Notes: A few people asked for an epilogue to this so I of course ended up going a bit mad and writing a whole other 6500 word chapter from Brendan's POV. The hardest part of this, honestly, was doing the maths so that the dates matched up. I had the calculator out and everything and I'm still pretty sure I've still gotten it wrong so please forgive me!
There's angst at the start and a total overload of sop and self-indulgence to finish with. Enjoy!
A series of snapshots taken in the thirty-one days after Brendan leaves Ste's bedside.
zero days
"Take care of yourself, Steven."
"Only if you promise you will, too."
He doesn't turn around or offer a reply; he can't bear for his last words to Steven to be another broken promise. The door shuts behind him with shocking finality and right there in the hallway he doubles over, unable to breathe, the soft press of Steven's lips still lingering against his own. He's half the man he was before he went into that room, feels all broken up and disconnected; the pieces of himself don't fit together anymore, like a smashed vase glued hastily back together all wrong, holes where there's bits missing.
The compulsion to go back in there and throw himself into Steven is almost too strong for him to resist but he pushes through it, leans his head against the hospital-green wall and lets the cold concrete against his skin calm him down.
This was his choice and he can take comfort in that. He can feel proud that he's finally done the one thing that he'd never been able to in the past, the change in him finally complete. It started with Steven and it only seems fit that it should end with him too.
This is his redemption and any suffering he endures as a result is a penance he'll be glad to pay.
four days
He's drunk. He's been drunk for the past four days in fact. If his life were a painting it would be melting clocks and long-legged elephants, but that's just him being morose and prone to metaphors. His life is actually just this, a blank slate made slightly less drab by copious whiskey.
Hyper-awareness has settled into his skin and he wants so desperately to numb it. He's all sensitive and raw, the slightest thing setting him off into meltdown. He hears every sound of his empty flat, feels every emotion sharply like it's magnified a hundred times, silly things like spilling milk or losing the remote turn into epic tragedies that he could write whole fucking plays about.
His phone's been ringing non-stop since this morning and up until midday he'd resolutely not checked to see who was calling, wanted to keep hold of that tiny sliver of hope that it might be who he really wants it to be just to get him through the morning before the reality came crashing down around him.
It's ringing now; Cheryl this time, Father Des the time before that, O2 the time before that. It makes little difference, they all want something from him and he's not up to giving anyone anything right now – there's not a lot he has left to give.
Put this poor girl out of her misery.
He picks it up resentfully and gets as far as, "hello - " before he's getting his ear chewed off about voicemail and useless brothers and can't he pick up a damn phone just to let his sister know that he hasn't topped himself.
"Are you done?" he asks, eventually, when she seems to have run out of steam
"For now, yeah," she replies with a haughty sniff. "So, how's Dublin?"
"It's raining."
" - okay. How are you keeping?"
"I'm drunk."
"Jesus, Bren, you're worrying me to death over here. Have you at least seen the boys?"
"Not yet, they don't know I'm back yet," he says tiredly. "I just need a few more days to come round, that's all."
"Well don't go staggering down there drunk, they don't need to see that," she sighs, "but do go soon, I think it'll be really good for you to spend some time with them. It might bring you out of this, y'know - episode."
"Episode?" he scoffs, chokes on a bitter laugh. "Thanks, Chez, now I sound crazy."
"You said it, love," she jokes warmly and it eases some of the tension that's built up along his shoulders. He lets out a long breath, feels the ache in his chest loosen. She finally asks the dreaded question. "How are you really doing?"
He leans his head back against the sofa he's sprawled out on. "How d'you think, sis?"
"Ste's out of the hospital," she offers up to him by way of reply, maybe she thinks it'll get him talking or something. "Watching him hobble about on crutches was - "
"Don't, please," he says awkwardly, can't bear to think Steven's name in his head at the moment let alone hear Cheryl going on. It's bad enough that the image of him is still burned bright into Brendan's brain, tears in his eyes, mouth parted in confusion, what will I do without you? "Anything but that."
