by Peter Styles
Damian leads the way inside. There are pictures by the entryway; a graduation photo, Damian with fewer tattoos and a younger face. A frame with a woman in it, her reddish-brown hair just the same as Damian’s. Her smile is the same, too. Jordan wants to ask but knows better. Some scars take more time than others.
“So, what do you want?” Damian calls. Jordan realizes he’s still in the entryway and Damian is far ahead, invisible from wherever he’s talking in the kitchen.
“What do you have? Wait—don’t tell me. Make what you want. Whatever you’re best at,” Jordan adds, grinning. Damian yells something back about being good at everything—Jordan can’t quite make his words out—and Jordan smiles, continuing his trek along the walls.
There are a few more pictures; one of Damian’s father in uniform, a framed set in sepia from the man’s earlier years, an old badge hanging within. There’s a picture of both parents together, laughing wildly in front of a fountain at what looks like a college. A set of polaroid photos, tiny and bordered in white, are arranged in another frame. After a closer look, Jordan realizes they’re Damian’s. He has a polaroid camera? Jordan just reaches the living room, the kitchen in sight, when a smaller picture catches his eye. He almost doesn’t look, but something tugs at him, some strange compulsion making him look back. It’s Damian, maybe ten years old, holding a large branch and looking at the camera with a mischievous expression, as if he’s some sort of forest spirit captured on film for the briefest of moments. Wait—
“Having fun?” Damian asks, suddenly at his side. His arms slip easily over Jordan’s shoulders and then all thought is interrupted, their kiss encompassing the entire world. Jordan almost forgets about everything, losing himself in the warmth. Almost.
“—Mm, wait,” Jordan manages, untangling himself with difficulty. He feels like he’s swaying in place, trying to get back to Damian’s mouth, but he knows better. “That—this—”
He manages to point at the picture, not sure where he’s going. Damian turns to look, amused, and then his expression changes. Jordan can’t even count the emotions he sees; there’s fondness, exasperation, dread. Maybe even embarrassment.
“What?”
“I…you…you look familiar? I—”
“Okay,” Damian mutters, as if he’s trying to reassure himself. “We, uh—we used to play together. For a little while. I’d run off to meet you in the woods.”
“What?” Jordan blinks. He almost can’t believe it, except bits and pieces are there, clinging to his memory like cobwebs. He can barely call them up, images of a brightly smiling face with familiar golden eyes. Laughter. He can’t remember words or places or even a name but the memories are real, fragmented as they are.
Something hits him like a freight train—the sound of laughter and the smell of maple trees. The path behind his house. He feels like he’s walking it in his mind; he can’t remember where he went or why, but he suddenly remembers Damian, a friend without a name, and Jordan shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweater.
“Yeah,” Damian says, “I kind of didn’t think I should bring it up. It was a while back, you know? And you didn’t really seem to remember. I figured you’d just feel guilty.”
“I kind of do,” Jordan admits, looking at the photograph. “I don’t…really remember much about my childhood. Not sure why. It’s just bits and pieces. I can remember you—I remember the trail behind my house. We…met regularly. I remember being excited to see you. But—you just stopped?””
“My mom died around that time. I couldn’t get out to the woods anymore and my dad needed me. You know, for the longest time, I thought I’d let you down. I felt so bad about it. I almost thought it was a chance to apologize, when I saw you at the bar.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jordan says, surprised. “I’m the one that doesn’t remember. I wish I could—I wish it were easy. Maybe I can just walk down the trail again and I’ll remember.” He knows it’s a long shot, but he hopes he can try. Later, when he and Damian have time. When we’re not on the road.
“Well, it’s better than nothing. And you know me now,” Damian adds, lacing their fingers together. “That’s what matters, right?”
“Right.”
This time, Jordan doesn’t pull away. He tries to feel everything—the way Damian’s wrists feel against his fingers, the way his lips are just a little dry, the smell of something with cinnamon in it. He categorizes everything, boxing things into tiny spaces that he can come back to. He’s not planning on being away from Damian anytime soon, though. Not if I can help it.
