A/N ~ Rated M for strong swearing, mild references to abuse and some sexual content.
Breath. Hot and intoxicating across my neck. Fingers. Pressed to my jutting hip bones and holding me close. There's a hand in my hair yanking and pulling at the roots. I'm coming, my mind exploding as my senses go into overdrive. He's coming too, jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut. Instinctively my thumb snakes over his soft, wet lips. We're sticky and sweaty and exhausted. He's still beautiful. So beautiful.
I wake later that night, his arm protectively keeping me at his side. He's asleep, lightly snoring in the silent room. He looks peaceful. Innocent. A chuckle escapes me. Brendan. Innocent. His tongue darts over his lips and like a punch to the stomach I am reminded of his overwhelming beauty. Here there are no secrets or pretences or appearances. Here he can throw me against the wall and fuck me senseless or he can take his time, slowly kissing his way down my body, nipping at my thighs, stroking at my skin. Here I am safe. Suddenly his grip tightens and he pulls me closer, his steady breath now tickling my ear as a smile breaks over my face. Brendan makes me feel beautiful.
Amy's yelling at me. Or, more accurately, for me. There's a bruise on my eye and a cut on my lips and Christ - I can't bend down because it feels like I'll snap. Apparently I should know by now. He won't change. He's poison. It's not my fault. Oh baby, it'll be okay. It takes all of my charm to convince her to let me leave and go to work.
"And stay away!" she warns as I leave the house in my plain black shirt and hoodie. Like I need any convincing.
He's refusing to look at me and it feels like a success. He can't bear the sight of me, he can't bear the regret that's tearing him apart every time he glances at my bruises. Finally Cheryl leaves and it's just us. I slam down the pint glass that's in my hands onto the bar, the glass splintering into a million shards.
"That's coming out of your pay check," murmured Brendan, stopping in the doorway of his office.
"Look. At. Me." I growl, forcing him to turn and look, properly look. All day he's been avoiding me. Brendan remains unmoving.
"Look at me Brendan! Look at my ribs!" I exclaim, anger flaring through my veins as I lift my shirt to reveal the black and purple skin, yellow at the edges. Finally he turns, his gaze washing over my chest and at his marks. He doesn't look sorry or upset. He looks like a vulture about to pounce and rip apart the lifeless body of an already dead creature. I am both thrilled and terrified within an inch of my life.
When the first punch landed it was more than just a physical bruise. I'd trusted him. Trusted him more then anybody else in the world and within seconds he tore that away. When the second punch landed, I asked myself why. Why me? Why was he doing this? What could I have possibly done to deserve this? By the time the third punch landed, I felt guilty. It was my fault he was hitting me. I shouldn't be provoking him, shouldn't be making him angry like this.
How many times had I promised Amy I'd stop seeing him now?
His mouth is on mine and it's like being drunk. The drunk where climbing onto roofs and stealing cars and jumping out of windows seems like a good idea. Inhibitions, what inhibitions? I can't breathe, can't think, can't control. His tongue is in my mouth and the cut on my lip is searing with pain but I don't care. Can't care. I feel like I've ascended to a higher consciousness, like I'm looking down on the pair of us, on me, and I'm not making the moves. I grasp his head in my hands and pull him closer, grabbing at his hair as I twist his head and kiss him harder, faster. My mind is alight and God, the cliche, every movement of his hands on my hips, his lips on my lips or his tongue on my tongue is an electric spark from my the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. His grunts are guttural, groaning into my mouth as our hands frenzy at each others clothes. He's trying to tear me out of my hoodie, yank the shirt over my head and I'm struggling with his buttons before deciding, fuck it, and ripping them apart. We break apart, panting and gasping. My face is flushed with exertion. I see the faint bruises already appearing on his lips and a sick pleasure grips me - I caused that, I can hurt him too. He's looking around rapidly and then at his shirt before chuckling. I've managed to literally rip it in half down the middle. If Cheryl walked in now...
"My flat's empty," he said bluntly.
Before I can even think straight we're there, clothes hurriedly fixed as best as possible. It doesn't matter; he's peeling them from me as soon as the door closes. He kisses me again and it's the same as before but so completely different.
