He's breathing hard. I stare up at him from the foot of the bed where I'm kneeling, and I watch his chest rise and fall, registering the sounds he makes. I like watching him. I like touching him more, but this - sitting, seeing him with his eyes shut like he's drifted somewhere else, his expression so relaxed like he's almost falling asleep, dick in hand and making himself come - I like it.
When cum spurts onto his stomach and he cleans himself off, he glances at me knowingly. There's something in his eyes then; smugness perhaps, because he knows what he does to me, just like he's always known. But there's something else there, under the surface. An insecurity maybe, like he's seeking my approval, like he's waiting for me to come to him, because if he can see me up close and he can feel me, then I must be real.
I crawl over to him. I'm naked and cold, and Brendan must see the goosebumps on my arms because he gets the cover and draws it over us both. I settle in his lap, rub against him lightly, feel his dick against my skin. It's soft now, used up, but he can get hard again quickly, and I use it to my advantage; brush all of me against all of him, kissing him like I'm rewarding him for doing what he's just done.
"Steven." His voice sounds rough, how it does in the early mornings or when he's recovering from a cold. I want to kiss him, but he wants to talk; it's unusual for him, and I laugh. The last thing he wants to do at night is have a conversation.
"I want to come to a meeting."
I break off from where I've been kissing his beard. I search his eyes, wait for him to say more, but there's something nagging at me, a worry that won't leave now it's come.
I think I know what he's talking about, and it's scaring me.
"A meeting?" I get off him a bit; I'm still touching him, but I'm not straddling him anymore. I think he notices, because he grabs hold of my wrists like he's trying to keep me with him.
"There's one this Thursday, isn't there?" He avoids looking at me.
I'm surprised he's remembered the day. It's not something we often talk about; my decision, I know, because he's asked me plenty of times before I'd snapped at him, made him reluctant to bring it up again.
"Yeah." I feel colder than I was before. I bring the cover up to my neck, leaning my chin against it.
"Let me come with you." It sounds as though he's pleading, and Brendan never pleads, not anymore, because what he wants is exactly what I want too.
"No." It comes out bluntly. I try and soften my voice, stay neutral, but I feel aware of everything now; aware of how I can't easily get out of this. Aware that he may have been planning on bringing this up for hours now - days - and I never even knew. What else is he keeping from me, if he's kept this? If this has been in his head the entire time, and he said nothing until now.
"I can't," I say, and I think he'll get it, that he'll understand, but he isn't taking the hint.
"It's my fault." There's a deep line across his forehead now, and his eyes hurt to look at; they look distressed, and I never wanted to see them like that again.
"No it's not -" I try to cut in, because I know how Brendan gets when he starts on like this, and nothing and no one can stop him, not even me. It's like he gets this idea in his head, and he won't allow anyone to shift it, and the idea gets darker and darker till there's no room for anything good.
"Listen. Listen to me." He knows I won't, that I won't listen while he attacks himself, so he puts a hand over my lips. "It's my fault," he says again, and he jabs a hand at his heart in a way that's hard enough to be painful. "If I'd been here then you'd never have... "
He doesn't finish, because we both know what I'd never have done if he'd have been here. I wouldn't have done a lot of things. Half of my life.
"You shouldn't have to go through it alone, Steven. Let me come with you."
He's looking at me now, and I think it's deliberate - I think he knows that if he looks at me, then I can't say no.
"Please."
"Fine." I speak it into the cover, and it's a good thing that he can't see my body, because I think I'm shaking. No one's ever come with me to a meeting, and I've kept it that way for a reason. Him being there, hearing everything that's said - everything that I say - it's never been part of the plan.
But the thought of walking through the doors, and not being alone -
It's comforting. And Brendan's strong enough for the both of us.
::::::
He takes longer getting ready than I do.
"We're gonna be late." I've been staring at the clock every five minutes, convinced that time's going faster, that something will go wrong - the traffic, the engine of the car, that Brendan will get in one of his moods and get into some argument with another driver.