“You know, we have time,” Damian mumbles. His kiss is sloppy; he’s trying not to smile. The comment makes it harder for Jordan to keep a straight face, too.
“We probably only have an hour, now,” Jordan reminds him. Damian is already tugging him toward the stairs. It’s a lost cause, but Jordan is still going to pretend to be the voice of reason. Even if he does carefully redirect Damian up the steps, keeping him from hitting his elbow on the banister.
“A challenge. I like a challenge,” Damian grins.
Jordan can’t keep track of everything as they go—he’s vaguely aware of doorways, a small table jostling and Damian making a small noise of exclamation, stumbling to right himself without looking back. Nothing is quite as compelling as the feeling of hands on skin and the fire of Damian’s mouth. Jordan only thinks to open his eyes when he feels the floor change beneath his feet, hard panels giving way to a soft carpet that presses under his shoes. Jordan somehow manages to toe his shoes off, tripping a little only for Damian to catch him with a laugh.
“This is your room?” Jordan asks, breathless. He tries to extricate himself from Damian for a brief moment, looking around.
The bed is covered in navy blue sheets; posters line the walls, movies and music covering every available space. It’s not a large room, but it’s spacious enough. The small dresser and desk are immaculate, except for telltale dings and scratches in the corners. Jordan wonders if Damian used to hit things with his bat by accident—scuffing doorways and furniture, his father yelling at him to be careful as he waited downstairs with the car keys. He was an active child, Jordan thinks, no doubt about it. He can see the ghost of Damian as a child running around the house, quick footsteps and bright eyes illuminating the spaces.
“Time, remember?” Damian says gently, pulling him out of his reverie. He’s already mostly undressed, briefs still crookedly resting against his hips, teasing. He is patient, though, a question in his eyes.
“Time,” Jordan agrees, pulling his shirt off before returning to Damian, kissing him with everything he has as he tries to maneuver around the button of his jeans. He wants to chase the ghosts of the past out the windows, replacing them with living, breathing memories. The beat of Damian’s heart in his chest. The skip in his pulse when Jordan kisses his neck.
When they’re finally undressed, the floor littered with fabric, Damian tugs at the sheets and pulls Jordan in, his laughter a little less humorous and a little more breathless. The cold of the weather outside can’t touch them here, especially when Damian is tracing some invisible path down Jordan’s side. Every brush feels like it’s catching on fire, burning and throbbing. Jordan feels almost over sensitive, as if his nerves have been exposed and Damian is brushing every one of them. He shivers with each touch like a frozen man exposed to the sun.
That’s what he is, Jordan decides. The sun. Everything about Damian is vital—his bright eyes and red-gold hair, the fire he brings to everything he does. Even his love of the open road and every tiny change in scenery is vibrant in its way. Damian lives as if he wants to capture every good thing in life and hold it, if only for a moment.
Speaking of capturing, Damian is moving away—probably to open the bedside drawer—and Jordan pulls him back down to the bed, moving to lean over him. Damian gazes up with his wide eyes, a faint smile on his lips, and Jordan almost doesn’t want the moment to pass. Not when Damian looks like this, ba
re and bright and beautiful.
“Jordan,” Damian says, the name filled with laughter and admonishment. We don’t have time right now.
“Just relax,” Jordan replies, his hands already moving further down from Damian’s waist. He can see the precise moment that the cheer is replaced with something else—an intensity. A hunger.
Jordan holds eye contact until the moment he has to look away. It only takes a second for him to get situated, moving to comfortably prop himself up on his elbows at Damian’s waist. There’s a hand in his hair after a moment of silence, careful and exploring. It stays there as Jordan leans in, the faint smell of sweat and skin lingering before he takes the last inch.
Damian’s sigh is one of the most wonderful things he’s ever heard. It’s soft and pleased, the small crack at the edges betraying his need. Even the taste is powerful; Jordan tries to find everything, salt and bitterness and something foreign and unique that is simply Damian. No time, Jordan reminds himself. Maybe it’s fitting that their last moment alone together during the tour is just as squeezed-in as the others. As much as Jordan wants to lose himself in the moment, he knows they have somewhere to be soon. And we’ll have all the time in the world, after today.
