Archive of Our Own ^beta

The motorway loosens its grip on the city the further they go, buildings lowering themselves into hedges, concrete thinning into fields. Damon feels it in his shoulders before he lets himself actively think about it. He keeps both hands on the wheel, steady, like that alone might keep the world from noticing them slipping away.

Liam sits in the passenger seat with the map open on his knees. An actual paper one, folded badly, corners soft from use. He insists it is more reliable than Damon’s instincts, which Damon knows is code for ‘I like having something to do with my hands.’ And so, Liam keeps on tracing their route with one finger, all while humming under his breath, off-key but familiar still.

“Left in about two miles,” he says, not looking up.

Damon nods, more amused than annoyed. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“Aye, well. Roads move differently down ‘ere.”

Damon smiles despite himself. It comes easily now they are past the last ring of London traffic, past the feeling of being watched even when the car windows are darkened and anonymous. He glances sideways at Liam. The sunglasses are off, his face looking bare without them, younger somehow, but tired in a way that feels earned.

They don’t talk much. The radio stays low, something forgettable filling the space so silence never quite lands. Damon prefers it like this. Talking feels like something they do too quickly these days, words rushed and incomplete, stolen between obligations. Here, with miles still ahead, there is no need to hurry.

The road bends and climbs. Damon shifts gears and feels the car respond, obedient. Control is rare lately. He lets himself enjoy it.

He thinks about how strange it is that leaving feels like an act of survival. How easy it is to believe that distance can fix things. He doesn’t kid himself, Cornwall is not a cure. But it is space. It is cold air and empty beaches and a house with a name that isn’t theirs.

Liam clears his throat. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Damon answers, and he mostly means it.

Liam folds the map and sets it aside, then reaches over without looking, resting his hand on Damon’s thigh. It is casual, familiar, but Damon’s breath still catches. The touch grounds him more than the steering wheel ever could.

They drive on like that for a while. Grey sky, bare trees, the sense of something held at bay.

Damon thinks about how this is them choosing each other. But he doesn’t say it, instead letting the thought settle instead, warm and quiet, as the road carries them further away.

When the turn finally does come, Damon takes it, stirring them onto a narrow road that slips off the main stretch like a secret. Hedges crowd in close on both sides, damp and dark, and the tyres hiss softly against the tarmac. He eases his speed without thinking. There is no one behind them, no one to keep up with.

“Nearly there,” Liam says, though Damon knows it is still a while. Yet, Liam says it anyway, like a promise.

The light changes as the afternoon wears on. It thins, turning silvery, into a way that makes everything look briefly unreal. Damon feels it settle in his chest, a quiet ache that isn’t unpleasant. He has spent too long under bright lights that demand something from him. This light asks for nothing.

Liam shifts in his seat, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. “‘t’s colder than I thought it’d be.”

“You said you packed properly.”

“I did,” Liam scoffs, affronted. “Just didn’t expect it to feel… like this.”

Damon hums. He understands what Liam means. The cold here is different, honest. It goes straight through you without fuss.

They pass through a village that looks half-asleep. A closed pub, a shop with its lights off, a dog tied outside a post office, watching the world with mild suspicion. Damon keeps his eyes forward, instinct sharp even now. Habit. But nothing happens. No pointing. No recognition.

His shoulders drop another inch.

Liam’s thumb starts tracing small, absent circles on Damon’s leg. It’s not sexual, but it’s not nothing either. Damon feels the familiar tug of wanting to lean into it, wanting to say something that matters. He doesn’t yet, he’s learning, slowly, that he doesn’t have to fill every gap.

He thinks about how long it has been since they have done this. Just being. Not grabbing an hour before a soundcheck, not falling asleep exhausted and half-annoyed, not making promises they both know they will struggle to keep. Just them, this.
He feels a flicker of guilt and lets it bloom and pass without pushing it away.

“I’m glad we did this,” Liam says suddenly, eyes on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” Damon replies. After a beat, softer, “Me too.”

The road dips, then rises, and for a second Damon catches a glimpse of the sea between the fields. Slate-coloured, restless. It looks cold and endless and exactly right.

Something in him loosens. He breathes out slowly and deliberately, like he is finally giving himself permission.

They drive on, towards the coast, towards a house with the wrong names on the booking and the right kind of quiet waiting inside it.

Eventually, finally, the house appears at the end of a gravel track, tucked slightly away from the road like it doesn’t want to be found unless someone is looking properly. Stone walls, low roof, windows small and square. It looks older than Damon expects, sturdier. Like it has weathered worse things than two men trying to disappear for a week.

He parks and turns the engine off, the sudden quiet almost shocking. No sirens. No distant roar. Just wind moving through grass and the faint, constant sound of the sea somewhere beyond the hill.

They sit there for a moment, neither of them moving.

Liam exhales first. “This’ll do.”

Damon laughs softly. “High praise.”

They get out of the car and the cold hits properly now, sharp against Damon’s cheeks. He pulls his coat tighter and goes to the boot. Their bags are unglamorous. Duffels, worn backpacks. Nothing that says holiday in the glossy sense, everything that says ‘we packed in a hurry and didn’t want to think too hard about it.’

The key sticks in the lock. Damon has to jiggle it, cursing under his breath, before the door finally gives. Inside, the house smells faintly of dust and something clean underneath it. Soap, maybe. Or old wood.

They move slowly, bags dropped by the door, coats shrugged off and hung wherever feels right. The place is small. One main room with a low ceiling, a couch that has seen better decades, a wooden table scarred with use, a little bricked fireplace, a narrow kitchen off to the side, stairs that creak just looking at them. But all of it in an achingly charming way.

“It’s nice,” Liam says, sounding close to surprised.

“It is,” Damon agrees as he runs a hand along the back of a chair. The wood is smooth, warm despite the cold air. He can already picture mornings here. Grey light, boiling kettle, nothing urgent, nowhere to be.

They inspect the house like they are learning its moods, opening cupboards, checking windows. Liam opens the back door and lets in a rush of salt air that makes Damon’s chest ache in the best way possible.

Upstairs, the bedroom is simple. A double bed, white sheets, a small window looking out towards fields that slope down to the sea. Damon stands there for a long moment, staring out, thinking about sleep, proper sleep. The kind that doesn’t end with a phone ringing or a mind replaying conversations.

Liam leans in the doorway, watching him, Damon sensing him without looking.

“Damon.”

He turns. Liam’s expression is open, unguarded. No swagger. No performance. Just him.

“Come on,” Liam says. “Sit down before ye fall over or somethin’.”

They go back downstairs, where Liam drops onto the couch with a theatrical sigh, arms spread, claiming it immediately. Damon smiles and turns to head for the kitchen, thinking about tea, about grounding himself in something practical, when Liam catches his wrist.

“Oi! Yer not escapin’ already.”

Before Damon can respond, Liam tugs him closer, off-balance. Laughing, startled, Damon and ends up half-sprawled across Liam’s lap, the couch dipping under their combined weight. Liam’s arm comes around his back automatically, solid and warm.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

Damon adjusts, one knee braced against the couch, his shoulder against Liam’s chest. He feels Liam’s heartbeat, steady and real.

“Yeah,” he answers quietly. “Actually. Yeah.”

For a moment, they just breathe. Damon’s face is close enough now that he can see the small lines at the corners of Liam’s eyes, the tiredness he carries even when he pretends he doesn’t. He lifts a hand, almost without thinking, and brushes his thumb along Liam’s jaw.

Liam stills, then tilts his head up.

The kiss is unhurried, soft. It tastes like the road and the cold and relief. Liam’s hand tightens at Damon’s waist, anchoring him there, like he is afraid Damon might vanish if he loosens his grip.

Damon kisses him back slowly, deliberately, pouring everything unsaid into it. ‘I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. This matters.’

When they part, their foreheads rest together.

“God,” Liam murmurs. “We needed this.”