"Umm, Tony and Cindy are gettin' a divorce. Wanna talk about that?"
He actually couldn't care less about Tony and Cindy but it's a safe subject and the prattle of Cheryl's voice going into gossip mode is enough to comfort him - for now.
eight days
He drives through the post-school traffic, fucking hates driving in Dublin but he's got the car with him so he may as well use it, and manages to survive unscathed but in a worse mood than when he set off. He pulls up outside Eileen's house, well, Eileen and fucking Michael's house, and slams the door extra hard when he gets out. The last thing on God's green Earth he wants to do right now is actually go in there but Eileen had made him promise he would and he's throwing all his weight behind his word these days.
He pulls his leather jacket around him against the cold December chill, fumbles unconsciously at his neck before he remembers there's nothing there and strides up the path, jabs at the doorbell with his finger and leans against the wall with his arms folded across his chest like they might protect him from Eileen's piercing gaze. He keeps an eye on the car, doesn't doubt that it'll end up keyed, stolen or worse around here if he leaves it long enough.
There's the rattle of keys and then he's standing face to face with his ex wife.
"Honey, I'm home," he drawls and she purses her lips at him in what he still recognises as a clear attempt not to smile.
"I think I had a husband that looked a bit like you, once. Dunno where he got to, though," she says with a raised eyebrow. "Come in, I'll put the kettle on."
"You don't have to do that, Eileen. I only came for the boys."
"It's not really up for debate," she quips and heads inside before he can protest some more giving him no choice but to follow her through the hall and into the kitchen. It's just like he imaged, busy and floral, bright colours and chintzy trinkets on every surface. Everything from the oven mitts to the plates have flowers on them. It's pure Eileen and it makes him smile.
She flips on the kettle and pulls out something he recognises instantly.
"I can't believe you still use that," he says, appalled and shaking his head in disbelief.
"It's got sentimental value," she says, stroking her fingers over the ceramic ears fondly. He'd hated that fucking teapot with a passion when they'd been married and he'd been sure that was the only reason she used it so incessantly. Apparently she'd just liked it.
"I still can't believe your Auntie Grace thought it was appropriate to buy a novelty cat tea set for a newly-wed couple."
"Well, she did love her cats."
"Yeah, all eleven of them."
"Cheryl says your not doin' so well," she says, blind-siding him with her abrupt subject change. Sneaky cow. Cows, actually, both of them, tag teaming him like this.
"Cheryl worries too much," he says smoothly.
"You don't look so good, though. Tired. Depressed, actually. It looks strange on you." She bustles about with cups and sugar and milk and he decides he's not going to tell her that he's staying in Dublin for the foreseeable future, it opens up too many avenues of questioning. He'll tell the boys, let them break the news.
"It's been a rough few months, nothing I can't handle."
"You don't, though, do you Bren? Who was it? Who's done this to you?" She hands him a steaming cup and watches him closely. He realises vaguely that she never asked how he wanted his tea. When he sips it he finds it's perfect - she always did remember the little things. Or maybe she still sees the same man she's always seen.
"What makes you think it was a who?"
"Because I've only ever seen you grieving once before and right now I feel like I've gone back sixteen years." He looks down at the counter top, memories too sharp all of a sudden. A tiny coffin, white ribbons, pink roses. "Is it a - " she stutters and hesitates, can't even say the word and he doesn't know whether he finds it funny or not.
"A bloke?" he offers and she nods uncomfortably. "Yeah. It doesn't matter, though. It's over."
"So that's why you're over here? Running away from your problems again?"
"Don't - " he snaps, stands up to full height and slams the cup down on the kitchen top. He catches himself and breathes to calm his sudden flare of anger. It burns out quick as a flash, gone as soon as it came. "I'm not the man you knew Eileen; that's why I left."
She looks him up and down appraisingly for a moment. "So, what? The love of a good man has finally changed you forever has it?"
He chuffs a laugh and sags back against the counter. "Just like in the movies."