For now, Jordan moves quickly, barely registering Damian’s pleasure before he begins moving, the room echoing with the soft sounds of his moving mouth. The weight and taste are all that Jordan can register, everything else in the world melting away. Suddenly, food and performing aren’t as important, and all Jordan’s reservations about how Damian feels dissolve into nothing. This moment—the intimacy and trust—is the only answer he really needs. Nothing else really matters as much as this time, and any other time they have together. I would give anything for these moments with him, Jordan thinks. These moments when he’s open and bright and willing.
“Quick—quickly,” Damian says, breathless, fingers tugging at Jordan’s hair. Jordan can only comply, leaving with a soft kiss pressed to the dip by Damian’s hip. He navigates the dresser table quickly, finding what they need as fast as possible. Damian barely manages to direct him, breathing labored and uneven. “Condom. Easy clean.”
Jordan works at the small package as Damian carefully attends to his neck, tasting and moving with the languid exploration of someone with far more time. Jordan somehow manages to pull the condom on, still distracted by Damian’s mouth, and then he’s moving to help open the man up beneath him when his hand bumps and fumbles against another. He blinks, confused and hazy, and then Damian laughs into his mouth.
“I told you, we don’t have much time.”
“Are you ready?” Jordan replies, the smile on his lips widening a little. He almost can’t believe Damian could get away with it.
“Yes,” Damian breathes quietly, returning to Jordan’s neck with renewed attention.
The slide is seamless and they both groan in the moment, Damian’s nails biting into Jordan’s arms with the push. He feels so warm, Jordan thinks, pleasure already coiling below his stomach. Just like the sun. No matter how little time they have, Jordan still can’t bring himself to be too rough; his first pull is careful and measured, balanced against their ragged breathing. He’s not sure what his heart is doing—it must have beaten out of his chest by now—but the movement between them is the only concrete thing in the world anymore, his pace even and steady.
Or at least, it’s even and steady until Damian grabs his ass and pulls him in sharply, the push more forceful than before and somehow a thousand times more sensitive. Damian cries out and Jordan almost loses his breath, the tightness gripping him and somehow flooding his brain with burning pleasure. He forgets to think in that moment, rolling his hips to fit as far into Damian as he possibly can, and the nails scraping his skin seem to encourage him further.
“I missed you,” Damian manages, voice rough with emotion and desire. He stutters as he speaks, the words breaking before he can get them out. “Jordan—”
“I missed you, too,” Jordan gasps, “I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.”
Jordan can feel Damian’s legs move, shifting further upward as he tries to pull Jordan in closer. Their confessions linger in the air, the sweet words somehow breaking the last barrier between them, and then Jordan is moving faster. Damian rocks up against him, small noises escaping his lips as they chase the pleasure building low between them. Jordan can feel the rush climb through his limbs, chasing his pulse as the sound of skin fills the room. He hits against Damian with reckless abandon, forgetting the worry and caution he’d felt before in the blinding joy of the moment.
Jordan falls faster and harder than he ever has before, some spark igniting within him as he pushes as far into Damian as he can. The pressure building in him surges all at once, a wash of blinding light stopping all thought as his body seizes with the pleasure of it. His arms shake as he tries to keep himself upright and off Damian-whatever little presence of mind he has warns him that it would be rude, especially considering that he’s probably heavy. The bare thought is chased away as Damian arches away from the bed, gasping and tightening his grip on Jordan. His hands seem to struggle for purchase, finally gripping at Jordan’s waist with bruising force. The rush is barely leaving Jordan as Damian pants, riding through the ends of his orgasm with breathless desire.
Jordan waits, feeling the shake of Damian’s legs subside, and then he moves away. The moment he does, the murmur of discomfort from Damian brings him back to reality. The unwelcome invasion of the world—what time is it? How much longer do we have?—invades their bed yet again. Thankfully, it’s not as pressing as before. If I’m honest, I haven’t thought about what I’m supposed to be doing since we hit the sheets, Jordan thinks, turning to look at Damian.
