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“Don’t go, come on…” he murmurs as he sits up, leaning over to press a kiss to the back of Graham’s neck as he laces up his shoes. He can’t stop himself from shrugging Damon off, chest and throat so tight he isn’t sure if he’s even alive anymore — maybe it’s all a dream, a nightmare. 

“She’ll be back soon.” His voice is anything but friendly, and Damon recoils, leaning back against the headboard with a sigh and running a hand through his tousled hair while fixing the sheets to cover his naked body.

“She isn’t coming home until tomorrow. We’ve got time.” 

“Maybe you do,” Graham mutters, standing up to look for his jacket. 


“Nothing.” The singer rolls his eyes, grabs his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, and lights one up, taking a long drag to try and calm his growing anxiety. 

“You don’t have to make everything so hard, Gra.” 

Graham laughs to himself, low and sad, and he mutters fuck you under his breath, shrugging on his army-green jacket. Damon hears, and he goes to speak, but Graham shakes his head, jaw locked, and it’s obvious in his eyes that nothing will help, nothing will heal the scars they’ve engraved on each other. 



Just because

You call my name

I cannot hear

It’s not the same



The phone rings three nights later. Graham is on the sofa with a cigarette and a bottle of vodka, and the TV is on, static sounding low throughout the room. It’s lonely in there, too quiet, but the buzzing in his head and the constant stream of useless, self-deprecating thoughts keeps him company. Until he hears the phone and nearly jumps out of his skin (part of him wishes he could really jump out of his skin), but he stands up and staggers over despite his desperation to never talk to anyone ever again. 

“Hello?” His voice is as quiet as ever, and Damon’s heart beats faster at the sound of it. It’s comforting, it’s home. 

“She’s gone.”

Graham closes his eyes and shakes his head, whispering no, no, no over and over to himself. 


He leans against the wall and opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. It’s even quieter than it was earlier, though he can hear his best friend’s breathing from the other end, and his heart is beating so hard it feels like someone is practicing a Bonham solo in the next room over. 

“I… I can’t, Damon - don’t, just…” he struggles to get his thoughts out, always has, but it’s harder now, here, with what’s in front of his face, with what’s holding him back. 

“Come over. Please. Or I’ll come over there, yeah? Just… wanna see you, Graham.”

“No, Damon -”

“I’ll bring over some chips and coke, uh, soda… and you can read to me. Yeah, you can read to me, anything you want. It’ll be just like old times.” Graham can hear Damon smiling, and he’s wishing he was dead. 

It won’t be like old times. You actually loved me then. 

“I can’t. I’ve got company.” Graham straightens up, clears his throat, lies straight through his teeth. 


“Yeah. Sorry.” The singer sounds hurt, and Graham hopes he is. He hopes he’s aching the same way Graham always does when he’s kicked out because Justine is on the way home, the same way he aches when they’re at some event and she just has to be there too, the way he aches when Damon pretends like nothing’s happened between them, like he hasn’t told Graham he wishes they could run away together, like he hasn’t told Graham that they’re soulmates. 

“Are they staying the night?”

“Fuck, Damon, I don’t know. I’m sure I’m not the only person on your list for tonight.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.”

“I don’t think I do, why don’t you explain it-” 

The line goes dead, and Graham is begging to go with it. 



I can't believe what I had to say

All the things you never say



“You won’t answer my calls.”

I haven’t been answering anybody’s calls.

“Not now, not… here.” Dave and Alex are fiddling around, trying to come up with something, anything to get the session going, and Graham really isn’t in the mood to interrupt them with the latest episode of the drama that is Graham and Damon. 

“We can’t really talk about it anywhere else, can we? We could if you would fucking pick up, but you ignore me, and I’m sick of it.” Graham scoffs and stands up. 

“I’m sick of a load of shit, but I’m not crying to you, am I?”

Damon’s eyes burn with fire and emotion, and his hands ball up, nails digging into his palms as he tries to let it go, let it pass over his head. But it’s harder than he wishes, and it’s harder because it’s Graham

The session passes with absolutely nothing, time completely fucking wasted, money wasted, booze wasted. It’s all a waste, and Graham feels pathetic as he packs his stuff up, hands shaking from the need for a drink, a sniff, anything he can get. 

“Let me take you home,” Damon tries, and Graham just laughs dryly. 

“I’m not a child.” 

“I didn’t say you were.” They stare at each other for a moment, and then Graham gives up because it’s going to come sooner or later, it’s inevitable. Damon isn’t breaking up with her anytime soon, if ever, and Graham can’t go on like this — used and abused and thrown away. 

The ride is silent, both too anxious to start, but when they round the corner to Graham’s street, Damon knows he has to talk now or it won’t ever happen. 

“What’s going on?”



“We were, you know -” he motions to the both of them, taking a deep breath, “before she... came along.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And you treat me like I came after she did.” Damon’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, parking in front of Graham’s place, and turning in his seat to look at him. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’d give me up for her.”

