Bad language in this one.
XOXOXOXOX
He's not in the mood for this shit. Not in the mood to be called up in the middle of the night by Steven's intoxicated, pitiful slurs and choked up snivels. Not in the mood to be greeted at the door by a topless drugged-up thug, with blank unfocussed eyes as he leers, "You've got some nerve showin' up here."
"Get out of my way." Brendan says shortly, and pushes Andy aside with ridiculous ease – such is the downfall of being such a fucking waster; even Andy's muscles may as well have fried to shit, just like his brain.
He's not in the mood for the second guy who sits in the lounge, legs wide apart, slumped across the sofa like he owns the place. He blinks at Brendan in bemusement and blusters, "Who the fuck is this guy?"
And like a slow-brained afterthought, Brendan hears him add, "Who invited Freddie Mercury?" – thinking that's funny – but Brendan's already striding towards the bedroom and it's too late to throw back some half-arsed retort.
Andy blocks his path again.
"I'm gonna give you three seconds to leave, mate." He says.
Brendan sighs. He's not in the mood. SO not in the fucking mood.
"I'm here to get Steven." He says flatly. He's here to get his fucked-up, back-stabbing, betraying ex-boyfriend, who may or may not be worth all this effort… Brendan doesn't know anymore.
"He's sleepin'." Andy says, "Like a good boy."
Brendan's fist meets Andy's ribs fast, hard and irritably. He doesn't drag it out, or leer, or prolong the victory of Andy gasping for breath on the floor. The bloke's no more than a mere annoyance right now; a few seconds delay in a night Brendan would rather have over and done with.
Brendan steps over him and into the bedroom.
It's dark in here. It stinks of sweat and sex.
But Brendan's state of fed up irritation immediately crumbles into pain as he finds Steven in the bed. Steven's whole body is trembling, and he's soaked from head to toe in his own sweat. He's completely naked; uncomfortably and unwillingly flaunting to Brendan every corner of his rib-cage and the cutting points of his hip-bones. He looks half-conscious… if that. His mobile still hangs limply in his right hand.
For the love of fucking Christ, what the hell has happened here?!
"Jesus." Brendan breathes.
"Brendan?" Steven mumbles helplessly.
"Yeah, c'mon," Brendan hoists Steven up into sitting position; the bare wet skin of Steven's back under his fingertips. His eyes seem to roll about, trying to focus.
"Put some clothes on, Steven. Here."
Brendan reaches for a pair of scrunched up jogging bottoms that lay tossed to the side of Steven's head. Steven's feet are limp and clumsy as he tries to work his way into them, no matter how much Brendan tries to guide him.
There are long deep self-made cuts etched along the insides of his thighs.
Brendan feels his stomach drop; like those cuts scratch into his own flesh just by the sight of them.
"C'mon," His tone drops to one of low comfort, "I'm gonna take ye to the hospital, okay? Where's a t-shirt?"
"In the drawer."
"He doesn't need a hospital!" Andy spits incredulously from the bedroom door, "He's bein' a fuckin' drama-queen!"
"HAVE YE SEEN THE SIGHT OF HIM?! WHAT THE FUCK'S WRONG WITH YOU?!" Brendan screams.
He can't comprehend it. Sure, he can believe that this man has the intellectual capacity of a troll, the emotional capacity of a dinosaur, the common sense of a four-inch needle… but FUCKING CHRIST it doesn't take a saint to see that Steven needs help right now.
"Get a fucking t-shirt for 'im!" He barks.
In his drugged-up state, perhaps Andy has enough sense to know he can't win a fight this time around. He seems pretty shocked – either out of it, or genuinely reeling from this turn of events, as it slowly starts to dawn on him that Steven's earlier pleas may have had an ounce of truth in them.
His eyes slowly move from Brendan to Ste. He watches as Steven grasps at Brendan's shoulder weakly and moans for the billionth time, "I really don't feel well."
"I know." Brendan sighs, "Can ye stand up for me?"
"No…"
"I'll take 'im." Andy says defiantly, "To the hospital."
