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The rain was lashing down in great sheets and even inside the tent felt wet as they crawled in, safely out of the deluge. It was a good tent, ex-army and acquired from Graham’s dad the summer before and the canvas was thick and strong but still, the humidity of the day combined with the drippings from their hair and clothes, had made the inside groundsheet heavy with damp. Grahams T-shirt and shorts were soaked through and he followed his friend in stripping off the clammy layers before the water could seep into their sleeping bags, ignoring the goosebumps which prickled out across his skin and the background fizz of shame at his pale state of undress. He was shivering because although it was summer, the sudden storm had broken the muggy heat of the last few weeks and left the air crisp by comparison. Graham wrapped his arms around himself, feeling at the little bumps on his biceps, “Toss me my spare sweatshirt, would you?” He asked and Damon, who was in a similar state of undress and searching for his clothes beneath the piles of crap that had already accumulated, threw him a royal blue one that they had fought over in the second hand shop in the town centre a few weeks ago. Graham had managed to claim ownership but Damon had worn it far more times than he had been able to since then and the fabric smelled like the Albarn house, of incense and weed. “Bloody hell.” Damon swore as he flopped down onto his roll mat, fresh clothes acquired, looking soft and disheveled. His hair was still wet and falling into his eyes, and he started giggling manically. Graham pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and laid down too, finding the laughter contagious and dissolving into giggles himself, unsure of what was so funny but enjoying it nonetheless.
“It’s not even eight.” Damon stated, “doesn’t sound like it’ll stop any time soon.” They had been out in the woods, bashing about and bird watching, climbing trees and pushing each other over and throwing things. The whole day spent outside in barefoot hooliganism. Graham wondered if they were too old for all that now and felt embarrassed just in case. College loomed on the horizon for both of them, Damon sooner in the coming autumn, leaving Graham alone at Stanway for drama school in Debden, and then Graham himself a year after. Graham wasn’t sure what he wanted to do yet but it didn’t seem very important when it was so far away and it was unlikely it would be anywhere interesting anyway. “No, it sounds like it’s getting worse.” Graham agreed, rolling onto his side and studying Damon’s profile. His nose from this angle was always very pleasing to Graham; the opposite of his own. He reached out a finger and traced the upward slope of it. “It’s so dim in here.” The forest green canvas and the storm clouds cast the interior into murky greyness, as if it were night time already, but the sun wasn’t due to set until nearer to 10, there was still hours on evening stretching out before them. “Are you hungry?” Damon shook his head, displacing Grahams finger. “Not particularly. Are you?” Graham thought about it but shook his own head too, “Me neither, I’d have a drink though.” The knot in Grahams chest would loosen after a few big sips of wine, and he craved that feeling now, to switch everything off for a bit, while he and Damon were lying so close, trapped inside their canvas prison, listening to the rain pelt down above them. He didn’t want to be plagued by the uncertainty he always felt when they were alone like this.
“I don’t want to drink.” Damon threw back offhandedly. He was fiddling with a toggle on the centre pole, his hands always busy. “Why not?” Graham asked, confused. “I just don’t feel like it. You can though, if you want.” Damon rolled over and grinned at him, showing all his teeth. Something inside Graham twisted but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. There wasn’t really a time where he himself didn’t feel like drinking, as Damon had put it. It wasn’t really ever about choice to begin with; if the situation lent itself to drinking, then Graham would drink, no two ways about it. It seemed only natural to want to quell the swirling, stirring cocktail of worry and shame with a pint or two of larger. But it seemed silly to slug on one of the bottles alone while his friend watched him. Troubled by this, Graham feigned nonchalance and shrugged back, “I’ll make us some tea, then.” He said instead and busied himself with the task.
