Wounds

by Love Out Of Lust

One shot. Ste struggles to cope in the aftermath of Brendan's imprisonment.

Whiskey is your drink of choice.

It's not because it was his drink. You're not doing this to bring him back, to make the memory of him fresh and vivid in your mind, no matter what anyone thinks.

The truth is, you've developed a taste for the stuff. You slug is back like it's water, and the pounding in your head finally lessens when it floods through your body, filling you with warmth.

Doug and Amy say you're destroying yourself. You call it a rebirth. You were held back by the shackles of Brendan Brady for too long, and you're finally releasing yourself.

You don't have to play nice anymore.

You've quit your job at the deli. You had to when the arguments became too much. Doug tired of the string of young men turning up at the counter, asking to see you. You turned them away each time. You had a habit of choosing the desperate ones, the ones who thought that just because you'd fucked them it would amount to something more.

You didn't have the heart to tell them that you were dead to relationships.

You didn't have a heart at all.

Any money you get now is through the benefit system. Terry had said you'd amount to this, that you'd never get a proper job, and you feel a twisted sense of satisfaction that you're proving him right. He got what he wanted all along. You're a failure.

When you wake up it's the early afternoon, and you're lying face down on the sofa. You only move because you're developing a cramp, otherwise you'd stay there all day. You've got nowhere else to go.

When you stand up you make your way to the mirror. You're scared to look, and the emotion isn't something you feel familiar with these days. Anything but numbness makes you afraid. You had hoped you'd killed everything you used to feel.

When you stare into the glass, the reflection is of a man that you don't want to see. You look angry. Tired, with dark circles under your eyes, the product of months of late nights, either through going to clubs till the early hours, or nightmares plaguing you in your bed.

You vaguely remember the way your skin used to be golden in colour, but now it's pale, ashen. You look like an extra that's walked out of a horror film.

But most of all you look sad. Achingly sad. You smooth down the tufts of your hair, make yourself look barely presentable, and then turn away.

You don't want to look anymore.

For a moment you stare around the flat. You feel like a stranger in it, and you don't know how you never noticed before how cold it is. Everything about it feels empty.

You grab your jacket and keys, and make your way outside. You're walking aimlessly, having no true sense of purpose, nowhere that you have to be, and no one to visit.

Being unoccupied like this can be dangerous. It makes you do things that you're not allowed to do. Things like stealing a car and using it to drive to the place where you can't let yourself go.

You're going against your own rules here, the few rules that you've kept to survive.

You're digging the knife in deeper, adding to the wounds that already cover your body. Only these ones take longer to heal.

Being back in a car like this reminds you of before you ever met him. Back when you were a teenager, before you'd even gone into young offenders, when Amy hadn't yet given birth to Lucas.

You feel like a joyrider at heart still as you wind down the window of the car, letting your hair blow in the breeze. You feel like you're breathing in polluted air, but that adds to what you're doing. If you're doing something dirty then you want to be tainted, muddied by the same filth.

When you reach your destination it feels too soon, and you're reluctant to get back outside the car. You feel stupid like this, paralysed with fear when you've just driven all these miles to get here. But you rarely think with your head these days. Everything feels too chaotic and fuzzy in your brain, like something was lost the day that he left you.

You laugh internally at left. It's easy to forget that he was torn from you, especially when he's refused every single one of your visits. Sometimes you believe that he's orchestrated this, that he's purposefully removed himself from your life. That this was his plan all along.

You feel like a wife that's been left behind when her husband's gone to war. The battle was more important than you. The guns, the enemies, the darkness. It was all more important than what you had.

Sometimes you come to this prison and just sit overlooking the gates. You can last for hours before you make your way back home. Time seems to have no meaning anymore, and a second can spread out into an hour until you start to notice that it's dark outside.

You have conversations with him in your head. You formulate what you want to do, what you would say to him if he was with you.

Mostly there aren't words though. There are mainly just your fists, and the things you'd do with them to him.

Sometimes you think that he's locked up for his own protection, because if he was free you'd kill him. You wouldn't need a weapon, would just do it with your bare hands, your lover's blood pouring over your knuckles.

You think it sounds strangely poetic.

Other times you think that nothing would keep you apart, that even now you can feel him, sense him behind those walls. Concrete can't seem to separate you. You crave him like he's essential to your survival, and you want him as much as you ever had. Too much. Far, far too much.

You think about being alone with him in his cell, with no one there to stop you or say no.

You miss waking up in the early hours, feeling his arms around you, snaking around your waist and his voice whispering in your ear, asking you if you want to be fucked. You miss the way you used to smile at him, because you haven't smiled at anyone in a long time, not where it didn't strain your muscles to do so. You miss desiring him, and being desired in return.

No one has ever loved you the way he loved you. No one else has ever dug deep enough to find the real you.

That's the dilemma that's spiking your thoughts right now, clouding your judgement. You don't know what you want more, to murder him or make love to him.

You don't stay silent, not this time. You make your way over to the entrance of the prison. You can see the security cameras covering the walls, but there are no guards outside.

It wouldn't make a difference if there was.

"Brendan." It shocks you how hard it is to say his name, how painful. You keep on expecting it to get better, but it never does. It never fades.

Your tone is questioning. You're asking him to come out, to confront you like the man, the brave man that you once thought he was.

He could face all those police officers, a whole firing squad with their guns and helicopters, but he can't face you now.

A locked cell wouldn't keep the man you knew away. He was invincible.

"Come on!" You're screaming it, aware of how ridiculous you sound, but something's propelling you forward, encouraging you to be this bold, this reckless.