"Guy doesn't get the girl at the end? Sounds like a bad movie to me," she scoffs.
"Most of those guys don't deserve the girl, Eileen," he says softly, weirdly okay with talking to her about this. He supposes once you've told a priest that you're in love with a man your ex-wife doesn't seem so daunting. "Me and Steven were never gonna get a happy ending."
nine days
The second he'd gotten hold of his boys, pulled them both, grumbling and moaning, into his arms and herded them into the car, he'd felt lighter. It had been the first time in months that he'd felt like he was looking at the one thing in his life he'd done right. They represent everything good in him and suddenly he doesn't feel like such a failure.
He'd taken them to his flat, hooked up Declan's X-Box to his TV and ordered them more food than he was sure they'd be capable of eating. He'd been wrong, of course, and it had been the most amazing reminder of the fact that they were his. He finds it's something he knows but doesn't always consciously remember, like a thing he takes for granted until he's faced with exactly what it means.
They'd gone to bed happy and full and Brendan hadn't been able to resist tucking Padraig in even though he'd protested and at one point actually kicked him.
I'm not a baby.
No, but I'm still your Da so you have to let me do soppy stuff like this even though you hate it.
But Dad -
Hey, I don't make the rules.
He'd sat down on the sofa, crumb covered and pillows everywhere, and actually settled. Not once had he been tempted to grab the whiskey so he wakes up the next morning at a decent hour without a hangover and feeling pretty okay. There's a racket coming from the living room that he's only the slightest bit concerned about. Mostly it's nice, familiar and comforting.
He gets up and drags on something comfortable and when he opens his bedroom door he's assaulted by the radio turned up full blast and the smell of burnt toast.
"Do I even wanna know what's happenin' out here?" he asks with a yawn and he's greeted by Declan's guilty face and Padraig's half-chewed-food stuffed grin.
"I was makin' breakfast," his eldest tells him, stack of charred black bread piled up on the kitchen surface next to him while he pours cereal into a bowl. Brendan shakes his head, thinks he's going to need to have a word with Eileen about spoiling them because while he knows that he's no masterchef, he could bloody well make toast at Declan's age. It's a strange mental image, him having a word with his boy's mother about parenting. He finds he likes it.
"Sit down," he sighs and Declan pulls a surly face at him but does as he's told. "Watch and learn."
He pulls out flour and eggs and pans and bowls.
"You're gonna cook something?" Declan asks him sceptically.
"Damn right I'm gonna cook something and - " he stresses, waves a wooden spoon at the two of them, " - they're gonna be the best damn pancakes you ever had in your life."
"Can I have syrup on mine, Dad?" Padraig asks brightly and Brendan loves that he's still too young to try on that miserable cynicism that his eldest wears constantly like a second skin, like he's always expecting the worst. He wonders exactly how much he's to blame for it.
"You can have whatever you want, son."
"Come off it, you've never cooked us a meal in your life. Come on, who taught you?" Declan asks with a wry smirk and Brendan turns to properly look at him, at his all-knowing, cocky little face. Brendan narrows his eyes and says nothing, just lets him carry on because he suddenly wants to hear Declan's voice say the name he can't get out of his head. "It was Ste, wasn't it?"
He could laugh at the irony of his entire family suddenly being able to see through him in a matter of days when for years he'd hidden every real part of himself away so thoroughly that he'd almost been two completely separate people.
"Who's Ste?" Padraig asks and his heart suddenly sinks because he can already see Declan opening his mouth to speak. It's like his worlds stretched out into horrifying slow motion.
"Dad's ex."
"Ste?"
"Yeah, like Steven."
"Declan, shut up!" he finds himself shouting and they both jump.
"What? He knows Dad," Declan tells him and Brendan looks at his youngest. His eyes flick between his brother and his father guiltily like he thinks he's in some way responsible for the sudden yelling.