The camping stove was tricky to light and Graham burnt his thumb on the lighter twice before he got the thing to spark. He sucked it into his mouth to dull the pain while the water boiled. Glancing over at Damon he realised his friend was staring at him, his eyes wide and fixated by something. He had his head propped up on one of their rucksacks and both his hands cupped behind his head in one of his usual, accidental displays of arrogance. Graham noted the pink that crept into his cheeks once he’d realised Graham had caught him staring. “That fringe suits you.” Damon said, his eyes darting up from Graham’s mouth where his thumb was still buried, to his freshly cut fringe and then away to the small gas flame. “S’better than what you had before.” Graham ran his free hand through it self consciously and mussed it up with his palm without thinking. This made Damon laugh, “You always do that, you know. It’s like a nervous tick or something. I don’t know why you’d be nervous now though, with just me. You haven’t got to be.” He wasn’t offended but the tone of his voice was inquisitive, as if he didn’t understand. Graham was unsure of what to say, or how to explain it so he ignored him and focussed his attention back on the kettle.
He remembered something his dad had told him about the gas accumulating in the air and killing them and so opened one of the flaps by the door to let the fresh air in. There was a poem he’d read a little while ago, about someone committing suicide by gassing themselves with carbon monoxide, the person had run a hosepipe from their exhaust into the drivers side window and then turned the engine on, slowly replacing his oxygen until he died. The image had stuck with him for days after, he’d gone so far as to draw the scene, and he supposed that the tent and stove had similar mechanics. A breeze air wafted through the flap and Graham shivered.
The steam from the tea hung and swirled in the air below their noses, adding to the oppressive mugginess and everything was wet. Graham was content with simply existing, happy to sit still and be together as their days like this were numbered. But he knew Damon did not find it so easy for he had to be constantly occupied, always planning or creating something, never happy to slow down or be quiet. “We could write a song.” Graham suggested, sensing Damon’s impatience and waning self restraint. “We already have the percussion.” He gestured at the roof where the rain was beating a pounding, sporadic rhythm down over their heads. Damon blew on his tea, frowning, before he nodded his assent. “Alright. You start.” He said, placing his mug down and shuffling closer. Like alcohol, making music with Damon calmed the squirming sea of leaches in his chest and Graham felt unperturbed by Damon’s insistence that he go first. Normally such an order would send him shaking, but there was no right or wrong here and he knew that his friend would never laugh at him.
By the time the song had been created and Damon had a few set lyrics between his other mumbling nonsense, the tent had become dark and Graham could barely see his friend properly through the gloom. The rain continued, unrelenting and the song they had made to its unpredictable patter swirled round and round Graham’s head. The damp had crept under his skin and the contrast it held to the blistering heat of the days prior made Graham shiver again, even in his sweatshirt. Now they had stopped writing and fell back into silence Graham felt himself grow more on edge and he shook his head when Damon offered him a bread roll from the pack they’d bought from the co-op on the way.
He watched his friend flick on the big camping torch that hung from the centre pole and break one in half, spreading jam and butter onto the crumby surface with his finger. More crumbs spilled down his chin and got caught in his jumper and Graham knew they’d both end up lying in them later although he couldn’t bring himself to mind all that much. Damon’s face looked strange, illuminated in parts by the torch, his nose and under eyes still in shadow and Graham wanted to draw him like it in his sketch book with charcoal and chalk. With sticky hands, Damon threw him a tin of larger and Graham only just managed to catch it before it hit him in the temple. “Oi, careful!” Graham swore, “It’ll be all fizzed up and go everywhere now, you cock. I thought you didn’t want to drink, anyway.” Damon cracked open the ring pull of the can in his own hands and took a long swig to prevent the contents spilling out over the brim. “No, you do though and I don’t really care.” Graham felt himself bristle at that, hating it when Damon would try and placate him, but he wasn’t going to argue. The tin in his hand was heavy and embarrassment curdled in his stomach as the liquid frothed and fizzed down the sides and over his hand when he opened it. He caught most of it with his mouth, licking the foam off his wrist and when he looked up Damon was watching him again with the same, feverish expression that Graham couldn’t place, can half raised to his lips, eyes wide and fixed. “What?” Graham huffed defensively, taking a sip of his own and using the gesture to hide behind. His hand was sticky and he rubbed it on the sleeping bag beneath his bum. “Nothing.” Damon said quickly. “Sorry for throwing it.” He bit his lip and looked away, eyes darting across the small space. It was odd, Graham thought, but he didn’t mention it. Damon switched the torch off and crawled back to sit next to Graham on his roll mat, alternating bites of bread with sips of larger his larger. The sleeping bag bunched up around their legs and Graham kicked it free, leaning up against his friend for stability. He didn’t quite know why he felt so awkward but there seemed to be a strange atmosphere between them, something charged and uncertain. Graham took a few big sips and hoped that getting drunk would fix it or at least make it easier to deal with.
