Things are…blurry. The contract is written, Damian talks with Sam about it, and then it’s signed. The paper is scanned and documented, everything somehow taken care of as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Jordan is still suspicious about Sam’s involvement and how he knew the budget; he’s beginning to suspect that his bandmates have been learning while his back is turned. He’s not sure whether to feel guilty or proud of that fact.

Either way, it’s late in the evening when they get their plan together. Jace suggests dinner, casting Jordan a glance as if asking whether it’s all right. It’s amusingly after the fact.

“We’re all going to work together from now on,” Jordan points out, “it’s a good idea to know each other a bit more.”

He doesn’t point out that going out as a group is more for everyone else’s benefit, or that Jordan really wants to know more about Damian that no one else will, small secretes he can keep to himself like gems. The group decides on a nearby pizza place and they wander into the night, the road crew chattering amongst themselves about imagined versions of the altercation earlier in the day while Sam eggs them on mischievously.

“What are your favorite pizza toppings?” Jace asks as they walk. Jordan raises an eyebrow. Is that his idea of an important question? He knows Jace doesn’t do small talk. They have that in common.

“Pepperoni. Pineapple. Mushrooms, green pepper, maybe sausage and bacon or ham.”

“So, everything,” Jordan chuckles.

“Pineapple. That’s what’s important,” Jace interrupts sharply, one finger raised. “There are two types of people in the world.”

“And?” Damian asks, clearly uncertain where he stands.

“And we’re pineapple people,” Jace says shortly, patting Damian’s shoulder. “Welcome.”

They sit at a large table by the back of the place, the heat from a stone oven emanating toward them. Jordan can already tell that he’s going to sleep well, stomach full and body warm. The waiter takes their order and disappears, promising to be back shortly with drinks, and then Jace continues with his questions.

“Where are you from? Your hometown?”

“Tower Valley,” Damian says easily, reordering the colored sugar packets at the center of the table. His fingers stumble a little, a sudden look of panic crossing his face.

“That’s where we’re from,” Jordan says, incredulous. He wonders if the look was Damian trying to figure out how to explain where the small town is; it’s not well-known at all and more than an hour away from anything else, trees separating it from the world. “Can you believe that?”

“Did you live there your entire life, or did you move around?” Jace asks, curious.

“I stayed there. Didn’t leave until training.”

“That’s insane—you two may have even gone to the same school, right?”

It can’t be. Jordan thinks he would have remembered Damian. He hopes he would have—most of his time at home wasn’t great during high school. He’d also been torn between so many family commitments to his siblings and cousins that he rarely had time to socialize. Looking back, he can barely remember his own class and he’d seen them every day for years.

“I graduated in ’07,” Damian says, shifting in his seat awkwardly. Something about the question seems to make him nervous. Maybe because he doesn’t want to talk about age, Jordan thinks. Not that I care. He tries to brush it off, hoping to make it easier.

“Too bad,” Jordan smiles, “I was four years ahead of you. We really wouldn’t have crossed paths, other than maybe elementary school.”

The tiny, relieved smile Damian gives him is reassuring. It’s colored with regret, though. I know I kind of regret not meeting him earlier, Jordan thinks. Hell, even if things don’t work now, he thinks they could have been friends. Good ones, too, from the way Damian seems to get along with Jace and Sam. As if somehow, he’s always belonged.

“Not to mention, you’re terrible at faces,” Jace adds. “It’s a miracle you can remember what your parents look like when we go home.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s the house that clues me in,” Jordan smirks.

Damian laughs and that single sound is enough to make the joke worth it. His laugh is bright, rising in pitch as it goes along, bursting quickly from his lips. Like a firework. It draws Jordan in every time he hears it—he thinks if he were turned away, in some room, he’d still feel a pull to the person with that laugh.

