33.
Day Two
"The clocks slid back an hour
and stole light from my life
as I walked through the wrong part of town,
mourning our love.
And, of course, unmendable rain
fell to the bleak streets
where I felt my heart gnaw
at all our mistakes.
If the darkening sky could lift
more than one hour from this day
there are words I would never have said
nor have heard you say.
But we will be dead, as we know,
beyond all light.
These are the shortened days
and the endless nights."
(Mean Time - Carol Ann Duffy)
"They're called love locks... weren't thinking about doing one were you?"
"Don't flatter yourself... why are you even here?"
"Because I love you. Because I can't live my life without you. I love you Steven..."
Flashes of the past punctuated his dreams, like stripes of lightning through a storm laden sky. He woke with a jolt, as though the static created by the memories had pierced his skin, sending shockwaves through his body. A vague grey daylight filtered through the thin curtain across the window, and Brendan used the limited illumination it offered to take in the hotel room. Bathrobes flung untidily over the desk chair, a tray with an ice bucket on the desk itself, any ice left in it long since melted. The bed next to him was empty, though there was still an indent pressed into it where Ste's head had settled during the night. Brendan touched a hand to the pillow as though Ste was still there, as though he was brushing through silken strands of mussed up hair. Ste was booked for an early morning meeting with the hotel company and although Brendan had offered to go with him, he hadn't pressed it when Ste had declined. He sensed that Ste thought he would take over if he went with him, and Brendan had enough self awareness to know that this was probably true. The plans for the hotel were to be entirely Ste's: that much was clear.
Brendan retrieved the room service menu from the bedside table and flicked through the breakfast menu. It was tempting to stay in bed, surrounded by pleasant reminders of the day before, to lie amongst the covers that smelt of Ste and daydream about champagne, room service and seemingly endless sex. It created an impression that the real world couldn't touch him here, that they had managed to build a protective cocoon around this tentative temporary happiness of theirs. A grumbling complaint from his stomach brought Brendan out of his trance, and he flung the menu away from him towards the corner of the bed, making the decision to go out and see how much Dublin had altered in the many years that had passed since his last visit. Decision made, Brendan made his way into the bathroom, twisting the temperature gauge in the shower to a higher setting that Ste had chosen earlier.
The water rained down on him, making his skin throb and flush pink. He held his hands out in front of him allowing the drops to collect and spill from his fingers. It was difficult not to think about the three days and two nights that were about to unfold. The physical connection between Brendan and Ste was as strong as ever, and on the basis of the previous day, it might have been easy to assume that Ben's confidence in Ste's deciding to stay with him was majorly misplaced. The fact remained though that there was so much simmering under the surface that could not be said, and the emotional connection was not as easy to fix. They still had not talked through what had transpired leading up to Brendan's breakdown at all, as though those troubled months had never happened. Brendan wanted to explain himself so badly, but he wasn't certain that Ste really wanted to hear it, and that it might prove to do more harm than good...
The saying about leopards and spots was certainly true when applied to Brendan. After his hospital stay had ended, and many of his demons were, if not exactly banished, then at least controlled, he decided to pay a visit to Doctor Phillips. Inadvisable as he knew it to be, the longer he left it the more determined he became to scratch that particular itch.
He drove to the house that he had been in on several previous occasions in the time before, and rang the doorbell fiercely, confidently. His armour was in place - a navy wool silk slim fitting suit and a pearl white open necked shirt. He looked like himself, the best version of himself really, because he was well rested, well groomed and healthy. Mark's eyes widened in surprise when he opened the door, taking in the man on his doorstep.
"Long time no see, doc."
Mark's normally clean shaven face was peppered with unkempt stubble, and he scratched at it irritably.
"You'll have to come up with another nickname Brendan, because I'm not a doctor anymore. You shouldn't really be here."
Brendan smiled, cocked his head at the suggestion.
"No? No. So, are you going to invite me in anyway or shall we just stand here all day exchanging pleasantries?"
"Pleasantries?"
"Yeah, perhaps it's the wrong choice of word, but there's no harm in being polite now is there?"
There was an exhausted, defeated expression in Mark's eyes that won over his desire to argue, and wordlessly he led Brendan through the hallway into the lounge. Or a room that had once functioned as a lounge, at least. It smelt a little like the club did on a Saturday night before the clean down; stale alcohol and a vague whiff of smoke from cigarette infused clothing. There was an unhappiness attached to this smell, an over reliance on substances to elicit manufactured highs, paid for oblivions. Strewn across the rug were empty wine bottles, aimed at but not quite reaching the bin beside the fireplace, a middle class alcoholic's tipple of choice, Brendan thought with a trace of churlishness. Mark shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. He looked ashamed.
