by Peter Styles
Jordan looks confused, breaking away when he feels the plastic pressed into his palm. Damian takes the chance to reach between them, wanting to touch, and he knows he’s successful when Jordan cries out and almost falls onto him.
“Hey. Shouldn’t you be helping me get ready?” Damian laughs. His heart is thundering in his chest and he can already feel heat and anticipation curling below his stomach. Jordan sighs into his neck, the sound tinged with something wistful and pleased.
The smugness Damian feels evaporates quickly when he feels a hand exploring, pressing against him, slick and warm. He can barely focus on touching Jordan, too caught up in the feeling of the man stretching him slowly. Damian wants to beg him to move faster, do more, but he knows better—and he wants to enjoy the time they have, when they have it. Or so he tells himself, repeating the words over and over in his mind until he’s too overcome to form a coherent thought.
“Good?” Jordan asks, his voice just as uneven as Damian feels.
“Yes, good, great,” Damian says, well aware that he’s rambling, but he can’t remember how to string together a proper sentence with the way Jordan is touching him. “Please hurry. I can’t—I’m—”
“Can—will you turn over?” Jordan asks. Some of his nervousness seems to be gone, Damian notices. He can’t form a verbal answer, so instead he turns onto his stomach, levering his body up with shaky arms. Damian thinks he would probably do anything Jordan asks at this point and he turns his head, watching as Jordan leans in for a kiss. It’s sloppy and hurried and everything Damian could ever want. It feels real, he thinks, and better than anything else he’s ever had.
Anything else Damian could think or say disappears when Jordan pushes into him, slow and careful. It’s almost torturous; all Damian wants is to pull him in, feeling the heat in every part of his body. Good idea, the best, he thinks, his train of thought fractured. As much as he loves looking at Jordan, he also loves how close they feel, especially when Jordan starts moving faster. He wonders distantly if the bus is shaking, a laugh filtering through his gasps, arms shaking a little more as they carry his weight and brace him against the pushes. One of Damian’s hands slips and his body tilts as if he’s on uneven footing; Jordan can’t stop in time and his push hits deep, hitting Damian in a way that sends shockwaves through his body. Damian holds back a gasp, stars blinking behind his eyes.
“Keep—right there,” Damian manages, trying to freeze in place. He doesn’t want to lose the sensation. “Please. Move faster.”
Jordan doesn’t have to be asked twice. He moves with renewed energy and Damian loses track of what’s happening, the only sense he can rely on is the touch he feels. He can’t really tell where he ends and Jordan begins; they are moving together, a little messy and disorganized but single-minded in their passion. Damian can feel the precise moment when he reaches the height of feeling, his body humming and oversensitive, and then he’s falling apart as Jordan pushes into him, following what feels like moments later but could be any measure of time.
Damian tries to keep himself upright, wanting to give them both time to collect themselves, but his shoulders are starting to ache and he knows he can’t stay in his position much longer. Jordan moves away and Damian feels it like a loss, warmth and weight disappearing at once. They both end up collapsing onto the bed, still breathing heavily, and Damian tries to collect the threads of his mind.
“We won’t be able to explain this away,” Damian finally says, laughter pouring forth like a waterfall.
Jordan chuckles, turning on his side to look at Damian. His cheeks are red, green eyes soft. Damian reaches out to feel the stubble on the man’s cheek, enjoying the prickle.
“Jace has been using your bed anyway,” Jordan says, yawning. “They’ll live. We should probably wash the sheets, though.”
It’s a practical thing to say, but it still makes Damian laugh—and when he does, so does Jordan. It takes them a few minutes longer to drag themselves off the bed, both grumbling and groaning good-naturedly as they clean up and change. By the time the sheets are loaded into the washer, Damian’s stomach is growling and he’s making his way to the fridge to start reheating their food. He’s just turning away from the microwave when he catches Jordan staring at him. The man clears his throat, straightening and busying himself with finding sodas in the fridge. Damian grins.
“What? Like what you see?”
