My chest feels so fucking nervous, it's hard to breathe.
I have a pressing question in the back of my mind, one that I've wanted to ask ever since I felt Damien Cortez's lips on mine. Likely even before then. I exhale, the school bell ringing as I make my way down the hall.
Damien's head rests against his locker as silent thoughts fly through his mind. The stud in his left ear glows beneath the lighting, vintage t-shirt tucked into dark jeans, sneakers resting on the flooring.
His side profile is so fucking sharp that I'm tempted to use charcoal to draw him. Again. I have more than a few portraits of Damien Cortez. Some where he's on his phone, bottom lip brought beneath his teeth, eyes shadowed by dark eyelashes. Others where he's smiling— based on images I took of him to savor the moment in time.
He almost seems to sense my presence, because he leans slightly away from his locker, his head turning in my direction, eyes meeting mine, a little smile playing at his lips as he snaps his locker shut.
When I approach him, a grin rises to my lips as I give him a slight nudge in the side. I almost want to reach out, link my little finger with his, but I know he gets nervous sometimes, eye flicking about the hallway before returning to me.
Usually, if we ever link pinkies, our little fingers unlatch after a second or two. After all, even with all the changes that have been made— this is still Aspen High, and it's still small-town Midwest.
Even outside of that, coming to terms with who you are is a large step in and of itself, but being out and proud within a month or so of finding out? It's a whole fucking lot to expect.
And even though we both know it is, I still see that apologetic, guilty look cross Damien's eyes whenever we walk down the hallways, silently wanting to hold hands but not being able to. Or whenever we link pinkies for half a second and let go before anyone can see us.
It's there on his face now, his eyes flicking to my eyes, to my lips, to my hands. Lingering. Some days it's easier than others. Damien seems more hurt about it than I do, whenever the nerves rise and he's not sure what to do.
"Hey," I say, and a soft smile rises to his lips, one that makes my heart hurt with so much want and fucking softness that it's hard to breathe. My arm slides around his waist, and he leans into my touch, just gently as we make our way down the hall.
He's tense at first, and I ask him if he'll feel more comfortable with me removing my arm from around him, but he shakes his head, and I tug him closer to me if that's possible. Damien eases into my touch, and soon, we're out of the school gates, shoes making the familiar path towards the lake.
Our lake.
Everything Damien wears seems perfectly tailored on him. The long-sleeved white shirt underneath the vintage oversized t-shirt that stops at the waistband of his jeans. Hell, even the way his curls are pulled up complete his entire breathtaking image.
I'm falling so fucking hard.
So fucking hard that I don't want to get up, don't want to resurface. Sure, I was in deep since before that moment I saw him at that party earlier in the year, but now, it's like I've fallen further and quicker, like my entire heart has been accelerated in feeling.
But I don't want to scare him away, so I don't tell him that. Instead, I keep my arm slung around his waist, and he continues to lean into me, and when we finally make our way into the clearing, the shimmering blue-gray water and the patches of grass with faint dew dotting each stalk.
I only let go of Damien to grab the bottom hem of my t-shirt and tug it overhead. But then, I'm stuck in that position of pulling my shirt off, and I exhale a laugh. "Help would be nice."
And I can hear Damien's soft laugh as he approaches me, pulling my shirt off the rest of the way. While I'm ready to toss it onto a patch of grass, he brushes the creases away, folding it meticulously and placing it in my backpack, which I've dropped onto the grass beneath us.
Then, I'm smiling and glancing up at him, and he's smiling too, eyes drifting to my chest. To the birthmark that sits at the top right of my chest. I've always been self-conscious about my body, about the narrow waist and too-skinny torso, but Damien offers me a soft look as though he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"You look perfect," he's whispering as though this is a secret between the two of us, and I can feel the heat in my face rising as what's likely a dumbass grin before I give him a light push, and he laughs, as I leave myself in simple shorts, diving into the lake, and submerging beneath the surface.
When I resurface, my hair is wet and plastered against my face. I push the hair away from my line of sight and exhale a whistle.
"Get in here," I say, my eyes finding Damien's as he stands at the edge of the riverbank, shoes off, jeans rolled up.
He shakes his head, and he's smiling, and it's the prettiest thing. "I'm going to wade, okay?"
So, he does—he does wade in, legs slowly submerging into the deep as his eyes rest on mine. He keeps on stopping himself, hesitating before wading further.