"We've still got time."
He's right, I know he's right, but it doesn't stop me from pacing. He notices, comes over to me, gives my shoulders a push so that I flop back onto the bed while he walks back to the wardrobe and picks out what he's going to wear.
"I don't get why you're the nervous one." He's already rejected three outfits. He hasn't said anything - I don't think he wants me to sense that he's panicking, but he's gone back and forth to the mirror to look at himself, still not settling on anything.
"I'm not nervous." He sounds dismissive; he's doing that thing where he's cold with me, makes me feel like I'm the one who's wrong, because the alternative is worse. I sit back on the bed in silence, and he must realise what he's done, because he mumbles sorry under his breath and reaches for another shirt, throwing me an apologetic glance.
"S'alright." I sniff. He's not the only one who's being a nightmare today: I've been off with him all morning, barely saying thank you when he brought me tea and toast in bed, and making excuses when he tried to suck the erection that I'd woken up with; I'd gone into the bathroom instead, had a shave, got myself ready. Whatever I'd done, I didn't want to look like a fuck up. I wanted to look good, you know? Like someone who had moved on, who wasn't that person anymore.
I don't think it works though. I don't think you can put on a new shirt and some fancy aftershave and product in your hair and just be a new person. You can act as high and mighty as you want, but if you've got things you're running away from, things you'd rather forget, then they're going to catch up with you. It's pointless to try and fool people at these meetings - I tried that, and it got me nowhere. No one cares about all the great things I say about my life, and how I'm different and I've changed and I'm not an addict anymore. All they care about is the truth.
That's why I've ended up wearing an old tracksuit and my favourite trainers. I look tired - there are circles under my eyes, and I look like I haven't seen the sun in a week. I didn't look like this a few days ago, but it's something about this day, and knowing what I'm about to do. I concentrate on Brendan, because whenever I do everything else manages to go up in smoke: he's chosen something to wear now, a plain white shirt and some black trousers, and his beard is dark and his eyes are warm when he looks at me.
"We going then?" He asks, and I laugh because he's talking like it's him that's been waiting for me.
I sit beside him in the car. He's careful when he's driving; I think he knows that I might be feeling a bit nervous, because I barely ate my toast and I left most of the tea, and I'm not talking much as we make our way there.
"Want the radio on?"
"Go on then."
He turns it on, some station that I know he doesn't like, but which he's putting up with for my sake.
My hand reaches out quickly, turns it off. Brendan stares at me.
"Don't like that song," I mumble. I don't tell him why - that I'd heard it once ages ago, back when he'd left me for ever - what I thought was for ever. It was at the club, or maybe when I'd first started working at The Hutch. It was just something on in the background, nothing bad, but I remember the things I was feeling at the time, and how he wasn't there, and how I thought I'd never have him there again.
"We can change it if you want?" He's staring at me in worry, and I wouldn't blame him if he thinks I'm a headcase.
"No, you're alright." I don't know how many other songs are going to remind me of that time.
"Okay."
We don't say anything for a few minutes. I feel sick, like my insides are rearranging themselves, twisting in on me. I reach for the button to wind the window down, my hand accidentally brushing against Brendan's leg.
"If you want me to stop, go back, then tell me," he says.
"And not show my face there? Let everyone down? No."
"I mean - I mean me, Steven. I mean for me to go back." He's quiet, staring straight ahead, and I know he'd do it. I know he'd do it in a heartbeat.
"No." I don't know where this is coming from, because less than ten minutes ago I wanted him at home rather than next to me; I wanted to know that he was separate from this world of mine that I'd helped to create. Separate from these meetings.
"Just say the word -"
"I want you." I turn my face from where I've been leaning out of the window, trying to get the cool air on my skin. I look at him, reach over and put my hand on his thigh. "I want you here."
Something about my words must reassure him, because he drops it, accepts it. He gives me a smile, and it's my smile, the smile that only I get to see.
