I've been so busy lately hence why it's been a whole month since updating… sorry! Hopefully people are still reading!

XOXOXOXOX

His body is floating. Shivering. Trembling. And then there's a needle and its just inches away, blocked only by a naked body lying on its stomach across the floor… cold flesh. And he knows he shouldn't want the needle, but he does. He's throbbing for it. He takes a step towards it and his throat's going dry like dehydration, hydrated only by the piercing of the spike in his skin.

But the body in front of him stirs.

He jumps backwards. The naked body is moving. Twitching.

Bleeding.

It shudders… and the skin is so ghostly white and it doesn't STOP shuddering… just convulsing traumatically on the floor.

"Stop it." Ste gasps.

The body doesn't stop juddering and fitting. It's moving closer with the movements, and there are needle pricks stabbed all into its back, and it's getting closer and closer to Ste's bare feet and when Ste steps back, he hits a wall.

"St… stop it…" He chokes.

The body turns over. Lolls, un-humanlike, onto its back.

And then the piecing eyes of Simon Walker stare at Ste with cold, dead, ruthless, relentless mania. He's grinning at Ste but he's undoubtedly in pain. His body won't stop twitching, and somehow Ste knows that it's poison in his body… from the needle-marks… and it's slowly killing him.

"Stop it…" He breathes, but can hardly find his voice.

Walker's blood turns purple… veins popping. His chest rises and falls with a rasped heavy breathing. He's seconds from death… but his cock stirs; a proud, fucked-up erection.

"STOP IT!"

BANG!

Walker's head explodes. Blood spurts, splashes, gushes. Ste's drenched in it. It's everywhere. It's poison. It's the needle-poison and now it's all over his skin and he panics… can't breathe. His skin is burning off with it. And Walker's still staring… staring even though his head's blown off… still smiling… still hard.

"STEVEN!"

"Stop it! N…no! Stop it!"

"Hey! Hey! Steven!"

And he's back in the room. Awake. Tangled in the sheets of the double-bed he's shared with Brendan for eight days now. Where he's actually managed to sleep for three days now… if you can count this hell as sleeping.

Ste doesn't say anything; doesn't need to. He's woken similarly already tonight, and the night previous.

He just closes his eyes again, pushes his nose back into the warm safety nest of Brendan's neck and drifts off for the same thing to happen all over again.

XOXOXOXOX

It's been nine days now.

Nine days cold turkey.

Nine days Ste that is starting, slowly, to feel proud of. Despite the torture, the agony, the continued fear of caving… he can't believe he sits here now, nine days in, still alive and still going.

'Here' meaning the sexual health clinic.

Because that's the other thing… these last couple of days Ste's even found time in between agony to feel horny. He's woken with Brendan's hard cock pressed against the back of his legs, or watched as Brendan's showered – constantly kettled in the same room as him. He doesn't know if he'll have the energy for sex, but he knows he wants to try… knows he's dying to feel Brendan inside him again, hot and powerful and intimate and unyieldingly connected.

But to do that they have to go through this.

Sat in the waiting room side by side, sharing the waiting room with an audience of pubescent teenage lads.

Brendan's slouched down in the chair, legs spread impossibly wide to assert his dominance. Everything about his stature is to make up for the fact he's sat in the sex clinic with what is obviously his boyfriend. His druggie boyfriend, for that matter.

Ste's doing everything in his power to act invisible. He sits with his arms folded around his stomach, closed in on himself. Hopefully, if he's invisible, he won't be dragged in there. He won't have to confront the judgemental frown of the man who asks him 'how many sexual partners have you had?' and then declares the worst – that his lifestyle will be the death of him, and the end of him and Brendan.

"I'm goin' for a fag." Ste mutters.

But of course Brendan accompanies him; knows him too well, and before he knows it there's a woman coming out and calling, "Number fifteen!" and that's Ste… it's his turn.

Brendan gives his shoulder a sharp squeeze as if to say 'it's alright' but Ste knows it's not just as soon as he's sat in the room and the man asks…

"When was the last time you engaged in sexual intercourse?"

"I dunno…" Ste mumbles, uncomfortable. "Like… two weeks ago or summat."

"You don't remember?"

"I've been ill lately, haven't I? Makes things a bit fuzzy."

The mans eyes are tracing over him. He's got him sussed, immediately. Ste grips the inside of his arms instinctively; already covered with the material of his jumper but somehow he feels that's not enough.

"And how many sexual partners have you had in the last three months?"

"Urmm… I don't… I dunno." Ste says, face burning red.

"Well… roughly… more than five, would you say? Ten? Twenty?"

"I dunno. Summat like that."

The man frowns at his lack of cooperation. The labels are probably running through his head already… junkie, slut, waster.

"And was this vaginal, anal or oral?"

"Look, is this really important?!"

"The information is entirely confidential, I assure you."

"Look, I'm gay right? And I'm probably infected, kay, so why don't you just tell me how bad it is?!"

"What gives you reason to think that?"

"Cos." Ste snaps, "Work it out yourself; looks like you already have."

"Right then." The man says, keeping his voice at a well-reasoned level, "I suggest we go for the full sexual heath screen then."

