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English
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Part 3 of Longfics dip
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Published:
2026-01-06
Updated:
2026-02-18
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To kiss a hummingbird(Condinome beija-flor)

Summary:

A weight had lived in Damien’s bones since boyhood.
At times, the whisper of a quick end would pass through his thoughts—
a dark bird crossing a window, then gone.
But clarity never stayed.
Maybe the answer wasn’t in escaping the weight,
but in learning to bear it
while still choosing to breathe, to feel, to become.

Notes:

TW: Homophobic language, bullying, and joking references to AIDS.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Reach the clouds in the sky

Chapter Text

Damien turned over the food on his plate, waiting for his hunger to appear. It was always like this. He felt so tired. Being a kid forever would be so good.

But if he went back to that time, he would remember the smell of alcohol gel going up his nose, kids like him screaming for hours and hours until they ate. It was a challenge.

"Damien, you don't like the food? Be sincere."  
"No, but don't worry, Daddy. I'll eat everything." It wasn't true, but his daddy never accepted that.

"Okay, Damien," his daddy sighed. "I need to work till late today. But I promise I'll have less work soon. I miss when we spent time together. Don't you?"  
"Yeah, of course."

"Hmm... Daddy, can Kenny sleep here today?"

"I don't know, Damien. That boy doesn't have the best reputation. The things I've heard about him aren't good."

"Daddy, please! Those things aren't true. Kenny is cool; he's my friend. You've never changed our relationship. I've known Kenny since we were kids, and you should too. Don't believe in lies."

"Bye, Daddy," Damien said, listening as his father's footsteps moved down the hallway, then faded as the front door clicked shut.

He waited a moment in the quiet kitchen. Then he got up and walked to the heavy, beige telephone mounted on the wall. He lifted the coiled receiver and carefully dialed the number from memory, the rotary dial making its familiar click-whirr sound.

Two sharp beeps sounded, followed by a half-ring and a formal, automated voice.

"Hello, this is the operator. You have a collect call from—"

"Damien," he said quickly, interrupting the recording. "I accept the charges."

He heard a muffled exchange, then a distant shout and the clatter of the receiver being picked up.

"Hey! You're on. What's the word?"

"He said yes."

"No way! For real? Your old man actually caved?"

"Yeah. I had to lay it on pretty thick about you being a saint and all that. Told him the rumors were lies."

A short, sharp laugh crackled down the line. "Right. Lies. So, what's the plan? I gotta be home before your dad gets back?"

"Nah, he's pulling a late shift. Said he won't be back till super late, maybe past midnight. We've got the whole place."

"Excellent. This is radical. My house is a drag tonight. My sister's having her dumb friends over and they're all listening to Wham! on repeat. It's brutal."

"Just get over here. Bring your sleeping bag. And… you still have that thing we talked about?"

The voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "The thing from my brother's closet? Yeah. It's in my backpack. Wrapped in a Motley Crüe t-shirt."

"Cool. We can hit the video store later. Maybe get a horror movie. Nightmare on Elm Street or something."

"As long as it's not another one of your dad's boring war tapes. Okay, I'm gonna tell my mom I'm staying at your place for a 'study project.' She won't check. Be there in twenty. I'm taking my bike."

"See you. And… don't let my neighbor Mrs. Gable see you cutting through her yard. She'll call my dad for sure."

"Relax. I'm a ghost. Later."

Click. The line went dead with a flat buzz. Damien hung up the receiver, the plastic clicking firmly into the cradle. The house felt different now—no longer quiet, but charged with possibility.

 

He felt the heat of tears prickling behind his eyes, a sudden, liquid pressure. But he blinked hard, fast, and drew in a sharp breath through his nose. Nobody cried. Not about that. The past had been put in a box, sealed, and shoved to the back of a high mental shelf. It didn’t get to spill into a night like this.

The sharp, confident rapping on the front door—three quick knocks—was a perfect distraction. He swiped a hand under his nose, took another steadying breath, and crossed the living room.

"Hey dude, who's there?" he called through the door, forcing his voice into its normal, easy tone.

A voice, muffled by the wood but brimming with energy, shot back. "It's the ghost of radical sleepovers past! Open up!"

Damien unlocked and pulled the door open. There stood his friend, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his bike leaning against the porch railing behind him. He was wearing a worn-out denim jacket covered in band patches.

"Hey, Kenny."

"Whoa, hold up," Kenny said, holding up a hand and looking past Damien into the house with mock-seriousness. He dropped his bag on the welcome mat with a thud. "This is my reception? No red carpet? No butler with little fancy sandwiches? I'm hurt, man. Truly wounded." He clutched his chest dramatically.

Damien felt the last of the tightness in his throat dissolve, replaced by a real, quiet laugh. "Shut up and get in here before Mrs. Gable makes you the star of her neighborhood watch report."

