He hasn't been alone in the flat for a long time. Has avoided it, if he was being honest. The silence, the emptiness, it is...dangerous. His whole world revolves around the club now. He's used to the pumping music, the driving beats, the lights and colours and shouting and drama of it all. It's annoying, exhausting at times, drunk punters shoving past him, swearing if they don't get their way, smashing glasses, causing a fight. But it's his life, all he has time for these days. It blocks out everything else, the messiness, the uncertainty.
So when Brendan finds himself on his night off, with Joel staying over at Theresa's and Cheryl and Lynsey in Belfast for the weekend, it unsettles him. What will he do? How will he pass the time? It feels like a weight on his shoulders, tying him down. He thinks about ringing Declan and Paddy, but he realises that he wouldn't have a clue what to say to them if he did. After the way he'd left things last time...he can't help but think that they are both better off without him. And God knows he doesn't want to speak to Eileen if she was the one who answered. Any kind of relationship they'd been beginning to build since the breakup had all but crumbled when she had...well, when she had returned unexpectedly.
His next thought is going out to a bar. He hasn't slept with anyone since his business trip months ago, and that familiar itch is returning. The one which he has to scratch, otherwise he can't concentrate. Strange, how he thought if people ever found out about him, found out what he truly was, what he liked to do, then those feelings would subside. He thought maybe the need would go, because it wouldn't be a secret anymore, something that was locked away in the back of his mind, which he wished he could throw away the key for permanently.
But the need is exactly the same. Even more than before. He feels like his whole body is on edge, humming. Every man he fucks leads to the next. There is no lasting satisfaction. It's as if he is constantly looking for something that isn't there, that he'll never find again. He doesn't have a clue what it is, and if he starts thinking about it...he'll stop. There's no point going there, he'd decided it long ago.
In the end, Brendan settles for lying back on the sofa and watching television, a pair of colourful blue socks covering his feet, which he props up on the table in front of him. He expects to spend the next few hours absently watching some mindless action movie that would no doubt be on, helping himself to the new bottle of whiskey he'd brought, before stumbling into bed in the early hours, lucky if he'd find the right room.
What he was not expecting was to receive a loud, impatient knock at the door at 1am in the morning. His hand which had been reaching into the bowl of crisps on his lap stills, as he frowns at the door. He doesn't understand who it could be at this hour. Unless Scottish Foxy has had another one of his arguments with blondie...but he imagines Joel would rather camp out at a mates place than come back, head hung in shame.
Brendan doesn't exactly have what he'd call...friends. There was no one who would need him at this hour, no one who would come to him for help.
Laying the bowl down on the table, he moves towards the door and looks through the peephole which gives him a view of the outside.
He almost stumbles in shock. The view he's got isn't clear, but it's enough. He'd recongise that dark hair, those shaven sides, those puckered lips anywhere. Steven.
He forces himself to try to still his rapidly beating heart. He knows it's ridiculous to behave this way, after all this time apart. He'd spent months away from him in prison, existing only on memories of his face, his body, how he felt beside him, in him, around him. If he could get through the hell of every day and every night there, thinking he'd never see him again...
He takes in a breath and focuses on making his expression as blank as possible. There is no way Steven was getting a rise out of him. He had to teach the boy that things were different now, that he couldn't just walk in and out of his life and expect everything to be as it was before.
He should ignore the knocking now, pretend that it doesn't exist. Settle himself back onto the sofa and get on with his night, with his life.
But Steven...
Sighing, he pulls open the door. A weight falls onto him, soft, clumsy, warm.
"Oops, sorry. Nearly hit the carpet there, didn't I?..."
Drunk.
And giggling.
Steven straightens up, balancing himself using Brendan's arms. He is dressed in what looks like a new polo. It's maroon in colour, and highlights his tanned skin perfectly.
He is also completely soaked through. It's been raining for the past hour, the kind of rain that sends even the most ardent party goer running for cover. It has made Steven's clothes cling to his skin and pushed his hair back from his face, exposing the high cheekbones and making the barest hint of stubble appear even more pronounced.
Why the fuck does he have to be so beautiful?
Brendan pushes Ste's hands off him, not forcefully, but enough to make his grip unfold. He tries to think of what a mess he looks. Uncoordinated, eyes unfocused, alcohol staining his breath. He should disgust him. He should look pathetic.
