There was an emptiness in exhaling, Ste realised. You literally forced something that was going to keep you alive as long as it was in you out of you, then got yourself a fresh batch to fill up on before chucking it out again. Ste wondered how much the air weighed inside him as he stared at the last embers glowing from the remnants of his joint, musing.

It was cheap shit. He hadn't smoked in years, and it still took nearly the whole damn thing for him to feel even a little bit high. With each inward breath, his chest inflated, the weight of the air he'd pulled inside sitting heavy on his heart. Or was it the other way around? Was his heart sitting heavy on his lungs? Was the heart in front of or behind the lungs? Was he crushing his heart into his ribs every time he breathed in? Was he risking mincing his heart with too deep an inward pull?

Ste considered panicking. After a minute or two he decided he didn't have the energy. He'd made it this far without heart sausages squeezing out between his ribs, he was sure he'd make it another day. He fidgeted until he got comfortable again, then groaned loudly when he heard the three most annoying sounds he could possibly think of, all happening one after each other. The first annoying sound was a solitary knock on his door. The other two annoying sounds were the uniform knocks that followed.

With the grace of a shopping-laden mother with a pram trying to walk though a moving bus, Ste careered over to the door and made a sudden stop behind it. "Who's there?" he asked.

"Doug," came the reply.

Okay, so Ste had been unnecessarily mean to his husband lately. He supposed he should reciprocate this concern for his well-being with at least an attempt at good graces. The chain came off the door, and Ste stepped aside so that Doug could come in.

"Jesus, Ste!" Doug instantly exclaimed, screwing his face up. "Are you high?"

"No," Ste grimaced. "Cheap shit wouldn't put a baby to sleep."

"Well … I'll ignore anything about your parenting skills that sentence may have implied."

"Fuck you."

Ste led the way into the living area and slumped down onto the threadbare settee. He slouched low, one arm on the arm rest, waiting for Doug to join him. Doug didn't sit, however. Uh oh. It looked like he wanted to Talk. Ste tried to keep his face neutral, hoping to deflect any difficult words away with his apparent apathy. It didn't work. From the expression Doug was wearing, he seemed to think Ste was ill.

"Are you okay?" Doug asked, peering closer and finally perching on the edge of the couch to get a better look.

Ste couldn't help the sulky tone of his reply. "That's not a very nice question."

"Ste..." Doug sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and observed Ste a moment. Ste resolutely studied the loosening thread beneath his hands on the armrest. "Look, Ste," Doug tried. Ste gritted his teeth and looked.

"What?" he asked.

"Erm … Ste … I think we need to talk."

"M'kay."

"About you."

"Right."

"About how you're … coping," Doug finished lamely. "Y'know … the … drinking? And now weed? I'm worried about you, Ste."

"Awww." Ste let the sound drawl from his mouth. "In't that nice?"

"I'm here for you, Ste, whether you like it or not. I'm not gonna give up on you, okay?" Ste felt himself flinch, and Doug seemed to notice his renewed tension, judging by the slight recoil and the worried eyebrows. "I don't mean … Like … Y'know," he tried. "I just want to be your friend, Ste. You need to stop pushing me out."

"I'm not pushing you out," Ste tutted. "You're butting in." He folded his arms, his head drooping onto his shoulder. He hadn't slept properly for nearly two months, and it was starting to run him down.

"Hey, so-" Doug changed the subject with false brightness that just served to grate Ste's nerves. "How about you and I go somewhere and hang out? Leanne will come."

"No thanks. I'm proper tired, me. Just gonna have an early night."

"Yeah, I – uh – I didn't mean today. Tomorrow, maybe? If you're up to it?"

Ste forced himself to smile, but from the way the muscles on his face felt taut and contorted it seemed he was simply pressing his lips together and scrunching up his nose. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

"What time d'ya meet?" asked Doug.

"Dunno. I've not exactly got a chocker social calendar right now."

"Right. Yeah. So … how about five-ish?"

"Sure."

"At the deli?"

Ste thought about it. "You might as well just come and get me from the Dog," he suggested. "I'll probably be there anyway."