"I know you're a gay, Dad," he says placatingly and Brendan's hands shake around the spoon he's holding. He'd known that Padraig knew, the kid's his father's son, he's not an idiot, and he doesn't know why he's reacting like this. Both of his sons look at him warily and he feels the doubt creep back in, cold and slimy like roiling, toxic sludge through his veins. He looks desperately at Declan for help because he doesn't know where to go from here but he realises how ridiculous that is, he's their father for fucks sake. He's meant to be guiding them not the other way around.
He resists the urge to turn his back on them and just carry on cooking, to sweep past the awkwardness and responsibility like he usually does. Instead Brendan takes a deep breath and gathers his resolve. "Yeah, I am. Do you know what that means Padraig?"
"Yeah," he says with his face screwed up like it's a stupid question, of course he knows everything there is to know about everything.
"Okay, so you don't have any questions then?" he asks as levelly as he can and Christ his hands are shaking worse than ever, he feels like he's about to be sick. He watches Padraig go quiet and thoughtful and Declan catches his eye. He gives Brendan a small smile, you're doing good.
"Are you gonna get a bloke to come and live with you like Mum has?" That's not exactly the question he was expecting and it's a fascinating insight into Padraig's head that he thinks of it as the same thing, Mum and Michael, Dad and -
"Not at the moment, no," Brendan tells him and he means it. He's got a long way to go yet and he's not sure he'll ever get there, it's a conversation for a completely different time. "It might happen, though. It doesn't mean me or your Ma love you any less, I hope you know that."
Padraig nods, wide-eyed and earnest and with no more questions. Brendan feels like the world's about to end around him. It has to, there's no way things are allowed to be that simple. He stands, completely still, gawping at the two of them, waiting for the other shoe to drop but it never happens.
"Actually, I have a question," Declan says, breaking the silence and drawing his attention. "Where are my pancakes?"
eleven days
He wakes up at the sound of his phone ringing on the bedside table. He flings out an arm and grabs it - Cheryl.
"What are you ringin' me so early for?" he snaps roughly.
"Babe, it's half past two in the afternoon."
He peers at his phone blearily, she's right. Jesus, where are his days going? He's starting to feel like a vampire.
"Oh, sorry, hello - "
"How are you doing?" she asks brightly and he takes a moment to consider the question. He feels balanced. Not good, not bad. Calm and just - okay. He's seen his boys almost every day for over a week and they've given him back his sense of equilibrium. He feels capable and needed and it makes it easier not to think about the things he doesn't have.
"I'm not bad, sis, yourself?" He shuffles himself up to lean against his headboard.
"Tired, I was up all night with - "
"With what?" he prompts when she falls silent.
"I dunno if I should even be telling you this," she says, tense and tight like she's ready to burst. Brendan knows he doesn't even have to prod her at all, Cheryl will blurt out whatever it is she's not supposed to saying in a matter of seconds whether he asks or not.
"Then don't."
"Ste and Doug broke up."
Jesus, fuck, he was not expecting that.
"Bren?"
He can't even speak, he's reeling too much for words.
"Brendan!"
"Why?" he chokes out.
"Ste just said that it was a mistake and didn't go into any detail, even after I plied him with vodka."
"So it's for good?"
"Yeah, they've been split up for days. He only told me yesterday and he seemed pretty sure."
He can't wrap his head around it. "Is he okay?"
"He's shaky, bit stressed out, I don't know, yeah, he seems to be handling it."
"Promise me you'll look after him, sis, I gotta go," he says in a rush of breath and hangs up the phone. He can't carry on a normal conversation right now, his voice is stuck somewhere in his chest, so he sits and stares blankly into space for a good five minutes trying to process what this information means. If he'd known -
No.
Doug isn't the reason things are like this.
This doesn't change a damn thing. He didn't leave because Steven was married, he left to keep Steven safe.
There's a shrill beeping sound and he jumps so hard his back hits the headboard with a painful crack. His heart clenches tightly and he has to bring his phone up by sheer force of will to make himself look at it. It's Cheryl.
don't go and do something stupid, please x
He breathes out the air he was holding in, chest deflating until he flops down sideways into his mattress, completely boneless and drained like someone's unplugged him.
