A/N: Happy New Year to everyone! Hope the holiday season brought some joy. I meant to get this chapter finished sooner, but haven't had as much time to write over the holidays as I thought I would do. This one is more of an interlude; it doesn't do much to progress the story, relying more on character interaction, but I hope it is enjoyable anyway. Thank you so much once more for the kind reviews and for sticking with me on this journey, it is so so nice to hear your thoughts and please do continue to share your reviews with me, they make me very happy! On with this one, subtitled 'A Very Brady Christmas'...

25.

25th December, 3.07 pm...

"What the fuck Chez?"

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"No, not okay, I can't believe this -"

"Look Bren, I'm sorry, I am, but how was I supposed to know -"

"That this was a monumentally stupid idea? It doesn't exactly need spelling out, does it?"

"Well having an affair doesn't strike me as being particularly sensible either, but what do I know?"

"It's not an 'affair', Steven and me -"

"Call it whatever you like Bren, but it's what's got you into this mess -"

"Oh so this is my fault? Here I was thinking that my sister was deliberately trying to ruin my life, but no, it's all down to me as per fucking usual."

"Don't be so melodramatic Bren, it doesn't suit you."

The doorbell to the farmhouse rang, causing Brendan and Cheryl to pause for breath. Brendan laughed maniacally and clicked his fingers, pointing towards the hallway.

"Ah, there it is. Sounding of the death knell."

"What have I just said about melodrama?"

"I'll get the door then shall I?" Nate asked as he appeared from the kitchen wearing a red polka dot apron and a harried expression. The doorbell sounded once more, but neither Brendan or Cheryl made any move towards it. Nate looked between the siblings and shook his head in exasperation.

"Dare I ask what's going on?"

"I wouldn't if I were you. That way you can plead ignorance when the police arrive."

Cheryl rolled her eyes at her brother.

"Hilarious as ever Bren."

Nate tutted and went to answer the door. Brendan gave Cheryl a glacial glare and headed to the sideboard, where a welcome bottle of whiskey was waiting to be opened.

"Yeah, good thinking Bren, alcohol is exactly what this situation needs."

Before Brendan could come up with a retort, the living room door opened, with Nate leading the way.

"Look who it is," he said with a trace of forced jollity. Brendan froze, whiskey glass in hand, and for the moment even Cheryl seemed to be lost for words. Ben and Ste stood in the doorway, both wearing heavy wool coats. Ben held up two bottles of champagne in his gloved hands, smile wide on his face.

"Merry Christmas everyone."

Brendan and Ste shared a look that did not go unnoticed by Cheryl. Coming back to himself, Brendan knocked back the whiskey he was holding in one gulp, throat protesting at the burn of the liquor.

"Merry fucking Christmas," he muttered under his breath.

Four weeks earlier...

The news reports were threatening snow, and sure enough, when Cheryl cast a glance up to the sky, she was certain the clouds above held the promise of arctic conditions. She shivered and hurried to the clinic's entrance and its anticipated warmth. Dispensing with her hat and gloves as the central heating of the reception hit her, Cheryl gave in her name and quickly found the waiting room. She glanced around nervously, knowing that in reality of course Brendan wasn't lurking behind a sofa, but feeling uneasy nevertheless. Cheryl tried not to imagine what Brendan's reaction would be to her going behind his back like this, but she was desperate to do what she could to fix things. To fix him. And so she had pushed aside all of the niggling doubts and had made the decision to act.

When her name was called Cheryl walked into Mark's office with her head held high, attempting to exude a confidence she wasn't certain she felt. Mark's eyebrows lifted a little from his position behind his desk, but this was all that was offered by way of greeting.

"Doctor Phillips. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Please," Mark said, gesturing for the chair at the desk opposite his own. This was to be a formal visit, Cheryl noted, with Mark clearly asserting his dominance and professional status with his position. The thought of the hypocrisy left Cheryl trying to keep her lips from twisting into a scowl. Mark coughed and adjusted his glasses unnecessarily, balancing his chin in the bridge of his hands.

