Archive of Our Own

2003

The hotel room’s already inadequate when Damon opens the ornate door. It’s posh enough, five-star as advertised but looks nothing like it should– two beds when he’d explicitly asked for one. A carpet tackier than he’d hoped. Outdated furniture strangely spaced. Curtains drawn wide open for the streets of Leeds to be privy to all his business.

The hotel staff had asked if he’d be accompanied by any guests, to which he’d said no. A decade ago, he would’ve been delighted by the mistake, pressed the beds together to make a superbed, rolled around atop it like a randy cat spreading its scent. Today, though, he’ll be facing a constant rexminder of absence with an empty bed right next to his own.

It’s been a long day, though, and a long drive over, a long conversation with the concierge, and a long trip up the elevator and down the meandering hallways of the hotel, and the last thing Damon wants to do is drag his luggage all the way back down to the front desk.

Pushing the tedious task of room reassignment for a later date, Damon drags his expensive set of luggage along the crisp wooden, squinting at the room before him.

He sighs and shucks off his well-worn shoes, flops down onto the bed. Stretches out his poor taut limbs, scream-yawns, splays out like a starfish on the million-thread-count sheets. Pulls his trucker hat over his eyes and lets them swoon shut.

Shut-eyed, everything's dark now, and memories glint and glow in the dark of Damon’s mind like tripwires. Clumsier than he thought he’d be in his thirties, his mind wanders the exact place he’s been willing it to avoid.

Flipping through a magazine at a stand earlier that morning, he’d seen a photo of Graham on the same talk show he’d visited with Jamie about a year ago. Smiling, in a suit. Buttoned-up and twee with a cleaner-cut mod haircut, brighter-faced than he’d been in almost a decade. So this was a Damon-less Graham.

Graham could always get laughs out of the audience with far more ease than he could. Damon's set to appear on the same show in about a month with Alex and Dave to promote the new godforsaken album, the Graham-less album with a gaping hole, an open wound seeping at its center, where he's sure he’ll have to field the dreaded question. What happened with Graham?

Damon asks himself that question, often. What happened?  He still isn't sure. The event at its core is less like a memory and more like a recurring nightmare, the room resurfacing in his mind dark and heavy, apocalyptic. An inky swamp of the feelings they all wanted to avoid, the suppressed finally screaming up to the surface. Damon feeling hopelessly abandoned. Graham telling the band he didn’t want to be there with everything but his words. There were screams, and tears, and snarling words Damon wishes now he’d forget. Then, just like that, Graham was leaving again, as inevitable as the sun setting. The entire episode of Graham’s departure, too painful to recount to others, was like pulling a knife out of a stab wound for hope of quicker healing, he’d thought. Everything would be alright one day, he’d hoped. Two years later, it was not.

He’s already done an interview, where a smug journalist had snuck in a question about Graham, catching him off guard. Does it feel strange playing without Graham?

“Course it does,” he’d said. He'd left it there. It was like trying to walk on a ghost limb. Being left at the altar but carrying around the engagement ring anyway. Because you couldn’t pry it off. Because it was something you couldn’t give back, melded into you same as your skin. That was the trick to getting him to diverge his endless wandering speech and shut up, it seemed. Asking about Graham.

The trouble is, without the reminders delivered like a heavy, concussive blow to the head by television and magazines, Damon can’t get Graham’s sorry image out of his head. He's been able to get through the years without him just fine, however haunted. He’d rather have Graham in his life than not, but whatever. It’s fine. He'd thought that those urges would have cooled by now. But there started the same stirring in his gut. How does he live? What’s in his fridge? Does he keep a garden? Has he cleared all the shit cluttering his bedroom floors? What new shit has he found? How does he kiss now? Is it any different? Is he any better at it than he was in their 20s? Is he any bolder? Or is he just as desperate every time, as if it were the first?

He’s always known Graham would prove inextricable from his heart but hadn't expected such thoughts to come back in full force. Especially since they don’t particularly like each other at the moment.

Graham’s been on his revenge crusade, taking any and every opportunity to slag him off in the press. In his latest turn, Damon was revealed as a “heartless megalomaniac” who had dragged Graham around the world kicking and screaming against his will. So he could add kidnapping to the list of his alleged crimes against humanity. As if they hadn’t made promises to each other when they were younger than they could remember, entranced by the starry secret world of their shared dream. As if he was chaining Graham to a pole, forcing him into any of this. As if he’d enjoyed none of it.

Damon’s last few years have been star-studded, enough excitement to inflate his ego ten more sizes— but in his quiet, he was still licking his wounds, recovering from such whiplash. His old self had been ensnared by wolves, torn to pieces, roots ripped out of the ground at the turn of the new century. A breakup. A new girlfriend. A new baby. Another breakup, perhaps even more devastating, but less permanent. A new band. A new album. Or two. An expedition to Mali, another to Morocco with Alex and Dave for a contractually required Blur album, Graham's absence heavy on their heads at every second. An impending tour for said miserable Graham-less album. A new flat with Jamie, an ex-friend of Graham's, another thing wedged in between him and Graham at the moment. Nonstop parties drowning out the persistent noise the 90s left behind.

