The Reunion 23. Brendan.
Present Day (Day 4)...
Chez scribbles something on a scrap of paper and tosses it onto the desk.
"Right. I'm off. Think about what I said though about Ste, yeah? And I am coming with you to see the oncologist next week. No arguments!"
You scowl at her when she lays two fat ones on each of your cheeks. "Love you, bro."
"Yeah." You mumble as she leaves.
Her words of advice go round in your head after she is gone. You pace the length and breadth of the office while thinking.
You could do without her meddling in your personal life. Cheryl doesn't know what she is talking about. There is no way Stephen and you could get back together, forgetting six years apart, his boyfriend, his hatred for you and your cancer.
Cheryl can't understand that because she is your polar opposite; a romantic to your realist. She says that is how she met her husband, Carlo, during a girly road trip around Italy with Lynsey. Having had a whirlwind courtship, shotgun wedding and three sprogs in quick succession Cheryl has developed an unpleasant habit of behaving like she is an authority on having the perfect happy life.
A typical exchange between you and Mrs. Fiorelli goes along these lines,
'So, I saw a picture of you walking around town with a guy in the BUZZ yesterday. You looked cosy.'
'Not really.'
'Is he your boyfriend?' She would say.
You wouldn't deign the question with an answer. Your hook ups are nobody's business but your own.
'Carlo's cousin is coming for a holiday. He's nice.'
'Not interested.'
'You haven't seen his picture, Bren. He's cute.'
'I do okay picking guys up without help.'
'I'm talking about a boyfriend, Bren.'
'And I'm saying no, Chez.'
That is what you have to deal with from Cheryl.
You pick up the scrap piece of paper your sister put on the desk. It has Stephen's hotel address and room number on it. Your mind pictures you walking up the steps to the foyer of his hotel. Anticipation builds as you take the lift to his floor. You knock on his door and don't wait long before Stephen opens it to welcome you with a mixture of apprehension and hope. He silently grabs your t-shirt, bunching the material into a fist and pulls you in. Then, in your fantasy, he kisses you like he did yesterday.
At your apartment he didn't push you away straight away like you expected. You had a chance to savour him. Your fingers skimmed his skin as your lips touched his. Your tongues tousled for control. His low moan and then whimper were unchanged by time; an auditory aphrodisiac shooting down to your groin making you want to take him there and then. His hands felt you up and you reclaimed him, if only for that moment. You remembered the old and memorised the new.
It was Stephen; not an approximation or a look-a-like.
Not yours any more. His. That Martin's.
Stephen has taught you that it doesn't pay to develop an emotional dependence to someone. An intimate affection. It only leads to heart ache and pain, for everyone involved.
And yet he meanders through your mind refusing to leave as you pace through your office.
He is under your skin.
Fuck it. You grab your keys, phone and wallet and head out of THE ELECTRIC.
Your intention is poorly formed but has something to do with getting closure or moving on.
You hail a taxi.
"The O'Callaghan Davenport, please."
XOXO
Six years ago...
Stephen is in the intensive care unit of Chester Royal Hospital, comatose and hooked up to half a dozen drips and machines; a frail, pale, bandaged dot in a sea of white sheets. You stand outside the double doors of the ward staring in. You appear composed to the untrained eye but those who know you well would recognise the pent up tension.
You have never felt so helpless in your life; so out of control. You want to barge into the department and tell the staff to sort him out. Now. You want to shake him firmly and tell him to stop messing about and get better already. You want to beg for forgiveness for doing this to him because you blame yourself for every cut, graze and broken limb he has suffered.
This is your entire fault.
In the middle of the night fatigue and dimmed lights play tricks on you. You are sure he opens his eyes, looks at you through the window and smiles, forgiving you for putting him through all this. Sometimes you imagine him pulling out his IV lines, breaking out of his plaster casts and walking towards you fully healed. When you blink, however, he is back to being broken and unmoving in his bed.
Every day that passes comes with a decline in hope and optimism. It makes you think of the unthinkable, unbearable and unpalatable; that he may never recover.
Your sense of guilt rises.
This is your fault.
When Cheryl calls you to say that he has woken up you want to burst through your skin with relief. She offers to give you a ride to the hospital.
Come on, Bren. You've got to see him sometime. I know it's tough to see him like that but he needs you now. He's been asking about you.
You refuse.
Sorry, sis. Work. Delivery coming in. Meeting with someone and what not.
What you really mean is that you have finally got it into your thick skull that you can't be with him. It's simple. Had you not been in a relationship with Stephen what happened to him wouldn't have happened. Fact. If you were to go back to him now it would be a selfish move because you alone would benefit. He would be putting his life in danger. You are toxic. You can't completely stay away though; not until you know he is definitely going to be okay. You continue your nocturnal trips to the hospital.
