scanned tons of ‘em and sent ‘em to me so now I just whip out my fucking phone when I want to embarrass my kids. Bless her.”
They fall quiet for a while. Damon watches Liam lights a new cigarette.
“Do you have any regret coming after me again?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.” Liam blows a cloud of smoke. “I think you do.”
Damon sighs and tears his eyes away. “Alright. Maybe I do.”
He feels a bump against his hand and looks down to see Liam’s offering him his cigarette. He takes it and brings it closer to his eyes, observing it mindlessly while being fully aware of Liam’s eyes on his face.
“You’re happy about that, aren’t you? That a part of you is still a proper husband. Proper fucking family man. Don’t deny it.”
His throat closes up. Damon closes his eyes and lets his hand drops back to his lap. “I am. But Liam, listen—”
“I’m happy for you, mate. At least you’ve got conscience.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“What? I’m being fucking straight with you, you cunt.” Liam nudges his knee with his own.
“If I were one, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“No shit.” Liam scoffs but he doesn’t sound pissed. “I’m trying—have been fucking trying—and I did well for few years, you know? But you’re just fucking bad for me, man. Not your fault. I’m just—”
Damon opens his eyes and gives him a look. “You what?”
“—fucking whipped.” Liam drops his eyes, actually looks embarrassed. “That fucking gold tooth makes you look like a straight-up cunt but—yeah.”
“But?”
“Fuck off.”
Damon can’t help the pull on the corners of his lips neither the easy taunt that comes with it. “Aw, darlin’.”
Liam looks like he’s one little push away from throttling him. “Fucking shut it.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. You know that.”
But you quit, he can see the thought flashes behind Liam’s eyes. He’d probably thought of that every time Damon mentioned something remotely close to a confession. There is no accusation though, just hurt. “I know that.”
“I’m serious.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I do anyway.”
“But I thought, you know, when you said that you wanted out—“
“No.” Damon feels like he’s coming too fast, too eager, but he can’t help himself. “I did say it but I never—I never—I always do. Still do.”
“Oh,” Liam says dumbly, taken aback. Damon only has a second to see the nakedness of his face; the surprised and flattered look before he catches himself and they are all gone. “Oh. Okay. What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” Damon drags the words out from his throat, putting it out in the open for both of them to see. He watches Liam carefully, trying to guess his reaction but Liam is already shrinking back into himself, well hidden behind the fortress he’s surrounded himself in. “It’s just…I don’t think I can make it work, Liam.”
Liam spins his lighter in his hand, leaning forward against his knees. It makes him look smaller. He bites his lips, seemingly staring at a spot on his carpet but Damon can tell he’s staring at something else. Something far away. “Remember when you threw a fit about me marrying Patsy? Did you think we have a chance back then?”
Damon gives him the barest form of what Liam wants. That’s all he could give him. “Anything felt possible when you’re on the needle.”
“Okay.” Liam leans back into the couch, his arms pressing into Damon’s. Both his face and voice are unreadable. “But glad to know you thought that way of me once, mate.”
Damon brings the forgotten cigarette to his lips. The smoke burns into his lungs, nicotine eats away at the long blemished flesh. Damon holds the poison for longer in his chest, lips pressed together and a part of himself thinks of Liam shutting them with his own instead. Pressing tight and trapping the smoke forever inside to turn his insides black. Maybe Damon will let him. Gladly.
And that’s why he shouldn’t be here.
He stands up, handing the cigarette back to Liam. “I have to go.”
Liam looks up at him, a troubled look on his face. For a long stretch of time he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even take the cigarette Damon handing him. Damon holds his gaze, fully knowing that if Liam asks him to sit back down, or to go to bed with him again, or to stay just a day longer, he’ll do it. He just has to ask.
But Liam doesn’t ask him for anything more.
“Alright.” He reaches out to take the cigarette from Damon’s hand. “I’ll book you a cab.”
***
He expects it—the sudden panic; the rapid tightening in his chest like he’s going to drop dead at any moment. Damon yanks his hand away from the door knob and turns around to Liam’s questioning eyes. He stands behind him just a little too close, looking a little too vulnerable.
“What’s wrong?”
Lots, Damon almost says but he sees no point in doing so. He’s clean now and Liam is nowhere as coked up as he used to be. No more excuses for falling into the same hole. He wonders if Liam lays awake at night like he did, thinking of a thousand what ifs and all the things they could have done differently. If Liam ever regretted meeting him.
“Nothing.” He says instead. “Come here.”
Liam just smoked and Damon can taste it; the heavy smell and the bitter ashes on his tongue. You taste like a fucking ashtray, he had said years ago just before Liam elbowed him in the stomach a little too hard for his usual roughhousing. He doesn’t mind it now, doesn’t even remember why he ever minded it.
“Alright.” Liam pulls away laughing and Damon must have chased after him unconsciously because he has to use a hand to push him away. “Don’t fucking cry on me, you wimp.”
Damon hugs him anyway, staring past Liam’s shoulder to the stretch of the hallway into the half-neat-half-messy living room. The acoustic guitar on the table and the crumpled pack of cigarettes on the table. The arms around him and that faint trace of fucking sandalwood. What he could’ve had. He pulls away.
“I’ll call you.” Damon offers and he doesn’t know whether he's telling the truth or not.
“Yeah?” Liam attempts a sneer but it looks too hopeful to be one and Damon’s chest aches. “Sure, mate. Call me anytime.”
“See you around?” He smiles.
“I’m always around.” Liam smiles back and Damon stares at him a second too long before turning away and opening the door. Liam doesn’t stop him.
The sun hits his eyes instantly. The sky is now an endless stretch of blue, mocking his memory of sullen grey clouds and endless droplets of water. Liam does have a beautiful front yard; from the neatly trimmed bush and stone-constructed walkway to the freshly painted fence and the cab that’s waiting on the other side. Something nudges his feet and Damon catches the last of Nancy’s tail as she disappears into one of the bushes.
It kicks his gear into moving, crossing the walkway steadily. Long strides, unhurried. His skin prickles beneath the warm sun, beneath the heavy weight of Liam’s eyes. Damon doesn’t stop until he sits safely in the backseat of the cab, slamming the door shut with shaking a hand. He can’t for the life of him turns his head to where he knows Liam is standing, watching him leaving without a second glance.
He meets the driver’s eyes through the mirror. “You okay?”
Damon closes his hands into fists, willing them to stop shaking. He feels like he’s about to puke his heart out. “I am.” He nods. “Let’s go.”
The cab rolls into motion, away, away, and with each passing second Damon can’t help but feeling like he just left behind something important to die, somewhere he can’t turn around to take it back. He turns around in his seat, eyes scanning the sidewalk. Through the dusty windscreen he finds Liam easily enough, standing there with his hand raised in a mock-salute. Damon fixes his eyes on him, on the last bit of him that he could keep. Liam doesn’t move, standing there solid as a rock, until his frame grows smaller and smaller and soon enough Damon could barely distinguish him from the moving world around them.
The cab turns into another lane, and Damon loses sight of him. Liam’s gone, as easy as he comes, like he had never been there at all. All that’s left is the taste of ashes on Damon’s tongue, bitter still. His eyes burn and he can feel it again; Liam next to him, his hand rough in Damon’s own and his lips hot on his skin. I meant it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” The unfamiliar voice snaps him back to earth. Damon blinks and turns around slowly, facing the front again before meeting the driver’s concerned eyes. Seconds tick between them in silence.
“Yeah.” Damon breathes out, eases himself into his seat. “I will be.”
fin.