"I have to say that when I saw your name on my list for today I was a little surprised."

Cheryl fiddled with the turquoise gloves in her lap, her heart pounding too loudly in her ears.

"When you visited the club Doctor Phillips, we had a conversation, and I seem to remember telling you that it wasn't over."

Mark nodded slowly to indicate his understanding.

"So you did. Where do you want to pick up from?"

"I need you to stop treating our Brendan. You have to refer him to another counsellor."

The atmosphere in the room, which had already been tense, became ice cold with the friction between its two occupants. Mark and Cheryl stared at each other for a long while across the table before Mark broke the eye contact, standing up abruptly to look out of the window.

"And why are you asking me to do this exactly?"

"I think you know why Doctor Phillips. I'm sure there are plenty of rules against doctors sleeping with their patients. Just as I'm sure that those rules are in place for a reason."

When Mark looked back at Cheryl the façade had disappeared. She was momentarily stunned by the look of sheer desperation in his eyes.

"I - I've never done anything like... this before Cheryl. Please believe me when I say that."

Cheryl frowned, unable to keep her own mask of apathy in place.

"Do you have feelings for him? For our Bren?"

Mark sunk back down into his desk chair, wringing his hands distractedly.

"It wasn't something I intended to happen. Patients don't get under my skin..."

"But Brendan has, hasn't he," Cheryl said softly.

"I don't... yeah. Yes."

Cheryl let out a little laugh.

"Has a habit of doing that, my brother."

Mark regarded Cheryl with wary eyes, removing his glasses with slightly trembling hands.

"He is one of the most broken people I've ever met. Possibly broken beyond repair."

Cheryl flinched: the words were unwelcome, harsh and so without hope. She searched for something to respond with.

"These past couple of weeks... he's been better. He seems better."

Mark smiled, but it was a smile filled with bitterness that transformed his face, so that he seemed malevolent.

"Ah. He seems better? Has he patched things up with Steven then?"

"Bren and Ste are really none of your business. And this is exactly why you shouldn't be treating Brendan, Doctor Phillips. Surely you can see that."

"I might be his only chance. I understand Brendan's darkness in a way other therapists never could."

"I don't believe that, and I don't think for one minute that you do either."

"What happens if I refuse?"

Cheryl stood up slowly, pulling her gloves over her hands in an indication of imminent departure.

"If you refuse, then I'll report you. And you'll most likely lose your job. Either way, you'll lose Brendan. Do the right thing Doctor Phillips."

"This won't have a happy ending Cheryl. It'll all end in tears."

Cheryl turned at the door to give the doctor the most piercing glare someone like Cheryl could muster.

"Just be sure that they aren't your tears Doctor Phillips."

25th December, 4.16 pm...

There weren't many things that Brendan disliked more than forced festivities. Cheryl had shoehorned him into a navy jumper with Rudolph's face beaming across the front, red bobble for a nose. Brendan would have protested for longer, but the Brady stubborn streak was pronounced in his sister, particularly when she was playing hostess, so he had capitulated and worn the damn thing. He supposed he had got off lightly, as Nate's jumper was bright red with rows of flashing LEDs in what he supposed were festive colours. Cheryl was wearing a santa hat and sequinned bauble earrings, which Brendan had rolled his eyes at, but at least Cheryl's personality meant that fun and frivolity as a dress code was vaguely understandable for her.

The jumper however paled into comparison with the situation he now found himself in though. Brendan was sat opposite Ste and Ben, wearing a paper Christmas hat in green that he had donned after being forced to pull crackers by his overly enthusiastic sister. Nate and Ben were in deep discussion over the possibilities of wine growing in Ireland, as Cheryl darted in and out of the kitchen with seemingly endless plates of food. Ste stared at Brendan across the table, trying to will Brendan into understanding the helplessness of his situation.