Often his life feels too-new, too unrecognizable from the decade before. He’s a bit sore with the novelty of it all, feeling like a skinned animal turned inside out with all the soft, fleshy spots showing, his nerves all exposed to harsh daylight. He wonders if people can tell. He’d dispelled his manic fresh-wound energy into debauchery-laden parties with Jamie. Some of his most debaucherous party memories could now be placed in that year.

He can recall as well as an old song the way nights in the ‘90s used to go: if he and Graham were in the same room, at the same party, without sufficient distractions, they’d end up entangled and love-bruised by the end of the night. A rock, when pushed down a hill, tumbles to the bottom. Damon and Graham, when inebriated at a party, snog each other stupid. It didn’t matter if they were on good terms or not, but that would increase their already high chances. His tongue down Graham’s throat. Graham and him rutting in the back of the tour bus. Graham and him in the bathroom. Graham pressed up against a tiled wall panting into Damon’s smile-curled mouth. Graham’s teeth against his neck in the back of a dimly lit club whose name they were both too buzzed to remember. Their clothes tightening around them, more oppressive by the minute. Jamie and him are still attached at the hip, occasionally rowdy and handsy, but never quite like that. Probably why their friendship feels more stable.

There hadn’t been a single party at his and Jamie's flat where, by the end of the night, the most obscene memory possible with Graham at its center hadn’t floated its stubborn way into the front of his mind. And now they aren't speaking to each other at all. And will not for an indefinite time. And the silence never dims in its violence. They're both older now, allegedly wiser but the opposite in practice. Frayed at the edges by the years like old but resilient jeans.

There's no time to ruminate, but that's all Damon's done so far this year, mid-ceremony, mid-concert, mid-everything. He has speeches to give in near time, a family to maintain, piles of work to do. What fills his mind in the thick stillness of silence, though, is Graham and his permanent pout, eyes like dark beads of hardened honey.

They hadn't shared a hotel room in a while, not since Parklife when they'd finally made enough money to buy four separate rooms. Last time they shared, they’d argued over something as stupid as leaving the lights on, then called it off at a standstill, and as Graham was silent with his back turned to him in bed, Damon had pulled him close. And snuck a hand over the front of his sweatpants to meet the very hardness he’d suspected he'd find.

Sure enough, they’d fallen into their usual bouts of stress relief. A very friendly reach-around for peacemaking’s sake. After some time: a flushed Graham with Damon's come staining the band of his sweatpants. Complaining that he’d have to buy a new pair as Damon snickered. Graham with Damon's come on the sliver of skin by his dark happy trail. Another filthy image pops up in Damon’s head, this time imagined, of Graham with Damon's come dripping down his face like sugary glaze. At that image, a sharp rush of blood beelines its way to Damon’s cock.

"Fuck," Damon sighs.

He can’t toss himself right now. He’s pissed. He’s tired. He’s been given the wrong room. He’s running on three hours of sleep. And a crick in his neck from nodding off in the car. Despite the growing list of grievances that demand more of his attention, he’s still so angry with Graham it makes him see white. The kind of angry that stems from a broken heart at the center.

If he’s so mad, why’s he so hard?

Sometimes Damon scares himself.

Surely, it's beyond time to move on, but he can't seem to do so. Nostalgia licks at him like a fire, or a warm tongue dragging across the seam of his jaw. Beneath the desire to distance himself from Graham was the desire to collide, to smash themselves together again and again until all the tensions of the universe gave in and erupted, reverse Big-Banged and nothing else was left.

There’s only one thing to do, though, about the growing hardness in his briefs. Damon pulls his jeans down to his ankles and palms himself over his underwear, hissing at the contact.

He takes himself out of his briefs, fist squeezing at his base. When it comes to Graham, he doesn’t have to dream. Just remember. Recall. Reality sweeter than any dream. He picks a particularly visceral memory: Graham returning the favor after Damon had given him a blowjob the previous night on the tour bus. 1992, driving through the yellowing, winding roads of sweetgrass America, whistling into the wind and missing home. Graham pulling off as the bumpy road made his tipsy blowjob efforts less than smooth. The laughter that followed. 

Damon speeds up his fist, sighing as a thousand buildings collapse in his head.

Graham’s in his head now, kneeling by his bunk, his dizzied eyes glued to Damon’s cock, leaning in to nuzzle it as Damon struggles to stay still. Graham with his mouth full of cock, his eyes drooping shut slow as molasses. Tired, dark undereyes, looking indifferent to the world but floating the surface of cock-drunk. Damon taps his cock lightly against Graham’s pink cheek. Graham moans, downy as a pillow, his exhale fluttering against Damon’s skin. Damon recalls Graham swallowing him halfway down to his base. Graham’s hips grinding up against his calf. Damon barely keeping his calf still. Emerging victorious against the near impossible.

Graham whispering against his inner thigh, Sorry Day, I’m here now. I still need you.

The fog clears in astounding speed as there’s a rustling at the door.

"Oh, shit,” gasps a disembodied voice.

Damon’s heart plummets. In his horny daze he hadn’t heard the door opening.

A slanted, half-whispered "Hello," is all that escapes him, swiftly cut off by the sound of whoever it was slamming the doorway shut just as quickly as they’d opened it.

Half a minute and half a heart attack later, Damon’s managed to pull up his pants and the door cracks open again as a thin slit of light spills through.