“Graham, that isn’t true -”

“I don’t really care anymore.” He gets out and reaches into the backseat to grab his stuff, pushing his glasses up on his nose with his wrist. “I don’t know if you know this, Damon, but… I love you. And it hurts because I know you don’t love me.” Damon stares at him, face emotionless, and Graham doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it tears him apart all the same, and he slams the door before going inside, his heart cracking as he listens to Damon drive away. 



I'll never be what you want me to be

Now I can't disappear



They haven’t seen each other in a week. Graham’s “sick”, codeword for too hungover to come in, and the three of them wonder why he even lies about it anymore. As if they don’t know. 

But he feels good, despite the overwhelming crushing pain of his soul and his heart and his life shattering. Take away those things, and he’s doing alright. Writing a lot of songs, coming up with some stuff he’s kind of proud of, but they’re all for Damon, and so he knows they won’t ever see the light of day, not where Blur is concerned. 

You need to talk to him. 

He misses you. 

He isn’t sleeping. 

Graham rolls his eyes as he replays what Alex told him over the phone in his head, knowing it’s all bullshit to get him to come in, to make up with Damon. He doesn’t think there’s anything to make up, really. Nothing happened, except the truth finally came out. 

He’s coming around, beginning to accept that he isn’t going to be for Damon what Damon is for him. He’s just someone for Damon to fuck, that’s the way it’s always been. They create music together, and they fuck. That’s the basis of it, he knows. It’s laughable thinking of Damon loving him, it’s absolutely absurd. Graham isn’t even sure if Damon is capable of love, compassion, empathy. But then he thinks that maybe he is capable of it, just not when it’s towards Graham. 

His mind starts rushing through his memories, the ones entitled ‘Damon’, the ones full of heartbreak and loss and beauty and beginnings. 

He remembers the time some guy was chatting him up, getting too friendly, too close, way before Justine came along. Damon hated it, was fucking seething as he came over to them, grabbing Graham firmly and telling him we have to go. 



“Mine,” he hisses as he pounds into the pale boy beneath him relentlessly, hand wrapped tight around his throat, not sure if he’s causing any pain, but his vision is blurred and his mind is too twisted for him to care in the moment. 

Graham whimpers and his hips stutter, trying to meet Damon’s thrusts, but he’s too hard and too fast, and it’s all too much, and finally Graham just lets him go, let’s him do whatever, surrenders to him — falls in love all over again. 

“Say it.”

Graham looks up at him, eyes wet with the overwhelming pleasure, body trembling with each thrust, each stroke of that spot inside of him, lips parting just barely to show Damon that he can’t speak with how tight his hand is. He’s disappointed when his grip loosens. 

“Yours,” He rasps, voice broken, and with one more thrust, they both come undone, groaning and whining and whispering pathetic, possessive nothings that mean too much to one of them. 



Graham sighs shakily and slips his hand under the waist of his jeans, his other arm resting over his eyes, hoping to shield himself from the world, from reality. He’s hard and hates himself. He also hates Damon, for the things he makes Graham feel, for the things he won’t feel. He hates the world for not taking him away. 



Close your eyes and look at me

I can't believe what I cannot see



He sees Damon on top of him, smirking, eyes electric blue, looking elvish, Tolkienish. A daydream. He feels that hand creep under his boxers to wrap around him, and he’s tilting his head back, body growing warm with want, need. There’s that scent, the one that hides in the crevice of Damon’s neck, the one that’s become a home for Graham, the one that’s stuck on an old shirt in the back of his closet from too many years ago. 

Does that feel good?


His hand starts moving, stroking slow, long, fingertips pressing against the underside, and it’s just enough pressure to elicit a sigh from Graham, whose head has turned to hide against the cushions, not wanting Damon to see the blush that he knows is there. 




There’s no one else

His movements become quicker, and his thumb is prodding at his slit, circling his head. Occasionally his hand moves down to cup his balls, and he sees the blonde boy grinning at how his hips buck, a silent plea for more and less and everything and nothing at all. 

Just don’t go

You’re the one that leaves

I always miss you though

Then stop going

Maybe it isn’t real and maybe it is, and maybe he’s moaning the name of a love that’ll never exist, but it’s good, and it’s tight, and Damon is stroking faster, faster, breathing on Graham’s neck and down his throat and tracing his skin with his tongue, and the poor boy is shaking, body racked with desire. 

Cum for me

Not yet

His hand slows down, and he lets out a sigh of relief, before it starts back up again, faster this time, forearm aching. Needing needing needing. 




And he lets go, lets it all go, and he’s whining and groaning and his hips are raising, stuttering, trying to reach for something he can’t have because he’s gone, Damon is gone, and his stomach is covered in his sticky release as he pants and shudders. His eyes close and burn, he wipes at them, smacks his cheeks, does anything he can to make it go away, the hurt .  

He cleans up, numbs himself with another bottle and then another. And he sits down to write a song about how great it is to be alone, but he’s lying.