The support of people around you turns to anger, resentment and disappointment. They call you a shit boyfriend, insensitive prick, heartless twat, waste of space for not supporting Stephen.
They could never understand how hard it is for you to stay away when all you want to do is go to him and touch him, talk to him to reassure yourself that he is still the same old Stephen under that shell of bruises and broken limbs.
You observe him through glass as he spends most of his time sleeping, sometimes waking up screaming. He speaks to the nursing staff. He quenches his thirst, his lips chasing the tip of the straw poking out of a plastic cup as it dances away from him until he captures it. He stares into nothing with wide frightened eyes. Night inevitably turns into day and he eats his breakfast gingerly using his good arm. You know that he is in a constant world of pain but he never complains.
Atta boy. That's something you have always admired in him. He might look like a slip of a thing but he is tough, is Stephen. He'll be alright without you.
Better, in fact. Because this is your entire fault.
When he finishes his breakfast it is your queue to go before the nursing staff handover and ward rounds begins.
xo
You come to see him on the tenth day. He isn't in his bed when you look through the doors of ICU.
Where is he?
You ring the intercom frantically as your heart shoots up into your mouth. A nurse lets you in and you know you must look like a man on the verge of a breakdown.
'Where's Stephen?' You ask failing to control your anxiety and fear. You feel tears begin to sting your eyeballs.
'It's okay.' She gives you a reassuring smile. 'He was transferred to ward 29 today.'
'What does that mean?' Tell me he is fine.
'He's fine. It means his level of care has been downgraded. Your brother is on the mend.'
You keep finding reasons not to sever ties yet but eventually run out of excuses.
It is time to say goodbye.
xo
D-day is day twenty-one of Stephen's hospital stay. You are exhausted from burning the candle at both ends; working at the club and then coming to the hospital for an all night vigil. This is the first time that you see him during normal visiting times. You actually step onto the ward. You take a breath before entering his side room.
He is asleep. Baggy pyjama bottoms partly cover his legs. His chest reveals a yellow bruise and a couple of dressings. His hair is very short following emergency surgery to remove a blood clot on his brain. His left arm and right leg are in a plaster of Paris; his left leg has a long scar down it from the metal plate they inserted for internal fixation but his pallor and the darkness under his eyes are gone.
He is mending.
See. Without you around he is doing alright.
You touch his hair. Spiky. You run your fingers over his face to remind yourself of how he feels. Three weeks without touching him. It's been torture.
Stephen has changed you. There is no doubt about that. It happened slowly and unconsciously. He unmasked a man you never thought you would be. Someone your father abhors. A man who is attracted to another man and is unashamed about it. A man who has gone one step further and declared his desire to be a part of that man's life.
"I just think it makes more sense for you to flat share, Stephen. With me."
You. Mister 'Bullet Proof' needing someone else in your life.
It was never going to work out. Now you are simply acknowledging that a man like you isn't designed to be with someone... in a relationship. It's a shame it took something as big as what happened to Stephen to make you realise that.
He looks peaceful as your fingers feel the slight stubble on his cheeks; a foreign feeling given Stephen's preference for a smooth finish. Over the last two years you have woken up sometimes in the middle of the night and stare at him. He has looked just like this until his eyes would open. He would smile and whisper,
'I knew you were watching me. That's creepy that.'
And you would scoff. 'Don't flatter yourself.'
"Brendan."
You pull your hand away.
He is awake.
"I thought I was dreaming." Stephen whispers to you in wonder, his voice full of sleep. "You're here."
He slowly shuffles to sit up using his elbows as leverage; wincing yet smiling at the same time.
"Hi." He says shyly. He reaches for your hand, pulling wires with him. You step out of reach. He doesn't know what's coming. He is consumed with joy.
"Chez, Pete and Ames kept saying you couldn't come because you were dead busy." He cocks his head to one side. "But I know they were lying. You were scared, weren't you? You were worried about seeing me."
How does he know?
"I know you and I would be too if I were in your shoes." He presses his fingers against the crucifix around his neck that you gave him. The one that was meant to protect him but didn't. "They say I nearly died."
You picture him unconscious in that car boot; how Warren had lifted him like a ragdoll to place him on the ground near the barn.
You get a wave of sickness. He could have died because of you.
"I know this sounds daft but I touched this when I missed ya." He rolls the crucifix between his fingers.
He winces and a lump catches in your throat.
"You in pain, Stephen? You want me to get the nurse?"
"No. I'm fine. I'm not due anymore pain tablets anyway."
He looks you over and a small smile creeps over his features.
"I've been thinking," A blush suffuses his cheeks, "That maybe when I get out I can move straight into yours? Like, since I were going to anyway and everything. I were, weren't I? I remember you asking."
You don't say anything. Instead, you commit every part of him to memory; that strange coyness, the hint of rebellion, his features...
