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Cool nighttime breeze caresses Damon’s face as he shoves the pub’s door wide open, slows his fuming pace and stops when he reaches the streetlamp on the other side of the pavement, hands settling on his hips and catching his breath.
It’s quite a shithole that Alex decided to take them to. Shit alcohol, nasty loo, smoke enveloping every greasy table and filling an already poorly lit room until you can’t see a thing. Damon had made a mental note and told his driver before they arrived that he’d give this little after-show excursion ten minutes of grace and leave. Even if it were an appealing idea to him, he shouldn’t be out this late anyway.
He doesn't mind the scenery, to be fair. The old asphalt road in front of him, built on a hill, descends slightly to his left. The elevation gives a fine view of the sky, none of your typical big city structures blocking those dark shadows of mountains on the horizon. There’s two parked cars across the whole street, none coming or going. It’s quiet, Damon observes irritably. Everybody’s in bed except for a few middle-aged wankers who somehow just played Wembley, again, and Damon’s ready to join them. He’s so exhausted from the last two days—hell, the entire year—that he thinks he could fall asleep right here, standing up. Something he’s probably done before.
He sighs and digs in his pocket for his pack of fags, knocks one out and lights it.
Right as Damon hollows his cheeks for his first inhale, a small voice makes him jump: “Knickers in a twist already?”
He spins around, arms up and eyes wide.
Damon’s vigilance is wasted on the obvious silhouette of Graham, who is relaxed with his back against the pub’s brick wall. Orange streetlight drowns the space between them and alluringly illuminates Graham’s long legs, which extend so far in front of him it’s a miracle he hasn’t slipped and fallen on his arse. The building’s shadows almost completely cover his face.
“Jesus, mate.” Damon laughs breathlessly, scanning him up and down. “Look like a serial killer.”
Or a hooker. He really doesn’t need to lend credence to that kind of thought about his friend right now, so he lets it fly by and thus leave him unscathed. “I- We wondered where you’d gone.”
Graham pushes himself off the wall and meanders over to lean on the tall, black pole a couple feet from Damon. He looks good, or as good as you can look when you’ve performed on a huge stage for multiple hours while doused in sweat, ruining whatever you’d tried to do with your hair that day and soaking your clothes.
An image flashes in his mind of Graham’s face, inches from where Damon waits patiently, swaying closer with his eyes squeezed shut. It feels as if a trillion things happened today, but the warm press of dry lips that lasted for less than half a second has managed to stay fresh, replayed throughout the rest of the show and the entire drive here.
It’s a good thing when Graham brings him back to earth. “Alex say something to get you pouty?”
Damon rubs his face wearily. “You know he doesn’t even have to speak.”
Graham laughs.
“But nah, not really. I don’t want to be here at all. Only came to make him feel nice. I know he misses all of...this. Us.”
Graham nods. “And you don’t.”
Damon is vaguely aware, as they speak, that they’ve had this same conversation at least eight times, and he’s sure Graham knows it too. Not that it’s any sort of problem for either of them; they’re content to go back and forth like this. Every time they work together, or meet up for brunch in the summer, or have a simple five-minute phone call, it’s going to be like this. Damon doesn’t mind it in comparison to whatever else they could do instead. He figures that there isn’t much more to say, that they got everything that can be said off their chests and out in the open years ago, even if none of it fixed them enough to make things how they used to be. Talking about what you’ve always talked about is the easiest way to handle something or someone that’s admittedly still fragile.
Damon continues. “I know it’s a whole reunion thing. Clearly, we’d have gone to one of these places back then, but come on. Leave it alone, if you ask me.” He takes a drag.
Graham smiles fondly down at his feet.
They stand there in a comfortable silence for a bit, taking in the peaceful lack of traffic and twinkling stars in the distance. Clouds are moving in from the west to hide them away. It’s a great and dizzying contrast to earlier that evening, to the overpowering sensory experience that is thousands of people screaming their hearts out at you and reaching as far as they can for your touch.
