The Dublin Anniversary
Happy Stendan. Brendan surprises Ste on their one-year-anniversary since the day they got back together on the Ha'Penny Bridge.
Chapter 1: A Year in an Instant
Brendan's POV:
One year, seems like a long time, doesn't it? Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days. Truth is, it's gone in an instant and we don't even realise it. Today marks the day of my first year - my first proper year - with Stephen.
One year and it still feels like the first when I wake up to him beside me. Long lashes splayed on soft complexion, and bronze limbs tangled with my own pale-Irishness.
Every night is like the fair Dublin city all over again: we fall asleep separated and find our way to each other in the night, our bodies like pieces of a puzzle that mould into place in the dark. All the cracks and cuts pulled closed as we rest at peace. Arguments are forgotten as I feel his radiance around me, encompassing me.
I place a soft kiss on his forehead and he stirs, a smile forming on those deep, rose-petal lips.
He's beautiful, is my Stephen. Stubborn as an ass, but beautiful. All bronze, all warm, all loving. Waking up with him in a morning makes it worth the occasional pain of love; the breathlessness; straining, heaving heart, heavy with regret and relief.
I'm past the point of caring about prying eyes where the public are concerned. I kissed him in the street without realising, and I forgot to check for reactions from the people around us. I realised then that this is for real, what he does to me is real; what he is to me is real. I need him like a lifeline.
"Bren..." Stephen stretches his arms above his head and rolls on to his back, space between him and I increasing; I feel cold. He pulls his left arm down and lays it on his chest, abover his heart.
"Mornin'" I respond, and stroke the back of his hand. His breathing is relaxed and light, barely audible.
Mornings are bliss when it's just Stephen and I; his breathing and mine; the rising and falling of his chest a soothing sensation against me.
The arm I have rested behind his neck is pulled free as I go to sit up and gather my clothes for the day.
"No..." He whimpers and grabs my wrist.
"Stephen, I have work."
His breathing halts for barely a second but I recognise it, a sort of agony, a rejection, that spreads like wildfire through the heart.
"Oh." It's plastered on his face now, the pain.
Reluctantly, I step up off the bed. Boxers now on, I slip my suit-trousers over my legs, and tighten them at the hips. I pull a new shirt from a hanger in the wardrobe and tug it over my broad shoulders and tight, muscular arms, buttoning it up until it reaches the place where my cross falls. I do it all with my back to him because I can't bear to see him, not like that.
Most mornings were the same, but never repetitive. Goading hands begging me to come back to bed. A grab at the wrist asking me to stay, to never leave. Followed by the apology, "I'm sorry, Stephen. I have work, I have to go."
Then the sulk, the pouting of the lips. It reminds him of all those times a few years ago, I suppose; reminds him of the old me. Fresh rejection gnawing at older scars, and I can't bear to see him break from the memories, and I relent.
Almost every morning I am three-quarters-of-an-hour late, and from the haphazard, tousle of my hair and pulled down zipper, everyone knows why. Stephen and I are the towns sex-crazed gays. I don't purposefully flash it around, my love life, but people can shove their homophobia up their arses. I'm done with being scared, because Stephen needs me to be strong; for us.
I don't look at him whilst changing because I can't stay, I have to leave. I have work to do.
Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed.