Ste watched Brendan's figure disappear down the stone steps. His mind reeled. Tears coursed down his face, thick and fast. Breaths came in short, panicked little gasps. Brendan… not Brendan. This couldn't be true. He couldn't let it be true.
He swam before him, dead-eyed, tearless, speaking the words. "Every year, from when I was six to when I was thirteen." Ste felt an acid lump rising up from his stomach and suddenly the decaying wooden floorboards were covered in his vomit.
How could he have kept this inside for so long? Away from the world, from his family, from Ste? His gut retched again, but there was nothing to come up this time. How had Ste not seen it, not seen him? Alone. Abandoned. Afraid.
And now he was gone. Ste leapt to his feet, completely oblivious to the groaning floorboards that had caused him so much worry before. Ste had let him walk away, let him tell him that his fate was solitary misery, and not thrown his arms out to stop the man. Panic rising in his chest, he rushed to the stone steps and hurtled down them. What if he had driven off already? What if he had disappeared?
"Brendan!" he shouted pointlessly, throwing his voice to the stars. Find him, he pleaded with the glittering orbs, help me to find him. Wildly, he scanned the long stretch of beach, ears filled with the rhythmic crash of the Irish Sea as it hurled itself masochistically against rocks, again and again.
"Brendan!" he cried again, his despair echoing through the night.
And suddenly, miraculously, he saw him.
He was standing facing the black waters, back to Ste, oblivious to the tide lapping over the Italian leather of his shoes. Ste was running, pounding over the soft sand to get to him, to hold him. Three or four paces away he came to a halt, suddenly afraid. What should he do? What could he do? He hovered, eyes on the lonely, tortured man. How could someone fix this?
"Brendan," he called softly, letting the breeze carry his voice to the man's ears.
"Go away, Stephen," Brendan said, not turning around. The way he said it made Ste hesitate. Coldly, authoritatively.
The way he used to speak to him before he smashed a fist into his face.
But Ste still had a burning lump of acid in his throat, still had stains from the hot tears he had shed on his face. No, he wasn't leaving this man alone.
Slowly and deliberately, he walked over and moved around him until he was staring at his face. It was covered in tears.
"Brendan," he whispered, crippled by the sight of those hard lips trembling uncontrollably, those dark eyes red and puffy. Instinctively, he wrapped his hands around the other man's neck, bringing their foreheads together as Brendan had done to him so often. What could he say? What could he say that would make him see that he wasn't alone anymore?
"Don't, Stephen," Brendan muttered, his sobs coming in ragged gasps. "There's nothing… This is my stone… My stone to roll uphill."
"You don't have to do it on your own, though," Ste whispered back, trying to hammer the sincerity of the statement. He wished he was good with words, good at saying what he meant. All he had was what he felt inside.
Brendan was shaking his head, not hearing what Ste was feeling. It wasn't working.
"No, no, no," he moaned, eyes closing in pain. "No, Stephen. I want you to be happy. I want you to have a chance."
"I know how it feels," Ste was sobbing again, praying that the man before him would open his eyes, would look into the blue depths of his own and understand him like he always had. "To be a kid, to be alone, afraid, to hear him walk in and feel that lump of terror in the pit of your stomach, to know what's gonna happen…"
"It's not the same, Stephen," Brendan cut in, eyes still closed. Seeing what? What was he seeing behind those closed eyes? "It's not the same."
"I know it's not, I know," Ste agreed, fervently. He pushed his thumb roughly against the tide of tears streaming through the stubble. He was begging him now. "But it doesn't have to be your only story, Brendan."
The tears kept spilling, over his damming thumb.
Quickly, impulsively, he dropped his hands from Brendan's neck and found his way to his shirt, his fingers working fast and furiously unbuttoning the expensive silk.
"What are you doing?" Brendan asked, eyes open now but confused, disorientated. "Stop."
But Ste didn't stop, his fingers kept working defiantly all the way down, exposing Brendan's bare chest to the open air of the night. In one motion, he pushed the flashy taupe suit jacket and the soft silk shirt over broad shoulders and let them flutter to the wet sand. Roughly, Ste shrugged himself out of his own jacket and yanked the hoody over his head, so that he stood bare as well. His eyes locked on Brendan's as his fingers boldly found his belt, working the heavy leather through the metal bars, sliding it through the thin loops of fabric, throwing it to the ground. Gently, his hand loosened the last button of Brendan's clothing and his fingers closed around the zip, easing it down.
"Stop," Brendan whispered, as the flashy suit fell away, exposing his naked flesh to the night. Hurriedly, Ste kicked his own runners away and pulled his pants to the ground as fast as he could. He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at the feet of the other man, pulling away the soft Italian leather so the skin of his toes met the wet, cold sand beneath. Then he stood.
Two men stood, naked together, on the grey October sand. Ste reached out and laced his fingers through Brendan's. Brendan didn't fight him. He let himself be led, with slow deliberate steps, into the black ocean before them.
The water hit Ste like a sheet of ice, smacking his senses. Beside him, he heard Brendan gasp as well. Ste didn't stop, he kept moving forward, hand tightly knit to Brendan's. They walked until they were chest deep in the freezing darkness, and then Ste turned to face him.
"What are you doing?" Brendan murmured. His eyes were still red, still puffy, but the tears had stopped in his confusion. They were raking Ste's face now, trying to figure it out, to understand him.
"Washing it away," Ste told him, simply, not breaking the gaze.
Brendan shook his head again, but his eyes did not close this time.
"What if it can't be washed away, Stephen?" he asked, sadly.
"Then I'll take care of you."