A disembodied voice creaks through again, "Sorry, I- they gave me this room. I think it’s. It’s my room. I’m quite sure this is the right one, but maybe I’ve made a mistake and it’s another 311—"

The voice is familiar. Too familiar. It can’t be—

“This is the one they gave me—” Damon starts, but he cuts himself off as the door opens further and the disembodied voice is given a face and— oh.

That’s how Damon sees Graham again. In a military-green button up unfamiliar to Damon, only buttoned half the way, clean shaven, the warm light from the hotel corridor burning around him. In a new pair of glasses Damon has never seen before, pushed up atop his head. Lightly different from the Graham in Damon’s wank-dream. Flushed, as if he could read Damon’s mind and knew the filth he’d been replaying.

Damon’s too shell-shocked to make any logical movements, half-convinced he’s conjured him with his mind. Maybe he’s a hallucination. Speak of the devil, or wank about him. 

Graham’s eyes widen, expression pale like he’s seen a ghost. Maybe he has. He darts back out the door before Damon can speak another word.

Graham knocks and appears again as Damon’s flipping through his itinerary on the desk about an hour later, sheepishly entering the room.

“Hello,” Graham sighs in a shaky voice, his arms stuck to his sides.

“Hello,” Damon replies, turning around in his chair to face him. It comes out much quieter than he’d intended.

The silence that follows is excruciating. Damon begs him to break it.

"Uh. So. The front desk has a daft sense of humor."

Graham ruffles his hair at the back, a gesture so familiar to Damon it makes his heart twist. My god. He’s still real and in front of him. Further molded by all the more life lived, apparent on him. A life to which Damon was not privy.

"I think someone at the desk saw our names and assumed we were appearing jointly. So I reckon they haven't read the papers in two years. Or turned on their TV."

Oh fuck. That’s rich.

“Can’t they just give one of us another room?” Damon asks.

Graham sighs, putting his hands on his hips, gaze drifting downward. “They’ve said every room is booked as of the present, and that it can’t be fixed until morning. And a million sorries for the inconvenience.”

“I’ll just book another hotel, then,” Damon grumbles.

“Right. I asked if they could help with that, at least, but it’s quite the busy weekend apparently, and all the hotels around us are booked as well.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Damon sighs.

“I know. Why don’t they just pin me to the cliffside and send over a pack of vultures while they’re at it?” Graham throws down his satchel and groans.

There’s Graham. Calm and collected as ever. Damon chuckles dryly and rubs his hands over his eyes, willing himself to problem-solve in the face of such a predicament.

“Maybe they’ve just told you that to get you to piss off. I can go down and get them to fix it?”

Graham bristles at that. “You reckon you’ve got magic powers I don’t?”

“I think there’s a chance I can get another room, yes.”

Graham's silent for a bit, works his jaw in irritation and stokes a thick, heavy moment, like he's weighing whether or not to say whatever thorny thought Damon's prompted in his head. It seems he decides against it.

“Unless you’d like to drive two or three hours out and wake up three hours earlier tomorrow morning to make the ceremony, this is the lot we’re in,” Graham groans. "It's not my preference at all, I'm sure you know," he adds.

He does know. Graham’s “preferences” were the occasional focus of his strife, all his distressing wandering through the dark halls of memory. As uncomfortable as this is, there is a strange comfort in the sight of Graham.

“Well. Just till morning. It’s good to see you, anyway,” Damon tries. They could do with temporary niceties for both their sakes.

Graham gives him a pointed look. It says bullshit. Flattens his lips into a tight line.

“Yeah,” Graham says. Curt. “I’ll be in the lobby. Give us both space.”

He darts out the door again, leaving Damon alone, waiting for his pulse to slow down.

Graham returns around an hour later with a pack of cigarettes and a snack from the front lobby. He makes an immediate run for the opposite side of the room, rearranging his bags by the side of the opposite bed.

He sits on the pillow-near edge of his bed, fishes a cigarette out of the pack and a lighter out of his pocket. He pushes the cigarette in between his lips and half-turns his back to Damon to flick the lighter alive and light the naked tobacco at the cigarette’s end. Damon bears witness to it all from the corner of his eye.

“I heard you’re playing something at this ceremony,” Damon tries. He can only half-remember what it’s even for. Celebrating someone. Or something. 

“Yeah,” Graham says.

“Anything new?”

“I did put out an album last year,” Graham sighs.

Damon knows. He listens to all of Graham’s releases. Every single one, top to bottom. He’s got a pile of Graham CDs tucked away in his dresser up in Notting Hill. He's a bit embarrassed he doesn’t have to ask much about Graham’s set because he can already guess what it might be. Zero Blur songs, for one.

“I’ve heard it, yeah,” Damon says. He’s always in a far more confessional mood around Graham than he ever expects to be.

A silence shoves its way between them.

“Did you?” Graham asks, fully turning his body to face Damon across the room. Damon nods.

Graham furrows his eyebrows, removing the cigarette from his lips. “And?”

“What?”

“Go on.”

“I liked it.”

Graham’s eyes narrow, face twisting into a scowl. “You liked it."

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Damon says. He has no desire to argue with Graham about music. Not anymore. That had been sewn up, hadn't it?