Kenny swooped in, grabbing his bag. "You worry about that lady too much. I was a shadow. A whisper." He kicked the door shut with his heel and dropped his stuff in the middle of the living room floor, taking it over instantly. "So. This is the famous fortress of solitude. And we've got it all to ourselves?" He grinned, a flash of pure excitement. "This is epic. We are officially the coolest, luckiest people in the world right now. I mean, if you think about it."

"If you think about it," Damien corrected, but he was smiling.

"No, seriously," Kenny said, unzipping his duffel. "Think about all the other guys right now. Doing homework. Listening to their parents. Being responsible." He said the word like it was a curse. He pulled out a heavily creased paper bag from between his clothes. "We, on the other hand, are about to have an unsupervised summit. And I brought the provisions for the first secret meeting."

He pulled out two cans of generic cola, a giant bag of cheese puffs that left orange dust on everything, and, from the bottom of the bag wrapped in the promised t-shirt, a slightly crumpled magazine. It wasn't a music magazine. The cover showed a muscle-bound barbarian locked in combat with a dragon. "My brother's Kevin comic. And..." He rummaged one more time, producing a blank VHS tape with "MIX" scrawled on the label in marker. "...the ultimate MTV recording. Three hours of just the good videos. No commercials. We rule the remote tonight, man."

For a moment, Damien just looked at the pile of glorious, normal junk on his carpet. The ghost of alcohol gel was gone, completely banished by the smell of cheese powder and the sound of Kenny's restless energy. The house wasn't quiet anymore. It was theirs.

"Yeah," Damien said, the word full of a certainty he hadn't felt moments before. "We absolutely do."

 

The easy mood shifted, curdling at the edges. Kenny had been examining his reflection in the dark TV screen, ruffling his hair.

"Hmm. Damien, you think my hair's good?"

Damien glanced over from sorting the VHS tapes. "I don't know? I mean, looks the same as ever, dude."

"Dude, please, just answer me," Kenny said, his voice taking on a strained, uncharacteristic seriousness. He stopped posing and turned to face Damien. "I need to know. I'm going out with a girl tomorrow."

Damien paused, a tape in his hand. "You? With a girl? I cannot believe it."

The change was instant. Kenny's face flushed, the vulnerability snapping shut like a trap. "Hey! Don't say those things," he snapped, his voice tight. "I'm not a faggot."

The ugly word hung in the air between them, sharp and cold. Damien felt his own smile freeze.

"You like a fag, Damien?" Kenny laughed, but it was a hard, defensive sound, meant to wound.

"Fuck you, Kenny," Damien said, but he forced a smile onto his face, playing it off even as something inside him went very still. It was the rule: you had to play it off.

Kenny, mistaking the smile for surrender, pushed harder, leaning into the cruel game. "I'd never get AIDS, Damien. Hahaha!"

Damien kept the plastic smile tacked in place. "I guess you'd get it. You always want to kiss everyone."

"Shut up! You've never kissed anyone!" Kenny shot back, his bravado looking more like panic now.

"Who cares, Kenny?" Damien said, his voice flat, finally letting the false smile drop. He turned back to the tapes, the labels blurring for a second. He cared. He cared about the word that had been thrown like a rock. He cared about the stupid, terrifying rules of what you were supposed to be and say. The silence that followed was different from before—not comfortable, but charged with something both of them understood but would never name. The night felt fragile suddenly, the coolness of their headquarters pierced by the oldest, coldest fear of all: not being enough, and being called out for it.

Damien grabbed the nearest couch pillow, a thick, paisley-printed thing that smelled faintly of his dad’s cologne. In one smooth motion, he turned and launched it across the room. It caught Kenny square in the side of the head with a soft whump*, knocking his careful hair askew.

"Hey! Dude, that's not fair!" Kenny yelped, but a real laugh was already breaking through his defensive scowl.

"Make the bad thoughts stop," Damien said, a grin finally cracking his own serious expression. It was their old, unspoken code. Pillow fight. Reset.

Kenny stared for a second, then his face split into a wide, familiar grin. The tension shattered. "You're on!"

He dove for the pillow, snatching it from the floor, but Damien was already armed with another from the sofa. For the next few minutes, the living room became a whirlwind of soft fabric and laughter. They weren't teenagers navigating a minefield of insults and insecurities anymore; they were kids again, battling in a fortress of their own making. They shouted nonsense, blocked shots with the VHS tape box, and used the sofa as a barricade.

The forced laughter from before melted into the real, breathless kind. The ugly words were forgotten, buried under the simple, physical joy of the fight. Finally, they collapsed onto the pile of cushions, breathless and grinning, the disagreement dissolved into the harmless chaos of their play.

The room was a mess, and everything was perfect.

-----------------------------------------------

The first thing Damien felt was a beam of insistent morning sunlight cutting across his face. The second was a weight on his chest.

"Morning, little angel," a voice sang, sugar-sweet and obnoxiously close. Damien pried one eye open. Kenny was crouched beside the couch, leaning over him, his own hair a spectacular disaster. He was poking Damien's cheek with a single, relentless finger.

"Little Damien, wake uuuup."