"You'd never let anyone down."
"What?"
"The people at this...meeting. You'd never let them down, Steven. Don't worry about them, yeah? This isn't about them, or me. This is about you."
It's still difficult sometimes. Being used to someone speaking to me like this again - like they see something in me, something that's not all bad.
I'm about to say something, thank you or I love you or both, but Brendan's pulling up now, and it shocks me when I realise we're already there, in front of the building where I've gone every Thursday for the past few years. It's familiar, but I see it in a new light now that Brendan's here: I try and work out whether it looks formal, scary, like somewhere that cages you, hides you.
But it's a building. A plain, nondescript building. It could be a school or offices or anything, and Brendan doesn't look frightened when he looks at it.
"Lead the way." He holds out a hand, motioning for me to take a step forward. I know what he's thinking - he wants me to be in charge of this, to give the power to me so I don't feel helpless. But it feels hard to move my feet, like they're weighing me down, and I wish he would take my hand.
I guess it's time for me to be brave.
::::::
"So do we just...sit in the circle?"
We're on the outside looking in, stood in the corner of the room where the cups of water are, watching as people rearrange chairs around us. There are a couple of minutes until the meeting starts.
"Yeah. Why?" It seems obvious to me what we do here, but then I remember - of course Brendan won't know. He's never been to one of these things before, and that's down to me, to what I've chosen to keep from him.
"Nothing." He stares around, and for the first time I start thinking about how hard this must be for him too; coming here, admitting that he's part of this - it's the same as admitting his part in all of it. And it's not something he does everyday, meeting strangers. He'll meet them at the club of course, serving them and getting security to throw the rowdy ones out, but he doesn't have to talk to them, not properly. And he doesn't have to be on his best behaviour, not like he's trying to be now. I can see him making an effort, just like he does with Danny and my sisters, just like he's always done for me.
"Ste? You joining us?" Richard's nodding us over, and I see his eyes flicker towards Brendan for the smallest second before he looks away. He's like that, Richard - he's not the nosy sort, the kind who looks like he's judging someone before he's even spoken to them. He's one of the reasons why I stayed here when I wanted to be anywhere else.
Me and Brendan walk towards the circle, paper cups in hand. Brendan had asked when we'd approached the room whether there would be any whiskey, and for a moment I thought he was being serious, and I thought I'd make a mistake about the whole thing - if he couldn't even understand why having booze in here was a bad idea, then what was he even doing here in the first place? But he'd smiled at me, shook his head, and I knew he'd been having me on.
But now, sitting next to me, his legs moving up and down in the way they do when he wants to distract himself from his thoughts, he looks like he could do with a large glass.
The meetings start how they always do. I hadn't had time to prepare Brendan, to tell him what to expect, and he sits there not saying anything as Richard begins, welcoming everyone. There are some new people here - even if I wasn't a regular I'd know by how nervous they look - and they smile fleetingly before staring into their laps again, and fuck, it takes me back. It makes me remember the way I was when I came here; only I wasn't nearly as normal as they are. Whatever's going on in their heads, they're listening and paying attention. I don't think I heard a single word that was spoken in my first meeting.
Then we go round the group, saying our names. When I say mine I can hear Brendan beside me; he says Steven quietly, a correction that I don't think he even realises he's making. Then it's his turn, and I hold my breath. I don't know what I'm worried about - maybe that he'll say something out of turn, or talk back to Richard, or refuse to speak at all. I feel instantly guilty when he says Brendan. I'm here with Steven, and then leans back in his chair, looking at the next person who's speaking. I'm glad he couldn't hear me doubting him.
There's a bit where Richard reads from the Bible. I'd quickly learnt when I'd started here that that's what they do, and I'd fought against it: I didn't believe in all that, did I? And if I did then I couldn't have lived with myself; what kind of Christian would kill their mum and take drugs and act the way I acted? If there was a God and there was a heaven and a hell, then I knew where I was headed.
