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“For a picture,” Liam jeers at him, shaking as he lifts his camera up to his eye. “Come on lad.” He gives a little kick to Damon, shifting him into place after much shunning and rejection of the notion. Damon has been limping anyway, never mind an extra boot.
“You can only see my eyes, Liam” comes flying back, muffled through layers of scarves and snoods and a jacket he doesn’t own, a slight tear falling from the only unprotected part of his body. He blushes despite himself, that much is true, but hardly enough to show; a pale comparison to photographs and memories of the past.
They were in Iceland, Liam’s first time and Damon’s… something, he didn’t really feel like it was visiting anymore. Another home, another place he enjoyed. The goodbyes feel more painful when you visit somewhere, never knowing when you’re next coming back. When it’s a place of your being, part of who you are, goodbye appears as a temporary vision. Clouding your sight until you can see clearly once again, back where you belong.
It’s perfect, Damon thinks. Perfect scenery and lovely people and so, so far away from all the things that bring him down.
Well, momentarily. “Give a fuck man, just fucking smile.”
“I am smiling!”
“Yer not!”
Rolling his eyes, Damon smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Liam can tell the difference but makes no note of it. Takes what he is given, for perhaps the first time in his life. A flash reaches him slower than the speed of light, moving back beside Liam as soon as he is granted the opportunity. They both watch the polaroid begin to print, Liam storing it away in a darkened pocket of his parka. “No one will be able to tell that’s me. Could sell it to a paper, maybe. Liam’s New Blonde - We Promise She Is! First front page of NME with a space designated for wank stains,” he comments, still buried beneath the layers.
Liam seemingly ignores him at first, covered heavily himself yet so bitingly chilly despite it. Then, quiet and low, he sniffles. “I can tell.” He sniffs again, louder. “He’s mine, that bloke there. And his eyes are really lovely. That’s what I’d tell anyone for free.” Looking up from his camera, he smiles, and Damon can tell that it reaches his eyes. “But we don’t, so I won’t. How about that?”
Frowning, a crease in his brows, Damon pulls his scarves down to uncover his lips. “Why are you being snippy?” he asks, staring Liam down directly.
Taking a step back into the street, a scoff comes out frosty in the air. Rising up slightly before dissipating. “Why do you want- talking ‘bout fellas wankin’ all over you. Fuck’s that for, eh? Can I not-”
One of his nails holding his scarf down scrapes over his cheek, a light graze. “It’s a fucking joke man, and get out of the road.” He laughs despite himself, knowing it’ll get him in trouble and not caring.
Liam notices the true, proper smile. Wincing, then getting out of the road. They continue on their journey in tetchy union, trying not to slip on the icy sheen covering rubbled grounds.
They can’t go into the city, and they never do. It’s never worth it as one of them, let alone two. And despite how nice it can be to still be two of them, no city in their vicinity would end in anything other than blood, sweat, and tears. In Iceland, for Damon, well - he’s known. For worse, really. There’s nothing better than the land and nothing worse than the name he’s made for himself therein.
“Not even worth it, like,” Liam commiserates. “Barely any fucking snow. Thought it were packed wi’ it. Just bloomin’ cold.” He kicks into the ground, sideways step nearly slipping, having to lean heavily into Damon.
An arm around the waist, grip into the hip. Pulling the younger into his side and not letting him go. “I’ll put the fire on when we’re home,” Damon whispers - slightly petulantly - by Liam’s ear, nuzzling deep into his hair, tickling his upper lip with shorn strands.
Liam turns into Damon, eyebrow raised in loud enough question. “Home?”
Rolling his eyes, Damon pushes away. “You know what I mean.” Dragging Liam down the right path when they reached a crossroad along their way.
A sniffle. “Nowt home about this. Just an ‘oliday, innit?” He runs ahead of Damon, skidding until the ice wears too thin to even crack. Liam cracks his neck, waiting for Damon to catch up.
The sun barely lights their path, far behind them and itching to rest, just as they do. Night was crowding in heavier than the efforts taken to get some time away together, pulling each day down quicker and quicker than they’d like.
Every instant spent with each other bares more tension than any of their years prior, be it in bathrooms at events beyond their control or in the loneliest cottage in a distant world with a setting sun for comfort. A blanket of pure destruction either can bear to go without, mistaking the softness and cosiness of each other for some otherworldly celestial body.