"What do you want Brendan?"
"I like what you've done with the place doc," Brendan said, gesturing casually at the mess, "nothing screams 'malpractice' quite like the development of a drinking problem."
"I haven't got a drinking problem," retorted Mark through gritted teeth. Brendan crouched down, picked up one of the bottles, making a show of examining it.
"Blossom Hill? Seriously? Okay, if you say so. No denying the malpractice bit though I notice."
Mark took the bottle from Brendan's grip roughly, flinging it into the metallic bin with a harsh clatter. Brendan winced as the noise rang through him, straightened himself up to his full height and crossed his arms in front of him, in that unmistakably hostile body language gesture.
"I don't much want to talk about that Brendan."
"I bet you don't. I'm sure I can understand that. But you see, the thing is doc - or whatever it is I should call you now - I've had a lot of time to think things over. Lots of time to think in a psychiatric hospital - you had experience with those hospitals doc?"
Mark was growing more uncomfortable in the face of Brendan's cheerfully threatening recital, swallowing hard.
"Yes..."
"Yes! Of course you have. Well then you know all about it, the time and how it stretches out before you, nowhere to go and nothing to do but think. And I did think, let me tell you doc. I thought about what had happened to me, and why it had happened. I can't remember much about the actual day itself, I'm sure you and your extensive medical knowledge can tell me why that might be."
Brendan held out a hand as though waiting for an answer. Mark coughed nervously to clear his throat.
"It's the brain... the brain protecting itself from trauma."
Brendan clapped his hands in a parody of a round of applause.
"Right. That's right, a gold star for you doc. That's what my doctor - my new doctor - said too. I have a new doctor now you see, one who isn't interested in fucking me. It's been an eye opener doc, I assure you. Someone who wants to help me for the right reasons, rather than for their own nefarious ends."
"Don't start making out that this is just down to me Brendan, you wanted it just as much as I did."
Brendan raised an eyebrow, picked an invisible thread from his jacket sleeve.
"An interesting defence, but I'm not sure that 'my patient was gagging for it' will stand up in court. Good luck with that though."
"Look Brendan... just tell me what you want. Get to the point, if you have one."
"Of course, of course. You were there. That night."
"Which night?"
"Don't be obtuse doc, you know the night I mean. The night I was taken into hospital. I mean, I know you were there, that wasn't really the question. My question is - why? Why were you there?"
Mark took in a deep breath, glancing around the room uneasily. It was a reaction that Brendan recognised, and without saying anything to Mark he left the room and headed for the kitchen. It didn't take long for him to find a stash of unopened bottles. He grabbed one, opened and closed cupboards until he found a glass, and took them back through to where Mark stood, seemingly rooted to the spot. Using the fireplace as a table, Brendan opened the wine and poured, holding it out to Mark, who snapped out of his daze and took it gratefully. Brendan noticed the trembling hands that were responsible for the action.
"In your own time doc."
Mark drank deeply from the glass and cleared his throat again.
"Cheryl came to see me - that day. She wanted to know where you were."
"And you would have known because..."
"You'd been with your friend - the priest," Mark added at Brendan's uncomprehending expression, "and he rang up, made an appointment for you. He was worried about you."
Brendan's mind strained for the memory, tried to make a grab for the edges of it, to pull it into the light. He had vague recollections of a graveyard, of searching for answers, but the images had an ethereal quality and separating dream from reality was impossible.
"So I came here. Not to the office."
"It was your choice. You were really agitated. And you wanted to - you know..."
A doctor being squeamish about saying those words struck Brendan as amusing, but he chose not to comment on it. The echoes of skin slapping against skin filled the room anyway, and Brendan could feel the soft flesh of Mark's arse squeezed by his fingers, nails digging in with a vice like grip to create angry red welts. Even without the concrete memory, he knew that he must have been chasing oblivion, in an attempt to block out the demons that had gathered and were waiting for pounce.
"Agitated how exactly?"
Mark shrugged, and Brendan noticed then that the glass was empty and the shaking had lessened.
"Edgy, restless. Bad dreams. All the usual, but worse. We ended up arguing. It - well, it wasn't good."
A familiar stinging of Brendan's knuckles led him to examine his scarred hands.
