Had to do a withdrawal chapter, and this is it. The plot will progress a lot more from here though.
XOXOXOXOX
That night was one of the hardest of Brendan's life. He'd been on the edge of surrender the whole way through; between Steven's begs and demands and cries he'd found himself playing with the idea of giving in… So what if he injects? What's the worst that can happen when he's already come this far? Who am I to stop him? Who am I to torture him? Who am I to tell him what to do? I can't take this much longer.
"Just think of your kids, Steven." He'd chanted, over and over between the safety blankets of Cheryl's spare bedroom, "Just think of the kids for me. It's gonna get easier after tonight, I promise."
About halfway through the night they'd vacated the bedroom completely and both spent the rest of the hours sat on the bathroom floor, Steven with his cheek pushed miserably against the toilet seat – drained, exhausted and hurting, but mostly scared.
"I don't think it's meant to feel like this." He'd muttered fretfully; voice laced in pain and tiredness and fear. "I think somethin's wrong, I don't think I'm supposed to be like this, Bren…"
Brendan was naturally running out of things to say… hardly the best person to coax and comfort at the best of times. He was exhausted too; brain numbing and resolve breaking and starting to wonder where he could get some smack at this time of night.
At some point or other Steven had fallen into a restless sleep – his eyeballs dancing beneath his closed eyelids. Brendan had shuffled over the tiles of the bathroom towards him, leant against the bath and pulled Steven into his arms, held him close. He wanted to tell Steven he was hating this just as much, because he WAS hating it… it was the worst thing he'd ever witnessed. But he couldn't possibly be feeling what Steven was feeling. Steven was feeling as though he was going to die, and all for Brendan fucking Brady and the sake of their fucked up relationship.
"He needs proper help." Cheryl says the next morning, "This can't go on Brendan – look at the bags under your eyes!"
"Just a few more days and then it will get easier." Brendan says, like a robot on repeat, clinging to his coffee which does next to nothing to help matters.
"There's clinics he can go to – it doesn't have to be rehab. They can give him something."
"No, Chez…" Brendan moans, massaging his head, "They'll give him meth and then he'll get addicted to that like they all do. It's no better; it just means he's payin' the government not the dealers."
"You're being a cynic and now is really not the time."
"He can't be addicted to anything." Brendan says. "He can give it up, all of it. He can do it, Chez, he will do it – he's strong."
Cheryl bites her lip nervously, eyes scanning Brendan's worn out face.
"I don't think he's as strong as you think he is." She says reluctantly. "And you need some sleep."
"That's the least of my problems right now." Brendan breathes.
There's so much he needs to do. He needs to go to the fucking STI clinic, but Steven's hardly in any state now to come with him. He needs to go hunting for a new flat, because God knows Cheryl doesn't want Steven like this in her house with her child any longer than need be. He needs to go get a job… invest in a business or something… because he's been out of prison for too fucking long now for his life to still revolve around purely relationship dramas.
But he can't do any of those things… can't even leave Steven's side for a minute because he promised he wouldn't. And that promise seemed pretty crucial to him.
He goes back into the spare bedroom now, places a coffee at Steven's side and puts a hand to the lads sweaty forehead. Steven flinches away, irritable.
"Y'hot." He mumbles. "Don't ya get it- I don't feel well."
"I get it. Drink your coffee."
"I don't want it."
"Fine."
Brendan takes the coffee, gulps it back and one, lets it scorch his throat and doesn't care. At least it's pain, and that's only a fraction of what Steven's feeling. All Steven does is glare at him through bloodshot sunken eyes. He needs to glare because he needs to take some of this out on Brendan; give some of the load to Brendan no matter how insignificant. Brendan will take it. He deserves this and more.
"You gotta eat something." He grunts
To which Steven just shakes his head, falls back against the bed, chest rising and falling in his attempts to get a grip and keep the nausea at bay.
"Don't make me force you." Brendan says. His voice is lazy with tiredness but the threat is loud and clear; he will do it if he has to.