There was a point in time it would’ve been an equal matter. It doesn’t quite ring as true when the darkness is blacker than ever before, and they’re endlessly waiting and waiting for the other to meet them where they’re at.
They get home in one piece, as two square individuals. Damon has to squint through the night to get a key into their make-shift home. The home that wasn’t. Fucking fire hazard, Liam proclaimed it upon lighting his first cigarette inside, chucking it into the fireplace and missing.
Damon told him he should not be so careless with things that aren’t his.
Liam scowled and said he was only doing what he always had done.
Within the instant of the door opening, Liam strips himself of all his layers and plonks himself on the carpet beside the infamous fireplace, where the night before Damon had read out loud for them both when the TV had cut off. They’d fucked before getting up and didn’t mention it when they finally got to bed.
Been a bit rough.
Left Damon limping when they left the next morning and when he came back that afternoon.
He gets no attention from Liam when he bends down to light the fire, putting logs into place with no help from the stronger of the two. “Knackered,” Liam had mumbled with his eyes shut, no intention of helping even if he was full of life. Even leaving Damon to take his own clothes off
Has been, Damon can swear upon. Seen his fella on the telly and cursed whatever haunts the skies above them that he was ever his to begin with. Too loud, too lairy, too much. As loud and lairy and enough as he has ever been with Damon’s tolerance beginning and wearing lower, and lower, until he sunk into his couch and booked the next flight out.
The fire is keeping Liam happy, at least. Reaching a hand to lightly grab at Damon’s ankle, something slowly akin to joy seeping into his features as the cold drains from him and into the floorboards. Life restored.
Despite being directly in front of it, no flames reflect in Damon’s eyes, a blank mass vaguely recognisable as a soul aching for a mirror to see itself in when the mere act has been condemned as impossible for months. Put in place by the man himself when he accepted that- well, the inevitable.
Growing older as everyone else remains the same.
Outgrowing the care that lets aging dictate every major decision for the rest of your life.
Being so far away from the person you should care so much for who hasn’t yet realised those moments in life are awaiting him, closer than he can even anticipate. Creeping up like a bad cold before a gig, present in a headache the night before and scratching its way out whilst you’re none the wiser.
Damon storms upstairs, barely saying a word to Liam as he goes.
Frustration builds as he barges into their shared room, half the luggage unpacked and half strung everywhere, managing to cover every access to temptation without even realising.
He leans upon a dark wood wardrobe, gripping the sides with white knuckles paler than his face had been an hour earlier. The irksome intruder downstairs winding and binding himself to Damon’s newfound haven, weeds in the pavement and a leech to soaked-up skin. Paradise overtaken by those at Lucifer’s mercy, if they’d been let in with no trouble yet still had time to find ways to abuse their welcome.
Just a few days, Damon had asked for. Come down and see me.
Kicks the wardrobe, regretting that he ever gave into baser instincts.
The need for company, and the need to be Damon.
The truth he denies himself when the moon shines brightest and the sun leaves the longest shadows, exposed at every angle.
There is no part of Damon that isn’t the most authentic it can be when met with Liam. More him in that strange man’s presence, warts and all. Filled with knowledge that escapes him all other moments - that he can better stick to those morals he respects himself for most, to life and survival, with Liam next to him.
Where everyone else peddles myths about them that seep into their lives, battles and arguments and nothing-at-alls which drag them more than six feet under; dug up to reality by their other half with mud upon their jeans and a shovel in their hand.
You were never dead you daft cunt - just couldn’t bring yourself to live like you should.
Damon can’t figure out which he prefers as he clings to his only lifeline, the fact he feels most at ease in his soul when bombarded with the exact opposite of which his soul finds comfortable. And always has, if he thinks back and tries not to let the now affect the past. Can’t think of a time where it shouldn’t have been this way.
Then, should is a very weary concept.
If not for their lives they never should have ever been together.
For all their blessings they’ve had to fight against God’s forces depriving them of each other, against what should have been their better judgement.
Can’t bring themselves to live like they should - together.
Damon tears off a pair of Calvin Klein boxers hanging over the wardrobe to reach into one of the drawers, a bag of brown waiting for him after his designated few days off. The plastic nearly melts in his hand, trembling where excitement gets the better of him.