I'd settled down once Richard had explained it to me. He told me that it's what AA was built on, but that it didn't mean we all had to be religious. It was American, he said, and they believed in all that stuff more there. That made me think of Doug and how he had never believed in God, and then I thought how he had died right next to me and how it had all been my fault.
I stayed. I stayed because it was better than thinking of all that on my own. If I was around people - even a group of strangers who weren't my age or who didn't know anything about my life - then that was better than sitting in my flat and thinking about how I'd fucked everything up.
I sit still and listen as Richard reads, and I look across at Brendan. He's staring straight at Richard, and I wonder if he knows this bit, these words.
Then the part that I'm scared of starts. It's okay at first - the others start talking. We get fifteen minutes each; there has to be a time limit because some of the people here can talk for fucking ever. Mostly it's good to hear their stories, to know that you're not alone, but sometimes they'll say something that'll - what's the word - trigger you. They'll mention the fact that they fell off the wagon or started taking again, and they'll start describing something. It'll just be an image - them buying the stuff, or injecting, but I'll start to remember and Richard will have to cut in, will remind everyone of the rules. He doesn't call them rules, doesn't want to be strict I don't think, but we all know that's what they are.
It's not like that today, not yet. Helen starts first. I like her. She's quiet but she's got this laugh on her, and hearing it when I'd barely been able to get out of bed in the morning had made things better. It had reminded me of when I used to laugh; really laugh, I mean. Brian's next; he keeps on looking at Brendan. I know how he looks - broad shoulders, too tight leather jacket, beard and moustache taking over most of his face. He could look threatening if you don't know him; he could look threatening even if you do.
I don't want it to be my turn. I know I can shake my head, tell them all that I don't want to speak today, but if I do that, then what's the point in me even coming here? I know Richard would tell me that it's enough that I'm here, that I'm sitting with them all, but that's not the point, not to me.
I say my name again, and even with those few words I can feel myself blushing. I've never had a problem with public speaking before, but this isn't a wedding speech or some poxy school presentation. I'm talking about me here - no one else, me - and it should be easy, but it's not.
"I'm here with my -" I'm about to say husband, but I stop. It's not that I don't think Brendan would like it - he doesn't give a toss, not anymore. But it doesn't sound enough; doesn't really explain what we are. I finish with Brendan and realise how stupid it sounds: my Brendan. I clear my throat, try and make it sound more natural with "my other half" added on. No one looks surprised. I'd told them that I was gay early on; it had become obvious with the mentions of Doug and John Paul, and when Brendan came back, so many of them had asked me what had happened, why I was suddenly smiling, why I was happy again. I had to tell them. I wanted to tell everyone about Brendan; if I did then it meant that he wasn't a part of my imagination. He really had come back to me.
"I...I don't really know what to say." I usually start like this; mumbling, avoiding everyone's eyes, trying to think of something to talk about. I'll start finding a rhythm, start getting more confident, but right now there's not a single thing in my head that seems worth mentioning. Things are good. Better than good. I'm working, I see the kids, me and Brendan are together. I haven't thought about using in years.
"Take your time, Ste," Richard says, and I wonder how he can be so endlessly patient with me, with all of us. He has a past - he's told us things, things which he doesn't seem capable of doing, but he doesn't let it affect him now. He never lets it show.
I shuffle in my seat. Brendan's gripping the arms of his, the skin of his hands taut, the veins on his arms visible.
"Things have been going well. Coming here, and Brendan being...Brendan being back, and here with me now...it's been good." It feels unsafe, talking about things like this. I've been in this situation before - my life being better than it's ever been, and thinking I've got it all sorted out, only for it to crumble down around me. Yeah, Brendan's back, but I had him before and I lost him.
"Steven?" Brendan leans forward, says it so quietly that I'm sure I'm the only one who can hear. "You okay?"