Damien groaned, swatting blindly. "Shut the fuck up, Kenny." His voice was thick with sleep. He tried to roll over, but his body was stiff from a night on the floor, tangled in a sleeping bag.

"Language, angel," Kenny chirped, undeterred. "Rise and shine! The dawn of a new day awaits! Also, we have school in, like, forty minutes."

Damien's other eye snapped open. "Oh, shit." He sat up too fast, the world tilting. The living room was a monument to their night—empty chip bags, soda cans, the conquered pillows still scattered across the floor. The clock on the VCR blinked 7:15 AM back at him in angry red digits.

Panic, cold and pure, flushed through him. His dad. His dad would be home soon, if he wasn't already asleep in his room. The evidence was everywhere.

Kenny, meanwhile, had wandered into the kitchen. Damien heard the clatter of a pan and the click of the stove. He stumbled to his feet, his heart pounding. "What are you doing?"

"Damage control," Kenny called back. "And making breakfast. My mom says a hot breakfast fixes everything, even pending parental doom."

Damien hurried into the kitchen. Kenny had found a frying pan and was cracking eggs into it with a surprising lack of mess. The smell of butter melting was oddly comforting.

"You can cook?" Damien asked, starting to hastily gather the empty cans from the living room.

"Scrambled eggs is not 'cooking,' it's 'not starving,'" Kenny corrected. He glanced over his shoulder. "So. Was it? A good thing?"

Damien paused, a fistful of cheese-powder-dusted bags in his hand. He looked at the chaotic living room, then at his friend, confidently murdering eggs at his stove. He remembered the laughter, the whispered conversations in the dark, the sheer, defiant normality of it all. The cold fear from the night before was gone, just a distant memory.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Yeah," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "Yeah, it was a good thing."

"Cool," Kenny said, simple and final. He dumped the fluffy eggs onto two plates he'd found. "Now eat fast. We need to be out of here before your dad wakes up and sees that his living room looks like a rock concert happened in it. And I need to go brush my teeth like, eight times."

 

The walk to school was a study in contrasts. Kenny bounced alongside the chain-link fences, full of a restless, morning energy fueled by stolen coffee and the triumph of their unsupervised night. He replayed the best parts, his voice carrying in the cool air. "—and when you whiffed with that second pillow? Classic. We should do it again next weekend. I'll tell my mom it's a... geology project."

Damien walked beside him, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The initial panic had subsided, replaced by a low, humming tiredness and the warm, quiet afterglow of the sleepover. He nodded along, offering a half-smile. "Yeah. Maybe." The world felt normal. For a few more blocks, it could just be a normal Monday.

They pushed through the heavy double doors of the school, instantly swallowed by the roar of slamming lockers, shouting voices, and the smell of industrial cleaner and old milk. The bubble of their private world popped.

"See you at lunch," Kenny said, clapping him on the shoulder before veering off towards his own homeroom.

Damien's good mood began to evaporate with every step down the crowded hall. He reached his locker, its metal surface dented and covered in stickers from bands he didn't listen to. He spun the combination—28-14-32—the numbers as automatic as a heartbeat. The lock clicked, and he pulled the metal door open.

It wasn't empty.

Taped to the inside of the door, covering the faded picture of a muscle car he'd left up months ago, were pieces of notebook paper. They were covered in harsh, slanted writing, in different pens, as if multiple people had contributed.

His breath hitched. The noises of the hallway faded into a dull, rushing static.

The phrases seemed to vibrate on the page:

   CANCER BOY
   GO BACK TO THE HOSPITAL FREAK
   WALKING CORPSE
   ONE KISS = YOUR AIDS + MY AIDS

And then, bigger, scrawled in angry red marker:

  FAGGOT
  U R QUEER DAMIEN?

He stood frozen, the paper a white blur. The words weren't new. Cancer boy was an old ghost, a taunt from when he'd first come back to school, thin and pale with a buzz cut. But the others... they were fresh. They were about last night. They were about the rumors Kenny had mentioned, the ones his dad had heard. Someone had been talking. Someone had seen, or thought they had. The warmth from the sleepover drained from his body, replaced by a cold that started in his gut and spread out to his fingertips. He wasn't just Damien here. He was a target again. The locker door felt less like a storage space and more like a public bulletin board declaring him all the things he was terrified of being.

A loud bang on the locker next to him made him flinch violently.

"You gonna move, or are you just gonna stand there reading your fan mail all day?" a voice sneered.

Damien didn't look. He quickly, mechanically, ripped the papers down, crumpling them into a tight, desperate ball in his fist. He shoved his books inside, grabbed what he needed, and slammed the metal door shut. The sound was like a full stop. The bell rang, shrill and final. He started walking to class, the crumpled ball of hate burning a hole in his hand, the normal Monday now completely, irrevocably gone.

 

Damien looked up, the crumpled papers still a tight, hot ball in his fist. The owner of the sneering voice was now standing directly in front of him, blocking his path.