How had he found himself here? 'I wish it could be Christmas everyday' blared out from the speaker balanced on the sideboard, and the cheery atmosphere of the room caused Brendan to scowl inwardly, tugging the party hat from his head viciously. Cheryl took her seat next to him and began piling roast potatoes on to his plate.

"Where's your hat gone Bren?" she asked as she spooned on stuffing next to the potatoes, evidently ensuring Brendan had plenty of food in order to distract himself from the horror.

"It's gone to hell, where it and this song belongs."

"Not your favourite time of year then Brendan?" Ben asked across the table, passing the gravy jug to Ste who took it silently. Cheryl offered Ben a smile to counteract Brendan's stony glare.

"I think it's all the peace and goodwill to all men that our Bren has a problem with," Cheryl said with laughter in her tone, kicking Brendan underneath the table with a force that belied her jovial tone. Nate and Ben laughed. Brendan leant in towards his sister.

"Goodwill to one man in particular is my only current problem," he muttered into her ear. This time Cheryl's stern expression said it all.

"Brendan, just shut up and eat your dinner."

Two weeks earlier...

Brendan was one of those people who believed that a well tailored suit was comparable to donning a suit of armour. Since he had been old enough to dress himself, Brendan had been aware of the impact dressing formally could have, of being able to give oneself an aura of authority and respectability that was purely based on appearance. That was why, whenever Brendan found himself going into battle, his instinct was to clad his body with wool silk and crisp cotton as a first line of defence.

And so it was that when Brendan sauntered through the door of the Olive Press that Saturday morning, he was dressed in his newest tweed grey suit, with a perfectly pressed black shirt underneath the jacket. The girl behind the counter smiled and blushed a little when she saw him, as she always did when she happened to be serving on one of Brendan's visits. Whatever 'it' was, it was gratifying to know that he still had 'it', still had enough charm to make people nervous and flirtatious in equal measure.

"Morning Brendan. You here to see Mr Hay?"

Somewhere along the way she had learnt his name, although Brendan couldn't remember sharing it with her. Pulling out the most charismatic grin in his arsenal, Brendan directed the full force of said grin in the waitress' direction.

"You must be a mind reader Stephanie."

The blush deepened to a soft rose, and she disappeared through the swing door to the back of the restaurant. Thank god for the existence of name tags during a charm offensive. Brendan glanced around, taking in the several tables that were occupied by people drinking coffee and reading papers, the usual chilled clientele of the weekend contrasting with the hustle and bustle of his weekday visits. When Ste appeared he was carrying a tray full of pastries, eyes shining with pleasure at the sight of Brendan.

"Here you are, grab this will you? Needs to go on the counter over there."

When Ste reemerged with a second tray full, Brendan relieved him of it without comment, placing it down next to the first and grabbing the first croissant from the pile and transferring it to his mouth. Ste shook his head fondly and turned to start the coffee machine.

"Don't you want something proper to eat?"

"Did you make this?" Brendan asked, mouth full of pastry. Ste looked back over his shoulder and grinned.

"Yeah, course."

"So then this is proper, as you put it."

Ste selected a cup from the stack next to the machine, a light flush evident across his cheeks.

"I meant I can cook you something, didn't I."

Brendan swallowed the last of the croissant and leant across the counter, licking the residual butter and pastry from his fingers in a way that made Ste audibly swallow as he passed the coffee over, leaning against the counter so that his face was tantalisingly close to Brendan's. Their eye contact, which was always intense, blotted out the rest of the restaurant, condensing everything so that only the two of them seemed to exist. Brendan blinked and broke their gaze, looking down at the proffered coffee cup, tapping on the counter with twitching fingers.

"I missed you last night..."

Brendan chanced a glance up into Ste's face, but when he caught a glimpse of the clouds gathering behind Ste's eyes at his words, he swiftly looked away, eyes darting around for a place to settle. He felt a hand still his restless fingers.

"Brendan..."

"He's back. Isn't he?"