I nod. He drops it; I don't think he wants to interrupt me. Richard's staring between us, and I imagine him remembering all the things I've told him about Brendan; hating him before he came back from prison, and hating him when I saw him again, and hating myself for not being able to live without him.
"I haven't...I haven't thought about...you know, using again." I'm wary of what I say. I know some of the people here are still struggling with it, and I don't want to come off as some know it all, some idiot who's all look at me, look at my perfect life, I'm cured now. "Brendan being here, it's...it's made me get better."
I hear a noise from the corner of the circle. It's one of the newcomers, a girl with long brown hair, dressed in a skirt and heels that reminds me of something that Mitzeee would wear.
"You got a problem, love?"
Richard shoots me a warning glance, but the girl - Stacey, I think she said she was called - doesn't seem to have been affected by it. She doesn't look offended.
"So you're saying that your boyfriend came back and you magically got better?" I can hear the judgement in her voice, the scepticism.
"No, that's not..." That's not what I'm saying. That's not the way it was. I'd begun to get clean before Brendan had come back. I'd gone to meetings, started taking methadone, pulled myself together enough that Amy had let me see the kids again. When Brendan came back, I wasn't myself again, but I was...I was better. I was better enough that he recognised me.
"So you needed a man to make you all better, did you?" She's practically rolling her eyes at me, and I can see Richard - and Brendan - wanting to step in and intervene, but I don't let them.
"Seriously, what's your problem?" I'm trying to remember: count to ten. Breathe. Don't lose it. She knows fuck all about my life.
"I'm just saying, that's fucked up, love. Relying on someone else like that. Should have done it yourself."
I get up from my seat, try and make my way towards her. I don't know what I'm going to do - hit her, be that man again? I just know that I need to make her stop.
But there's a hand on me, and it's strong, and it's pulling me back.
"Don't." Brendan's speaking into my ear, his breath hot. "Don't."
"Get off me." I'm struggling in his grasp, twisting my body to try and loosen his hold, but he's bigger than me and I've got no chance.
"Ste, maybe you should -" Richard begins, but I speak over him so he can't finish. I don't want to hear him throwing me out like I'm something dangerous, something that needs to be removed.
"I'm going."
I think I hear Richard protest, but it could be out of guilt, couldn't it? He might be saying what he thinks I want to hear. I'm not going to stay and have that girl judge me for an hour, thinking that I needed someone else to get myself sorted. No, I want to tell her. No, it wasn't like that. It was me. It was all me, me being determined.
But I can't. I can't say that to her, because I don't know if that's completely true.
It's easier to leave, and it's what I do.
::::::
We're lying in bed. I've phoned the kids and we've both had a chat with them, and then I spoke to Amy. I thought I was fooling her; I thought I sounded normal, but she still asked anyway, asked me if something was wrong. No, I'd told her. Everything's fine, and it's the kind of line that sounds like you're desperately trying to convince someone, that what you're saying is a lie. She'd seen right through it. It's him, isn't it? It's Brendan. It was, but not in the way she thought, and I'd tried to make her see that he hadn't done anything. He hadn't hurt me, and we hadn't had a row. I think I managed to convince her by the time we ended the call, but you never know with Amy.
Brendan's reading the Bible. It scares me sometimes when he does that. I know it's probably because of the meeting, because it's reminded him of it. He goes to see Father Des sometimes, and I understand, I do - I want him to go, because they get on, those two. But it makes me worry; a lot of what Brendan learnt when he was growing up was from that thing - right and wrong and all of that, and how he thought he should act, keeping everything inside. Sometimes when he reads it, I think he'll believe it again, push me away.
I don't even know if the words are sinking in. He might just be reading it so he doesn't have to talk to me.
"Brendan." I don't want to say anything, but it's stupid, this - we're next to each other, and we're together but we're separate, if that makes sense. There could be miles between us.
He hums in that way he does when he doesn't want to speak.
"Do you think I was a fool, acting the way I did?"
