by Nyla K
This new Damien worries me, mainly because I’m basically the least equipped person in the world to deal with other people’s issues. My past makes most shitty upbringings look like something out of a Hallmark card.
But there’s always been one exception to all my rules; one person who forces me to go outside of my comfort zone and try, despite the very likely possibility of failing and fucking everything up. And even though he’s been transformed into a mopey, sullen poster for anti-depressants, I know my best friend is still in there, and it’s my job to help him in any way I can.
And as out of my element as I am, I’d like to do the same for Traci.
We used to joke that Traci was basically Ophelia’s shadow, because they look so similar, and you could always find Traci following her mother around everywhere. It was pretty cute, to be honest. But the problem is, how does a shadow exist without the thing it’s shadowing?
This is the question I’m pondering as I drive back to Damien’s house after work with takeout Cuban from our favorite place by the office. I suppose I could try talking to her. I rarely do it, but that’s just because I don’t know what to say.
Still, there has to be something we could discuss. Anything will do.
So… You’re a kid. And you have… hair. And you wear… clothes?
Jesus Christ. Maybe I should just buy her something. That could do the trick.
I park in the driveway beside Damien’s Mercedes and grab the bag of takeout containers, heading inside. The moment I set foot through the door, I hear shouting. Sighing, I walk carefully toward the kitchen, dropping off dinner so I can go figure out what the hell is happening in this house and try my best to help.
I’m probably doomed, but wish me luck.
“Just get off my back about it!” Traci’s high-pitched voice shrills and I reluctantly follow the sound into the living room, where I find the two of them locked in a screaming match about something I’m sure I have no way of helping to resolve.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Damien rubs his tired eyes with his fingers. “I’m your father.”
“Yea, I know,” the girl flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, looking especially petulant. She glances up at me in the doorway, but looks away almost instantly, disregarding my presence. “But you don’t have to act crazy. I’m fine.”
“Trace, you’re struggling,” Day pushes on, ever the determined dad. “Your teachers are just worried about you. If you’re feeling off, you need to tell me.”
“They’re shitty teachers,” she retorts, and I have to bite back my smile, because it sounds like something I would’ve said, if my parents ever gave a shit about my education or my opinions on anything. “I’m telling you I’m fine, so can we please just drop it?”
Damien looks like he desperately wants to keep prying, but he’s too tired and way out of his league. It makes my heart hurt.
He never planned on being a single dad. I’m not sure anyone does, and as amazing as I think Day is to his daughter, he definitely worked better as a team. Him and Lia together were a unit. But now he’s just drifting through it all, and I wish there was something more I could do.
In an effort to stop the fighting, I interject. “I brought food.”
Damien’s eyes lift to mine and he gives me a weak smile which I have to appreciate. It’s something, after all.
“You guys can eat,” Traci mutters, stomping out of the room. “I’m not hungry.”
I hear her trudging up the steps, and the faint sound of her bedroom door slamming, even though this place is huge. Damien flinches then shakes his head.
I know he wants to say so much, but he doesn’t have to with me.
I just grab his shoulder and squeeze. “Let’s eat. I got the soup you like.”
Hours later, our stomachs are full and we’re on the couch in Damien’s room, drinking heavily. The food hit the spot, but I can sense his continued angst and unease, and it’s hurting me almost as much as it’s likely hurting him.
I don’t want to say I can’t believe he’s still so torn up, because I can, whole-heartedly. But it’s really fucking me up to know he’s struggling and there’s nothing I can do about it. With all the plans I had in place to help him with work, and keep him company… Even helping Traci, which I’ll admit is very much a work in progress, I haven’t been able to truly help him, anymore than just superficial, surface stuff.
I want my best friend back, God dammit. This is killing me.
We’ve already destroyed more than half the bottle of Macallan, and everything is getting warm and fuzzy. Day’s been quiet for a while now, head resting on the back of the couch while he watches some Al Pacino movie that’s playing at low volume on the TV. And I’m staring at him, searching for a sign to point me in the right direction.
“I’m not doing great…” He finally speaks, though his tone isn’t giving me much to work with. “I can’t believe it’s been a year already. It feels like the funeral was fucking yesterday.”
I nod slowly, sipping my drink to give myself a second to think of a response. “Yea, it’s been a pretty fucked up year. But I think you’re doing better.”
He rolls his neck until he’s staring at me. “I’m a fucking mess, Lazarus. I don’t know how to get past this.”
“You need to cut yourself some slack.” Placing my glass on the table next to me, I turn to face him. “You’re suffering for a reason. No one said it’d be easy, and you’re doing the best you can. You have to let yourself grieve for however long it takes.”
“It’s more than that, though,” he shakes his head, green irises etched in so much pain it feels like knives are stabbing me with every second I spend looking into them. “I just fucking miss her, man. All the damn time. I miss the feeling of her.”
My heart lurches as I gape at him without the slightest clue of what to say to something like that. He bites his lip for a moment, breaking our eye contact.
“I can’t… I haven’t…” he stutters then huffs, frustrated, running his hand through his hair, fisting it with his fingers and yanking.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and I think I’m going to break. I can’t see him losing his cool like this. It’s demolishing me down to my core.