The problem is, he doesn't. Steven is the most alive person he's ever met, and this is multiplied when he's intoxicated. Brendan is reminded of the night they spent together two years ago, Steven sitting beside him, almost giddy in his woozy state. They'd gone from a club to the Dog, before finding their way back to Brendan'f flat. His laugh had been louder, his movements more expressive, his smile that much brighter, his thoughts running away with him more than they normally did. It had been annoying...and irresistible.
Seeing him like this again, so free, so open and physically affectionate, it disarms Brendan. He has grown accustomed to coldness, to watching as his back turns away from him in the village. It is as if he has gone back in time, back to when they were not strangers. The furthest thing from strangers.
"What are you doing here, Steven?"
The obvious question, but one he's afraid to ask, for fear of the image in front of him vanishing into thin air.
"Dunno..." Steven genuinely looks like he's trying to figure it out himself. "I just started walking, and then came here."
Brendan is not unfamilar with this. There have been times...more times that he'd like to admit, when he has found himself outside Steven's flat. He has stayed away from the door, afraid of being seen, of being caught out in his moment of weakness. But he has been unable to stop himself from imagining the boy that lies behind those walls, that door. He has pictured what he is doing. Washing the dishes after a family supper perhaps, or sleeping in bed, unaware of the presence that stands outside. Whatever he has been doing, Brendan has been hit time and time again with the realisation that he has not been doing it with him. It is this which drives him from his hiding place and makes him return to his own bed, his hands shaking from the knowledge that he has caused this seperation between them. And it is also this which brings him back to his flat the next night, like it is the most natural place in the world to be.
"Where does Amy think you are?"
"Told her I was staying at Doug's. We had a few beers."
Douglas.
Brendan knew that they were business partners. The minute he found out he'd engineered a way to be part of the deal, to be as close as possible to Steven without him actually realising how close.
But what are they now, sleepover buddies?
That wasn't part of the deal.
Brendan wants to storm over there right this second and ask Douglas what the hell he's thinking of, getting Steven drunk and then failing to take care of him this way.
Doesn't he know how Steven gets when he's like this?
Someone needs to keep an eye on him, be there for him, protect him.
"Does he know where you are?"
Steven hiccups. "Yeah, I left him a note."
Brendan rolls his eyes. "No offence Steven, but your notes aren't exactly worthy of Shakespeare."
It's a cheap dig. Brendan knows it's not his fault, he has dyslexia, which he learnt early on when he hired the boy.
"How would you know?" Steven asks, pouting. "It's not like I ever left you one."
Brendan smiles at him, but it feels like his jaw is twisting unnaturally.
"Well, this is a fasinating trip down memory lane, really. But it's late, so..."
"Joel's not here with you, is he?" Steven looks behind Brendan, craning his neck for a better view.
Was that a hint of jealousy he heard in his voice? Or did he just imagine it?
Brendan wonders whether to leave it alone, or press it.
He has never been able to resist pushing Steven's buttons, not when he's so easy to tease.
"Maybe. Why does it matter?" He asks, stepping closer to him, smelling the dampness on his skin.
Steven licks his lips, his bravado being replaced by nervousness.
Brendan tries to contain his smirk. The idea that he still makes Steven nervous, that he still has an effect at all, it's...interesting.
"You want some coffee?"
"What?" Steven frowns at the change of direction, his usually smooth forehead crinkling.
Brendan has the strongest desire to reach out and smooth the creases, feeling the familiar velvet skin beneath his fingertips.
"It will help sober you up."
"What yer talking about? I'm not even drunk."
He says this while holding onto the sofa for support.
"Sit down. I'll make you a drink and bring you a fresh pair of clothes."
Ste lets out a snort. "I know your game."
Brendan raises his eyebrows at him.
"Make me undress right in front of you. Take advantage, like you always do."
Brendan is shocked at how honest he is being. He thought their relationship had been locked away within Steven, somewhere which remained untouched and undisturbed, never to be mentioned again. Banishing any innuendos or playfulness with it.
He doesn't know whether to play along or try to pretend that it never existed in the first place.
Both carry the same pain, acting as reminders of what they once had, what has now been lost to them since that summer day, when they could have finally been together. Brendan had blamed Eileen, had blamed Steven's refusal to wait until Declan had left, had blamed anything and everything but himself. It was only during the quiet moments in the dark, as he lay asleep fantasying about dark hair, blue eyes, soft lips and golden skin that he was faced with one of the hardest truths that he had ever known. That he had had it all, and he had crushed it until it was no longer real.
He had turned Steven's love to hate, and the boy who had once looked at him in awe, with respect and devotion shining through his eyes...that boy was gone, replaced with one who could barely stand to be in the same room as him.