Brendan hadn't meant to sound so insecure, but realised that was how it must have come across to Ste.

"Nothing's changed Brendan."

"That's not what I meant Steven. You've been with me for weeks, and then, all of a sudden, vanished. Up in smoke, no explanation. Like walking into one of those bad soap operas that use 'it was all a dream' as a plot device."

Ste squeezed Brendan's fingers more tightly, forcing him to look up again. There was a storm brewing in those deep blue irises staring back at him, one Brendan was certain he would drown in one of these days.

"He came back early as a surprise and I couldn't get away. What was I meant to do eh? Look, I can't talk about this here."

Ugly questions formed in Brendan's mind, and as much as he tried batting them away, they continued to vie for attention in his doubt filled brain.

"Why not Steven? Worried that posh boy might walk in and ruin the fun?"

"No, not him -"

"Dad, I've finished the carrots, what do you want doing next?"

Leah's voice was unexpected, and startled Brendan into an upright position, just in time to watch her charge through the swing door holding a tea towel and a potato peeler. On spotting Brendan her face lit up and she made her way towards them, draping a casual arm around her father's shoulders.

"Brendan! What are you doing here?"

"What can I say? Your da makes the best cup of coffee, it's an addiction. How about you?"

"Oh, dad's letting me work over the Christmas holidays, saving up for a mad hol in Ibiza."

"Yeah, in your dreams Leah," Ste said with a scowl. Leah opened her mouth in mock horror.

"I'm nearly sixteen dad, practically all grown up. You'd let me go, right Brendan?"

Ste tutted and rolled his eyes as Brendan shrugged his shoulders.

"Funnily enough it's not Brendan's decision to make. Let's go and check those veggies, see if I can find you something else to do. We'll speak later, Brendan, okay?"

"Okay Steven, whatever you say."

"I'll be in in a sec dad," Leah said, wiping her hands on the tea towel and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge underneath the coffee machine. She gave Brendan an appraising look.

"You know what's funny? Dad's not had a go at me about giving you those letters, which is weird, because he was proper angry about it when I first told him."

"Mysterious."

"I know, right? Plus the whole lunch out thing with you last week..."

Brendan couldn't help but smirk at Leah's persistence. She would make a great detective, he thought. Either that or an excellent criminal mastermind.

'What is it you're thinking Leah?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just that my meddling might have paid off. Has it?"

Brendan was warmed by the hopeful gleam in Leah's eye. He leant in and gestured towards her, as though about to impart some secret knowledge. Leah moved towards Brendan eagerly.

"Let me tell you something, while your da's not here..."

"Go on."

"You're definitely too young to go to Ibiza," Brendan said, and headed for the door with a sly grin on his face.

"You know you sound just like dad!" Leah called after him, and Brendan allowed himself a little chuckle.

Later that afternoon there was a tentative knock on Nolans' office door.

"Come in," Brendan yelled, not looking up from his paperwork. An awkward shuffling caused him to sigh and look up into Ste's face. He was hovering near the door holding a small basket filled with pastries.

"You busy? I can come back later if you want?" Ste asked, pointing to the door. Brendan put down the highlighter he had been holding, rolling his head from side to side to ease the tension that had built in his neck.

"Close the door Steven," Brendan said gently, moving towards Ste and pausing whilst there was still some space between them. Ste clicked the door shut quietly, standing uncertainly between it and Brendan. Brendan inclined his head at the basket in Ste's hands.

"What's that you've got there?"

Ste glanced at the basket as though he'd forgotten he was holding it.

"What, this? It's a peace offering isn't it. Proper pastries. You know, like from earlier."

"Well, you certainly know the way to a man's heart Steven," Brendan said, folding his arms across his chest protectively. Ste placed the basket down on the floor and reached out to put a hand on Brendan's folded arm. His expression was beseeching.

"Nothing happened Brendan, I swear. It was hard right, because normally we would of, but I couldn't. I wouldn't do that do you."

