Under the Westway

Chapter Five

If Jamie Hewlett could be summarised with an image, it would be a sour set half-cocked smile and greasy hair. Or a too thinly rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, camera in hand. In other words, Jamie Hewlett seemed to think he was cool. Maybe it was sleepless nights and a painkiller addiction, or the fact he hadn't showered in weeks, just slathering on layers of deodorant over one another; that he really seemed to pull off that authentic apathetic persona.

He pulls this off seemingly effortlessly at his house party, an open house would have gone to waste if he hadn't filled it with stolen beer cans and sexually frustrated teenagers. Tomorrow, he knows he will realise he had made a grave mistake, and the cleanup will prove difficult with a steaming hangover.

For now though, he stands next to Damon as they both watch Graham lean against the sofa arm for balance, he never took to alcohol too well. He's chatting up a blonde girl, she grins at his jokes and nods. Hard to decide whether she is convinced by his confidence or just endeared, he stands a whole head below her.

"You should get in his pants." Jamie downs the last of his pint and slams the glass down on the table. Damon pulls his sleeves over his hands, taking another tentative sip from his glass.

"You think so?"

"Lasses are gonna find out you're bent soon enough, may as well make the most of it now." Damon nods at this and hums quietly. He runs his teeth over his lip and swallows hard.

"What if..." He begins, but is cut off by Jamie mocking his voice, "What if he doesn't like me back? What if he's gonna go and fuck the pretty blonde over there? What if? Bloody hell, Dammo, last week he asked me if you always slept in your pants, that boy is bent."

Damon flushes red and furrows his brow. He pouts and goes to speak.

"You really think?"

"Dammo, I know." Deep down, Damon feels inclined to believe it's just cheap lager talking, but if that's the case can't he blame tonight on it too? He runs the scenario through his head, wake up preferably before him the next morning, grab some clothes, blame it on Jamie, make a joke, and leave. He sighs.

"One more pint." The words taste bitter in his mouth.

-

"Grah?" Damon pokes through the crowd in Jamie's living room to find the boy smiling, surrounded by a circle of giggling recipients of his jokes and stories. Damon grabs his sleeve and begins weaving his way through people to the stairwell. Graham follows, laughing and leaving his pint spilled on the floor. He sways back, and Damon struggles to keep the both of them balanced. Graham giggles as they walk upstairs, which had been specifically off bounds to everyone.

"Daaamon. What are you doing, idiot." Damon takes his hand in his, running his thumb along the cracks in the palm of Graham's hand. He blushes and pushes his glasses up his nose.

In a matter of seconds the balance has shifted, and it is no longer Graham shying. Damon's back is against the landing wall, the younger on his toes to reach his height. Perhaps unnerved by the party only downstairs, their kiss against the landing wall isn't an absent-minded peck on the cheek. It isn't followed by blushes on both sides, a murmur or 'don't be a fag', but feverish, open mouthed. In years to come; a moment relived so many times that the edges are fading, like the much-loved jeans the taller loves so. There's something desperate in the way Graham kisses, his thumbs press soft circles into Damon's hips.

Damon has passed out onto the floor.
"For fuck's sake." Graham mutters and kneels down to check he's okay. He's breathing and all, Graham decides that's good enough in his current state, and drags him into one of the bedrooms. He dumps him on the bed and sits beside him, poking at him at odd intervals to check that he is still alive.

After a few minutes of being effectively on his own, he begins to look round the room, soon enough realising that it is Jamie's own room. Pieces of rough sketching paper are stuck to the walls with pink tape, each with a comic strip or miniature profile. He spots a few of Damon, his nose jutting out at the right angle, or his jaw rolling as he did when he thought. Everything is foreign, and it isn't just the booze that makes him feel it. The bed is immaculately made, untouched, and the tiny drawings each stuck immaculately and tightly together. He rifles through the drawers to no avail. Jamie keeps nothing of any importance in his room, other than stacked inxs records and a dog-eared copy of On the Road.

"Wake up, Damon." He slurs, climbing onto the bed beside him. "Casual sex, Damon." His attempts don't work, he yawns and kisses Damon's temple.

"Bon nuit, my petit croissant." He giggles to himself.