"I hit you?"
Mark gave a slight nod.
"I - I felt guilty... afterwards. I said some unforgivable things. That's why I went with Cheryl, because you ran off and it was my fault. We went to the club, it's where I thought you'd be. It was horrible, blood everywhere, covering everything. I tried to do what I could, but he wouldn't let go of you and -"
"Who wouldn't let go?" Brendan interrupted, a sense of dread creeping up on him, because he already knew the answer instinctively.
"Ste was there, alongside Cheryl. Didn't I say?"
No, no you didn't," Brendan said through gritted teeth. His blood had stained Ste's clothing; it had stained his skin. Blood and darkness - it was all he seemed to be able to offer in the end. Despite all of his efforts, had that really changed? He turned away from Mark, looked out of the bay window at the trees that were beginning to sprout green buds, awakening into life after the long winter. It was what he longed for too: a new start, wiping the slate clean ready for regrowth and renewal. But how could that ever be possible after what Ste had seen, how could he ever prove that he would stay after being so utterly determined to leave the world for good?
When he turned to face Mark once more he saw that there were tears gathering in the other man's eyes. The familiar word "broken" whispered its way through the room, though for once it did not apply to Brendan.
"One more thing doc. If things went down the way you say they did, then you knew that I was going to do something stupid."
"I - I didn't know... I thought that maybe -"
"No, don't do that. Don't start being dishonest with me now doc. Why didn't you do something about it, if you knew what might happen?"
A long, deafening silence rang through the room. Mark took a shuddering breath, gripping the mantelpiece for support.
"I was angry. Angry with you..."
"Because...?"
"Because you didn't want me. Because you didn't feel like I felt. I had risked everything for you, and you were willing to discard me, like it was nothing."
Brendan laughed then, the humourless ironic laugh that was appropriate when the subject couldn't be less funny.
"What did you expect doc? You can't have thought that this would have had a happy ending?"
"I could have made you happy. If you'd have let me, I could have."
"You let me lose my mind. Nothing happy about that."
"It was better than losing you completely..."
"Wow, I have done some fucked up things in my time doc, but that is a whole 'nother level of twisted."
Mark shrugged once more, intense shame colouring his features.
"Don't you think I'd take it back if I could?"
"Well there's a loaded question. But, as my new doctor has pointed out many times, the past is in the past, and there's no point in crying over spilt whatever. Now, I think that this might be a good moment for me to make a move."
Brendan motioned to the door and began to make for the exit. He suddenly felt drained, wondering what answers he had really expected, after all, what could Mark possibly offer in the way of recompense? He had hardly been blameless after all, what did it really matter now?
A hand grabbed his jacket, making Brendan pause in the doorway.
"Brendan, wait. Just a second, please. I know this is the longest shot in the world, but I'll never forgive myself if I don't ask. Is there any way you would consider trying to fix things between us? Any chance at all?"
"None whatsoever and the fact that you're even asking suggests that it's not just me with a weak grip on sanity."
Mark's hand on his arm tightened, and it took Brendan an inordinate amount of willpower not to fling him away violently.
"Are you back with him? With Ste?"
Brendan smiled, a cruel curve of the lip that could have been mistaken for a snarl.
"I'm taking a trip to Dublin with him next week."
Mark had the audacity to smirk slightly.
"That's not what I asked though is it, so I'm guessing the answer is no. You know, don't you, that no matter what you do, it'll never work with him. Not now. Because no matter what you do, you will always be the head case who slit his wrists in the middle of his own club."
The willpower, which had already been stretched to breaking point, snapped abruptly with Mark's words. This time, Brendan made sure he savoured his fist connecting with the bones of Mark's face, which was to be the final word between them: a single, satisfying blow and a slam of the door.
Leopards; spots...
As Brendan wandered through the tourist laden streets of Dublin, he couldn't help but mull over Mark's parting shot, which had doubtless been the man's intention. Would Ste truly be able to forget seeing Brendan like that, or would he be haunted by that image forever as Mark had suggested? Brendan had to do everything to ensure that was not the case.
Glancing at his watch, he decided to find a pub to have lunch in, before taking a nostalgic trip over the Ha'penny Bridge.
Focus on the positives, Doctor Mansour was fond of saying. Brendan was surrounded by people who did just that. It was time to channel their attitude for a change.
"Because I love you. Because I can't live my life without you. I love you Steven."
"I love you too..."
