Under the Westway

Chapter Seven

In the canteen, sweat and a broken heating system makes the air sag. Every day is approximately the same at this time, tables belong to groups and chairs marked as belongings with blazers and bags. Damon hunches over his blue plastic tray and keeps his head down through the crowds. He pushes past groups of girls at the entrance, they burn his brain with questions about exactly where he was at Hewlett's party. He clicks the volume on his walkman up until he shudders, shutting them all out. He ups his pace until he reaches the art stairs, skipping two at a time to meet Jamie and work on their comic. They'd been writing together for some time now, Damon spending hours poring over Jamie's private tank girl; his pictures perfectly shaded, contrasting with his almost illegible scrawl of handwriting crammed at the bottom. He loves them, tracing often over the spines and admiring his friend's talent. Of course, he never says this aloud. In truth he deeply admires enterprise and passion, but never letting on that he wishes for such a quirky profession himself.

Liam is at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest. Damon skids to a halt, suddenly aware of the people around him again. Liam swings forward, and for a split second he looks as if he means to hit the boy in front of him. Instead, he pulls the headphones from his ears in one swift motion and leans down to Damon's ear.

"I know about you and your... boyfriend." The words drip from his tongue like acid, and burn his skin. Suddenly the tray in his hands -light enough- feels like lead. They push past each other, the taller simpering to himself, pleased. Damon blinks back tears and sniffs, pretending it's just the high pollen weather playing up again. He walks into the art rooms and slams the door behind him and pushes the tray onto Jamie's work.

"What the fuck is with you?" Jamie attempts to peel the fresh paint from the bottom of the greasy tray, spilling their food onto the greying art table. "I'd almost finished that too." He adds, facing Damon's back. Damon doesn't reply and sniffs in acknowledgement. He walks round to see what he's doing by the sinks and sees him scrubbing at his hands with a spare sponge left on the cabinets.

"I did a really," Damon lifts a wrist up to dab at his eyes, "Really bad thing, Jamie."
"Can't be that bad."
"Jamie, I took your advice. It's that bad."

Jamie's jaw drops slightly, "Like I didn't know,Dammo." He pulls Damon towards him with a feeble attempt of the brotherly it-will-be-fine side on embrace his father had tried to teach him when he was younger. The elder of the pair pulls himself away lukewarmly, leaning against the table and picking, seemingly uninterested, at a spot of paint embedded into the plastic.

"I mean, nobody can say they haven't kissed somebody of the same sex at one point. Especially alchies and stuff."
"You've never kissed a man." There is a moment of silence between the two, something normally quite comfortably shared. It's foreign now.

"That is correct actually, I have never kissed a man."

"This is the point in every film where the lass gets a nice kiss but honestly mate you deserve no affection for telling me to kiss Grah." Jamie giggles and tells him it isn't that bad. "It is that bad!" Damon breaks a smile and starts laughing too. "I was under the influence! I could have you arrested for... for being a right wanker."

Their voices are cut off by Graham standing in the doorway, his hair messy and eyes red. He has pulled his hair partially over his eyes, attempting to cover up the bloodshot whites but drawing more attention to them. He sniffs and asks to come in, rubbing the corner of his mouth with his blazer sleeve. The pair nod and Damon sits across from them.

"So..." Jamie wrings his hands, trying to prompt conversation before trying to pull the tray again from his painting. His friends stay quiet, an embarrassed grimace on Graham's face. Damon sees the image on the stretched canvas, a beach scene in pink. The camera sits next to the paints arranged neatly on the table, paused on a parallel image. The picture shakes on the miniature screen, stopped halfway through the coil of tape inside. He inspects it further, picking it up to make out two figures in what he thinks is the sea. Jamie looks up, picking acrylic from the plastic.

"Cool, eh?" He looks hopeful. "That one's you and that's Grah." He points at either individual as he bites the inside of his cheek.
"Definitely." Graham pulls up a smile, Damon feels it in his chest.

-

"This knife ain't sharp... Oh wait, it is. May I have a plaster?" Jamie props himself up on the kitchen counter, his hand outstretched. His counterpart rifles through the cupboard above them for plasters. He throws one and goes back to cooking beside Jamie.

"What are you actually making, Damon?" Jamie pouts, flicking the plastic wrapper in his hands back and forth and staring at the blue flames under the pan.

"Shit with sugar on." Damon snaps; his mouth twitches, indicating a sly smile hidden from his friend's view. Jamie interjects, asking again.

"Did I fucking stutter, Hewlett? You said you wanted food. And Graham's coming over."
"Grah, the love of my life." He mocks Damon's voice, lower than his own. The words slur together for effect. Damon presses his hands into the counter, his voice gets softer.
"Can you stop that?" He whispers, turning his head to look at him. "For once, give it a rest." He lets out a dry laugh and carries on, Jamie doesn't speak for a while, before raiding the back cupboards for cheap gin left from Christmas.

He always spent Christmas with Damon's family. After the first year, he was integrated into the family and bought presents too, rather than last minute hand fashioned ones bought together to give him something. That first year he was impressed anyway, eyes wide and jaw dropped as he received a badly wrapped second-hand (however never before used) sketchpad and pencils. He looked at Damon; who, smaller and slighter than him at the time, grinned from behind a coil of red wrapping paper. His tongue pressed against the gap between his front teeth, which hadn't grown in properly at the time.
His lack of presence at home wasn't treated as a sob story, but questions were raised now and again by visiting elders. They would peer over their thin-rimmed glasses and ruffle his hair. More than often Jamie would giggle and ease himself away from the situation, preferring to sit cross legged on his friend's patchwork quilt and make up stories to himself, hands over his ears.

Damon dumps the contents of the pan in hand into the bin, exasperated. The doorbell goes, Jamie is asked to get it. He stands there, dithering on the threshold between the hallway and kitchen. Damon crouches down, knees almost colliding with the peeling laminate below him. He rests his head in his hands and exhales loudly. Jamie opens the door open, leaning against the frame. Graham stands there, attempting to suppress a smile, his hair is shorter than earlier that day, it doesn't fall in the same way anymore. Jamie thinks that he quite likes it.

"Your boyfriend's having a mental breakdown in the kitchen, I'm ordering chinese." Graham rolls his eyes and follows Jamie through to the kitchen, shrugging his bag from his shoulders.

Damon is lying on the floor, possibly crying. Jamie tentatively nudges his arm with his foot.

"You're disgusting, Hewlett." He mumbles into his elbow.