42. Roman
Roman
Damon’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath my head, his heartbeat a slow, rhythmic thump against my ear. My fingers trail absently over the ink on his ribs, mapping the familiar lines of his tattoos while my tongue piercings click softly against the back of my teeth. The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old apartment walls.
I should be asleep, but I can’t stop thinking.
Seeing Caleb’s handwriting again after so long fucked me up in a way I wasn’t prepared for. The ink was faded in places, and the paper creased like it had been held too many times, but it was undeniably his. His words. His voice, reaching out from the past to explain what he couldn’t say when he was still here.
I feel sad, yeah, but more than that, I feel fucking scared. Not for myself, but for Damon.
I lift my head slightly, just enough to glance up at him. He hasn’t moved much in the past hour; he’s just staring at the ceiling, one arm draped over his stomach, the other resting against my back. His fingers twitch like he wants a cigarette, but he doesn’t reach for one.
Then, out of nowhere, he exhales and says, “I’m gonna open it.”
My whole fucking body locks up and I push up onto my elbow, staring at him. “What?”
Damon doesn’t look at me. His fingers drum against my spine, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s serious. “I’m gonna open the letter.”
“Damon.” I shift fully now, sitting up. “Maybe you should wait. You’re already dealing with a lot—”
“I don’t wanna wait,” he cuts in. “I need to know what he fucking said, Roman. I need to.”
I shake my head, my stomach twisting. “Babe, I just—”
“I need to,” he stresses as he finally meets my gaze, looking so fucking tortured and it breaks my heart, and I know there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
So I sit back against the headboard, watching as he reaches for the letter in his nightstand drawer. The envelope crinkles in his grip, his name written in smudged ink on the front, and for a moment, he just… stares at it.
Then he exhales, slow and steady, and opens it.
I wait and watch every fucking second as he reads over the two pages—the flicker of emotions across his face, the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard, the tightening of his jaw, the huff of laughter and the sharp inhale of breath when I know he gets to something that hits too deep.
And then I watch as the man I love breaks again.
It’s not loud. It’s not violent. It’s not like the way he usually lashes out when shit gets too much. No, it’s quiet. The kind of grief that slips in like a whisper, like a slow-moving tide, and drowns you.
His shoulders shake, his fingers tremble, and his eyes squeeze shut. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, breathing ragged and unsteady, and I don’t know what to do. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he swallows hard, but it does nothing to stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks.
Damon has cried in front of me before. But never like this. Never this quiet, never this shattered. He lowers the letter slowly, his gaze unfocused, staring at nothing.
Then he looks up at me, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes—are so clear. Without a word, he holds the letter out. I hesitate, my stomach twisting into knots. “Are you sure?”
He nods once, his throat working as he swallows again.
I take it from him with unsteady hands, unfolding the paper fully before my eyes lock onto the first line.
—
Damon,
I don’t know how to start this, so I guess I’ll just start with the truth.
I should’ve talked to you more. I should’ve told you things I never had the guts to say. I should’ve told you that I looked up to you, that no matter how much we fought, you were still the person I admired most in this world. I should’ve told you that I was struggling, that I felt like I was drowning every single day, but I didn’t, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I thought maybe I could fix it on my own.
I know better now. But it’s too late for me because I can’t be strong like you. I can’t survive this the way you did, giving the middle finger to anyone who fucked with you and being true to yourself. I wish I could, D. I fucking wish I could be like you.
So here’s the truth: I’m gay.
I’m gay, and I’ve been in love with Roman Bishop for three years.
I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if you’d hate me for it. You always seemed so distant when it came to Roman, and I never understood why you disliked him so much. But if you’re reading this, then I’m not here anymore, and that means there’s something I need to ask of you.
Please look after him.
When I leave, he’s going to be broken. And I can’t stand knowing I’m going to break him. So please. Just… try. Try to be there, even if you don’t want to be. I know it’s a big thing to ask, but you’re my big brother and the one person I trust more than anything.
I keep thinking about that night before you left for Blackthorne U.
We were supposed to be asleep, but I snuck into your room like I always did, and you were already awake, shoving clothes into that duffel bag you never properly packed. I remember sitting on your bed, watching you try to cram too much shit into too little space, and I asked you if you’re excited to leave.
You didn’t answer at first. Just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. But I could tell, Damon. I could always tell when you were faking it.
