Work Text:
March 1996
They were all having a drink in a bar in the vast expanse of time before a bomb exploded. This was 1996, and it was the end of the world. The world had been ending and dying every day for at least two years and still Graham had to raise his guitar, raise his glass and pick his way through the misery to be taken and looked at.
He lethargically played and contorted and rolled and broke all of his bones and let the juice from his mashed cartilage spill down the stage for the little girls to lap and it sounded like pop. It was a particular type of soul-crushing to know you were destroying yourself to be not-as-commercial-as-Oasis.
Old snow had turned into dirty slush in the street outside the bar. Graham had a vague plan to go join it in the gutter later once he was liquidy enough. Inside, human heat mixed with cigarette smoke to make the windows cry.
Alex was holding court to a few beautiful girls, Dave had decided he’d rather drink his square fucking orange juice in his hotel room and Damon was trying to wrangle drugs or something from a still bright-eyed roadie in a corner booth. The miserable bastard at the bar had already drunk about half a dozen pints on top of the gig’s customary two bottles and a half of red wine and unlike the rest of the place’s male population he’d given up on trying to find an American girl that would accept to fuck him.
He spun a ramekin full of dust around his index, sending sad peanuts flying all over the counter. He considered throwing it across the room just to see it smash.
On the other side of the bar, Damon extricated himself from his booth by way of his admirer’s lap and crossed the floor to disappear in the loos. He wobbled. He cut a terrible figure, alone against the grain of the crowd. Graham squinted. Was it only the lights that gave him an aura? That was the kind of thing Damon believed in, along with the power of love and acid that teaches you Japanese. An old girlfriend had once told him Graham you have very sad shoulders, but Damon and her hadn't gotten along.
Some old mechanism clicked and whirred rusty inside Graham, somewhere close to I want to help him and I want to touch his skin. Somehow Damon had conditioned Graham to seek him when upset like a freed horse that only knows the way to the stable and for Graham to hold his hand and clean up his cuts after a fight, since Damon liked keeping his upset to himself instead of vomiting it on the world like Graham did. One of Graham’s last remaining drunken romantic fantasies was of Damon using him to cry, biting the bone of his shoulder as he sobbed, trembling like a baby bird in his arms. Graham licking the tears from his lashes. He wanked to it sometimes when otherwise in a real drought of material.
This sort of arrangement was informally broken now Damon was letting Graham roll around the floor on his own when he was upset and kept his blood and his cuts to himself. Impossible to completely get rid of the switch, though; Damon was used to discarding pieces of himself all up and down Graham’s mind like dirty laundry or anti-personnel mines. Graham spilled out of his stool and vaguely oriented himself in the direction Damon went.
The floor was rolling under his feet like the bottom of a ship. He bumped against a table or someone and mumbled something, swiping his wrist across his forehead to get some of the sweat pooling in his eyebrows. Tendrils of warm air were floating on the edge of his vision, swaying his head this and that way. He tried to take every next step with the assuredness of a gymnast about to tumble.
The toilet doors were made of wooden slats and opened like those of a saloon. God, that whole country was out of its mind. The radio was mumbling a commercial over tinny speakers. The saloon doors batted his arse and sent him stumbling forward.
One of the cubicle doors yawned open. Damon was kneeling, folded over the closed toilet seat, doing a line. Graham could really mostly see his back, but it was impossible to not know Damon by the profile. He wasn't even snorting it through a rolled up bill; perfect nose to the porcelain, disgusting. Big deformed protruding shoulder blades. His posture was so terrible. He’ll be a hunchback soon.
Graham's shoes squeaked and squelched into the cubicle, sloshing the stagnant film of toilet water around the tile.
“You fucking cunt. Is that smack?”
Damon looked up, beautiful and purely surprised as a new born lamb, powder lingering on his nostril. “What? No. It’s coke, are you crazy?”
“Am I crazy?”
Graham grabbed his own hair by the roots, trying to make his head stop spinning. “You know I fucking thought you were having a fucking panic attack.”
“Sorry,” he said, not looking sorry. “Want a line?” He gestured at the coke left in a neat row. Graham closed the door behind him and crouched next to Damon's shiny eyes.