“Obviously,” Jordan says dryly, but he’s still blushing. “I just…um, I was just curious. It seems like the tattoos on your back avoid any moles. Was that on purpose?”
“My mom used to say they were moons,” Damian laughs. It feels strange talking about it; he’s not sure he’s ever told anyone before. “Freckles are stars. I couldn’t bring myself to really cover them.”
“That’s kind of a beautiful thing to say,” Jordan admits.
“Yeah. She loved writing. Dad used to joke that she could never say anything simply.”
“Something happened?” Jordan asks as if he knows or suspects. He’s careful about it, as if he knows it’s sensitive. Damian thinks for a moment before answering.
“She died when I was young. Before I turned eight, I think. Heart problems. It made me paranoid,” he says, trying to smile. “That’s why I was so strict with my dad’s diet.”
“…I’m sorry. I would have liked to meet her,” Jordan says quietly. His hand laces with Damian’s on the table. He feels warm, Damian thinks. Real.
“She would have loved you,” Damian says, knowing it’s true. “She liked teddy bears like you.”
“I’m sure I would have loved her,” Jordan smiles, and then he pulls Damian down softly for a kiss. It feels a lot like the world sliding into focus, puzzle pieces pressed evenly together. Damian can’t remember what worried him about mentioning his mother anymore; Jordan is perfect and even his sympathy isn’t weighty or dramatic. He’s genuine.
The real deal, Damian thinks humorously. He isn’t sure how to categorize the spreading fire he feels in his chest, although he knows it’s important. He knows he’ll have time later to consider just how much he loves Jordan. For now, they have food to eat—and an hour before the others return.
11
Damian
“You mentioned you had a best friend in Tower Heights,” Jordan muses, flipping through his notebook to find a blank page. They’re sitting on the couch, the sky darkening outside. Damian is tired but he knows better than to go to sleep early; he has a driving shift and he doesn’t want to throw off his schedule.
“Ellis. He’s actually been in the city for a year—I was staying with him, before I hit the road and found you in Derry.”
“Hm. You hadn’t been there for longer?” Jordan frowns.
“No. I move around a lot. We both went to college together—we were roommates—but after that, I kind of couldn’t settle. He’s always been there, though. His mom—Mrs. Ames—she’s a local nurse. She was always worried about the both of us. She and my dad get along really well.”
Jordan hums, flipping his pen in hand as he starts a new page. Damian is lying across the rest of the sofa, his head lying against Jordan’s leg. It feels comfortable, as if they’ve been doing it since the beginning of time. Most things about their relationship feel comfortable, Damian thinks—the others haven’t really changed at all, aside from occasional jokes. Somehow, Damian fits into their world like he’s meant to be there. Maybe I am, he thinks. Or maybe I’m being as romantic as Jordan. He starts to doze off as they go on their way, the bus humming with the sound of the road, and he has to fight to stay awake. Jace glances back from his place in the driver’s seat.
“We have a stop coming up. Thirty minutes.”
“Oh, good,” Damian yawns. “A stretch before bed.”
“Too much information!” Sam yells from the back. The smirk in his voice is evident. Damian rolls his eyes at Jordan, who hides his grin behind his notebook. Damian sits up properly, pulling his shoes on as Jace turns at the exit. They star
t to slow and Damian watches the gas station appear in the night, bright and blinking. The road crew emerge as soon as they stop, ready to get out.
They’re scavenging through the aisles when Damian’s phone starts ringing. Happy Hour starts to blast at top volume and he laughs once, loudly, before slapping a hand over his mouth and wrestling to grab the phone in his back pocket. Jordan looks mortified but happy. Jace is rolling his eyes at Damian over the top of the chip bags.
“Hello?” Damian answers laughing, not bothering to check and see who’s calling.
“Damian?”
“Mrs. Ames! I was just…thinking about you,” Damian stumbles, biting back a laugh. I was just talking about you with my boyfriend, he thinks. It’s like another cosmic coincidence that she’s calling him.
“Are you not staying with Ellis?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I left last month—your son is safe. I won’t be dangling off his roof anytime soon.”