“Day,” I place a comforting hand on his shoulder, rubbing in calming motions that will hopefully subdue his emotional turmoil.
But then he lunges forward and grabs me, folding his arms around my torso and hugging me so hard it’s like I’m being squeezed to death. But I take it, because if he needs to break my ribs and puncture my lungs to make himself feel better, then I’ll let him do just that.
I hug him back, listening to his ragged breaths while he fumbles to hold back tears. I can tell that’s what he’s doing because he’s quivering a little, and I recognize it from other painful memories, like when Lia was first diagnosed.
We end up hugging for a while, until his breathing evens out, he stops shaking, and he just sits with his face burrowed in my neck. My hands trail up and down his back absentmindedly and it isn’t until I can feel his eyelashes tickling my skin as he blinks that I realize I should probably let him go. But when I try, he keeps his arms locked in place.
“I haven’t had sex in a year,” he mumbles, breath warming my neck and sending a chill over my skin.
“Makes sense,” I swallow, unsure of how to respond and unable to find any words at the moment. The room is exceptionally stuffy, and I’m just now registering how close we are.
His fingers graze my side, and I jerk a little. “I’ve been so fucked up, Lazarus. I haven’t even, like… you know…”
“Haven’t even what?” I ask as my head clouds up.
“Jerked off,” his voice is hoarse is awfully close to my ear.
And it makes my cock jump, which is so fucking confusing I have no choice but to yank myself out of his death grip.
Our eyes connect and he looks a little embarrassed over confessing something like that to me. Which he definitely doesn’t need
to be. He’s my best friend, and he knows I’d never judge him.
“Well, you’ve been really fucked up,” I tell him, moving away a bit, his hand sliding down to my hip. “It’s understandable not to want to… do anything.”
My throat is extremely dry as I stare at him, and he stares back, those green eyes sparkling a little in the dimmed light of his room.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he sighs, gaze falling. “I’m dying to feel something, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I miss her. I miss the feeling of being with someone like that. The passion and hunger…”
“Maybe you just need to get laid,” I try for some humor, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I should have said them.
His eyes bounce back up to mine and we stare at each other for a few more moments in silence until eventually he shakes his head and breathes out a huff.
“I can’t just fuck some random woman,” he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m not there yet.”
“Then you’ll probably have to settle for your hand at some point, bro,” I mutter, and he cracks a small smile which makes me feel like I’m soaring.
I might be drunker than I thought…
Damien’s eyes lock on mine and the smile slips away as he murmurs, “Maybe you could give me a hand again. Like we did in college…”
The shock that seizes all my inner organs from hearing him say those words feels like a mild heart attack, or a stroke or something.
We’ve literally never mentioned that night before, in all the years since it happened.
That one night, in January, with snow falling outside our West Village apartment, wherein we did things we hadn’t done before, and haven’t done since, has remained a distant memory, only to resurface in nostalgia that I’ve desperately tried to repress.
Not because I didn’t enjoy it… Maybe because I enjoyed it too much.
And now he’s bringing it up. Staring at me, biting his lip, with no humor on his face at all.
God, I think he’s serious. There’s no way he’s serious. He’s fucking with me… Right?
“Day, I…” My head shakes a little but I lose my voice. My heart rate is already increasing, and it’s getting much warmer inside my clothes.
“Do you ever think about that night?” He asks, tone remaining casual enough, though I think it’s because he doesn’t know how much this is fucking me up right now.
“No,” I grunt, and he huffs a small laugh. He always knows when I’m lying.
“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we’d done more…?” He leans against the back of the couch, and I’m just now noticing where his hand is lying. On my thigh.
“I don’t know if that would be smart,” I gulp, wanting to back up but not having the strength to do it.
“So… You didn’t like it?” His finger draws a line from my knee up to my groin and I suck in a quiet breath.
“We were really high,” I rasp, watching his hand like it’s a rattlesnake, about to strike at any sudden movement.
“Yea, we were.” He squirms until we’re pressed together on the couch and I can’t fucking breathe. “I wonder if it would feel as good. Without the molly.”
“Hm.”
The smell of him, and the fact that he’s opened this goddamn pandora’s box, brings on a wave of memories like water rushing through me.
Cinnamon and heat, and the clanking of the furnace, and snow falling outside the windows…
The taste of his tongue, the sound of his little groans and gasps, and the feel of his thick cock, heavy in my palm…
My dick is stiffening up fast, and now I’m panicking that soon he’ll know how much this is getting to me. And how ashamed I am to admit that I have definitely thought about that night more than a few times over the years.
Damien runs a hand up my chest and fists it around a hunk of my shirt, pulling me closer to him until I gasp.
“Day, please,” I shake my head. My eyes won’t meet his because I know I’ll crumble if I look into them. “We can’t.”
“Indulge me,” he whispers, moving his face closer to mine until I can feel his breath on my face. “Please, Lazarus. I just need… something.”