“That’s bollocks.”

“You want me to give you an album review?”

“When have you ever listened to an album and thought hmm. I like it. Nice, that. And that was it. That’s all you had to say?”

Damon pauses. Glances at Graham’s veiny hands fidgeting around his cigarette. Wonders if Graham thinks he’s demonstrated any desire to know what he thinks in the last three years.

“I wouldn’t think you'd want anything more from me.”

Graham’s eyes harden further. “I don’t want lies,” he grits.

“No lies.”

Graham’s fully frowning now. He’d be shit at poker, Damon thinks.

“You think it’s shit.”

Damon throws up his hands. “I said I liked it.”

“I don’t know why you would.”

“Why not?”

Graham chuckles. “It’s folky. And I’ve not got a single one about you on there, I’ll have you know. Whatever the press says.”

That elicits a dry, humorless chuckle from Damon. “That’s fine, Graham,” he sighs.

“Right. That’s fine. And funny, apparently. And you liked my album. And all is well and hunky dory, yeah?”

“I’m being well polite. Fuck off.”

“Right. Good luck with your singing cartoons,” Graham scowls, fitting his cigarette back between his lips to take a long, labored drag.

A frown erupts on Damon’s face as he shakes his head, his muscles spent knitting his eyebrows together. Is another mad episode between them imminent? Just how far would they make it tonight?

“Shouldn’t we be civil? We’re sharing a room.”

“I’m plenty civil,” Graham says, “Given the situation.”

“Right, you’re always civil. So eager to please.”

Graham pouts. “No, you don’t know me there anymore, Damon. I’m actually quite peaceful these days. I’m just aggravated around you.”

Damon turns away, resigned to avoiding eye contact. He could usually be confrontational, unafraid to address any and everything that needed to be addressed. Keen on speaking his mind. But this— this is too much. This is too heart-close, too tender. There's too much of himself here. Too painful to discuss. Better to avoid. What was the use in discussing what was already over and well-worn between them?

Damon nods. Sure. “We don’t have to speak. Just cohabitate until the morning. I’m perfectly fine doing that. We’re both adults.”

“That we are. But if I had it my way, believe me, I’d save us both the trouble and sleep outside on the dirty grass.”

Right. Damon sighs. “I’ll be in the shower.”

Damon sets the shower as high as he can tolerate and sighs at the warm, ticklish contact of the water stream against his skin. He takes his time letting it soak him, savoring his respite from the thick tension awaiting him outside the door.

Graham. It’s Graham again. Just outside the door. Traipsing around. Or sulking, more likely. With his dark eyes and easy blush and insistent stare. Damon's heart needs time to recover from the sight of him alone.

He does look healthier, now. A few years ago he would’ve thrown a proper tantrum by now and trashed the room in a drunken rage. Now, he’s less than pleasant, but Damon knows the sharp comments will never end with Graham; the same instincts brought forth the impish wit that had made Damon want to glue himself to Graham in the first place. If Damon’s not the one taking care of Graham right now, he hopes someone else has been doing a good job keeping him in check. He wonders how often Graham has sex these days. And whether or not it’s always with his girlfriend. What he likes, what he asks for. What he doesn't. 

Graham had been reddening in the face a few minutes ago, however motivated it had been by frustration. Damon wonders how far that red could spread, how he’d have reacted if Damon had the energy to push his buttons a little harder. If he could just get a hand in Graham’s hair…

It gets away from him like a ball rolling down a hill into another yard. Oops. Damon wonders if Graham’s as hormone-driven now as he had been half a decade ago when they spent almost all their time with each other in crowded dressing rooms and tour buses. Forced to accommodate each other. Managing the tightened fists and explosions of libido. Rutting against each other in tight spaces. Dealing with it. There’s Graham in his head again, drooling against his neck, just under his pierced ear, hand fumbling along the denim covering his half-unzipped crotch as he rolls his hips, whispering, Dames, in raspy, drunken disbelief, You’re so hard.

Damon curses himself as his dick twitches.

He’s growing hard again. His hard-on is stiff and unrelenting between his legs. Oh, fuck it. Maybe it’s fine. Maybe Graham won’t hear him. Maybe he’s not even here. Maybe Graham’s stormed out of the room again, frustrated with the inextricable Damon of it all. Maybe Damon needs this, satisfaction delayed since Graham had interrupted him earlier.

Damon wraps his hand around the base of his hard-on, hissing at the contact. He tries a tentative up-down motion and sighs at the relief. So it’s decided, then. The hot stream of water continues to pour over his head as the steam envelops him.

He figures the water is loud enough.

When Damon emerges from the shower with his towel slung low at his hips, the sun has since gone down. It smells like tea and sandalwood, something vaguely familiar, that Damon can’t quite place. Graham’s leaning against the wall just beside the shower, near Damon’s bed, frowning with his arms crossed. His glasses shoved back atop his head, garden tools nestled atop a flowerbed. Sleep sweatpants and a tight grey t-shirt straining around his shoulders and his waist, a sliver of skin peeking out by his happy trail, Damon notes. He looks good in it. His hair’s too well-combed, though. Damon wants to tousle it.

Graham’s glare is burning holes straight through him as he pulls a shirt on.

