41. Damon
Damon
I drag the brush across the canvas in slow, even strokes, the deep crimson blending into the black. There’s no real image yet, just layers of color and texture, something forming in the chaos, but I don’t think about it too much. I never do when I paint. I just let it happen.
The apartment is quiet except for the sound of Roman shit-talking some poor bastard over his headset. He’s sprawled out on my couch in nothing but his boxers, and one leg bent over the armrest. He looks ridiculous, but I’m not complaining.
His tongue pokes out slightly, biting his venom piercings as he focuses on the game, and every now and then, he stretches, making his abs flex in a way that’s fucking distracting.
I shake my head and focus back on the canvas in front of me. I’m in my usual painting clothes—black sweats, a white T-shirt that’s already got a few paint streaks on it, and my glasses, which Roman has dubbed my ‘fuck me’ glasses because, apparently, they make me look hotter.
I don’t argue with him.
“Come the fuck on, you little camping piece of shit—peek me again, I dare you,” he growls, fingers moving rapidly over the buttons. A second later, he lets out a triumphant laugh. “That’s what I thought, pussy.”
I smirk, shaking my head as I dip my brush into the paint.
It’s a Saturday, and we’ve done fuck all today besides lazing around in my apartment. Roman has been switching between gaming and eating every snack in my kitchen, and I’ve been working on this piece while listening to him talk shit to strangers online.
He looks good like this. Comfortable. Happy. His hair is a mess, and even from across the room, I can see the faint bruises I left on his hips.
My cock twitches.
Fucking focus, Ward.
I turn back to my painting, exhaling slowly, but before I can make another stroke, my phone vibrates against the table. I frown, setting my brush down and wiping my hands on a rag before grabbing it. My stomach tightens when I see the caller ID.
Mom.
I hesitate for half a second before answering. “Hey.”
“Hi, baby,” she says softly, and something in her tone immediately sets me on edge.
I swallow, gripping the phone tighter. “What’s up?”
“I’m here.”
The words don’t register at first. “What?”
“I’m downstairs, sweetheart,” she says, and I hear the sound of a car door closing in the background.
I grip my phone tighter. Fuck.
I don’t know why I’m suddenly so fucking nervous. I knew this was coming. She told me she needed to see me in person, and I agreed. But now that she’s actually here, standing outside my fucking building, I feel like the walls are closing in.
“Damon?”
“I’ll be down,” I mutter, then hang up before she can say anything else.
I turn toward Roman, and he must hear the tension in my voice because his game is suddenly forgotten. He rips off his headset, tossing it aside, and sits up straight. “What’s wrong?”
I exhale sharply. “She’s here.”
Roman stares at me for half a second, then sits up, already reaching for his clothes. “Okay.” No hesitation, no questions, just “okay.”
I watch him as he pulls on his jeans and throws on my hoodie, and something tightens in my chest. I don’t know how I’d fucking function without him.
Once he’s ready, I grab my keys and open the door. Roman places a hand on my back as we step into the hallway, and I don’t even think about pushing him away.
When we get downstairs, my mom is standing just outside the building, her arms crossed as she scans the street. The second she sees us, she straightens, her eyes immediately locking onto Roman.
“Oh,” she breathes, her hand coming up to her mouth. “Roman.”
Roman looks just as wrecked, his eyes wide, his throat working like he’s trying to keep it together. And then she’s moving. She rushes up the steps and wraps her arms around him, holding him tight like she’s afraid he’ll disappear.
I watch as Roman stiffens for half a second, his whole body going rigid like he doesn’t know how to process it. But then his arms come up, wrapping around her tightly, his face burying into her shoulder.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
“Missed you too, Ma.”
I inhale sharply. He used to call her that all the time, back when he and Caleb were inseparable. Back when he practically lived at our house. I stand there watching them. Seeing them like this—seeing the way my mother holds him like he’s hers—it does something to me.
And fuck, I think it does something to Roman, too.
She finally pulls back, cupping his face, her thumb brushing along his cheek like she’s memorizing him. Then she turns to me and I steel myself. She reaches out, resting a hand on my arm, and studies my face. “You look tired,” she says softly.
I smirk. “That’s just my face.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness there. Then she exhales and glances between me and Roman. “I’m really glad you’re both here,” she says, her voice suddenly quieter. “Because there’s something I need to tell you.”
Roman tenses beside me. “What is it?”
She hesitates. “Let’s go inside first.”
I exchange a look with Roman, his brows drawn together.
Fuck. This isn’t going to be good.
We walk into my apartment in silence, the weight of whatever the fuck my mom is about to say pressing down on my chest like a cinderblock. Roman doesn’t say anything, just heads straight for the kitchen, grabbing mugs from the cabinet and setting up the coffee maker like it’s muscle memory.
I drop onto the couch, running a hand over my face, my knee bouncing uncontrollably. My mom sits across from me, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze unreadable.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s so fucking wrong.
Roman comes back a few minutes later, placing a steaming mug in front of her before handing me mine. He sits beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough.
My mom exhales, curling her fingers around the mug like she needs something solid to hold onto. Then she puts it down again and pulls a set of envelopes from her purse and my heart fucking stops.