"You got a car?" Brendan asks, already guessing the answer to that question.
"I'll take a bus."
Brendan could destroy this man right here and now, he's so FUCKING incompetent. Brendan didn't leave Steven behind so that he could end up like this, with people like this, in a situation as mind-blowingly dumb and dangerous as this one.
"Oh you'll take a bus?!" Brendan cries, his voice rising hysterically. He laughs – loud, forceful, on the verge of frenzied; sarcasm pouring from every note. "You'll get a fucking bus! Fuck me; ain't you a hero?!"
"Alright mate, calm dow…"
Brendan cuts him off with a strong suffocating grip on the man's neck. It takes all of his restraint to not crush his air-tunnel to a crisp and have this over with.
"I'm not your mate." He breathes dangerously.
The only reason Andy lives is because Steven's more important right now.
Brendan seizes the first t-shirt from the top drawer and pulls it over Steven's head. It's huge on him; it must be Andy's, but that doesn't matter.
He looks Steven dead in the eye, trying to calculate how much he can understand in his current state. Brendan feels concern consuming him, and whispers, "You okay, yeah?"
"My heart's goin' really slow."
He sounds genuinely scared, and it breaks Brendan's heart no matter how conflicted and betrayed he feels with him right now.
"Right… right, listen!" Andy suddenly barks, piping up again. "You can't tell 'em who dealt it to you!"
His voice is unnaturally loud and stupidly slurred; the drugs officially ruining his tough-guy persona and turning him into nothing more than a paranoid wreck.
"DON'T tell 'em, baby, okay?!" He orders, "You'll be fine so long as you don't say nothin'! Jus' shut your mouth n' do what they tell you!"
Neither Ste nor Brendan are listening as Brendan hooks his arms under Steven's back and legs and lifts him into the air. Steven drapes his arm clumsily around Brendan's neck, presses his sweaty forehead against Brendan's chest. Brendan's carried him before like this, but never under such intense circumstances; only ever on drunken flirtatious journeys to the bedroom. Back then Steven had been light as a feather, but now he weighs even less than that.
It's four in the morning, so they're almost completely uninterrupted as Brendan manoeuvres him down the outdoor steps of the council block. The only person they bump into is a pregnant girl smoking on the balcony, who screams after them, "Oh, off 'is head again, is he?! Fuckin' liberty, that one!"
Brendan lowers him into the passenger seat, and by the time the vehicles moving, Steven's asleep again – head pressed against the coldness of the window. Brendan's hands clench fiercely to the steering wheel, as his head is well and truly fucked by this lad and the constant curveballs he's been throwing at him.
"I was fucking Simon Walker."
"It's none of your business how I live my life anymore."
"I was fucking Simon Walker."
"You seriously think I'm gonna fuck you, don't ya?!"
"I was fucking Simon Walker."
"Good. Cos I miss ya."
"I WAS FUCKING SIMON WALKER."
None of it makes sense; not when he thinks about how they left things. How the day before that day, he and Steven had been perfect. Well… their version of perfect anyway. Steven had slept exactly as he is now, but wrapped and bundled under Brendan's arm as the sun crept in signalling morning. Brendan remembers watching his eyelashes flicker as he dreamt; it was one of those recurring images he had of him in prison. Steven had overslept and had been flustered when he'd ran off to work, deli shirt all creased and un-tucked and untidy. But then he'd ran back in five minutes later with a massive goofy grin and stupid honking laughter as he'd chided, "I forgot me kiss!"
Brendan chances a glance at him now… his red eyes with black tired circles underneath. Skinny arms wrapped around himself, hiding the needle-marks Brendan knows are there.
And he can't get out of his head the image of those cuts all over Steven's thighs. He can't place the image alongside his Steven; his with his stupid laugh like he hadn't a care in the world. Him poking the side of Brendan's head with his foot that evening, persistent and irritant and LOVING how Brendan ignored him and got on with his work, until he kicked Brendan's work all over the floor. Queue his graceless honk of laughter as Brendan gave him the death-stare and then mounted him and sucked his neck as punishment.