You...? he's pretty like a girl, was Damien's first, disconnected thought. The boy had hair so blond it was almost white, carefully styled to look carelessly messy. His eyes were a pale, icy blue that held no warmth, only a bored sort of challenge. He was lean, wearing a letterman's jacket that seemed too new, too crisp, for someone who was probably a sophomore. Damien knew him by sight and by reputation. Everyone did. His name was Phillip, but everyone called him Pip. He wasn't the biggest of the jocks, but he carried himself with a sharp, mean confidence that made him the de facto ringleader of a certain crowd. He was the kind of guy who could deliver an insult with a perfect, gleaming smile.

"Got a problem with your locker decoration?" Pip asked, his voice dripping with false concern. He tilted his head, the picture of innocence. "Looked like some real heartfelt poetry in there. 'Cancer boy.' Very creative. A little last-season, maybe, but still a classic."

A couple of Pip's friends, lingering by the water fountain, snickered. The hallway had mostly cleared for class, making their little stand-off feel staged and exposed.

Damien's throat was tight. He couldn't form words. He just stared, taking in the cruel curve of Pip's smile, the way his eyes flicked over Damien with dismissive amusement.

"What's your problem with me?" Damien finally managed, the question coming out weaker than he wanted, almost plaintive.

Pip's smile widened, but it didn't reach his cold eyes. "Problem? Me? I don't have a problem. I'm just making observations." He took a small step closer, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper. "I'm just wondering which one you are now. The sick kid everyone had to feel sorry for? Or the new thing everyone's talking about?" He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Hard to keep track. Must be hard for you, too."

He gave Damien's shoulder a light, patronizing pat—a touch that felt more invasive than a shove. "Just trying to help you keep your image straight, Damien. Wouldn't want people to get... confused."

With that, Pip shouldered past him, his friends falling in step behind him with a final round of low laughs, their footsteps echoing loudly in the now-empty hall.

Damien stood alone, the imprint of Pip's touch burning through his jacket like a brand. The crumpled ball of paper in his hand felt heavier than ever. He hadn't just been bullied by a faceless note. He'd been sized up, categorized, and dismissed by someone with a name, a face, and a perfect, hateful smile. The "new thing everyone's talking about." The words echoed in his head, tying the past and the present into one inescapable knot. He was just a topic of conversation for people like Pip. A problem to be defined.

 

"Just fuck off, Pip," Damien muttered, the words low and thick, meant more for his own ears than for the retreating jock.

But Pip heard him. He stopped, turned slowly, and that cold smile returned. He didn't say anything. He just lifted a hand and gave a slow, sarcastic little wave—a queen's dismissal. Then he turned his attention to a locker a few down, where a pretty blonde girl was waiting for him. She was all smiles and glossy lips, leaning against the metal as Pip smoothly moved to her side, sliding an arm around her waist. She laughed at something he whispered, casting a quick, curious glance back at Damien that wasn't unkind, just vaguely puzzled, like he was a minor disturbance in her perfect morning.

The sight of them together—Pip, effortless and cruel, already moving on to his next conquest—lit a fresh, white-hot coal of anger in Damien's chest. It wasn't jealousy. It was pure, furious injustice. Pip got to be normal. He got to be handsome, popular, unmarked. He got to have a pretty girl look at him like that, while Damien got secret notes and public humiliations.

Damien spun on his heel, the ball of crumpled paper now a molten lump in his fist. He stormed down the hallway toward his classroom, his footsteps loud and angry on the linoleum. The tired warmth from the sleepover was gone, completely incinerated. Every friendly face he passed in the hall now felt like a potential threat. Who else had seen the notes? Who else was talking?

He slammed through the classroom door just as the final bell rang, drawing a sharp look from the teacher. He didn't care. He threw himself into his seat at the back, dumping his books on the desk with a thud. For the entire period, he stared unseeing at the blackboard, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The only thing in his mind was the image of Pip's mocking wave and the feel of those hateful words pressed into his palm. The school day, which had only just begun, now stretched before him like a prison sentence, each class a new cell block where whispers might follow him. He wasn't just a kid in school anymore. He was a target, back on display.

 

At lunch, Damien found Kenny at their usual spot under the big tree in the quad. Kenny was chewing on a sandwich, watching the crowd with bored eyes.

"Finally," Kenny said as Damien sat down heavily. "Thought you'd decided to take a tour of all the bathrooms to read more inspiring graffiti."

Damien didn't smile back. He opened his lunchbox with jerky movements and spilled it all out in a low, tense stream. The notes in the locker, the specific phrases, the confrontation with Pip, the icy smile, the girl, the dismissive wave.

Kenny stopped chewing. His normally carefree face went still, his eyes darkening. When Damien finished, Kenny was quiet for a moment, staring at the cluster of jocks near the basketball courts where Pip held court, laughing loudly.

"He's got the face of a weirdo, you know?" Kenny finally said, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual laugh.

Damien looked at him, thrown. "What?"