He feels, to quote that famous film, like king of the world. Success makes him giddy - he knows there is a swagger to his footsteps on the cobbled pavement, but he cannot bring himself to care about how absurd he probably looks. The grin on his face feels as though it is permanently etched on, as though he is made of marble, a statue standing on O'Connell Street. Although a scarf is wrapped around his neck, pulled up to his chin, he doubts that the cold air of Dublin could leave its mark on him, not after a morning where many of his greatest dreams have been realised.
Ste had been offered a blank canvas, a concept for the dining options at the hotel that would be entirely his. The project was dizzying in its scope, the potential to set his own stamp on the whole place. Surrounded by swatches and moodboards that had been approved by the hotel's designers, Ste had enthusiastically laid out his vision of colourful italianate tiling, velvet seating and an open kitchen with seats at a counter for customers to watch the chefs at work. His ideas had been met with approval from all sides, and as he had stood in the middle of what would become the flagship restaurant, he had gazed at the blank walls and smooth concrete floor and imagined the future; what it would look like once completed.
It is overwhelming, to be offered this freedom, this level of trust and respect. Ste breathes in the sights and sounds of what will be his new home, feeling a deep sense of belonging that he had not really felt since his departure from Hollyoaks. His phone is filled with images from the morning, and he flicks through them as he ambles along to nowhere in particular. He picks a few photographs and sends them to two numbers, knowing that this behaviour is unreasonably immature and unfair, but his jubilant mood prevents guilt creeping in. The phone vibrates in his fingers less than a minute later.
"Hey - can you talk?"
"Yeah course, that's why I sent you the pics isn't it. So what do you think eh?"
"It looks incredible Ste, I can hardly believe it."
Ste smiles at Ben's awed tone.
"Yeah, you're not the only one. They went for the open kitchen too, wasn't sure they would. And did you see the one with the bar?"
"Sure. Looks to be a big space, your corner couches idea will fit in great. You still thinking cocktails?"
"Yeah. You know anyone?"
"I can ask around."
"And wine. We need a killer wine list, could even go to Italy again."
"Like before," Ben says, and Ste can hear the hesitant smile in his voice.
"Like before."
When Ste had opened the Olive Press him and Ben had sat for hours, poring over suppliers and grape varieties, which had culminated with Ben arranging a trip to northern Italy to visit some of his contacts there. It had been a magical time, with the thrill of learning about new combinations spurring on Ste's enthusiasm. He had been happy then for Ben to take the lead, because everywhere they went he knew someone who would welcome them in, feed them and let them taste olive oils, limoncellos and of course wines. Ben's fluent Italian had made Ste weak at the knees, and he had spent much of the time away half drunk and grinning stupidly at his partner, at this man who knew so much and complimented him so well.
Ste feels a powerful surge of affection for the man on the other end of the phone, and the guilt that has been kept at bay all day now makes its appearance. He knows without it being explicitly stated that when Ben says 'like before, he also means before everything changed. Before Brendan.
"So everything's okay there?" Ben asks, and Ste wonders if it is just his guilty conscience that makes him imagine the wariness in his question.
"It's great, really. Going to do a bit of house hunting tomorrow, get an idea of all the areas and that. Got a dinner tonight with the directors of the hotel, think it'll be posh?"
"Well let's put it this way Ste, I wouldn't advise turning up in your tracksuit."
"Eh? Shut up, as if I would. What are you up to tonight?"
"Taking Lucas to the football. I'm picking him up straight from school so we can go into town, get some dinner first."
"Ah, that's dead nice that. I wish I were coming with you."
"Do you really?" Ben asks. Ste knows now that he isn't imagining it, there is a definite hesitation in the words making their way down the line. Ste clutches the phone more tightly to his ear as he crosses the road towards the river.
"Course I do," Ste replies, and in that moment he really does mean it. He is sure that his response is followed by a sigh of something like relief from the other end of the phone.
"Look, I'd better go. Get back to work. Have a good time tonight okay?"
'Yeah sure. I'll call you tomorrow, let you know how it goes."
There is a brief pause.
"You don't have to. Not if you're busy."
"I want to," Ste says with emphasis, knowing that he is overcompensating, knowing that he can't stop himself from doing it, "send my love to Lucas won't you?"
"Will do."
"I love you," Ste blurts out abruptly. He says it because it is true, but he also says it for a host of other reasons too. It makes him feel like an awful person.
"I love you too, very much."