He puts the book down, focuses on me. He's lying over the cover; he's wearing boxers but no t-shirt, and he's covered in the bites which I gave him. He's mine, but there's a distance created by what happened today.
"What do you think?"
That's not an answer.
"Don't know."
"Yeah, you do."
I shrug. "She was being annoying, wasn't she? That girl. She had no right to say what she did."
"No, she didn't."
His agreement spurs me on, adds strength to my words.
"She doesn't even know me, or you. First meeting there and she was already shouting her gob off, saying all sorts. Accusing me of -" I hesitate. What was she accusing me of, exactly? I don't even know. Being weak, not my own person?
"She didn't look in a good way," Brendan says, and the comment's so out of the blue, so entirely not what I was expecting him to say that I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to work out what to say next.
"You're defending her?" It's me doing the accusing now, and I spit the words at him.
"No. But she looked bad, Steven. Anyone could see that."
I'm about to argue with him, tell him that she looked alright to me, remind him of the way she'd dressed up. but then I remember. Her face - it hadn't looked right. She'd been thin, too thin, much thinner than me, and -
And I hadn't noticed these things before, hadn't wanted to notice them. But I do now.
"That doesn't mean that she can just..."
"I know. She was out of line for what she said. But she's not like you. She's not strong like you, not yet."
His words disarm me. Strong. I don't feel strong, not always. Not when Brendan was away, when I was broke half the time and moving from flat to flat and trying to erase the memories that were burned into my skin like a scar. I felt like I was dying then.
"Doesn't matter anyway. It's not like I'm ever going to be able to go back." I slouch down in bed, crossing my arms.
"Why not?"
"They're not going to let me, are they?" I'm not going to go through the embarrassment of turning up again, seeing Richard come to the door and tell me I have to leave.
"Fucking hell, Steven. They're not going to bar you after one incident."
"You don't know that. They don't want anyone to cause any trouble, do they?"
"She started it," Brendan says.
"They don't care, do they? I'm going to sound like a five year old if I say that to them."
Brendan says nothing. I think he's going to let it drop, but he sighs and shifts in the bed, then reaches over and takes my face in both his hands. His thumb smooths over my cheek.
"They're not going to give up on you. I'm not going to give up on you."
"What are you on about?" I wriggle until I'm free and he's no longer touching me. He breaks away reluctantly, his gaze still on me.
"You're going back next week." He says it calmly, like it's not up for discussion.
"No I'm not."
"Yes you are. This is good for you. These people - they're good for you."
"Even that snotty nosed git?"
"Maybe not her," Brendan concedes, "but Richard, and the others - you want them in your life. I know you do."
He's right. Fuck him. He's right.
"I'll see." It's not much, but it seems to please him. He leans over to kiss me, but I evade his mouth, sealing my lips together in a tight line.
"Turn the light off."
::::::
He's asleep, but I'm not. I'm usually flat out straight away these days, but not tonight. He's made me think, the bastard, and now I can't stop.
I think about my life without him, the things that I've been blocking out. I can go to these meetings, and I can talk about the fuck ups, the things I did wrong, but there's a lot I don't say. I think the people there think that it's because of my mum, because of her dying, and because of Terry - I told them a bit about what he did to me, and they all looked sympathetic, like things were clicking into place, like me taking drugs suddenly made sense to them. I couldn't go back on it after that. I couldn't tell them that I killed my mum, and I couldn't tell them that going to Finn's trial with John Paul made me think of...it made me think of the past, and what I'd found out more than a year ago when Brendan had sat opposite me in Chez Chez, when he told me about when he was eight years old. Eight years old. Leah was only a few years younger back then.
I couldn't tell anyone about Brendan. I couldn't tell John Paul about him, because it wasn't my secret to tell, and I'd rather die than betray him like that. I tried to be there for him, tried to go to court, tried to listen when they read out the evidence, and I hated what Finn had done to him, I really did, but in the back of my mind there was always this voice; Brendan's voice, telling me that he'd been ashamed his whole life, and that I deserved a better version of him. I thought of him sitting in a prison cell, still ashamed, and still thinking that I deserved better.