Brendan released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He had spent the night before torturing himself with images of Ste writhing with pleasure under a man that wasn't Brendan. Brendan hated being on the back foot, and the situation with Ben definitely left him feeling too out of control for his liking. He uncrossed his arms and cupped Ste's cheek with his right hand. Ste sighed longingly.

"Long way to go to Christmas Steven."

"We'll be fine Brendan. Just have to make time for each other, won't we."

Brendan pressed his lips against Ste's, pulling at the plump flesh of Ste's bottom lip with his teeth, eliciting a low moan from the younger man.

"Have you got time now?"

Ste smiled on Brendan's mouth, teasing with soft bumps of lips and tongue.

"Mmmhmm..."

Brendan reached behind Ste and twisted the lock on the office door, a sense of deja vu shooting through him with the familiar action.

"Take off your clothes, Steven," Brendan whispered into Ste's ear, making him shiver.

"Don't need to tell me twice."

25th December, 5.57 pm...

If there was one place Brendan hadn't expected to spend his Christmas Day, it was the bathroom of Cheryl's rented farmhouse hiding from guests, yet there he was. Sitting against the bath, legs crossed in front of him, Brendan closed his eyes, feeling the burning heat of the whiskey he had brought with him as it travelled down into his stomach. Even with copious amounts of wine and whiskey, the horror of the day would simply not abate in his brain. Sitting around a dinner table with Ste and Ben had been monumentally painful; the urge to run away, to flee the situation had been so strong, and he had probably only lasted as long as he had because he didn't want to disappoint Cheryl.

A soft knock at the door roused Brendan from his seething stupor. He opened one eye and peered at the door, but otherwise ignored the disturbance. The door handle twisted downwards, but thankfully Brendan had had the foresight to lock the door earlier. Another firmer knock sounded.

"Bren? Brendan? It's me."

Brendan rubbed his face in his hands and groaned. Pulling himself up using the bath as support, he made his unsteady way to the door and slid the lock over, opening it a touch. Once Ste was in, Brendan locked the door once more. Ste was holding Brendan's bottle of whiskey and his pupils were as small as pinpricks. Clearly Brendan wasn't the only one who had spent the afternoon getting themselves drunk.

"You're drinking whiskey?"

"It reminds me of you?" Ste said, a slur evident in his normally harsh and clipped accent. Brendan snorted and took the bottle from Ste, balancing it on the sink counter.

"You don't need anymore of that Steven."

Ste looked as though he was about to argue, but when he caught Brendan's eye he hesitated. There was a long moment of silence, too long for Brendan's liking. As he was about to speak however, Ste seemed to come to a decision, launching himself on to Brendan, pushing him against the door and attacking his mouth desperately, heat of whiskey laced breath and slide of tongue distracting Brendan from everything else temporarily. He gripped at Ste's back, pulling his jumper up to touch the smooth skin underneath. Brendan dug his nails into the soft flesh of Ste's waist, wanting to leave his marks in Ste's body, driving Ste to moan and push his tongue further into Brendan's panting mouth. Ste thrust his body against Brendan's forcefully as he could, spiking the arousal running through Brendan's nerve endings. Ste broke the kiss temporarily, leaning his forehead on Brendan's, giving them both a chance to get their breath back.

"I'm so sorry Brendan. Cheryl asked and Ben said yes before I could think of an excuse -"

"It's fine Steven."

Ste kissed him gently then, almost shyly.

"It's not fine. All I seem to be doing lately is apologising to you."

"You never need to apologise to me."

Ste bit his bottom lip and looked up at Brendan through his eyelashes coquettishly in a way that made Brendan's stomach flip.

"Let me make it up to you in another way then."

"Well you know I'll never say no to that Steven."

