The Long Way

by May Archer

  He opened his eyes to find Cain standing right in front of him. When had he gotten so close? Damon’s vision was wonky and he couldn’t seem to clear it. Cain wrapped his arm around Damon’s waist and hauled him to his feet, like they were going to dance, and Damon went without protest.

  He tried to search for his earlier anger, to conjure up some defense against this new, incredibly attractive Cain Shaw, but the medication seemed to dull all of those negative emotions, and the way Cain watched him made Damon’s mouth go dry.

  “God, the look in your eyes, Cain.”

  Cain seemed startled. “What look?”

  “That look, like you think I’m a better person than I think I am,” Damon whispered.

  Deep blue eyes stared into his, and Damon was lost. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth against Cain’s, and his senses exploded. With his eyes closed, the press of Cain’s lips - tentative at first, then firmer, the shocked inhale of his breath, the sexy smell of his cologne, were all magnified until Damon was drowning in sensation, lost in Cain. He wrapped his hand around the back of Cain’s neck, his fingertips rubbing the short, soft hairs at his nape, and took the kiss deeper, his tongue licking into Cain’s mouth. Cain opened for him with a low moan that came from deep inside his chest, and as their tongues tangled, Damon felt honest-to-God electric currents zinging down his arms to his fingertips. He was a dying man shocked back to life by the fire of Cain’s touch.

  He broke the kiss with a small gasp and stood staring at Cain, stunned into speechlessness. He’d kissed many people before. Nothing had ever felt like this.

  “Sorry. Sorry.” He brought his hands down, caught himself against the counter again. He couldn’t trust himself to stand, and he couldn’t trust himself to lean on Cain. “It was the pain medication,” he said, more to convince himself than anything. “I’m… a little fucked up.”

  Cain pushed the back of his hand to his mouth. “Join the club,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head and sighed. “Come on, up you go.” He grabbed for Damon’s waist again.

  Damon shook his head, and the world tilted slightly. “Maybe…”

  “Don’t worry. Your virtue is safe with me,” Cain told him with a huff as he levered Damon off the counter. “You’re not even going to remember this tomorrow, are you?”

  “Remember what?” Damon was confused.

  Cain just rolled his eyes. “I’ll call for a car. Let’s just see if we can get you to the curb, okay?”

  “Kay. Where are we going?” he managed to get out as he and Cain shuffle-stepped to the door and then out into the hall.

  “Anything’s better than nothing, you said. So right now we’re doing anything,” Cain said grimly. “I’ve got an idea, but I’ll wait to tell you about it until you’ve come back down from whatever cloud you’re floating on.”

  Damon nodded, or thought he did. Somehow this made perfect sense.

  “I’m not walking so well.” He frowned, but Cain snorted.

  “I noticed. But don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

  Damon staggered slightly, pushing Cain into the wall. For a minute, they stood there, bodies aligned, faces so close they were breathing each other’s air. “Yeah? You think you can handle me, kid?”

  The moment held, and Damon’s entire world narrowed to Cain’s blue eyes. So dark. He could dive in there and drown before he ever reached bottom.

  “I can handle you,” Cain whispered.

  Huh. So much conviction. Damon smiled, or at least he tried to. His last thought before everything turned gray was I’d like to see you try.

  Chapter 3

  Cain sat, half-asleep, curled up on the huge outdoor sofa at his parents’ cabin. The cool morning air brushed his face, the hard arm of the couch dug into his cheek, and he could smell coffee somewhere in the distance, but he was so incredibly comfortable, he couldn’t bring himself to fully open his eyes.

  He’d been having the most amazing dream - hot hands coasting along his stomach, callused fingers leaving trails of goosebumps that scorched a path straight to his dick, while a warm weight settled firmly against his back, and a ragged voice breathed in his ear. “You want this, don’t you?” the voice had said. And miracle of miracles, Cain had wanted it, wanted everything without reservation - the exploring hands, the heat, the desire that swamped him.

  It had been a delicious, disorienting sensation to want something so much, and to feel no shame in the wanting. It had been as natural as the mountains that rose up behind the cabin - something unquestionably real and beautiful, something that had existed for ages before anyone had thought to put a name to it or try to bend it to a purpose.