Jordan looks at Damian over the other side of the shelves, eyebrows raised. He looks curious and Damian can see him mouth a question—Mrs. Ames? Damian nods, grinning. He’s already wondering if he can convince her to make a video call. I should have Ellis meet him, too.
“Honey, where are you now? Are you staying with friends?”
It’s the way she asks the question that puts him on edge. He turns away from the aisle, frowning. Something heavy pulls at his chest—a distant, sinking feeling. He’s starting to get nervous.
“Yes. I mean—pretty much. Some friends in a band. What’s going on?”
“Your father’s in the hospital,” she says. He thinks distantly, for probably the millionth time in his life, that her voice makes her the perfect nurse. She’s calm and factual, some consolation always present in her tone. The way she breaks the news is as careful as possible.
It still doesn’t do much for him. He feels the world fade around him, as if he’s on stage and it’s suddenly gone black, a single spotlight illuminating him. He’s not sure if he’s breathing anymore. The only words he hears in his mind are father and hospital, echoing like a bad movie effect. He can’t even think of any explanations; his thoughts have come to a complete halt.
“What?” There’s nothing else he can say. He can’t even form a question—what happened? Is he okay?
“Listen—he’s fine now. I just—”
“What happened? What the hell—” Damian blurts, all the pent-up words flying out as soon as she says his father is fine. He barely registers the fact that he’s walking until he pushes through the door of the convenience store, the cold air hitting him in the face. He’s not sure where he’s going; halfway to the bus, he turns in place, making a tight circle in the empty lot.
“Stab wound,” Mrs. Ames says quickly, filling in the blanks as clinically as possible. She’s more confident now, he thinks. She probably assumes he hasn’t fallen apart and is ready to hear what happened. He’s not sure he is. “He was making an arrest. I’m not sure what exactly happened.”
“How long has he been in?”
“Just overnight. It missed everything important, but he did have blood loss. We’re keeping him under observation for the moment. I don’t want to risk him pulling any stitches, especially since Martin men are so notoriously stubborn.”
“Handcuff him if you have to. I don’t want him moving until I get there,” Damian says, turning in a circle as he stands in a parking spot. He thinks he can see people in his periphery—the band—but he barely gives any thought to them. “He’s going to try and get back to work as soon as possible.”
“I know. Damian…it’s not that serious. There’s no real danger. Are you sure you—”
“I have to see him,” Damian says firmly, trying to keep his head straight. The word hospital is still floating around his head, heavy and poisonous. All he can think about is his mother and the sound of a flatline, alarms and shouting people.
“Okay. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“Thank you.”
She hangs up a moment later and Damian exhales, feeling dizzy. He knows there are a million things to do—airplane or train tickets or a rental car. He knows he can’t just take his motorcycle; he’s three states away from his father and he only has a day or two before the hospital has to let him go, Mrs. Ames’ intervention or not. He knows these things and the logical part of his mind is already organizing them, but the other half of him is already devolving into panic. He could have died plays through his mind like a torture track.
“Damian? What happened?” Jordan’s voice cuts through the miasma, concerned, and then Damian feels a hand at his back. It pulls him slowly back to reality, the haze and ringing in his ears fading just a little.
“I need to go home,” Damian starts, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “I…my dad…um. He was stabbed.” He hates even saying the word—stabbed. It sounds horrifying, and he can barely stomach the fact that it’s his father he’s talking about.
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s…in the hospital. I…” He wants to say, I’m sorry. I want to stay with you. I want to help. He wants to explain and apologize even though he knows it’s important. Part of him also wants to beg, come with me. It’s unfair. He knows better than to ask but his heart is begging for him to ask. If Jordan were there, I’d be stronger, he thinks.
“Okay. Jace, let’s find an airport near our next stop. If we need to cancel—”
“No. Don’t cancel,” Damian says quickly, running a hand over his hair. He’s already thinking. “I can take my bike and split off if I need to. I just have to get there as soon as possible.”