And yet here he is, back where he'd been so many times before. Brendan doesn't know whether he was having a nightmare or a dream.
"You wish," he replies, because it is easier, saying these frivilous words. Pretending that this was the kind of thing they did every day.
"Stop being stubborn, Steven. I'm not going to stand here and watch you freeze."
Did I reveal too much? Did my voice betray me? Does he know how much I still care?
Brendan goes to fetch a jumper from his bedroom. He has to reach to the bottom of his cupboard to find one. He can't remember the last time he had worn one. Suits are his standard uniform these days. A leather jacket if he is hitting a bar. But he keeps something warmer for in the winter, when he and Cheryl use it as a duvet when it's particularly cold outside.
"Here." He walks back over to the sofa where Steven is now seated, his head resting back, his eyes closed.
"Ta." He takes off his soaking jacket and starts to put the jumper over it.
"What are you doing? You're not going to get warmer like that, are you?"
Steven looks from him to the jumper. "Alright, but turn around."
Brendan rolls his eyes, but his heart is hammering. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
He thinks Steven will protest, but he surprises him. Maybe it's the drink letting down his inhibitions, but he hesitates for less than a second before pulling his polo shirt up over his head and throwing it on the floor.
He has put on weight. Brendan first noticed it when Noah around, when he got Ste into one of his ridiculous exercise programmes. He watched as the lad's shape gradually changed, as he transformed from skinny to lean. Now he has taken it a step further. His arms look more toned, his stomach more firm, his ribcage less noticable.
Brendan swallows, because he suddenly feels like his throat is contricting. Nine months. Nine months without a single sight of that body in its state of undress. It has been torture.
He should have turned his back, avoided this, Steven's arms flexing as he puts the jumper around him, the hair on his stomach being covered by the material that now covers him.
Perhaps it is easier to have no idea what you're missing.
Except...except he will always have that idea. The memory of Steven's body, of what he can do with it, are as fresh in his mind as if a day hadn't passed since he had told him he loved him, and they had gone to bed. Or rather the floor, their passion being too relentless, too urgent to make it to the bedroom.
Is he thinking it too? Of what we did here, on this sofa, on this floor? How we made it ours, how that was the best fucking day of my life? Before...before it all ended.
Because it has to end, doesn't it? Everything good has to end.
"It's massive." Steven says, giving a spin in the jumper, which hangs off him. He nearly loses his balance.
Brendan's hands fly out to stop him from falling.
"Sit down before you break anything, yeah?"
"Like one of your precious lamps, yeah?" He asks, pointing at the one that lies on a table next to them.
"I'm not talking about some stupid lamp Steven, I'm talking about you. I don't want you breaking anything."
Steven's eyes flicker in accusation, before he looks away at the floor.
Brendan knows what he's thinking. The punches, the bleeding, the bruises, the broken ribs. He's thinking that Brendan's a hypocrite for trying to keep him safe, when he was the one who broke everything to begin with.
"Look..." Brendan lowers his voice, because he doesn't want to go there tonight, to that place which leads to bitterness and blame and tears. He'd quite happily never go there again, but it seems to be inevitable, like stepping onto a rollercoaster. To finish, to get to the over end, you have to complete the journey, The journey that always has the same conclusion.
"You can stay here tonight, okay?"
The last thing he wants Steven to do is go back to Douglas. Steven doesn't need any male friends as far as he's concerned.
Brendan had a friend once...all they do is get in the way, get close, closer than they should. Until you start confusing what is real and what is not, what are feelings and what is fiction. Steven doesn't need those kind of influences.
"Here?" Steven's voice is quiet, shy. He seems to be sobering up.
"Yeah. No one's back till morning."
"Right, so shall I take the spare bed?"
He's considering it. He's not walking away.
"No. That's Joel's room now."
The last thing he needs is for Joel to come home and notice that the beds been slept in. He may be a harmless kid, but Brendan doesn't want him poking his nose where it doesn't belong, his mouth full of snide questions.
"Stay in my room. I'll take the couch."
He has done it before, when Declan stayed. He finds he can sleep anywhere. Comfort is not an issue.
If he's honest, the thought of Steven sleeping in his bed...it makes him buzz all over. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He feels flushed, like anticipation is building inside him.
"Okay." Steven stares up at him whilst fiddling with his hands. It's like a nervous tic, something he's done since he was a kid. It means he can focus on something, anything else than what is going on in his mind.