"You won't have to care for me or anything." He says quickly, mistaking your silence for concern about being a full-time carer to him. "I'm going to be okay. It's just, like, I've got to do a lot of physio though after my bones are healed."
"Yeah." You say gruffly then clear your throat.
"And, like, my brain is a bit foggy right now but they say it will get better." When he reaches for your hand again with his unhurt arm, you let him hold it. You shouldn't but you do. "I don't remember everything that happened. But like there are bits that go over and over again in my head, Bren."
He sniffs and then looks at you with watery eyes.
You know the extent of his injuries and about the rape and have tortured yourself with visions of how they may have happened for weeks. Is that what keeps going round in his head? The actual events? How can you go into his brain and remove those thoughts so that he doesn't have to relive them?
"Bad things?" You ask quietly.
He looks so young and vulnerable when he nods at you, the action releasing tears down his cheek. "It won't stop."
"It will." You say quietly but firmly, squeezing his hand. "With time. It will get better, Stephen. Everything does."
He smiles through his tears and you think he looks beautiful. Can a man say that about another man? Fuck it. It is fact. He is beautiful to you.
"I missed you." He says.
You let go of his hand like it has burnt you.
I missed you, too.
"Shut up."
He frowns. "What?"
He looks so confused like he must have misheard you.
So you repeat the words, slowly, because this needs to be done.
"I said shut up."
"I don't understand."
"It's over." You say firmly. "That's what I came to say."
Your vision is blurred. You blink and your sight clears. God help you, you are crying.
He stammers, "W-w-what?"
"I'm done with you, Stephen."
His lower lip wobbles. His eyes redden as they stare at you. "Why are you doing this?"
You get angry then because he is making this harder than it has to be. Why can't he realise that this is the right thing to happen? That he should be the one booting you out of his room because you are bad news.
"Look at you, for fuck's sake!" You sneer.
He stares down at his broken body. "But this isn't my fault." He whispers in upset. "Someone did t-t-this... to me. I f-f-fought, Brendan. As hard as I could. I t-t-tried."
He reaches his hand out again but you thwart it away. The sound of the sharp slap echoes in the room and he looks stunned; like he is in a nightmare.
You are aching from the effort of not going back on your words. You want to rub his tears away and comfort him.
"It doesn't matter anyway." You say. "I don't want you anymore. We can't be together."
"No!" He says, urgently and anxiously. "No please, Bren. Not now. Please! I need you. I love you."
You can't bare the ache in his voice.
You swoop down to kiss him without thinking to shut him up. To give yourself one last reminder of him. You don't know. It is ferocious. It says what you really feel but can't say. It is over too soon when you push away before he has a chance to kiss you back.
"But I don't love you, Stephen. I never have."
XOXO
Present Day (Day 4)...
You have Stephen crying and trapped against the wall in his hotel room. He wants you gone. His body is tense and unyielding against yours. He looks at you, breathing fast. His hands are plastered to the wall either side of him as if trying to disappear into its fabric.
Coming here was a big mistake. You should leave now before you make matters even worse but you don't.
You stumble over your words. When it comes to matters of the heart you are well out of your depth.
"I can't get it out of my head. How you looked. Still and unmoving. Like you were dead. I thought I lost you, Stephen. I thought you were gone and I felt like it was my fault."
You hold his face in your hands and kiss under each eye to stop the flow of his tears. Then you look resolutely at him.
His pupils are blown wide, baffled at what you are getting at.
You go against your better judgement. You take your sister's advice. You 'give it a shot'.
"I love you, Stephen."
There.
Finally.
You've say it and the world hasn't stopped. The fires of hell that your father threatens you with haven't burnt you to a crisp. There are no feelings of self-loathing and shame. You feel a great weight lift off your shoulders though. You breathe easier.
Your thumbs idly stroke his wet cheeks and you greedily study him. His simple t-shirt and shorts covering a lithe, toned and tanned body. His unfamiliar haircut. The gold ring on his finger...
The fucking engagement ring.
You moron. He is engaged to be married. What are you doing?
You take your hands off him and take a step away from him.
He looks back at you, unblinking.
"What?" He whispers.
"Don't worry. I'm not... I know that you and Martin..." Do you really expect him to leave everything he has built over the last five years just because you finally said those three words? Eejit. "You've moved on, Stephen, and that's a good thing. Your fella, he seems alright if you like that sort of thing."
It's the closest you are going to get to a compliment about his other half.
"You said you love me." He says slowly then frowns. "I don't believe you."
He folds his arms across his chest. After how you dumped him you don't blame him.
"What I said at the hospital." You say. "It was all lies. I didn't mean a word of it. I said it because I wanted you to hate me, Stephen, to stop looking at me like I was good for you because I wasn't. I'm not. I thought you were better off without me."
His eyes are guarded. He chews on his bottom lip.