Humming in agreement, Damon closes his eyes, as Liam’s hands shift, almost absent-minded, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of Damon’s shirt. Just for a second. Just enough to skim bare skin at his waist, warm against the chill Damon still carries from outside.

Damon exhales before he realises he is doing it, the sound sinking into Liam’s shoulder.

“Liam…,” he murmurs, not pulling away but not leaning in either. “I’m knackered. Not… not up for shagging.”

Liam stills immediately. His hands don’t retreat, but they go gentle, resting instead of roaming.
“I know,” he says, low and easy. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Damon lifts his head and looks at him. There is no disappointment there, no sharp edge. Just something earnest and a little vulnerable.

“Just need to feel you,” Liam adds. “Need you here, that’s all.”

Something in Damon softens properly then, the knot he has been carrying since the drive, since before the drive, loosening its grip. He nods once and lets his forehead fall back against Liam’s shoulder. “Alright.”

Liam adjusts them both, shifting so Damon is more fully supported, one arm solid around his back. He starts to move his hand slowly, deliberately, along Damon’s spine, not under the shirt now, just pressure through fabric. Long strokes. Nothing rushed.
Damon feels his own breathing begin to match the rhythm without effort.

Liam presses his lips into Damon’s hair, not a kiss exactly, more like a claim, a reminder.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, barely audible.

Damon does. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He feels the couch beneath them, the weight of Liam, the quiet of the house settling around them. No one is waiting for him to be clever or productive or composed. He is just here, he can just let himself be.

Liam’s hand moves to the back of Damon’s neck, thumb finding that spot that always makes his shoulders drop. He works it gently, in slow circles, patient. Damon’s eyes close. The tension from the drive, from gripping the wheel and the road and his own thoughts too tightly, drains away in increments.

“Christ,” Damon mutters, voice muffled. “You’re good at that.”

Liam huffs a quiet laugh. “I know, right?”

That earns him a playful slap, as strong as Damon can manage.

After a while, Liam shifts again, careful not to break the calm. He reaches out to the coffee table and grabs the folded throw they noticed earlier, tugging it over Damon’s back and shoulders. The fabric is rough but warm. Real.

“Cold?” Liam asks.

“A bit,” Damon admits.

Liam tucks the edge of the blanket around him with surprising tenderness, then settles back, one hand still at Damon’s nape, the other resting flat against his lower back. Grounding. Anchoring.

They stay like that for a long time. No talking, just the quiet creak of the house, the distant sea, and the steady reassurance of being held without expectation.

Damon thinks, dimly, that this is what they forget to do sometimes. Not the sex. This. The stopping. The choosing to stay still together.

He shifts slightly, tucking himself closer, and Liam tightens his hold without comment, as the afternoon outside continues without them.

Eventually, Liam’s breathing slowly, deep and even beneath Damon’s ear. Damon can feel it through the solid warmth of his chest, the rise and fall, a quiet metronome. The blanket traps the heat between them. The house has fully settled, like it has accepted them.

Damon shifts slightly, just enough to adjust his cheek where it rests. The fabric of Liam’s jumper is soft from wear. He listens for a bit, listens to the wind outside, to the distant hush of the sea, to Liam.

There is a hum in Liam’s chest, barely there, like he isn’t aware he is doing it. Not a tune exactly. Just sound.

Damon smiles into it.
“Hey,” he says softly, after a while, without lifting his head.

“Mm?” Liam answers, the vibration travelling straight through Damon’s ribs.

“Will you… sing a bit?”

Liam goes still. Damon feels it immediately, the pause, the moment of self-consciousness that never quite leaves him no matter how many stages he stands on.

“Here?” Liam asks. “Now?”

“Yeah,” Damon replies. “Just for me.”

There must be something in the way he says it that makes Liam huff a quiet laugh. His hand shifts at Damon’s back, thumb pressing in once, grounding them both again.
“Greedy,” he mutters fondly.

Damon waits. He doesn’t push, he knows better.

When Liam starts, it isn’t loud or polished. It’s just his voice, low and close, singing something familiar, something gentle. Oasis, Damon realises. Bonehead’s Bank Holiday. Recognising that, Damon wonders a little about the slightly odd song choice for this moment. He expected something calm and soothing, something soft. Maybe not even an Oasis song, but rather Beatles, or Stone roses. And yet, Liam makes it work perfectly, fitting the moment in its tenderness. He doesn’t sing every line, instead trailing off, humming through parts, letting the melody carry where words are unnecessary.
Liam really doesn't get appreciated enough for his musical talent.

In awe at his very own personal boyfriend, Damon closes his eyes.

The sound moves through him in layers. He hears it, of course, but more than that, he feels it. Each note blooms in Liam’s chest and travels straight into Damon’s own body, a physical thing. Warm. Resonant. It loosens something deep inside him that he hadn’t known how to touch himself.

He thinks about how ridiculous it is that this voice, this beautiful, battered, unmistakable voice, still does this to him. How it can fill stadiums and yet, right now, exists only for the space between two bodies on a sagging couch. He thinks about the nights he has stood side-stage, pretending not to listen, pretending not to be undone.

This is different. This is private. This is Liam singing without armour.

Damon’s throat tightens. He presses his palm flat against Liam’s chest, not to stop him, just to feel it better. The vibration thrums into his hand and into his sternum, steady and real.

Liam glances down mid-phrase, catching Damon watching him. His voice wavers for a fraction of a second, then steadies again. He keeps going.

And Damon finds himself thinking, that this is why. Not the fame. Not the chaos. This. The way Liam gives himself when he feels safe.

When the song finally fades, Liam exhales and lets his head fall back against the couch.
“Alright?” he asks, a little rough.

Damon nods, unable to speak for a moment. He shifts just enough to press a kiss into the fabric over Liam’s heart.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “More than alright.”

Liam’s arm tightens around him, possessive but gentle. And for a while, neither of them moves. The quiet feels earned now, settled rather than tentative.
Damon is just starting to drift, that pleasant edge where thoughts soften and time blurs, when a very definite sound cuts through it.

Liam’s stomach growls loudly.

There is a beat of stunned silence before Damon starts laughing, sudden and helpless, his shoulders shaking where they rest against Liam. “Jesus.”

Liam groans. “Traitor,” he says, patting his own abdomen like it has personally betrayed him. “Didn’t even give me a warnin’.”

Damon pushes himself up enough to look at him, still smiling. “You alright there?”

“I’m starvin’,” Liam admits. “Apparently me body thinks emotional vulnerability burns more calories than I realised.”

Damon laughs again, softer this time, and shifts properly off him, though he stays close, knee pressed against Liam’s thigh. The cold creeps back in almost immediately where the blanket slips.

“Food then. Before you start making noise complaints about yourself.”

“Takeout?” Liam asks, hopeful.

“And groceries,” Damon replies. “So we don’t have to do this again tomorrow.”

“Practical. Very sexy of you.”

They stand reluctantly, joints stiff from staying still so long. Damon stretches, feeling the pleasant ache of a body that has finally relaxed. Liam shakes out his arms, then immediately goes to rummage through one of the bags.

“Right,” he says. “Operation: Not Get Recognised.”

Damon watches him with fond amusement as Liam starts layering up with purpose. Jumper. Jacket. Scarf wrapped high, almost up to his nose.

“You look like you’re about to rob a bank,” Damon comments.

“Exactly,” Liam replies. “No one looks twice at a bloke who looks like trouble.”

Damon grabs his own coat, then hesitates, adding another layer. He winds a scarf around his neck, pulls a beanie low, then digs out his sunglasses despite the fading light.

Liam snorts. “Sun’s nearly down, mate.”

“Fashion,” Damon says, deadpan. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“As if.”

They end up by the door, a small pile of extra scarves and gloves stacked on the side table just in case. It feels faintly ridiculous. It also feels necessary. Old habits die hard.