It is a strange conversation, one that is filled with hidden meaning, the unsaid making more of an impact than the words that spilled from his lips. Ste pauses against the railings that lead to the river and sends a message to his son, telling him to have a good time at the football. It is nigh on impossible for him to imagine his life without Ben. He is his life in so many ways. Ben makes him happy, keeps his heart warm, wraps it up and makes it secure and safe.
But as he approaches the Ha'Penny Bridge, as he catches sight of a familiar leather jacket stretched across the shoulders and back of a tall figure with thick, dark hair, his heart does not just warm. It jumps out of his throat, sends his pulse into overdrive. Smiling, he makes his way to where Brendan stands with his arms flung over the bridge, gazing into the water below. Ste stands next to him and mimics his pose, but Brendan remains unmoving. He goes one step further, using his grip on the steel rails to pull his body up, leaning over precariously at a more acute angle so that his chest bends towards the water. A hand presses firmly against his back, so firmly that he can feel the heat of it through his wool coat.
"Careful," Brendan growls, without shifting the focus of his gaze. Ste leans a little further, this time in Brendan's direction, goofy rebellious grin spreading across his face.
"Awww, you worried about me?"
"Worried about having to jump into the Liffey to save your skinny arse more like," Brendan retorts, his hand gripping Ste's coat and pulling him down from his elevated position, forcing him back onto safe ground. Ste pretends to pout for a moment, exaggeratedly pushing out his bottom lip and flickering his eyelashes down. When he dares to look back up into Brendan's face he is gratified to see a smile forming there, a genuine open smile that makes Ste's breath catch in his throat. A smile from this man is such a rare sight that Ste hordes the memory of each one greedily, storing them in his brain with the care of an avid collector. He wants to touch the lips with his fingertips - to trace the outline of the upward curves of the plump flesh - but he stops himself, instead looking across the bridge, watching the many tourists pausing to take selfies.
"Funny isn't it. That I've bumped into you here."
Brendan ducks his head so that he can look directly into Ste's eyes. It makes Ste's throat dry and he swallows thickly.
"Is it?"
Feeling inevitable warmth spread across his cheeks, Ste breaks the eye contact, shakes his head a little.
"No, I guess not. Not sure how I even ended up here you know. Like my feet just led me here or something. Did you get my message?"
"Left my phone in the hotel room."
"Oh."
"Why? What did it say?"
"Don't matter. Just wanted to show you the hotel didn't I."
"So... show me now."
Ste shifts uncomfortably as Brendan holds out his hand. He doesn't want Brendan to have access to his phone, even if it is just to look at photographs. He can't risk him taking a peek at the call history.
"Nah, it's fine. Later maybe, it's not that important is it."
"But it went well?"
He catches Brendan's eye again, distills confidence from the curiosity he sees there.
"It was amazing Brendan. Honestly. It's more than I ever dreamt of. Can't believe it really, it's proper mad."
"I'm pleased for you Steven."
"Got to go out for dinner with all the directors tonight. Reckon it'll be well posh?"
"Reckon it will."
"Will you come with me?"
Brendan sucks in a breath, taps his fingers on the railings restlessly.
"Sure that's a good idea Steven?"
"Why not? You'll probably have more in common with them lot than me anyway won't you? Because you own a business too don't you."
An expression on Brendan's face casts a shadow over his features.
"It's not quite the same Steven."
Ste reaches to still Brendan's fidgeting fingers with his own. He threads his fingers through Brendan's, feeling the chill of the flaking painted metal penetrating the fragile skin.
"Please Brendan? You'll do it for me won't you?"
Emotional blackmail at its finest. It works however, as Brendan gives Ste a tight nod and goes back to studying the horizon. Ste lets go of Brendan's hands, tracing the contours of the bridge instead, remembering the first time he had stood in the same spot, when despondency and heartbreak had turned into relief and unbridled joy in the blink of an eye, or rather the touch of a mouth. It had happened so long ago, but those emotions that had been invoked when Brendan had told him that he loved him - when he had kissed him - well, those emotions reverberated through the years, fresh as the day they had happened.
"All of the locks - they've gone," Ste observes as his fingers continue to trace the iron structure that is unblighted by any extra appendages.
"Yeah... the council removed them. They were damaging the bridge. Too heavy."
"It's sad," Ste murmurs, and he isn't just referring to the bridge, not at all. Brendan turns to him, places his hands on Ste's upper arms.