"How was that your decision to make?" He takes a step closer to you as he shakes his head. "You really don't get relationships, do you? I was dead happy when I was with you, Brendan. I loved you. I loved how you made me feel like you would do anything for me."
If you only knew.
"Do you want to know why people get into relationships?" He asks quietly.
No but you know why you were with Stephen; why you found it so hard to let him go. He brought light into your dark soul. He made you feel settled. He was an emotional anchor. You couldn't picture him out of your life.
"People form relationships because it's better facing the world with someone you love than going it alone. You get to share your highs and you get support through your lows. Everything feels better because it is shared and your partner is there when you need him by your side; saying nice things, holding you close, never letting you go."
His words are a verbal slap to the face.
"That is all I ever wanted, Brendan. I don't need a superhero to save me and protect me. I'm pretty tough, me. I just wanted you there."
"I am sorry, Stephen."
Three words that are just as rarely uttered by you as 'I love you'. You mean it, though. You see where he is coming from. Altruism or not, you left him when he was at his weakest, when he needed you most.
Your hand curls around the back of his head instinctively, grazing over his short hair. Your fingers run along the raised bump of the scar there, feeling its smoothness.
"I did what I felt was right at the time."
"It doesn't matter, anyway, because I'm with Martin now."
"I know." All he seems to do is remind you of the fact.
I'm too late. I get it.
"So you can go now." He says. "I have to get ready to see him."
He blinks once. Twice. Thrice. Is there hesitation there or are you wishful thinking?
Who are you kidding? The gold band on his finger reminds you of his commitment to Martin. What they have is real whether you like it or not. It surpasses what he had with Noah in depth and what he had with you in longevity and meaning.
This visit is a pointless exercise.
"I'm happy for you, Stephen." You say. You are only half lying. You are glad that he is in good health and content. You aren't happy that it isn't with you but that's your fault so.
"Look at you."
You run your hands over his chest and he pushes you off him angrily.
"You look... good." You ignore his rejection and grip his left wrist. When he tries to shake you off yet again you hold on firmly. You force him to look at you and throw caution to the wind. "I never stopped thinking about you, Stephen. Not for a day. I missed you."
His eyes widen, followed by his mouth opening and shutting like a decked fish. His hands are in fists by his side. Is he angry? You wouldn't blame him if he was. You are behaving like a mind fuck of epic proportions. You don't know what you are playing at but you feel like this is your last chance to tell him the truth. You owe him that much.
He shoves you hard in the chest and you stumble backwards with the resistance of a blade of grass in a light breeze. Luckily you don't fall but your disease has done a number on your strength.
Stephen is livid.
"You don't get to say stuff like that to me!" He shouts. He shoves you again and this time you fall back onto his bed landing with an ungracious thump.
He looks down at you breathing heavily. His white knuckled fists are by his side, poised for a fight.
"I spent weeks waiting for you to see me in hospital, Bren! Then you came and dumped me for no good reason. I spent months, years getting over you! It wasn't easy but I did. I have. I am with someone else! Are you listening?"
Stephen's cheeks are red and his pupils blown wide with the adrenaline rush. God, he is passionate and not just in anger but with everything; food, his kids, sex, action movies. You had forgotten that. It gets your blood pumping. Makes you feel alive.
If you were to grip his wrist right now his pulse will be going a mile a minute and you would feel that tremble that rushes through his whole body when he gets like this.
He points at you angrily. "Martin is amazing and he loves me. Like really. And I love him! So don't think you can come here and say words that you don't mean and think that I am going to change my mind! I'm not. I..."
You don't think. You just act. You sit up quickly and pull him down on top of you stopping his rant. He lands on you looking down in disbelief when you grip his wrists. Just like you thought. Speeding pulse. Tremble.
"Get off!" He tries to break free, straddling your hips to push off you. He is much stronger than he looks you and with your new found weakness he will break free soon so you resort to dirty measures hoping that he won't bite your tongue off. You lift your head off the bed and press your lips to his without warning, opening up the second you have contact. You groan at the familiar feeling of him against you, the slight parting of his soft pouty lips under the pressure of yours.
He doesn't respond to your advances so you pull away to look up at him. Interestingly, he doesn't get off you either. He looks down at you and his tongue darts out to touch his wet lips.
There is a spark of awareness. Are you alone in feeling it? He looks down at your joint bodies, realising the intimacy of your positions. He must feel it too. It is electric. Fiery. It always has been.
You want to kiss him again but you aren't going to force him this time so you let go of his hands.
You wait and hope. He takes a breath, shuts his eyes. He shuffles above you and your heart sinks because your gamble hasn't paid off. He is going to tell you to fuck off.