The waiter interrupts his thoughts with their drinks and an overflowing basket of mozzarella sticks, which Jace had ordered with large eyes. There’s cheese and bread on the pizza, Jordan had pointed out. Not the same! Damian had argued, high-fiving Jace and laughing. It had all been so bizarrely natural, the same comfortable quality Jordan can’t place working its way into their conversation. Again, the feeling that they’ve met tugs at him, some romantic notion he tries to shoo away. It’s not a fairy tale. He’s just…perfect.

Dinner is fantastic. The pizza is the best they’ve had in a while—Sam practically yells as much from the table, prompting the chef to come out and give his laughing thanks, along with a small free pizza for the road. The rest of the band conducts a strange, impromptu interview and Damian takes it in stride, answering all the questions easily. No, I’ve never had a DUI. Yes, I can use chopsticks. Of course, I love Metallica. I like Halloween best, but I love giving gifts, so Christmas is good, too. Some of them make sense and others don’t but they all get to the same point in Jordan’s eyes—even though he doesn’t like comedy, or maybe because he doesn’t like comedy, he’s perfect. His answers aren’t the answers Jordan would look for on a dating profile and that somehow makes sense.

That’s what he thinks as they’re all heading back to the bus, full and cheery, singing some songs with the wrong lyrics on purpose. And if Jordan’s eyes linger on Damian’s red cheeks a little too long, no one really says anything.

“—room. If you want.”

“What?” Oh, shit. I wasn’t paying attention, Jordan realizes, flushing as Damian repeats himself.

“I have a big enough bed for the both of us,” he says, half smiling, “so there’ll be more room on the bus. It’ll be comfortable and that way, you can make sure I actually wake up.”

“You’d be late to your first day of work?” Jordan teases, heart skipping at the invitation. It makes sense, he tells himself. I’m sure he’d ask Jace if he knew him better. That’s all.

“I ate a lot of pizza,” Damian answers, laughing.

Damian waits while Jordan throws together a backpack of items he’ll need. He feels oddly nervous as he’s preparing, like this is some sort of turning point. It isn’t, he knows—they only just met one day ago and technically, Damian is a new employee. None of that changes what he feels, though—the same thing he felt the first moment he saw Damian. A kind of wonder and excitement, like he’s been waiting for this person his entire life. Calm down. You’re expecting too much.

He follows Damian back to his room, the band waving them off with cheer and sleepy voices. It’s not even fifteen steps to Damian’s door but that’s enough for Jordan to feel his nervousness compound, questions flying through his mind. Should I wait for him to shower first? Do I ask what side of the bed to sleep on? What if he listens to music at night? What do I say? The worry he’s building up collapses almost immediately once they’re inside; Damian toes his shoes off and sighs, rummaging through a small backpack.

“You can shower first,” Damian offers, distracted by his luggage, “I should check in with my father to let him know where I am. It’s a requirement when I’m on the road.”

Damian smiles crookedly and Jordan quickly agrees, thankful for the direction. It’s not until he’s already in the shower, hot water pouring down, that he realizes he forgot his shampoo and soap from the bus. He hesitates, glancing around the bathtub. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care, but he’s going to be sleeping in the same bed as Damian. The only bottles he sees are clear plastic containers—one with a purple cap, one with blue, one with red. He settles on what he thinks is shampoo, hoping he’s not wrong. What kind of hotel doesn’t label their stuff?

It's not until he steps out that he realizes, staring at labeled bottles on the counter, that they weren’t from the hotel. Crap. Now that he considers it, they did smell a lot nicer than expected. He just hopes Damian won’t be able to tell, perhaps too distracted and able to brush it off as his imagination. When Jordan emerges, he carefully shoves his dirty clothes into his bag, watching Damian yawn and pad towards the bathroom. He stops at his backpack, frowning, and looks down into it.

“What is it? Missing something?”

“No—no, I think my friend left something for me,” Damian snorts, pulling out a small envelope. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice. He’s always worried I don’t have enough money.”

“Good friend,” Jordan notes, smiling. I wonder who it is. Part of him wants to ask but the other part reminds him that it’s none of his business. They don’t know each other well enough for him to pry and he doesn’t want to run Damian off.

