Author note: Thank you to everyone who has given this story a go so far! I have read some wonderful pieces based in this fandom over the past few months, so was inspired to add my own to the mix. I'm particularly interested in the character of Brendan (who isn't?!) and how he would cope with imprisonment and its aftermath. I have the whole thing plotted out - expect around 30 chapters (although I haven't quite got my head around how I'm going to split some events, so this may stretch to more). It is quite bleak, mainly because I am a sucker for a tragic Byronic hero, a role which I think Brendan fills nicely.
M rating is for language, violence and mature subject matter. Anything particularly explicit will be labelled for prior warning.
As I no longer watch Hollyoaks, the village, characters and events will probably be a bit AU, particularly where it comes to who is alive/dead! Doug, for example, has been given a new life abroad (couldn't face killing him off, bless him), whereas other characters have met their maker for plot purposes. I hope this isn't confusing for anybody, please let me know if you have any questions. This is a new venture for me, so I would appreciate feedback as I go along. I will try to update as regularly as possible.
1.
Rain was a beautiful feature when in the north west of England. Particularly beautiful if you had spent countless minutes, hours, months, years inside a metallic brick lined box. Fresh air and rain had become luxuries in this interminable stretch of time.
Brendan paused underneath the arch that would bring him back to the village where it all began. Despite being inadequately dressed for the downpour in a thin leather jacket and jeans that barely fit, he took the time to stop and bask in the feel of the raindrops against his skin. He offered his face to the heavens, eyes closed, arms outspread, and a feeling of peace washed over him, brought no doubt by the essence of freedom that being exposed to the elements represented. After so long in a prison cell, Brendan breathed in the scent of the village with relish. Droplets splashed across his upturned face, his overgrown and unkempt hair, his grey flecked beard; his heart filled with reckless, painful joy.
Unbidden, the memory of striding through this arch on his first arrival to the village swept through his mind. So full of swagger and misplaced confidence. He had believed that his sister was incapable of managing a business, that he would be able to take over her venture with little trouble. Cheryl had proven him wrong of course. Always stronger than her older brother, as it turned out. Not more intelligent - certainly not - but her charm and relentless positivity meant that Cheryl was able to cultivate friends, fans and most importantly business despite Brendan, rather than because of him. He had learnt to be proud of her. Eventually. From time to time she had even been proud of him...
Another entry through the archway plagued Brendan's memories. Carrying bags that did not belong to him, an uncharacteristic grin plastered across his face. Ahead of him, his sister clutched onto the arm of a young man, whose face turned towards Brendan and -
He mustn't do this. Brendan shook his head and opened his eyes, rain drops falling delicately from his eyelashes onto his stubbled cheeks. He glanced at the village's 'welcome' sign, and sighed inwardly. Not much seemed to have changed. The fountain was still trickling away, and the coffee shop was still standing, although the name had evidently changed. The corner shop was also a familiar sight, and on further inspection, it appeared that the local pub was intact too. Brendan stepped into the centre of the village with an air of trepidation - the buildings he was truly interested in lay directly ahead.
The deli was still, ostensibly, a deli. It appeared however to be under new ownership, as it now bore the rather jaunty name 'Deli Delights'. To see it trading gave Brendan a peculiar twisting emotion in his gut. Without warning, he was bombarded with a memory of inelegantly spitting out a spray of unsweetened coffee and glaring at the young man who had handed him the travesty of a drink. Of sitting on the bench that still remained in situ, in weather not too dissimilar to the present, watching as Steven tended to the exterior of the deli, proud and -
No. Brendan growled inwardly, swallowing the recollection and resolutely turning his back on 'Deli Delights', to instead by faced with his greatest fear. He squinted up through the drizzle , the sky seeming unnaturally bright in the wake of the storm besieging the village.
Cheryl had told him that the name of the club had reverted to 'The Loft'. They had even laughed together about the idea of any new owner keeping the patently ridiculous moniker of 'Chez Chez'. As a murder scene, the club had gained a degree of unwelcome notoriety, and selling it seemed like more of a challenge than Brendan had anticipated. Luckily, his solicitor was reasonably adept with property law, and after recovering the club's full ownership from one Joel Dexter, 'Chez Chez' moved on to its new incarnation. The manoeuvre was never fully explained to either Brendan or Cheryl, but in the end it hadn't mattered; Brendan made money from the sale despite the odds. It left him feeling oddly detached from the proceedings, as though the place hadn't been one of his great passions. Looking at the building now, Brendan was aware of a vague uneasiness falling over him, as though he were in another time, and the club was still his domain.