Brendan grunts in approval, and starts making Steven a cup of tea - he finds coffee too bitter, apparently. He resists the urge to ask him if he wants a straw with that as well. Sometimes he thinks Steven's just a big kid playing at being an adult. Until he is reminded of his strength, his bravery, the decisions he has made which are anything but childish.
Shaking this from his mind, Brendan concentrates on stirring the sugar into the cup. He lets it cool while he goes into his room and tidies it quickly, straightening the bed covers and tuning the radio to the station he knows Steven likes, just in case he wakes up before him in the morning and wants some form of company.
After looking once more round the room to check that there's nothing out of place, he walks down the stairs, and looks towards Steven.
His eyes are closed, and he breathes in and out gently, his head resting on his slumped shoulders. His legs are curled on the sofa, and he is lying in a fetal position, the jumper engulfing him, making him look younger and more fragile than he already does.
Brendan doesn't even contemplate waking him. The sight of a sleeping Steven, peaceful and happier than he's seen him in a long time...he can't break that spell. With his eyes finally shut, he can watch him properly now, take in the features that have alluded him for so long. He doesn't have to pretend that the sight doesn't fill him with a combination of satisfaction and pain.
He slowly crouches in front of the sofa. He watches as Steven's chest rises and falls, wondering what it would be like to lay his head against it, feel his cheek brush against the light hair which makes a trail to his groin.
He settles for tentively reaching out a hand to stroke Steven's face, delicately at first so as not to wake him, until he remembers that Steven has always been a deep sleeper, and that the booze will have knocked him out. His strokes become harder, and he sighs as he remembers the times his lips have brushed against the same place where his hand now resides.
Brendan considers carrying Steven to his bed to make him more comfortable, but finds that he can't stand the thought of waking the boy. If he's honest, it's as much for himself as it is for Steven, if not more. It's easier like this, in the early hours of the morning, in the dark, with his eyes closed. Brendan feels detached from the world outside, from his family and the club and everything that presses down on him day after day, year after year. Crushing him, suffocating him. He always thought Steven was like smoke enveloping him, stopping him from being able to breath, from seeing beyond the haze. But now he thinks he was wrong all along. He's his oxygen. But only here, only in the dark. Only when he's not watching him, when no one is.
Brendan reluctantly moves his hand from Steven's face and gets to his feet. He knows how cold Steven can get in the night, and his trousers are still drying from the rain outside. He picks up a blanket that lies discarded on the sofa, and gathers it around Steven, tucking it under his chin. Steven makes a snuffling sound and Brendan hesitates, frozen to the spot, ready to walk away as quickly as possible if the boy rouses, in order to prevent him from seeing him standing before him. But after an agonizingly long second, he merely turns on his side and resumes sleeping, a small smile painted on his face.
Brendan smiles in return, because it is almost impossible not to when witnessing Steven's face lighting up, like a glow which radiates everywhere. He wonders what he did without him for all these months, how he managed to feel like a whole person when being away from him creates a prison around himself where there is only emptiness. He can barely stand to walk away from him now and back to his bedroom, but he knows that he has to. That this moment will be gone in a matter of hours, that the sun will come up and Steven will leave him. He feels like that's all their relationship consists of now; Steven leaving him and him letting him, because to spark a change would be like a step into the unknown, facing your darkest fear and not knowing whether you'll survive.
Lying down in his own bed, he wonders whether he'll be able to sleep. He's never had Steven in his own flat, completely alone, and not touched him. The idea seems ridiculous, and his whole body feels tense as he tries to suppress his desire to do something, to take control and reclaim the boy who belongs to him.
"Fuck." He faces away from his door, determined to not make a fool of himself.
I have to forget. I have to let him go.
I will not let him win.
He wakes suddenly, and blinks into the darkness, all thoughts of tiredness immediately leaving his mind.
Something's not right. There is someone moving in his bedroom. The door has creaked open, and a figure stands before him.
His first thought is that Scottish Foxy's come back early, and has come to confront him about the presence lying on their sofa.
He is just about to tell him to piss off, that he knows better than coming into his room, whether it's the middle of the night or any other time for that matter. That it's his business who he invites to stay, and he'd be wise to remember that.
But then the lamp beside his bed is switched on, and he closes his eyes to reject the light.
"Joel, fucking turn that thing off and get on."
There is no reply, so he forces his eyes open and stares in front of him.
Steven stands before him, no longer wearing Brendan's jumper.
He is no longer wearing anything but a pair of black socks.
Brendan blinks, not from drowsiness this time, but because his mind is rejecting what his eyes are seeing.