I swim up to him, watch as the water starts to reach his thighs, and it can't be comfortable with the jeans. He slides his black vintage shirt and off, tossing it toward my backpack as it flies to the ground. He's left with the white, long-sleeved shirt that was beneath the over-shirt.
"What?" I gasp as he turns back to me. "No folding?"
He scrunches his nose at me, hands flying through the water to splash at me as I exhale a laugh. He keeps wading further in, slowly and hesitantly. When he's close enough for me to reach out my arms and touch him, my lips quirk into a grin.
"I'm going to tug your scared ass into the water, okay?" I say, and my smirk is widening and Damien's taking a step backward.
His eyes narrow. "You wouldn't."
"Yeah?" I ask, my grin widening as I take a step closer to him and he backs away, exhaling a multitude of curses, but he's smiling one of those scared-ass, no-you-wouldn't smiles, a laugh escaping his lips.
And he lets out a curse, but then my arms are swinging around his waist as I stand up.
"You're not going to distract me," he says, eyes flickering to mine before darting to my hands clasped behind his waist.
"Can I kiss you?" I ask, and he nods, eyes on my lips, his own parting slightly. So, I lean closer and closer, feeling our breaths intermingle. Damien's eyes flutter shut, and my lips twitch. Then, I'm tugging him underwater, a yell rising to the air.
We resurface, and I'm cackling and he's swearing, and we're both soaked.
"I don't like you," he says, a hand running down his face and through his wettened curls. "You know how fucking long I spent brushing my hair this morning?"
My hand travels through his damp curls. "Sorry," I say, but he shakes his head at me, rolling his eyes without much malice.
"Sure you are," he says, but he allows me to cup his face, allows my eyes to flicker from his lips to his own eyes.
I give him a brief kiss on the lips, and I smile against his lips, fingers sliding through his curls, and he exhales softly. Our lips are wet, soaked like the rest of our bodies, but I'm laughing, and soon enough, he's laughing too; laughing those soft, sweet Damien Cortez laughs as we breathe in our lake.
***
We dropped by my place to change into dry clothes, and I have to say it's more than cute as fuck to see Damien Cortez in one of my oversized, paint-splattered t-shirts, in (also paint-splattered) oversized jeans that he cuffs just above his ankles.
As per usual, I'm wearing my pale blue overalls, white t-shirt underneath as I pull my car into an empty parking slot, right in front of the studio. It's one of those perfect days to go to the studio; a Friday afternoon, the sun beating heavily in the sky.
Walking down the parking lot and into the studio, Damien being right here makes it infinitely better. His presence makes it infinitely better.
When I walk into the space, everyone's at work in some way, shape or form. Margot's painting Vivianna's face, the two of them laughing as Margot's face is painted in all shades of red, a blooming white rose taking shape on Viv's cheek.
Further down, Paxton is at work as usual, his painting a city landscape with so much going on, so much to dissect, yet simplistic and dark in his usual art style. Further back is Archer, and he's sat criss cross on the floor, sketching something out in his notebook, a near empty tray of freshly baked cupcakes sat onto a bright blue box next to him.
As soon as we walk in, eyes flicker up to us.
The last time we were here, Damien and I had a lot to talk about, and they left us to talk everything out, to sort our feelings and our emotions and our everything out. Margot's smile seems slightly too smug as she watches us.
We wade further into the space, receiving a friendly nod from Paxton and an offer of cupcakes from Archer. I take Archer up on that offer, and he lets me grab the tray with the remaining two cupcakes, making my way up to my station, a little ways away from the canvas.
I toss Damien one of my earbuds, and the two of us listen to one of my infinite playlists, my foot resting on Damien's as we bite into the cream cheese-frosted red velvet cupcakes. They're painfully soft, and good, as they usually are.
A few seconds later, I rise to my feet, returning to my canvas. Acrylic has to be one of my favorite mediums, right up there with charcoal, a close second to watercolor. And while I'm painting, the back of my canvas facing Damien whose eyes are fluttered shut as music fills his ears.
I have this overwhelming urge to draw him, as I usually do. So, I allow myself to paint Damien Cortez in all his details and perfections and little differences. The shadows underneath his neck, the darkness of his eyelashes, the deep brown of his skin, the nearly imperceptible purse to his lips.
And then, when his eyes flutter open and he gives me one of those little smiles, the corner of his lips quirking upward, I feel an even heavier urge. I feel that question rising to the forefront of my mind once more, after resting in the back all day, teasingly.
It hits me like a shit-ton of bricks.
I want to date Damien Cortez.