Damon occasionally exhales smoke and glances at Graham with little discretion. Graham notices soon enough the distinct, itchy feeling of being perceived and retrieves an e-cig from his blazer pocket. He only fiddles with it, probably wanting to prove to himself he can resist the urge.
Damon sees the time on his wrist and guesses that his ride should be here. She was supposed to loop around, come back in fifteen. It strikes him that he doesn’t really care. He can’t stop looking at Graham. Damon’s feet feel glued to the concrete. He thinks Graham could unstick him if he pulled hard enough.
He clears his throat. “Great show today, yeah?”
Graham perks up, crosses his arms attentively. “For sure, definitely.” His tongue sneaks out to wet his lips and Damon loses consciousness for a split second. When Graham blinks those beautifully deep brown eyes, it’s the last straw. He doesn’t want to throw them off balance, but he has to know.
Damon tries to keep his tone light, only wondering: “What was with the...kiss stunt?”
Despite his best efforts, Graham reacts with an abrupt, nasal noise that also sounds mildly painful.
“Oh, the peck. I thought it’d be a cute thing. Er, photo. I figured we’ve done that before, so...” He trails off and looks at his shoes before bringing the vape to his mouth. Damon’s almost envious, watching his lips wrap around it.
“Not for a while, mate,” Damon reminds him, chuckling. He searches his face for a promise of more. He remembers being able to get more, once. Graham only hums in agreement and keeps avoiding his gaze. Really? Nothing?
Damon swallows a burgeoning nausea. He’s wandering around in the dark for thirty years and that door with a faint glow under it keeps teleporting somewhere else.
“You know, I leaned in, but I was worried you wouldn’t go for it.” As the words leave his mouth, he gets the sense that he just sliced open his abdomen and let his guts splatter onto the ground for Graham’s viewing displeasure. Damon prays the mess slides off into the storm drain before either of them can acknowledge it.
Graham lifts his face at long last to scrunch his nose indignantly. “I’m not that flaky.”
There’s a pause as the the irony of Blur’s famously unreliable guitarist saying such a thing dawns on them. Both men break into smiles, then guffaws. Damon slaps a hand on his shoulder as he wheezes and staggers closer. While the hysteria subsides, he manages to get a good look at his friend’s face, up close and hypnotically personal. Sagging skin and wrinkles dappled with tiny gray whiskers are made prominent by the objectively not-very-flattering artificial light above them. And what a nose. Damon tries to recall the feeling of it pressed against his cheek, to no avail. If he plays his cards right...
“Fancy another?” he cuts off Graham’s giggling, hand firmly gripping the other man’s nape, rocking on his feet with an energy typically reserved for horny adolescents. Though he’s less horny and more high off of a good, friendly teasing.
Graham frowns, projecting disinterest, and hits his e-fag again. He looks pointedly and gestures at Damon’s mouth.
“Would it kill you to shave all that? Feels like a carpet, and no offense, it looks stupid.”
“I like it,” Damon says plainly. Graham scoffs and gazes across the street, apparently weighing his options.
Finally: “Okay. But don’t go all willy-nilly with the tongue.”
Damon grins, drops his fag underfoot and moves into Graham’s personal space. He relaxes his arms over his shoulders, an archetypal damsel and her knight. His watch knocks the iron pole and the awkward clang rings in the air. Damon takes his time with the intimacy that’s been permitted and examines each skin fold and crease in Graham’s cheeks. He reveres the softness of his jaw, gives it a tiny kiss.
He can feel Graham staring, gaze flitting indecisively between Damon’s mouth and eyes. The chilly metal of his rings makes Graham squirm a bit as gentle fingers brush back the messy gray hair stuck to his forehead. Damon’s looking at him like he’s seen an angel or a ghost, and Graham realizes he’s about to say something very unhelpful.
“Go on, then,” Graham pushes him, trying to cut it off, remind him to step on the brakes.
“You’re lovely,” Damon murmurs, eyes misty. He kisses him properly then, one hand cupping his face.