“There are much less complicated ways to get off, Damien,” I hum, fighting it despite how much I want to give in to whatever he’s trying to do. “You’re my best friend, and you’re grieving. This is the definition of a bad idea.”
“But you know me.” His fingers trail up to my jaw. “You’re the only one who really knows me.”
His lips hover over mine, and my head shakes more, over and over in protest. He tugs my face and forces me to look at him, our eyes connecting like an explosion of gray and green.
“Not everything is a fight, Laz,” he says, sending my pulse racing, blood rushing in my ears. “Give up for me. Please…”
Is this how I’m supposed to help him? Would this help…? Could it?
I’m so unsure of everything that’s happening, and all I can feel is the heat of raw hunger coursing through my veins and the heat of my best friend’s body pressing into me. I part my lips to object, but before I can his mouth crashes into mine, such a combination of rough and soft, I can’t help the groan that erupts from my throat.
His lips seal over my own, sucking slow and deep as we reacquaint ourselves with the feeling. I wish I could stop this, because I’m terrified of what it could do to our friendship, but my brain is scrambled and it feels so fucking good already I know I’ll never be able to pry myself from the lust rippling between us like a current.
Damien holds my face in place while he kisses and licks, so different from last time, but still so familiar. And I’m suddenly back in that bed, in our warm apartment in New York City, although this time there aren’t two girls with us, and no drugs in our veins. It’s just us, as full-grown adults in our thirties, breathing and panting and swallowing each other like a drink of cool water in a scorching desert.
He pushes on my chest, trying to climb on top of me while he bites my bottom lip until I’m trembling. My body gives right into what he’s doing, no more fight whatsoever, letting him grind himself into me while we kiss into a dizzying stupor.
“Fuck…” he pants in my mouth, tongues tangling and lips sucking, wet and hot and fucking needy as hell. “I forgot how good you taste, baby.”
My chest tightens and I feel him, hard as stone, writhing against my erection through our jeans. I force him backward, crawling over him and holding him down beneath me on the couch.
“Don’t fucking call me baby,” I growl, eyes shooting flames at him, despite how droopy they are with desire.
And because this is Day we’re talking about, he laughs softly, grasping at my face and pulling my lips to him again. “Okay, I’m sorry. Don’t stop, please. I’ll be good.”
My cock jerks into his, breath unsteady and head swimming as I let go and kiss him again. Because I can’t not. It’s fucking addicting, this feeling. It’s like a high I’ve been craving for over a fucking decade.
I’m possessed, with my tongue in his mouth, exploring, tasting, driving in need. I couldn’t stop if I fucking wanted to, which I obviously don’t, regardless of how fucked up this is.
It’s deliciously wrong, and I think I need it as much as he does.
Damien rips my shirt off and I do the same to his, pressing our heated flesh together, yanking at the soft strands of his dirty blonde hair until his throat is exposed. I trail my lips over his jaw, slowly, feeling the stubble and wondering how in the fuck this turns me on so much.
I’ve never done this with any guy before, and I’ve never wanted to.
But clearly Damien’s a different story.
I lick and suck down his throat, kissing his pulse point then nipping his clavicle until he rumbles. The vibration drives me to suck harder, forcing myself to stop before I mark him in some way. I know I shouldn’t do that, but it’s just so intoxicating knowing that I could.
“
It feels better than last time,” the words leave my lips without my permission and he gives me a quiet groan, fingers teasing the nape of my neck.
“I guess it wasn’t the drugs,” he grunts, lifting his hips to rub his erection on me.
I’m fucking enamored. I can’t stop. I never want to stop this.
My mouth continues on, tongue tracing the lines of his chest, circling his hardened nipples and sucking a little. It makes him hum, a sound that keeps me wanting to please him. I want to make him feel good. I need it.
Down his soft, golden skin I lick until I reach the waist of his pants, and I don’t stop to see what he wants me to do. Because even though I think this is what he wants, it’s definitely what I want, and my head is too clouded with lust to talk myself out of anything.
Unbutton. Unzip. Tugging down the jeans with his boxers, and his long, thick cock is right in front of my face. I’m fucking buzzing. I have no goddamn idea what I’m doing but I don’t care as I slip the fat head of his cock between my lips.
“Fuck, Lazarus. Jesus…” he gasps, fingers lacing in my hair.
Without the slightest clue how to suck a dick, I just do what I know must feel good, and slide him into my mouth, sucking and sucking and sucking until my jaw feels numb and I’m rocking my hips into the couch to get some friction on my aching balls.
“That mouth… God, you’re ruining me…” he pants for me, and I can’t help the moan that comes out around his cock.
He tastes like clean flesh and salt and I’m so fucking turned on I think I could come in my jeans if we keep going like this.
I want to make him come with my mouth. I want him to feel good, and if this will do it, then I’ll gladly swallow him until I come, since I know it would happen.
Before I can work myself into a trance with the rhythm of fucking him with my mouth, he stops me by holding my head, and I glance up at his face. It’s the wrong move because as soon as I see his eyes twinkling down at me, it sparks a need in my body like a stick of dynamite that’s about to go kaboom.
My tongue massages his length, letting it hit the back of my throat until he grunts.