They were six tins down by the time Damon suggested they lie down. It was tricky to shuffle around in the small space and after elbowing each other more than a few times they finally managed to end up side by side on the thin foam mats. And then it was another one each by the time Damon rolled over into him and pressed Graham against himself with an arm wrapped round his waist. Graham could feel the distinct outline of Damon’s erection pressing against his hip already and it occurred to him that Damon must have been hard for a while, even though they’d just been sitting there together in the dark, drinking and talking. “Why are you so hard already, Des?” Graham held back the giggles that threatened to overflow, feeling giddy from the beer, the long days in the sunshine and the blanket of darkness. “Because I’m young and virile.” Damon whispered back, his breath hot over Grahams face and although he couldn’t see him properly, he could make out the amusement in his voice. “I see. Does that mean-“ but Graham didn’t get to finish his sentence before Damon was kissing him, hard and with tongue. He tasted sweet like jam and beer and there was a certain desperation to it that Graham couldn’t help but find funny due to its suddenness and he sniggered into the kiss. “What are you laughing at?” Damon finally pulled back, mock annoyed at the interruption, the grin still audible in his voice. He poked Graham hard in the chest with his jammy finger making the other shriek. “I don’t know. You. ‘Virile’.” He dissolved into giggles once more and felt Damon pull him close, wrapping his arms higher around his shoulders and pressing their noses tightly together.
“You always get like this after you’ve had a drink.” Damon mused, pushing his hand into Grahams hair and brushing the fringe off his face. “What do you mean?” Graham laid there with Damon hovering over him and couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness. “I dunno, It’s like you finally relax, you get silly and you say things you wouldn’t normally say. It’s like your whole personality changes.” Graham hummed, Damon’s hand was still cupped over his forehead and the heat of his palm was dizzying making it difficult to think properly alongside all the beer. “Isn’t that a good thing? I like being drunk. S’easier, isn’ it?” Damon ran his thumb back and forth over Graham’s eyebrow for a while before he asked “What is?” “Everything. Speaking, being, feeling, it’s just easier, don’t you think?” Damon was quiet for a while but he kept up his petting and so Graham didn’t say anything either. Closing his eyes didn’t make a difference to what he could see in the gloom and so he kept them shut and let Damon’s fingers continue to brush gently over his skin.
“You do know I like the normal you, Gra?” Damon spoke after what felt like a long time and Graham’s mind had been off wandering, enjoying the way that Damon had been stroking his face and the floaty feeling of being drunk and worry free. “Wot?” Graham mumbled, pulling himself back to the present. “I said, I like you when you aren’t drunk. I like you, your personality.” “Oh.” Graham’s cheeks suddenly felt very warm and he squirmed with awkwardness at his friend’s comment. “I don’t think drinking makes things easier.” Damon went on, “It just makes them different for me. It’s not always better.” Graham swallowed, feeling a cool rush of dread pool in the pit on his stomach and creep up his throat, “Yeah, well that’s what I meant.” He lied, swallowing hard, worried that his friend could feel his blush and read his embarrassment from under the palm of his hand where it still rested on his forehead, “Like uh, a fun different. That’s what I was trying to say, before. You know I’m not very good at explaining things, Damon.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your personality, Grem. And you’re perfectly fine at explaining things.” Damon insisted and then before giving Graham the chance to respond, his mouth was on Graham’s neck and his lips and teeth were working their way across the delicate skin around his jugular and Graham knew that there would be fresh bruises there in the morning, for him to poke and prod at in the mirror and try and hide from his parents, lest they ask who he’d been necking and did they want to come round for dinner. Damon pushed his t-shirt up and splayed his hands over Graham’s ribs, his fingers catching at Graham’s nipples and then they were rutting together, rocking up and against one another in single-minded desperation. Graham wanted to pull them out of