  He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to his parents’ mountain house, but right at the moment he didn’t care. He wrapped the memory of the dream around himself, knowing as soon as he opened his eyes, it would all fade away like mist.

  “Your nose is twitching.”

  It was the voice from the dream, but… not. Cain’s eyes flew open.

  Well. Okay, then. Fuck.

  So, he was not on his parent’s porch - which would explain why he didn’t remember traveling from Boston to Tennessee. That was probably good. But for a second, he couldn’t remember exactly where he was, or how he’d gotten there.

  He was in a living room, curled up on a leather sofa that had seen better days, and covered by a quilt that smelled like lavender. The enormous black hole of a flat-screen TV and a small window with a view of the milky gray sky took up nearly the entire far wall, and a large, wooden coffee table sat on a brightly patterned rug directly in front of him. In the leather chair closest to his head, sat none other than Damon Fitzpatrick - fully dressed in jeans and a Wolves in the Throne Room t-shirt that didn’t hide the light pink scars curling up his forearms. With his silver hair damp and combed as though he’d already showered, Damon watched Cain with steady hazel eyes.

  Cain sat up quickly, pushing back the quilt and swinging his feet to the floor, but that was as far as his momentum got him. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What… uh. How?”

  Damon made a sound that could have been annoyance or humor, or maybe some combination of the two, had Cain been awake enough to distinguish. “And here I thought I was the one who’d gotten myself so fucked up I blacked out last night.”

  Cain’s brain came fully online and memories from the night before came flooding back. After calling for a Lyft to Cort’s apartment, where Damon was living, Damon - with all the belligerence of the truly fucked up - had insisted on stripping naked before Cain could tuck him into bed. Cain had decided to sleep on the couch instead of going back to his hotel in case Damon needed him. And beyond all, he remembered that kiss.

  So hot, so consuming, so stupid. He’d known even in the moment that it was the product of Damon’s pain medication lowering his inhibitions. Hell, he wasn’t sure if Damon even liked him, and certainly not in that way. But for a brief second, when he’d stood with his arm bracing Damon’s waist, and Damon had opened those hazel eyes to meet Cain’s, Cain had seen something all too familiar in his gaze, an echo of Cain’s own loneliness and his desperate need for connection.

  It had seemed so right at the time, but now it felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if maybe he’d taken advantage of the man while he was drugged up.

  Fuck. Did Damon even remember it this morning? Cain shot him a glance, and like he could read Cain’s mind, Damon said, “There are some blank spots in my memory.”

  “Blank spots,” Cain repeated, heart sinking.

  Damon sighed. “Places where I can’t remember what happened.” He cleared his throat and tapped his hand on his knee. “Or things we might have done.”

  Cain blinked. “Do you remember the fundraiser?”

  “Yes, of course I remember that part. I meant…” He turned his gaze on Cain, scorching and direct. “Look, I woke up naked in my bed. I don’t think anything happened, but — “

/>   “Oh! Oh, no, no, no.” Cain’s face was on fire, and he waved a hand through the air as though he could somehow dispel his own embarrassment. “Everything was fine.”

  “Fine?” Damon looked panicked. “What was fine?”

  God. “Nothing happened last night. Between us.” Damon looked relieved, and Cain couldn’t tell if he should feel insulted or not, so his tone was sharper than he intended when he admitted, “Except that we kissed.”

  “Oh.”

  That one little word gave nothing away, and Damon’s face was blank. Was it a regretful oh, a shocked oh, or an appalled oh? Or perhaps an oh that meant he remembered that unimportant little moment, but not anything after it? One syllable was really not enough to go on. And why the hell did he care? Why did it make his stomach twist to think Damon didn’t remember what had clearly been a mistake? Cain rubbed his eyes. He needed to get back to the hotel.

  “Are you okay? Were you drinking last night?” Damon demanded. “You didn’t seem drunk, from what I remember.”