Perhaps it's the alcohol that's still in your system, although you sense that it's not that.

It's the hatred that you have for him. The hatred that you feel because he left you, and he promised that he never would.

"Come out and talk to me!" Your voice is raw, sounds rough and tender, scratched and broken.

There's silence from inside the prison. The place could be deserted for all you know.

"You're a fucking coward, Brendan Brady!"

You don't know why you're tormenting yourself further by speaking his full name. It only serves as a reminder of what you wanted to be.

Steven Brady.

A thousand memories appear before your eyes. The bread ring you'd made. The way you'd planned the proposal in your head. You'd been prepared to go down on one knee for him, had dreamed of the way he'd say yes, yes he wanted to marry you.

It would be different this time, different to how it had been with Doug. You wouldn't be doing it because you had something to prove. You didn't care about having an extravagant wedding with Brendan. You'd marry him in Vegas if you had to, would probably suit you both, a quick ceremony and a longer honeymoon consisting of a mini bar and a kingsize bed.

You're sinking to your knees in front of the prison, and even though you land on solid concrete you feel like you're sinking through quicksand, and no one is pulling you out.

"Brendan."

You sound like a wounded animal, and it reminds you of your cries for him at the hospital, the last time you ever saw him.

He'd been composed, quiet for the most part until the end, and detached from you. He'd talked about you living your life as though that were a possibility. As though you knew how to exist without him.

You remember echoing the words he'd once spoken to you, telling him that you couldn't do this without him. You wonder if he'd thought you were being melodramatic, ridiculous.

You had been right. It's been four months, and still don't know how to do this without him. Your flat isn't your home, no matter how many photographs litter the walls.

He is. He is your home, and when he left he took everything with him.

You spent the first month of his incarceration trying to get back the life you'd had before he'd existed, but now you're just trying to concentrate on surviving each second, each minute.

The fact that you're still breathing is an achievement.

You swear every day when you wake up that you'll never cry over Brendan again, but every day you do.

You stand shakily to your feet, pebbles from the ground clinging to your tracksuit bottoms, the same pair that you were wearing when Brendan moved into your flat, when he unzipped you and fucked you.

Everything holds a memory. You'd have to burn down the entire world to remove every single trace of him.

"Fine." You make sure you scream this the loudest of all. "Rot away for all I care. Selfish bastard."

You wish your words were something solid, something that you could see float through the air and into his cell, wherever he is.

Instead you try to believe that he can hear it.

You're driving erratically when you get back onto the road. You hope that you crash into someone. It seems like an explosive end for you, going out with a bang. You hope it'll be as brutal as possible, that the car will go up in flames.

But something in you is still stubbornly clinging onto life, and you reach the village still intact, nothing physically broken.

You immediately walk towards The Dog. You need more alcohol in your system. The effects of the whiskey and cider that you had yesterday is beginning to wear off, and you can't allow that to happen.

Darren serves you, begrudgingly. You can tell that he dislikes you, that he thinks you're increasingly turning into dirt on the bottom of his shoe. An annoyance. An unwelcome presence in his pub.

But another emotion overrides this. Pity. He pities you. It's worse than his disgust.

You sit outside in the sunshine. It's strange how it doesn't feel warm, how it doesn't penetrate your skin. It's as though you've formed a barrier against anything good.

You can see the people around you sitting in their skirts and dresses. They're happy because summer's arrived. You can't remember that feeling.

You don't take off your jacket. It's his leather one, too large for you but it keeps you warmer than your own. Underneath it you've got his hooded jumper on, the one that he was wearing when you chased him outside the police station, pleading with him not to go after Walker. To stay with you instead.

Brendan didn't often wear casual clothes, not like you. Most of the time you saw him in his standard uniform, a sharply cut suit. You liked him in his ordinary clothes. He looked more approachable. More human somehow. He was accessible to you, and reminded you of when he would lounge in front of the television in the flat, his jogging bottoms loose enough for you to slip your hand in and start stroking his cock while he watched a film. The credits would roll and you'd be lying sprawled under him on the sofa, him inside you.

It's becoming increasingly easy for you to lie to yourself, to pretend that you wear his clothes because you can't afford new ones. You gave all your old jumpers and tight jeans to the charity shop months ago, and now all you have left are a few pairs of tracksuits and everything of Brendan's, his clothing still residing in your wardrobe.

They still smell like him.

Sometimes you sleep with them on at night, and you can close your eyes and imagine that he's still with you, that he never left. It's comforting and harrowing, because when you wake up you expect him to be beside you.

It feels like he's died, except there's nowhere to go to mourn. There's no coffin, no urn of ashes to cry over. He never had a funeral. You couldn't wax lyrical about the kind of man he was, or share stories with Cheryl about everything the three of you did together.

When she left you lost the last part of him. For a while you'd clung on to Chez Chez, had gone in just to be close to him, to order his favourite drink and sit in his office, but it became a building to you.

You realised that it was nothing without Brendan in it.

You're finding that alcohol doesn't effect you the way it used to. Your tolerance has increased, and despite your skinny frame you don't get as drunk as easily. You need more of it to allow your mind to rest.

It's only when you've downed several pints that you begin to feel something like peace.

And it's then that you see Brendan.

You rise so quickly from your seat that the chair lands with a crash onto the ground. Brendan turns round at the sound, his eyes searching for the source of the commotion.

It's not him. You should have known that it was impossible, but you see him wherever you go. This man doesn't have his sky blue eyes, doesn't have the distinctive dark moustache. He looks younger, perhaps a year or two so.

He smiles at you in a way that Brendan never would have done when he'd first met you.