"I love ya," Steven had said simply, with a mischievous glint in his eye so endearing that Brendan would have to forgive him for his shameless act of being an irritant.
"Hm. Love you too. Ye little fuck."
The next day Simon Walker had promised Brendan he'd never ever see his 'precious Steven' ever again.
XOXOXOX
"We've administered the drug narcan by injection," the doctor explains, "And Steven is now stable."
She's a pretty woman; fair skinned with dark hair in a tight pony-tail. Soft face with soft expression. She reminds Brendan ever so slightly of Lynsey, with her approach that almost feels like she genuinely cares.
"He's gonna be alright?" Brendan clarifies.
"He's going to be fine. But I'm afraid, without insurance, we can't afford to keep him here any longer. Our job is done, and the best he can do now is go home and sleep it off."
"Hm." Brendan grunts. He doesn't know what he thinks of having to take Steven back to his house. He still can't work out what he thinks of Steven at all, apart from loving him so much it tears at his gut right in half. But he doesn't like him right now – not at all – and the bitter, selfish, angry side of him wants to leave him here to deal with his own mess.
"He has somewhere to stay?" The doctor asks.
Brendan nods shortly. "He'll stay at mine."
Perhaps the nurse recognises the agitation and reluctance in Brendan's expression. Perhaps she misinterprets it for not wanting a druggie stinking out his place. Perhaps his well-rehearsed image of power and importance juxtaposes him from Steven's current state, because she immediately refers to his apparent wealth when she passes him a glossy leaflet.
"You were asking about rehab earlier?" She says, "It's a long process to get a place on the NHS, but there is private rehabilitation for those that can afford it. If you're interested."
"Yeah." Brendan nods, reaches out for the brochures. "Yeah. Thanks."
He stuffs the leaflet into his pocket and walks back to Steven's bedside.
He's awake now, but still groggy and tired and a little out of it. He's not talking much; at least having the decency to look ashamed that Brendan had to bring him here a whole seven hours ago.
"What were that about?" He asks quietly, when Brendan returns.
"None of your business." Brendan tosses Steven his t-shirt, "C'mon. We're goin' home."
"What d'ya mean 'home'?"
"You gotta stay at mine for a while. Sleep it off."
"My legs are still dead shaky." He mumbles, as if embarrassed.
"You'll cope."
Brendan's not going to indulge him with being overly attentive or compassionate. Truth is he doesn't take his eyes off Steven the entire time he struggles through the car-park, but Steven doesn't have to know that.
Their journey back to Brendan's flat is in complete silence. Partly out of choice and partly because Steven drifts in and out of sleep every few minutes.
Once inside, Brendan guides him straight towards the spare bedroom. He hasn't even had time to deck it out yet; there's no duvet or curtains. But he gives Steven the duvet from his own bed – just for the day – and leaves him to it. A good twelve hours sleep and at least they might be able to have a conversation where Steven doesn't slur or stutter.
"Brendan!" Steven calls after him as he makes to leave the bedroom, "… Thanks."
Brendan just nods; curt, non-committal, and leaves him to his rest.
XOXOXOXO
Somehow, despite everything Brendan feels about Steven right now, the flat seems less dead with him inside it.
Brendan sits in the empty silence of his brand new kitchen. There's no sound but the careful ticking of the clock and low hum of the washing machine. But knowing Steven is sleeping just a couple of doors down… it's comforting. It's familiar, and Brendan feels a weight lifted, knowing that Steven's safe and secure here and for the time being, sober. The idea of Steven far away doing God knows what has consumed him every day since he came out of prison. It was always there – lingering in the pit of his stomach; the fear and the dread and the regret.
He still clutches to his glass of whisky cos God knows Steven's behaviour is still sending him grey – perhaps even more so. Fucking overdosing like that; what did he think he was doing?! And why?
He must have started the minute Brendan had left him, and the thought is enough to send him cold. What was it about Brendan's presence, about telling Steven that he still loved him, that sent him over the edge like that?