"Why don't you jus' go sort out the new flat?"
Brendan scoffs, "Yeah right."
"What, I'm hardly gonna move, am I?!"
"No?" Brendan asks.
He climbs onto the bed, places his palms either side of Steven's head and starts to lower down above him, lips ghosting Steven's nose and then ear.
"You really think I'm that stupid, Steven?"
This can't be doing anything for Steven's temperature but even now he doesn't push Brendan away… he becomes still and complacent and entranced like he always does – his eyes tracing Brendan's every move.
He blinks at the sound of clinking keys.
Brendan lifts the keys to Andy's flat – aptly tucked inside the tissue box as if Brendan wouldn't notice – and dangles them above Steven's eyes.
"This is why people like you get shut in rooms with padlocks and chains." Brendan breathes.
Steven's glazed eyes sink to a frown.
"People like me?!"
"Delinquents."
Brendan pushes his lips lightly to Steven's nose. His skin is hot and sweaty.
"If I go out, I'm gonna have to lock the bedroom door." Brendan says. He's serious now.
It sounds extreme, but it's the only way. Brendan knows about this stuff; has been visited far too many times in the past by those who are addicted and gasping for a hit, who will stoop to any level, abandon all reason and dignity.
Steven has willpower – more than Brendan's ever witnessed – but it's not enough. He's fighting a force far stronger, and he'll lose without a firm instruction.
"Yeah," Steven says bitterly.
He lights up a cigarette and blows smoke into Brendan's face as if naïve enough to think that will make him waver.
"That's what you've always wanted, innit? For me to be your prisoner."
"You're right. This is what I've always wanted. But lets not pretend we didn't BOTH have fun on the bathroom floor last night."
"You're not lockin' me in like your fuckin' dog, Brendan."
"Fine. I understand. Then I'm not goin' anywhere."
"Fine."
"Fine. And you better stop tryin' to push me away cos I already told you I ain't goin' nowhere."
"Till it suits you."
"Till never; I'm marryin' ye, ain't I?!"
Steven falls silent, chugs on his cigarette like he thinks it's his last, and maybe he does. His bitter irritation is only cover up for his fear, and Brendan knows it.
"Look," He breathes, softer this time. "Once upon a time you told me that you weren't gonna give up on me. And I'm just sayin'… it works both ways."
Steven continues to say nothing.
That's okay. Brendan can take his silence better than he can take his pleads and tears of last night.
"I'm gonna get you somethin' to eat." He says, in a voice that leaves no room for debate.
It only takes five minutes for him to whip up some semi-burned toast and a bag of crisps each… but by the time he comes back, Steven's different again. He clings to Brendan's tshirt and pulls him close this time, and pushes his face into Brendan's chest, nose nuzzling pitifully there.
Brendan doesn't bother with the words of comfort this time – they're useless.
He kisses the top of Steven's head and relaxes his hand over the back of his neck - still burning hot – and just stays there letting the food go cold until Steven's able to pull away.
And so the routine continues for the next four days.
Like a hot-blooded, fog-filled, pressure-kettled prison, he and Steven move back and forth from bedroom and bathroom of Cheryl's home. Steven fluctuates back and forth from seeking comfort and intimacy... to shouting and pushing and rejecting. Brendan bears scratch-marks up his arms where he wrestles him away from the front door and keys, and Steven bears bruises where Brendan has to restrain him. Brendan has a split lip; caught in an episode of hallucination, and later kissed to quick heal.
The bedroom bin is filled with Anti-Nausea remedies which Steven has cursed and deemed useless. Tissues where he's cried and sweat. Food that he's refused.
There's a mug on the bedside table that's become an overflown ash-tray and a mixing bowl that's become a sick bucket.
Cheryl stays clear, and keeps Nate and Connor even further.
She chips in whenever Brendan uses the kitchen to tell him she's been 'reading online' for advice.
Go for a run, she says.
"Chez, Steven's not run a metre in his life; he's not about to start now."