But he doesn't. He leans down and he kisses you. Hard. Bruising your lips. There is nothing tentative about it. He is full on. His hands land either side of your face, trapping you. You don't mind. You are quick to burrow yours under his t-shirt. God knows he'll snap out of this erotic charge soon enough and chuck you out. You plan to take full advantage of the now. You bunch his top under his armpits to feel the warm plains of skin that are more solid than you remember. Gym-toned or the product of a more active lifestyle than he used to have.
He is still as responsive as you remember. Your tongues dance, tease and tousle together. You crush his mouth to yours, sharing spit. You can't get enough of him. Your groins rub as he gyrates against you. He is making you crazy so that your hands grab his buttocks firmly to encourage him to continue doing what he is doing. He pulls off you enough to groan and bury his face into your neck. You feel the warm breath of his panting against you. You dare to slip a hand into his underwear so that you can cup the flesh of his firm arse.
He stills and pulls back to look down at you; spit-slicked parted lips, lustful eyes and pink cheeks.
He grins and emits something between a grunt and a laugh. You aren't sure what is going through his head but whatever it is, it is good. This isn't over yet. The guilt hasn't kicked in.
He sits upright on you. The movement rubs his arse on your dick and a flood of memories rushes through your brain of you and him, connected. You bite your lower lip to stop yourself groaning like a virginal teen. He hesitates for a second then takes off his t-shirt before helping you out of yours. His hands rush over your chest.
You want to pinch yourself to make sure this is actually happening.
"You've lost weight." He says. A single finger traces over your ribs.
"Stress." You say thickly as he teases the hairs of your treasure trail heading for your groin. "Your puny arms aren't so puny."
He smiles. "No they're not. I work out a bit."
You stop him before he starts working on your jeans, when the reflection of his ring glints in your eye. He doesn't notice that you have seen it. You clasp his hand in yours, covering it. He has scars all over his arms. Small, thready ones that are not visible on a hurried glance. You look at them and remember how they looked, open and bleeding.
"Don't stare at them." He says in embarrassment.
You kiss them then touch them with your tongue, rub them with your moustache and worry them with your lips. "They are part of you ." You say. And you are perfect.
"I wish they weren't there sometimes." He whispers.
"To forget what happened?" You grip his hips.
"No." He leans over to whisper to you. "It would mean it never happened. And then maybe, I don't know, you and me-"
You pull him into a kiss because you don't want to hear his Shoulda Woulda Coulda. You can't change time. If only you could. This is where you are now.
You shift your positions, rolling him over so that he is under you and deepen the kiss. You settle between his legs encouraging him to part them to accommodate you. You feel the furriness of his legs from ankles to hips and the more pronounced scars of his legs. He is healed and he feels amazing. Every square inch of him.
"These." You touch the large scar that runs along the outer part of his left lower leg that was the entry point for the metal plate used to fix the compound fracture there. "Don't define you but they are part of who you are and you are incredible."
He smiles, wraps his legs around you then easily brings a foot up to rest its heel on your shoulder. It's good to know he is still flexible...
"I had physio for months and psychotherapy for a year on and off after what happened."
"Did it help?"
He nods. "Yeah. Loads. Look." He straightens his leg up to point at the ceiling and wiggles his toes before resting his foot back on your shoulder. "Apparently when you break a bone the point where it breaks heals stronger than before. So technically I am superman!"
You smile. "Who told you that?"
He looks away suddenly. Must have been his fiancé. The thought makes you sick with jealousy. Martin has replaced you as the subject of Stephen's affection. You want Stephen to forget him even if for a moment.
You tug at his shorts and he lifts his hips to allow you to take them and his pants off him. He brings his hands up to his face, covering his eyes momentarily when he is naked before you. Is he embarrassed about the scars? Is he feeling guilty? Is it something else all together?
You lean over him, cover his body with yours and he automatically circles his legs around you again. When you press your lips to his he peels his hands off his face and kisses you back. A whimper escapes his throat, and your tongue imitates what your hope your cock will soon. You are dying to bury yourself in him. Desperate for that connection.
You start a journey south. Everywhere you touch he responds with a purr, sigh or moan that shoots right down to your groin. His body comes off the bed tense with passion. He is rock hard by the time you get to his cock. It sits on his stomach, thick and proud; precum pooling near his bellybutton already.
He still fancies the pants off you.
You lick him and take him into your mouth, tasting him. You suck his dick, feeling it slide down your throat, filling you up. He squirms under you, unable to stay still.
He grips your hair and moans, "Brendan."
You cup his balls in response, massaging them at the same time. He has taken to body grooming. He is trimmed right down. Not waxed but 'neat'. He brings his legs up a little more and you know what he is silently urging you to do. Your finger runs back to his entrance.