Liam opens the door and a rush of cold air floods in, sharp and bracing. He pauses, glancing back at Damon. “Ready?”

Damon nods, heart steady. “Yeah.”

They step out together, bundled and anonymous, into the quiet Cornish afternoon.

The shop is small and warm, the kind that smells faintly of bread and cleaning spray. Damon clocks the exits automatically, the corners where eyes might linger. A few steps in, he contently realises that no one is looking at them at all.

An older woman debates between two jars of jam. A man in a waxed jacket queues patiently with milk and a newspaper. That’s it.

Liam nudges Damon with his shoulder. “See? Told ya. We’re just blokes.”

“Infamous blokes,” Damon murmurs.

“No one cares,” Liam says,grinning like he is already proven right.

They wander the aisles slowly, picking things up, putting them back. Damon insists on vegetables, Liam insists on crisps. They compromise badly. Liam tosses pasta into the basket with exaggerated seriousness, then stops dead a few steps later.

“Ooh,” he says and Damon follows his gaze.

Candles. A whole little display of them. Plain ones, scented ones, something seasonal with an overconfident label about autumn evenings.

Liam picks one up, turning it over in his hands. “Look at this,” he muses. “Romantic, innit?”

Damon arches an eyebrow. “You?”

“What?” Liam says, affronted. “I can do romance.”

“Since when?”

Liam leans in, voice low and smug. “Since I’ve got a hot boyfriend and a secluded house by the sea.”

Damon feels heat crawl up his neck despite himself. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” Liam proudly drops the candle into the basket, “ye love it.”

They pay and step back out into the cold, bags swinging between them. The sky has darkened, clouds low and heavy, but the street is nearly empty. The wind smells like salt.

They walk closer now. Not quite touching yet, but almost.

Damon feels lighter with every step, the paranoia loosening its hold when it finds nothing to feed on. No cameras, no whispers, just their boots on the pavement.

At the takeaway, they hover over the menu like it matters deeply. Liam reads it out loud in a terrible accent, making Damon laugh so hard he has to turn away and briefly press his face into Liam’s shoulder.

No one looks twice.

They wait outside, steam from the kitchen fogging the windows. Liam bumps his hip into Damon’s, deliberately this time.

“Oi,” Damon says, but there is no heat in it.

Liam hooks a finger into Damon’s sleeve, subtle but unmistakable. “What? It’s cold.”

Damon lets him. He even shifts closer, shoulder brushing shoulder. He thinks about how absurd it is that this feels daring. How good it feels anyway.

They collect the food, bags warm in their hands, and start the walk back. Liam hums again, quiet and pleased. Damon catches his reflection in a dark window and almost doesn’t recognise himself.

Relaxed. Smiling.

Halfway back, Liam leans over and presses a quick kiss to Damon’s scarf, hidden and fleeting.
It makes Damon’s heart stutter, and he laughs under his breath, squeezing Liam’s hand once in return.

By the time the house comes back into view, they are carrying too much, bundled up and flushed from the cold, giddy in a way that feels borrowed from another life.

The door closes behind them with a solid, comforting thud. The cold stays outside this time. Inside, the house greets them like it already remembers them.

Damon takes the bags from Liam and moves instinctively, slipping back into something that feels like competence rather than obligation. He lines things up on the small counter, sorting without thinking too hard about it. Fridge open, then shut. Cupboards that creak softly in protest. He likes the mundanity of it, the normalcy. It asks nothing clever of him.

Behind him, Liam crouches by the fireplace, sleeves already pushed up. He has that look on his face, focused, almost reverent, as he stacks the logs. Damon watches him for a moment longer than necessary. The way Liam’s brow furrows, the care he takes. It does something with his heart.

The kettle clicks on and Damon sets mugs out on the table, mismatched but sturdy. Tea bags. Sugar. Milk. He moves like he belongs here already.

A soft crack sounds from the hearth, then another. Liam straightens, triumphant. The fire catches properly, flames licking up and settling into a steady glow. The room warms almost immediately, light dancing over stone walls and low ceiling beams.

“Look at that,” Liam says proudly. “Proper cosy.”

The firelight catches Liam’s face just right, softening him, making him look younger, happier.

“Show-off,” Damon scoffs, but there is affection all through it.

Then, they sit down at the table, knees brushing, takeaway cartons spread between them like a feast. Steam curls up, carrying the smell of spice and comfort. Damon pours the tea, careful not to spill, and passes a mug over.

Liam takes it, their fingers brushing. He doesn’t pull away quickly.

“To escapin’,” Liam grins, raising his mug slightly.

Damon mirrors him. “To no one knowing where we are.”

They eat slowly, talking with their mouths half full, laughing at nothing. Liam steals food from Damon’s plate like it is a sport, Damon pretending to be offended, then retaliating poorly.
There is sauce on Liam’s lip at one point and Damon reaches out without thinking, wiping it away with his thumb.

Liam freezes, then grins. “Yer cleanin’ me up now?”

“Someone has to,” Damon retorts, but his voice goes softer at the end.

Eventually, they move to the couch, cartons balanced precariously, the fire crackling warmly nearby. Liam sprawls, one leg draped over Damon’s lap, entirely unbothered. Damon eats with one hand and rests the other on Liam’s knee, thumb brushing absent circles.

Everything feels heightened, brighter. Like they have been holding their breath for months and only just realised.

“I feel… stupidly happy,” Liam admits suddenly, staring into his tea like it might argue with him.

Damon considers that. He feels it too, the giddiness, the lightness, and he is a little afraid of how fragile it might be. “Me too.”

Liam leans over and presses a kiss into Damon’s temple, unguarded, unhidden. The fire pops, the wind rattles faintly at the windows, the world stays firmly on the outside. And they sit there, warm and full and ridiculous with it, wrapped in layers and laughter and the rare, precious feeling that for once, nothing is chasing them.

When they are done, they clear up slowly, lazily. After all, they have all the time in the world Damon stacks the empty cartons and rinses the mugs at the sink, listening to the sounds of Liam moving around behind him, the soft scuff of socks on stone, the clink of wood settling in the fire. Ordinary noises. Precious ones.

Once Damon is done and turns back, Liam has already claimed the couch again, blanket pulled up and arranged with care that pretends to be casual.

“Get over here,” he says, patting the space beside him.

Damon doesn’t argue. He sinks down and lets Liam pull him in until he is tucked neatly against his side, head fitting under Liam’s chin like it was designed for it. Who knows, maybe it was.
Liam’s arm wraps around him immediately, solid and familiar, hand warm against Damon’s upper arm.

Outside, it starts to rain. A soft tapping at first, then heavier, more insistent. It streaks the windows, blurring the world beyond into shadow and movement.

Damon listens to it, his body responding instinctively, sinking deeper into the couch. “That was well-timed.”

“Always rains when yer somewhere nice and cozy,” Liam muses. “It’s a rule.”

The fire throws light across the room, amber and restless. Shadows stretch and shift with every flicker. The small lamp on the kitchen table glows dimly, a steady pool of warmth in contrast. Every so often, lightning starts flashing outside, sudden and white, briefly illuminating the rain-swept fields beyond the window before plunging them back into soft darkness.

Each time it happens, Damon’s heart jumps, then settles again.

He presses closer without thinking. Liam’s hand tightens around him, grounding, reassuring.

“Storm’s a bit dramatic,” Damon murmurs.

“Bit like us,” Liam replies fondly.

Thunder rolls low and distant, not threatening so much as present. Damon feels it in his chest, a vibration that echoes the fire and the rain and Liam’s breathing beneath his ear. Everything hums together.

Liam shifts, angling his body so Damon is more fully cradled, one leg hooked comfortably over Damon’s. Damon lets himself be arranged, before he rests his palm flat against Liam’s stomach, feeling it rise and fall.