He bent his neck. Horns. Ram. Bull. His forehead kissed Damon's mouth and chin with enough force to send Damon splat against the wall, making the whole building shake. Pained yelp. Graham gently doubled over to clutch his head again, feeling sick.
“Fuck!” Graham looked up. Damon's nose was a mess of snot and blood in his cupped hand. “You fucking nutter!”
Graham reached for his wet-breathing body. Come come come. Viscous blood and mucus twirling around his wrist, darkening his shirtsleeve. Slippy when grabbed. He didn’t even flinch away despite Graham having just tried to break his nose. Graham kept looking for something in him he didn't want to destroy. Damon wiped at his face with his fingers but more blood, thick and black, was slowly rolling down from his nostril.
Graham took his second hand in his and delicately brought his mouth to Damon’s to taste the seam of his lips, looking for the bitter coke-drip flavour. He opened his mouth eagerly. The inside of him was all blood-iron salt. Graham inhaled him, imagined he could siphon all of his blood out until he was a little dried raisin, wanted more, pressed forward and realized he was reverently sucking at his tongue and Damon was making little noises in the back of his throat.
Something chemically animal was happening inside him. He was so hard. Graham mashed his nose to his warm cheek and dragged his wrists behind his back, pushing him up with his hips until Damon had to climb the toilet seat, and followed him, the line under them somewhat upset by his scramble. Somewhat scrambled by his upset.
Graham grabbed a hold of his hair and kissed him again. Fine and wet with sweat and under it, his delicate skull. Pounding under his hand, all the violence that could be done but wasn’t, the bird you weren’t crushing in your fist. His hair couldn’t be wound around his fingers like before, but could still be pulled. Damon groaned wetly and Graham pinned him against the tank, properly spread his thighs to rut against his leg, frantic.
The toilet-radio deejay crackled a joke and started playing what could only be Line Up. Graham went just as still as he would have if she had opened the stall door herself and started yelling. Damon pulled away with a terrible damning suction noise just as Justine started singing and laughed at a frequency that was unbearable. Graham imagined the cubicle exploding into porcelain and bone powder, their horribly mangled bodies.
“Is that the one about shagging you in a car?” Graham asked between clenched teeth.
“No, it's one about fucking in a public toilet.” He brushed some sweaty hair out of Graham’s eyes, fingers cool against his burning face. “Would you shag me in a car?”
“You'd let me shag you?” Graham wanted him to say I'd let you do anything, open wanting mouth. Damon used his other hand to keep Graham grinding in an even rhythm against him, go on go on go on, leading him by the hip. Graham dropped his head on his shoulder, panted against his neck. He smelled like sweet women’s perfume.
“Probably not… Seems painful.” The stall spun around them.
You would, you would! Graham thought ferociously. He tugged on the collar of his shirt brutally enough for a button to pop and ping on the tile and bit the hard flesh of his shoulder. Damon moaned in his ear.
Damon slipped his hand around to grab his arse, guided him so his pelvis undulated up and down against his thigh like how fit birds danced on you when they were drunk. The pressure of the zipper against his cock was driving him mad. He could feel the fabric of his underwear getting wet against the sensitive skin, sticking, unsticking.“You're so sexy,” Damon was fervently saying.
Graham was a pale twitchy sweaty drunk currently rubbing off against his junkie best friend's jeans. A groan got caught in his throat. “Shut up.”
Damon firmly gripped his arse with his second hand and slid him forward on his lap until Graham ground against his stomach. Graham held on to the toilet tank. There was a star growing in his stomach, branches extending all the way to the veins of his arms. Damon was rubbing his face into his armpit and humming what Graham hoped weren't the lyrics of the song playing.
Awful wet licking at his armpit. Rubbed his nose up higher until he got the straining arm. He bit Graham's bicep then fumbled for his zipper. He plunged his perfect soft warm hand into Graham's pants and pulled out his straining cock. Graham’s stomach lurched like he was going to be sick.
“Yeah,” Damon said nonsensically and then: “Oh, Gra…" His thumb rubbed at the slit.