I'm angry with him. I hate him - because I love him, more than anyone, more than anything, and he did that to me. He said goodbye, and he kept me away, and even though I'm lying next to him in this bed, and he's my husband and I would jump in front of a lion for him - even with all that, I still hate him.
I shake him awake. I'm being rough and I don't care, and I roll onto him and kiss him, but it doesn't feel like kissing - it feels like biting, and it feels like I'm trying to make his skin bleed. I can feel him waking up, can see him blinking in the darkness and working out what I'm trying to do, and my hand works its way downwards so that it's in his pants, and I'm making him hard.
He kisses me, but he's still confused. I went to bed being cold to him, and I'm still being cold to him, but the way I'm kissing him and touching him and wanting him inside me, it's messing with his head.
It makes me laugh when he tries to be gentle with me. He kisses me softly, not even using his tongue, and his hands are on my body like he's wanting to protect it. I don't want protecting, not from him, and I grip his arms and score my nails down his skin. He lets out an Ow and winces, and I say sorry because even though it was what I wanted to do, hurting him hurts me too.
The light's still not on. We're both fumbling in the dark, reaching for each other. He makes a clumsy grab for the lube in the drawer beside the bed, and I drop my underwear and vest on the floor, and my socks too. I'm holding him down: I've got both my hands pinned to his chest, and he's starting to enjoy it now; the coldness from my expression must be gone, because he's smiling up at me, and it's visible even in the blackness of the room.
Something happens to my voice when he fingers me. I'm not saying anything anymore, not telling him to hurry up or telling him to kiss me harder. I listen to myself groaning, and even though we're alone in the flat, I bury my face into Brendan's neck to drown the sound out. I'm ready now, but he doesn't care - he doesn't pull his fingers out, and he's adding more lube, and with one hand he's fucking me with his fingers and with the other he's tugging on my dick, and I'm hard enough to burst.
I get into position to ride him. I'm slippery with lube but it still hurts when I enter him, before I move my pelvis and sink down and something connects, something makes me cry out and makes him cry out too. I wish I'd turned the light on; I want to see him, want to see his face clearly, but there's no way I'm getting off him now to reach for the light switch. I stop moving on him and lean forward, kiss him, breath into his mouth. He starts rocking into me from below, thrusting his hips up, his cock coming into me quickly, and my heart's racing.
"You gonna come?" His voice sounds different; I think only I hear his voice like this.
"Yeah."
I yelp when he pushes me off him, holding his dick and taking it out of me.
"What are you -"
"Get on your knees."
I follow his instruction, follow it because there's tension sparking through my body now, and I'd follow him to hell if he asked me to.
I face the wall, holding onto the pillow that's under me as I feel Brendan's hands travel down my back and towards my bum. It tickles; his touch is light, barely there, and I wait for the moment when I'll feel his cock nudging against my rim again; he must know how much I want it, because he doesn't tease me, not this time. He pushes into me, goes in so deeply that I feel like the breath is being forced out of me, and all I can hear is the sound of both of us panting. He's holding onto my shoulders to guide him.
I come. I think that he'll want to come inside me too, but tonight he wants me to suck him off. I muster up enough energy to climb off him. I want to see him for this. I switch the light on, and for a moment it's like we're both blinded by it, Brendan swearing and blinking rapidly. We adjust to it, and I'm in his arms and crouching down, kissing his belly, hand around the root of him. He's wet already, pre-cum at the slit, and I massage my tongue around the head of his cock before taking it into my mouth. I deep throat him, swallow him down when he comes.
Brendan collapses onto the pillow, motioning for me to lie in his arms. He doesn't ask me why I just did that, what it was all about, and I'm grateful. I don't know how to explain it; how to tell him that right then, I needed him. I needed him to block out the old Ste, the one who was invading my mind and taking over.
