Work Text:
His toes dig deeper in the sand. The sunset reflects on the surface of the ocean, and what ever Damien draws on his sketchpad, dances on the page.
He picked up on the hobby of sitting down and sketching what was in front of him nearly four years ago. With time, the stack of sketchpads began to fill with scenery, with side profiles of people he loved (and shouldn't love) and despite being in the beach a whole lot, he has never really done a proper sketch of the ocean.
He's been out here for a while, watching how the waves turn in on themselves, the sunset on the horizon that gleams at him, the way it seemed to be endless, seemed to not know when to stop.
He had taken off his dress shoes to sit properly on the sand, his light blue button up shirt rolled to his forearms, uncaring if his linen pants get dirty. He adjusts his seat as his pencil flickers gently on the page, highlighting the body of the ocean. Gentle, intersecting lines and curves were his style.
He's never been one for realism.
To his left, the banquet hall blasts a slow song he doesn't recognize. And he accidentally adds a sharpness to the intricate waves he was drawing.
To his right, the sand displaces, and Ify sits down next to him, wearing the same clothes as he was.
Immediately, he can feel Ify looking at him. He closes his eyes as he waits.
And, to his mercy, when he opens his eyes, Ify was looking at the ocean instead. Damien looks at the other man from his peripherals, lets himself wait for a few seconds, before continuing what he was doing.
Ify stretches back on the sand as if he was resting, sighing slowly.
The sky was turning darker. They better get back inside before it starts.
"It could have been you." Ify said in the silence. And he said it like it was prophetic.
Damien doesn't miss a beat, continues to sketch on his pad, doesn't want to do anything now besides let this conversation be one-sided, and let Ify say what he thinks Damien deserves.
"If you could have just said something, I'm sure—I'm sure it could have been you." Ify bows his head, both of them not looking at each other.
Damien grunts dismissively before lifting his sketchpad in front of him to line it beside the ocean. His sketch was beautiful. Smooth, gentle, flicks of dark gray and black for the waves, a back and forth whoosh of his pencil for the sun setting in the horizon, it was devoid of color, of any actual life compared to the real thing, but it was beautiful.
"I know." He said, like an afterthought to Ify, or maybe himself.
Ify looks at him again.
He nods once, maybe in acceptance, or sympathy, or understanding, before leaning far back to look past him and to their friends that were waiting for them outside the banquet hall.
Damien takes that as a sign to start wearing his dress shoes, Damien takes that as a sign to wipe a palm against his face roughly and tuck the sketchpad away under his armpit. He stands as Ify places a palm on the small of his back, both of them walking to the banquet hall.
Against the cold wind brought in by the sea, the night air that was charged with unrelenting anticipation, like ice down his spine, the banquet hall looked warm, a beacon of light and love ahead of them.
A breeze wafts by him, carrying the smell of the sea, the smell of wet drift wood and kelp, it should've been unpleasant, but it isn't, instead it distracts him momentarily as he stands in front of his friends. (He knows, in the back of his mind, that he can never experience the beach the same way again.)
They look at him nervously, like he has a tendency to fall apart.
Noah, Keith, Ify, and himself were all wearing the same thing. Sandy creme blazers, pants, and light blue button ups.
Noah comes up to him and wordlessly sweeps sand off the front of his shirt before clasping him on the shoulder.
Damien nods as they all began to walk inside.
It shouldn't be this hard.
And yet, as they open the heavy, birch, doors, it settles on the pit of his stomach and stays there. And suddenly the architecture of the building is like a pill down his throat.
He got through the ceremony just fine. It was a lot of standing in the back with the other men and smiling. He knows how to do that, to stand there supportingly, in his place with all their other friends.
The speech he had to give was—rougher
because he had to act as if it didn't feel like he was gouging his heart out and putting it on a platter, like he was deliberately choosing his words in order to not reveal too much. He didn't cry, but maybe that was the problem.
Courtney dwindles back from their friends and began to linger next to him. She hooks an arm around his as they continued to walk, the overhanging lights strewn over the wooden banisters reflect on her and makes the highlights on her cheeks look sheen, she smiles at him. He smiles back.