You pick up the chair and sit down feeling embarrassed, and intensely relieved that this man can't read your thoughts and know who you thought he was. You doubt the name Brendan Brady would mean anything to him. He's not a local around here.

But then you remember the papers, and Brendan's face splashed on the front page of them. The details of his arrest, and the crimes he'd confessed to.

Everyone knows what he's done. Everyone knows that you're the one that he left behind.

You drink more of your pint to try and distract yourself. But when you see a shadow blocking the rays of sun from your face, you turn and stare at the stranger. You wonder if he wants something, if he's here to steal your money. He won't find much if that's the case. You're spending on drink what you were meant to save for food.

You may not be muscular, but you're pretty sure you can take him, if need be.

But he's not after that.

"Are you okay?"

You roll your eyes. Everyone asks if you're okay, but no one truly wants to know the answer. That kid was the same, before you'd taken him back to your flat and to your bed, and taken his virginity. George, you think his name was. He'd found you sitting outside this exact pub, had asked you if you were alright. If there was anyone he could call.

You had said there wasn't. You had no one.

You still have no one.

"Fucking fine and dandy, me." You smile acidically at him, tilting your pint his way, some of the alcohol spilling and sloshing to the floor. You snigger. "Oops."

"Maybe I can get you a refill?"

He's got your attention now. Mr no name can stay if he's offering to buy you another drink.

When he comes back with two pints you clink glasses with him. It doesn't matter who he is. He could be Noah Baxter and you'd still sit with him.

But the stranger doesn't want to be a stranger, and his talking is incessant, irritating.

"My name's Pete."

Your beer almost goes down the wrong way, and you splutter a little before gathering your composure.

You don't know why you're reacting like this. Pete's a common name. You went to school with several Pete's.

But it's a sore spot. It reminds you of another lifetime. A better one, even if you were punched for the questions you asked back then. At least he was still here, still with you.

"Who are you?"

You consider giving him a false name, I'm Darren Osborne, but decide against it. What's the point?

"Ste."

"Short for Steven?"

This man seems to have been sent by Satan to torment you.

"No. No one ever calls me Steven. My name's Ste." You say it very firmly, no room for error.

Pete looks at you curiously. You know you must sound strange, overly defensive. But you can't bear for anyone to call you by your full name again. It was something that only you and Brendan shared.

"Do you live locally?"

So many questions. You're starting to regret accepting his drink.

"Not too far from here." You don't want to give him any details. He's attractive, but that can be misleading. You could have another Silas Blissett on your hands. The moment when you found out about what had happened to Rae is still fresh in your mind, feels like two minutes ago rather than two years.

The moment when you thought Brendan was a killer.

Turns out he was one, but it didn't stop you from loving him.

"What about you? I haven't seen you before." If you're going to get the third degree then you're going to give it back.

"Just moved here. Seems pretty quiet so far."

You laugh, but it doesn't feel like you are. It feels like you're still screaming.

"Yeah, well you're lucky mate." Even now you expect to hear sirens in the background, are sure that they come to you at night sometimes. Perhaps it's a nightmare, reminding you of what you lost. Or maybe it's a dream, the best kind, where you remember that night. The night where you still had Brendan in your life, and didn't feel like you'd lost grip on your sanity.

"I'm going to a party tonight, actually."

You wonder why he's telling you this, wonders why he assumes that you care about any insignificant detail of his pathetic little life.

Is he trying to make you feel small, worthless because you're not going anywhere?

"You could come, if you want."

You look at him, feel like you're properly seeing him as who he is, rather than being Brendan like you had wanted him to be.

He's undeniably good looking, and he's flirting with you. Perhaps not as openly as men have in the past, but his intent is clear enough now. You understand what this is all about. Him buying you a drink, and making small talk.

He doesn't feel sorry for you. He wants to fuck you.

You're not used to having to travel to a party to get a shag. You usually make do with inviting a man back to your place, and after a drink or two, or three, or four, you'll show him where the bedroom is.

You fuck these men until it hurts, and they'll leave and you'll cling desperately to the momentary satisfaction that it gives you.

You could refuse this man, this Pete. You're tired, so tired, a tiredness that never seems to disappear, and you could easily go back to the flat alone.

But you know what's waiting for you there. Drawers full of Brendan's clothes. Some of his favourite meals in your cupboards, when you can be bothered to cook for yourself. You've lost weight, and you know that Brendan wouldn't mention your chicken arms anymore.

They're more non existent these days. You can feel your ribs sticking out when you turn over in your bed at night. They poke into the mattress uncomfortably.

You don't know why anyone would want you.

"Okay." You're surprised when you say it, when you agree. "I'll come."

Pete smiles at you, as though your answer matters to him. As though this is the start of something. You don't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.

Does he think you're about to fall in love with him? You can't see why anyone would want that to happen. You did once, when you were younger. A few months ago you thought that love was the best thing you'd ever feel on this earth.

Life has broken you.

When you drink more of your pint Pete stares at you. He looks like you're an insect behind a glass, and the next step will be for him to prod and poke at you, finding out exactly what's wrong. Perhaps he'll cut you up and look at your insides, trying to find the root cause of the problem.

"Slow down!" He laughs, but he's starting to sound unsure here. You've scared him. You have the tendency to do that to people these days. They don't know what to make of you, how to deal with you, what to say. "They'll be more booze at the party."

It's an incentive to go, a bigger incentive than anything else. It's a chance to get drunk without denting more of a hole in your pocket.

You stop drinking at such a rapid pace. You want to appear normal, to follow his rules. You sense that he needs you to be a good little boy like everyone else does. You're not allowed to be who you are, to express the grief that you feel.