The light from the lamp highlights the contours of Steven's body, making every muscle and every line and every feature more beautiful, more masculine.
Brendan's eyes immediately fall to his cock which hangs freely, loose from the layers which previously covered it. It is just as he remembered it, thick and the perfect size, surronded by a smattering of dark hair. Made for him.
Fucking Hell.
Steven stares down at him, completely unashamed. Any hint of shyness or naivity that used to cloud his expresssion have disappeared. Confidence and self assurance have taken over, a pride in his own body, of what he knows it can do.
He makes a move towards Brendan, reaching down with his hands to make contact with Brendan's face.
"Wait." He can't believe he's saying this, that he's stopping this dream, but it is too much, too quick. His brain can't make sense of it.
Steven looks just as confused, as he withdraws his hands momentarily.
"What are you doing, Steven?"
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"This...this isn't...why?" Brendan isn't one for stumbling over his words, but if there's a time for it, he guesses it's now.
"I want to be with you. Inside you."
Brendan has to stop himself from going hot all over at these words. He doesn't think he's ever heard Steven be so direct, so completely sure of what he wants. It's a turn on.
"But after...after what happened." He can't bring himself to say the words. He won't talk about what happened when Declan came to stay, how Steven had hid him from him, what happened when he did. He wonders whether Steven will understand what he means, whether it's as fresh in his mind as it is in his.
"I know." Steven swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "But...I want to be with you, Bren. I need to be. Now."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." Pain permeates his face. "Tomorrow is tomorrow. Lets not think about that."
"You're still drunk, Steven." He can see it in his flushed face, his speech, his eyes.
"So? Doesn't change what I want."
Brendan thinks there's some truth in that. He has spent nights with only his whiskey bottle and thoughts of Steven for company, but it doesn't change things. The alcohol fakes nothing, twists nothing. It just makes him miss him more.
"Are you sure?" He whispers it, because he is scared that the answer will change, that this will be revealed as the fantasy that it is, that he will walk away again.
"Yes. I love you."
And Brendan gets it then. It isn't that Steven forgives him, it isn't that the punch and all the ones before it has been put in a neat little box to never be opened again. Nothing has been resolved, not really, and it would take months, years, a lifetime to fix the mess that he's created. Tomorrow could see them as strangers again, only sharing the odd glance across the village at each other, Ste with Doug, Brendan with Joel.
But in the end, sometimes the pain and the hurt and the anger and the blame is silenced, and something else prevails. Because it's just too hard to keep on fighting it, and giving in feels better than anything else ever will.
"I love you too."
Brendan pulls him towards him, and as if by magic, they once again belong to each other.
Steven's skin feels indescribable, and Brendan desperately sheds his own boxers so their groins can touch, their cocks can rub against one another. Steven lets out a laugh, low but audible, and Brendan understands why without having to ask.
This is the way things are supposed to be.
The first kiss is a frenzy of spit and tongues and lips crushing against one another. In his rush to taste Steven as quickly as possible, Brendan bites his lip, and they break off momentarily.
"Sorry," he says gruffly, looking at the red rawness that his actions have created.
"I like it." Steven grins, and Brendan's reminded of how Steven's always liked it like this, rough to the point of near pain, Steven's hands often clawing at his back, leaving marks that he's looked at in the mirror afterwards, the memory of how they were made making his pupils dilate in need.
He remembers being unsure at first what Steven would be like, because the lad could be so innocent and dim at times, like butter wouldn't melt. But he had caught glimpses of the cheeky fucker that lay within, his challenging and teasing nature, and it had made him wonder if there was perhaps more to him than met the eye. If he liked it the same way as Brendan did, fast and furious. If he'd be the type to beg for more.
He hadn't been wrong.
As they kiss, Brendan's hands stroke everywhere he can get access to - Steven's face, his hair, his neck, his chest, his legs, his thighs, his cock.
He can feel Steven's anticipation and impatience building. His cock is hard against Brendan's stomach, and he is beginning to lose himself.
"Bren...please." His voice is breathless, pleading.
"Please what?" He's reminded of how much he enjoys playing with him.
"You know." Steven looks at him through eyes which burn with desire.
"No. Why don't you tell me?"
Steven sighs. "Put your mouth...please."
He leans forward and sucks Brendan's neck, and Brendan closes his eyes in ectay. He doesn't care if he gets a bruise there tomorrow. He will wear it like a prize.