Get a therapist, she says.
"I'm not doing that to him. 's out of the question."
Get him to write down all the positive things he can think of, I hear that really helps.
"He hates writing."
Despite his protests, Brendan does whatever it takes. He suggests the run to Steven, and gets his head snapped off. He suggests writing things down and gets sniggered at; some of Stevens' cheek comes back, and that makes it worth the proposition at the very least.
He never suggests the therapy. Those people do more harm than good.
On the fifth day, they manage to leave the house.
"I'm not gettin' out the car." Steven says. His back and legs and arms ache, his stomach canes, and the very act of getting him outside seemed at the time like a form of torture.
But they're on their way now, and Brendan is nothing but determined to get him further.
"You're coming to have a look at this flat I found." He says.
"Jus' get whatever flat you want."
"I've already got it." Brendan says bluntly, because he hadn't thought twice about getting it when it had come up on the online search; there was nothing to think about – it's perfect. "I just want you to see it."
"I should be well pissed off that you bought that without me."
"I know, but you just said I could, so now you can't be." Brendan smirks.
"What if I don't like it?"
"You will."
"Where is it?"
"You'll see."
Steven frowns but sinks back into the car seat; too exhausted to argue. He's barely slept more than a couple of hours in days, and it shows. He holds his stomach now, fingers clenching repeatedly around the fabric of his tshirt as he tries to deal with the relentless pain. But he says nothing. He deals with it in silence, with a strength that Brendan has nothing but respect for.
The silence is only broken by Steven retorting, "Big fan these days, are ya?!"
Brendan blinks from his daydream, "Huh?"
"Since when did you learn all the words, eh?!"
Brendan has no idea what he's talking about.
Until Steven turns up the radio. And that God forsaken Cheryl Cole who'd soundtracked two too many fucking-sessions back in the day is playing.
"You were singin' along." Steven says. He's smirking. His eyes are gleaming. He looks happy, however impossible that may seem, and the sight is momentarily breathtaking.
Till Brendan remembers to defend himself and snaps, "Quit makin' stuff up."
"No don't mind me, carry on."
"I've never even heard this song."
Apart from when Steven got drunk three years ago and insisted on strip-teasing to it. Apart from when one of the staff played it in prison during cooking classes, and Brendan smashed his own head against the corner of the shelf unit just to get out of there.
That had been one of the worst days.
Steven doesn't retort back this time; his happiness is short-lived and quickly stifled by the recurrence of pain. He sniffs, his eyes glaze over to mask his turmoil and his head sinks back into the headrest.
Brendan misses the smile already.
He keeps his eyes on the road for a minute or two, wondering how he can get it back…
And starts to sing… forceful and definite… "How'd you think I feel when you call my name, you got me confused by the way I changed. How'd you think I feel when you call my name…"
Steven turns to him, and his face is lit up again.
Brendan glances at him only briefly – too embarrassed to hold eye contact – but he swears he catches a beam this time.
And he hears a laugh. The sweet, sweet sound of it. The goofy uninhibited hoot of amusement that is so uniquely Steven's.
And he realises probably for the first time since he walked out of prison and back into this mess… that happiness is a plausible goal for them both.
XOXOXOXOX
The flat is nothing special. It's certainly not as suave and modern and classy as Brendan's place that got burnt down. The third bedroom is a bit of a box… not ideal for Lucas, but he'll have to make do. The kitchen is decent sized for sure, but has an ugly hatch leading into the dining room that reminds Brendan of some tacky McDonalds drive-through. The couple that lived here previous had disastrous taste in floral décor.
But none of that matters. This place is perfect for the two of them.
Beneath it is a restaurant – also for sale. It's a little dated right now, but with some work it can be luxurious… has a perfect space for a bar and sofa area at the front, and a kitchen at the back. The perfect way for them both to rebuild their lives and ambitions from scratch, to paint on their masks of normality and maybe even convince themselves that that's what they are – normal.