"Pip. Look at him." Kenny nodded toward the group. "The smile's too perfect. The hair's too perfect. The jacket. He looks like a person in a TV commercial, not a real person. People who try that hard to be perfect on the outside always have some seriously weird shit going on inside. Looks like a guy who collects bugs or is scared of the dark. Looks like a freak."

It was the last thing Damien expected to hear. Not "let's beat him up" or "just ignore those idiots." It was such a peculiar, Kenny observation that a strangled sound escaped Damien's throat. It was half choke, half gasp. Then it became a real laugh, one born from the relief of being understood in a crooked way and of seeing Pip reduced to a pathetic bug collector.

"He's insufferable," Damien agreed, some of the tension in his shoulders unknotting. The laughter helped dissolve the hard ball of anger and shame in his chest.

"Totally insufferable," Kenny confirmed, a slight grin returning to his face. He grabbed a bag of chips and ripped it open with force. "And you know what we do with insufferable freaks?"

"What?" Damien asked, taking a handful of the offered chips.

"Nothing," Kenny said, shrugging. "We ignore them. We come out here, eat our off-brand chips, and we laugh. Because we're real. And our night was awesome. And Pip has probably never had a real friend in his life, just a bunch of people who are afraid of him." He chewed thoughtfully. "And he probably has a jar full of cockroaches in his bedroom."

This time, Damien's laugh was cleaner, easier. The sun in the quad didn't feel so harsh anymore. The weight of the crumpled paper in his pocket was still there, but now it had a counterweight: his friend's crooked loyalty, and the ridiculous image of Phillip "Pip," the golden boy, at home in the dark, terrified of a cockroach.

Damien pictured it then, clearly: Pip in his perfect, pristine bedroom. A single, dark cockroach skitters from under his perfectly made bed. The cool, collected smile vanishes, replaced by wide, genuine terror. He lets out a high-pitched yelp, scrambles onto his desk chair, and points a trembling finger. "Get it! Get it away!" The fantasy was so absurd, so satisfying, that Damien snorted, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Damien said, his voice steadier. "Let him have his jar of bugs. And his weird, perfect face."

 

 

Kenny threw a grape at him, which bounced off Damien’s forehead. “Earth to Damien. Hello? Party. Tonight. Jason Miller’s house. His parents are out of town. It’s basically the law that we have to go.”

Damien sighed, pushing his lunch around with his plastic fork. “Ah, man, I don’t know. That’s really not my scene.”

“Not your scene?” Kenny repeated, leaning forward with theatrical disbelief. “What is your scene, Damien? Describe it to me. Paint me a word picture.”

“I don’t know… quiet. Contained. Not full of people puking in bushes.”

“Oh, right,” Kenny said, snapping his fingers. “Your scene is sitting in your room, in the dark, listening to The Smiths on a loop. ‘Heaven knows I’m miserable now…’”

He sang the line in a purposefully awful, warbling falsetto that made a couple of freshmen at the next table glance over. Damien felt a blush creep up his neck.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but a smile was tugging at his lips. “Morrissey is a poet.”

“Morrissey is a grown man who cries about not getting flowers,” Kenny shot back, undeterred. “Tonight, there will be music where people don’t sound like they’re dying of a stomach ache. There will be chips that aren’t this sad, off-brand dust. There might even,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “be girls.”

“The horror,” Damien said flatly.

“Exactly! You face the horror! You walk toward the puking bushes with your head held high! Look,” Kenny’s tone shifted from mocking to something almost earnest. “You just had the most messed-up morning of the year, right? Notes. Pip. The whole thing. You can’t just go home and… marinate in it. That’s what he’d expect. For you to hide. This is the perfect counter-attack.”

Damien frowned. “Going to a stupid party is a counter-attack?”

“Yes! It’s psychological warfare! You show up, you exist, you don’t burst into flames. You prove that a few pieces of paper and a guy with a face like a porcelain doll don’t run your life. Plus,” Kenny grinned, “I heard Pip might be there. Imagine his perfect little head exploding when he sees you out in the wild, not cowering in your cave of melancholy.”

The idea was ludicrous. And strangely appealing. Damien imagined Pip’s smug expression faltering, just for a second, in confusion.

“And what if it’s awful?” Damien asked.

“Then we leave! We make a secret signal. You scratch your nose twice, I fake a seizure, we’re out. We go get burritos and make fun of everyone for the rest of the night. It’s a win-win.”

Damien looked out at the quad, at the predictable rhythms of the school day. He thought of his quiet, empty house, the ghost of last night’ fun already chased away by the morning’s cruelty. Hiding felt like letting them win.

“Fine,” he said, the word coming out before he could overthink it. “But if I have to listen to Bon Jovi, I will fake a seizure for real.”

Kenny threw his hands up in victory. “Yes! That’s the spirit! And don’t worry, I’ll protect your delicate sensibilities. I’ll be your social bodyguard. Your… fun-sommelier. I will guide you through the wilderness of bad punch and questionable life choices.”

“You’re the worst,” Damien said, finally laughing.