His stomach tightened and distended. His head was on fire. The stall spin was reaching terminal velocity. Damon stroked him tight-fast once, twice, up-down, squeeze, and Graham whimpered like a kicked dog and sloppily came all over Damon’s stomach.
His spunk landed all over Damon's dress shirt that had been left halfway unbuttoned and all the hair on his belly that trailed down to his trouser zipper. Shiny warm beads of come on his hot skin. Damon let out a surprised noise. Line Up gave its triumphant final note.
Graham’s body burned in mortification. Damon’s hand was still holding his cock in place and he tightened it by reflex, pushing a last Ah-han out of Graham’s larynx, sounding terribly loud in the loo-radio lull between two songs. Blood beat in his ears.
Damon opened his mouth and Graham smashed his hand over it before he could speak. The big blue eyes shone silently at him, ecstatic. Graham tried getting his breath back. There were rivers of sweat running down his neck. All of his organs swelling and slamming against each other inside his belly.
Damon licked his fingers and then gently removed Graham's hand from his mouth. “Here comes your man…” he sang, tang tang tang tang tang tang tang… Graham whined and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, horrified.
“Aw, come on Graham, I don't mind.” He reached up for him, trying to get his mouth. Graham let himself be kissed, something like shyness on the comedown.
In the far, far away lands of youth, marginally stupider by all accounts and yet wiser about this, maybe, more fearful of hurting each other, they used to ask Was it good; no other acknowledgement of what they'd done to each other aside from asking shivering and breathless if the other one liked it enough to allow it to happen again. Somewhere along the line they became too intermeshed to have to ask how the other felt. There was a kind of disgust that went with knowing exactly what went on in a person’s head; being unable to bear Damon was its own kind of self-hatred.
Damon rubbed at the come on his belly and wiped his hand on the roll of loo paper. He grimaced at his shirt. “Now what am I meant to do with that. I can't walk out with your spunk all over me.”
Graham shivered all over. His prick was softening but still gave a valiant twitch in his hand as he tucked himself back in his pants. “Jesus. Shut up.” Damon raised his eyebrows at him.
Maybe out of a childish desire to make it at all good for him or a twisted sense of politeness, Graham reached into the humid heat of Damon's pants, the bones of his knuckles rubbing against each other in the awkward squeeze to get past his trouser buttons. He undid them, annoyed, yanked the jeans down, jolting Damon, and slipped his fingers in his knickers only to feel Damon's cock still desperately soft. Graham would have laughed. He could see it in his hand, pink and limp like a dead vole, comically huge and useless. Graham looked back at him.
“Can't really get hard with a bloke, these days,” Damon said, shrugging. “Sorry.”
Graham's head was full of sand. He laughed cruelly. “You lying cunt. Can't get hard at all, more like.” He was holding the soft warm weight of him for too long.
“I hope Justine is giving you the runaround too since you're clearly no good to her. I hope she's whoring herself out to Country House when you're on tour, you fucking impotent.” He gave his cock a squeeze, satisfied with Damon's pained wince.
“That's lovely, Graham,” Damon said impassively. “I was wondering where you were.” Graham scrunched his hand out of his pants.
“Got any coke left?”
“You tell me, we're sitting on it.” Graham dismounted him and kneeled on the wet floor at his feet. He lifted Damon's leg, about folding him in half, to observe that the fat line that was left had indeed scattered all over the arse of his Levi's and adhered to the film of sweat coating the back of his thigh.
Graham ducked under his knee and burrowed his head further into him, lifting his leg higher. Damon groaned in discomfort, his arm flexing to keep himself up, his trousers halfway down his thighs, his dirty trainer slipping on Graham’s back. Graham put his mouth on the fold of flesh where Damon's bum became his thigh. He leisurely licked the coke there, going down the thigh until he met the waistband of Damon's jeans. Damon exhaled harshly. “Jesus.”
Bitterness bloomed on Graham's tongue. He nosed Damon’ s briefs up out of the way and laid his tongue on the skin of his tender inner thigh to chase the taste out of his mouth.
He inhaled the strong smell of him, not at all like women’s perfume here in the valley of his body, and avidly sucked his sweaty skin. “Graham.” Damon said, sounding strangled. Graham glanced back at his groin. Nothing. Oh well.