He thinks about how rarely they get this, this darkness without expectation, closeness without interruption. No knock at the door. No phone acting up. No need to be on.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The rain intensifies, drumming against the roof. Damon exhales slowly, tension he did not realise he was still carrying easing out of him.
“This is… perfect,” he sighs quietly, almost like admitting it might break the spell.

Liam tilts his head, pressing a gentle kiss into Damon’s hair. “Told ya we just needed to piss off fer a bit.”

Damon smiles into Liam’s chest. He lets his eyes close, trusting the dark, trusting the arms around him, trusting the small, fierce warmth they have made together in the middle of the storm.

Outside, the weather does whatever it wants.

Inside, they stay exactly where they are, with Liam’s mouth finding Damon’s almost by accident. A shift, a shared breath. Damon tilts his head and that is enough, the kiss lands soft, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world.

It stays gentle, lips brushing, parting, finding each other again. Damon melts into it, hand sliding up to Liam’s shoulder, fingers curling into fabric. Liam kisses him like he is checking something, like he is reassuring himself Damon is really here. No rush. No hunger sharp enough to hurt.

The storm seems to lean in closer, rain rattling harder against the windows. The fire crackles louder in response, as if competing.

Lightning flashes closer than before, blinding white, and the thunder follows almost immediately, a deep, rolling crack that feels like it splits the air in half.

Damon flinches hard, a sharp inhale tearing out of him. His body tenses instinctively, shoulders jumping as the sound rolls through the house.

Liam jolts too, less dramatically, but enough. “Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to blink at the ceiling.

The small lamp on the kitchen table flickers. Once. Twice. Then it gives up entirely, the light snapping off with a soft zip.

They freeze.

The room is suddenly darker, lit only by the fire and the intermittent flashes from outside. Shadows stretch longer, deeper. The house creaks faintly, adjusting to the storm.

“Well,” Liam says, after a beat. “That’s reassurin’.”

Damon lets out a breathy laugh, adrenaline still buzzing in his chest. “You say that like you’re convinced it won’t get worse.”

Liam shifts closer immediately, arm tightening around Damon’s back, grounding him again. “It’s fine,” he says, more to Damon than to the house. “Just a storm.”

Another low rumble rolls in the distance.

Damon nods, pressing his face briefly into Liam’s neck, breathing him in. The kiss resumes after a moment, softer now, slower, like they are both aware of how easily the world can intrude, and how much they want to keep it out.

The next thunderclap comes with no warning at all. No polite gap between flash and sound, just a violent crack that feels like it punches straight through the walls.

Damon jerks hard this time, a sharp, involuntary movement. His heart slams against his ribs and he sucks in a breath that comes out uneven. He hates that his body does it before his mind can catch up.

“Bloody hell,” Liam says, startled too, but already grinning a bit as the sound fades. “Yer jumpy tonight.”

Damon exhales slowly, forcing himself to loosen his shoulders. He presses his palm flat against Liam’s chest again, grounding himself in the steady beat there.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Think it’s just… everything wearing off.”

He doesn’t list it, he doesn’t need to. The stress, the constant vigilance, the way he has been holding himself together with tension and routine. There is no need to voice all of it Now that there is quiet, now that there is space, of course his nerves grow louder.

Another rumble follows, closer, meaner. The house creaks in response, beams settling with soft complaints.

The softness between them pauses, suspended.

Liam pulls back slightly, frowning towards the kitchen. “Hang on.”

He stands, stretching out like nothing rattles him, though Damon can see the alertness in the way he moves. Liam flicks the light switch near the door. Nothing. He tries another one. Still nothing.

“Well,” Liam says. “That’s the power gone.”

Damon groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “Of course it is.”

Outside, rain lashes harder against the windows, wind rising to meet it. The darkness presses closer now that the lamp is gone, firelight doing most of the work.

Liam turns back to him, utterly unfazed. If anything, he looks pleased with himself.

“Good thing,” he starts, expression smug as anything, “I had a spiritual premonition ‘bout this.”

Damon cracks one eye open. “You did not.”

“I did,” Liam insists. “That’s why I bought candles.”

He gestures grandly towards the bag still sitting near the door, like he has just saved them from certain doom rather than mild inconvenience.

Damon snorts despite himself. “You bought them because you wanted to flirt.”

“Two birds,” Liam says. “One very romantic stone.”

Another flash of lightning floods the room, followed by thunder that rattles the windows. Damon flinches again, smaller this time, and Liam is back at his side immediately, dropping onto the couch and pulling Damon in close.

“Come on,” Liam murmurs, reaching for the bag. “Let’s make this properly dramatic.”

Liam moves with surprising care, all swagger dialled down just enough to be safe. He clears a space on the desk beneath the window, nudging aside a stack of old magazines and a folded leaflet about coastal walks. He sets a plate down first, deliberately, then places the candles on it one by one, checking the distance between them, the way the wax will drip.

Damon watches from the couch, wrapped in the blanket, firelight licking at the edges of the room. The storm throws another flash across the window, briefly turning Liam into a sharp silhouette.

“Careful,” Damon says, starting to sit up. Habit again. Responsibility tugging at him.

Liam looks over his shoulder. “Oi.”

He crosses back in three long strides and presses a firm hand to Damon’s chest, pushing him gently but insistently back into the couch.

“I’ve got it,” his voice is softer now. “You stay put.”

Damon lets himself sink back, surprised by how easily he does it. Liam’s hand lingers a second longer than necessary, warm and steady. Protective without being heavy.

“Bossy,” Damon murmurs.

“Always,” Liam replies, grinning.

He goes back to the desk to light the candles one by one using a long match from the fireplace. The flames catch slowly, then settle, casting a softer, steadier glow than the fire alone. The room changes with it, shadows deepening, edges blurring. The storm feels further away already.

Liam steps back, assessing his work like an artist. “There. Ambience.”

Damon smiles at him, something warm and fond blooming in his chest. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Liam turns, walks back, and drops onto the couch beside him again, immediately pulling Damon in. The candlelight reflects in his eyes, making them look darker, calmer.

Another rumble rolls outside, but Damon barely flinches this time. He realises it a second later, surprised.

Liam notices too, squeezing Damon’s shoulder, pleased but not smug. “See? All sorted.”

Damon exhales, deep and slow, and rests his head back against Liam’s chest. The house feels cocooned now. Fire, candles, rain and the thunder muffled by stone walls and shared warmth.
For the first time since the power cut, Damon feels completely at ease.

Liam’s hands don’t settle anywhere for long. They move in slow, absent-minded paths, like he is mapping Damon by touch alone. Over his arm. Down his side. Fingers splayed warm against his back, then drifting again, never breaking the easy rhythm of them curled together on the couch.

Damon lets it happen, even happily leans into it.

His own hands are quieter. One stays pressed flat against Liam’s chest, feeling the steady reassurance of him, the rise and fall, the muted thrum of his heart. The other slides along Liam’s thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns through fabric, sometimes curling just to anchor himself there.
When Liam’s fingers find a new place, Damon responds without thinking, a small shift of his hips, a deeper lean, a soft sound he doesn’t bother to stop.

The storm continues outside, but it has become background now. The fire murmurs. Candle flames flicker gently, steady and patient.

After a while, Damon exhales and tilts his head back enough to look up at Liam. His eyes feel heavy, pleasantly so.

“I think I might actually be tired enough to go to bed,” he says, almost apologetic. “Even though it’s… embarrassingly early.”

Liam looks down at him, amused, eyebrow lifting. “Go to bed?” he repeats. “Mate, look at us.”

He gestures vaguely at the couch, at the blanket, at the way Damon fits against him without effort.

“This basically is a bed,” Liam says. “Just not in the conventional sense.”

Damon huffs a quiet laugh and closes his eyes again. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Liam murmurs, fingers slipping a little more deliberately beneath the hem of Damon’s shirt, “yer still here.”