His hole is shut tight as you graze over it. You rub against it while you continue sucking him off and he starts to lose control the way you remember. He claws at the sheets. His hips rhythmically rotate to up the pressure. You had forgotten how much of a pushy bottom he was, using sounds and actions to get his own way. He moans and pushes you off his dick before coaxing your face down so that your nose is stuffed into his balls and your lips meet his hole. You swallow a chuckle. You flick your tongue out wetting him, lapping at him until he lets out a groan. He is so hot, opening up for you under the pressure of your tongue. He spreads his legs wide and urges you on.
You unzip without taking your attention away from him and release your cock fisting it once it is free of its confines. Stephen helps you take the rest of your clothes off and everything hots up another notch.
You look down at him. He is dazed and spread-eagled under you while you jerk off. He reaches for your cock and strokes it expertly after spitting onto his hand to give it some glide. Your eyes fall closed to savour his actions. He is so good at working you up to a frenzy. How did you survive without this? Soon he makes no secret of his impatience. He scoots closer to you so that his arse is in your lap, virtually on your groin, pelvis tilted up to you. He holds your gaze while he rubs your cock. You thrust into his hand. When he looks at you pleadingly you know it is for you to fuck him.
You reach for your wallet in your jeans pocket to fetch a condom. Nothing.
You want to cry out of frustration.
You wasted the last ones on that twink you picked up a couple of days ago. The 'clone' you used to blunt the cancer diagnosis and the shock of seeing Stephen after all this time at Secondo's with someone else.
You take his hand off your cock. You feel desperate when you ask.
"Do you have a ..." You look down at your throbbing dick.
He shakes his head. At least he looks equally disappointed. He pushes a heavy sigh out of his lungs.
He has no supplies? Every sensible gay man going on holiday goes prepared. This means one of two things. Both are hard to stomach. Either Martin and he have fucked themselves out of stock in four days reflecting an active sex life or they don't use protection with each other suggesting a monogamous committed relationship. It's shit for you either way.
You collapse onto him and he wraps his arms around your waist and his legs around yours like a Venus fly trap. Only you are willing prey.
"Sucks." You say, using Paraic's jargon.
"Yeah." He caresses you with the heels of his feet and his hands on your back. The motion is so rhythmic that you feel your eyes go heavy and tired.
"Plenty of time for play." It slips out without a thought.
You have alluded to a future together. You stop breathing waiting for his reaction.
He grins broadly so you slide off him to lie by his side and face him. He intertwines his hands in yours. You pull him to you and lazily kiss him while you map his body, relearning him. The sexual becomes sensual, comforting and beautiful.
"I love you." He whispers while you suck on his neck lazily, clutching you. His eyes close under the weight of fatigue.
You are actually surprised to hear him say it although you shouldn't be. Stephen would never betray his fiance if it wasn't for love. There is nothing fluffly or blase in his attitude to relationships. He doesn't do one night stands or hook ups.
That's fine by you. A long term 'contract' with him suits you to the bone. You close your eyes too and pull him closer to you. You kiss his temple then say,
"I love you, too."
You sigh because really it is so easy to say. As sleep claims you, you think that you should have told him earlier.
What was the fuss all about?
XOXO
Six years ago...
"Quick, Bren. The ambulance is coming. What do we do now?"
Pete's voice sounds distorted, muted, and distant. You stare down at the lifeless body of Warren's accomplice.
That's two men now. Dead by your hand.
The murder weapon is still in your palm. It shakes with the tremble of your body. Stephen's blood, picked up when you went to check on him, coats the gun reminding you why you did what you did. He has been harmed; his life, threatened.
You can't remember pulling the trigger just like you don't recall bludgeoning Danny Houston to death. Your mind dissociated. Like an instinct, you protected one of your most treasured possessions. You would do it again and again in a heartbeat as you would for your sister and your sons to keep them safe. Right or wrong, that is how you feel.
Anyone who fucks with these four people will see your wrath and vengeance.
That isn't to say you feel satisfaction afterwards. Rather, you feel sick to your stomach that you have ended another man's life. Not regret. Just queasiness.
"Bren, mate." Peter says anxiously. "We've got ten minutes."
Warren kicks into gear and runs behind the barn. He re-emerges with a cluster of soiled objects. A video camera dangles from his wrist and he holds black items of clothing in his hands.
He lays them carefully on the ground near the open car boot.
Stephen's bloodied uniform.
"Where did you find them?" You demand.
He stares at you. "I haven't got time to explain now."
You walk back to the car to check on Stephen. He hasn't moved from his foetal position so you fearfully feel for a pulse. It's there but faint compared to the thump of yours in your chest. You lift his hand. It is toneless and his wrist is misshapen and swollen. You take his watch off it delicately, feeling tears form in your eyes as you hear the crunch of broken bone grating on broken bone.
A voice speaks to you in your head. He isn't going to make it and it's your fault. You dick.
No. He has to make it. You stroke his temple, and push light brown hair off his forehead.
Warren pushes you aside and says,
"No time for that." He sidesteps in front of you, tucks his hands under Stephen's body and lifts him out of the boot before laying him onto the clothes on the ground.