"Hiya."
Steven's presence makes him jump. He's spent so much time thinking about him lately that him suddenly being in the room is like conjuring him via the power of his mind. He's wearing his jogging bottoms, but has Brendan's dressing gown wrapped around him; swamping his whole body. His hair is untidy – just how Brendan used to like it.
"Hi." Brendan says gruffly. "Ye sleep alright?"
"Out like a light, yeah."
"Hm, I'm not surprised."
"Yeah." Steven mutters, seeming embarrassed again. "Thanks… by the way. Did… did I say thanks?"
"You did."
"Okay. Good. Cos… you know. You didn't have to come like that. It was a bit out of order, weren't it? Me callin' you."
"No." Brendan shakes his head, and he means it genuinely. No matter how betrayed he feels, it wasn't out of order for Steven to call him. This is them they're talking about. Brendan will always be there for Steven, whenever he needs him.
"You feelin' better?" He asks, to ease out the tense silence.
"Mm." Steven nods, "A bit. Bit dizzy."
"Ye need somethin' to eat."
Brendan gets up immediately. He can barely look Steven in the eye – not after everything – so bustling around the kitchen is a good excuse not to. He grabs a plate and pulls open doors to his empty cupboards as if hoping to conjure something he knows it not there.
"Shit." He mutters.
"S'alright," Steven says immediately, "I should be gettin' home anyway."
Brendan blinks and spins around to face him.
He's not sure whether he ought to feel surprised, but he is. Stunned in fact.
"Home?"
"Well… yeah."
"To that arsehole?!"
Steven blinks. Everything seems to hang tenderly around them… both of them on egg-shells; Steven devoid of his usual furious defences. It's like he doesn't know what to say this time. Hasn't got the energy to fight back perhaps, or maybe just isn't feeling it this time around.
"Well… what… d'you want me to stay here?"
"I don't know." Brendan says, honestly again. He has no idea what he wants.
Everything is quiet again.
But Steven's not leaving.
That's got to mean something – though Brendan's not sure whether he should feel happy about it. He doesn't have a clue… about anything.
All he knows is that Steven should eat.
"I'll order a pizza." He says, after a moment.
"I'm not really hungr…"
"I'm ordering."
Brendan pushes past him, feels tension like fused electric as their shoulders bang together, and Steven flinches ever so slightly.
He feels exhausted as he reaches for the phone, and it's nothing to do with his 28 hours of no sleep. It's these four weeks of trying to work out what's going on in Steven's mind. It's the three years of being trapped in prison; longing, pining, suffering, sacrificing – and ultimately for no reason at all. It's the longing for that year they spent together – not easy, but not difficult either; just passionate, raw, exciting, and being so deeply deeply deeply in love he didn't know whether he was up or down.
He feels exactly the same now, only now it's agonising.
Steven barely touches his pizza – just nibbles round the sides. He's sat on the far end of Brendan's leather sofa, knees pulled up against his chest and toying with the pepperoni, taking it off and dipping it in ketchup and then leaving it on the side of the plate.
"Steven," Brendan sighs, "You're gonna starve yerself to death."
"I've just been in hospital, ain't I? It can ruin a guys appetite."
"What, ye don't like pepperoni anymore? I remember when ye used to shovel it down."
"I think that was you." A tiny smile plays on Steven's lips. It's almost undistinguishable, except Brendan knows him well enough to spot it.
"No, it was you." He says. "Pepperoni pizza, cheese burgers and them… them weird-as-fuck sandwiches, what was it?"
"I don't remember."
He does. Brendan knows he does.
"Yeah you do. It was jam and tuna. I mean, seriously, what the fuck?! But ye used to shove 'em down like your last meal. Worse than me, I remember."
Steven puts his plate down on the floor, still full of food.
"I jus' feel a bit queasy." He explains quietly.
Course he does. Only natural. He's pumped himself with drugs, and then had another load pumped into him to counter it. Brendan's surprised he's managed to keep his stomach intact this long, and suspects that's only because it's empty.