I want to be with him in the way I really already am, except with that officiality of really being with him. So, that, when I take him over to my house for dinner, I'm unapologetically, undeniably stating to my parents that I'm with Damien Cortez in every way I can imagine.
I want to continue holding his hands and feeling his thumb rub against the back of mine, I want to continue falling asleep next to him in his parents couch, throwing my arm around his waist, meeting his lips with mine.
So, I step away from the canvas, and Damien's smile is softening as I walk up to him. And soon, I'm sliding my hands into his, and Damien tenses a little bit before letting his shoulders ease up, me firmly reminding him that this is a safe space.
He blinks, this sort of cute confusion playing at his lips.
And then, I exhale, and say it.
"I want to be with you," I say, as though that illustrates everything, and maybe it does.
Damien blinks once more, his mouth opening before closing. I can nearly sense his heart rate accelerating. "As your boyfriend?" and the word sounds so right on his lips.
And I'm nodding, and then Damien is, too. And he's saying, "I'd really like that."
And I'm agreeing. There's a dimple that appears on one cheek as his smile widens, and I keep falling.
Luckily, I don't ever want to fall out.
***
When I introduce Damien as my boyfriend to my parents, I'm not sure what type of reaction I'm expecting.
But maybe it's predictable. Mom's wide grin, her hands clasping together, her dark bun bobbing? Sounds just about right. When we're ushered into the house, she gives Damien's side a squeeze, eyes brightening, and I nearly want to cry because Mom.
When we're at the table, the scent of good fucking food wafting to the atmosphere, the energy feels at ease. Damien's nervous, I can tell, from the way his feet are bouncing on the floor beneath the table, the way he's not sure what to say, the way his hands fly through his curls.
My hand gently rubs at his thigh, and he nods, exhales, inhales. Mom's grilling him about a million different things and it's difficult for anyone to keep up with them all. That's because it's Mom. She's moving a mile a minute, and everyone struggles to catch up.
Small and mighty, that's what Dad says.
Dad makes his way down the stairs, and he shakes Damien's hand, and he smiles, and that's how he operates. So, as Dad pulls up a chair, and both my parents pull Damien Cortez into conversation, my hand still resting on his leg underneath the table— the world feels alright.
At the back wall, at the end of the dining room, my eyes catch onto a portrait. I'd made it when I was ten, mere months before Ezra overdosed. It's not a great one. Some of the shading could be better, the detail on the subject's face could have been painted just a little more smoothly. What to expect from a ten-year-old I guess.
It's a painting of Ezra.
Ezra with his hair that fell just above his shoulders, Ezra with the sharp chin and the careful eyes, Ezra with the protruding Adam's apple and sly smile on his lips that couldn't quite be a smile. When he was gone, I'd hid the painting away, didn't want shit to do with it, with him.
But somehow, at some point likely earlier today, someone had put it back up. Mom had. Her eyes briefly meet mine across the table and her expression is all the confirmation necessary. It's our path towards healing.
I miss you, Ezra.
More than life itself.
So, I think of one last note to send Ezra Choi, wherever he is. I excuse myself from dinner, grab a scrap piece of looseleaf paper and settle down in the living room, where I use a ball point pen to right down everything that's been kept inside for eight years.
Hi, Ezra.
I miss you. You should be here. But somehow, I know you are.
I'm mad at you. I have been for a long time. Because you left me. You left me and I never even got to come out to you. I know you would've known, though. Because you're my brother. You knew me better than anybody else.
And fuck, there's still some anger there. Anger because I want you to be here, and see my boyfriend, and love him, because I know you would've. But now, I feel your presence, like I can breathe again. And shit, I know you're here, Ezra, right in my heart, a steady thrum behind it.
I know you're here. You'll always be part of my heart. And now, I feel really alive, really whole, really complete. Even though you're not standing right here with me.
I love and miss you.
Your brother,
Soren :)
I tuck the paper into my back pocket. I'll ask Damien to take me to Ezra's gravestone one of these days to place it there, next to the chrysanthemums Grandpa leaves there every year. As of now, I return back to my seat, next to Damien and across from my parents.
Damien's eyes find mine, careful, gentle, "you okay?"
And I nod with a yes as he's tugged back into conversation by my parents and their laughter fills the air, the energy in the room thrumming. My smile is soft.
Because finally, I feel a collective exhale leave my body.
***
🥺
pls this week was so long for me,, hope u have a beautiful friday. bc u deserve it >:))