This doesn't change a damn thing.
sixteen days
He's exhausted but he doesn't stop running, muscles aching, head ringing, sweat sticking his t-shirt uncomfortably despite the sub-zero temperature. He's determined to tire himself out so thoroughly that he can't so much as think anymore.
For the past five days he's felt physically assaulted by adrenaline, a constant state of directionless anticipation gnawing at him until he'd felt like he was losing his fucking mind. Alcohol hadn't dampened it this time, made it worse in fact. After getting drunk once he'd just managed to catch himself with his finger on the 'call' button under Steven's name and flown into such a rage that he'd trashed half his living room up. For one terrifying moment he'd held his hand above a pile of smashed glass and wanted nothing more than to press his palm against every shard until he bled.
He's barely slept, doesn't know where his energy's coming from at all. It just rolls through him in agonising waves until he's pacing the floor and wringing his trembling hands together. He checks his phone and then leaves it alone for hours on end on silent before he checks it again in both hope and dread that time might have brought him something. It never does and it gets gradually easier to accept that Steven might have finally found some peace without him, without anybody.
So he runs, pounds the pavement hard in the hopes it might be enough to use up everything that he's got left so he can just get some fucking sleep.
twenty days
He sits in a dark corner of the pub, arrived early so that he could pick a spot and watch the room for Eoghan, wants to see him before he sees Brendan, and sips at his pint.
After five minutes he walks in and up to the bar and Brendan doesn't do a thing, just watches him while he orders a drink. He wasn't surprised to hear that Eoghan was in Dublin visiting friends or whatever it is he does here. He also wasn't surprised when Eoghan phoned him and goaded him into going for a drink. He still has bridges to mend and, whether he likes it or not and he doesn't, the man stood at the bar is still one of them.
Eoghan spots him on a sweep of the room and gives him a sharp nod in acknowledgement. When he gets his drink he comes over and sits down opposite and Brendan smells ozone and expensive aftershave.
"Well, this is a novelty," he quips with a smirk and a tip of his pint, "Brendan Brady, slumming it back in old Ireland."
"Needed a change of scenery."
"Your boy toy finally stop paying attention to you did he?"
Brendan smiles, won't let Eoghan wind him up, not today. "I'm sure Steven would be honoured to know that you're so concerned about him."
"He knows, I made sure to give him a few friendly words of advice about you before I left," Eoghan says breezily and Brendan presses his lips tightly together and pulls in a harsh breath through his nose.
"Really?" he grinds out. "How sweet of you to interfere where you weren't wanted. So what's this about then? You suddenly wanna get a drink like old pals?"
"I was in the area, why not?" he replies smoothly and Brendan gets it, gets what Eoghan wants. Something sparks along his skin and the constant low-level hum that hasn't left him for a week increases until he's deafened by it.
"Hmm, why not?"
Later, when he's buzzing drunk, Eoghan pulls him into an arched doorway on Essex Street, presses him up against the brick and kisses him. For a second, Brendan loses himself in the feel of it, a body pushed up hard against his own, blissful forgetting, but then a surge of adrenaline punches through him and he shoves Eoghan away, keeps one arm out in front of him so he can't come close again.
"What's the matter?"
"I don't - I think you should go home, Eoghan," he says raggedly, voice no more than a breathless scrape through his throat.
"I though that's what we were doing?"
Brendan falls back against the wall and doubles over, hands braced against his thighs and head bowed. "Alone, I can't do this. I don't want to."
There's a lengthy silence in which he doesn't look up, just keeps his eyes on the pavement and breathes. He misses the swinging pull of silver weight around his neck, drawn towards the floor by gravity.
"You're actually serious aren't you?" Eoghan eventually asks and Brendan peers up at him.
"I'm sorry, I thought I could - " he chokes, " - but I can't."