I wanted to be happy for you. I wanted to say ‘Yeah, you’re gonna kill it at Blackthorne’ and mean it. But I was selfish. I didn’t want you to leave. You were the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t completely invisible.
That’s why I convinced you to sneak out that night.
Remember how we grabbed our boards and skated all the way to that shitty 24-hour diner? The one with the peeling red booths and the jukebox that only played songs from the ’80s? We sat in the corner with greasy burgers and milkshakes that tasted like freezer burn, and we talked about the stupidest shit.
I remember the way you laughed when I tried to flick a fry at you and missed so bad it landed in some trucker’s coffee. I thought we were about to get our asses beat, but you just smirked and said, ‘Damn, kid, maybe hockey isn’t your sport after all.’
And I laughed, Damon. I laughed so fucking hard because it was just us. No expectations, no pretending, no weight crushing my chest. Just my big brother and me, in the middle of the night, being dumbasses over cold fries and stale diner coffee.
But the best part wasn’t the diner, it was what came after.
We skated to that hill just outside of town, the one we always went to when we wanted to get away from everything. We sat there, side by side, watching the sky shift from black to purple to soft shades of orange. The air was cool, the world still quiet, and I remember thinking how I wished this moment could last forever.
Because the second the sun was up, you were leaving.
I wanted to tell you everything that night. I wanted to say I don’t want you to go and I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you here. I wanted to tell you that I was scared. That I felt like I was standing on the edge of something dark, and every day it pulled me closer. That I didn’t know how to stop it. That I needed you.
But I didn’t. Instead, I sat there, watching the sun rise with you, memorizing every second of it because I knew it was the last time I’d feel okay.
I wish I told you, D. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you would’ve helped me the way you always did. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so fucking alone.
But I didn’t tell you, and now it’s too late. I know you’re probably pissed at me for this. I know you’re probably thinking that I could’ve fought harder, that I could’ve reached out, that I could’ve stayed. But Damon, I was so tired.
I was tired of waking up every day feeling like I wasn’t enough.
Tired of pretending to be something I wasn’t.
Tired of knowing that no matter what I did, I would never be the son Dad wanted.
I heard the things he said to you on the phone earlier. I wasn’t supposed to, but I did. I heard every single word and it broke me.
I realized right then that there was no escape. That no matter how much Roman loved me, no matter how much I dreamed of a future where I could just be with him, it was never going to happen. I could never be happy in a world that told me I was wrong just for existing. And there was no way I would drag him into the darkness with me because he deserves someone who will love him openly, someone who isn’t a coward.
I wish I was stronger. I wish I could’ve been more like you. But I’m not, D. I never was. But you are, and if you can find a way to move forward, if you can find a way to keep living in spite of everything, then maybe… maybe that’s enough for the both of us.
Please don’t hate me, and please try to love yourself.
I love you, big brother. I always will.
Caleb
—
I don’t know when the tears started.
All I know is that by the time I finish, my vision is blurred, and my chest aches like someone took a fucking bat to it. I clutch the letter so tight the paper crumples, and when I glance up at Damon, he’s just watching me. Like he’s memorizing every reaction, every little flicker of pain on my face.
I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.
Damon moves closer, his fingers twitching against the sheets like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t know how. His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. “He thought I was strong.” His lips press into a thin line, his throat bobbing. “He thought I fucking survived it.”
I shake my head, wiping my face roughly. “You did.”
Damon lets out a hollow laugh. “No. I just stayed and lost my mind.”
And I don’t know what to say to that.
Because fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I drop my head, inhaling deeply, and Damon rubs a hand over his face. He still looks like he’s trying to process everything, still looks like he’s trying to figure out how the fuck he’s supposed to feel.
Then, slowly, carefully, he reaches out and pulls me toward him, pressing his forehead against mine.
We sit there like that, breathing the same air, drowning in the same grief, and this time, we don’t let it tear us apart. I close my eyes, breathing him in. The scent of him, the heat of him. It grounds me and holds me together when I feel like I might fucking shatter.
The letter is still in my hands, crumpled slightly from my grip. It feels like it’s burning through my skin, a brand of something I’m not ready to face. “I can’t,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I can’t open mine.”
Not when I can still hear Caleb’s voice in my head, his last words echoing over and over like a fucking siren. Not when I can still see him—his handwriting, his regrets, his final plea for Damon to look after me.