In the tacky material, a glimpse of his own reflection, overbearing light above distorting what he knows to be true - bent over and twisted like the plastic containing his treasure. As he crooks his eyebrow up, it appears to seep down into him, falling off his face and through the floorboards down below.
Down to Liam, laying by the fireplace. Far too flammable and far too ignorant to notice if he is on fire. Think it’s cool, or a miracle to prove his invincibility , rather than a caution. A fable. Liam is to be revered more so than learnt from, in his own mind. Then, in his own mind, he is John Lennon.
Bastard doesn’t even need glasses yet, first of all, never mind being born before he’d died.
You’d have to be soulless not to find it endearing, and as far down as he has sunk, tenfold on six feet under with a bit of room to spare, Damon still had that much. He swears, despite what others may think. It’s there for those to know it’s there and for him to exorcise.
For Liam to find and care for, to love and breathe happiness into.
He clicks his jaw, throwing the packet back into its place. Even covers it with those damn Calvins so Liam doesn’t suspect a thing, falling back to divot their mattress with his own shape, sat at the edge as he finds himself doing when Liam gets ready. Sitting, not watching, eyeing up the drawer whilst brushing his hair from his face.
He’s cold, is what hits him instantly. Has been all day.
Well, since he got out of bed, temporarily lessened by Liam’s parka he’d been forced into by the man who really just missed seeing Damon so comfortable, decked in his gear. Used to do it so often, especially in the cold.
Hardly spent enough time with each other to warrant the effort.
Biting his lip, pain pulsing through as blood begins to spill, Damon stands. Withdraws from the vicinity of the bed, then the wardrobe, and then out of the room, shutting the door without making a sound. The doorknob burns cold against his palm. Hot air escapes him, huffed through his nose whilst his head thuds against the door.
“Day?” he hears yelped from downstairs, barely an echo to follow.
A tear trails down his cheek, almost a snowflake when it hits the ground. He gulps through the lump in his throat and makes his way downstairs, hanging onto the wooden stair rail. Supporting his weight whilst peering into the main room downstairs, Liam sat up waiting for him, the image of a kicked puppy in from the rain minus the damp.
Cheeks reddened, as close to the fire as he can be without burning, Liam pouts his lips towards his love, so far from him and yet so sure in that. In love, despite the everything their lives have thrown at them, holding onto the polaroid he had just taken a few minutes before.
Looking up at Damon with as much love as he had the first time they met, when Damon swore there was something about this boy he ought to invest in. That he should get to know him, and adore him, and put his all in him. Let him waste away, let the love dissipate into ash.
Love him, smile at him, wish him well.
“Come on,” Damon hushes, walking across the carpet to kneel next to Liam, lips quirking into something unmistakable as a smile. Oh, how nice to feel content in yourself. Oh, how rare to feel it in someone else. “Let’s warm up,” he purrs, with the utmost look of love.
Pushing Liam down, Damon lays atop his chest, a hand palming under his shirt and around his chest. “Thought you’d be used to the cold by now.” Come out with a kiss to the top of his head, nose burying itself into his hair as a hand traces up Damon’s arm. There is slight trepidation in every move shared between them, and more than any doubt that they have the best of intentions at this very moment.
Damon hitches a leg over Liam’s hip, curling even more into him as he shakes his head. A kiss to his neck, followed by more, and more. A slight bite, sucking at it until it bruises, then kissing over it. Licking at the wound Liam had all but moaned at. “Always want you.” He peers up to Liam with wide eyes, accepting what he has always known to be utterly sincere.
He does always want Liam. He also wishes Liam wanted every part of him, and not just the ones that can sing in tune.
And though part reflection, Liam swears he sees a look of fire in Damon’s eyes for the first time in a long, long while. Savours it, kissing him softly, sweetly, turning them over to get as warm as they can be.
Cups Damon’s jaw with a shivering hand. Smiles into his mouth. They share a laugh that would’ve thought impossible after their fight two weeks ago and would just as well be unfeasible a week from now.
But far from everything else, in an un-snowed upon isolated cottage in Iceland, their love is harmonious and without quarrel or pain. They are warm, sensitive skin to sensitive skin, and nothing else matters.