Doug fidgeted and rubbed the back of his neck again. "Yeah..." he said, the sound trailing off toward the end. "You gonna stick to the soft drinks, though, right?" he asked, his tone light an airy as if he was attempting a joke.

"Nah," Ste replied. "I don't think so." He didn't feel the need to elaborate.

"Um … Okay … Well, I best be off," Doug told him as he awkwardly lifted himself off the couch. "You should let me know if you need anything, by the way."

"I'm good, ta."

"But really... anything?"

Ste looked up at him a moment. "Might need milk," he said.

Doug cleared his throat. He didn't say anything, but nodded slightly. He took this as his chance to politely leave, and saw himself out. Alone again at last, Ste relaxed into the sofa. He closed his eyes, trying make his mind blank, but now that Doug was gone he was feeling awake again. Yawning, he dragged himself out of his seat and into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

The clock ticking on the kitchen wall told him it was going up to seven. After his cuppa, he was going to grab a shower, then maybe put on something a bit nicer than his tracksuit. A new tracksuit, maybe. Then, he was going out. He was going to a pub he'd never been to before, then he was going to get trashed in a room full of strangers dancing to crappy music and falling over each other, stinking of sweat and smearing orange tan over everything except their own tidal lines and spilling cocktails on each other. Ahhhh. Heaven.

He stuck to the plan. The pub he found himself in was called The Square Bottle. It was a Weatherspoons, but what the Hell. It was down the Grosvenor end of town, so there weren't as many chavs as he'd have liked – but on the other hand, nobody bothered him. Just what this part of the evening called for.

Ste started out with an Irish whiskey in honour of Bren, then he necked down a pint of the cheapest lager in one go. He got a beer with a burger for a fiver – something to soak up a bit of the alcohol, and more alcohol for good measure. Then more lager, as the clock ticked up toward ten. He decided to stick to alcopops for the rest of the night. There was something about their fake sweetness and false brightness he found appealing.

He found himself in a place called Rosie's, where it appears it might have been a 90s night. Somebody told him every night on that floor was 90s night. Okay then. He carried on up some stairs and found himself in a smoky, overcrowded and very loud room. There were girls in towering heels and tiny dresses everywhere. The number of boys in plaid shirts and burgundy drainpipes was disturbing. The music was far, far too loud, and nobody could hear a damn thing outside their heads. The bass pounded in Ste's chest, and he breathed in the smoke from the smoke machine and the scent of sweat pouring off the writhing dancers on the floor before him.

The bar was at the other end of the room, and Ste had to push he way through the crowd to get to it. The throng of tipsy women and bolshy men around the bar seemed to ebb from side to side as they all swayed in unison with the music. Ste employed his old Ice Cream Van Tactic. Where there were no clear queuing rules, it was every chav for himself. After sliding in from the top right of the hoard and using his sharp elbows to full effect, Ste landed himself a fish bowl. A flirty girl with bits of green-dyed hair bought it for him with a flutter of eyelashes. "Cheers, love," he'd said after she parted with the cash. "My boyfriend will be proper impressed with this." He raised the bowl toward her in a 'tip of the hat' manner, and without glancing at her again sidled off to the darkened edges of the floor.

This place was soulless. Every place was soulless. Every space seemed to have something missing. Everywhere was bleak and without character. Nowhere was enough. Ste felt sick. He abandoned the fish bowl and staggered into the bathroom. He relieved himself, rinsed his hands, then ran headlong into a wall of muscle three times the broadness of a wardrobe.

Ste wrinkled his nose. "'Ere mate, watch where you're going," he snapped, attempting to push past the bloke to get to the rest of the club. The newcomer, however, used his considerable muscle and size to his advantage, blocking the door.

"You accepted an expensive cocktail off a dear friend of mine," the wardrobe said. He was so big, he probably did contain Narnia. "Then it turned out you tricked her," he continued, "and she's very upset."

Ste rolled his eyes. "That ain't my fault. Taught her a life lesson, I did." Ste managed to slip past this time, but the wardrobe lumbered after him.