"Yes. It is," Brendan says, and it is clear that neither of them are talking about the love locks anymore. No time to dwell on that though, because Brendan moves his hands up to cup Ste's face, pulling him towards him. And just like that they are kissing and kissing, until Ste is breathless and panting, the river swirling endlessly beneath them - nature taking its course.
The second shower of the day eclipsed the first in every way, primarily because Brendan was no longer alone. Standing under the spray, his vision blurred by the droplets of water on his eyelashes, Brendan slid his soapy hands across Ste's body, causing the other man to tilt his head back against the tiles and sigh with pleasure. Brendan bent his knees and sank into a crouch, administering slicks of slippery body wash over Ste's balls, stroking fingers around them and along his cock. The sensation caused Ste to twitch involuntarily and he let out a laugh, leaning down to press his mouth against Brendan's. They lost their balance in the midst of the kiss, Ste collapsing on top of Brendan with a surprised squeak, slipping across the shower floor, limbs entangled together. It made Brendan smile. Somehow the setting had leant a lightheartedness to their love making - a sense of fun that caused a warmth to spread through Brendan that had little to do with the water temperature. Ste pushed his fingers through Brendan's wet hair to sweep it back from his face, positioning himself so that he was straddling Brendan's lap, pushing himself down with an intent look in his eyes. There wasn't quite enough space; Brendan had to bend his legs slightly to brace himself against both ends of the shower, Ste's knees up by his head. But it didn't matter. Water splashed everywhere across the bathroom as Ste moved, sliding his tongue against Brendan's under the spray, faces warm and wet with exertion and lust.
Afterwards, Brendan sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, towel wrapped firmly around his middle. Ste was whistling tunelessly from the bathroom, shaving the pale blonde fuzz from his face. Staring into the mirror propped on the desk opposite him, Brendan touched his fingertips to his lips. They were throbbing slightly, flushed pink with the attention that Ste had paid to them. His body ached in that pleasant way that came from having sex in an awkward position; his limbs felt heavy with post coital exhaustion. It was important not to let that exhaustion take hold though. There was a role to play after all, a job to do, and he took in a deep breath to compose himself as Ste emerged rubbing a towel across his face, a thick fug of steam curling through the door behind him. He caught sight of Brendan and threw the damp hand towel at him with a laugh.
"Thought you'd be ready by now didn't I. We're going to be late."
Brendan removed the towel from his head and tossed it to the floor, making his way to Ste and looping his arms around his waist. The skin there was still damp and hot from the shower.
"Correct me if I'm wrong Steven, but I seem to recall you being the one who dragged me into the shower."
Brendan loved the sparkle evident in Ste's eyes as he gave a minute shrug that was meant to suggest he took complete responsibility and didn't care for the consequences. He bent his head and kissed Ste's lips softly. They were cool and tasted faintly of toothpaste. Deepening the kiss, Brendan burrowed his hands underneath the towel that was tucked around Ste's waist, moving languorously to cup the firm curves of his buttocks. The towel fell to the floor, defeated. Ste made a show of pulling back, a hand against Brendan's jaw, but the action was undermined somewhat by him pressing his body closer at the same time, a growing hardness already evident against Brendan's thigh.
"Brendan... we need to go. We're going to be late."
"So walk away," Brendan murmured, brushing along Ste's hardening cock fleetingly. Ste groaned and attacked Brendan's open upturned mouth filthily, sending a shock of arousal through Brendan. Hands were now at his waist, a second towel dropping to the floor to join its fallen comrade.
"Fuck it, so we'll be a little bit late," Ste muttered, pushing Brendan back towards the bed. Brendan let out a figurative breath - for a few minutes more at least, there would be no pretence necessary.
They are late, but only just. Ste watches fondly as Brendan adjusts the collar on his sky blue shirt to ensure that it sits just right underneath his navy jacket.
"What?" Brendan asks when he catches him looking. Ste shakes his head, looking down a little self consciously at his own shirt and trousers - no jacket, because of course he hadn't thought to bring one. Formality doesn't suit him like it does Brendan. That swaggering self assurance it lends him, it shows that he belongs here, in this upmarket Georgian townhouse that now functions as an upmarket restaurant.