It was allowed for a week or two, but then people grew tired of it. They demanded that you pull yourself together, that you start planning for the future.

A future that now seems black and dark.

Pete asks for your number, says that he'll do some shopping in town while he waits for you to get changed. You're guessing that your clothing doesn't pass his standards, that an all in one blue tracksuit isn't acceptable for a party.

You've forgotten what people wear for things like that. The closest you and Brendan got were club nights at Chez Chez. You didn't need to be surrounded by a heaving mass of sweating, drunk strangers.

You and him made your own fun.

When you reach the flat you try and make the time go quicker. You phone Amy. She's at her dad's house in Manchester, and when Mike answers the phone there's the awkwardness between you that there always is.

He still doesn't forgive you for everything you did to his daughter.

When Amy comes on the line she's distracted. You can hear the kids voices in the background, and they sound hyper and over active, the way they get after consuming a large quantity of sugar.

You ask to speak to them, but she stops you.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now."

"Why not?" You're aware that you're getting confrontational, but you don't understand why she won't let you talk to the only people who still love you, before they grow up and become old enough to understand who you truly are, and want nothing to do with you.

"You sound drunk, Ste."

This is your usual state. You don't feel drunk. You feel as normal as you can be.

"I'm not."

"You're slurring."

"I've just woken up, haven't I?" You lie, but it's futile. Either argument paints you out to be the bad guy. If you're drunk then you're reckless, irresponsible. Exactly like your mother. If you've just woken up then you're lazy. Directionless. Someone who sleeps their life away.

"Please, just let me speak to them," you continue, increasingly sounding like you're begging.

Amy does what she always does, attempting to soothe you with words which only serve to remind you of what a disappointment you must be to her. You worry that she doesn't think you're a good father, and that she hasn't done for quite some time.

It's only at the end of the conversation that she asks you the question that you've been dreading.

"How are you?"

You tell her you're fine, that you're coping. It's your standard answer, and it seems to calm her. Convince her that you're getting through each day. She doesn't realise that every day you imagine scenarios. Situations where you kill yourself.

You imagine taking an overdose, but then you remember what happened to Darren's relative, Esther. You don't want to end up in hospital after a failed attempt, hooked up to wires and machines, waiting for a liver transplant.

You've thought about walking in front of a train. It would ensure a quick death. But then you remember how the same thing happened to Walker. And when you start thinking about him, you think about Brendan.

A part of you, the last remaining rational part, knows that Brendan would take his own life if you took yours. He's too important to you to die. Even if heaven exists, you don't think you'd be happy there knowing that Brendan's children had lost him. You can't leave Leah and Lucas behind. You don't ever want them to think that you gave up on them, the way that Brendan's given up on you.

When you hang up the phone you go into your bedroom, and begin to look for something to wear.

Your fingers trace over the material of a shirt buried at the back of your wardrobe. It's so creased that it looks like it'll be a heavy task to iron, but it's the best shirt you own. Not too fancy, but the kind of thing that'll fit in at a party. You don't want to stick out, don't want peoples eyes all over you.

When you try it on you remember the last time you wore it. It was a long time ago. You had brought it that same day, had gone into town at the end of your shift and quickly gone into the shops. You couldn't wear one of your scruffy t-shirts on your first night on the town with your boss. Brendan looked amazing in everything he wore, and you didn't want to show him up.

The first time you'd kissed him, you'd been wearing this.

Your hope that it stills smell of his aftershave evaporates when you inhale it. It doesn't smell of anything, just dust from being kept in this condition for years.

You find the last remaining pair of jeans that you own, grateful that you had the sense to hang onto one in case your jogging bottoms wouldn't do.

You've got hours spread before you until you've arranged to meet Pete again, and you spend them on the sofa. You put the television on but don't register what you're watching. You find it hard to focus on anything these days. It feels as though everything that was once in your brain has melted away.

Perhaps it's because everything that you used to think about is connected to him. What to buy the two of you for supper. What Johnny Cash album he'd like for his birthday. What text to send him that day, that would make the time go faster while you were both at work. How you'd fuck him that night, in what position, and in which spot of the house.

It's all gone now.

You fall asleep, and wake up shortly before the time you're due to leave. You consider canceling, but you don't have Pete's number, and you can't face meeting him and explaining that you can't go because you've forgotten how to smile and have fun, and you've never been able to dance.

Brendan used to say that your dancing looked like you were on drugs.

You make your way over to Tony's restaurant, the one that he's replaced the gym with. You're relieved when he doesn't see you standing outside. Seeing him is a reminder of your past. He's seen the best and worst of you, seen you when you were lying to the village, trying to scam them into believing that your daughter had leukemia, and he's seen you when you were at your happiest, when you were more settled than you'd ever been in your life.

Pete's on time, and he's freshened up. He's put some styling gel in his hair, and has a jacket slung over his shoulders. He smiles at you like he's pleased to see you, like he's greeting an old friend instead of someone he's only known for a matter of hours.

You wonder what it is that he could possibly see in you. Maybe he likes damaged men. Perhaps it's where he gets his kicks.

You're pleased that the house you're going to isn't far away. You only have to get the bus, and the sound of the traffic makes the silence between you less humiliating.

He tries to make conversation, but you find that you're useless at it. You don't have the words anymore. You used to be able to chat for England, used to never be able to shut up. Brendan had told you that you talked too much.

Now you barely say anything at all. You watch the world pass you by, your eyes on the streets outside. You see people holding hands, kissing. You see someone arguing. You see a woman crying.

You feel distanced from every emotion, whether joy or pain or loss. You can't touch any of it.