"Hey!" it shouted. "I'm talking to you!" It was drowned out by the horrible music, though, so Ste continued. A hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. He instinctively ducked down and managed to avoid a right hook. The seriousness of the situation seemed to have increased. Preservation was necessary. Keeping low, Ste darted into the gyrating throng, popping up now and then, like a meerkat spying for danger. He made a split decision, and headed toward the DJ. He casually leaned on the booth and waited. Sure enough, the guy swanned over with back-up.

Ste tapped the DJ. "EE'YAH, MATE!" he yelled into the guy's ear. "THAT BLOKE THERE-" he pointed, "JUST PUT HIS HAND UP MY GIRLFRIEND'S SKIRT, AND WHEN I TOLD HIM TO BACK OFF-"

The DJ moved away from him. He switched off the music. He took out his microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a newsflash," he began, his voice booming around the too-loud speakers. The entire crowd had stopped and was now staring up at the DJ. "That bloke there -" He pointed at the right wardrobe. "- put his hand up a woman's skirt without her consent."

The was a ripple around the crowd, and the wardrobe stopped in its tracks. Ste could see that he was trying to find him with his eyes as the people around him became more irate, but Ste had already begun to make his exit. He passed some bouncers, who were making their way in to try and stop something before it started, and kept himself to himself. He was outside on the cobbled street before anybody stopped him.

"I saw what you did there," said a voice. Ste turned. He was tall, not muscular but not skinny, and with skin, hair and eyes so pale he could have been albino.

Ste shrugged. "Dunno what you mean."

"Your survival instinct is fascinating."

"Right," nodded Ste, turning as if to go. "Well, I'm headed off, so..."

"Wanna hang out with me and the lads? I'm Freddie, by the way." Freddie held his hand out. He was pretty, Ste thought. He was wearing a black shirt with tight, blue jeans. No plaid or drainpipes in sight.

"Ste." Ste shook the hand. "Where you going?"

"No idea," shrugged Freddie. "Gonna get the next train from the station and see where we end up. Up for it?"

Ste was unsure. His mind was foggy. They were gonna chuck that guy out any second once they'd managed to extract as many pieces of him as possible from the crowd, and Ste didn't want to be around when that happened. Ste decided to head on to the direction of the train station with Freddie and his mates. He could get a taxi from the rank outside if they seemed dodgy or losers.

"Posh shirt," Ste observed as he navigated the pavement.

"Borrowed," explained Freddie.

"You live round 'ere?"

"Nope."

"Me neither. I hate the city centre."

"Then why are you here?"

Ste shrugged. "Nobody knows me here."

"Same."

"Except your mates."

Freddie chuckled. "Yeah. But your mates will forgive you anything."

Ste made a sound he suspected was a 'guffaw'. "No they bloody won't," he sneered. He stumbled on a slightly raised flagstone. Freddie went to catch him, but it wasn't necessary. "Sorry," Ste mumbled. "Bit tipsy."

"Didn't I hear a rumour about you and a fish bowl?" Freddie asked, amusement in his eyes. "You're a lot more than 'tipsy'."

"I know, right?" grinned Ste. "You better not take advantage," Ste warned. "My ex may be in prison but he still loves me and he'll still fuck your shit up just by thinking about it, so don't try anything, yeah?"

"You're gay?"

"Yeah," Ste scowled, then rounded on Freddie. "YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?" he yelled in his face, nearly overbalancing and landing on him.

The way Freddie grinned... "No, Ste. I do not have a problem with that."

Ste stumbled again as they kept walking. They'd be at the subway soon. "Where are your mates?" he asked.

"They were getting a KFC then meeting me at the station."

"Why did they leave you in the club?"

"They went outside to smoke, then texted me that this place is shit. No talent. Let's move on."

Ste pouted. "Am I not talent? Look at my face."

Freddie made an 'mmm' sound. "Okay, there was one good call in this Roman ruin," he conceded. "Where are you going?" he then asked.

"Er – train station?" Ste pointed at the stairs leading to the subway.

"No, no. We came from that direction. If we're gonna catch my mates up, we should go the same way as them."

Ste frowned. He glanced down the road where Freddie was pointing, then back down at the warm glow from the piss-stinking subway. "Never been that way."

"It's all houses, but it brings you out at the billboards near the station."