their trousers and wank them both together in his hand until they came shakily in tandem like they had done the other week in Damon’s room after school, but Damon seemed content to simply rock against him, his face pressed tightly into the crook of Graham’s neck, gasping and whining, his hips jerking frantically. He was utterly lovely like this, Graham thought, his head was spinning with alcohol and all the blood that was pooling in his groin and he hardly registered Damon coming a few minutes later, until he felt the sticky wetness seep out against his hip and heard Damon’s telltale, breathy whines. With a sudden urgency Graham propped himself up on a bent arm and pulled himself free from his tracksuit bottoms, needing more than the simple friction between them to get off and now desperate for it in the wake of his friend’s orgasm. “Fuck.” He swore, squeezing his eyes shut, listening to Damon pant under him and his head spinning, “Jesus.” “Come on me.” Damon urged him, still gasping himself as if his pleasure had yet to reside, “please Graham, come on me like that.” He sounded wild, his voice high pitched and plaintive and it sent Graham shuddering over the edge, his fist moving fast, come landing on Damon’s flat stomach and dripping down his own wrist.
That morning everything was still and dripping, the birds the only other creatures to be making sound. The sun hung blazing in the sky, high already even though it was still early. The grass was wet and the field smelled of rain and mud. Graham crawled out the entry flap to find that the cracked ground had swelled overnight and that the woods had transformed; from yesterday’s yellowing and parched, into a brilliant emerald like it was spring again. “Let’s go swimming.” Damon was hopping around on one foot, pulling on the shorts he’d been wearing almost every day. His chest was bare and Graham could see the dry flakes of cum that were matted in his snail trail, still there from last night, peeling off in flecks. The remains of both of them. “C’mon.” They raced down to the river and Graham’s lungs burnt with each breath as they fought each other to reach the muddy banks first, slipping on the freshly wet ground.
Graham had skinny dipped in that river more times than he could remember, always with Damon, and he should have been used to the way his friend would strip off shamelessly and dive headfirst into the clear depths and the way he would be expected to follow, but each time his usual self consciousness prevented him from being quite so brazen. Damon waited for him in the water, floating on his back, face turned skywards. His tanned skin seemed to glow gold under the sun’s rays. The storm had taken the excruciating heat away from the air and brought with it a light breeze. It caught the hairs on Graham’s arms and hardened his nipples as he peeled off his T-shirt and shorts. He was taking too long, folding his boxers onto his shorts and Damon splashed him, drenching him before he could dive in so he jumped on top of him from the jetty, causing them both to sink to the reed clad bottom and emerge spluttering and tussling, with mud on their knees.
“Have you got a boner again?” Graham choked, feeling something hard press against his stomach as they fought. He shook his head to fling the water out his eyes and then turned them on his friend questioningly. Damon was standing in front of him, the water running fast over his shoulders and grinned, nodding smugly. He fisted a hand around himself and gave himself a few, lazy tugs. “It’s healthy, Graham. There’s nothing wrong with it. Especially as I didn’t get to have my morning wank.” “You’re just a perve,” Graham splashed him in the face, feeling suddenly hot and shy, “who gets off on being naked in public. You’re an exhibitionist, you are!” Another splash. Damon was laughing, choking on the water that had got in his mouth from Graham’s attack. “Maybe I am, but I can’t really help it, not when you’re naked too.” Graham stopped splashing and frowned at him. The river was moving faster than yesterday morning, the rainfall overnight had raised the current and Graham felt unsteady, his feet struggling to balance on the muddy reed bed. “Do you want me to spell it out for you?” Damon was grinning fully now, that sly, cocky smile he had when he was teasing Graham for something or when he knew something that Graham didn’t and wanted to lord it over him. “You’re fit, Gra.” Graham could see his hand still moving through the water even though it was murky now from the mud they had kicked up while fighting.
