Work Text:
Damon never found death painful, not physically anyways. When his body hit those crashing waves that summers day, he didn't feel pain, he was dead upon impact after all. His body didn't have time to process any sorts of pain. It was a rush of euphoric relief if anything, almost like the heroin shots he'd been taking for a year prior, only this time that feeling was for eternity.
The most painful thing about death for Damon Albarn was that feeling of having to watch from afar.
The rules of the ghost realm were rather simple, for the first 20 years of your death, you are not allowed to interact with living loved ones. Your hauntings must exclusively consist of watching. It was all down to something about 'not freaking out grieving loved ones' and preventing violent resentful spirits from causing harm, Damon didn't really get it. But he obliged regardless, fearing the consequences if he didn't. And so, for 20 years all he could do was look down on his former bandmates, rivals and friends.
He spent most of his time looking down on Graham and Alex, occasionally Liam Gallagher too. It was difficult at first, to see all their reactions to the tragedy, especially since it was self inflicted. He noticed Graham and Liam blaming themselves a lot. But it got easier over time, Liam eventually got some therapy to get over it all and Graham eventually stopped drinking to fill the hole Damon left, only after about 5 years of course. He still struggled though, Damon could see that. So for a while, Damon stopped checking it. He just couldn't bear the sight. Instead, he spent his time by the sea when not in the overworld. It was oddly calming in a way. Atleast, he’d rather watch the waves he died in crash against the cliff he jumped off than watch a grieving Graham. One month break turned into 6, which turned into a year and then 15.
And all of a sudden, Damon hadn't seen Graham in 15 years. But he made a promise, he vowed to himself that once the 20 years of spectating was up, the first person he would visit was going to be Graham. He'd make up for it, he'd make up for all the lost time and neglect.
And he stuck to his word.
It finally was that day, 20 years since the biggest popstar in 90's Britain, Damon Albarn had died. He was paid a visit by Grimm, the keeper of ghosts, and he was told:
"Your 20 years are up Damon, you have free range of the mortal realm. Do you have anyone in mind of whom you will make your presence known to first?"
Damon nodded. "Indeed I do."
"I'm glad to hear." Grimm smiled, as he placed his hand on Damon's forehead, he then whispered lowly in an ancient language, perhaps Latin? Damon couldn't tell. And by the end of the chant, Damon felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders, like the shackles that had bound him to this dimension had come loose. He finally felt free.
"Take care Damon. I trust you not to do anything silly now." Grimm turned and spoke.
"Of course, don't worry. I've waited too long for this - too long to ruin it."
He knew exactly where he had to head to next, as he crawled down to the moral realm he began his journey to that flat in London, the one he knew Graham stayed in.
***
It didn't take him long to get there, ghosts travel fast after all. That’s always one perk of being a ghost atleast, you don’t need to follow traffic laws and your granted the ability to move with the speed of a car.
As Damon slowly drifted through the air, towards Graham’s flat, wasn’t sure quite what he should do, and to expect. For one thing, he’d not seen the boy he was about to go haunt in about fifteen years, and for another, he had never exactly haunted anybody before. Atleast, not in the way where he could interact with them. What does a ghost even do with that ability? Flicker some light switches? Damon eventually decided that he would just figure that all out when he got there. He wanted to see Graham first before doing anything, just a glance at the boy he was once so close with.
Damon yearned to see what he would look like now. Would his hair be thinner – maybe greyer? How many wrinkles would be buried in his face now? He’d be in his fourties’, right? Damon couldn’t help but ponder if maybe he’d grown a beard. I mean, he knew Graham hated the feeling of facial hair, but he figured a lot could happen in 15 years, so maybe he decided to grow some. How did Graham dress now? Was he still in those striped t-shirts? What sort of glasses did he wear now?
These were all questions Damon was about to find out the answers to.
Just one thing blocking his vision now, the wooden door in front of him, behind it lying all the answers. The past 15 years, it had all lead up to this.
He placed his hand against the door, and pushed lightly, his spirit falling between the atoms. He took a step forward.
And all of a sudden, he was in Graham Coxon’s flat.
The place looked completely different to what Damon had remembered, it made sense, it’d been 15 years. But it still was mildly startling The hallway and the open-plan living room which lay at the end of it — it looked too clean, too tidy. Everything was organised, shoes placed neatly in a shoe rack, coats hung on pegs. Nothing like 15 years ago, when coats and jackets used to cover the floor, and shoes had to be hunted for around the house.