“What?” Damon sighs.

“Were you wanking in the shower?”

Oops. Damon freezes for a half a second. “Uh. Why?”

“Not sure how thick you think the walls are here. I can fucking hear you.”

“I-”

"Is this part of the same pisstake as before?"

"What?"

"Before. You fucking— wanking. As I'm walking in. As if you couldn't hear— was that some kind of, I don't know, did you think I'd be intimidated or something? Some kind of prattish maneuver, I walk in and you've got your cock out—"

Damon scoffs. "You can't be serious, Graham."

“I might be. I don’t know anymore, with you.”

“No, I was not trying to intimidate you.” Damon sucks his teeth, muttering as he looks down, “And I thought you knowing too well was the issue.”

Graham bulldozes right through that. “The issue is whatever stunt you’re pulling.”

“I thought I was in a private room. Alone,” Damon mutters, hand tight along his towel. “I hadn’t a single clue I’d see you. Not here, talk less of the entire year. And it’s quite embarrassing, being interrupted mid-wank. Any more precious questions?”

Graham looks away, arms still crossed tight as a rope. “Nope,” he sighs.

A silence pounds at Damon’s ears. There’s an opportunity to poke Bastard Graham right back, and he’s too annoyed to let it go.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, anyway.”

Graham stills at that, his eyes flitting straight to Damon’s. After an intense second, Graham pries his gaze away as quickly as he’d placed it, like a palm jolting away from a hot stovetop.

Graham gives a short, humorless chuckle and shakes his head.

“You were wanking in the shower then. Not bothering to deny it,” Graham presses.

“I’m a grown man,” Damon grits through his teeth, “and I’ve to put my fucking trousers on, if you don’t mind.”

Graham doesn’t move, just averts his eyes to the floor as Damon drops his towel and pulls on a new pair of briefs and the same jeans as before.

“Don’t know why you didn’t put your trousers on in the bathroom, knowing you’re not on your own in here,” Graham says. “I’d rather you just fuck off to the lobby bathrooms next time you want to wank. Or just wait till I’m not here.”

“Are you determined to be a cunt to me this entire time?”

“If you’re to keep doing that, yes,” Graham says. “Don’t need to spend my time listening to you wank. If you want to be a cunt back, I reckon you can send your cartoon goons after me, and I’ll run away with my pants down like in Scooby Doo. Well fun, that’ll be. Otherwise, I’m polite.”

“Okay,” Damon says. The Gorillaz digs are set to continue.

Damon grabs his belt from the suitcase shoved underneath his bed, starts to thread it through his belt loops.

“I have needs. As I’m sure you do,” Damon mutters. He walks past where Graham has boxed him in, his side brushing against Graham’s folded arms. He draws the curtains.

Graham calls again from the other side of the room. “So pent-up day-to-day that you need to wank in the shower to self-regulate? Can’t postpone it a few hours?”

“My sex life’s been just fine, thank you. Plenty enjoyable.”

“Didn’t ask about your sex life, mate,” Graham says.

Mate. Graham never made much of a habit of calling him mate. Damon walks towards Graham again, where he’s still standing against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Yes, you have. Just now. Quite plainly. Mate,” Damon sneers, “And it’s great. My libido’s up, as you can see.”

“No, I haven’t. I don’t care.”

Damon looks down and sees a solid bulge poking through the front of Graham’s sweatpants, and feels like laughing. And he does laugh. Loudly. And takes a step closer. It pisses him off a bit, frankly, that Graham's hard. 

“Right and that’s evidence, yeah? Of how little you care,” Damon chortles, gesturing to Graham’s hard-on.

“That’s got nothing to do with you,” Graham says, flustered, hands instinctively moving to cover his crotch.

“Really?” Damon asks, raising his eyebrows as he looks around them, making sure to be as theatrical as possible. The room’s empty. “Wondering who else in here could've prompted that.”

That tea and sandalwood scent is insistent, wafting in the air around them. It’s stronger in front of Graham, now. Wait a minute. Damon grabs Graham’s wrist. Raises it to his nose and sniffs.

Graham’s breath hitches as he tries to pull his wrist away, but Damon tightens his grip.

“What are y-”

“This is my cologne.”

“Wh-”

“Did you use my cologne?”

“No. I-”

“Yes, you bloody did. I know this is mine. I’m asking as a nicety.”

“I’ve had this for a while.”

“Yeah, you got it from me. However long ago. It’s okay, though. It smells nice on you.”

Something about that, though, raises Damon’s blood temperature.

“You’ve been carrying around my cologne?” Damon says again.

Graham flusters, eyes darting across the floor. “I didn’t know it was yours. I figured it was something I picked up on tour travels.”

“You did. From me.”

Damon meets Graham’s gaze, his eyes suddenly afraid and searching. There’s a buzz about the room that won’t quit. It’s amplified by whatever this is, thumping and wrestling in his chest. It was pulpy, real. Raw as any natural thing. 

“Mate,” Damon parrots from earlier. “Are we mates?”

Graham just chuckles, humorless, back still pressed to the wall behind him. His boner not disappearing.