“I won’t be long but you can turn…um, turn the lights off if you want,” Damian says, stumbling a little, an expression of vague confusion crossing his face. That wasn’t too bad, Jordan thinks, relieved.

“Okay. Sounds good,” Jordan says weakly, watching Damian disappear.

I forgot to ask what side to sleep on. He debates waiting, maybe watching TV or pretending to reorganize his bag, but those seem like ridiculous ideas. It’ll be easier, he tells himself, if he just gets into bed and starts relaxing. It’ll put less pressure on the both of them; he doesn’t want Damian to feel prompted to do or say anything and they have a long day of travel ahead of them. The more you overthink it, the worse it’ll get.

It doesn’t help that when he slips into bed, the lingering scent of Damian’s cologne and soaps permeates the sheets. Jordan groans, slapping an arm over his eyes. He glances at the bathroom, debating. How bad could it be? If they don’t hold back—if they jump in headfirst—it might end terribly, but at least it’ll be over quickly, before too much time goes by. It’s what he tells himself. If they’re fantastic together, then waiting is just denying the inevitable.

Are you willing to risk it, though? Coming on too strong could just push Damian away, initial attraction or no. Their odd attraction has become more complicated in a manner of hours; what started as a careful plan for a brief encounter had turned into some sort of long-term relationship in the blink of an eye. And, Jordan realizes, they both let that happen. It’s not like Jordan had to agree to hiring Damian, or the other way around. They could have made things simple and brief, letting this city and their one day remain a perfect moment in a time capsule. But they both gave that up for something a little less certain. Why?

Unless…unless it’s not what I think at all, Jordan realizes, horrified. He can hear Damian’s words in his head—you can turn the lights off if you want. He suddenly backtracks over every little moment, trying to break them down and pick them apart. Was he trying to tell me he wants to…are we going to…did he invite me in to have sex? He suddenly feels a million times less sure. He doesn’t know whether he should undress, or maybe try to set the mood or something else. There are so many options and possibilities and questions that he ends up laying there, frozen, mind racing.

Damian emerges from the shower, nose wrinkled as he attempts to adjust his hair into something resembling order, and Jordan laughs. He feels like he’s peering into someone else’s life—a brief flash of domesticity, this moment of late-night routine.

I guess that’s why.

He wants this to be his. He wants someone in his life—someone he can laugh with; someone who will be there to appreciate his music and live on the road without feeling directionless. Maybe Damian, with his motorcycle and wandering character, is closer to what Jordan needs than he’s ever had before. He likes the idea.

“Do you mind if I listen to the radio at night?” Damian asks, clicking off the light by the front door, “I know that sounds stupid; we’ll be asleep.”

“No. No, it’s not stupid,” Jordan clarifies, his smile widening. “It’s what I do.”

“Oh,” Damian says, sounding pleased. He turns the radio on—already tuned and set low from the previous night—and then slips into bed. “Good night.”

“Night,” Jordan echoes, smiling to himself already, part of him wanting desperately to turn and look at the man beside him. He’s willing to wait, though.

I can wait. Especially for something—someone—good.

* * *

Waking up happens slowly. He can feel awareness start to spread from the tips of his fingers to his toes, a slow process that ends in him sighing quietly. Jordan can’t remember the last time he’s slept so well. The last time he had a break from constant travel and performances. He wants nothing more than to curl further under the sheets, taking up as much space as possible. It’s so warm, especially with the heat of a body next to him.

Wait—what?

Panic sets in quickly. For a moment, he doesn’t want to look—he can’t figure out who’s next to him or what he’s doing. Did I go home with someone? Where am I? I’m not on the bus. The questions fly through his mind and his heart races. It takes a full minute for sleep to wear off, adrenaline pumping through his veins and pushing him into reality. It’s only after the panic that he realizes his mistake.