"Hm," Ste shrugged. "Fine. That way."

They walked along quietly for a few minutes, then Freddie's phone beeped. It was an old-fashioned flip phone that didn't even have a colour screen. Ste stared at it. "Woah," he breathed. "I well bet a museum would pay good money for that."

Freddie chuckled and brought the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring. "Oh, hi Brian. Yeah, I'm on my way. You got the food okay?" He listened to Brian for a moment. "Yeah. No. No. It's okay you don't have to. I've met somebody; he's up for a night out. Ste. Yeah. Nah. Where are you?" There were a couple more 'yeahs' and 'okays', then a 'Bye' and Freddie hung up.

Ste giggled in a most unmanly and unchavly way. "Freddie? Brian? You starting a tribute act?"

Freddie laughed, but seemed strained by the observation. "Brian's my brother. My dad was a superfan."

"The Van Tassels. The Von Toots. The Van Diesels."

"Von Trapps?"

"Them with Mary Poppins and the guy who was a navy captain for a country with no sea border and is totally landlocked. Them."

Freddie nodded along, kicking a stone out from under his feet. "This way," he indicated. "Brian says they got invited to a house party. We just gotta drag them out of there and then carry on our way."

"Ugh. Okay."

They came to a stop outside a terraced house, and Freddie double-checked the address texted to him. "This seems like the place," he said, then knocked on the door.

"Can't you just walk in at house parties?"

"Dunno," shrugged Freddie. "Never been to one." He bounced from foot to foot. He seemed anxious.

"You okay?" Ste asked.

"Yeah," Freddie assured him. "I just know how much Brian drinks when I'm not around to keep an eye on things."

The door opened, the thud of a bass greeted them. The door was simply left open for them to walk in, so Freddie entered and Ste followed. The place was clearly a student flat. It was rank. Even Ste never let his place get this bad. The smell of vomit, cigarettes, stale sweat and stale sex hung in the hair like a web. He wrinkled his nose. The people were all in the front room smoking weed. Some were unashamedly snorting crack from the glass coffee table. It reminded Ste of his childhood.

"You wanna wait there?" asked Freddie, pointing at a window seat with nobody on it. "I'll go and get Brian et al."

Ste grumbled, but staggered over to the seat and sat down to watch the crowd. A guy with olive skin and (surprise,) a plaid shirt came over to him. "Hey, sweet thing," he smoothly poured out. "Want a drink?"

"Erm … go on then," Ste shrugged. A glass of some kind of cocktail was pushed into his hand.

"Bottoms up!" grinned his new friend.

"Yeah, yeah," Ste nodded, then downed the whole thing.

"Woah, sweet thing; you're gonna pass out drinking like that!"

Ste rolled his eyes. "Call me that again, and I'll nut ya."

The plaid guy put his arm around Ste's shoulders and squeezed him tight. "I'd like to see you try, sweet thing," he goaded.

With a twist of his torso, Ste got his arm free and dug his nails straight into the back of the guy's neck. With a howl, the guy threw his face forward to escape the clawing, and cracked his nose against Ste's raised knee all by himself. He fell to the ground.

"Barely needed to try," tutted Ste, and got to his feet. Woah, his head was swimming. His vision was on time delay when he moved his head. He looked around him; everybody staring at the bloke on the floor, and at Ste, too drunk to really get away. Ste lunged forward, and in doing so he really looked at the people around him. They were all so … normal. As in, when you went to – well, when you went anywhere, really – you always found some characters or something. But no. These guys, and every one of them was male, were all far too normal. All plaid. All drainpipes.

There was something harsh rubbing against Ste's cheek, and he distantly realised he'd fallen over. God, the numbness he was feeling. It was bliss. It was oblivion. It was everything he wanted. It was like the cut, only a million times more focussed. Everything around him was silent and meaningless. His whole body was … feeling-less. It was nearly two minutes of happy oblivion before his brain finally caught up.

Panic and fear were ebbing into the perfect nothingness, and at the back of Ste's memory he could hear a charming voice leaning in to remind him: Your survival instinct is fascinating...

Well, thought Ste, You're going to fucking test it now, Freddie. You're going to fucking test it now …