"What the fuck!" You say angrily. You get down on your knees to check that he is still alive while Warren backs off.
"I am saving you from a life sentence here." He says firmly. "He'll be fine. The medics will take care of him."
He runs to John. "We need to act fast. We've got to get rid of John and his car so we can't have your boyfriend in it, can we?"
Warren indicates for you to help him out then hooks his hand under the big man's armpits. "Give us a hand, will you?"
"Bren, Warren is right. We need to get out of here now. We are no use to Ste and we can't be here when the ambulance arrives." Peter is sounding frantic now.
Warren is smiling like a smug git. He thinks he has got you by the balls. It's not wise to underestimate you. You ain't just a pretty face.
Let the game begin.
You let him have the first move.
"The cops will trace the bullet lodged in his head to you. That's a lot of time behind bars." He says with a harsh expression.
You walk to him, playing along for now and take John's feet. You quickly and wordlessly help move the body and dump John into his own car boot.
You straighten out and face your archenemy.
Your move now.
"The thing is, Foxy, they won't trace the gun to me. It will disappear today. Even if it's found, it's not mine. If you tell them what I did and I go to jail, I'll tell them what you did. An eye for an eye. I may be a murderer but I'm betting John here is a lowlife piece of shit with a heart ten times darker than mine and a criminal record as long as my dick. I bet you the cops will be well rid. I'll look like a fucking hero for bringing him to justice. You, on the other hand, will look like scum for kidnapping and nearly killing an innocent father of two for a measly fifty grand."
He pales but then has a think. His smile is cold. "Brendan, you seem to forget that I have had front row seats both times you have decided to kill someone. One more death and you officially become a serial killer. Whether your victims have been good or bad doesn't matter. Murder is murder. Hope you enjoy being a punching bag because I have some friends on the inside that will pay you a visit from time to time as a hello from me to you."
"It's a shame I won't get to meet them then. But you'll get to catch up on old times when you get locked up. See, I figured the authorities might be interested in finally resolving the mysterious disappearances of your best friend, Sean, and your ex-fiancée, Louise." You have been keeping your knowledge of Warren's cold-blooded murders secret for some time knowing that one day they may come in handy. "Like you say, a murder is a murder."
You have wrong footed him. He is backed into a corner and you feel the power shift back to you. You are in control again and you are about to win this game.
You look over at Pete. With little time left, speed is of the essence.
"Peter, go back to Hollyoaks. Use some excuse to get Amy back from Mike's. Make sure you are with her when she finds out about Stephen."
You know your level of devastation about Stephen will only be matched by Peter's girlfriend.
"Okay." Pete hesitates and darts his eyes between you and Warren. "But what about you?"
"I'll be fine. I'll talk to you later."
He nods and reverses his wheelchair before whizzing around and making his way quickly to his car. A minute or so later you hear his car start up and tires screeching as he leaves.
You rummage through John's pockets, taking out his wallet and car keys. You toss the keys to Warren and pocket his wallet.
"Get rid of the car and the body." You tell Warren.
"No. Not my problem. I've got my own car round the front."
"Your jeep is mine now. Call it insurance. When you show me proof that you have destroyed the evidence then I'll return it. If you pull a fast one, then you'll find your car turning up somewhere with a tip off to the boys in blue with this gun," you show him the weapon you used to kill John, "this watch," you show him Stephen's bloodied watch "and this wallet in it."
You see his hand move to the trigger of his gun. He can't be serious. Trying to kill you would not be smart.
"Don't think about it." You say. "You have just allowed my best friend to leave. He will be witness to what happened here and believe me he will make me look very good and make you look very bad."
He looks at you, wide-eyed.
"Give me your car keys." You say just as the distant sound of sirens hits your ears. The ambulance is nearly here. Thank God.
Warren chucks his keys at you and doesn't protest further.
Game.
Set.
Match.
He jumps into his dead colleague's car and drives away quickly. The car's wheels push a cloud of dust into the air.
You take one more look at Stephen.
That voice, the one of guilt, speaks to you again.
This is your fault. If he dies. If he lives. It doesn't matter. It is your fault.
You have no time to beat yourself up about it now. You run to Warren's car and drive off.
XOXO
Present Day (Day 4)...
You wake up with a start. You are in darkness save for the light offered by the moon and stars through the partly open window of the hotel suite. It takes you a moment to realise where you are and the reason for waking up.
You quickly pick up your phone which shows a blocked number.
"Hello?" You whisper as you sit up and look over your shoulder to see Stephen lying. The last few hours weren't a cruel dream. He is here occupying an impressively large portion of the king-size bed with a sleeping position that would impress an acrobat. His arm is flung out and he breathes deeply through a slightly open mouth. He is unashamedly exposed, tranquil and relaxed. His skin is bronzed everywhere but where a pair of shorts may have been. His 'white bits'. Has he been on holiday recently with his bloke?