He is gorgeous, Ste thinks as Brendan offers a smile to the hostess and gets them escorted to the private dining room reserved for this occasion. Brendan gives him a sideways glance when Ste, overcome with apprehension, makes a spontaneous grab for Brendan's hand. He doesn't say anything though, and he doesn't push him away. it is as though this small act, this press of warm skin is enough for Ste to borrow some of Brendan's poise, and he straightens his back a little as they turn a corner and are faced with a dozen men in suits that he has never met. They are congregated around a small bar with their elegantly dressed wives and girlfriends in tow, holding whiskey glasses and champagne flutes - expensive aperitifs for the well to do. Fortunately one of the suits chooses this moment to turn around, revealing the one face Ste recognises - the director who had interviewed and eventually employed him. He has a thick head of salt and pepper hair and tanned, sun worn skin. And very white teeth, Ste recalls as the man makes his way over to him, a dazzling grin taking up a good proportion of his face. Ste reminds himself to smile in return, to breathe and to not talk too much due to nerves. He gives Brendan's hand one last reassuring squeeze before reluctantly releasing it to return the handshake coming his way - a firm, two handed gesture that takes him by surprise.
"Terrific to see you again Ste. We're glad to welcome you."
The voice is rich; it sounds like money.
"I'm glad to be here Neil," Ste responds promptly, a confident edge to his otherwise unpolished vowels. Neil bows his head a little in acknowledgement, holding his hand out in turn to Brendan.
"And you must be Ste's partner - it's Ben, isn't it?"
Ste doesn't need to look at Brendan, doesn't need to touch him in order to feel the body next to him tense and stiffen.
"Actually, it's Brendan," he replies smoothly, and Ste winces at the inflection that Brendan adds to his own name, "Brendan Brady."
"Ah, of course, Brendan. Forgive me, I'm hopeless with names, years of having a secretary around to remind me of these things has made me a trifle lazy I'm ashamed to admit. Shall I take you through? Make some introductions?"
Ste smiles tightly, his facial muscles seemingly frozen in place. He risks a look up into Brendan's face, sees the steely hardness embedded into those eyes, and Ste's heart sinks, inwardly cursing himself for such a stupid mistake.
"Lead the way Steven," Brendan says, holding out an arm in invitation. The complete absence of warmth in his tone is almost physically painful to Ste's ears; a precursor to the difficult evening that follows.
Chemicals in the brain - that's what people often blamed when it came to the complex business of desire. 'Is there chemistry?' A scientific explanation for the often inexplicable attraction one human could have for another.
Or sometimes biology. 'It's just how I'm wired' or 'my heart ruled my head' - as if these vital organs could leap from chest cavities and begin acting independently from their host, a separate living being.
But to Brendan, it was in the realms of physics that he really found an appropriate explanation for his relationship with Ste. There was this pull between them that was stronger than any earthly laws that governed gravity. He was destined, or so it seemed sometimes, to orbit his own personal sun for the rest of his days, painfully and inevitably out of reach, yet sometimes drawing so close that it felt as though it might be possible to reach the promised oblivion. That the two entities they represented could somehow merge, become one, despite the odds. Or else collide, crash and burn, destroy each other with the fierce force of their longing. The prospect of this destruction made Brendan yearn to pull away, made Ste seem more distant. However hard they tried though, that force that was governed by the expertly tested, yet equally unknown laws of science refused to let them part.
He loved Ste so much that sometimes he truly hated him. Indeed, he had hated him through the dinner that night without respite, a burning loathing simmering in his belly until he thought that he might grab a steak knife from the place setting next to him and fling it straight at the target that was Ste's heart. The tension had been bound to boil over when they returned to the hotel room - there had been too much brooding and unspoken resentment even for Brendan.
He had listened as Ste spun his web, a tale of dazzling romance and happiness, of Brendan's role in his life and how much his children loved him. Of course Brendan was looking forward to returning to his hometown with Ste on his arm. Of course he would be looking for new premises for a club that would rival Dublin's finest. The more Ste talked, the more convincing his spiel, the more angry Brendan became. Because it was all just a lie, a tale made up for appearances sake. There would be no happy family, no new upmarket club. Not for him anyway.
As Brendan sat with a whiskey cradled in his hand, he could see Ste's passionately guilty face, almost as though he was still in front of him. Ste's best form of defence had always been attack; Brendan loved that about him, but it never helped them come to a peaceful resolution. And so it proved once more, with Brendan slamming the door on Ste's shouts, determined to go anywhere where his actions would not be damaging or irreversible.