"Ste. We're here." Pete's lightly brushing his hand against your arm, alerting you that this is your stop.

You blink to try and focus again, and follow him. The area you're in is nice, nicer than your own. The house looks like the kind owned by some snotty nosed upper class kid, the kind that you used to eat for breakfast.

You don't have the energy anymore.

When you go in you look around the room. You don't know why, but you realise you're searching for someone you recognise. Cheryl. Joel. Kevin. Walker. Mitzeee.

Anyone who reminds you of him.

But there's just a sea of nameless people.

"Can I get you a drink?" Pete yells over the music.

You nod, because a drink is exactly what you came here for. You stand by the corner of the room as Pete goes and fills up a paper cup.

The music sounds incredibly loud to you, the lyrics pulsing into your head. You hadn't realised until now how many songs are about love. Even the ones you're meant to dance to have a sentimental meaning behind them, and you can't bear it. Every song speaks to you.

When Pete comes back with your drink you down it in one. He looks at you in concern, and you stare back at him heatedly, wordlessly letting him know that if he wants you here then he has to accept that this is the way you are.

You're drunk, but not nearly enough. You know what else makes you feel disconnected, the way you want to be right now.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" Your voice sounds seductive, coaxing, and you startle yourself with what a good actor you are.

You think for a moment that Pete's going to refuse, but after a second he nods his head, and you take the lead, finding the stairs and making your way to one of the bedrooms.

You lock it behind you when you're both inside, and your lips find his before you've even switched on the light.

"Woah, Ste!" Pete breaks away, looking at you with wide eyes.

Some men react like this initially. Like they're shocked by your forwardness, and pretend that they didn't come here for this.

There's no other reason why two people would be alone like this. Sex is your narcotic.

"Is something wrong?" You say it in annoyance. It's only prolonging the inevitable.

"We only just met."

"Yeah, but I want you. I want to fuck you."

You used to say this all the time to Brendan, would be gripping his thighs at the time, pleading with him to stick his dick in you.

But it seems to come as a surprise for Pete, and he doesn't look at you in the same way as Brendan used to.

"Did something happen to you, Ste? I mean...are you okay?"

You're tired of talking. Tired of people pretending to care.

"Do you want to sleep with me or not? Because if you don't, then I'm out of here."

There's no point in pretending otherwise. Sex was a bigger incentive than booze in accepting this invitation.

You're about to walk out of the door, are sure that Pete will say no. He's chewing on his lip, confusion sparking his eyes, uncertainty clouding his face.

But for some reason that's incomprehensible to you, he still wants you.

When he maneuvers you onto the bed it reminds you of something. Someone. The last guy you slept with had been a bottom, and it wasn't your natural role. You enjoyed it, had become used to it with Doug, but you craved something else, for someone to dominate you.

You wanted to be controlled. It had made you so easy for Brendan, and more than that it had made you feel like you could let go. Like your life wasn't falling apart, because he was holding all the pieces together.

Pete is on top of you, is all around you, flooding your senses. When you claw his t-shirt off him his chest is covered in a thick expanse of dark hair, and your hands go to it immediately, your nails gliding across the skin.

He's lost the shyness that was there before, and when he kisses you for the first time he rubs his tongue against yours. His mouth is warm, and you allow yourself to get lost in it, to try and replace your thoughts with what he's doing to you.

When he brings a condom out of his pocket you're surprised. It's been months since you were with Brendan, but something still seems strange about using them. You and Brendan had stopped being protected. It felt like a display of his commitment to you, his assurance that there was no one else.

Now you're just one in a long line of many.

The condom lies on the bed while he blows you. He's good at giving you head, talented with his tongue, giving darting little flicks and smoothing it along your foreskin. You close your eyes and rock into him slowly, one armed braced on his shoulder.

You're still trying to get used to not feeling the prickle of a moustache around you. Four months and you still expect it to be there, for you to laugh at the way it tickles. This man is too clean shaven, not enough to remind you of Brendan. Perhaps that's for the best.

Sometimes when you dream about visiting him in prison you imagine telling him about this. You imagine giving him the details, the exact details until he hates you as much as you hate yourself. You could tell him about how you slept with someone three days after he was gone. How you've been doing it almost every night since.

Perhaps he'd call you a slut, a whore. Perhaps even if he could have you again he wouldn't want you. He might see you as tainted, used goods.

You shake the thoughts from your head, and concentrate on the man in front of you, his lips around your cock.

You make sounds to encourage him. You never used to have to think about this before. It came naturally to you in the past, but now you have to make a conscious effort to try and ignite your body.

It doesn't stop you from wanting to come though. Pete crawls up your body before you do, and you sigh at him releasing you from his mouth. You like what he's doing now though. His lips are on your nipples, and he's tugging hard.

It's something that Brendan used to do, a kink. He liked playing with them, his teeth grazing against them.

"Harder." It's a demand, and Pete obeys, biting down on the flesh. You're going to have a mark there tomorrow.

You hope it hurts.

You play with Pete's cock as you kiss. You haven't kissed someone this much in a while. You prefer not to, but he'll think you're strange if you pull away, if you tell him that you only want his lips on your cock and your arse and your chest and thighs, not on your mouth.

He lines himself up and taps his cock against your entrance.

"Hang on a sec." You turn round so that your face is pressed against the pillow, your arse facing him.

You used to love looking into Brendan's eyes as you came, but you'll never have that again. You prefer this now, prefer feeling it rather than seeing it.