I hear my voice in the back of my head; "It's alright, innit? When it's just you and me."
I was right too. Here he's soft and tender, lips pressed to mine in a caress. There's no fire like there was back at the club, only his large hands running down my spine in a feather-like touch, sending me into a shiver. Here I take my time, pulling off his jacket and exposing the shirt I'd previously ripped. Brendan glanced down at it with a smirk and a raised eyebrow before grinning at me and kissing me again. It feels like the barest of touches but it makes my knees shake and my heart race. Here Brendan is the warmth of an open fire, the glow of a street lamp in the dark and the smell of freshly baked goods on a freezing winter's day.
He lays me down on his Egyptian cotton sheets, always the careful lover. It never fails to surprise me when he takes things slow, draws them out, makes them last. I kiss him, pulling his face to mine with only my fingertips on the nape of his neck as I let his hands glide down my slim body. His index finger strays over the bruise on my ribs and he pulls away to look at me. Eyes blown wide with desire, I watch them devour my face with a mix of awe and sorrow. Sorrow. Brendan gazes down at me with sorrow in his heart. My breath is snatched from me as he leans down and traces his lips over the bruise on my chest, letting his breath ghost over his mark. Suddenly his mouth makes contact and all I can feel, all I can know is the heat of his tongue over my skin, the brush of his hair over my chest and the soft wet sounds from lips on skin. I glance down at him and see him looking back up at me as he kisses my skinny frame, his eyes searching mine for something, anything. He moves quickly, giving me a sharp fright as he leans over me again with those round and expressive eyes. Before my breathing can even begin to regulate he's kissing me again, this time his lips linger over my eye. Instinctively I close it and I can feel the gentle movement over my eyelid as he tenderly cards his fingers through my hair. Finally he moves to my lips, sealing them swiftly and flicking his tongue over the small cut. As my eyes open I see the apology within his. This is his way of saying sorry. This is the only way Brendan knows how to apologise. His touch is tender and mine forgiving as he kisses me, properly, his tongue exploratory all over again. He kisses down my neck and sucks at the skin of my collarbone, leaving a wet trail down my smooth chest as he teases his way over my stomach, deftly opening my jeans with one hand. I can barely keep up with the overload of sensations and emotions and my brain is still a hot mess when he takes me in his mouth and throws me straight up to Heaven. Through the haze of pure ecstasy and adrenaline only one emotion stands clear. Forgiveness.
The next morning I awake first, silently getting dressed in the stark pale light of dawn. I catch myself in his mirror and see a circle of warmth around me and around him. A glow of light absent in our dark days of pain and violence. My hair is wild, my clothes a mess and I feel grimy with sweat and the smell of a Brendan on my skin. Through all of this, I feel beautiful, gazing down at Brendan I see the beauty pouring from him and into me, holding me close and cuddling me tight. I take it and look after it the way a mother cares for her young. This beauty beneath my skin is precious, a precious part of Brendan all for myself. I remember last night, his affectionate touches and warm kisses. I remember forgiving him. Sometimes I forget that my Brendan and the Brendan the rest of the world knows is the same man. How can the person who holds me with such delicacy throw such heavy punches? I leave early, before he can wake up, before I have to censor my words and my actions and tiptoe around him. The air is chilly as I step outside in nothing more than my thin hoodie yet the glow within me, Brendan's beauty, keeps me warm.
I don't even attempt to lie to Amy - she always could see right through me. She doesn't yell. Instead she gently removes my t-shirt, lifting it over my head and inspecting my torso for new bruises despite my insistence he didn't touch me, not like that. She notices the hickeys littering my collar but doesn't comment. I'm grateful.
"Oh Ste," she finally breathes as I redress myself, "You can't keep going back to him like this! He's just gonna walk all over you, all over again!" she tells me, her voice laden with concern. I love her. God knows I love her in a way I could never love anyone else but she doesn't understand. Brendan is like a drug. Already I miss him. This withdrawal will be worst than the last, but the next one will be horrendous. His eyes and his lips and his hair and his voice and his... his everything, it all adds up until I can't keep away. He's addictive. Unable to meet her eyes, I tell her I need to take a shower.