Damian looks…different, when he’s asleep. He looks young—even knowing they have an age gap of maybe five years, something about Damian makes him seem innocent, as if he’s still able to look at the world in a way Jordan has forgotten. That, and he’s so…beautiful. Damian has fine features—an angular jaw and fair skin, freckles and moles everywhere. His hair is messy from sleep, unruly and dark. Jordan smiles a little, wondering what he does to fix it. If it’s part of his morning routine.

We’re not even dating and I’m still acting like a lovestruck idiot.

“What time is it?” Damian asks, voice rough with sleep, not opening his eyes. His question almost makes Jordan jump.

“Ten,” Jordan manages, turning to look over his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve slept this late in months.”

“Good. Go back to sleep. You’ll love it,” Damian mumbles, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s still curled under the covers, hands pulled up to his chin like he’s trying to trap the heat against his body.

Jordan is fairly certain he won’t be able to go back to sleep. Not when he has Damian to look at. Questions to ask—can I make this work? Could I try, even if he’s working with us? He isn’t sure of anything but he feels like he can’t miss out. All the tiny hints at the bar come rushing back to him—Damian’s confidence, his smile, his willingness to help the band. He’s different than most people Jordan has met on the road. There’s something genuine in his interest; something unselfish. Maybe he could care about Jordan, but he seems to just care, period.

Damian’s stomach growls. Jordan bites his lip, trying not to laugh. He almost sighs when Damian opens his eyes, the light brown color warm in the morning light. Damian shoots Jordan a fake-angry glare.

“Fine. Late breakfast?”

“Is your hair invited, too?” He can’t help the question. It’s a late morning, he’s not worried about traveling, and he’s been gifted with the sight of Damian and his bedhead. He feels spoiled.

“Now you’re just being mean,” Damian snorts, throwing a pillow over Jordan’s face. He’s smiling when he rises, a hand already combing through the mess on top of his head.

Jordan wants to say I could get used to this. He wants, more than anything, just to kiss Damian. Test his hypothesis, that maybe they could be something special. He doesn’t want to go too fast, though, so instead, he yawns and stretches.

“I wonder if the others are up.”

“I guarantee Jace isn’t up,” Damian says automatically, the sound of clacking bottles echoing from the bathroom. “They’re probably laying around. All of you have been going hard for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s been…months. Five, maybe,” Jordan realizes. Five months since they’ve been home. Five months of irregular sleep and even more irregular meals.

But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Especially not since it led him right to Damian.

“I thought I was bad,” Damian snorts, emerging with only marginally more controlled hair. “Have you considered getting drivers? Or having people take shifts who aren’t playing? It’s gotta be taxing to perform and do transportation too.”

Jordan tries to come up with an answer but he finds words are hard to form, especially since Damian is changing. Taking his shirt off casually, as if he’s done it a thousand times, rummaging in a backpack. So those freckles and moles really are everywhere.

“I…we’re a small group,” Jordan finally says, cursing himself for not being able to come up with anything better.

“Maybe. But I’m sure some people would be willing to help out. Fans, even. And your safety is just as important as your music.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

Damian pauses when he turns, blushing a little and avoiding eye contact. Jordan grins. It’s endearing—the confidence is still there, but there’s an acute awareness of just how much is being said.

“Well…I mean, it’s just safe, right?” Damian shrugs as if it’s no big deal but his gaze is skating around the room like he’s following some invisible cues for digging himself out of the hole he’s made. Jordan nods, still smiling, cutting him some slack.

“Yeah. Oh—Damian?”

“Yeah?”

“Your hair is still sticking up in the back.”

He’s rewarded with a flying bottle of shampoo and half-hearted insults. None of them really stick. By the time he’s done changing, Damian is packed and ready to go. Reality sets in as they head toward the front desk. He’s really coming with us, Jordan realizes. I’m really going to see him every day for the next month. He feels nervous and excited for the possibilities—the chances he’s going to take when they come. The same feeling that’s been telling him Damian is important rests by his heart, warming the spot. He knows that no matter what, he can’t give him up without trying.

I just have to figure out if he feels the same way.