Courtney lets go of his arm, and puts it around the back of his torso instead, as her head lolls to his shoulder, Damien feels her weight sagging on him and he adjusts his posture to accompany her.
She looks at him again, and she looks like she was about to cry, "Can't imagine how you must feel right now." She said, placing her other palm against his chest, as if she was taking some of the heavyness he feels to take for herself.
Damien shrugs a shoulder, placing a palm over hers, "I'm gonna be okay." He said. Like it matters. Like it will somehow come true if he says it like that.
Courtney pulls away from him to wrap a hand around his bicep loosely, smiling genuinely at him this time.
They reach the banquet hall. He notices that the chairs and tables were all adjusted to the right.
It was so that they could make room for the wide dance floor, mismatched reclaimed wood instead of hardwood. The grand, shining, chandelier, its traditional crystals swapped out for seaglass, making the dance floor look unique, a mixture of faded white and soft blue.
And—the backdrop of it is a mural, on the far, higher, arches of the wall. A painting of a man and a woman on a sand embankment, painted with warm oranges and deep mustard, the couple looking at each other, delicately painted hands holding each other, not so much as looking in-love, but looking content in one another's presence.
It's taunting him, he feels like, this is the first time in his life he was repulsed by something beautiful.
Damien bristles, placing himself at the back of the group.
Olivia looks at him, and glances at what he was looking at, she sneaks a hand to his and squeezes it once, he looks at her as she nods in the curt, observant, way she does. He nods back before finally looking at the dance floor.
The overhanging lights turn off, as the rounded corner ones turn dimmer, it felt like everything was at a standstill. A spotlight clicks open, directed towards the floor. Everyone held their breath.
Keith's head bobs around, looking for him, as Ify and Noah steps away hesitantly. Keith walks toward Damien, tilts a head on the front edge of the dance floor, and guides him to it with a gentle hand around his elbow.
He appreciates it, and tries to reject him but there isn't much time, no time at all before two figures step under the light.
So he nods and walks slowly. He stands to the front of the group and tries to take it in.
It is with cadence that Shayne steps under the light fully, it is with cadence that he presses her body to his and the beginning of Adele's, 'All I Ask' starts to play.
They start to move, Shayne smiles at her, leaning to kiss her on the forehead.
'Things have a funny, cruel, way of working out,' a bitter voice whispers in Damien's mind like gas hissing out of a faulty seal.
Because—Shayne had some doubts. No one knew this, but he had second guessed himself a few days before getting married, he had said that what if it wasn't the right time, what if—what if she wasn't the right person.
Damien was there. As he does. To ease his doubts, to tell him that this is the most perfect time there will ever be to do this. He had reminded him that she is gorgeous, and capable, and caring, that she loves him as much as he loves her.
In the end, it worked out well.
And now—Shayne glides with her across the floor, a hand around her waist, as her hands laid gently on his shoulders, their body in tune with the music. They were looking at each other with laughter in their eyes, with the giddy knowledge that they were now married.
Damien thinks back to what Ify had said: it could have been you.
What if Shayne hadn't met her four years ago, what if during that time he just said something about what he was feeling instead of letting it eat at him. It comforts him to know that there was a chance, even if it was as sudden as a wave crashing to the shore and drawing back as quick as it had arrived.
The light from above catches on Shayne, and it's an aura of peace, eyes watery from joy, he smiles at her like she was the first breath he'd take after almost drowning.
It was enough.
And, Damien thinks, his love feels like it was a lot for just one person, like it was always meant to be shared, because otherwise it would suffocate, or be too much.
He grips the back of a chair and breathes out, instantly feeling lighter.
It has to be enough, he tells himself desperately.
He's going to wake up tomorrow, and he's still going to feel it, but maybe that was okay.
Maybe that's what it takes to stop. Feel it all at once, let it flood him, and then walk away.
Because—loving him felt like filling a bucket under a waterfall.
Shayne twirls her with an air of confidence as they separate, the song fading out in the background.
And in the lull,
in the liminal seconds of sound
and without sound, so suddenly:
Shayne searches for Damien in the crowd, smiling when he sees him. He gestures at everything around them, as if he was saying, 'Can you believe this is all happening right now?' Damien hold his gaze, then smiles.
Enough now.
He was going to be okay.