"Guess I don't have to ask why," Eoghan says flatly and Brendan shakes his head. He's so tired he can hardly stand up straight, the last few weeks finally crashing down around him like an avalanche. He sees Steven, broken and bruised and gasping as he woke up in a hospital bed, the look in his eyes as they'd kissed goodbye, the delicate press of his fingers around Brendan's cross over his hammering heart and he realises there are tears in his eyes and doesn't even try to fight them. He can't keep fighting. "Brendan? Jesus, are you okay?"
"Don't - " he says weakly. "Just go."
"I can't leave you like this."
"Yeah, you can. I'm fine, honestly," he says and he kind of means it. It's strange to be half collapsed, weeping in the streets and yet feeling suddenly like a huge weight has lifted off his shoulders. Maybe, finally, it's acceptance.
day twenty-three
He's half dozing when he's startled awake by a knock on his door. He's exhausted and sleep deprived, can only manage to catch half an hour here and there when he gets to the point where he can hardly keep his eyes open because any other time he tries he can't calm the throbbing in his chest enough to relax. There's nothing left to him anymore, just a hollow void where his heart used to be and the numb sense that he'll be stuck feeling like this forever.
He tries to ignore the banging, hopes whoever it is will fuck off - he's not in the mood - but he isn't that lucky and it goes on and on, knock after knock, until he has to get up off the sofa and drag himself to the door. It's blood dark outside, his watch telling him it's nine thirty at night, what the hell? He fumbles the lock and slides it open, leans against it for support and then is glad he did when his whole world tilts suddenly and violently sideways.
"Wha - " he says eloquently and Steven blinks at him owlishly like he's the one in shock.
"I 'ave something that belongs to you - you left it behind," he says, voice and mouth trembling ever so slightly. Brendan drinks in the sight of him, vivid and beautiful, heart-achingly familiar flash of silver visible through the collar of his coat, and gathers up every detail instantly like he's dreaming and might wake up and lose all of this at any moment. It's not a dream, though. His back aches and he feels faintly sick and if this were a dream he's fairly certain Steven would have turned up wearing nothing but a red ribbon tied into a bow.
He takes a breath, feels a little dizzy and soft around the edges, and makes a promise that he intends to keep. "Well - I won't make that mistake again."
Steven's face splits into a blinding smile and it's like a breath of fresh air hitting him, like the fucking sun coming out from behind a cloud. It lights Brendan up and he's drawn, inexorably, towards it like a moth. Before he's even conscious of what he's doing his shaking hands are touching, fingers curled around Steven's neck, touching his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelashes. He slowly backs them up until Steven's pressed against the outside hallway wall, pins him there with his whole body, and kisses him.
Steven's arms come up around his neck and hold on tightly. He angles his head and Brendan loses himself in the feeling of his damp mouth, perfect slow slide of lips and tongue until they're both breathless. When he pulls back Steven follows, cling of lips to the corner of Brendan's mouth, his jaw, down his neck, and buries his face against Brendan's frantic pulse.
"You wanna come in?" he asks, voice a low rumble.
"Gimme a minute," Steven muffles against his neck and it sounds a bit like he's laughing. Brendan dips his head and angles back enough to see his face and realises he bloody well is.
"Okay - "
"I'm sorry, I just - " he says through a smile, " - I can't believe this is happenin'"
His laughter is contagious and Brendan finds himself catching it. He thinks they probably look like a right couple of nutters, half slumped together in the hallway giggling away like two schoolboys. Brendan feels elated to the point that he thinks he could probably float away like a helium balloon and with a sudden surge of giddy madness he ducks down to Steven's middle and slings the boy over his shoulder.
"Brendan!" he shrieks, high-pitched and panicked and Brendan gives him a sharp slap on the arse.