He grasped Ste's head and kissed him again with as much passion as he could muster, whilst Ste undid Brendan's jeans with unsteady fingers. Ste dropped to his knees, dragging Brendan's jeans and underwear down to his ankles, leaving his erect cock exposed before him. Just the sensation of Ste's hot breath on his skin left Brendan's knees weak, and he found himself leaning his body back against the door for support. Ste's tongue licked teasingly along the underside of Brendan's cock, and Ste's eyes never left Brendan's, desire darkening the irises to a midnight blue. Brendan watched as Ste's mouth engulfed the head of his cock, tongue swiping and laving as he took more into his mouth with every movement. Brendan closed his eyes, lost himself in the sensations surrounding him. When he opened them he looked down to watch Ste's head bobbing and couldn't resist gripping a hand through his hair, encouraging Ste to take him deeper. Ste hummed a little, allowing Brendan to fuck his mouth, massaging Brendan's balls in his hands, encouraging him to spread his legs a little to allow him better access. Fingers pressed insistently and Brendan felt spasms of pleasure shoot through him.

"Steven - fuck. I'm going to come..."

Ste swallowed around Brendan, ignoring his gag reflex, taking him nearly entirely into his mouth and throat. Brendan's climax rippled through him, and he bit down on his knuckles to smother the irrepressible moans escaping his lips. Ste swallowed everything Brendan offered, before releasing him gently and sitting back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Jesus Steven. That mouth of yours..."

"Merry Christmas Brendan."

A loud knocking on the door brought them both to their senses, startling Brendan who moved away from the door and hastily pulled up his trousers.

"Bren. Open the door," Cheryl's voice penetrated through the panels. Brendan noted with dread that she did not sound happy. Ste shook his head frantically, but Brendan put a finger to his lips and motioned for him to stand behind the door. Opening it as little as possible, Brendan was face to face with his sister, who looked furious.

"Ben wants to go and he is asking where Ste is. Tell him to sort himself out and get downstairs now," Cheryl hissed through gritted teeth.

"Chez -"

"Save it Brendan," she said, walking away without looking back. Brendan rested his head against the door frame, tapping a countdown on the wood with his fingers.

"Time's up, Steven."

Eight years earlier...

Mass catering a Christmas dinner is a challenge, and not one that Wakefield prison is really prepared for. Nevertheless it is offered up, as though reminding the incarcerated of what they are missing in the outside world is something they ought to be grateful for. It is reminiscent of a school canteen, the same reliance on lining up obediently, of taking turns, yet without the excitable, hopeful din that children bring to a room. Instead the atmosphere is muted, grim. No-one is inclined to speak, or even to initiate conversation in the first place. The men serving are wearing Christmas santa hats; the effect they give is jarring against their humourless expressions. The artificial lighting in the dining hall lends the men a grey, washed out pallor that matches the grey, washed out palette of life inside the four walls of the prison.

Brendan avoids the catering jobs on offer. They only serve to remind him of the other time, of peeling potatoes with Walker, stacking baking trays high in the huge metal sinks while he unwittingly offered his life up for destruction. Preparing food also reminds him of other things, even more dangerous than Walker. Of crème brûlée. Of jam sandwiches. Of rare steaks cooked exactingly. Of baking bread. It is better not to think about the time before any more than is necessary. Survival often depends on shutting down anything that may lead to emotion bubbling up to the surface.

The turkey is dry, tasteless. Brendan concentrates on the arduous task of chewing, swallowing, going through the motions. He sits at the end of the long trestle table, ready to make a swift getaway once this travesty is over. The two men nearest him are talking quietly about the imminent visit of family, and Brendan tries to zone out, to not allow himself to feel bereft. He had rejected Cheryl's visiting order, and after that had listened to her sobbing and begging over the phone for him to let her see him. It broke his heart to cause his sister such pain, but the idea of Cheryl and all of her life and colour stepping into the cold confines of the visiting room at this time of year is abhorrent.