There it is again— the desire to yank his proverbial pearl necklace and watch the beads spill everywhere. Or make like two deer and bash their antlers together. To crash himself into Graham, overwhelm him, to prove to him something. To bulldoze this wild field. For proof of this thorny feeling for which he was at fault. This bullheaded thing Graham had given him, or perhaps they’d given each other, that neither could seem to retract. He wants to smash their bodies together as much as he wants to pry them apart.

There’s the familiar knot in his chest. Damon runs his thumb in circles over the supple skin by Graham’s wrist.

“I used to kiss you here after the good shows. Remember?”

“Damon. Get off.”

“And we’d snog after the really good shows. You still like when someone—”

“Remember when you tried to get me to blow you in the back of a club in Amsterdam, and I was not fucking interested ‘cause you’d pissed me off that day, for I can’t even remember what, so I made you wank in the bathroom with your back turned to me?”

It’s Damon’s turn to blush.

“Don’t start cruelty with me. You won’t win it,” Graham grumbles.

Damon knows that’s true. But he can’t bring himself to let go of Graham’s wrist, now that he’s got it.

There’s an awkward moment— Damon thinks he’ll try to pull Graham into a hug, rid of all this tension by force, as best he can. But Graham moves the other way to push him— It’s a poorly timed maneuver on both their ends, and they stumble face to face, closer than they have been in years.

“Damon. Stop.”

They’re locked in a gaze.

“You stop. Cunt.”

Damon’s seen some photos and videos of Graham playing acoustic sets at random venues. Acoustic. He used to have to beg Graham to whip out his acoustic guitar. To no avail. Damon’s learned that you can’t spend your time sitting around begging Graham to see things your way. Sometimes you just have to show him your way. Push him down that hill.

Graham shoves him first, though, to his surprise, and he lands harshly, knocked onto his ass on his bed. Damon recovers quick, standing up to grab Graham by the shoulders and shake him.

“Fucking get off,” Graham says, wriggling against the wall.

"Shh."

"Wh-"

"Shh, Graham. Shut up.”

Graham does still at that, surprisingly, pouting and puzzled.

He’s not sure what exactly prompts it— muscle memory, maybe, old habits not as buried as he’d hope— but they lock into the charged current between them and, within a few seconds of their eyes locking, their faces lean together like magnets, and their lips press against each other for the first time in years.

It’s soft for the first millisecond, but almost immediately after, Graham kisses him back with a crushing fierceness, almost violent. Damon tries to reclaim hold of the situation, holding Graham’s face in both hands and kissing him firm and desperate. Damon sucks on Graham’s lower lip, then catches the plush pink between his teeth. Graham exhales hard and pushes him off, his pupils blown wide. Damon’s puzzled for the two seconds it takes for Graham to push his mouth against his again.

Damon presses himself against Graham and their clothed hips meet. Only then does Damon realize he’s hard too, now, so hard he can barely think straight. He doesn't want to think straight right now, though. In this situation that's near impossible.

Damon groans and starts to unbuckle his leather belt. They might as well. Graham’s gaze follows his down, his head lowering to watch Damon’s quick handiwork as he tosses it onto the floor.

“Wh-”

“Shut up,” Damon says.

Graham pulls Damon in by his belt loops to kiss him again. He’s adept at kissing Graham despite the lack of recent practice, sliding his tongue along Graham’s and gliding their lips together like it’s what they were put on this earth to do together. Other than music, of course. Graham traps Damon’s bottom lip between his teeth, then lets it roll free slowly. He grabs Damon’s ass, pushing his hips harder against his own as he shoves his tongue inside Damon’s mouth. Damon’s gasp muffled by said tongue.

"Mmmf," Damon hums, sucking on Graham's tongue as it leaves his mouth. 

"I thought you said shh,” Graham retorts.

Damon bites his lip back so hard it makes him shut up. He bucks forward against Graham and in an attempt to grab Graham’s hair, knocks his glasses off the top of his head.

Damon notices before Graham does, and briefly turns to see it topple to the ground a few feet away from them. Graham, dizzy, follows Damon’s gaze.

“Shit. Don’t step on those or I’ll bill you,” Graham pants.

Damon backs up, single-minded now. He takes Graham by the shoulders, turns him around and pushes him down onto the bed. Graham yelps as his back hits the mattress and Damon crawls on top of him, caging him in and pressing him down. When their hips meet again, the hardness behind his jeans presses against Graham’s, and he gasps so loud he figures their neighbors might’ve heard it.

They’re rolling their hips together now, speed increasing as they rut against each other ragged and desperate. Nothing elegant about it.

If he could, Damon would like to just bend him over the hotel room desk and call it a night. Show him how consumed he’s really been by all of this. Just how much it’s been plaguing his mind. Just the kinds of thoughts he evades at night.

He should’ve known they might end up this way eventually. He’s been hoping so. He just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

You arse, he thinks. You left me. You didn't want to be with me. You were sick of me and you nearly sent yourself to the hospital because of it. I finally woke up to that fact. I slapped myself in the face with it. I made arrangements accordingly.

In a mean streak prompted by that reminder, Damon moves his head back as Graham leans in to reconnect their mouths. A whine escapes Graham’s lips at the tease. Graham goes pliant against him like he knew things were heading this way. Like he was waiting for this. Like he was certain of its inevitability.

“Please,” Graham breathes, nearly done fighting. “You bastard.”'