He would eat Steven's pizza himself, only to do so would feel a bit too intimate. And they're not doing that right now – either of them. They're sat as far apart as possible, on two separate sofas, eye-contact minimal. Both of them are reeling from a history too intense to stomach, and separate betrayals too painful to approach under these circumstances.
Steven must be thinking it too, because his next words strike through Brendan's very core.
"Brendan… I know you're angry about Walker."
"Don't." Brendan winces.
If they discuss it now, he'll only do or say something stupid. And Steven's fragile… everything's fragile… it's best just to leave it.
"No," Steven reasons, "I know you're angry, yeah. But that's why I'm dead grateful… you know… that you picked me up. But it doesn't change anythin' between us."
"Hey. I picked you up cos your boyfriends a useless arsehole, who'd have left ye to die if it came to it. S'nothin' to do with you and me."
"Don't say that."
"What? About your twat of a boyfriend?"
"He's not a twat."
Brendan scoffs; feels irritation and disbelief pulsate through him. Surely Steven can't believe that? He was quick enough to point out how much of a twat Brendan was whenever he did anything wrong. What makes this guy so different?
"He's a cunt." Brendan seethes, "He's a fat fuckin' cunt who would've happily let you…"
"Shut up!"
"No I won't. He was gonna leave ye there, Steven – does that not ring alarm bells, no?! He doesn't love you, he doesn't give a shit."
"I don't want him to love me!"
Brendan steels… opens his mouth and closes it again… feels like he's missed a step somewhere.
Did he hear that right?
How does that make any sense?
This is Steven. A man who willingly seeks out love wherever he can find it and wills himself to feel it in return, even when it's for defence purposes. A man who can fool himself whole-heartedly that he's in love if it serves or protects his purpose correctly. And when he does love… when he really truly loves… he does so with such breath-taking conviction, mind-blowing passion, life-changing adoration. For Steven not to love doesn't suit him.
"What do you mean?" Brendan asks.
"S'not about love." Steven says, as though it's obvious. "It's about him bein' there, and him just… bein' normal…"
"He wasn't there, and he's not normal!"
"At least he don't change every single day!"
"No, do NOT try and make this about me!" Brendan finds his voice rising, his heart hammering in defence and panic as his worst fears begin to confirm themselves, "I didn't make ye end up like this!"
"It was ALL about you!" Steven cries.
But then he immediately pipes up, like he's said too much. And he pulls his knees back up to himself, physically closing away, shutting down. Like he was going to go further – had more to say – but refuses to go there.
But Brendan wants to know. He knows that it will hurt him, possibly more than anything, but he wants to understand – so much he does.
"What do you mean?" He says weakly, "What – like gettin' back at me? S'that what you mean?"
"It doesn't matter." Steven says firmly, staring off into the blank television set.
"It does matter. It matters to me."
"It's in the past."
"I wanna know what you were gonna say." Brendan says.
And he picks himself up, moves to sit on the edge of Steven's sofa – cautiously closing the long gap between them. Steven glances at him quickly and then away again – as if afraid of him coming any closer.
"Tell me, please." Brendan says. Because he longs for it. Longs to understand. Needs to know how much damage he did, so he can forever punish himself accordingly.
There's a long, painful, torturous silence. Brendan's sure Steven must be able to hear it's heart beating as it bangs against his ribcage in fearful anticipation. But Steven is preoccupied – still staring off in some other direction, his lips trembling apart as though deciding whether to say anything or not.
His voice is almost inaudibly quiet as he whispers, "I did it for you."
"Did what?" Brendan asks, and matches Steven's volume in a low murmur, "Did what for me?"
"Revenge."
Brendan pauses, tries to wrap his head around that one word and work out where it fits in. He can't… it doesn't make sense. Where between fucking Walker and sticking a needle in himself did Steven get 'revenge' for Brendan?
"I just wanted him to suffer." Steven whispers, eyes fading like ghosts… like he's reliving it somehow.