Steven knows it's one of his weak spots. Brendan realises, not for the first time, that he isn't the one who holds the power here, as much as he wishes he did. Steven knows exactly what to do to get what he wants.
Luckily for him, it happens to be exactly what Brendan wants too.
He moves down the bed, his tongue darting out to lick every circumference of Steven's body as he does so. His body is golden and sweat is already making it gleam. It tastes sticky and sweet on Brendan's lips, a promise of what's to come.
He holds the base of Steven's cock in his hands, and stares up at him, their eyes connecting, excited smiles playing on both their faces.
"Is this what you want?"
Steven nods, then closes his eyes and settles back on the pillow.
Brendan turns his full attention to the stiff cock he grasps in his hand, and softly plants a kiss on it. He feels Steven twitch underneath him. A silent request for more.
He takes him into his mouth, and coats his cock with salvia, his head bobbing backwards and forwards at an increasingly fast pace. He forgot how much he loves this, the feel of Steven, the way he can make him quiver and raise his hips off the bed. There have been men before and since, but none who get to Brendan like this. He has wanted them to feel pleasure, wanted to be the best shag of their lives. But with Steven he wants him to enjoy it not for the control or the power, but because it somehow matters to him. Sometimes, he just wants to make him happy.
As Brendan continues to suck him off, his fingers begin to circle around Steven's hole. It feels tight to him, and he can't help but be encouraged by this. The thought of Steven having been with other men since they've been apart makes him sick, brings a lump to his throat. He doesn't want anyone to have touched his boy. He knows how quickly Steven can fall in love, how open and trusting he is. It is one of the things he loves most about him, but it can be frustrating. Rae, Noah...people who he should have closed the door to.
He absently wonders whether Doug will be the same, if he'll be protective of him, if he'll get in the way.
I'll worry about that tomorrow. Not now.
He prepares Steven, placing three of his fingers inside of him, searching and stretching until Steven cries out, his eyes wide and glazed.
"Come on, come on." He reaches in Brendan's bedside drawer and finds what he's looking for, what he's seen in there before. He tears open the condom and motions for Brendan to come towards him. He places it on Brendan's fully erect cock, his hands trembling ever so slightly.
Brendan lies on top of him and is amazed when Steven parts his legs for him and hooks them around his shoulders, no prompting needed. Still flexible, then. And still wanting it, after all this time. He could kiss the boy for being so extradionary. And he does.
When Brendan enters him, Steven's face twists, and he feels him adjust to the pressure, the complete invasion of his body. Brendan has no doubts now - clearly he has not done this in a long time. He leans down and kisses him in reassurance, but softly now, sensuallly.
"You alright?" Brendan grunts, stroking his hair.
"Yeah. Keep going, it'll only take me a second. Like riding a bike, innit?" He grins, and runs his hands over Brendan's chest, his touch assured.
Brendan pushes in further and begins to move, slowly at first. As well as not hurting Steven, he wants to savour the way he feels inside of him, warm and tight and dark. He may never get this chance again. No amount of one night stands can compete with this. Nothing can, and it thrills him and terrifies him in equal measure.
Brendan knows Steven's really getting into it again when he begins to scrape his fingers over his back, pulling him closer and closing his eyes when it all becomes too much. It is all a blur of sex and socks - Brendan's blue ones, Steven's black ones, the only part of them that is covered. Steven grabs at Brendan's ass, as if making sure he is as deep inside him as possible. And the noises start.
"Brendan, fuck. Harder. Fuccccck...yes, Bren..."
They both come to a climax, unable to hold out any longer. It doesn't matter to either of them. They will doze in each others arms briefly, then start all over again, fucking, memorising each others bodies. Ste will return the favour, will take Brendan's cock into his mouth until he spots the usual signs in Brendan that tells him he's going to let go. The curling of his toes, the hands in his hair, the biting down of his lip, the muffled grunts that escape from his mouth. Then Ste will swallow, and lie back contently in the bed, knowing that he is good at this, that Brendan thinks so too. They will kiss, and it will change from soft to hard, because it always does. It's not something either of them can control.
But for now, they settle in the bed after sleeping together for the first time in nine months. Nine wasted, pointless months when they loved each other secretly and from afar. Where the tears and the anger and the punches filled up their days, until all that appeared to be left was hatred.
Except that's not what's left at all. They don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. They don't have a map of their lives which will tell them how this is going to be, what will become of them. Ste could walk away again. Brendan could let him, could push him away as he has for so long, because it is so much simpler than fighting for him.
All they have is this moment. And for now, that is enough.