“There’s something I should’ve given you both a long time ago,” she says, her voice tight. “Caleb left letters before he—before he died.”
I stare at the envelopes like they might fucking explode and Roman stiffens beside me, his breath catching.
“I—” My voice cracks. “He left—”
“Yes,” she says, softer now. “He left three. One for me and your father. One for you. One for Roman.”
I can’t fucking breathe. Roman grips his mug like he might crush it, his knuckles white, but he still doesn’t say a word.
My mom hesitates for a moment before carefully pulling out one of the letters. This one is already opened, the edges of the paper slightly worn, like it’s been held too many times.
“This was for me and your father,” she says quietly. “I want you both to read it before you open your own.”
I don’t want to. I really fucking don’t want to. But my hands move on their own, taking the letter as she passes it over. Roman shifts closer, leaning in to read with me, and together, we look at Caleb’s words for the first time.
—
Mom, Dad,
I’m sorry. I know this is going to hurt you, but I can’t do this anymore.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the son you deserve, the son you can be proud of. But I’m not, am I? And I never will be.
I heard you on the phone with Damon tonight, Dad. I heard every word you said to my brother out of spite. You said he was a disgrace. A demon. An embarrassment to our family.
It’s funny how you preach about the bible and what’s so morally wrong, but you cut off your own son because of something he never chose himself. You’re a goddamn hypocrite, dad.
After that call, I knew. I knew that if you ever found out the truth about me, you’d say the same things. I can’t change who I am. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve fucking tried. But I can’t keep pretending. I can’t keep living in a house where I know the truth will destroy me.
Mom, I’m so sorry for breaking your heart. Please keep Roman close, he’s not going to be okay without me when he has to go home to his dad every day and I’m not there to comfort him. You know why.
I love you both. But I need you to understand I was never going to get better.
I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. Please don’t be sad, Mom. This isn’t your fault.
I just couldn’t do it anymore.
Your son
Caleb
—
The words blur, my vision tunnels and I can’t fucking breathe.
The phone call. He heard it. He heard everything. The conversation I had with our father—the one where he called me a demon, a disgrace, a failure. The words that gutted me, that broke me.
Caleb heard it, and it fucking killed him.
I shoot to my feet so fast that the coffee mugs on the table wobble, spilling over.
“Damon—”
“I need a second.” My voice is hoarse, barely holding together.
Roman doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t stop me, he just watches. He knows I need space, knows I need to move, to fucking breathe, so he lets me. I pace the length of the room, raking a hand through my hair, the words repeating in my skull over and over and over.
I heard you on the phone with Damon, Dad.
He knew. He knew what our father would’ve thought of him. He knew he’d never be accepted. He knew it would kill him either way.
“Damon,” Roman says softly, but I can’t look at him.
I whip around, staring at my mom instead. “Why the fuck did you keep this from me?”
Her expression crumbles slightly, but she squares her shoulders. “Because you weren’t ready,” she says firmly. “Because you were grieving, Damon. You were breaking. I couldn’t—” She swallows hard. “I couldn’t do that to you. Not then.”
I shake my head, laughing bitterly. “And when was I supposed to be ready, Mom? When the voices in my head fucking swallowed me whole? When I finally lost my goddamn mind?”
“Damon—”
“He knew,” I snap. “That piece of shit knew what he was doing to us, and he still let it happen. He let his own son fucking die, and then what? He drank himself into oblivion and pretended like he wasn’t the reason both of us were fucked up?”
She nods, her face pale. “It’s why I divorced him,” she says. “It’s why I left. Because he broke you both. Because he took my boys and he ruined them.”
Roman stares at the letter with his jaw clenched so tight I swear it might shatter. His eyes are wet, but he’s not wiping the tears away. He just stares, like he’s trying to process something too big, too awful to understand.
I let out a shuddering breath, my pulse hammering so hard it’s all I can hear. Then she pushes the two remaining envelopes toward us.
One with my name, one with Roman’s. Neither are opened.
“I haven’t read these,” she says, her voice steady. “They were meant for you.”
The room is silent as I stare at the envelope with my name written in Caleb’s handwriting, my hands shaking as I take it. Roman’s fingers hover over his own, like he’s scared to touch it.
I don’t know if I can open mine. I don’t fucking know if I can do this.
My mom looks between us before exhaling, wiping at her face. “I’ll give you some time.”
She stands, walking toward the door, and I can’t bring myself to look at her as she leaves. But I can’t blame her for doing what she thought was right at the time.
The silence is deafening after she leaves, and Roman is still so fucking still. I sit down next to him again, and he swallows, dragging in a slow, uneven breath. “I don’t think I can read it,” he murmurs, barely audible.
I can’t either. Not yet. I swallow hard, staring at the envelope in my hands, my thumb brushing over the ink.
Caleb’s last words.
Finally, Roman moves. “Come here.”
I blink at him, still frozen. His jaw tightens, and he reaches for me, tugging me toward him until I have no choice but to let him pull me into his arms.
I break.
The tension snaps in my chest, and I collapse against him, gripping the back of the hoodie like a fucking lifeline. His hand slides up my back, his breath warm against my temple.
“I got you,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I don’t fucking deserve him, but I let myself believe it, anyway.
Just for now.