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Rain trickles from the ceiling, and to a rusty bucket on the corner of the room. The sound it makes is sharp, repetitive, something Damien hasn't heard in a while. Anywhere he turns his face, he smells the damp, fresh, smell of the forest, moss and wet soil, the cold breeze sweeping in from the mountains.
Underneath it, the smell of citrus soap, minty shampoo, and something unavoidably Shayne. They've been in bed for quite some time, just talking, trailing their fingers on every expanse of skin they can reach. Damien noticed, maybe about three hours in, that Shayne's breathing has turned shallow, snoring quietly beneath the pouring rain, his body lax where it lay on his boyfriend's side.
Damien wraps Shayne with the arm he has beneath the other man's neck and nuzzles his nose deeper on the crown of his hair, hiding a smile as he inhales slowly before pulling away.
It doesn't rain in Los Angeles.
But where they are now, it does, and it's quiet, the air feels clean, and the cabin they've rented groans with old age, with living for decades in the middle of the woods far away from the city.
The cabin was small, not something Damien would call luxurious, the walls were painted a deep hunter green, the doors were one of those old, dingy screen doors that slammed quietly against the wind, but it was endearing, it looked like what it should look like.
Damien runs a palm continuously against Shayne's hair, looking at the ceiling as he hums a song he vaguely recognizes.
They're here because they've been together for five months. It feels fast—and at the same time, it feels like it has been 10 years.
It's funny, he thinks, that it took them this long, that it took years of friendship and a loopy, exhausting work day for Damien to finally confess.
If it weren't for that, Shayne would be—well, he clears his throat. He doesn't like thinking about that.
Because they're here now, and they managed to do something about their feelings, finally. To them and their friends' relief.
Shayne is beautiful. In more ways than what was deemed traditional. He is beautiful because he is pensive. He thinks before he speaks, he squeezes his bottom lip between his pointer and thumb finger when his brain becomes too fast to catch up with, as his eyes tend to dart in different directions like he's visualizing something.
He's beautiful also, when he doesn't think at all. When he erupts in laughter over some dumb little thing, when he babbles non-sense when he's exhausted, when he looks at Damien with heavy-lidded eyes as he catches his breath while basking in their post-orgasm glow.
Next to him, Shayne breathes steadily, his sweater up to his chin as his cheek squishes where it lay on the crook of Damien's armpit.
A thought settles in, and Damien smiles with the force that it seemingly grips his entire body.
Shayne reminds him of the word, 'Flotrancia' how he breathes while laying on Damien's side is the rise and fall of an ocean's buoy, constant, flowing, entrancing.
And Damien has to wonder how has he lived this far without noticing it.
He smiles to himself.
The rain is like white noise around them, and from the distance, thunder rumbles in a way that Damien feels it deep in his chest.
Then his smile fades.
And he looks up at the cluttered shelves of the bedroom, and wonder just how many people has stayed here.
—and how many people has looked up at this room and also second guessed themselves.
The mounted shelf near the screen door that led to the side porch was filled with random small items.
He can't quite specify everything but from where he was laying, he knows there's a lot to be seen.
He could spot a roughly sculpted wooden bird, a ball of rubber bands, a yellow medal ribbon with its medallion missing; a slim glass bottle filled to the brim with metal bottle caps, and a conch shell that was held up by two small, silver, poles on both sides.
The other shelf parallel to the first one, this time near the wooden door that opened up to the hallway, had a much clearer view from where Damien was.
And he can see an amber medicine bottle that was empty, a ceramic orange fox sitting on its hind legs, an old trucker hat, multiple fishing lures, a small cactus planted in a painted blue pot, and a mug with an outline of the state of Alabama that has the words, 'Hello From Home!' written on the corner.
Damien looks at it all and his fingers twitch with the urge to slip away from Shayne and walk toward the shelves and inspect them closer.
So he does. Slowly, and without sound, slip his arm away from under Shayne and walk to the shelves barefoot, the wooden floors creaking with each step.
This house feels lived in. This house does not have time for doubt.
He walks to the shelf with the ceramic fox and picks it up and sets it on his open palm, smiling to himself as he turns it side to side, running a finger from its bright, bushy, tail to where it has a yellow scarf tied loosely around its neck.
Damien sets the fox back where he took it as he picks up a mug and holds it with two hands. Now that he thinks about it, he's only ever passed through Alabama on trips, he's never really spent hours in that place.
Perhaps he should think about going there with Shayne soon.
He feels the indent of each letter on the mug and loose flakes of paint fall to his thumb. His finger lingers on the 'H' on the word 'Home' as he swallows once before setting the mug down again.
He looks at Shayne from across the room, still sound asleep, the screen window next to him, as the rainy weather outside bathes him in a dark, blue-ish, glow.
Damien looks at the other shelf that was near the sidepoarch door, and walks over toward it, immediately reaching toward the wooden bird and thumbing the rough surface of it, it is far from polished, and maybe even only half-finished, but to Damien, it looks perfect, it looks like it was born because of someone's spontaneous burst of passion.
Next, he runs two fingers on the silk of the yellow medal ribbon before spotting its medallion on the corner of the shelf, hidden behind a jar of paper clips. And he expected it would be an award for hunting, or mountain bike riding, or maybe even axe throwing but—what he didn't expect to see was an engraved image of a woman casting a fishing net in a lake with the words, 'Fastest Net Caster '09' on the bottom.
He chuckles as he clips the medallion into place, and sets it down. He didn't even know they made awards for that.
Damien sees the conch shell before he picks it up from its stand, and like a child, puts it to his ear even though he knows that what he will still hear is Shayne's light snoring, and the rain that was still not letting up. He holds it from the whorl on its body carefully and brushes the top of it before inspecting it against the light of the window.