Steven's not so sure.
"I 'aven't even cooked for years, Bren…"
"So? You'll have plenty of time to practice."
"Yeah but if it goes wrong that's loadsa money down the drain, innit, and…"
"Well then we'll make you a stripper. Get the money back in no time."
For a millisecond it looks like Steven believes him… thinks he's serious.
Then he cracks a smile, small and tired, but a smile of understanding. His head falls against Brendan's shoulder, just where he likes it, and Brendan kisses the top of his head.
"It's somethin' else to work towards, Steven."
"Yeah." Steven says thoughtfully, and then… "Can you imagine that? Us runnin' a place together?"
"Hm."
"Bet we'll argue loads though – we're gonna be on top of each other all the time."
"I like being on top of you."
Steven laughs again. Brendan could easily get used to that reoccurrence.
And he could easily get used to them being 'on top of each other' all the time too. It's been five days now, kettled together in the bedroom and bathroom, never leaving for space or air or private time. After everything that's happened, Brendan doesn't see a time that he'll leave Steven's side or vice versa for the foreseeable future.
Is this what they are now? One of those godforsaken couples that proudly state that they only ever separate to take a shit? Will they continue their lives as the type that tag along to push the trolley down a supermarket together? And what after that? Matching outfits and mutual gay friends and a couple of dogs to match their personalities?!
If we must, Brendan finds himself thinking.
It's a case of 'anything goes' now.
A future without Steven being permanently there is unthinkable. Even now, in Steven's state, he is the light in Brendan's dark hollow life. He is the memory that kept Brendan alive in prison. He is the voice that calms Brendan with its warmth and familiarity. Steven makes Brendan grounded… makes him feel loved and needed in a way he never ever has before. He's somebody for Brendan to protect, bring reason to his existence.
And he's somebody to protect Brendan too. Brendan would trust him explicitly to – learnt that he could do so a long time ago, and his faith hasn't wavered since.
"It's mint." Steven whispers into Brendan's chest. "I love it. Thank you."
"Thank you." Brendan mumbles, "Thank you, Steven."
He hasn't had the chance to tell him yet, but Steven has saved him too since leaving the jail-gates. He's done it whilst angry, whilst high, whilst overdosed and whilst withdrawing. He's done it without even knowing; purely with his presence and the unyielding humanising effect it has on Brendan.
Brendan pulls him into his arms now; wraps himself around the alarmingly skinny frame and presses his forehead to Steven's hot sweaty one … and realises he's never been more in love with him.
XOXOXOXOXOX
The mistake happens after they leave.
Brendan has to drop the keys back to Andy's. If he doesn't, Andy will only come looking for them and that's the last thing they need.
But it triggers something in Steven almost immediately.
He goes ghost white as they pull up outside the block of council flats, and his fists clench determinedly around themselves and he keeps his eyes on the dashboard and takes deep breathes. But the damage is already done. Brendan can already tell that those smiles and laughs won't be returning tonight. This is the ultimate test, and Steven's not ready for it.
The end to all of his pain and misery is just the other side of the door.
"I'll be one minute, okay?" Brendan says, "One minute."
He locks the car door, but if Steven notices he doesn't show it; his eyes still fixated with startling resolve on the dashboard.
It takes all of thirty seconds before Brendan's shoved the keys through the letterbox and is back in the drivers seat but now tears are drizzling miserably from Steven's eyes, and his body is so folded in on itself that Brendan has no hope right now of making any of it better.
They drive back to Cheryl's in silence, a heavy weight in the pit of Brendan's stomach like he's somehow the villain in all this; has ripped Steven away from his shitty pitiful life with Andy to give him one that's somehow worse.
Steven flops exhaustedly into bed when they get back, becoming nothing but a lump under the covers – detached and unobtainable.
"Steven…"
"This isn't gonna work." His voice is small and wretched and vulnerable.