It’s his mistake. He can see Damian illuminated in the blue-gray darkness of the evening, his profile illuminated just barely by the streetlight shining through the crack in the curtains. Jordan thinks he could lose himself looking at Damian—he could probably never hope to recreate the man’s face, he thinks, even if he spent years studying the art of creating a portrait. Damian can’t be captured on paper or in photograph, he thinks. There is something too alive about him for a static image to do him justice.
“Your dinner is probably ready,” Damian murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He barely rolls his head to the side, eyes half-lidded and soft.
“Is it? I guess we should move, then,” Jordan returns. He smiles. Damian rolls his eyes, smile widening.
“We should,” Damian agrees, but his tone is wistful. If nothing else, I’d use one wish in the world to freeze time, Jordan thinks. Just for the two of them. He’d stop time now, in these bare moments after sex, when he feels closer to Damian than he ever has before.
“Come on,” Jordan finally says. He knows if he stays still any longer, he’ll be laying in bed until Jace calls or shows up to retrieve him.
They somehow manage to pry themselves away from the bed, Damian leading the way to the bathroom. The artificial light is harsh to Jordan’s eyes, the blinding yellow cast trying to bleach all images of the bedroom from his visual memory. Jordan cheerfully hangs onto them, stubborn even when he has to blink and adjust to the brightness.
“What did you make?” Jordan asks, curious.
“Lasagna,” Damian says, visibly biting back a laugh.
“You had time for that?”
“I’m a very accomplished chef,” Damian says, feigning insult. “Anyway, it’s easy to heat and forget about.”
“You planned this,” Jordan realizes, trying not to laugh. He fails miserably—which is all for the best, because he loves the way Damian’s laughter sounds as it joins his. They both change quickly after cleaning up, moving downstairs as quickly as possible.
“You have forty-five minutes,” Damian notes, “not bad. Take your time.”
“I will. I’m not burning my tongue the day before I get to eat my family’s food again.”
The lasagna is, predictably, amazing. It’s still hot, how
ever, so Jordan takes the time to lean his chin on his palm and survey the kitchen. It’s just as comfortable and small as the rest of the house; the counters are clean and look like dark, speckled marble. The refrigerator is papered with work schedules and old report cards, a few faded post-its labeled with reminders like eat healthy and don’t forget your water. Jordan can almost see Damian moving around the kitchen, warning his father, when I’m gone, you’ll have to make your own lunch, and don’t even think about getting fast food.
“Jace just sent me a picture. I guess Sam and my dad are getting along,” Damian says, a faint smile playing across his lips.
“You know, I once thought maybe you and Jace would…that you had…,” Jordan stops in the middle of his confession, startled. He feels suddenly embarrassed for having said anything, especially since it’s not really appropriate for the moment.
He looks up to see Damian staring at him, expression unreadable. Jordan clears his throat, trying to come up with some sort of explanation or excuse, and then Damian speaks.
“You what?”
“I…well, you seemed to get along well.”
“Jace gets along well with everyone.”
“True,” Jordan concedes, taking a stab at his lasagna. He’s a little relieved at the response. Part of him was worried how Damian would react. Why am I talking about this now? Probably because I know better than to let things go without being said, he thinks. “But—well, I guess I’m just used to being around him so much…I mean, we’re like brothers. Sometimes, people put us in the same box. I guess I was doing that, too.”
“You’re not interchangeable,” Damian says, raising an eyebrow. “You aren’t even that similar, aside from maybe the way you look—kind of—and the way you talk, sometimes.”
“We talk the same?”
“A little. You sound vaguely similar, but not a lot. Anyway, when did I ever seem interested in him?”
“You didn’t. Not really.” Jordan winces, taking a moment to eat more. He tries to chew through his thoughts at the same time, considering how to respond. “I guess I just thought he would be good for you. I mean, he’s not bad-looking and he’s also in the band. Plus, he’s social.”