Upon closer inspection, Damon noticed something odd with said jackets and shoes: they weren’t Graham’s style. Not in the slightest. Previously he had been used to seeing cardigan-like coats in Graham’s house, perhaps made of a felt of sorts. And his shoes used to be leather, maybe the occasional trainers, but they tended to be more proper. But this time, every single pair was a pair of trainers. Fila and Adidas mostly, the jacket brands matched too, a large portion of the jackets hung up being track jackets, or the occasional puffer jacket.
It was all exactly like what Damon used to wear.
Damon rubbed his eyes, almost certainly convinced he was hallucinating, however after he blinked and rubbed a few more times, he realised that was in fact not the case. This was reality. They all really did belong to Graham. At the very least, they were all in his house.
Damon’s mind began racing for explanations. Did Graham get a new roommate? A new partner perhaps? One who just happened to dress like Damon? Was it all just Damon’s old stuff Graham held on too? No — it can’t be, some of the items, although appealing to Damon, he had never seen before. Or did it all really belong to Graham?
Cautiously, Damon floated even further into the flat, making his way towards the living room.
He never could have predicted what he was about to see.
He peered his head in the doorframe, the first thing to catch Damon's attention was the football on the TV — which was odd because Graham had always hated football, back in the 90s anyway. So why on earth was it on his TV? Better yet, why was it a Chelsea match? The team Damon had supported.
The next thing Damon noticed was the man sitting on the couch, facing the TV, away from the doorframe. He couldn't see much, only the top of the man's head.
He was blond. A bleached, dirty blond.
Damon froze. He couldn't believe it. A sinking feeling grew inside his soul, about to swallow him whole. It almost felt like an out of body experience, like he was watching himself. But he wasn't. That man on the couch, it somehow wasn't Damon. It was someone else entirely.
A new partner, it had to be. Damon thought. There was no other explanation. Graham had moved on.
Graham and Damon never officially started dating at any point in Damon's short lived life. However, they were never exactly platonic, they both knew this. They both knew there was a romance there, and they had shagged a few times to fill the sexual aspect of everything. So to some degree, they were partners. Not just in the musical aspect.
And so, when Damon seen that blond boy on Graham's couch, he wasn't sure how to feel. Of course Graham moved on, it made sense, it was only natural. Expected even. However, Damon couldn't help but feel slightly pained. He had waited 15 years to haunt Graham and the first person he sees when he enters the flat isn't Graham but rather his new partner who is practically a clone of Damon?
A million thoughts raced through Damon's mind, however every single one of them were quickly hushed when the blond figure turned around on the couch.
Glasses. The man was wearing glasses. Thick, chunky glasses. And his hair, it was chopped in a messy sort of style that Damon was all too familiar with.
This wasn't a new partner. No, not at all, this was Graham Coxon. He could see it, vaguely, but he could see it. Behind the artificial bleached hair, the off style that didn't suit him, the wrinkles, behind it all, it really was Graham.
"Grah?" Damon whispered, the words slipping out almost in disbelief. He didn't expect to be heard really.
However he certainly was, he knew this by the way Graham had whipped his head around, the way he flinched, Damon had no idea what to do.
He just sort of stood in the doorframe, like a deer in headlights as the sunlight bounced off of the cast he left.
When Graham locked eyes with him, a chill radiated down his spine. He should have anticipated for this to be a risk, he shouldn't have just blindly thought he was invisible. Graham's face contorted into a look of utter horror, eyes wide open, his jaw the same. Damon couldn't help but notice he was trembling slightly too.
Graham looked like he had seen a ghost.
"D-Dames?" Graham stared in shock, he didn't pull his eyes away even for a second, didn't even blink.
"Fuck." Damon muttered under his breath. "You can see me?"
Graham stuttered incoherent nonsense before eventually just sighing and simply saying "Yeah... Yeah I can see you. But you're just another hallucination, right? Are my pills just not working? What is this? Why do you look older?"
Oh god. Damon thought. The dreaded 'in denial' part of this all. He had hoped to skip over this all. The plan was meant to be he'd stop by, flicker a few lights, move a few objects and then reveal himself — at least that way removes a bit of the doubt. But clearly, that wasn't what happened, so he had to improvise.
"I wish I was." He giggled weakly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I was meant to be more discreet than this. I didn't mean to scare you."
Graham shook his head. He was deep in the pit of denial now. "You can't be real. Ghosts don't exist."
Damon took a deep breath in and exhaled heavily. He had no idea how to prove his existence. Or well, until he noticed the vase sitting on the dining table a few meters from him.
He floated over to the table slowly and once he reached it he leaned on the table, poking the vase. Graham just watched.
"Is this vase expensive Grah?"
Graham raised an eyebrow. "Uhm, no. Not really. Why?"
"Is it sentimental?"