“Don’t be a prick, Des.” Graham begged, “can we just swim?” He sank deeper into the river so only his face was visible above the water and squeezed his legs together, willing away the stiffening in his own cock. “I’m not, it’s true.” Damon smirked at him, aware of Grahams growing affliction if the downward track of his eyes was anything to go by. “I don’t lie.” “That’s bollocks, you lie all the fucking time.” Graham squawked indignantly. “Not to you.” Damon clapped him on the back of the head and it caught Graham unawares, his head sinking below the surface making him cough and splutter and soon they were wrestling again, pushing each other under the current and jumping on each others backs until they were too out of breath to stay afloat and dragged themselves back to the jetty and onto the slippery bank.
“Dames, someone might see.” Graham whined, his whole body felt flushed and hot despite the chill from the river, as if the fear over being discovered was as exciting as the way Damon was rocking up against him. Instead of pulling on his clothes Damon had shaken himself off like a dog and then curled his body around Graham from behind, his hands snaking across the flat planes of Grahams stomach and his mouth finding the sensitive spot on the back of his neck. The thought of someone discovering them like this was terrifying to Graham, but he was growing harder and harder with each passing second. “Who’s going to see us here?” Damon replied, his eyelashes fluttered against Grahams cheek. “We haven’t seen anyone in days. Relax.”
Graham couldn’t relax, not in the privacy of his own bedroom back home nor here with Damon but he found he no longer wanted to. He turned around and pressed up against his friend, drawing him closer by the waist and then taking them both in his fist like he had wanted to do so much last night. His erection strained in his palm and he had to adjust his grip to hold them both. “Stop fucking telling me to relax.” Damon’s eyes were dark and glinting with mischief and arousal. He closed them briefly, biting his bottom lip as Graham stroked them for the first time, taken off guard, and then opened them again. The glowed turquoise in the mid morning sun. He captured Graham’s lips in a biting kiss. “You’re fucking insatiable.” Graham murmured into his friend’s mouth as he wanked them, his hand sliding up and down both their lengths, the velvety softness of them held tightly together in his fist making him go weak at the knees. “Mmm, it’s hot when you swear.” Damon grunted back, teasing and wicked. “Do it again.” Graham twisted his wrist cruelly, making them both moan, “Fuck off.” “Yeah, just like that, Grem, yeah.” Damon jerked his hips and bucked up higher into Graham’s fist and his eyes were closed now, squeezing tighter with every flick of Graham’s wrist. “You’re a prick and I fucking hate you.” But Graham was grinning so hard it was difficult to keep kissing, something hot and desperate and animalistic churning in his chest.
The sudden, wet explosion of Damon’s come splashed onto his stomach, down his fist and over his own cock, dripping onto the muddy ground at their feet. The stickiness of it, and the visual that Graham knew would be branded into his mind for the weeks to come, sent him tumbling over into his own orgasm, adding to the mess between them. Damon was whining with overstimulation before he finally let them both go, shaking and breathing heavily. Little stars were still dancing in the corners of Graham’s vision and he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming as he watched Damon lift his hand to his mouth and lick their combined ejaculate from it with his tongue. Some of it got caught on his bottom lip making it all shiny and white. “You’re sick.” Graham said hoarsely, drawing his hand back and flicking off the remaining substance into the grass and weeds with a disgusted expression. “You’ve got serious issues, Des.” “Hmm, that’s rich.” Damon hummed and then he kissed him, shoving his tongue into Graham’s mouth and forcing him to taste them. It was bitter and Graham, to his own disgust and shame, didn’t pull away, his tongue tentatively licking back. He’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t been curious about what it would taste like, or how it would feel in his mouth, ever since they’d started this dirty, perverted game. “See. We’re both sick.” Damon grinned when they finally pulled away, he looked like he was glowing with satisfaction, a shimmering halo around his person that only shone brighter under the sun’s hot rays. “Sick, perverted and sinful.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked around for the clothes he’d thrown off so hastily earlier. “I don’t know about you, Grem,” he continued, “but I’m fucking starving and I want a bacon sandwich.”