The touch is teasing rather than demanding. Just skin. Just warmth. Liam’s voice drops, playful and knowing.

“Besides,” he adds, lips brushing Damon’s temple, “I know a way to keep you awake a bit longer.”

Damon’s breath stutters, just slightly. He doesn’t move away, his hand tightening against Liam’s chest instead, grounding himself there as the candlelight flickers and the storm rolls on outside.

Liam’s teasing hand lingers for a moment longer, warm and knowing, then stills. Not pulling away, just resting there like a promise rather than a demand. Damon exhales, a soft sound that carries more relief than frustration. He shifts closer, nose brushing Liam’s collarbone, and lets his weight settle properly.

His hands respond without thinking. The one on Liam’s chest slides up, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder, a quiet claim. The other moves to Liam’s wrist, thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes over the inside there, feeling his pulse jump just slightly under the skin.

“Behave,” Damon murmurs, tired but fond, voice already dipping towards sleep.

Liam laughs quietly, chest vibrating under him. “I am behavin’,” he says. “You’re the one meltin’.”

Damon doesn’t deny it. He lets his eyes close, lets the storm and the fire and the candles blur together into something soft and distant. Liam’s hands resume their roaming, slower now, less teasing, more soothing, long strokes down Damon’s back, a gentle squeeze at his side, fingers carding lightly through his hair.

Another roll of thunder sounds outside, but Damon barely flinches this time. He only tucks himself closer, instinctive, trusting. Liam responds immediately, arms tightening, chin resting against the crown of Damon’s head.

“Stay here,” Liam hums quietly. Not a request or an order, just a statement of fact.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Damon replies, already half-asleep.

The candle flames sway with the draft, steady and warm. Rain drums against the windows in a rhythm that feels almost deliberate now. The house holds them, stone and wood and fire doing their quiet work.

Liam keeps touching Damon like he is keeping him tethered to the moment, to the room, to him. Damon lets himself drift, held in warmth and low light and the rare, precious absence of urgency.

If sleep takes him on the couch, he thinks dimly, that will be fine too.

Damon goes properly under at some point, the world narrowing down to warmth and the steady presence behind him. He doesn’t remember deciding to sleep, rest just… took over him.

And when he wakes again, it is to the strange, floating sensation of movement.

For a second, his mind scrambles, disoriented, half-dreaming. His body tenses on instinct before he realises he is being held, fully lifted, solid arms under his knees and back.

“Mm?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening. “What’s wrong?”

“Shh,” Liam whispers immediately, voice close, calm, affectionate. “Nothing’s wrong. We’re goin’ to bed.”

Damon blinks, slow and heavy. Candlelight is gone now, the room is dim, shadows deep, the fire nothing but a faint memory of warmth. He squints up at Liam’s face, half-lit by whatever light manages to slip in through the window.

He huffs a sleepy laugh. “You were the one who said the couch was basically a bed.”

Liam chuckles quietly, chest vibrating under Damon’s ear. “Yeah, well, changed me mind.”

“Convenient.”

“Also,” Liam adds, smug even in a whisper, “I want more room to cuddle you without worrying ‘bout you rollin’ off and suing me.”

Damon makes a soft, amused sound and tightens his grip without thinking, arms curling around Liam’s neck, face tucking into the warmth of his shoulder. The movement is instinctive, trusting. He feels Liam adjust his hold immediately, firmer, secure.

“I’ve got ya,” he murmurs as he starts up the stairs.

The house is nearly dark now, the storm having eased into something quieter outside. Each step creaks under their weight. Damon clings, fingers fisting gently in fabric, eyes closed again. He feels small like this, safe.

At the top of the stairs, the bedroom waits in soft darkness. Damon cracks one eye open and notices their bags already there, neatly tucked against the wall. Candles too, set out on the dresser.

“You already carried everything up,” he says, faintly accusatory, faintly impressed.

Liam shrugs as best he can with an armful of Damon. “Multitaskin’.”

They change quickly, clumsily, movements uncoordinated and quiet. Damon sways on his feet, barely awake, and Liam steadies him with a hand at his waist more than once.

When they are done, Liam scoops him up again without hesitation and lays him down carefully on the bed as if he were something precious. Damon sinks into the mattress with a soft sigh.

“You’re an idiot,” he smiles fondly.

Liam grins, already climbing in beside him. “Yeah. But you love me.”

Damon turns onto his side, curling instinctively into Liam’s warmth as an arm wraps around him, secure and familiar. He doesn’t argue.

He is asleep again almost immediately, held fast in the quiet, the storm finally spent, the night fully theirs.

Morning arrives quietly. Not with sunlight blazing through the curtains, but with a soft, golden glow that gently presses at the edges of the room. The storm has passed, the air feeling washed clean.
Damon surfaces slowly, pulled up from sleep by nothing more dramatic than stillness.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He stays exactly as he is, curled on his side, warm, cocooned. Liam’s arm is heavy across his waist, solid and protective even in sleep. Their legs are tangled. The duvet is half-kicked down.

Damon opens his eyes properly.

The room is pale with early light. The window shows a sliver of grey-blue sky and distant sea, calmer now. The house creaks softly in the cooling aftermath of rain.

He tilts his head slightly and looks at Liam.

Sleeping, Liam is different. The usual sharpness is gone, his mouth is parted slightly, his hair is a mess against the pillow. There is something unguarded about him that always catches Damon off-guard, no matter how many mornings he has already seen it.

Damon studies him shamelessly.

There are faint lines at the corners of his eyes and a small crease between his brows that never quite smooths out, even now. He looks tired in a way that fame never captures. Not exhausted, just worn around the edges. Human.

Damon feels something swell in his chest that is almost too big for the quiet room.

He reaches up slowly, carefully, brushing a strand of hair off Liam’s forehead. Liam stirs but doesn’t wake. His grip tightens instinctively, pulling Damon a fraction closer.

It makes Damon smile.

He lets his fingers trace lightly down Liam’s jaw, barely touching. He remembers the first time he saw that face across a crowded room, all defiance and arrogance. He remembers every fight, every sharp word, every stupid misunderstanding.

And yet.

Here they are.

In a small house by the sea, under false names, wrapped around each other like this is the only thing that makes sense.

Damon shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to watch him better. He feels rested in a way he hasn’t felt in months. Not just physically, something else, something quieter.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Liam’s cheek. Not enough to wake him, just enough to say I’m here.

Liam makes a small, sleepy sound in response, face turning into the pillow. His hand slides higher on Damon’s waist, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt.

Damon lies back down again, content to wait. The day stretches ahead of them, unclaimed and unhurried.
He does shift carefully, inch by inch, until there is no space left between them at all. His back presses fully into Liam’s chest, fitting there with an ease that feels almost engineered. Liam makes a soft, unconscious sound at the movement but doesn’t wake.

Not yet.

Slow and tentative, Damon reaches out, finding Liam’s free hand where it rests near the pillow. He doesn’t grab it, he just touches it first, fingertips brushing knuckles, testing the reality of it. Warm. Solid. There.

Then, he slides his fingers properly into Liam’s, threading them together.

It feels tangible, anchoring, like pressing his palm to something steady in a world that so often shifts under him. He squeezes gently, not to wake him, just to feel the answering weight of it.

For a moment, nothing changes.

Then, he feels it, the slow press of lips against the back of his neck. So he did wake him after all.

Damon’s breath catches softly, the thought of moving away not once crossing his mind. This is nice.

Another kiss follows, lower this time, unhurried. Not demanding, just there, warm and deliberate. Liam’s mouth lingers, his breath soft against Damon’s skin.

Liam’s voice, when it comes, is rough with sleep, low and gravelled in a way that sounds almost fragile before the day sands it down. “Yer fidgetin’.”

Damon smiles faintly, eyes still closed. His own voice is softer in the mornings, lighter but thick with sleep, vowels blurring at the edges. “Morning,” he mutters.

