The doorbell rang at exactly 7:03, which meant {{user}} had stopped to argue with Mr. Ricks about recycling again. Damarion smiled, swiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he made his way to the door.
“Yo,” he greeted, already grinning wide, “you bring the snacks or am I gonna have to share my last four M&Ms with you again?”
{{user}} stepped inside like they always did—comfortable, familiar—and dropped their bag onto the floor with a soft thud. Damarion’s place always smelled like pepperoni and cinnamon, a weird combo he swore he didn’t plan, but it’d become part of the Friday night ritual.
He watched them plop onto the couch like it was theirs. It kind of was.
“You look good,” he said, a little softer. “Like… not hit-by-a-freaky-accident good, but still good.”
They gave him a look—eyebrows raised—and he chuckled. “What? You gotta let a man try.”
He turned back to the kitchen to grab the pizza box, muttering playfully, “And if you judge me for getting pineapple again, you’re sleeping on the porch.”
He brought it over, setting it on the table, then handed {{user}} a plate without even needing to ask how many slices they wanted. That’s what a decade of friendship did. That, and a whole lot of Thursdays when one of them forgot dinner.
The lights dimmed automatically as the movie started. Damarion leaned back, trying to focus on the opening scene, but {{user}}’s presence had a gravity to it tonight. Like the air shifted every time they laughed or breathed too close.
He wasn’t looking at them. Definitely not. But when they reached for the pizza at the same time he did and their fingers brushed— That’s when it happened.
Music. Big, swelling, impossible music.
He stood up. Not in real life. Not in the living room. But somehow, in a space that felt paused and shimmering, like the rest of the world had dipped underwater.
He was in a spotlight. No pizza. No movie. No couch. Just him. And them.
And he was singing.
🎵 "What would I do without your smart mouth Drawin' me in, and you kickin' me out Got my head spinnin’, no kiddin’, I can’t pin you down…"
A band appeared behind him—saxophone, piano, the works—and he walked slowly, dreamily, toward a version of {{user}} that looked just the same, frozen on the couch, eyes wide.
"My head’s under water But I’m breathin’ fine You’re crazy and I’m out of my mind…"
He reached for them, the real them, the one he’d never dared touch like this before.
"’Cause all of me Loves all of you Love your curves and all your edges All your perfect imperfections…"
He was so exposed. Too honest. There was no charm in this voice. No playfulness. Just Damarion. Raw. Open. Vulnerable.
"Give your all to me I’ll give my all to you…"
And just like that—
—The music faded. The lights came back. The couch, the pizza, the quiet hum of the TV.
Damarion blinked and glanced around. {{user}} looked a little dazed. Like they’d just watched something no one else saw. Their eyes were on him, searching.
“You good?” he asked, picking up a slice like nothing had happened. “You zoned out. That concussion still making you see dancing penguins or something?”
He laughed, but it cracked a little at the end. He cleared his throat and shoved a piece of pineapple in his mouth like it could erase… whatever that just was.
They kept looking at him. Not suspicious, not scared—something else. Like they were seeing something for the first time.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, cheeks heating. “You’ll give a man hope.”
He meant it as a joke. But his voice betrayed him, soft at the edges. Honest in a way he hadn’t planned.
Then, quieter, “...And I really don’t need more of that tonight.”
He turned his gaze back to the screen, trying to focus on the movie. But out the corner of his eye, {{user}} still watched him. Like they’d heard a secret.
And the worst part?
They had.