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Post-show, Graham always felt like the goddamn Zeus of the Britpop scene. He was buzzing with the adrenaline of performing that had yet to wear off, feeling like he could shoot energy from his fingertips. He didn’t like it.
On a normal day the anxiety was something he could deal with for the most part; the alcohol kept the edge off, sometimes a little too well. Graham found himself inebriated more and more often, to a point where he couldn’t get onstage without knocking one back. It’s not a big deal, he told himself, and for the most part it went unnoticed. He was always in the background of things, always off to the right side of the action.
Damon reveled in the limelight, and it was one of things that initially drew them together; opposites attract, and all that. Graham was content to let the others soak up the attention, because it meant that the focus was off him. But Damon wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, so when his best friend was stumbling offstage bleary-eyed and shaking, he paid attention.
That particular night they made a deal: Graham got one drink. It was enough to take the edge—and only the edge—off. It would get him through the night in one piece with Damon by his side, whispering I’ve got you in his ear and shooting him glances that said the same. They’d deal with the aftermath later.
So instead of blacking out in the dressing room, Graham was in his hotel room, wide-awake with any alcohol he may have felt having worn off halfway through the set. The crisp sheets were balled in his hands, the popcorn ceiling bored into by his eyes when they weren’t snapped shut. Damon took him as far as the door like some sort of escort delivering a fragile package, and with a kiss on his cheek went back to his own room for what he promised was just a minute.
The show itself had been tolerable, but only because Damon made it so. He was always the person who made Graham come out of his shell when he’d otherwise want nothing to do with the outside world. He knew the perfect balance of playing up the crowd and demanding their attention while simultaneously making sure Graham was still right behind him. All he had to do was stand there and play, really, but his shoulders threatened to sag.
When Graham heard his door open he relaxed his facial muscles as well as he could. Damon had been on his case for clenching his jaw for a while. It wasn’t like he was doing it on purpose, more so his natural state was anxiety. Damon said if he didn’t relax he’d get wrinkles, end up prematurely aging, be the one out of them most likely to grace the cover of The Sun with botched plastic surgery. Damon was also crazy, most of the time.
Graham shut his eyes, trying his best to not try at all and convince Damon he was perfectly zen, had been this entire time. Damon set something down with a light noise, and then,
“Hey, Gra?”
Calm down . “Mmm?”
Neither said anything further, and soon Graham felt a dip in the bed. He opened his eyes to Damon settling next to him, laying on his side, head propped up on his elbow. They laid there for a moment, Graham acutely aware of his breathing, trying desperately to regulate it but having no idea how to. He was always out of breath around Damon, whether they were laughing or loving or just like this, staring at one other, and his heart was beating so fast his lungs couldn’t catch up.
“How are you doing?” Damon asked, placing what was supposed to be a reassuring hand on Graham’s hip. All he succeeded in doing was making him more flustered, really. And it didn’t help that, somewhere between their rooms, Damon lost his shirt.
“Better now.” And it was true.
“You did really well, you know.” Graham knew he probably looked a state like he always did, drink or no drink. It was just his nature to appear perpetually uncomfortable.
“Still feels like they all knew I was on the brink of a meltdown.” Graham instinctively tried to shrink in on himself, but Damon wouldn’t allow it, pulling him in for a kiss. He moved one of his hands to the back of Graham’s neck, a ghost of a touch, and he felt the tiniest bit of the energy coursing through him melt away into something more subdued.
When Damon pulled away he spoke softly, “Gra, you looked fine up there. Honest,” and Graham was willing to believe anything he said.
“You should know, you were starin’ at me the whole bloody time.”
“Because I care about you. And we started this to have fun, y’know?” Damon wriggled his eyebrows the way he always did when he was about to make a terrible joke. “‘Sides, who could blame me?”
“Stop it.”
“Make me.”
Damon Albarn, at the ripe age of twenty-five, was a child. “C’mon, Da — ”
Graham was cut off by Damon kissing him once more, distracting him just enough so he could climb on top. Suddenly his knees were on either side of Graham and he couldn’t get up if he tried. “No fair,” He complained half-heartedly.
Damon leaned down into his space, close enough to where Graham could feel his breath, and cradled his face in his hands. “Just let me take care of you, alright?”
“I‘m not a little kid, Day.” Graham’s response made Damon laugh for a reason he was uncertain of, but he didn’t have time to question it before their lips met again, this time with intent. The lack of alcohol in his system made Graham hungry for something, anything , so he pulled Damon deeper, grasping for some of his hair, but he was stopped abruptly.
Damon reached up for his hands and smiled, intertwining their fingers. He moved their arms down so they rested just above Graham’s head.
“Gonna go slow, yeah?”
And oh, that was what they were doing . Graham nodded, head swimming. It wasn’t exactly something they could talk about with the lads; he supposed none of it was, really. But Damon had a way of knowing exactly what he needed and when. And sometimes, Graham just needed .
It was magical, how Damon had an ability to get through one week entirely drunk and spend the next without touching a single drop. He had the opposite of addictive tendencies, so when he wanted to be sober, he was; when he wasn’t, he hid it well. Graham wasn’t so lucky. He was rarely there when they did this, emotionally at least, and he liked it that way. It was easier for him to just enjoy the moment and get off than process what it was. What it meant. The vulnerability.
That night, though, he was acutely aware of everything; the way Damon had him pinned down, the way their mouths slotted together perfectly, the feeling coursing through his body that Graham couldn’t quite place. It was something like equal parts arousal and anxiety, and the latter was magnified when Damon connected their hips and Graham felt his whole body stutter. His eyes shot open as he fully registered that this feeling had gone way past friendly, and normally he wouldn’t mind, but his senses were fully stimulated and he was overwhelmed.
