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Damian wakes up to the sound of pealing laughter out in the hallway.
He jerks upright and nearly falls off the couch, only just catching himself. “Fuck,” he mutters, glancing at the time on his phone—it’s 16:02. Way longer than he intended on his nap being.
Damian hesitates. Slowly, he opens his texts and scrolls to the last of his seven contacts: Father. Unable to stop himself, he reads the last message:
Do not ever contact me again. If you must insist on maintaining a relationship with your mother, contact her directly.
The words still cause him to ache deeply, a needle piercing through his ribs to the heart.
Damian knows deep down that there won’t be any more communication with his father. He isn’t ashamed of what happened and he has no intention of taking back his words. But the part of him that’s six years old still wants his father to look at him with pride and joy. That part doesn’t stop hoping for reconciliation, for a love he will never receive, and he hurts all the more for it.
The laughter rings again, and Damian grits his teeth at the noise. Irritated, he stomps over to the door and pulls it open to face the two people standing across the hall.
“Can you quiet down ?” he barks. “Some of us are doing important things that need silence .”
Two startled gazes meet his. One is a girl with vibrant pink hair pulled into a long ponytail, a strange triangular headband on her head.
The other—hair in a pixie cut, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and looking far more dressed-down than anyone Damian has seen in their social circles — is Becky Blackbell.
Damian’s day has just gotten so much worse.
“What are you doing here?” Damian says in unison with Becky. They glare at each other.
“Um,” says the other girl. “What’s going on?”
“Anya,” Becky announces, nose primly in the air like she isn’t wearing clothes that scream gamer-exiting-mancave-for-the-first-time-in-weeks , “this is Damian Desmond.” Her lip curls. “Apparently my new neighbour.”
Anya’s eyes widen. “The Damian Desmond?” Damian takes a second to feel smug at the awe in her eyes. This is rapidly crushed when Anya continues, “The Damian who threw a tantrum when your dog won that beauty contest over his?”
“Wha—I was ten!” Damian shouts. “Who do you think you are telling this—this commoner stories like that?” He regrets his word choice instantly, and he flushes.
“I’d watch who you’re calling a commoner,” Becky hisses with far more vitriol than Damian expected. “Aren’t you living in this dump of an apartment? Guess you didn’t make nice with daddy dearest after that interview, huh?”
Damian’s nostrils flare. “Fuck you,” he spits. His eyes slide to Anya, whose eyes are filled with…pity? Shame rises hot in his chest, and he snaps his attention back to Becky again, who looks a little guilty. “Just keep the noise down and leave me alone.”
He leaves them staring at him and enters his apartment again, slumping down on the couch. A murmur of voices and the click of the door across the hall sound just at the edge of his hearing. The walls of this building are thin, though, and Damian can still hear Becky and Anya’s faint conversation.
Damian turns on the TV to drown the noise out and tries not to feel horribly alone.
—
Damian avoids Becky at school, which is what he usually does anyway, even with how small Eden is. He manages to avoid her at home, too, until he walks into the laundry room on Thursday night and sees her perched on a broken washing machine.
“Damn it.”
Becky looks up from her phone, nose wrinkling. “We meet again,” she says, droll.
Damian decides that ignoring her is the best thing to do in this situation. He hurries through his routine, dumping in a little more laundry detergent than he intended to in his haste. He mutters a curse and debates whether it’s worth it to try to get some of it back in the container.
“Huh. Non-name-brand detergent.”
Damian screeches and nearly elbows Becky in the face. “What the hell, Becky? Don’t just sneak up on me like that!”
She ignores him and leans closer. With her forceful personality, Damian always forgets that he’s almost a foot taller than her.
Becky’s face is warmer than he expects when she looks up at him. “I’m sorry about what I said.”
“What?”
“About your dad. I’m sorry.”
Damian feels his ears going red. She’s being earnest. He can’t deal with sincerity.
“Whatever,” he mumbles, unable as always to hold a grudge. “You weren’t wrong, I guess. I am here because he’s. You know. Upset.”
Becky pauses, visibly wrestling with her words. “What you said during that interview,” she says, quiet. “I thought it was really brave.”
“Ha. No.” Damian looks away. “It wasn’t brave to tell some news channel that my dad is a conservative asshole and I don’t agree with anything he says. That’s just basic decency, and it was about time.”
“Yeah,” Becky says easily. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard. Not with our kinds of families.”
To Damian’s horror, he feels a lump rise in his throat.
As part of his father’s electoral campaign, Damian had been interviewed by the press about his support. He had intended to go along with it, but he’d long since known that his family was, honestly, terrible. A sudden, fierce righteousness had possessed him, and in front of hundreds of journalists and community members, he had gone off on a tirade condemning his family’s beliefs and revoking his support. Unsurprisingly, he had gone viral on social media within minutes.
Two hours later, he was cut off from his funds with a text message and told to leave the Desmond premises.
He doesn’t regret any of it, but it was hard. It still is, so much so that Becky’s matter-of-fact acknowledgement makes him feel…seen. Because she gets it.
“I managed,” Damian says tightly, blinking rapidly. Becky kindly looks away, allowing him to regain control. “Got a job, stayed with some friends for a bit until I found this place, got a scholarship at Eden. I’m okay. Working on myself, getting better.” He coughs. “Sorry about the 'commoner' thing. I’m unlearning things.”
