Chapter Text
“You were unsure which pain is worse – the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will.”
- Simon Van Booy
Damianos died on a sunny day in early October.
He drove on a forest road, staying away from the thick traffic of the city, in a white Cadillac. His white Cadillac, the one Laurent got him for his twenty-ninth birthday. His hand might’ve touched the smooth leather seat beside him where Laurent usually sat, or maybe he had turned on the radio and sung along to his favorite songs. No one will ever find out what he did in those last minutes.
Damen was on his way home and never arrived.
A car on the other side of the road. Two friends on their way to distant family members.
They didn’t drink, they weren’t distracted, no one drove too fast. Everything looked like the cars would just pass each other, a millisecond of contact before Damen would’ve continued to drive home to Laurent, his mind still circling around the good conversations he had in Nikandros’ apartment earlier that day.
Just a millisecond.
And just like that, one of their tire’s burst.
It’s no one’s fault. And it’s everyone’s.
Damen had no chance to evade the crash. Maybe he tried to pull around the steering wheel. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe his mind went blank with realization of what was about to happen or maybe, he thought of Laurent.
No one will ever know.
And as the world spins on and the sun rises and goes down again, a brutal rhythm that allows no breaks for anyone, Damen will never know how many broken pieces he left behind that day.
~
And Nikandros was almost relieved he didn’t have to know.
He can’t remember a single thing that happened in the last days. It seems like only a second went by between the moment he picked up his phone to see an unknown number calling and trying to find an empty parking spot in front of the cemetery. Auto-pilot. There is no other way to describe this feeling, or rather the lack of any feeling inside of him.
He stood up in the morning, brushed his teeth, put on some clean clothes for the sheer purpose of giving himself a routine, something to focus on. He couldn’t allow himself to give in to the growing black hole in his chest, not before the funeral.
Leaving his car behind, Nikandros forgets to roll up the windows. He nods to a few people he recognizes from shared family meetings, takes some teary aunts in his arms and kisses their cheek.
I’ll see you later, he tells some of them.
That’s what Damen said to him, too.
He walks over the main path of the cemetery, grey stone plates framed by high pine trees, softly weighing in the wind. It’s a quiet morning, the air is still misty from the night before, where Nikandros listened to the rain hitting his window until he passed out from pure exhaustion. It’s different now, a new day awaiting. He feels like the world is about to end.
Trailing behind the other mourners should’ve been an easy task. All that’s expected of him is to set one foot in front of the other, a repetitive task that doesn’t take a lot, but it’s getting harder with every minute that passes. Because this isn’t just a walk in the park, it’s not just any family gathering. Nikandros is on his way to bury his best friend, his brother.
His knees wobble dangerously.
He hears someone coming up beside him, a smaller figure sliding their arm around his own so they can walk together. He blankly stares ahead, one step after the other, not feeling the squeeze around his bicep in silent assurance. A small kiss is pressed to his cheek in greeting too, but Nik barely manages something in return.
It’s like the world got suddenly wrapped up in cotton when Damen’s heart stopped beating. Everything feels fuzzy, too soft and round at the edges. His ears seem to be filled with water, the little sobs, whispered condolences, shoes walking over cold stone, every noise is muffled.
Beside him, Jokaste looks stunningly beautiful, even though her eyes are puffy and red, deep circles under them an evidence for all the rest she didn’t get the previous nights. Her black trench coat and the blond locks create an odd contrast, like someone put a veil over her to dim the true emotions lying underneath. But grief has a funny effect on people: while some drown in it, others are able to break through the surface with clarity.
“Damen would hate this.” Jokaste says with a small shake of her head, sharp eyes looking over the crowd with something akin to pity in her eyes. They have to be close to the grave right now, Nikandros feels how her grip on his arm tightens as they round a corner. “He would absolutely fucking hate to see them all like this.”
Nikandros follows her gaze, briefly scanning all the people walking ahead of them in search of a familiar blond head. He sees friends shaking their head in disbelief, like they are still wandering through a cloud of thick shock, sees distant family members crying over the lost beloved sunshine of their middle. And Nikandros knows Jokaste is right.
Damen would’ve hated to see so many people sad because of him. No opportunity to make them smile and feel better would be left out, Damen was been always good at taking chances when he saw them. But over everything, he would’ve hated that there isn’t a goddamn thing he could do to change anything about it.
When Jokaste slowly comes to a halt next to him, Nikandros realizes he hasn’t said anything in return yet. She looks at him in a way she never looked at him before, back when they were all still friends and there wasn’t a wedding band around her finger. She looks at Nikandros like she’s worried for him.
“He-“ His voice cracks. When was the last time he used it? “I’m sorry, Jokaste. I know Damen and you were good friends.”
She bites her lip, before pressing a shaking hand to her mouth and turning away. Completely unexpected. “Yeah…” She manages miserably, giving him an apologetic smile before finding Kastor’s searching gaze in the crowd. “I’m sorry too, Nik.”
They nod to each other, a silent understanding of each other’s pain. But where Jokaste’s pain is a thousand needles, piercing through delicate skin, Nikandros’ is a sword ripping through his chest. There are no words for him, not yet.
Just as she turns away from him, determined to go to her husband’s side before the funeral starts, Jokaste hugs him once more, coming to stand on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Laurent. You’ll need to watch out for him, alright? Please, Nik. I don’t know if we can let him alone right now.”
Laurent.