“Okay. It’s okay,” Jordan says, a little quieter than before. His hand is still on Damian’s back. “We’ll help. Let’s get on the road—I can find you tickets and we can make sure you get back as soon as possible. Okay?”
“Okay. Yeah.”
The group is quiet when they board the bus again. Damian almost feels bad—as if he’s somehow ruined the mood—but the reassuring glances they give him make him feel better. He knows they’re more worried about him than their next show and he’s not sure how to feel about that. Jordan has flights pulled up on his laptop in no time and Damian is grateful that they’re from the same town. He’s not sure he could book the flight, himself. He’s still too unbalanced by the news. It feels as if the world is too bright, somehow unrealistic.
“There’s an airport on the way to the venue,” Jordan explains. His words once again bring Damian back to reality—he’s not sure how long he’s been sitting in the bus or how far they are from where they’re going. “We can drop you off.”
“I…you don’t have to do that,” Damian manages. “I can…I have my bike.”
“It’ll be hell trying to park and you’ll have to go out of your way to get it back,” Jace points out, emerging from the back of the bus, phone in hand. “We’ll keep it in the trailer. Don’t worry.”
Damian nods, unable to say anything else. Jordan exchanges a glance with his cousin—any other day, Damian might know what it means, but he can’t focus now. Jace speaks up, though, sliding into the seat next to him.
“Take the bed. You’ll be on an early flight and you’ll be crossing time zones, too. We’ll wake you up when we get to the airport.”
“Okay.” It’s all he can say. He wants to say something more—explain what it means to him that they’re helping, that they aren’t pressing or asking questions. More than anything, though, he wants to say something to Jordan. He wants to make a promise or a reassurance, as if saying nothing will mean they’ll never meet again, like there’s a chance that he’ll lose Jordan again if he goes.
He can’t figure out what to say, so he just follows Jordan to the back and curls under the covers. He’s pulled closer to Jordan after a moment, arms careful around his body. He tells himself not to cry but he can’t help it; somehow, it’s like the news finally hits home, weighing down on him like lead. Jordan doesn’t say anything. Damian is grateful
, more than ever, for his silence… for his care. Damian wouldn’t be able to say anything even if he wanted to.
Eventually, he falls asleep, tired from everything that’s happened. The only comfort he has is the knowledge that he’ll be home soon and the feeling of Jordan holding him close.
Someone shakes him awake. He has to drag himself upright, eyelids weighted. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck.
“We’re here,” Jordan murmurs, leaning close. There’s worry lingering in his gaze but he’s just as steady as before. Like a rock, Damian thinks. Constant.
“Right. Okay. I’ll…”
“Your bag is packed. Don’t worry about it. Do you want me to walk in with you?”
He almost cries again right there and then. Instead, he shakes his head, combing a hand through his hair. He can already tell it’s a mess and he distantly thinks of the hell he’s going to go through—airport security and waiting and boarding. Coughing people. Too much noise.
“I’ll be fine. I just—I’m going to wash my face.”
“Okay. Take your time.”
When he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, he feels like he can see everything written on his face. Stress, worry, dread. It’s just you, he tells himself, no one else will know. It makes him feel alone, thinking that he’ll be moving through a sea of people, none of whom will know what he’s going through. He wishes again that Jordan could come but he pushes the thought away, firmly locking it in a corner of his mind. By the time he emerges from the bathroom, the others are gathered at the front of the bus. Jace has his backpack.
“Here,” Jace says, passing it carefully. “I put the airline app on your phone and loaded the tickets for you. It’s charged, so you should be fine until you get home.”
“Thank you,” Damian says, relieved. I didn’t even think about my tickets.
“Safe trip,” Sam says. Damian feels like his words are somehow the most important. It’s taken so long for me to get anything out of him, he thinks. And now that he’s showing me he cares, I feel like I’m going to fall apart like a sap. Sam opens the door to the bus for him. They’re pulled up right next to the glass doors of the airport, the baggage claim and elevators visible in the distance. Damian barely steps out before Jordan follows him, a hand catching Damian’s wrist.