Your heart squeezes with jealousy but you push it aside.
You want to possess very last inch of him. Explore him. Rediscover what you lost.
And you will have time to now with him back in your life. You smile at the thought.
"Mr. Brady?"
"Yes." You whisper and make your way to the bathroom, careful not to make a sound and wake Stephen. You shut the door behind you.
"This is Dr. Scott's secretary from St Vincent's Hospital. I'm sorry to disturb you out of normal working hours but I have been asked to contact you because we have an earlier appointment available in the medical oncology department."
From joy to despair with one call.
You had forgotten you were sick. Stephen made you forget.
"Right."
"Would you be available to attend tomorrow afternoon?"
"Tomorrow?" So soon? You feel a wave of nausea.
You don't know if you are ready. This is all getting a little too real.
"Yes. I appreciate it is short notice but we have had a cancellation. You won't be starting your chemotherapy yet. But you will have a chance to discuss it in more detail and get your work up, ready for your first cycle."
She sing-song telephone voice makes it sound like a walk in the park. Your nausea peaks and you bring your hand to your mouth. You are going to vomit. You go to the toilet, kneel next to it and empty most of your stomach contents into it.
"Mr. Brady?"
"Yes." You wipe your mouth gingerly and stand up to stare at yourself in the mirror. You look a right state and this is before the cytotoxic drugs that promise such treats as hair loss, abdominal pains, risk of life-threatening infections, poor appetite, diarrhoea, mouth ulcers and more.
"Are you alright?"
You open the bathroom door to peer at Stephen to see if he has woken up. He is still softly snoring having moved to occupy the spot you vacated, his hands tucked comfortably under his head. He has a vague smile on his face. That's Stephen; exhausted by any sexual activity.
"Yes." You say, lying. "I'm fine."
You wonder what he is dreaming of. Fluff probably. He is full of it. Was at least. Six years ago. Things that made him immeasurably happy included holding hands on his insistence while dining out with Amy and Pete, sharing dessert at a restaurant because 'I can't eat the whole thing on me own, Bren', hanging out with the kids, going to the cinema and pandering to his obsession of action movies, having sex with him when he least expected it like Chez Chez during business hours or mile high clubbing it on a flyover to Dublin.
You remember all that fluff like it was yesterday. At first you found it pointless but you went along with it. After a while you would come up with your own fluff because there was something addictive about seeing how happy it made him and he id have amazingly skillful ways to show you thanks...
Your face clouds over, thinking.
If that is what he is expecting from you now, you can't give it to him, not in the state you are in. There is no room for fluff in your life and there won't be for some time; not once you are in the middle of chemo. You haven't told him that yet. You haven't dropped the bombshell. You haven't really discussed any logistics of your coming together; children, jobs, geography, cancer.
Oh yeah. Forgot to mention. I've got cancer. Now how about that happy ever after except it won't be happy and it will be until I die after weeks or months of you nursing me in poor health.
"Can I bring my sister with me?" You ask the secretary.
"Of course. It is always good to have loved ones with you during these moments in life."
"Yeah." You say.
"So that's three fifteen in the oncology unit tomorrow. If you make your way to reception and they will have your details."
"Thanks."
"Goodbye Mr. Brady."
You end the call and go back into the room. For the first time since waking up you realise that you are butt naked. You slowly dress up again while looking over at Stephen.
You have misrepresented yourself to him. You have sold him the Brendan of six years ago; strong, healthy, tough, daring and dangerous. He doesn't know that what he is getting is a weakened shell, cracked by progressive disease.
What you are doing to him is not fair, is it? You want him to leave that healthy (as far as you know) Scotsman with his well paid job, apparently well-adjusted life, Chippendale body and model looks to be with you.
Your selfishness knows no bounds.
When you lean over him to pick up your wallet he stirs. His voice is full of sleep when he mumbles,
"Brendan?"
"Yeah." You say. You kneel n the floor next to him.
He keeps his eyes closed, sleep just about winning over wakefulness. You kiss his cheek.
"Look, I've got to go, yeah." You whisper as you feel wetness fall from your eyes. Then you lie. "I got to pick up the little one from practice but I'll talk to you tomorrow."
He grins slowly and you wonder whether he is actually hearing you. "Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow."
"Bye." You say.
You are not going to let him ruin his life for you. You shouldn't have come. You shouldn't have given yourself or him hope that something could happen. Once again you were too weak to stay away.
You stand up and take out the well thumbed photo of him that you have kept in your wallet for years; the one Niks found and commented on. Round the back you write,
I am sorry, Stephen.
You are about to put it down next to him when you pause and add,
6 years ago. My fault, My guilt. For £50,000
Then you lay it down next to him.
There.
That's the way to end things for good.