Graham didn’t know how he could be so blasé in the face of what they had just done, for he himself was reeling, embarrassment flooding back to him in vicious, post-orgasm clarity. The sick rush of self loathing rushed down his spine in familiar, tumultuous waves. He flicked his eyes down, searching for his discarded clothing, his nakedness suddenly mortifying and unbearable, too much of a reminder of what they had just done out in the open, for anyone to have seen. His cheeks were aflame and his heart hammered in his chest. The salty bitterness lingered in his mouth as he pulled his clothes on with shaking hands.
The cafe they’d walked to was one they’d only been to once before and had since changed hands, now all red topped tables and Americanised floors. The doorstop slabs of white farmhouse bread soaked up the bacon grease like sponges and suddenly Graham remembered how hungry he was, having passed up on the roll Damon offered him yesterday and them being too busy knocking about in the woods to have remembered to eat anything for lunch the day before either. His cheeks were still pink but Graham hoped he could pass this off as sunburn instead of lingering embarrassment and a bead of sweat slid down his temple. The walk had been much longer than they’d remembered, across countless fields and down a B road for quite some way and the sun had only grown in strength throughout the morning, peaking by the time they’d packed up and set off in search of food. The back of his neck was hot and Graham knew he’d get a telling off from his mum later for not wearing the hat she’d given him.
Damon squirted ketchup and brown sauce into his sandwich and Graham watched, mildly disgusted and oddly fond despite it. A certain melancholy came over him as he thought about the numbered days they had between now and September and how everything would be different then and he’d be alone. It didn’t feel long enough and Graham had, for someone who had moved many times in his short life, always hated change. He wanted to reach out and take Damon’s hand in his, hold on to him as if this would prevent them from growing up and apart from each other but he didn’t, uncomfortable with being watched even though there were only a few other customers and no one on the tables near them, and unsure of what Damon would make of it even though this was the kind of thing Damon would do to him often, without even thinking. Sauce squirted out the bottom of Damon’s sandwich and dripped down his lightly stubbled chin and horrifyingly, Graham found himself wanting to lean over the sticky table and lick it off with his tongue. The stubble had felt odd as he’d kissed it that morning, rough and a little sharp. He shivered remembering the feeling of it against his jaw and felt his cheeks turn a deeper shade of scarlet. The heat and sunshine must have finally gotten to him, sending him properly insane. He wanted to go home, to be alone and play his guitar loudly until his fingers hurt so he could try and block out all the grotesque things they’d done in the last 24 hours. But still, while Graham found himself desperate to leave, he was simultaneously desperate to go back to Damon’s house and spend all evening watching crap TV together, entwined on the sofa, eat some strange meze platter Hazel would make for them, and then to fall asleep wound together in Damon’s bed as they had been doing these past three nights and all the other times recently that they’d stayed round each others houses. The conflicting emotions made his head reel.
Damon ordered them another round of sandwiches and then paid for the both of them. “Do you want to smoke some weed?” he asked as they traipsed back along the shimmering pavement towards town and home. “Dad gave me some. He said it’s good and it won’t make you anxious like that other stuff I got.” Graham frowned, annoyed. “You told him about that?” The last time they’d tried to smoke together had been a disaster. After only half of a rather stingy joint, Graham had been convinced he was having an adverse reaction and that he was going to have a heart attack and die at the tender age of 17. It’d taken over an hour for Damon to convince him that he was fine, spooning him on the deep leather sofas and a’t Graham’s panicky insistence, ‘monitoring’ his heart rate with a hand under his shirt pressed over the left side of his chest so Graham knew it wasn’t about to beat out of his chest and flop onto the floor in a puddle of gore and blood. The whole event had left him tired, thirsty and embarrassed and Graham made Damon promise he would tell no one about it not even when they were older and it would probably seem quite funny. Damon shrugged, “It’s only dad. He said it happened to mum before too. He said this stuff’s a lot more mellow.” Graham hit him on the arm hard. “You’re a cunt.” Damon rubbed at the spot without giving any other indication that it had hurt and carried on down the pavement. “So do you?” “Yes, obviously.” Graham sighed, thinking about his guitar and amp in his bedroom. “I’ll need to phone mum and say I’m staying over.”