Nikandros finds him in the first row, where he belongs. He barely remembers a time where Laurent wasn’t by Damen’s side, so why would it be any different now? In sickness and health, isn’t it? Until death do us part? They never got so far to speaks these vows to each other… Fuck, Nikandros can’t do this-
He’s way too young to attend the funeral of his best friend. He always thought Damen and him would grow old and gray and grumpy beside each other. Countless times they’ve joked about having rooms next to each other in a retirement home, playing some football in the garden until their fake hips would ache. Who doesn’t think about this when you’re growing up together?
And Laurent-
He is still as a statue. Considerably smaller than Nikandros, he stares ahead, not blinking or showing any sign that his mind is in this moment. When Nikandros moves to stand beside him, one of the few empty seats left, Laurent doesn’t acknowledge him. His posture is perfect, even though the black coat swallows him up completely. Never before has he looked so fragile, so entirely breakable like now. And still, he stands his ground.
Nik sees it for what it is: Self-protection. Survival mode.
Or maybe he still can’t believe it? What if Laurent isn’t even sure why they’re gathered here, why Damen is absent and everyone is crying? All the dark colors surrounding them make his face look paler than it already is. If Nikandros would see him like this in any other situation, he would most likely think Laurent is about to throw up into the grass. Everything about the blonde seems small but unwavering as the last mourners slowly gather around the chosen spot of Damen’s final resting place. Does Laurent still believe Damen will appear at any moment now, a comforting presence to ease the tension out of their minds?
Nikandros has known Laurent for years now, six years and some more months, ever since he first heard about him from Damen. He came back to their shared apartment at the time, talking about a mysterious blonde he spotted in the café down the street, always typing away on his laptop and certainly not giving a shit about the free coffee Damen got him every morning.
He has never seen Damen blush like this before. That’s when it started, slowly like an unfolding flower. Little stories turned into longer ones, Damen leaving the apartment in a rush to go on dates with Laurent, a whole year of back and forth.
Ever since Damen first brought him home, Nikandros standing up from the couch and shaking hands with Laurent before retreating to his own room, it’s always been Damen and Laurent and Nikandros.
And now here they are, still together in a way and so catastrophically ripped apart that Nikandros wants to scream. The two of them stand beside each other when the first prayer starts; spoken in Greek and quietly, words meant for a goodbye.
Goodbye.
He isn’t prepared for this. Nikandros doesn’t know what he thought when he got up this morning, but as the funeral continues, he finds himself thinking of the terrible moment where this will be over. The time will come where the speeches would be finished and tears would dry – and then? What comes after this?
Damen has always been the rational counterweight to his own pessimism that tended to take his brain over, so Nikandros does the only thing he can think of.
He stares at the stone.
It’s a simple one, nothing pompous and still worthy of a King. It stands offside the paths, where the field isn’t too crowded, where he’ll be able to breathe. The trees are still young and a fresh breeze whispers through them. Damen will stand between two beautifully intertwined trees by an olive grove. It’ll be sunny and warm and his loved ones can come to have a picnic with him, if they want.
Letters and numbers tell everyone about his short life, not nearly enough words to do Damianos Akielos justice.
Μας λείπεις
And God, how much Nikandros misses him already.
When it’s time for the urn to be let down into the ground, Laurent makes a noise beside him, undefinable and hurt, like an animal getting so wounded it can barely stand up anymore.
Nik forces himself to tears his eyes away, just seconds from the moment the urn will disappear out of his sight, final and not reversable. Looking away and focusing on Laurent instead, should’ve been the solution. But instead, it equals to Nikandros throwing gasoline into fire.
When did Laurent start crying?
And how, how on earth, did he manage to not make a sound until now?
The tears are freely running down his cheeks, blotchy and lacking the impressive composure from earlier. There is a distant look in Laurent’s blue eyes, reddened at the edges, as he stares at the hole in the ground, unable to look away, to let go.
“Laurent…” Nikandros doesn’t have to look to know they’re covering up the hole now. The sickened expression on his face is enough, makes him think that Laurent is really about to throw up. He’s ready to jump into action, lead him away to give him a moment of privacy aside from the rest of the crowd, but Laurent is still standing.
A numbed pain spreads through his arm and Nikandros looks down, distant confusion giving his mind a distraction from the first people getting up to place their flowers by Damen’s grave. Laurent’s fingers dig deep into his arm, knuckles turned all white and strained from the force of his grip.
Nikandros hasn’t noticed.
Nikandros doesn’t feel anything besides Laurent’s hand on his suit jacket.
It hurts and it must be hurting Laurent too, but then again, the place where Laurent touches him could be the only thing still holding him up at this point, so Nikandros doesn’t move. Slowly, as if he could scare a deer away with the slightest movement, he shifts closer so Laurent can lean against him if he wants to. His instincts are telling him to stay cautious, fearing that Laurent’s legs could give out under him, but nothing happens.
And Laurent certainly doesn’t lean on him. He just…stands there and claws his hand into Nikandros’ arm. Laurent seems like he forbade himself to release any other sound, lips pressed together in a tight line and elegant jaw all tense. Like a statue.
Nikandros focuses on Laurent’s hand in this silent chaos of condolences and flower bouquets. Maybe, he thinks distantly, Laurent's grip is the reason he isn't breaking down too. This pain, it deserves to be felt. It needs to be felt, otherwise he is going to break apart from suppressing it. It’s not what Damen wanted; he tries to tell himself. So get yourself together and stay strong.
Laurent is as white as a sheet, still not letting go of him.
What is he thinking right now, what’s going on in this sharp mind of him? Nikandros doesn’t even want to imagine. But one thing, he knows with agonizing clarity.
Damen filled Laurent’s life with light. His love was like music played directly on heartstrings.
And now?
And now, there is nothing but silence.