Pete kisses your back, and it's soft, and more gentle than you'd like. He doesn't prepare you, doesn't move his fingers to your hole or explore you with his tongue. He's six, maybe seven inches, and there's not the need to open you up that there was with Brendan, when you'd had nine solid inches driving into you. Back then you had felt like you'd be ripped in two before it had began to make your toes curl, your spine arching off the bed.

When he begins to thrust inside you, your mind drifts. You feel hot and sticky from the feeling of Pete on top of you coupled with the booze, and your thoughts are hazy.

You recapture a memory. It's foggy, distant even though it happened in the not so distant past.

The last time you'd ever had sex with Brendan.

He had come back to your flat, his face covered in blood. You'd been anxiously staring out of the window at the time, boiling the kettle and waiting for his return. When you'd seen him your mouth had formed an O shape, had rushed over to him and tried to anchor his face towards you.

He'd winced, and you'd taken your hands off him. He was hurt, of course he was, and he didn't need your fingers over him, adding to his pain.

"Walker?"

He knew what you were asking him.

"Dead."

You nodded, unable to know how you should feel about this. Brendan was safe. Your kids were safe, and so were you. You had to be relieved because of that, but it didn't mean that you were going to celebrate his death.

It was necessary though. This was only ever going to have one ending.

"What happened?"

Brendan shrugged out of his jacket, and sat down on the sofa. He looked in shock, pale and dazed.

You were aware of giving him space, and went to pour him a mug of tea, cursing yourself for being so British and thinking that it could fix everything.

"There was a fight on the tracks..." You looked at him curiously, and he added "Train tracks. He...I kicked him in front of the train."

You tried to digest this information. There was no right reply for this, no way of knowing how to react when the person you love, your boyfriend, tells you that he's just murdered someone.

But he wasn't a killer. Not in your mind. Brendan wasn't cold blooded, didn't gain satisfaction from ending another persons life. And that was enough for you.

You didn't know what it said about the kind of person that you were, but it was enough.

"He can't hurt us anymore then."

"No," Brendan agreed, his head between his hands. "He's never going to touch you, or Leah and Lucas." His voice was muffled, but he sounded convinced of his words, and in turn this convinced you.

You thought what a pair you must have made, both of you covered in bruises. The bruises that Brendan had given you, and the bruises that Simon Walker had given him.

"I'll run a bath for us." You wanted to be clean again.

"Us?" He sounded hopeful, but afraid. Afraid to hope.

"Yeah. Us."

You walked to the bathroom, and ran the hot water, making sure that the bath was warm under your touch. You added in bubble bath, and swirled the water around with your fingertips, mixing the liquid in until it wasn't transparent anymore.

You sensed Brendan behind you, and his t-shirt was off. You were relieved that he wasn't more sore, more damaged. He was still in one piece, this man of yours, and when he unbuckled his trousers you couldn't take your eyes off him.

You watched each other as you both got undressed. His eyes flittered over yours in a way that made you feel wanted. You brushed your hand over your cock to tempt him, but he didn't need to be tempted. He already desired you, needed you.

He lay down in the bath first, the wiry hair on his chest growing darker under the water. You climbed in after him, and although it was a tight squeeze you liked it. You liked that whenever he moved you could feel him pressing against you. You were as close as you could be.

He kissed against your shoulders.

"I didn't think you'd let me be like this with you again." Brendan sounded vulnerable. Young.

You hadn't known whether you would be like this either. You hadn't been able to trust him, hadn't been able to love him when he used his fists against you.

But he was in your every thought, constantly in your heart. You didn't want to exist without him. Asking him to move out and to end your relationship would only cause pain for you. More pain than his hands were capable of doing.

"I'm just glad you're safe."

When he said he loved you, you said it back without hesitation, watching as he poured water over the both of you, wetting your eyelashes.

"Can I touch you?"

"You're already touching me," you reminded him, but you knew what he meant.

You raked your hand through his hair to pull him closer, and kissed him to let him know that he could do whatever he wanted.

His hand snaked forward to grasp your cock, and he began moving his palm up and down through the bubbles.

You felt wild that night, loose and desperate for him. You wanted to honour the fact that you were both still alive.

He kissed your neck the entire time he stroked you, and his lips were wetter than usual because of the water, and softer. His free hand was gripping your chest, and you bit down on your lip, savouring the feeling of what he was doing to your dick.

When you were about to come you moved away from his hold, leaning forward in the bath, your entrance more available to him.

"Go on," you encouraged, rocking back in his direction.

You heard the sound of him spitting onto your hole, and felt the moisture being rubbed against you. His uncertainty had gone, and when he inserted the first finger he felt assured, confident. It made you want him more.

"That feels good." You groaned, remembering that you didn't have to be quiet anymore, not now the kids weren't here.

When his tongue replaced his finger you leaned against the top of the bath, laying your heated skin against the coldness of the tub. Your mouth was hanging open, and you felt as though you were drooling from Brendan's actions, shouting out in pleasure.

You could hear him chuckling darkly, the way he always did when you got like this. You knew that it made him hard, that he liked seeing you come undone. It wasn't a conscious decision that you made. You weren't making these sounds to impress him. You listened to your body and followed your instincts.

When you were open and craving his cock inside you, you became curious as to how he would want you. You stayed in position for a moment, expecting him to enter you from behind, you rocking on all fours.

But Brendan's arms were around you, and he was pulling you back towards him, and he seated you on his cock, his hands fondling your nipples, his chest flush with your back.

You swore at the feel of him inside you, and kept on swearing until you were filled with every inch of him, the head of his cock rubbing against you deliciously.

Then you began to rise.

You felt him give into it, felt him give the control to you, the power. He stayed almost motionless while you fucked yourself on his cock, bouncing in the water and using the sides of the bath to support yourself.