  “What? No. I wasn’t drunk.” Horny. Not drunk. “I don’t drink at all anymore,” Cain said, looking up. He pushed the blanket off himself, then frowned at it. “Hey. This wasn’t here when I went to sleep.” That he remembered clearly. In fact, he hadn’t been able to find a blanket at all, so he’d ended up removing his dress shirt and tie, and huddling under his suit jacket.

  Damon ignored the question in Cain’s voice. “Do you always wake up like you’re coming back from an out of body experience?” he asked instead. “How long until it wears off?” His voice was still the same deep, broken rasp from last night, and it did crazy things to Cain’s insides.

  “I, uh. I don’t sleep much at all,” Cain found himself saying. He could feel a hot blush climbing his cheeks, and rubbed the back of his neck, hoping Damon couldn’t read his thoughts. “So, like, I guess when I finally do sleep, I sleep hard.”

  Like a statue, Cady sometimes said. If statues snored and drooled.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Damon said dryly, almost like he was replying to Cain’s thoughts, and Cain’s eyes widened. What had he noticed? Oh, mother of God, if Cain had spoken during his dream, or…worse. His cock was still semi-hard in his pants right now, for Heaven’s sake. What had he been doing or saying while Damon watched?

  The heat in his face doubled, counteracting the cold, damp air of the apartment, and he stood up, grabbing the blanket in his arms and turning away to fold it.

  At least you were clothed. At least you didn’t wake up with your cock in your hand. At least…

  He cleared his throat. “I was dreaming.”

  “Figured that, too. You kept saying something.”

  Oh, God. He had been talking! Was spontaneous combustion real? Could you induce it? He was attempting it right now, if the heat of his cheeks was anything to go by.

  “Did I?” Cain’s voice was meant to be casual but came out strangled.

  “You kept saying, ‘I do want it. I do.’ Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

  “Donuts?” Cain blurted the first thing that came to mind. He averted his face and squeezed his eyes shut. “Probably, you know, donuts... Or something like that.”

  “Donuts.” A statement not a question, like he knew Cain was lying.

  “Oh, yeah. Mm-hmm. Love donuts. They’re just… the best.” Kill. Me. Now.

  “Donuts?” Damon asked again.

  “That’s what I said!” Cain fixed him with a glare. “Who doesn’t want donuts?”

  “Right,” Damon allowed. “Anyway, I covered you in the night when I got up. I wanted the windows open and you seemed chilly. You didn’t move at all, even when I took your jacket.” He nodded to the vacant chair near Cain’s feet, where Cain’s discarded jacket, dress shirt, and tie had been laid out.

  Okay. Alright. That wasn’t too bad. They’d just confirmed that Cain had donut fantasies and slept like a corpse, and the kiss last night had been so totally forgettable that Damon had likely blocked it out, but this morning definitely could have gone worse.

  At least he’d remembered to text his mother the night before and make an excuse for why he hadn’t returned to the party. Darn his sensitive stomach for acting up just as he was having the time of his life at the fundraiser, but what could he do but go back to the hotel so he didn’t spoil everyone else’s fun? His mother’s terse reply had suggested she could think of a few preferable alternatives. We will be discussing this in the morning, Cain.

  In comparison, this mortifying conversation with Damon was a walk in the park.

  He looked out the window as he smoothed the blanket. “Wow. It’s pretty gross out there today,” he said, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. There was no visible sunlight, just a bleak, gray soup that hugged the glass tightly and seemed to seep in through the opening.

  Damon shrugged. “I like the fresh air, even when it’s murky. I don’t like being cooped up.” He pursed his lips together like he hadn’t meant to say that much, and Cain found his mind going back to last night.

  Everyone else seems fine waiting, but what the hell are we waiting for?

  Damon had been locked in a kind of static prison for nearly a year and a half now, and Cain could only imagine he had to fight tooth and claw to regain whatever control he could over his circumstances. For the millionth time, Cain wondered how Damon had survived the plane crash that had killed the Seavers and Amy McMann, and where he’d been for the year before he’d reappeared.

  Not that it was any of Cain’s business. Not that he and Damon were friends. Not that they were anything.

  “Is that coffee?” Cain asked, inhaling deeply as he deliberately changed the subject.

  It wasn’t a total ruse. The scent was strong in the air - so strong he’d smelled it in his dream - and right now he needed a cup more than his next breath. His brain was full of sticky cobwebs that kept latching onto random thoughts, making him sympathize with Damon more than he could afford to since he still couldn’t come forward about his father, and making him want things from Damon that would only spell heartbreak.

  Last night he’d had a pretty good idea about how he could maybe help Damon fix things, though. And maybe, maybe, he’d still tell Damon about it. He was fairly sure he would take some convincing, and Cain required appropriate caffeination for that.

  “Yeah. What passes for coffee here, anyway.” Damon gave that annoyed, humored grunt again, and Cain realized that even wide-awake, he couldn’t tell which emotion it conveyed. “Had a cup a little while ago.”

  “Is it instant?” Cain asked. He’d drink it even if it were - he wasn’t too much of a coffee snob, and these were desperate times - but still.

  “No, not that bad.” Damon’s eyes met his, and this time the amusement was plain. “But you’ve got to heat the water in a kettle and pour it.”

  Cain nodded. “That’s cool. My college roommate had a setup like that. Very hipster.”

  “Hipster,” Damon said, testing the word in his mouth. “Yeah, no. Cort’s just a Luddite. Hates all forms of technology.’

  “He does?” Cain made his way into the neat, sparsely furnished kitchen, and found the makings for coffee still sitting on the counter. “But Drew said he’s working at Seaver Tech now.” He turned on the flame beneath the kettle.

  “Yep.” Damon pushed himself to his feet, and Cain pretended not to notice the grimace on his face as his injured leg took his weight. “Ironic, huh?”

  “Maybe,” Cain agreed as Damon shuffled towards the kitchen. He busied himself preparing the coffee grounds to keep himself from watching, and babbled on. “Though, you know, maybe that’s part of why they’re good for each other. Yin and yang. Light and dark. Tech-junkie and old-school. They balance each other.”

  Damon stopped as he reached the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, and leaned on his elbows. “Christ, you’re young,” he said.

  Cain lifted an eyebrow. The way Damon said the word made it sound like an insul
t, and it hit harder than Cain would have imagined. The number of years he’d spent on the planet had fuck-all to do with how old he felt. “I’m almost twenty-five,” he said, a bit more defensively than necessary.

  “Almost! God.”

  “Hey. Twenty-five is not that young.” Cain shut the water off as it started to hiss and gestured threateningly at Damon with his coffee spoon. “You’d better not call me kid again.”

  A snort. “Not even if that’s what you are? I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “Only if you got started really, really young!”

  Damon snorted again and Cain sighed. It was hard to explain how in some ways, he felt like the most bumbling, inexperienced child on the planet, while in others he felt like he’d been eroded by glaciers.

  “Fine, have it your way Big Daddy.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Damon said in disgust. “You will not call me that, ever.”

  Giving Damon an exaggerated shrug, Cain poured the water in a slow stream over his coffee grounds. “No? Keep calling me kid and see what happens,” he challenged, and he counted it as a victory when Damon raised one eyebrow but didn’t reply.

  He turned his attention to the coffee, watching it drip, giving himself a second to gather his courage. Then he grabbed the mug and leaned against the back counter, facing Damon.

  The coffee smelled amazing. He took a deep sip, feeling the liquid burn a path down his throat.

  Ugh. Bitter and dark, exactly the way he didn’t like it. Given that he usually took it extra light and sweet, this was the equivalent of running a lawn mower on jet fuel. But he’d be damned if he’d ask for cream and sugar. No doubt, in Damon’s mind, grown-ups drank their coffee black and poisonously strong.

  He set the mug on the counter took a deep breath, just as Damon came into the kitchen. “Listen. I had an idea -”

  “Yeah, speaking of brilliant ideas…” Damon went to the refrigerator and took out a cardboard container of cream, setting it on the counter. “I owe you a thank you. And probably an apology.” He opened the cabinet above the stove and got down a little dish filled with packets of sweetener. “Cort probably has real sugar around here somewhere,” he said. “But fuck if I know where.” Cain blinked in shock and Damon rolled his eyes. “I’ve eaten squirrel with greater enthusiasm than you’re showing that coffee.”