There is a pause, then a quiet huff of breath against his neck that might be a laugh.

“Mornin’,” Liam replies, voice still husky, intimate in the small space between them.

He tightens his arm around Damon’s waist, pulling him in closer (if that is even possible) and presses another slow kiss just beneath Damon’s ear. Grounding. Familiar.

The sea stays audibly moving in long, steady breaths outside, as they stay lying down tangled together, their voices soft with sleep. Neither is ready to start the day yet, not like anyone is demanding anything from them anyways.

So they don't rush to get up.

Liam’s lips stay lingering at the back of Damon’s neck, before eventually drifting into stillness. His hand remains threaded with Damon’s, thumb brushing absent, lazy arcs across Damon’s knuckles. Not restless, simply there.

Damon hums softly at the contact. He tilts his head slightly, offering more of his neck without thinking about it. Liam takes the invitation, pressing another slow kiss beneath his ear, then settling his face into the curve where shoulder meets neck.

For a while, they simply breathe.

Damon becomes acutely aware of the details: the warmth at his back, the scratch of Liam’s stubble grazing his skin, the steady weight of the arm around his waist. The sheets are cool where they are not touching. The air smells faintly of rain and old wood and something unmistakably them.

Eventually, Damon shifts.

It is gradual. He untangles their fingers first, only so he can turn within the circle of Liam’s arm. He moves slowly, not wanting to break the shape of it. Liam loosens his hold instinctively to let him roll over, then tightens it again once Damon is facing him.

Now they are eye to eye.

Up close, Liam’s eyes are still heavy with sleep, lashes clumped slightly at the corners. His hair is a mess against the pillow. There is a softness to him in the morning that Damon never stops being quietly amazed by.

Damon lifts a hand and rests it against Liam’s jaw, his thumb tracing lightly along the line of it, slow and thoughtful.
“You alright?” he asks, voice still low and worn at the edges from sleep.

Liam nods once, small. His voice is rough, deeper than usual, words coming out unpolished. “Better than alright.”

He slides his hand from Damon’s waist up along his spine, fingers spreading wide at the small of his back. The touch is warm and steady, not wandering now, just holding.

Damon inches closer until their foreheads brush and their noses bump lightly. It makes Liam’s mouth twitch.

“Careful,” Liam murmurs. “That’s me face.”

Damon smiles, breath warm between them. “I know.”

They kiss, but it is different from the night before. Not storm-lit and urgent. This is softer, sleep-heavy. Their lips press together and linger, barely moving, as though they are simply confirming the other is still there.

Liam’s hand drifts up to Damon’s shoulder, then into his hair, fingers threading through gently. Damon responds by sliding his hand down Liam’s side, palm warm against his ribs, then resting there.

They move in small increments. A brush of lips. A kiss to the corner of a mouth.

At one point, Liam presses his forehead into Damon’s shoulder and exhales, long and content. Damon wraps an arm fully around him in response, pulling him close until their chests align.

Their legs tangle further without effort.

Damon thinks, dimly, that he could stay like this for hours, and he is happy to once again recall that for once, there is nothing stopping him.

So they stay tangled together, limbs loosely intertwined, the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to prove anything.

Liam’s fingers drift lazily along Damon’s back, tracing the line of his spine through the thin fabric of his shirt. Damon mirrors it in his own way, fingertips brushing over Liam’s shoulder, then down his arm, mapping him softly as though reacquainting himself with something precious and familiar.

“You snored, by the way,” Liam murmurs after a while, voice still thick with sleep.

“I did not,” Damon replies automatically, though there is no heat in it.

“Did,” Liam insists. “Little ones. Like a disgruntled pigeon.”

Damon huffs a laugh, pressing his face briefly into Liam’s chest to muffle it. “Charming.”

“Yer welcome.”

They fall into silence again, but it is an easy one. The kind of silence that is filled with the small sounds of morning, sheets rustling, breath shifting, the faint cry of seabirds outside. Liam’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Damon’s head, thumb brushing idly through his hair.

Damon tilts his head into the touch without thinking. He feels boneless, heavy in the best way. Safe enough to be unguarded.

“Glad we came,” Liam says softly, almost to himself.

Damon nods against him. “Yeah.”

He wants to say more. Wants to say something about how close they came to drifting into separate orbits. About how the distance had started to feel permanent. But the words feel too sharp for this soft morning so instead, he presses a slow kiss to Liam’s collarbone.

Liam hums contentedly in response.

Minutes pass. Or maybe longer. Time feels blurred at the edges.

Content, Damon notices how Liam’s breathing deepens again, the rhythm slowing. His hand, still resting in Damon’s hair, grows heavier, movements fading into stillness.

He is drifting.

Damon lifts his head slightly, just enough to see his face. Liam’s eyes are closed, mouth relaxed, brow smooth. The tension he carries so easily when awake is gone entirely.

Damon feels a warm swell in his chest at the sight.

He settles back down, tucking himself closer, one arm wrapped securely around Liam’s middle, calmly listening to the steady inhale and exhale beneath his ear, letting it guide him.

Inspired by Liam’s quick return to the land of the sleeping, Damon allows his own eyes to close again, comforted by the solid warmth of the man holding him. He follows Liam back into sleep, unhurried and unafraid.

The second time Damon wakes, it isn't as gentle as the first time.
It is the absence of warmth that wakes him, the subtle shift of weight, the mattress dipping and the blanket lifting as Liam carefully tries to extricate himself.

Before his eyes even open, Damon frowns before, and he makes a small, displeased sound as he reaches out blindly, fingers catching fabric. “Don’t,” he mumbles, voice thick and petulant with sleep.

Liam pauses mid-movement, one knee already off the bed. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely suppressing a laugh, Damon can tell.

His eyes crack open just enough to see the outline of him in the brighter morning light. The room is clearer now, pale gold filtering in through the window.

He tightens his grip and tugs.

Liam, caught off guard, tips forward with an undignified noise and lands half on top of Damon, who wraps both arms around him immediately like a possessive octopus.

“Oi,” Liam protests, though he is laughing now, breath warm against Damon’s cheek. “Yer a menace.”

Damon buries his face into Liam’s shoulder and squeezes. “It’s illegal to leave,” he mutters. “I checked.”

“Did you now?”

“Mhm.”

Openly amused, Liam lets himself stay there for a moment longer, fully relaxing his weight, pressing his chest to Damon’s, arms loosely braced on either side of him. His hair falls forward into Damon’s face.

“Yer clingy in the mornings,” Liam notes lovingly.

Damon only hums and nuzzles closer, legs hooking around Liam’s in an attempt to physically anchor him there.

Liam laughs properly now, the sound low and warm. “As much as I adore bein’ held hostage,” he says, “I actually really need the toilet.”

Damon groans dramatically into his shoulder.
“Five more minutes,” he bargains, tightening his arms.

“No,” Liam says, still laughing. He pries gently at Damon’s wrists, peeling one arm away and then the other with careful persistence. “This is urgent.”

“You’re ruining everything.”

“I’ll be back in like, sixty seconds.”

Damon narrows his eyes at him, unimpressed but clearly awake now. Unhappily, he releases his legs reluctantly.

Liam sits up, stretching his arms above his head with a soft groan, shirt riding up slightly. Morning light catches on his skin. Damon watches him shamelessly.

"Don’t vanish."

Liam snorts. “Where am I gonna go? It’s Cornwall.”

He leans down quickly and presses a firm, affectionate kiss to Damon’s forehead. “Stay put.”

Even more unhappy now that Liam really appears to be leaving the bed, Damon watches him pad out of the room, the door creaking softly shut behind him.

Then, he flops back against the pillow with a dramatic sigh, already missing the warmth, but there is a small smile tugging at his mouth all the same.

After all, he knows Liam will come back.