"Okay, we shouldn't have gone there. But you've just had a set-ba…"
"No, don't say it!" Steven snaps, voice ringing fiercely from beneath the duvet, "This isn't gonna work, it's been five days and I can't think about anythin' else, Brendan, it's not going away."
"Well what did ye think was gonna happen?! This isn't a craving, Steven, it's an addiction, okay?! It's SHIT but no one ever said it was gonna be easy!"
"YOU DID! You said it would get BETTER!"
"And it WILL, it IS, ye just need to CALM THE FUCK DOWN!"
He shouldn't be shouting, but his patience is wafer-thin; smothered under days of sleepless fatigue.
"CALM DOWN?!" Steven yells, and reappears from beneath the duvet with red bloodshot eyes. "I WANNA FUCKING DIE HALF THE TIME! You don't know a SINGLE THING about what this feels like, Brendan, you haven't got a FUCKING CLUE! And it's NOT gonna end!"
Brendan sighs, shattered, "I'm sick of having this same god damn conversation." He seethes intolerantly.
"YOU'RE SICK?!" Steven cries, incredulous. "FUCK YOU!"
He throws the mug on the bedside table and it shatters against the door, sending water, ash and cigarette butts flying everywhere.
Then he tears at his hair like he wants to rip his whole scalp off. And his whole body is wrecked and shaking with this violent trauma of electricity… like he's wild with it, in a way Brendan's never seen him.
"YOU SAID IT WAS GONNA GET EASIER!" He cries, all raging tears and torn-up voice.
"Okay, well it WON'T! It WON'T. Is that what you want me to say?!"
"Then LET ME GO!" Steven cries, and Brendan's fatigue makes him slow so when Steven's fist flies, it catches him right in the side of the eye. Fucking hurts too. But Steven's not finished; he's throwing punches like Brendan is the very first needle that started it all. Throwing punches at him like Brendan's the pain in his stomach and the nightmare in his head.
Brendan grabs his wrists, but Steven's surprisingly strong – his hatred for this situation outweighing his skinniness and exhaustion. It becomes something of a struggle. And they're here again… Brendan restraining a frightened, fighting, frantic body. The efforts bring them somehow from the bed to the floor, and Steven crying through gritted teeth the whole time, "Let me go. Just let me go."
"I'm never gonna do that, Steven." Brendan pants.
This is what it's been between them… right from the very beginning. Let me go. They've always pushed – tested boundaries – trialled one anothers toxic commitment to the other. A commitment that can become overpowering in that they're so powerless to resist it. A commitment that now is dragging both of them to sleepless, painful torture.
"Just let me go…" Steven sobs, scratching feebly at Brendan's hands that hold him to the floor.
"I'm not gonna give up on you." Brendan breathes, private and intense and meaningful to both of them; heavy in the air between his lips and Steven's ear, "I'm not."
"I can't take anymore." Steven whimpers, so excruciatingly aggrieved.
"I wanna help Steven, but I can't, okay, there's nothing I can do; you just have to keep going."
"I want the wedding and the restaurant and the kids…." Steven mumbles in cracked distressed tones. There's a 'but' coming, but Brendan doesn't let him get there…
"You're gonna have all that, I promise you."
"I wanna sleep." He cries.
"Then sleep." Brendan uses his free hand to pull the hair away that dangles over Steven's forehead. He kisses there, once, twice, three times… however many times it take, "Go to sleep."
The next thing Brendan's conscious of is the bedroom door creaking open, and Cheryl is standing there with wide, concerned eyes.
It's dark now… and Steven is still in his arms against the floor.
Resting.
Resting finally.
"Everything's fine, Chez." Brendan whispers, groggy from his own slumber.
Cheryl's eyes scan the trashed bedroom.
"Everything doesn't look fine."
"Everything's fine." Brendan repeats.
Because whilst what he and Steven have will never look alright to those outside their world… this is fine for them. They can lie here in the dark amongst the warzone they've created, but while Steven can laugh and Steven can sleep… there is progress. And while they can be in each others arms, there is hope.