Damon noticed the sudden shift in mood. “Y’okay?”
“Yeah. Just. A lot.” Graham’s eyes diverted, but he still sensed the weight on top of him.
The tension was cut by Damon’s softening voice. “Look at me, Graham.”
Everything he felt was screaming at him not to, but Graham met Damon’s gaze, his eyes intense.
“You’re my best friend. That comes first, always.”
Graham was going to explode. “’M alright, Dames. Really.” And hey, it wasn’t entirely a lie. He really was fine with everything that was happening, but alright was more of a euphemism for things like my head is spinning and I feel so, so alive with you.
Damon sifted his fingers through Graham’s hair, undoubtedly trying to tame its post-gig messiness. His lips found their way to his jawline, peppering his neck with kisses down to the clavicle, where it became clear that fabric was in the way. Graham shifted upwards in an attempt to take his shirt off, but Damon grabbed the hem and tugged it over his head before he could. A slight blush threatened to colour his cheeks, but he willed it away, reminding himself that Damon was in the same position of undress as him. Besides, this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. It was just the first time in a while they’d done it like this.
The boy above him ran his hands down Graham’s chest, fingers grazing over his nipples, and he must’ve reacted in some way because Damon fucking laughed. He was grinning, eyes the size of the moon, and when he said you’re so beautiful, baby, it was so earnest that Graham could almost believe it.
Both still had their jeans on, and as the strain became uncomfortable Damon’s hands grabbed for Graham’s belt.
He delivered a dramatic, “May I?”, ever the theatre kid, and then Graham was nodding and laughing too. The situation was absurd, and he was traveling the world with his best friend who inexplicably wanted to sweep him up in his insanity. He loved Damon for it, and they were the goddamn Leiber and Stoller of the 90s, at least to themselves. America would just have to catch up.
But neither had time to muse over charting once their trousers came off. Boxers followed soon after, and when they were skin to skin it was real and Graham could feel it. Damon finally had the canvas he wanted, and his teeth grazed over Graham’s neck before softly biting down, just enough to leave a mark. He pulled away all too soon.
“Be right back.” Damon reached over the edge of the bed and rustled through the bag he’d discarded earlier. He came back up with lube and a condom. Graham was impatient, said, “C’mon,” even though he knew it wouldn’t really do anything.
Damon kissed his nose, scrunching his face adorably. “Shh. Gotta be patient, baby. I don’t want to hurt you.” He brushed Graham’s lips with his index finger, and they parted, allowing access. Graham sucked on them, trying to slick them with spit as much as he could, tongue running over the ridges of his fingerprints. When Damon pulled them out he kissed down Graham’s chest, stopping at his cock to lick the precum that had pearled on the tip, and his hand traveled down.
Graham felt Damon’s fingers circling his entrance, and when the cold lube was added to the mix he pushed the first one in. He worked a second one in, stretching Graham open, and his free hand found itself holding Graham’s. Any discomfort Graham felt dissolved when Damon crooked the three fingers inside him and he arched his back more than he even thought possible. There’s no way God didn’t know about that spot when he created humans.
Appreciative but impatient, Graham implored Damon to hurry the fuck up. Damon didn’t object, reaching for his supplies.
“Comfy?” Graham nodded. “Good. Love seein’ your face.”
He was about to deflect with some witty reply, but when Damon entered him he felt all the bad feelings—the anxiety and inadequacy and repression—exit him. Damon kissed him, a distraction while he got used to the sensation. When he had to come up for air he was all praise, made Graham feel like a priority. “God, imagine how jealous they’d be, baby. When I’m not busy being in the best band in the world, I’m making love to the best guitarist in the world.”
The word choice unleashed a swarm of butterflies in Graham’s stomach. “You’re the cool one — ah, frontman — y’know that.” He shifted, feeling so full, and—
“Wouldn’t mean anything without you.”
Graham blushed, a response in itself. “Move. Please, Day.”
The boy atop him complied with slow, calculated strokes that hit all the right places, and Graham all at once experienced love and lust and the feeling of being complete. He reached down to touch himself but Damon had the same thought, and when their hands clunked into another they fell into another fit of mutual giggles. Damon won the unspoken battle, jerking Graham off in time with his own strokes.
Damon’s movements became increasingly spastic in a way that told Graham that he was —t hey were both — getting close. He felt Damon’s breath on his neck as he buried his head there, mouth spilling out iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou , all tender touches and worship.
Hearing Damon’s voice was what sent him over the edge; it was low and gravelly, and he knew they both wanted the other with the same fervor. There was something about the way he sounded that was nothing like how he looked, and the way he sung their songs was even different still, and Graham couldn’t explain it for the life of him, what it did to him.
Graham’s muscles tightened as he came, another inexplicable puzzle piece in his relationship with his songwriting partner, his lover, his best friend. Damon followed soon after, face displaying what could only aptly be described as bliss.
Eventually he pulled out, much sooner than either of them wanted, Damon mumbled something about going to get a washcloth. If Graham was honest, he didn’t catch the full statement, too busy staring at the ceiling. Not to quell anxiety, this time around, but to appreciate what he had.
When his lover returned, Graham could only grin. It was their system, stupid bouts of just staring at the other in awe that they’d somehow won the roulette of life and ended up in the same timeline. They’d always ask the other, what? And the answer was always, Nothin’. Just admiring the view.
Graham wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t enjoy being a stupid kid, making out with Damon in seedy venue bathroom stalls or sucking him off in the back bedroom at a party they’d had one too many drinks at. The risk, he supposed, was what made it fun. It was quick and easy and usually satisfied them. But maybe he could get used to this; hotel rooms with the world locked out, just the two of them bringing one another back down to earth.