Damien notices that the tip of the shell has been cut, and there's a hole near his middle finger. So, without much thinking, he covers the hole on the side, and blows on the tip of the conch shell.
A deep, rich, 'Om' sound fills the room. Damien flinches back, and the sound stops, worried he was going to wake his boyfriend. But Shayne only just switches his position, as Damien looks back at the shell in his hands. The sound was pleasant, meditative, and yet—
hesets it back on its stand gently, before looking around himself, and wiping his hands on his shirt before walking outside and to the sidepoarch door without much hesitation.
Immediately: the cold, wet, air hits him and he lets out a breath when it fills his lungs. He grabs the banister and its hinges creak under his fingers.
Thunder rumbles again, this time nearer to where he was standing. He bows his head forward and sucks in a breath before standing up straight and tapping an open palm on the handrail infront of him, making the vines that wrap around its wooden body sway with rain water.
It's like he's only now finishing his thoughts and he thinks if it weren't for them finally admitting their feelings for each other, Shayne would still be in a happy relationship with someone else, someone who was not him.
And that is a dizzying, frightening thought.
Damien can get angry, or furious, or petty, and even downright scary. But what he is not is opportunistic. To him, it felt as if he waited until when Shayne was finally in a relationship again to confess. Even if that wasn't actually the truth.
It was something that happened so suddenly, like it rose from his stomach, up to his chest, and out his mouth.
He's never been impulsive. Not even a little. But he would be lying if he said it didn't feel good to finally say it. It felt like getting blasted with cold, refreshing, water, it felt like a knot undid itself inside his chest and the breaths he took after were finally looser, less constricting.
That was—until Shayne had looked at him for a few seconds after, nodding belatedly. Damien felt like he had messed it all up.
And it was a few days after confessing when Shayne went to his place and told him he broke it off with his girlfriend. That was when this started.
That was how Damien indirectly but directly weaseled his way in on his now boyfriend's past relationship.
Damien runs a palm across his face, feeling like he needs a smoke despite not being a smoker.
The rain turns sideways and pelts his side, cold and gentle, it beads on his skin like flat marbles, he could step away but he finds he doesn't want to. A little rain never hurt anyone.
Under the barrage of sounds, he could hear the floorboards creaking from inside of their room, and he knows Shayne was awake and quite possibly looking for him.
He sighs before shaking his limbs to let what ever tension leak out. Damien has known Shayne long enough to figure out that the man can sniff wrongness from a mile away.
"There you are." Shayne said from inside as the screen door opens and slams shut again.
"Here I am," Damien smiled, turning to look at the other man, "Did I wake you?" Shayne was wearing the comforter around his shoulders as he padded to where his boyfriend was, both of them barefoot.
"No, not really," Shayne said, looking up at him, "Missed you though." He smiles before he fits himself under Damien's jaw, as the man kisses the top of his head while cradling the back of his neck gently.
Damien pulls away with a smile as he returns to his original position. Shayne tightens the comforter around himself before he stands next to him, their shoulders brushing.
Damien's eyes narrow as he runs a palm on the side of his neck, thinking about what made him seek refuge out here in the first place. He wants to huff out a deep breath but he doesn't want to break this moment and make Shayne fret over him.
After a few minutes of looking ahead, of looking at the forest greenery around them, Shayne looks at him before quirking an eyebrow.
"The side of your shirt is wet." Shayne pointed out.
Slowly, he wraps a gentle hand around Damien's wrist and pulls him closer to him and away from the rain.
Damien turns to look at him before stepping closer to the side, snaking an arm around Shayne's waist as they went back to watching the forest.
"What's wrong?" Shayne asked, and his voice sounded calm, smooth like porcelain.
Damien pauses. "What do you mean?"
"You squint a lot when you're deep in thought." Shayne looks at him, "You also do that thing where you put a hand on the side of your neck when you're worried."
Damn.
It is a beautiful thing to realize that they've never really needed to verbally explain things to each other when they didn't want to.
But maybe that was only beautiful when they were best friends, not now when they were together.
Damien stares at the lichen that was latched unto the bottom trunk of a pine tree infront of them, "I've been—thinking, about y'know, what had to happen for us to be here right now."
Next to him, Shayne hums quietly. He squeezes his waist in reassurance.
"Shayne, you never really told me how Hanna took the news that we're together," Damien looks at him, "And that worries me."
Shayne sighs once before meeting his gaze from the side, "No one likes coming in second on a race they thought they were the only competitor in." Shayne started, "Of course she was devastated when I suddenly wanted to break it off. She had every right to. But then when I told her a week after that it was because of us, she was—"
"Furious?" Damien provided.
"She was not shocked. She looked like I just told her a fun fact on a topic she knew everything about."
Damien stares at him, and tries to read him incase this was a way of Shayne softening the blow of what really happened.
Shayne nudges his shoulder, "She's cool and sweet, and a gracious loser, apparently. She looked at me when I said it and I knew she wanted to laugh and say, 'I told you so.' but she was merciful." He smiled.
Damien tilts his head and sags his body toward him, suddenly tired, "But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt, Shayne. I should take her out for lunch as a sorry for snatching you from her."
Beyond them, the rain was clearer, wasn't as heavy and defeaning like it was before.
Shayne wraps the both of them with the comforter, almost like he was shielding them away from the outside world, and Damien knows there's meaning there.
Shayne chuckles once—like he was fighting a sob—before leaning towards him, aligning his forehead to Damien's steadfast heart:
"I was never hers." He said, voice muffled with the fabric of his lover's shirt.