"Shhh, you'll disturb the neighbours," he breezes, picks up the bag on the floor and turns to carry a wriggling Steven over the doorway to his flat.
twenty-four days
There's something shifting against him but he's deep in the fog of sleep and it's a slow, lazy ascent before he can locate his heavy limbs enough to grab hold of it and make it stop. One of his arms is trapped, pressed into the mattress by a warm weight and he can feel the puff of breath against the top of it. The fingers of his free arm curl into hot skin and he presses his face further into fluffy hair that tickles his nose and surrounds him in a familiar scent, feels the rough bumps of a metal chain under his lips and drags his tongue across it. His hand wanders, fingers splayed and trailing across the smooth body, a stomach, the sharp bone of a hip, a thigh.
"Mornin'," Steven sighs softly and pushes back into Brendan's chest.
"Mmmm."
Brendan grips his leg and draws it up in front of him, plasters his whole body to his back, already half-hard dick fitting satisfyingly against the swell of Steven's arse and making him moan and arch into him. He rolls his hips forward, thrills at the drag of skin, and slides one hand around to Steven's front to press them more firmly together. Desperate need in him grows until it's too much to bear and even though he's already fucked Steven three times over the course of last night it's like his appetite has gone into overdrive and he can't get enough. Nothing he does seems to quench it.
Steven grasps hold of Brendan's hand against his stomach and pulls it back over his hip and down to between his legs. He presses his fingers to the backs of Brendan's own and pushes them up between his cheeks and against his hole.
"Oh, God - " Brendan chokes out. He's not even going to need any lube, Steven still fucked loose and slick under his fingertips and he slides two inside easily and twists them until Steven keens high in his throat. Brendan's already shaking in anticipation, heart fluttering like crazy, and he spreads Steven open and pushes all the way in in one smooth stroke until he's as deep as he can get and it's still not enough. He wants to crawl inside Steven's skin and fucking live there, he will never be deep enough.
Steven pushes back against him with an urgent whimper and he comes back to himself, grips his hip tightly and slides all the way out, slow as he can bear, before pushing back inside. He wants this to last all fucking day, long, lazy strokes that make Steven arch desperately against him and set Brendan's insides alight. He feels Steven's ragged breath across his arm, the press of his lips and scrape of his teeth as he chews on the skin there and he crooks it and wraps it around Steven's chest to pull him closer. With his free hand he takes tight hold of Steven's dick, desperate to feel him come apart.
Steven cries out and turns his face over his shoulder. "Brendan - " and Brendan surges forward and kisses him, wet and open and filthy, just the slick slide of tongues together. Steven trembles against him and Brendan knows he's close, doesn't stop pumping his fist or fucking into him, and finally he comes with a high moan, seizing in Brendan's arms and throwing his head back so hard that he nearly nuts him. He's so beautiful when he comes, wanton and helplessly abandoned and Brendan can't slow the build of pressure in his own body. Without warning he's following Steven over the edge before he's even come down, his orgasm ripping through him and blanking out everything but the feeling of the boy wrapped up in his arms.
"Oh my God, what a way to wake up," Steven breathes roughly and rolls over onto his back. He pulls a face, his nose all scrunched up. "Uh, I really need a shower."
Brendan laughs and drags his fingers through the come splattered across Steven's stomach. The bed's soaked next to him and the room stinks of sweat and sex and them and he inhales deeply.
twenty-seven days
They stand, wrapped up warm in their winter coats, lost in the crowd of people, families, teenagers, lovers, friends, and wait. It's been years since he's done this and he's actually pretty excited, although he'd never admit it out loud. He can tell Steven is, though, he hasn't stopped smiling since earlier when Brendan had offered this up as a casual suggestion that was anything but.
The air's fresh and crisp around them and the atmosphere is sweet and festive. The smell of roasting chestnuts and baking cinnamon rolls over them, heady spices and smoky wood.
"Last time I watched the lights come on I was still married," he says conversationally, finds himself chattering on a lot more than usual these days, a lot more open and willing to share little things that previously held no meaning. "We brought the boys and Padraig had been that excited all day he ran out of energy before they were switched on, conked straight out in my arms."