Becky nods.
“What’s your story?” Damian asks, turning the attention away from himself. “Your family is great, aren’t they? I don’t see them disowning you.”
“Oh, no, I left.” Becky’s expression turns into a glower. “Similar reasons as yours. My family pretends to be progressive, and I know they love me. But they literally make weapons. It’s not something I want to associate with and I said so. They weren’t too happy about it, we fought, blah blah blah. And here I am, striking it out on my own.” She shrugs casually, though Damian can see how her shoulders slump. “Anya’s helping me out with job searching; I might work for her family for a bit while I figure that out.”
“Huh.” Damian smirks. “That’s…cool, I guess. Brave.”
Becky gives him a surprised little smile. “Yeah.”
“Does, uh—does Anya live here, too?”
“Yup, she’s a few floors above us. She goes to Eden, too; scholarship, like you.”
Damian frowns. “I’ve never seen her.”
Becky snorts. “You wouldn’t have had reason to look before.” Her eyes narrow into a shrewd look that has Damian blushing.
Damian turns away. “Fair point.”
They lapse into companionable silence. Eventually, a dryer beeps and Becky hops off to gather her clothes.
“Hey,” she says, pausing at the door. “We should…you know. Hang out. Sometime.”
“Yeah. That’d be cool,” Damian says. Abruptly, he turns back to his clothes, feeling her gaze on him linger for a moment. When he’s sure she’s gone, he lets himself grin.
Friends with Becky Blackbell. Who would’ve thought?
—
Damian turns on the TV exactly at 20:00. His heart quivers in his chest.
His father’s face fills the screen, impassive in the face of multiple journalists calling for his attention. A policeman shouts into the mic and the crowd quiets.
Here it is. Mere weeks before the election, Donovan Desmond is answering questions from the public.
The first few minutes fly by, all questions about the Desmond platform, proposed policies, commitment to taxpayers and citizens. What his father lacks in charm and personality he makes up for in directness. Damian is positive that his father doesn’t misrepresent a single point on his platform or mask his bigotry with deflections, unlike his competitors. It would almost be admirable, if not for his father’s positions.
Damian doesn’t know why he’s watching—except he’s lying to himself, because he does. He hates his father, but he knows that deep in his heart, he wants to be acknowledged by Donovan, too.
Despite everything, he still wants to be Donovan Desmond’s son.
Finally, a journalist at the back of the crowd gets a word in. “Earlier this year,” the journalist says with self-importance. The crowd hushes to pin-drop silence. “Your son gave an interview that condemned you and your campaign. What are your thoughts on his words, Mr. Desmond?”
His father’s moustache twitches just once. Damian clutches at his knees, rapt with attention.
“I see that your magazine’s reputation for pointless gossip and drivel precedes you,” his father intones. The journalist turns red with embarrassment. “Well, I suppose I might as well address this question in as few words as possible. As far as I’m concerned, I only have one son. What others say does not concern me. Next question.”
Static fills Damian’s ears. I only have one son. I only have one son.
“It’s okay,” he whispers to himself. His chest feels like a gaping wound. “It’s okay. He’s a bad person. It’s okay.” He repeats the words over and over for long minutes, trying to convince himself.
Sudden, sharp knocking interrupts his thoughts. Damian staggers to his feet and opens the door.
Becky stands in front of him, eyes wide. “I—I saw the interview.”
“Right,” Damian says dully. It’s the first time he’s seeing her since their encounter in the laundry room two weeks back, and the worry in her eyes makes him want to shut the door in her face.
“Damian, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t even be sad. Am I a bad person for being sad?”
“No,” Becky says, fierce. “It’s complicated. It’s okay to be sad. I get it, Damian. It’s okay.”
Damian stares at her, helpless.
Becky’s lips purse. “Okay, that’s it. Get your keys.”
“What?” Damian blinks.
“Come on!”
Bewildered, Damian finds his keys and steps into the hallway, locking his door. He feels sluggish.
“Good,” Becky says. “Let’s go. You’re joining my and Anya’s sleepover.”
She takes his hand and leads him into her place.
Her room is filled with warmth. Glowing fairy lights line the ceiling, band posters and artwork hang on every free inch of the walls, and rugs and cozy blankets cover her floor and bed. Anya sits on a beanbag near Becky’s desk, hair loose this time. She looks up, her eyes meeting Damian’s, and seems to focus hard for an instant.
She’s so pretty. Damian forces that thought away quickly. Becky pushes him down into a plush chair; he goes quietly.
“Hey,” he says.
Anya stares at him, her cheeks going strangely pink. “Hi,” she says, quiet. “I’m sorry about…you know.” Damian winces, and Anya offers him a sympathetic shrug. “Your dad’s a dick.”
“Anya!” Becky hisses, horrified. “Timing!”
Damian bursts into howling laughter. Anya and Becky glance at each other, their lips twitching, and then they’re laughing, too.
“He is a dick,” Damian announces, eyes stinging. He scrubs at them.
“It’s okay. You have us now,” Becky says, solemn.
A swell of gratefulness forms in Damian’s chest as they crowd around him, chattering and giggling as they pull out nail polish.
In the company of his new friends, Damian sets down his pain and lets himself breathe.