“I’m the best friend you’ve got,” Kenny corrected, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Now, finish your sad lunch. We have to plan our outfits. We need to look casually awesome, not like we tried. It’s a delicate balance.”

 

"So, um… how soon is it?" Damien asked.

Kenny, who was now dramatically sketching a "casual yet cool" outfit plan on a napkin, looked up. "How soon is what?"

"The party. When does it start?"

"Oh! It starts at nine. But rule number one of coolness: we don’t show up at nine. That’s when the desperate people and the guys who actually want to help set up the snacks arrive. We’re aiming for… nine forty-five. Fashionably late, but not so late that all the good drinks are gone."

Damien checked his watch, a nervous habit. "Okay. So we have time. Do I… need to bring anything?"

Kenny gave him a long, slow look, as if Damien had just asked if he needed to bring his own oxygen. "No, Damien. You don’t bring a casserole. Your contribution is your mysteriously cool presence. Maybe a six-pack if you can sneak it from your dad's fridge, but that's advanced-level stuff. Just bring yourself. And a slightly better attitude than the one you’re wearing right now. You look like you're going to a funeral for a hamster."

"I’m just thinking about the music," Damien muttered, crossing his arms. "If it's all just mindless pop and hair metal, I might actually die."

"Ah!" Kenny pointed the now-chewed end of his pen at Damien. "See, that's your problem. You're a musical snob. Tonight isn't about the quality of the music. It's about the volume. It's about noise that makes thinking impossible. It's perfect for you. And who knows," he added, wiggling his eyebrows, "maybe someone will have a cooler older sibling who puts on some Joy Division or The Cure. A little 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' to spice up the vibe."

Damien perked up slightly at that. "Really?"

Kenny shrugged. "Probably not. But a man can dream. More likely it'll be a solid block of Def Leppard. But hey, even 'Pour Some Sugar On Me' has its place. Its place is when you're too buzzed on punch to care."

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. As they gathered their trash, Kenny slung his backpack over one shoulder.

"Meet me at my place at eight-thirty," he said. "We'll do a vibe check, maybe practice not scowling for a few hours. And remember," he said, poking Damien's chest. "How soon is now?"

Damien rolled his eyes, recognizing the reference to The Smiths song. "Don't start."

"Too late. It's started. The Smiths are the soundtrack to our pre-game. Now, go to class. Think rebellious, yet accessible, thoughts."

---------------------------------------------

Damien stood in the hallway, twisting the phone cord around his finger. "Yeah, Dad. Just going to the movies with Kenny. Probably see that new action one everyone's talking about."

His father's tired but trusting voice came through the line. "Alright, bud. Just be home by curfew, okay? And call if you need a ride."

"Will do. Bye." Damien hung up, the lie sitting in his stomach like a small, cold stone. He pushed the feeling down. It was for a good cause. Psychological warfare.

He met Kenny on the corner a block from his house. Kenny took one look at him and burst out laughing, a loud, unrestrained sound that echoed in the quiet evening.

"Dude," Kenny wheezed, doubling over. "What in the holy Sears catalog are you wearing? Did you think the party was at a church youth group? Or a job interview at the bank?"

Damien looked down at his outfit: stiff, dark jeans, a plain polo shirt, and sensible sneakers. He’d gone for "inoffensive" and landed squarely on "dork."

"Shut up," he mumbled, his ears burning. "I didn't know what to wear."

"Clearly!" Kenny cackled, walking a circle around him. "You look like you're about to sell me a mutual fund. Okay, emergency intervention. Come here."

Before Damien could protest, Kenny stepped forward and attacked his hair, ruthlessly scrubbing his hands through Damien's carefully combed strands, mussing them up into something that looked intentionally messy.

"Hey! Quit it!"

"Hold still, you're being saved from yourself." Kenny then unbuttoned the top two buttons of Damien's polo, yanked his shirt untucked on one side, and finally, with a flourish, produced a worn, black leather bracelet from his own pocket and snapped it onto Damien's wrist.

"There," Kenny said, stepping back to admire his work. He tilted his head. "Okay. Not great, but a vast improvement. You look less like you're waiting for a bus to Bible study and more like a person who might, under duress, listen to a rock song. It's better. Now, let's go before you change back into a pod person."

He threw an arm around Damien's shoulders, steering him down the street toward the distant thump of bass they could just begin to hear, the cold stone of the lie in Damien's gut warming slightly with the glow of his friend's ridiculous loyalty.

 

The thumping bass grew louder as they turned onto Jason Miller's street. Cars lined the curb, and the glow of colored lights spilled from the basement windows. The nervous flutter in Damien's chest intensified.

"You know," he said, his voice low enough that only Kenny could hear over the approaching noise. "It's probably better if I don't drink any alcohol tonight. You know, with... everything."

He didn't specify the everything. The medication he might still be on, the vulnerable, raw feeling from the day, the simple, deep-seated fear of losing control in a house full of people like Pip.