"Hey," Instinctively, Brendan moves further up the sofa, cups Steven's cheek with his palm, "Hey… tell me what you're talkin' about Steven."
"Walker."
"Yeah?"
"I just wanted him to suffer." Steven sniffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, "For what he did."
Brendan still can't work it out. If Steven was sleeping with Walker… like he said he was… then how in Gods name was that making him suffer?! It was precisely the opposite. It would have been like Walker's fucking wet-dream; having a beautiful lad under him, and getting one over on Brendan at the same time. Steven would have known that, surely. It could only have been them working together to stab Brendan in the back. Unless…
"I were like a prostitute," Steven whimpers, and his eyes are filling with tears faster than Brendan can comprehend, "Except for no money. And now… and now I'm still like that."
Still like that? What's he saying? Is he still doing it?! Is Simon Walker still out there? Still using Steven's body… still claiming him as his own?! What the fuck is happening?
"What do you mean?" Brendan says, and it comes out urgent and terrified; trembling with the pressure not to scream.
"I didn't wanna sleep with 'em, but they made me."
"Who?!"
"Gordon and Andy."
The whole world is spinning, spiralling out of his control. He can't make sense of any of this. Or maybe he just doesn't want to… maybe it all makes perfect sense…
"No…" he breathes, "Explain it to me, Steven. What… are you talkin' about last night?!"
Steven nods, dipping his head to hide his tears and it breaks Brendan's heart.
"They raped you?"
"He can't rape me; he's my boyfriend."
"No," Brendan tries to stay calm, "you said you didn't want to do it."
"With Gordon." Steven says, "Or… or with any of 'em. But just… just sometimes I have to."
"What… sleep with random men?! Why do you?!"
"Cos… we owe 'em money and stuff."
"You and Andy?"
Steven nods weakly, "Yeah."
Brendan feels his fists curl and immediately takes his hands off Steven, aware that one wrong move and it'll stop him talking. But he wants to kill. He wants to murder that son-of-a-bitch. That spineless, gutless FUCK who paid off his drug debts by pimping out his own boyfriend… Brendan's Steven.
"Steven, what are you doin' with a man like that?!" He gasps, unable to believe it.
"What… as opposed to a man like you?!"
"Listen, I know I fucked up!" Brendan cries, "I know I did! And I regret it okay?! More than I regret anything in the whole fucking world! But Steven you are not going back to that piece of shit, d'ye hear me?! I'm not gonna let ye! You're gonna stay here, where I can look after ye and…"
"I don't need looking after!" Steven says.
But his body is trembling from his drug-comedown, and he's hot flushed, and tears dribble down his cheeks, and he looks so small and more vulnerable than Brendan has ever seen him. And of course he needs looking after, fucking course he does. And it's Brendan's job to do that.
"You're staying here tonight." Brendan breathes, "You're not going home."
And although it looks like a big part of Steven might like to argue… another part of him is exhausted and helpless and desperate. And it's that part of him that sinks against Brendan's chest with a loud dry-sob; surrendering to the nurturing hands that embrace him.
Brendan wraps his arms tightly around him… been wanting to do this for three whole fucking years, but now he feels so useless. He just grips him tightly, and rocks him for God knows how long. He tries to take in everything Steven has told him, but his heads a mess; can't even comprehend it.
All he knows is that he has to make this better.
He presses kisses to the top of Steven's head… his hair already slightly damp with fever.
He's not in any comprehensible state of mind as he breathes like a chant, "I love you Steven. I love you, you know that don't ye? I don't care if you don't like it – I love ye."
He wants him to understand. He wants Steven to know that he is still adored in every capacity, even though Brendan can't blame him for not believing in it anymore.
They stay like that until it goes dark, and they're absorbed in the night-lit shadows of the living room. Brendan thinks Steven must be asleep, and continues to grip him tightly against his chest.
Until he hears a small voice emerge, muffled into Brendan's jumper.
"I killed him." Steven says darkly. "Shot 'im right dead. Didn't think I could do it – but I did."
And Brendan realises they only touched the surface tonight, of the horror's Steven's been through.