He let go of Damon and let him flop down on the toilet. Graham could see the big glossy circle of his spit shining, swirling the fine hairs there between Damon's thighs. His leg was trembling on Graham's shoulder. His hand was trembling on Graham’s bicep. Graham wiped his mouth with his fist. “That is horrible,” he said to him. “Why do you do that shit.”
“Well, that's really not how you're meant to do it, Graham.” Damon said primly, taking his leg back.
Graham was still on his penitent knees in the V of Damon’s body, toilet sap starting to soak into his jeans. The sides of his vision were swimming. He dropped his head on the toilet seat between Damon’s thighs, his limbs boneless. Oh, the despair! His shoulders spasmed. He made a terrible noise. He raised his head, aiming to smash it down on the porcelain but Damon intercepted him by the forehead.
Graham looked up. Somehow, there he was. He gently dragged his fingers down in a caress, temple, hair, ears, until he was cupping Graham’s jaw and swiped his thumb under the corner of Graham's eye to catch the small mean burning tears. Graham felt little and fragile.
“I'll fucking throw up on you,” Graham mumbled into Damon's palms.
“You’ll be grand,” Damon said, getting up. Graham looked up at him from his still-unbuttoned-crotch level and wondered what Damon was seeing when he looked at him; if he was looking. Won’t you smash me like a grape under your foot? Damon bent forward and dragged him upright by the armpits.
“Go splash some water on your face,” he ordered and led him to the mirror.
Graham had so much drying blood streaked across his mouth and nose he looked like he'd been eating out a girl on her monthlies. Damon half climbed the sink to run his shirt under the tap. The knobs of his spine, the dimples of his arse, the down of golden hairs. The lower half of his face was just the same as his, large brown red flakes peeling off his nose. They looked like little clues for a riddle in an activity booklet for slow children. Circle the two people who have been secretly snogging!
Graham shouldered him and leant down to rub water on his face. His head was already so insensible it felt like the water turned warm as soon as it touched him, useless. He felt like a steamed egg or a hot engine. He turned the knob as cold as it would go and stuck his head in the basin. Damon yelped.
The freezing water penetrated his brain through his scalp like tiny needles, forcing it to cool off. He craned his neck to drink and spluttered at the water going in his nose. The spinning made it hard to remember which way was up and which was down. He gurgled and a hand pulled at his shoulder to drag him out from under the tap, loudly bumping his head on the sink.
“Fucking hell, you'll drown yourself, you idiot.” Graham shook himself like a wet dog.
Damon grabbed his chin and held him in place to wipe his face dry with the soon to be tatters that were his shirt. “You're like a little kid.”
“Urgh, I don't want your cum rag on my face, that's disgusting.”
“I think you'll find it's your cum rag.” He let the shirt tails fall but held on to Graham. His eyes searched his face. Impossible to tell what for.
Graham had trouble really focusing on him—had to squinch his eyes almost closed to see less than three frowning Damons. Damon rubbed his thumb on the creases of his nose to smooth them out. He slipped his hand down to his arse to grab Graham’s glasses out of his pocket and tenderly placed them on his nose. God knows how he knew they’d be there.
“I'll forgive you, you know. Whenever you’ll say sorry.”
Graham felt his eyes roll back into his head. “Mnot— I got nothing to say sorry for, you fucking martyr.”
Damon kissed him. “Well, I guess I'll just have to forgive you anyway.” He let go of him and turned towards the mirror.
“Now, go out before I do.” It was unbelievable that he didn’t have the decency of letting Graham stare at himself alone in the mirror to wonder what was wrong with him and was instead sending him back to drown in the throng of people. Shooting junk did not make you inherently more tortured.
“I’ll let you powder your nose,” Graham said, showing his teeth.
Damon made the same face back at him. “Everyone’s a comedian.”
Graham left the crash site and went to sit back down at the bar. Tomorrow, Alex's eyebrows’ perilous climb up his forehead when he'll see the nut bump blooming on Graham's forehead, the teeth mark on his neck. Did you get cornered by a big randy boxer, Shut up Alex God please shut up, Did he stick it up you Did you like it… A guitar smashing, maybe… An interesting noise, finally…