Damon leans down to that soft spot behind the jut of Graham’s jaw he loves so, plants his lips there and sucks.

Graham gasps. “Wait. Day– Damon. Don’t–”

“Please, Damon. Don’t, Damon. You’re so indecisive. Which is it?”

“Fuck off,” Graham whispers, all the hardness evaporated, sounding more like Yes God than a curse. “I don’t want any marks on me,” He breathes, fisting at the lower hem of Damon’s shirt. Damon sighs and diverts his attention lower.

Damon drags down the waistband of Graham’s sweatpants, trailing open-mouth wet kisses down Graham’s pelvis. He yanks his underwear waistband low enough for Graham’s reddening, leaking cock to spring free. Damon glances up at Graham’s flushed, pleading face, then back down to his cock, and thinks he’ll never tire at the sight.

He works his jaw, collecting spit in his mouth, and spits directly onto the swollen head of Graham’s cock. Graham flinches, a groan escaping his throat.

“I want you, Day. Stay here, Day. I hate you, Day, you’ve ruined my life. Can you suck my cock?” Damon huffs. Graham is lithe beneath him, weak and mewling.

‘Fucking which is it?”

Damon doesn’t give him the chance to answer as he strokes him hard and fast, his fist thudding over the base again and again in relentless fervor. Hard because it’s how he feels, walls fortified as much as ever. Hard because he knows Graham wants it that way, punishing in force but not in effect. He looks at Graham’s face, pink all over and twisted in pleasure. His eyebrows are knit together, sweat pooling by his tousled hairline. Damon wants to kiss the little wrinkle there. He pointedly does not.

“Fuck you,” Graham whispers, flushed.

Damon’s eyes roam across his blissful face, wanting to memorize it this way, in case he doesn’t see him like this again for a long while. Damon goes back to bite Graham’s neck, more teeth this time than tongue. Graham moans, high-pitched and helpless, gripping Damon’s shoulder like a lifeline.

“You fucking prick,” Damon breathes, leaning back in to plant a wet kiss on Graham’s neck. “You’re so hard,” he whispers, in partial awe. He nips again at the sensitive bit of warm skin behind the jut of Graham’s jaw, just under his ear. He still wants to leave some kind of mark on Graham, anything as proof that this happened. So he can't just run away the next morning and go on with his life pretending it hadn’t. 

It’s reminiscent of those old nights a decade ago, where he’d grab Graham in the back of a dingy club and kiss him stupid before sucking a bruise into his neck. 

Graham seems to be thinking the same, and his hips stutter, thrusting up into Damon’s hand.

Graham gasps against Damon’s spit-glossed lips, wriggling below him, an animal caught in a trap, stuck somewhere between embarrassment, rage and blinding desire. A satisfying sight to Damon. He’s gripping Damon’s shoulders so tightly his fingers might leave a mark pressing against the skin there. He screws his eyes shut and fucks his hips up into Damon’s tight fist with wild abandon, like a dam inside him has ruptured. His eyebrows are still knit together like he’s frustrated with himself for letting this happen at all, but evidently Damon has him so worked up that his need to come is outweighing his need to argue.

Graham thrusts his hips up even faster into Damon’s hand now, a frenzied, chaotic rhythm, his breaths harsh and labored. His heated gaze keeps darting between Damon’s eyes, lips, and hand around his cock, transfixed. Frustrated tears start to well in Graham's eyes, and his lower lip starts to wobble into another pout. Damon can’t believe it.

“You're fucking my hand and you're telling me you don’t care,” Damon huffs into Graham’s neck. 

“I thought we were shutting up,” Graham gasps. 

“You are. Not we.” 

Graham groans and picks up his pace. 

The thought enters his head that maybe they’re too old now for this shit. Or maybe they never will be. The thought disappears just as quickly as Graham grabs his hard-on through his jeans. He unzips. Damon figures he must be single-minded if he arrived there in his horny daze.

Damon can’t even track how quickly Graham shoves down his jeans and underwear in one fell swoop and grabs the base of his weeping cock.

“Fuck. N- wait. Fuck,” Damon pants.  

Graham wants payback, maybe, and starts slamming his fist down on him so hard and fast he feels like the building might explode, or maybe just him.

“Oh, shit. Graham,” Damon pants. “Yes. Oh—”

It’s all fatally familiar, their muscles straining in delicious, exhilarating pain, neither of them able to track how they've even gotten here.

“Wait. fuck. stop.”

Damon grabs Graham’s wrist and pries his hand off his cock. Graham’s face falls for a second, before Damon pushes him down, back against the bed.

“Let’s– Unh. Here–” Damon takes them both in one hand, and the second their cocks meet, it’s searing heat, nearly unbearable. Graham fucks his hips up into that hand, impatient. They both groan at the friction of their cocks pressed together, slick and dizzying.

“Ohhhh fuck,” Graham drawls, eyes drifting shut.

Damon starts stroking them both properly then, his wrist already going sore as he picks up speed.

It’s rough, and almost painful, but perfect in a way. His mind is stilling into blissful, crackling static. Part of it all makes him want to sob. Beneath the dizzying soup of arousal is a dark pit in Damon’s gut. But fuck, he loves him. It’s incurable. 