It felt inevitable that he had ended up at this pub. His feet had moved of their own accord, his muscles had burnt with exertion as they carried him to this place. It had obviously had a lot of money spent on it; the layout had changed and the lingering ghosts from his previous visit seemed to have been evicted. The inside was warm and bustling, filled with a relatively young crowd that Brendan supposed was mostly made up of students. The comforting buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter disorientated Brendan a little - it was not what he had been expecting. He tried to locate some landmark, some reminder of the time before, tried to conjure up the memory of bringing Ste here, of shedding clothes with glorious abandon in the decaying rubble that was what remained of his childhood. But there was nothing to cling onto, nothing to indicate that he had ever existed there at all. He decided that whiskey was the answer, pulling up a stool at the bar and ordering his usual without hesitation.
"Penny for them?"
Brendan looked up from his glass, frowning at the interruption.
"Sorry?"
The young man behind the bar smiled, working the tea towel he was holding into the inside of a clean but streaked wine glass.
"I said penny for them? Never seen someone so intent on a glass of Jamesons before, I figured there must be something you need to get off your chest to a random barman."
Brendan stared at the man, whose efforts with the wine glass halted and smile dimmed.
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"Erm... not anymore," the lad said, and Brendan couldn't help but let out a smirk of wry amusement. This seemed to dispel the tension somewhat, and the barman leant over the counter to fill Brendan's glass.
"Haven't seen you in here before - you new to the area?"
"Just visiting. Grew up here. Hardly recognise the place."
"Lot of cash gone into round here, regenerated for us bone idle students. Grew up near here you say?"
Brendan took a glug of whiskey, savouring the heat in his throat, and gestured to the ceiling with the glass.
"Not near here. Here - in this very pub."
"No kidding. Huh. Bringing back some happy memories?"
"Not exactly," Brendan replied with a snort. The barman considered him carefully.
"I get off in half an hour or so. Don't suppose you want to hang around and get a drink with me?"
There was no mistaking the suggestion held within the seemingly innocent question. Brendan allowed himself to feel the buzz of the invitation, an invitation from a young, attractive bartender with a crooked grin and sparkling hazel eyes. The residual anger humming in his veins led him to holding out his empty glass and dipping his head into a nod.
"Sure, why not..."
He watches the rain fall from the balcony threshold, a lazy drizzle that makes the darkness seem hazy and unfocused. Adrenaline is still pumping from the fight, accompanied by a nauseous feeling that stems from the knowledge that he is to blame. He thinks about following, about running into that endless night and going - where? He doesn't know where to follow to, can't even begin to guess. Something inside of him urges him to do something, but he is frozen like a deer in the headlights, taking a small amount of solace from the undisturbed passport that nestles with his own in the safe.
A slow, sonorous knock at the door rouses him from his trance, and he crosses the room to answer its call, hope bubbling in his chest. Brendan is there, leaning his head against his arm in the door frame, smelling of the rain and of whiskey. Their eyes meet and his own well up of their own accord. All of the fight drains out of him.
"I'm so sorry -"
Brendan lets out a long sigh through his nose, lets a hand tentatively rest on his chest; the acceptance emboldens him.
"Brendan, I am, really, I should never -"
"Steven, stop. It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," he says, dropping his hand back to his side. Brendan lets out a low, exasperated growl and moves through the doorway, putting his hands firmly on Ste's face and bringing them almost nose to nose. Ste feels a flutter of something like fear.
"Look at me Steven."
Lips press against his decisively, stubble grazes his chin comfortingly. The fear softens into something else, but the urge to make reparations persists.
"I shouldn't have made you -"
The fingers that grip his head tighten a little.
"You didn't make me do anything, okay?" Brendan's eyebrows raise in emphasis, and his lips move against Ste's again, more gently this time, dipping his tongue into Ste's slightly open mouth. A groan passes from one body to another. Brendan presses his hips into Ste's, and his intentions are crystal clear. He can't quite bring himself to leave it there though, and he breaks the kiss.
"Where did you go?"
There is a beat of silence, and a flash across Brendan's expression that makes Ste's heart swoop uncomfortably. Unsavoury scenarios slip through his mind unbidden.
"It's not important. Important thing is I'm here now. We're here together, and we can either keep tearing strips off each other, or we can make the most of the time we have left. So what do you say?"
36 hours left before the return to real life. Ste knows Brendan is right, knows that they need to stop wasting precious time, time that is slipping away like sand through an hourglass, swift and inevitable. Instead of responding with words, he reverts to what they do best. He wraps his arms around Brendan's waist and pulls him closer, mouths and bodies once more connected.
No more words, at least for now, are needed.