Damon exhales, his breath ghosting against my lips. He leans back just enough to look at me, his green eyes dark and knowing. “That’s okay,” he murmurs. “I didn’t open mine so you would open yours, baby.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I just—” I shake my head, struggling to find the words, struggling to breathe past the pressure in my chest.
He lifts a hand, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, and it’s such a gentle fucking touch that it nearly undoes me. “You don’t have to explain,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I get it.”
I press my forehead against his again, my fingers digging into his arms like he’s the only thing keeping me here, keeping me from drowning in the past. My mind is fucking spiraling—Caleb’s words, his regret, his love, his pain—all of it is looping over and over in my head.
I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to feel anything right now. So I do the only thing I can do. I move, my hands sliding down his arms, over the ink that covers his skin. My fingers press into his ribs, feeling his solid body, the reality of him.
“Make me forget,” I whisper. Damon stills, his breath catching, but I don’t stop. I don’t give him the chance to think because I need him to understand what I’m asking. “Make us forget.”
I need him to take this fucking pain and burn it away. His jaw tightens, his green eyes darkening like a storm is brewing just behind them. “Roman—”
“Please,” I beg, my fingers digging into him. “Just—just take it away. For a little while.”
Damon exhales through his nose, his whole body wound tight like he’s holding himself back from something he shouldn’t want. But then, slowly, so fucking slowly, his hands slide down to my waist, gripping me like he needs this just as much as I do.
And maybe he does.
Maybe we both do.
He doesn’t kiss me right away, he just looks at me like he’s committing this moment to memory before it disappears into whatever hell we’re drowning in.
His mouth crashes into mine, and there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s all fire and fucking destruction like he’s trying to consume me—to devour every piece of me that still belongs to someone else.
I let him. I want him to.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me into his lap, and I go willingly, my thighs straddling his, my fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue slides against mine, demanding, taking, and I give him everything.
Every ounce of pain. Every piece of guilt. Every fucking thing that’s eating me alive. I pour it into him, and he takes it. His fingers drag over my skin, rough and possessive, like he’s trying to replace everything I’m feeling with him.
And I want that. I need that.
“Damon…” I breathe against his mouth.
“Shh,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down my throat. “I’ve got you, baby.”
The words send a shiver down my spine, and I arch into him as he kisses a path across my collarbone, nipping at the skin before soothing it with his tongue.
My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, my fingers tightening in his hair as he moves lower, his hands smoothing over my chest, and his thumbs brushing over my nipple piercings.
“You’re a goddamn sight,” he mutters, leaning in to flick his tongue over one of them, making my entire body jerk. I let out a strangled moan, my head falling back.
Damon chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over the sensitive metal before switching to the other, his fingers curling around my ribs to hold me still. “You’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin.
I don’t feel perfect. I feel fucked up. But right now, with his hands on me, with his mouth leaving marks in places only he will see, I can pretend. I can fucking pretend.
I grind against him, desperate for friction, and he groans, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “So needy for my cock, Hotshot?” he taunts, smirking up at me.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, dragging his face back to mine and kissing him hard.
He laughs against my mouth, the sound rough and wrecked, and he lifts me effortlessly, flipping us so I’m beneath him. His fingers trail down my stomach, teasing the waistband of my sweats, and I shudder, my body arching into his touch.
“Tell me you really want this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear.
“God, yes,” I rasp, my fingers digging into his back.
His smirk is lazy and sinful. “Good.”
I can’t even respond because, fuck, all I can think about is him.
Him and his mouth.
Him and his hands.
Him and the way he makes me feel like I’m the only thing that fucking exists.
Damon drags his tongue down my stomach, tracing every line, every dip, every bruise from hockey, and when he reaches my hips, he pauses, his fingers tracing the two piercings just above my v-line.
“These are hot as hell,” he mutters, his voice thick with something almost reverent.
A smirk tugs at my lips, but before I can say anything, he presses an open-mouthed kiss just above them, his tongue flicking against the metal. I curse, my fingers yanking on his hair, but he just grins and pushes me back onto the bed.
The weight of him, the heat of him, all of it burns through me, and it’s exactly what I fucking need. Because with every kiss, every bite, every touch—
He’s making me forget.
He’s making us forget.
And for a little while— just a little while —there is no grief.
No pain.
No fucking guilt.
There’s only him.