Sixty seconds is, apparently, a flexible concept.

Damon lies there, staring vaguely at the ceiling beams, listening to the quiet sounds of the house waking up around him. Pipes shifting, floorboards creaking somewhere beyond the bedroom, a faint rush of water that takes longer than strictly necessary.

He frowns faintly.

“That’s… not sixty seconds,” he mutters to no one, voice barely more than a breath.

He considers calling out, just to be dramatic, just to register his dissatisfaction with this blatant betrayal.

But the bed is warm, the pillow cradling his head just right. And without Liam’s weight pressed against him, the mattress feels bigger, softer. Sleep creeps back in at the edges.

He shifts onto his side, pulling the duvet closer around himself, and sliding his eyes shut.

Like this, he only faintly registers the passage of time. The quiet click of the bathroom door, the soft pad of footsteps down the hall. He almost calls out again, a sleepy, half-hearted complaint forming on his tongue.

But it dissolves before it reaches the air.

The mattress dips, warmth returning in a slow, deliberate wave as Liam climbs back under the covers. The sheets rustle. Cold toes brush briefly against Damon’s ankle before retreating.

Damon makes a small, disgruntled sound but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Missed me much?” Liam asks, voice brighter now, properly awake, amusement lacing through it.

Damon only hums in response, drifting somewhere between conscious and gone.

Liam laughs softly. “Unbelievable,” he murmurs. “I’m gone five minutes and ye’ve already packed it in.”

Damon feels hands on him then, gentle but decisive. Liam slides an arm beneath his neck and shoulders, nudging him closer. The other hand rests warm at his hip, guiding.

“Come ‘ere,” Liam says quietly, and Damon goes without resistance, body pliant with sleep. His head is pulled carefully onto Liam’s chest, ear settling right over his heart. The sound is steady, grounding, familar. Home.

There is something deliberate in the way Liam arranges him. Something protective, something intentional. He tucks the duvet higher around them both and presses a lingering kiss into Damon’s hair.

“Yer not allowed to nap without me,” Liam murmurs.

Damon’s mouth curves faintly against his skin. “Was waiting,” he mumbles.

“Liar.”

“Mm.”

Liam’s fingers start moving again, slow strokes along Damon’s back, up and down, rhythmic. Not playful this time, just soothing.

By now, the morning outside has brightened fully. Light spills gently across the floorboards and creeps up the side of the bed. Somewhere in the distance, waves break against the shore in an unhurried cadence.

Faintly noticing all those little details, Damon lets himself sink deeper into the sound of Liam’s heartbeat, the warmth of his chest beneath his cheek, the steady hand at his back.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep again, he only knows he felt safe when he did.

Liam’s fingers don't stop moving once.
They drift lazily over Damon’s back, tracing idle shapes through the thin cotton of his shirt. Circles first. Then lines. Then something more deliberate, patterns that almost feel like letters, like he is writing something only he can read.

Damon hums softly each time Liam’s fingertips reach the small of his back and glide upward again. It is hypnotic. He feels heavy and warm and impossibly comfortable, cheek pressed to Liam’s chest, breath evening out with every pass of that steady hand.

He could stay like this all day.

But beneath the soothing rhythm, he becomes aware of something else.

Liam is awake. Properly awake.

The strokes are absent-minded but consistent. The way his chest rises is different now, less foggy, more alert. There is a contained energy in him that sleep doesn’t quite hide.

Damon smiles faintly to himself.
“You’re bored,” he murmurs without lifting his head.

Liam’s fingers pause for half a second before resuming, slower. “Am not.”

“You are.”

“Shut up.”

Damon shifts slightly, tilting his head just enough to look up at him. Liam’s eyes are open, bright despite the soft morning light. There is a familiar glint there. Restless. Amused.

“You’re tracing nonsense on me,” Damon argues softly.

“I’m drawin’ a masterpiece.”

“On my spine?”

“Best canvas I’ve got.”

Damon snorts quietly, then sighs. He buries his face back into Liam’s chest for a moment longer, savouring it. The warmth, the steady touch, the rare, uninterrupted calm.

Reluctantly, he speaks again. “Do you… want to go downstairs? Get breakfast?”

He tries to make it sound casual, generous. Like he is offering something rather than surrendering the cocoon.

There is a pause.

Then Damon hears it, the unmistakable sound of Liam grinning while talking.
“Was wonderin’ when you’d ask,” Liam says, smug satisfaction woven through every syllable.

Damon narrows his eyes slightly. “Why.”

“Because,” Liam continues, entirely too pleased with himself, “I already set the table.”

Damon blinks up at him.

“You what?”

Liam’s grin widens, proud and boyish. “That’s why I was gone so long. Made tea. Found the cereal. Toast. Even put the jam in a little dish like we’re in a hotel or somethin’.”

Damon stares at him for a beat, then feels something warm bloom in his chest that has nothing to do with body heat. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Romantic,” Liam corrects.

Damon shakes his head, but he is smiling properly now. “You were gone more than five minutes.”

“Worth it,” Liam replies easily.

Damon exhales, long and fond, then pushes himself up slightly. The bed is warm. Liam’s hands are warm. But downstairs, apparently, there is tea already waiting.

“Alright,” Damon says. “Lead the way, domestic icon.”

Liam laughs, presses one last playful squeeze into Damon’s side, and shifts to get up.

Slowly, they go downstairs, Damon trailing a step behind Liam, one hand skimming the wall as if he is still half-dreaming. His hair is a mess, shirt slightly twisted, eyes not fully cooperating with the concept of morning yet.

Liam, in contrast, is infuriatingly alive.

He moves around the kitchen with purpose, sleeves shoved up, energy crackling off him in a way that feels almost unfair before noon. The table is indeed set, two mugs of tea steaming gently, toast stacked on a plate, cereal already poured into bowls.

Damon stops at the bottom step and just… looks at it.
“You actually did all this,” he says, voice still soft and gravelled from sleep.

Liam turns, catching him staring. “Course I did.”

There is something proud in the way he says it. Not boastful, just pleased.

Damon shuffles closer, blinking slowly like a cat in sunlight. He slides into the chair and wraps both hands around his mug without speaking, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

Liam hovers.

It starts subtly, a hand smoothing Damon’s hair down. Then straightening the collar of his shirt. Then pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head as he passes.

“You’re very busy,” Damon murmurs into his tea.

“Someone’s got to be,” Liam replies as he circles back around the table, nudging Damon’s knee with his own, then leaning down to kiss the top of his head again. Damon hums faintly in protest but doesn’t move away.

“You’re fussing,” he says.

“Am not.”

“You are.”

“Shut up and eat yer toast.”

Damon takes a bite purely to prove a point.

Halfway through his second sip of tea, Liam disappears upstairs again.

Damon frowns after him, slower this time. “What now?”

Liam reappears moments later with the candles from the bedroom, grinning like he has just successfully smuggled treasure.

“You can’t be serious,” Damon laughs.

“Ambience,” Liam replies smoothly, setting them down in the centre of the table.

“It’s like, 11 in the morning.”

“And?”

Damon stares at him as Liam strikes a match and lights them anyway, the small flames catching in the bright kitchen like tiny acts of rebellion.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Romantic,” Liam corrects again, leaning one hip against the table and looking far too pleased with himself. “Should have learned that by now.”

Smiling, Damon watches the candlelight flicker against the stone walls before remembering something.
“The power,” he says suddenly, glancing toward the kitchen lamp.

Liam follows his gaze, then reaches over casually and flicks the switch.

The lamp turns on immediately.

Damon exhales, shoulders dropping before he consciously registers the tension.

“See?” Liam says, softer now. “All good. Storm’s done.”

Damon nods slowly, absorbing that. The normalcy of electric light, the kettle’s quiet hum, the world functioning again.

Liam steps closer, fingers brushing Damon’s cheek in a fleeting, grounding touch.
“Yer safe,” he says lightly, but there is something steady underneath it.