It is eerily quiet when he returns to his cell. The inmates are subdued; for a change it is the occasion that has subdued them rather than a prison guard. Brendan sits on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, taking in deep breaths with his eyes closed. He knows deep down that this is pointless, that there is nothing he can do - the memories will pour in regardless of any expedient measure he attempts to take. Reams of rainbow wrapping, sherry flavoured kisses underneath the mistletoe. Stockings full to the brim with stuffed animals. Christmas lights lining the river in Dublin. His third December behind bars, and the stains of time still have the power to sting, still hurt as much as razor blades slashing at the skin. It is the worst time of year, because it had once been the best time of year. The contrast between the two is agony.

Brendan allows the pain to embed itself, to take root in his chest. He opens his eyes and they are hot, stinging. He reaches underneath his pillow and pulls out two things: an envelope and a photograph. He had kept the photograph almost against his will. When it had come down to it he found that he could not get rid of it, he simply wasn't strong enough. The edges are curling upwards, and the photo itself carried the evidence of being regularly handled, smudges of fingerprints marring the sheen of the paper. But, despite its tattered appearance, it holds power, this photograph. Brendan can feel the potential of it just by touching it. An image filled with incandescent hope, tentative happiness. Bravery. The unbearable beauty of it takes Brendan's breath away, as though he has been punched in the gut.

And then there is the envelope. It is the most recent one, and although he knows he needs to send it back to join the others, he has hesitated, reluctant to let go. Brendan holds the envelope that promises so much, and the temptation to open it is like a virus spreading through his body from his fingertips. It is getting harder and harder to let go, even though he knows he must. His fingers tingle at the thought of ripping open the paper, of tearing the words from their hiding place. His thumb hovers over the corner where a tiny gap begs to be prised open.

He stops. It does not do to dwell on memories. The four walls surrounding him, that is his reality, and he needs to live in it. Brendan knows that he needs to return the envelope and dispose of the photograph: these things he must do in order to survive...

Dear Brendan,

Happy anniversary. Or at least it's what I like to think of as our anniversary. Today is the day I came to find you in Dublin, three years ago. Seems like forever ago, doesn't it? I always get caught up thinking about it in December. I have to remind myself that it really happened. I have no-one I can talk to about it you see, so writing to you is a way of getting to relive it. It was scary on that flight, I was so nervous. And then the stuff with John Paul...

But then you came to find me on the bridge, and you told me you couldn't live your life without me, and I didn't tell you but that's how I felt too. I still don't understand how you can have said that and then cut me out only a few months later. I keep hoping that you'll change your mind, that if I just keep writing then one day you'll snap, you'll have to open the letter and read it and find out how I feel.

I was so happy on that bridge. And I think you were too. That night was amazing, and you said you'd never let me go, do you remember that Brendan? Getting to see Dublin with you felt so right. I keep thinking that I'll go back there, that I want to see it all again, but I'm not sure I can do it without you. It would be weird, because you'd be missing. But I would love to stand on that bridge again. I could even make a love lock. I know I said I would never, but the idea of our names being together somewhere, it makes me feel better somehow. Like in some way you could be with me, stupid as it sounds.

I hate this time of year. I used to love it, used to be so excited, especially when I had the kids. It'll be good this year to be at Amy's so that I can see them opening their presents, but it's not the same. It'll never be the same as that one Christmas we had together, the best one of my life. Because it was Brendan. I know I say it all the time, but I still don't understand how you could think that I'm better off without you. You helping the kids with their stockings and kissing under the mistletoe even though you hate stuff like that... well, it was special. And I'll never forget any of it.

Had a Christmas card from your Chez. I'm going to go see her in the new year. It's nice to be close to her, it makes me feel a little bit closer to you, in a way. And the kids are making me something, it's supposed to be a surprise, but I think it's a collage to go up in the deli. Amy's helping, so it should be good.

The best present I could get would be hearing from you though Brendan. I know I say this everytime I write, but you've never read any of them have you, so I'll say it again. I miss you. And not being with you hurts. I told you that I'd never feel any differently about you, and I meant it Bren. I wish you'd meant it too.

Happy anniversary. And merry Christmas. I love you.