::::::
Three years ago
"Ste?"
"Mmm?" I'm cooking dinner for us. It's been a while since I've done this; it's been takeaways and leftovers from The Hutch mainly, but this is our anniversary, and it's meant to be special.
John Paul walks into the kitchen, holding up a stack of letters. It takes me a moment to understand what they are, and when I do I rush over to him, snatch them out of his grasp.
"Ste!" He's almost shouting, staring at me in alarm.
"Where did you get those from?" I already know the answer; I keep them under my bed in a box. I've always kept them there, safe from anyone else.
"I found them when I was putting some stuff away."
I'm about to ask him what stuff and what he's doing digging around in my room, but then I remember: I said he could. I said he could make some space for his own things for when he sleeps over for the night. I didn't think - I didn't fucking think about him finding the box, the letters.
"Did you look at them?" My voice is raised. I feel hot all over, waiting for his answer.
"Ste -" John Paul tries to move past me, but I won't let him.
"No. Come on, tell me. Did you read them?"
He pushes me aside, and it's then that I realise that the hob's still on. John Paul switches it off. The person who was making that dinner seems distant from me now; I've forgotten all about our planned night in together.
"Are you trying to put the whole house up in flames?"
"I was going to turn it off." I hold onto the letters tightly, trying to work out if they've been opened and read, but it's impossible to know. I've read them too many times myself to see if they're more worn.
John Paul turns to me, leaning his back against the countertop. He's made an effort for tonight; new shirt, new jeans, his hair styled back.
"Were you ever going to tell me about them?"
It sounds like I'm being accused of something.
"What?"
"About the letters. About Brendan."
I laugh like I can't believe what I'm hearing.
"I wrote them ages ago." It's not a complete lie; I wrote some of them ages ago, back when he was first sent down. After he didn't reply to the first few, I stopped sending them. It seemed pointless to spend all that time - to check the spelling, to try and write neatly, to not seem like an idiot - when he wasn't even going to bother to read them and write back. So I kept them for myself, untidy with as many errors as I liked. I don't know why I continued to write them - it was pointless, but it made me feel better. It felt like I was talking to him, like he could hear me.
There are no dates on any of them, so John Paul won't know if I'm telling the truth or not.
"Really?"
"Yes." My mind rushes: I try and think what I've written in them, if anything will give away the fact that some are as new as two days ago.
"Why did you keep them?"
"Listen, right -" I'm not going to stand here and listen to his questions anymore, to feel like I've done something wrong. They were meant to be private, not for him to snoop around and read, and I haven't cheated, have I?
"I didn't want to read them, Ste. But I saw them, and I..."
"You couldn't help yourself."
He walks closer to me. I think he's going to kiss me, and for a second I look away, try and avoid his mouth. I don't want to kiss him, not right now, but he doesn't try.
"You don't still...I mean, you and Brendan..."
"No." My voice is firm, defiant. "No. 'Course not. Never."
"Right." He seems more sure of himself. "Right. So you don't need to keep them, do you? I mean, if they were written years ago, and Brendan's never going to read them, and you don't still...we can get rid of them, can't we?"
I swallow, look at him. "Yeah. Yeah, we can."
He smiles. "Go on then." He nods towards the bin, and I think now? He wants me to do this now?
"Let's have our dinner first. It's going to go cold." I look towards the cooker, wish that I was still there, that none of this conversation had happened.
But he's sulking. He's hurt - I've hurt him. He doesn't deserve that, not after everything that's happened to him.
"Okay then." Okay. I walk over to the bin, open the lid, throw the letters into it. When I turn back to John Paul, I don't even know what my face looks like. "Let's have some food, yeah?"
I turn the hob back on, make dinner for us. We eat and we talk, and we fuck and fall asleep together, and when I wake up in the early hours while he's still in bed, I take the letters out of the bin and move them somewhere safe.