Damon looks up at him, properly awake now.
“I know,” he replies.

They sit down to eat properly then, toast, cereal, tea, candlelight dancing unnecessarily between them as the morning sun grows stronger.

Outside, the sea glints under a clearing sky. Inside, Liam keeps reaching for Damon in small, thoughtless ways, and Damon is happy to let him.

They linger over breakfast longer than necessary.

Liam finishes first, of course. He always does. He leans back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, watching Damon like it is TV entertainment. Damon, now properly awake, notices.

“What,” he asks, narrowing his eyes slightly as he takes another sip of tea.

“Nothing,” Liam replies, which means absolutely something.

“You’re staring.”

“Am appreciatin’.”

Damon rolls his eyes but there is colour in his cheeks now, warmth that has nothing to do with the tea. He reaches out with his foot under the table and nudges Liam’s shin lightly.

Liam grins wider.

The candles burn steadily between them, entirely unnecessary in the growing daylight but somehow perfect anyway. The house feels different in the morning, less cocooned, more open. The storm has scrubbed everything clean. Even the air drifting in through the slightly cracked window smells sharper.

Damon stands first this time, gathering plates and mugs with more energy than he had earlier. He moves easily around the small kitchen, rinsing things, stacking them. Liam trails behind him, drying a plate with a tea towel in a way that suggests he enjoys being useful when no one is watching.

When everything is cleared, they hover by the window for a moment.

The sky has lifted into a pale blue. The sea beyond the fields looks restless but bright, flecks of light catching on the surface. Gulls wheel lazily overhead.

“Walk?” Liam suggests, clearly already halfway to the door in his mind.

Damon nods almost immediately. “Yeah.”

There is no debate, no overthinking, the decision landing easily between them.

They gather jackets again, scarves less necessary now but still comforting. Liam bumps his shoulder into Damon’s as they pull on boots.
“Race ya to the water,” he says, entirely serious.

“You absolutely will not,” Damon replies, amused but absolutely not down for a race.

They step outside together, the air cool but fresh, the ground still damp from last night’s rain. The path slopes gently downward toward the sound of waves.

Damon feels awake in a way that goes beyond caffeine. The kind of awake that comes from quiet, from touch, from laughter in a kitchen with unnecessary candles.

Beside him, Liam hums something tuneless and content.

The sea waits ahead of them, and as they come closer, the path down to the shore narrows. It is a little slick from last night’s rain, and Damon watches his footing at first, hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the lingering chill.
The air tastes clean, salt and wet earth and something metallic left behind by the storm.

Liam walks a half-step ahead, then falls back, then edges forward again, restless energy contained but never fully still. He kicks at a loose stone on the path and sends it skittering ahead of them.

“Careful,” Damon says automatically.

“You’re the careful one,” Liam replies and Damon supposes he is.

When they reach the sand, it is darker than he expects. Heavy and damp, compact beneath their boots. The tide is low, long stretches of shoreline exposed, seaweed tangled in quiet evidence of the night’s weather.

The sea itself is a layered grey-blue, calmer now but still breathing deeply. Waves roll in steady, deliberate arcs, breaking with a sound that feels older than anything Damon knows.

They walk without speaking at first.

Damon listens.

To the crunch of sand. To the distant cry of gulls. To the steady rhythm of water meeting shore. It is hypnotic in a way that feels almost medicinal. He realises, with a quiet jolt, how loud his life has been. How constant the noise. Even silence in the city hums with something.

Here, silence is actual silence.

He feels it settling into him, into the spaces that have been clenched tight for months. He also feels Liam’s presence beside him like a steady current, not demanding, not competing. It’s just there.

Liam’s shoulder bumps his lightly.
“You alright?” he asks.

Damon nods. “Yeah.”

He is. More than he expected to be.

They walk close enough that their arms brush occasionally. Not holding hands, a decision made not out of fear here, but out of habit. Damon wonders if they could. If anyone would even look twice. The thought feels daring in a way that still surprises him.

Liam wanders slightly toward the waterline, crouching suddenly.

“Oi!” he calls.

Damon stops, watching as Liam picks something up from the damp sand. He straightens and walks back, holding out a small stone between his fingers.

It’s smooth, rounded by the sea, a muted blue-grey with flecks of lighter colour running through it.

“That,” Liam announces, with complete conviction, “is exactly the colour of yer eyes.”

Damon laughs reflexively. “It’s a rock.”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “A beautiful rock.”

He presses it into Damon’s palm, and Damon looks down at it properly then.

In the shifting light, the stone does catch something familiar. That grey-blue tone that people always argue about when describing his eyes. Not bright. Not dramatic. Just steady, quiet.

He closes his fingers around it. It is cool from the sea, solid and real.

He knows immediately and without question, that he will keep it. That it will end up in some pocket, some drawer, somewhere safe. A small, unremarkable thing that will hold the weight of this morning.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says softly.

“Again, romantic,” Liam replies cockily.

Damon slips the stone carefully into his coat pocket.
He feels unexpectedly moved. Not because of the object itself, but because Liam saw it. Because he looked at something ordinary and thought of him.

They resume walking, closer now. Damon lets his hand brush Liam’s briefly, just once, deliberately.

The sea rolls in and out beside them, and for the first time in a long while, Damon feels entirely present in his own life, the shoreline stretching ahead in a long, quiet curve.

The wind has softened, now pressing lightly at their coats and lifting Liam’s hair from his forehead. The clouds are thinning, letting pale sunlight spill through in broken patches that turn the wet sand silver.

Damon keeps his hands in his pockets, fingertips brushing the stone every now and then just to reassure himself it is still there. He doesn’t know why that matters, it simply does.

Their shoulders knock again.

And then, Liam’s hand nudges against his, not accidental this time.

Damon glances sideways, expecting another playful shove.

But instead, Liam’s fingers slide deliberately between his.

Interlocking, firm and certain.

Damon’s breath catches in a way that feels embarrassingly visible. He looks at him properly, surprise flickering across his face before he can stop it.

Liam just grins. Not tentative. Not questioning. Wide and unapologetic, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“What?” he asks, eyebrow lifting slightly.

Damon scans the stretch of beach out of instinct. There are a few distant figures far down the shore, indistinct shapes against the brightness. No one near enough to notice. No one looking.

Still, his heart kicks a little faster.

“You’re bold,” he says quietly.

Liam squeezes his hand once. “We’re in Cornwall, mate.”

As if that explains everything.

Maybe it does.

Damon looks back at their hands, fingers laced, palms warm against each other. It feels different from just brushing arms. Different from fleeting touches in kitchens and on sofas. This is open, visible.

Intentional.

He feels a flicker of something old, the ingrained caution, the years of looking over shoulders. But it doesn’t root itself the way it usually does.

Instead, there is Liam beside him. Solid. Warm. Unapologetic.

Damon squeezes back.

They continue walking like that, steps gradually syncing without effort. The sea keeps up its steady rhythm, waves folding and unfolding against the shore.

Damon breathes in deeply.

He thinks about the city waiting for them. The noise. The expectations. The fragile egos and sharp headlines and endless schedules. The way it all presses in until he forgets where he ends and everything else begins.

He thinks about how thin the space between them has felt lately. How distance creeps in quietly when neither of them means for it to.

And then he thinks about the drive down. The storm. The candles in the morning. Liam carrying him upstairs in the dark. The stone in his pocket. The hand in his.

If the next few days are even half as good as this, if they are even half as gentle, half as honest, then he thinks he might be able to go back steadier, stronger, less frayed at the edges.

He might be able to face whatever awaits them.

Beside him, Liam swings their joined hands slightly, almost boyishly, as if testing the freedom of it.

Damon doesn’t pull away.

The horizon stretches wide and open in front of them. The air tastes of salt and possibility.

And for now, all that is more than enough.