Your face was pointed up to the ceiling, your eyes closed as you tightened around him, your shouts echoing around the walls. You were pleased that you weren't the only one who was being vocal. Brendan was grunting into your shoulder, his hands on your stomach erratic, almost shuddering against you.

"Turn around, boy."

Boy. You would never admit to him that you loved it when he called you that, that it sparked excitement within you.

You untangled yourself from him and pulled out, immediately facing him and guiding his cock into you again, holding your breath when he first entered you.

Now that you were face to face with him you could kiss him easily, and you took advantage of that fact. While you made tiny rotations of your hips you massaged your tongue over his, and his hands were moving in your hair roughly.

Brendan came before you did, and it propelled you into following him. You spilled over his stomach and your hand, and it disappeared beneath the water, you licking up any remaining.

You remember thinking you'd be okay, you and him. That once everything died down it would always be like this, and you could get back what you once had. You still loved him, and you could learn to trust him again.

You thought that you and Brendan could survive anything.

When you come now it's against the pillow. You feel vaguely embarrassed for whoever the house belongs to you, but you expect they're prepared for incidents like this, that it's the whole purpose of these parties.

You see Pete take off the condom, tie it up and throw it in the bin, and grin at you.

You do something that could pass as a smile.

"You're amazing."

You don't thank him for the compliment. You don't feel amazing, you feel drunk and like you're haunted by a ghost that won't leave.

He kisses you, again. You wipe it away when he's not looking, not because it wasn't fine, but because it's unnecessary. A pointless sentimental exchange of lips.

"I'm thirsty. Do you want another beer? I can run downstairs, get us one?"

You nod, craving the few minutes of peace, and terrified of what you'll do in them. When he's gone you close your eyes, screwing them up as tightly as they'll allow.

You hear a soft mound land on the bed beside you. Pete must be back already.

But the voice that speaks to you isn't his. It's familiar, feels more familiar than your own.

"Open your eyes, Steven."

Only one person calls you that. Perhaps two, when you've done something to spectacularly piss Amy off.

You open your eyes like you're obeying the command of God.

He's smiling across at you, but there's concern there, unmistakable. No one's looked at you with that much care in a long time.

"What are you doing?" It's not a casual question. He asks it as if you've done something stupid, crazy. Perhaps he's right.

You decide to give him a question of your own.

"What are you doing here, Brendan?"

He looks around the room disdainfully, as if he's judging your surroundings.

"Didn't think you'd be in a place like this."

"It's alright," you say, defensive. "Better than the flat." You don't think you have to remind him of the peeling wallpaper, the clothes which littered your bedroom floor.

"I liked the flat."

The past tense isn't lost on you.

"Oh yeah? You never told me."

"I liked the person in it," he says softly, and he stares directly down at your mouth, just like he always used to do. "It was our home."

You nod. It was. You'd been wondering whether you'd move one day, get a bigger place together. But it held so many memories, memories of the first time you'd ever slept with him, where you'd first lived together.

"Sorry," you say suddenly. You feel a tremendous sense of guilt washing over you. The man you've just fucked has barely left the room.

Brendan seems to understand.

"It's okay. You never said you were a monk, Steven."

You smile, remembering his words to you on that bridge in Dublin. It feels good to smile with him again.

"You don't hate me then, do you?"

He shakes his head reverently. "Don't ask questions that you already know the answer to."

You open your mouth to protest.

"And don't pout." You hadn't realised you'd been doing it. "You know I love it when you do that, and I can't fuck you now."

"Why not?" You say desperately, and you wonder if it's because of Pete, if Brendan truly does harbor some resentment towards you for it.

"You know why."

You stare at him. You don't know.

He sighs, rubbing his temple. He may be frustrated with you, but he looks as perfect as he ever did, dressed in a tight fitting pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, his muscles on display to you, close enough so that you could bend over and bite them.

"Because I'm not really here. I'm gone."

"No." You're scared now, and frantic for this to be real. "I can touch you!"

But your arms suddenly don't seem to be working.

"See?" He looks at you knowingly. "This is all in your head, Steven. You're keeping me alive inside."

You don't care if you're pouting now. He's being difficult, and confusing, and is talking in riddles.

"Yeah, so what if I am? I need you to be here."

"But I'm not. I'm locked up." He sits up in bed so that he's towering above you, and you feel fragile. "You have to let go."

You wish your body was working properly, wish that you could hold onto him and convince him that he has to stay, that he has to come back for good.

"I have let go." It's spoken without conviction. You're just going through the motions, saying what Amy and Doug and everyone else wants to hear.

You haven't let go.

"I don't want you killing yourself."

You blink rapidly at his words. "What?"

"Don't pretend that's not what you're doing. One of these days you're going to go too far, aren't you? And I'm not going to be around to save you."

"Exactly!" You finally manage to rise from the bed. "You're not going to be around! So who's going to help me? You were always..." You feel tears rolling down your cheeks, and hastily try to wipe them away.

"You have to save yourself."

You scoff at him. As though it's that simple. You've never been any good at relying on yourself. There's always been someone.

And you've always wanted him most of all.

"Why did you have to go away?" You're pleading with him for answers now, unashamedly crying. "Did you not love me enough? Because I loved you more than anything. I would have done anything for you."

"And you don't think I was the same? I killed for you."

You brush this aside as if it's dust in the air. "I never asked you to do that. I just wanted you to stay with me. That would have been enough."

Brendan's staring at the door now, and he looks impatient. You wonder if he wants to leave you, if he's already grown tired of you.