"No, not reall-"
Before Graham could even finish his sentence, with all his force, Damon smacked the vase off of the table, causing it to plummet to the floor, crashing upon impact. The fragments of the vase spread across the floor like raindrops of ceramic. Graham flinched at the wreck and was quick to look up at Damon with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.
"Do you believe I'm real now Graham?" Damon asked calmly, hoping and preying in his mind that this was enough to stop the denial.
Graham swallowed, and nodded slowly. "Fuck erm.. yeah." He took a deep breath, it was clear to Damon that he was still in disbelief. "Yeah I guess so. This is all just... fucking hell. How come you look older?"
Damon shrugged. "Ghosts age as long as the living remember them. At least, on a personal level, otherwise a bunch of old poets would be ancient looking things."
His eyes then drifted up towards Graham’s artificial blonde hair, lingering for a moment before he eventually called out the obvious.
“Your hair.” He spoke simply, nodding his head towards Graham. “It’s blond.”
Graham shied away, running a hand through his own hair before looking back up at Damon. “Yeah…”
“Well why have you done that then?” Damon spoke softly as he tilted his head like a confused puppy. One hand on the table.
Graham swallowed, his heart pounded beneath his ribcage. He didn’t want to admit why, it felt pathetic. He wanted to make up some lie, or preferably say nothing at all. But he couldn’t do that, not to his dead best friend — or maybe dead partner. They never did decide on labels.
“It reminds me of you.” He said shamefully. “So do the jackets.”
A prolonged silence hung in the air as the ghost looked at the boy, near expressionless, maybe slightly pained. His eyes seemed dull, but Graham couldn’t quite make out if that was just because he was dead or because he was stunned. That look though — it was enough to create a stabbing feeling in Graham's chest, enough to bring tears to his eyes.
"I'm sorry Day—" Graham began to ramble "It's been so hard ever since—"
Almost teleporting, Damon appeared at Graham's side. He ran a hand through the bleached, yellowish hair, his other hand on Graham's collarbone.
"I know." Damon swallowed, trying to hide the regret in his voice. "And I'm sorry it took so long for me to visit. And I'm sorry I left you, and I'm sorry that I chose those waves..."
"Why did you do it?" Graham interrupted, a few tears spilling down his wrinkled face now. "Why didn't you just talk to me instead?"
Damon turned away, the guilt deep in his soul growing now like a rabid uncontrolled fire. Eye contact hurt, so he avoided it.
"I'm sorry Graham."
"Why did you do it?" Graham demanded, more firmly now. Damon couldn't see it, but he was definitely sobbing now.
"I can't tell you Grah." Damon muttered.
"For fuck sake Damon, you leave me for 20 years and when you finally visit you can't even tell me the reason you killed yourself? You didn't even leave a note Damon!"
Graham went to go shake Damon's shoulders, but it didn't work, his hands fell right past him. Of course, only ghosts can initiate contact with a human, it doesn't work vise-versa.
Air bubbles like tears began to fall viscously down Damon's face now, His eyes normal one moment and ghost tear soaked the next. Hysteric, he could barely get words out.
He wasn't meant to be feeling this. Being dead, it's meant to be calm, agony isn't meant to be in the picture anymore. And yet, that was all Damon could feel in that moment with Graham. He began to cling on to his alive guitarist as he whined into his shoulder.
"I'm sorry Grah. I couldn't leave a note, not with my reasoning."
Graham wrapped his arms in the air around the ghost, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. "Well what was your reasoning?"
Damon pulled back for a moment, and looked into Graham's eyes.
"You remember the Country House incident?"
Graham raised an eyebrow, although he was already beginning to put the pieces together in his mind. "Yeah? The party where I tried to jump out the building?"
Damon nodded, and broke out into further hysterics, leaving him mute. It was alright though, he didn't need to say anything else. Graham had already worked it out.
"Fame? The press? You killed yourself over those bastards? Why couldn't you leave a note?"
"You've seen how people treat celebrity suicides, and their notes. I didn't want to be that Grah." He eventually was able to say between sobs.
Damon held himself close to Graham. "Promise me something Grah?"
"Yeah?"
"Promise me you'll ditch the jackets, and the blond hair. Promise me you'll stop trying to be me, to fill the void. I don't think it's helping you Graham."
Graham nodded. "Anything for you Dames."
***
The waves crashed beneath the two boys, as Graham Coxon and Damon Albarn both sat by the edge of one of the Cliffs of Dover.
”You spent 15 years here?” Graham queried.
Damon nodded. “Yep. Do you not think that the view is just so nice?”
”I suppose.” He shrugged. “Maybe in an oddly eerie way.”
”… Graham.”
“Yes Damon?”
”You really suit being brunette.”