Damon thinks for a second about fucking him. Holding him down and just pushing inside. Graham breaking apart around him.

He doubts Graham would let him, right now. But then again, he didn’t think he’d have Graham’s cock in hand at all an hour ago.  He might let Graham fuck him, if he wants. He might want Graham to, if they do this another time. He might want Graham to break him apart the same way.

Damon screws his eyes shut and keeps sliding his hips forward and back, panting with his head lowered into the crook of Graham’s neck.

Graham, soft all of a sudden, grabs a fistful of hair at the back of Damon’s head and kisses him deeply. Open and sloppy, but tender as he can get. Damon moans and hums into his mouth.

Damon knew he’d get this way, all soft and pleading, flushed red nearly everywhere and half out of his mind, he just wasn’t sure when. All the brutality melts away to reveal passion at the jagged core. Like violent waves smoothing the rocky crags on the seashore. It’s exhilarating, but it also makes Damon want to sob. The whole thing between them is so gory and tangled— he’s got an inkling but it’ll take years to decipher it all. It’ll take them both a while, maybe their entire lives. 

Damon thrusts again and again to meet Graham, and it’s so good he thinks they’ll create enough friction to start a fire, or another universe, all on their own. Damon presses their foreheads together, refusing to let Graham escape their eye contact.

“Fucking come on, then.”

“Oh fuck–”

Damon gives another hard thrust and Graham’s come shoots up his stomach as he gasps, spilling on his t-shirt and over the head of Damon’s cock. The sight of that sends another shock of heat to his cock and Damon thinks he might be done soon, because it’s all more than he can handle, more than he thought he’d encounter today at all. He feels like laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, but he’s far too hard for the joke to penetrate the fog of his single-minded orgasm chase.

Damon’s still stroking them together at lightning speed, his grip around their cocks as tight as ever, and Graham keens. He loosens his grip on them both, aiming to toss himself off, but Graham whines at the lack of contact.

“No, no, come back, don’t stop,” Graham sobs. Damon thinks about how, twenty minutes ago, Graham was barking at him, and before then, Graham had gotten as much space between them as he could, as fast as he could, like Damon had the plague, sore spots and everything. And now was writhing below him.

At a particularly pornographic whine from Graham, Damon screws his eyes shut and squeezes them both together, tighter than before. Graham’s practically got him in a headlock, his arms wrapped around Damon’s neck.

Graham’s going uh, uh, uh, in pliant little mewls punctuated by Damon’s fist hitting the base of their joined bodies. Damon remembers Graham could sound like this, but he’s forgotten just how visceral it could be hitting his ears. It's unfair. Instantly, Damon’s hurtling towards climax faster than before, speed practically breakneck, Graham hitting the gas over and over, whether he likes it or not. Damon feels like the weaker of them two.

“Come,” Graham pleads in a near unintelligible streak of desperate moans, “Comecomecome comeonme pleaseplease oh Imissit–”

That sets Damon off. In a matter of seconds, the head of Damon’s cock catches under Graham’s, and his orgasm's ripped out of him, and in the ten seconds he whites out, he thinks he might've broken the sound barrier.

“Ohhh, shit, Ah-” Damon whines, panting open-mouthed like an animal as his come spills out of him, and onto Graham’s wilting cock and heaving chest. Damon realize they've both basically still got their clothes on, heaving and come-stained by a runaway moment, and it's so familiar, all of it. The nostalgia stings.

"Fuckfuckfuck," rushes in falsetto out of Damon's mouth. Graham’s still making soft noises into his ear, and Damon thinks he wants to make him come over and over till he cries. Not tonight, though. Tonight is a mirage, he figures. A shimmering island an ocean away. Damon’s mind is still a tightly wound fist.

Their breathing gradually slows down. There’s a darker feeling lurking beneath the high of the moment that Damon’s determined to stave off for later.

“Should we be nice for the rest of the night, then?” Damon croaks into Graham’s ear, his voice nearly gone.

“Mmm,” Graham nods, stretched drowsy by his orgasm.

After they settle into a comfortable silence, Damon slowly extricates himself from the tangle of limbs. He falls back into bed next to Graham, watching him as he drifts off.

He looks over at Graham and the solid reality of his body. He can see his pores, the swell of his cheek and the little brunette hairs by his nape too short to register from far away. He can see the impact breath takes on his body. See him moving and existing, the way the air splits around him, for him. Something he hasn’t gotten to see in nearly two years. 

He finds himself grateful. He wonders if Graham feels the same.

Damon glances at the bed on the other side of the room, still primly made and unused, and chuckles before drifting off into sleep a few minutes later.

Damon wakes up the next morning with a dull headache pulsing at his temples.

He blinks, rubbing at his eyes and clearing the drowsy fog to find the spot next to him in bed vacated. Sheets still rumpled. He sits up to scan the room and finds Graham’s luggage is gone too. The bed on the other side of the room still untouched. The space beside Damon is haphazardly made, as if Graham had left in a hurry. To find his own room, he figures.

The air is thick and asphyxiating. Sure as anything, Graham's gone again. There’s the feeling Damon had dreaded, sinking deep in his chest. What else could he have expected, really?

Damon wonders if he'd imagined it all. Figures things would sit lighter if he had.