Kenny didn't miss a beat. He didn't ask for reasons or make a joke. He just nodded, his usual manic energy softening into something solid and sure.

"Yeah. Of course. Don't even worry about it. Strictly soda for you. I'll be your official drink defender. Anyone tries to hand you a jungle juice concoction, they gotta go through me." He mimed cracking his knuckles.

A wave of relief, so potent it felt physical, washed through Damien. The permission to opt out, without judgment, was a greater gift than any sneaked beer. "Okay," he said.

Damien smiled then, a small, real one, meant just for Kenny. It wasn't about the party or the clothes or the music. It was about having an ally in the chaos.

Kenny saw it and grinned back, giving him a light shove toward the buzzing front door. "Alright then. Let's go commit some psychological warfare. And remember," he added, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper, "our secret signal is two nose scratches and a dramatic faint. Don't be afraid to use it."

Arm in arm, they walked into the noise.

----------------------------

 

The music hit them like a wall—a heavy, pulsing beat that vibrated in Damien’s chest. They stood just inside the crowded basement, momentarily stunned by the sea of people and noise.

Leaning in close so he could be heard, Kenny nudged Damien with his elbow. "So? First impressions? Overwhelmingly mediocre, or just tragically predictable?"

But Damien’s mind was already spiraling past the music and the crowd. He looked at the clusters of girls laughing by the makeshift drink table, their hair shining under the string lights, and a fresh, specific anxiety seized him. He turned to Kenny, his voice barely audible under the bass.

"Kenny... você acha que alguma garota vai olhar para mim hoje?" he asked, the Portuguese slipping out in his nervousness, followed immediately by the translation in a quieter, more vulnerable tone. "Do you think any girl will even look at me tonight?"

Kenny didn't hesitate. He threw an arm around Damien’s shoulders, his grin wide and assured in the strobe-lit darkness. "Claro, Damien. Of course. Look at you! You're… you’re not not handsome. You’ve got that whole… brooding, mysterious thing going now. The hair’s a definite upgrade. You clean up all right, man. Você até que dá para o gosto." You're not so hard to look at.

Damien’s vulnerability instantly twisted into defensive embarrassment. He shoved Kenny’s arm off and shot him the middle finger, a scowl plastered on his face to hide the flush of pleased embarrassment. "Asshole."

Kenny just threw his head back and laughed, the sound cutting easily through the thrum of the music. He wasn't laughing at him; he was laughing at the classic, predictable dance of their friendship—the sincere boost followed by the mandatory insult.

"See?" Kenny shouted over the noise, steering him further into the crowd. "There's the spirit! Now come on, let's get you that strategically held soda and find a good spot to observe the wildlife. The looking starts with you not hiding by the laundry room."

 

Damien was following Kenny toward the kitchen, trying to navigate the press of bodies, when a flash of familiar blonde hair caught his eye.

There, leaning against the archway to the den, was Pip. And pressed against him, one hand on his letterman jacket, was Stella—the same pretty blonde from the lockers that morning. Her eyes were closed, and Pip was kissing her, a slow, possessive kiss that seemed designed for an audience.

But Pip’s eyes weren't closed.

They were wide open. And they were locked directly on Damien.

The stare was intense, unwavering, and utterly dispassionate. It wasn't a look of anger, or triumph, or even mockery. It was colder than that. It was a flat, calculating observation, as if Pip was mentally noting Damien's presence, his reaction, filing it away. He kissed Stella, but he watched Damien, a bizarre and chilling split in his attention.

Damien froze, his feet rooting to the spot. Confusion washed over him, hot and cold at once. Why was he looking at him? What did he want him to see? To feel? The noise of the party faded into a muffled roar. All he could see were those two pale, unblinking eyes fixed on him from over Stella's shoulder.

Before the confusion could curdle into something worse—panic, or a rising, helpless anger—a strong hand closed around his forearm.

"Whoa, easy, traffic jam," Kenny's voice cut through the static in his head. Kenny had doubled back, sensing Damien had stopped. He tugged firmly, pulling him out of the direct line of that unsettling stare and into the flow of people heading to the kitchen. "You can't just stop in the middle of the highway, man. You'll cause a human pile-up. Soda's this way."

Damien stumbled a step, allowing himself to be led, Pip's gaze finally broken. He glanced back once, but Pip had closed his eyes, now fully playing the part of the passionate guy making out with the prettiest girl at the party. The moment had passed, leaving only a deep, bewildering chill in Damien's gut.

"Sorry," Damien muttered, his voice shaky. "I just... saw something weird."

"Everything here is weird," Kenny said, handing him a red cup filled with fizzing soda. "That's the point. Now drink up. We've got people to mildly impress and then ignore." He gave Damien a searching look, but didn't press. "You good?"

Damien took a long gulp of the too-sweet soda, using it to ground himself. The cold was real. The cup in his hand was real. Kenny beside him was real. Pip's performance was just that—a performance.

"Yeah," he lied, forcing a nod. "I'm good."