The water is almost scalding as it dribbles down my body, scrubbing away the remainder of last nights activities. It refreshes me. Rejuvenates me. I step out of the tub feeling clean and smelling of sun-kissed raspberry shower gel. My hand wipes the steam from the mirror and I catch a glimpse of my marred reflection. A bruise wrapped around my eye. A cut pulling at the skin of my lip. Dark red marks breaking out across my collarbone. A yellowing bruise square against my ribs. I see it then; a face as battered as mine, eyes as broken as mine and a swell of hatred somewhere deep. I see myself hitting Amy over and over and over. I am swallowed by my own ugliness.
Brendan arrives to work late, mandatory cup of coffee in hand. Behind the bar I busy myself drying and putting away glasses. I know he's stalking over silently but I don't look up, not until I feel him directly behind me. The gap between us is immeasurable but it feels like we're oceans apart. No words are spoken as I finally turn and face him, only to have him hook his fingers in my shirt and drag the collar down. He raises his eyebrows with that classic smirk of his as he gazes at the marks peppering my skin. He seems proud before releasing me and shoving past me. Not for the first time he leaves me scatterbrained.
There's beer fucking everywhere and Brendan's gonna kill me but I don't care as I wash the sticky liquid from my hand. My stony reflection gazes back at me. I'm dragged away by Rhys's voice, telling me he's cleaned it all up. I return to washing my hand. I could not care less about the state of the bar. My face is ugly. I can see it as I'm drying my hands and have nowhere to look but into the large ornate mirror. The reflection glaring back at me is bruised and battered and the warmth beneath my skin is now all but non existent. My fist connects with the mirror, tearing the person inside it apart. Why do I always do this? No amount of apologies will make this okay, or prevent him from ever hitting me again. Blood is pouring from my fist, glass shards lodged beneath my skin and a shattered mirror is lying in the sink.
"Steven!" exclaims Brendan, dashing into the bathroom from nowhere, "What the hell happened?!"
I want him to go. Need him to go. He always just turns up like this, out of the blue, whenever I'm at my most vulnerable.
"You happened, Brendan!" I yelp at him, tears sprouting against my will. I try to shove him away as he moves closer but he grabs at my fists and prevents me from moving. Immediately I retract, pulling my bloody fist to my chest as the pain ripples through me.
"Shit! Okay, I'll be back," Brendan tells me before returning moments later with a first aid kit. He sits me down and gently takes the glass out of my hand, piece by piece with a steady hand. I'm no longer crying. I'm no longer angry.
"Why did you do this, Steven?" he finally asks me quietly, his voice little more than a low whisper. I glance up at my fractured reflection in what's left of the mirror. What I see disgusts me.
"You make me ugly," I tell him, trying to find the warmth so present last night. He no longer glows an ambient temperature; he is a cold and dark blue. Closed. Forbidden. This is the Brendan everyone else knows. I'm not beautiful anymore. Can't he see that everything I am depends on him?
"Ugly?" he whispers, his expression confused as his eyes wash over my face and my body.
"These bruises. Your marks. They make me an ugly person," I try to explain but I don't think he gets it. He certainly doesn't reply, bandaging me up in silence. He packs away the little green kit, cleans up the glass shards from the sink and is about to leave when he eventually speaks.
"Why should your beauty depend on me?" he asks before walking out and leaving me alone with only my fractured reflection for company.
I stand at the top of the stairs. He doesn't know I'm watching him. Certainly not for the first, or the last time, he's right. Why should my beauty depend on him? He doesn't deserve the right to have that power over me. As he goes about his business in his office, writing away or pacing or almost punching a wall I see his glow follow him. The man I shared a bed with last night shares a glow with this man too. I feel a glow in my heart and grasp onto it. This is my beauty. I used to think it was Brendan, lighting me up from the inside and making me strong but it isn't. He can't make me beautiful, only I can do that. I grasp onto my light, my little glow and feel it fill me up. Fuck the bruises and fuck the cuts. I don't need his beauty in order to find my own, and that's okay. I don't need him, not any more.
I turn on my heel and leave Chez Chez. Will I leave forever? Probably not. Not now, when I understand that I have my beauty and he has his. And that's okay. Honestly, that's okay. I can live with that.