He covers his lips with a finger, making a shhhh sound.

"I have to go now."

"No!" You scream it, needing him to understand the importance of staying by your side forever. "No, you can't. Brendan!"

When you wake up there are hands shaking you, and he's gone.

Pete's standing over you clutching two beers, and he's looking at you as though you're something weak, delicate.

"I must have fallen asleep," you mumble, propping yourself up by your elbows.

"Sorry, there was a massive queue in front of the drinks, and then two guys started fighting. You must have been really tired."

"Yeah." You stare around the room, trying to find Brendan, as though he's hiding in the corner somewhere, out of sight but present.

When you don't find him the sadness feels like it's crushing you.

You know what you want to do now, and Pete can't be a part of it. It's something you should have done four months ago, and when you refuse the drink he offers to you and speak your apologies, you make your way back to the village, your intent clear.

---

You hate writing letters, hate writing anything. It reminds you of being back at school and feeling stupid, different. It had taken you a long time to write letters to Brendan, first the one where you told him that you had scammed the money for the deli from him, and the second, the Valentine's Day card, where you'd told him you loved him.

This one takes you less than an hour to write. Your handwriting is uneven on the page, and your scrawl is anything but neat. You're sure that you've made countless spelling mistakes, but you don't think Brendan will laugh at you for them.

Initially you start with Dear Brendan, but it sounds too formal, not fitting for everything that you were. You cross it out and just write Brendan instead.

Brendan,

I didn't think I'd ever be writing this letter. I thought I hated you too much, and after you refused my visits I think I stopped believing in us. It hurt, and I didn't want to remember. I didn't want to remember that we were in love, and that I had been planning for our entire future together.

Everyone thinks that I'm better off like this, Amy especially. She visited after you got taken away, and she said that it was time for me to figure out who I am without you. I've learnt exactly who I am, and it's not someone I like. I don't like the things I do when I'm not with you. The way I act, the way I treat people. I've pushed everyone away, anyone who ever gave a fuck about me, because they only end up reminding me that they're not you.

I know that you think I'm better off without you too, but the truth is, I'm falling apart here. My clothes are hanging off me. I don't know how much weight I've lost, but I can't eat these days. Everything tastes like rubber, and when I swallow it down it feels like it's stinging. I look awful. I can't even stare back at my reflection anymore, because it's as though a stranger's staring out at me. I started to like the way I looked when I was with you. I thought I looked happy.

I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you for being this selfish. You can be a bastard when you want to be. You probably think you're being some kind of hero, letting me live my life and not be tied down to you, not visiting you while you're inside. But there's nothing heroic about what you've done. You've ended up hurting me more than Terry ever did, because I just want to see you. I just want to see you and hold you and kiss you, and get you to tell me that everything will be okay.

We were just starting, weren't we? We had barely even begun, and then you were gone. And every single stupid thing in my stupid life reminds me of you now. Every song that plays on the radio. Every character on every tv show. Every place I visit. Everything I own in this flat is attached to you somehow.

So if you wanted to erase yourself from my life, then you've done a terrible job of it. I'm clinging onto you more than I ever have. That night on the balcony I found out about everything you had done, all the people you'd killed. And I still wanted to be with you. Doesn't that tell you anything? Doesn't that tell you that where we're concerned, there's nothing that we can't get through? That I'll stand by you no matter what.

You think I'll get over this, that I'll move on and forget about you. That I'll be better off without you. But I know I won't ever be. I still feel the same as I did at the hospital. I still know that I'll never feel any differently about you.

You have two choices. You can continue as you are and leave me here, and I'll be in prison just as much as you are. I think I'll end up dead in less than a year. I'm drinking more than you ever have, more than Seamus ever did. But it's still not enough. I want more. I want to forget everything, and everyday that I'm still alive, I think about new ways to damage myself.

Or, you can let me visit you. You can let me back into your life again, and you can realise that you need to stop trying to protect me, because it rarely ends up making me happy. You make me happy, without even trying.

I'll love you forever either way, but I don't want to go through this anymore. I'm exhausted. I'm done with living without you.

You write Ste at the bottom, but then change your mind.

Steven.

---

It's a Wednesday when you get the visiting order, and your breath catches in your throat.

You wear the tracksuit that's his favourite, and try to stop yourself from having a panic attack.

You feel like this is your lifeline, the one chance you may have to convince him to be with you. You never visited him the first time, but you plan on being there for every visit now, if he'll let you. You've got a lot of time to make up for.

When you're being checked over by the guards you picture him in your head, imagining him sporting a thick beard like he was during his first imprisonment. You hope that the cuts on his face that he had back then aren't there now. Brendan being hurt brings out something ugly and twisted in you, something that makes you want to kill whoever's responsible.

You see him before he sees you. You were right. He still has the moustache, but it's less distinctive now that it's alongside thicker stubble.

You feel some of the tension leave your body when you see that he's unharmed. He's dressed down, casual, but he still looks like Brendan. Your Brendan.

When he sees you he stops. The other prisoners continue to move around him, finding their own visitors and seats, but he just stands there. He expected you to come, he asked you to come, but he's still shocked. You don't know what he sees when he looks at you.

When he slowly sits down opposite you, his gaze continues to linger.

"Hi."

"Hi." His voice sounds croaky, choked. He clears it, never taking his eyes off you.

You stare down into your hands on the table. You're not sure if you're ready for this, ready to risk losing everything again, when you're so close to getting it back.

"I don't know where to start." He sounds ashamed, like he's only just realising what he's done to you.

You offer him the smallest of smiles. You're in this for life, whether he knows it or not.

"Start at the beginning."

So he does.