Damien took the soda, the cold plastic a sharp contrast to the clammy warmth of his own hand. "Thanks, Ken."

Kenny offered a quick, reassuring smile, but his eyes lingered on his friend's face, reading the unease there. "No problem. You look like you just saw a ghost."

"It's just... why was he staring at me like that? With so much... intensity? So much focus?" Damien shook his head, the confusion spilling out in a low murmur meant only for Kenny. "He has a girlfriend. It's the weirdest thing..."

Kenny shrugged, but his gaze was thoughtful. "Pip's a creature of the spotlight, Damien. He needs an audience. The girlfriend is just the main prop. You became part of the set today, with all that note business. He was just checking his special effect. Making sure the audience was paying attention." He took a sip of his own drink. "It's not obsession. It's just control. Don't let it get in your head."

The explanation made a brittle kind of sense, but it didn't fully dissolve the chill Pip's gaze had left behind. Before Damien could reply, a booming voice cut through the bass-heavy music from a more open area of the den.

"Hey! Kenny! Damien! You guys gonna hide in the kitchen all night? Get over here, we're starting a Truth or Dare circle!"

It was Mark, a loud and sociable guy from their grade. Kenny glanced at Damien, eyebrows raised in a silent question. It was a perfect exit from the conversational corner they'd backed themselves into.

"Shall we?" Kenny asked. "Better than standing here philosophizing about Phillip's existential void."

Damien nodded. Anything was better than standing still, feeling that phantom stare between his shoulder blades. They wove through the crowd and joined the circle forming on the den's carpeted floor, pushing aside stray pillows and abandoned cups. Damien settled between Kenny and a girl he vaguely recognized from history class, forcing what he hoped was a relaxed expression as the game began. But his mind remained half-trapped in the disturbing paradox of a kiss that felt more like a calculated challenge, the strange, possessive chill of Pip's attention lingering like a dissonant note in the noisy room.

 

Damien felt himself dissociating, a familiar fog rolling in to blur the sharp, painful edges of the party. The laughter became a muffled roar, the faces around the circle smearing into a watercolor of features without meaning. He was sitting on the floor, his back against a couch, but part of him was floating somewhere near the ceiling, observing the scene with a detached, clinical coldness. And in that detached state, he saw him.

Pip was there. Sitting directly across the circle, one arm draped casually over the shoulders of the same blonde girl, Stella. He wasn’t looking at Damien now. His gaze was fixed on the empty soda bottle spinning in the center of the circle, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. Damien quickly looked away, focusing on a stray thread in the carpet, trying to will himself back into his body, back into the game.

The bottle spun, a wobbly, drunken orbit. It slowed, its neck pointing… pointing… past Damien, past a few others, and coming to a definitive stop, aimed directly at Kenny.

A collective “Oooooh!” rose from the group. Kenny, ever the performer, placed a hand over his heart in mock terror.

“The bottle of destiny has spoken!” Mark, the unofficial host, announced. “Kenny. Truth or Dare?”

Kenny didn’t hesitate. “Dare. Always dare. Hit me.”

Mark grinned, already prepared. “I dare you… to go over to Phillip and give him a sincere compliment. A real one. None of that ‘nice shoes’ crap.”

Another wave of laughter and whoops. Kenny’s eyes flickered to Damien for a nanosecond—a check-in—before he turned his full, mischievous attention to Pip. He pushed himself up and walked the few steps around the circle with an exaggerated swagger, stopping in front of Pip and Stella.

Pip looked up, that cool, amused mask perfectly in place.

“Well?” Pip said, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Let’s hear it.”

Kenny leaned down slightly, putting his hands on his knees to be at eye level. The room quieted, eager for the spectacle. He studied Pip’s face with theatrical seriousness.

“Alright, Pip,” Kenny said, his voice clear and loud enough for everyone to hear. “Here’s my sincere compliment.” He paused for effect. “You have the most incredible… talent. A real gift.”

Pip’s smug smile widened a fraction, expecting flattery.

“Yeah?” Pip prompted.

“Yeah,” Kenny confirmed, nodding gravely. “I’ve never seen anyone who can so completely… disappear up their own ass. It’s honestly impressive. A real mastery of internal focus. Kudos, man.”

For a split second, the mask shattered. Pip’s eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated shock, his jaw slack. The circle erupted. Gasps were drowned out by howls of laughter, shrieks of disbelief, and a few scattered claps. Stella stiffened beside him, looking mortified.

Pip’s face flushed a deep, furious red. He opened his mouth to retort, but Kenny was already giving him a cheerful, two-fingered salute and walking back to his spot, sinking down next to a stunned Damien as the chaos he’d created continued to ripple through the room.

Kenny bumped his shoulder against Damien’s, his own laughter subsiding into a satisfied grin. He leaned in and whispered, his voice barely audible under the uproar, “Psychological warfare, buddy. Told you.”

Across the circle, Pip was no longer smiling. He was staring straight ahead, his body rigid with a rage so intense it seemed to vibrate the air around him. The game, for him, was very clearly over.