Graham emits an unprepared mmff! sound that makes Damon smile against him. Part of him wants to stop, only to inform Graham that he’s not just lovely, he’s cute as well. And beautiful. And talented. And the most important, brilliant person Damon’s ever known. Instead, he kisses him harder, trying desperately to translate that burning affection into the shifting of his mouth. Purely out of habit, he starts to persuade Graham’s lips open with his tongue. Didn’t say none at all.
Damon’s willing to bet that if not much has changed since they last snogged, getting Graham to accept a deeper one shouldn’t be difficult. Whinging about slobber and the scratch of facial hair can come later. When Graham gives him something, Damon is going to take it however far he can before his leash gets pulled and he gains a new bruise on his neck.
As predicted, Graham opens his mouth and tilts his head. Damon moans, his hands instantly drop to the other man’s hips, slipping under his jacket and yanking his shirt out of his jeans. Right as Damon gets his palms spread over Graham’s hairy stomach, the distinct rumble of a car engine down the road becomes audible.
“Shit,” Damon hisses as the two of them jump back, stumbling until they’re several feet apart. Wiping his face and adjusting his sleeves, he finds the black SUV rolling up beside them to be his own. He supposes he can’t fault the driver for doing her job. His gaze drifts to Graham just as lightning flashes behind his head, a low bellow of thunder following it. Damon wants to fall to the ground, grab his feet and be dragged for miles and miles.
Graham sucks his teeth. “That was...”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.”
Damon rubs his face and braces himself for the standard unrelenting waves of frustration, guilt, dissatisfaction, et cetera. The sky decides it’s had enough and begins speckling their clothes. The roof of the car rattles under the gentle sprinkle, gradually growing louder.
Graham takes a step back towards the pub. “Alright, well, good n--”
“D’youwanttocomewithmetomyroom,” Damon interrupts too loudly.
“Sorry?” Graham looks at him through the strands of his now sopping wet fringe like Damon must be unwell.
Damon huffs impatiently and yanks the car door open, eager to get dry. “We booked the same hotel, right?”
Graham seems to consider lying his arse off for a moment. “...Sure.”
“Great,” Damon clasps his hands, as if that’s settled, and climbs into the warm vehicle. “Get in.”
“What exactly do you have in mind? It’s nearly midnight,” Graham points out, having to raise his voice over the rain.
“It’s past, actually! And I dunno,” Damon practically shouts. “Few drinks?”
Graham chews his bottom lip, still unsure, even as he’s standing in the heavy deluge like a cat in a miserable advertisement for an animal shelter.
“Just get in the fucking car, mate!”
Inevitably, he folds. Without thinking, Graham dives in, shoos Damon backward and shuts the door behind him. Damon apologizes profusely to his driver and gives her the go-ahead. Graham silently watches the pub leave his field of view as the car moves along. Damon watches him from the corner of his eye, suddenly nervous.
Laughter explodes from Graham and Damon tenses, not sure how to react.
“This is fucking crazy. I can’t believe I--” He clamps a hand over his own mouth incredulously.
He turns, fixes Damon with wild eyes. “This better be worth giving up my sleep. And a shower.”
Damon snickers and pinches Graham’s drenched sleeve before being childishly swatted away. “I think you just got one.”
-
They’re quiet for the rest of the drive. Graham starts biting his nails absentmindedly. Damon grabs his hand after a minute, stifling the habit. Immediately, he cringes at himself and pulls away. He hasn’t done that sort of thing, hasn’t felt the right to since they stopped being so close. He doubts that he ever had it in the first place. Another of those phantom claims to each other’s lives.
Graham gives him a strange look but stops his fussing.
When they come to a halt at the hotel entrance, Damon hops out first with a bossy “stay put.”
Damon knows Graham’s eyes are following him as he makes his way around the vehicle. When he opens the door, he’s greeted by a shy smile and feels compelled to do a gratuitously low, wobbling bow.
“M’lady.”