Steven laughs, clear and genuine. His eyes crinkle up at the corners and Brendan brushes a thumb over the lines. They're in public but the urge to put distance between them is non-existent and he'd chalk it up to being anonymous in a crowd, or the two glasses of eggnog he's had, but he knows better. He looks at Steven, beautiful and happy, and he wants other people to see what he sees. He wants people to look and appreciate what he has because he's worked so damn hard for it.
"Ten - Nine - Eight - "
The countdown starts and Brendan hardly hears it, just shuffles closer to Steven.
" - Seven - Six - Five - "
Steven's mouth moves silently with the numbers and he places both his gloved hands on Brendan's waist, looks up at him, smiling and openly adoring.
" - Four - Three - Two - "
He cups his hands around Steven's neck and dips his head so they're close, misting breath mingling in the small space between them.
" - One!"
The lights erupt all around them and Steven turns his head up in awe, mouth parted in wonder, but Brendan doesn't look away. Instead he watches their twinkling reflections in Steven's wide blue eyes. He blinks, eyelashes fluttering, and catches Brendan's gaze again.
"They're pretty mint, aren't they?" he says, so perfectly Steven, and Brendan laughs.
"Yeah, mint," he repeats fondly, closes the gap between them and seals the word in with a kiss.
twenty-nine days
He presses his lips together in an effort to try not to laugh as he tops up two glasses with whiskey and ginger ale, Nana's favourite Christmas tipple, the smell of it warm and bitter in his memory. Whenever Steven moves glitter and colourful strips of shiny film fall off him and he's wearing the most indulgent smile Brendan's ever seen.
"Laugh it up, you're next," he says mock-threateningly and shakes his head close so that Brendan ends up suffocating on a cloud of sparkly dust.
"I reckon I could pull it off," he sniffs haughtily, "think I'd look fetching in nothing but tinsel."
"Mmm, maybe later on we could test that theory," he mumbles quietly with a glint in his eye and Brendan hands him a glass, touching Steven's fingers briefly with his own. He looks out across the living room and it honestly looks like a bomb's hit it. There's decorations everywhere, baubles and gold shiny string and tangled fairy lights and Declan and Padraig bickering in the middle of it all, the living embodiment of ground zero. "We can't hide away in Ireland forever you know."
Steven says the words so softly and Brendan glances at him, sees that he's watching the boys too.
"I know, Steven."
"We 'ave to go back sometime."
"Yeah, I know."
"We both 'ave jobs to get back to, family to deal with - "
"I know, okay? You think I don't know this? I know."
"Okay, I'm just sayin'."
"Can't we just enjoy this for a bit longer?"
"You know I'd love to, Brendan, but - "
"Yeah - I know."
Steven rubs a warm palm across his shoulder and heads back into the living room, snatches a bauble smoothly off Declan as he sweeps past and darts out of his grasp when he slaps a hand out to grab it back. He looks more like a Christmas tree than the actual tree does since Brendan's youngest had taken it upon himself to wrap three different colours of tinsel around his neck and arms and fasten a red and gold bow into his hair. He'd tipped a whole tub of glitter over Steven's head and he'd just laughed and wrestled Padraig to the floor.
Brendan sips his whiskey and watches. He feels the pieces of himself knitting slowly back together, feels the gaps fill up and the cracks smooth out. He knows Steven's right, they can't stay here forever. At some point they'll have to go back to the village and face whatever comes their way, face the real challenges of being together and the reality of what forever means.
Brendan's almost ready, he's almost whole again.
thirty-one days
They sit in the car, parked up outside his flat, in total silence.
Brendan looks across at Steven, sees his lips pressed tightly together, his hands clenched in his lap, fingernails picking at the skin around his thumb.
"Hey," he says softly, reaches over and takes one fidgeting hand in his own, tangles their fingers together. "You ready?"
"Yeah, you?"
He takes a deep breath, leans over the gear stick and presses a kiss to Steven's lips. "Yeah, I really am."