Two young girls cantered through the Loft's courtyard, hollering and screeching at each other, breaking through Brendan's reverie. Their heels clicked jarringly on the metal steps, leading Brendan to gaze up at the balcony around the building, which was seemingly unaltered. At once he heard the roar of sirens and felt the wind on the back of his neck that was generated by the whirring of helicopter blades. Without realising what he was doing, Brendan cradled the back of his head with his hands in a gesture of surrender, closing his eyes in the process. A gunshot rang out, like an ominous toll of a church bell. Judgement day.
His eyes startled open of their own accord, as he watched the motorbike that had just backfired speed away from the village through the archway where he had stood some minutes before. Cursing quietly, Brendan strode purposefully towards the stairs which led him to Oakdale Drive. He stood in front of the house which had been his home for three years. The door, which had been blue during his residence, was now a stylish sage green. He remembered leaning against that door frame, stretching his body out for maximum effect to disarm Steven. He remembered Walker pushing through his arms to attend a birthday dinner he was certainly not invited to, his manic expression a puzzle to Brendan and the only real reason he had let him in at all.
Perhaps that wasn't entirely true. Brendan felt on the outskirts of his brain, that vague tickle of attraction he had felt for the man. Despite the self loathing and the mistrust, there was a sense that something bound them together, entirely separate from Brendan's other relationships. It had been suggested to him that the connection with Walker had been to do with their mutual dysfunction - his therapist had pointed out that both men had mental imbalances. Brendan wasn't convinced. The feeling of guilt for bringing Walker to the village however; he was convinced of the power of that emotion.
The rain had eased off a little, and was now a persistent drizzle that rendered the surroundings grey and miserable. Brendan leant on the wall opposite his former home and quietly took in the neighbouring residence. When he and Cheryl had lived there, it was the haunt of a steady stream of students, who had caused so many disturbances that Brendan had often considered poisoning their punch bowl, or smashing their young ignorant heads against a wall in the hopes of shutting them up. Brendan strained his ears, but could hear nothing. He huffed an ironic laugh under his breath. That the student hellhole had been the place where Brendan had been introduced to a number of his adversaries did not bear thinking about. In his mind the door opened, and out strutted Noah, the gym god who was unable to stay faithful for more than five minutes. Behind him, looking as always for reassurance, was Douglas, his greatest competition and the man who almost delivered Brendan his happy ending.
Brendan stared at the door intently as though he could see through it. Cheryl had told him that Doug had gone back to America after his relationship break down, and had met a sweet little sommelier to run his parent's vineyard with. He had no idea what had happened to Noah, but Brendan liked to imagine that the boy had learned his lesson - perhaps he was even in Newcastle still pining for a future with the lover he had lost.
Brendan's phone rang, the shrill tone of it breaking through his musings. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and looked at the screen, a frown across his features. Brendan pressed the reject button firmly; he was not yet ready for that conversation. Flicking the phone to silent, he placed it back in his pocket and made to descend the steps back into the village.
A wave of nausea hit him as he imagined the weight of Lynsey in his arms as he planted his foot on the first step. His eyes squeezed shut as he felt her raven hair spilling across his face, her neck unnaturally lolling in the crook of his shoulder. The same deafness and dumbness he had felt then caused him to stumble and cry out silently. Memories threatened to overwhelm him. Brendan gripped the handrail of the stairwell as though his life depended on it. His frantic, panicked brain tried hopelessly to reconcile the past with the present, an image of Riley's broken body on the ground below had to be blinked away as his heart rate soared, sweat forming on his brow despite the weather.
"Slow breaths...in through the nose, out through the mouth..."
Bloody therapists. Nevertheless, Brendan allowed the advice to take hold, and almost against his will he began to feel better. As his consciousness returned, Brendan hurried down the remaining stairs, almost instantly bumping into a terrifyingly familiar face.
"Not answering your phone anymore? Starting to think you're not that into this reunion after all," Joel said, with a smirk on his handsome face. An uncharacteristic flood of warmth flowed through Brendan, who threw an arm around Joel's shoulder in a one sided hug, before leading him to the Dog in the Pond for a well overdue drink or two.