XOXOXOXOX

"Once this is over I'm gonna give ye the best fuck of your life."

It's supposed to be reassuring, and in a very Brendan-like way, it is. Even though he does say it with a mouthful of McDonalds cheeseburger and fries, crumbs flying everywhere.

Ste half-heartedly chews on a single chip, guilted into doing so because Brendan has bought him the whole works. But he's not hungry; now the dull ache of his stomach that pines for drugs is joined by the tug of worry and fear. How could he have let this happen? How did things get these bad? How was he so stupid as to sleep with Brendan unprotected and put him at risk too?!

"You should 'ave seen the way he looked at me." He mumbles, "Like I was disgusting."

"He deals with the same thing every day of every year." Brendan says dryly, "Don't be so dramatic."

"Oh right, so you're allowed to be all weird about therapists but I'm not allowed this?!"

"I'm not weird about therapists."

"Yes you are!" Ste argues, chucking his chip into the nearby pond.

"I'm not – I saw tons of 'em in prison!"

"What, tons cos you smacked them about, scared 'em off?"

It's a low blow, but it's probably true, Ste thinks bitterly.

And underneath the bitterness is a gnawing pang of guilt that's been creeping about inside him since Brendan walked back into his life. Amongst his own personal dramas, Ste's not even asked Brendan about prison. He was haunted by it at the time; afraid of what Brendan was going through… whether he was hurting or numbing it out.

Brendan doesn't answer him about the therapist, and Ste knows he's blown his chance to talk about it now. Fucking selfish. Too wrapped up in his own shit to care about Brendan's.

"Sorry." He mumbles… and even that still comes out sulky and petulant.

"Stop saying that. Why'd you keep sayin' that to me?"

"Cos I'm a pain in the arse." He mutters ashamedly.

Pain in the arse is an understatement. Brendan could be sat here with a million diseases thanks to him. Jesus, he's a liability and then some.

"I was a pain in the arse to you for fuckin' years." Brendan says seriously. "You're an amateur, kid."

He sucks his milkshake casually, filling the reflective silence with a loud SLLUUURP.

Then hands it out to Ste, relaxed as anything, as if he hasn't just been the most forgiving, understanding, amazing man in the whole entire world.

Ste pushes the milkshake aside and kisses Brendan firmly, strongly, on the lips.

"I love you." He whispers sincerely.

"Mm, love you too."

"No but I really love you." Ste says, willing him to understand just how much even though he never could, "Just like… like so much."

Brendan is quiet for a moment, never breaking eye contact – pausing for thought.

Then he grunts, "Spose you may as well have this then."… digs into his inner blazer pocket and produces a ring, and hands it out again with that same casualness. Like he's so sure.

"S'a replacement, for the one that burnt." He explains unnecessarily.

"You didn't have to do that." But Ste's eyes shine… glimmer with tearful disbelief. Because it's one thing convincing himself that one day he'll marry the man of his ruin and making… but quite another to really be handed the ring… the physical promise that things will be okay for them… one day.

"Ye gonna put it on, or what?"

"Yeah." He breathes… and lets Brendan slide it on his finger. It's a tiny bit too big, but that doesn't matter. Fuck, it's perfect. It's the most fucking perfect thing anyone has ever given him, and it doesn't make sense now amongst everything that's happening that this could be here too.

"Is it alright?" Brendan asks – an underscore of vulnerability in his voice.

"Mm." Ste croaks, because he can hardly muster the breath for anything more substantial. He feels overwhelmed by it. "Yeah. Ta."

"Good."

And that's it. So easy sounding when spoken out-loud… but an uproar of chaos and dysfunction was surely short-circuiting as Brendan pushed the thing onto his finger. It can't be this simple. Nothing in Ste's life is ever this simple, and certainly not them.

XOXOXOXOXOX

When they get into the car half an hour later, Brendan doesn't start the engine. He stares out the front window in silence for a minute… going nowhere.

"You were right… by the way." He says eventually.

"Bout what?"

"The therapists." Brendan says, "I scared 'em away. Punched one of them in the face, actually, like ye said."

He turns to Ste, serious and apologetic.

"I fucked it."

"That's okay."

"It's not. I wanted to…" Brendan sighs, runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "I wanted to get better… be better… but I couldn't do it; I just… fucked up."

"That's okay." Ste repeats, "You're my fuck up, aint' ya?"

He undoes his seatbelt, kisses Brendan against the side of his face, drawing a smirk from his other half.

"You're slobberin' all over me today, ain't ye?" Brendan teases.

Makes a nice change from the sick and tears of late, in any case.

"Mm-hm." Ste smiles. "And look –"

He holds up his chip packet. Empty.

"I finished 'em."

That really makes Brendan smile, then. To him, if a man can't finish his food then that's a sure sign he's sick as a dog. For Ste to have finished the packet is a sure sign that he's on his way to good health – surer than the fact he's out of the house and nine days needle-free.

Brendan takes his neck and pulls him in for another kiss – heavy and affirming this time; his lips smacked against Ste's and then growing more fervent; tongues find each other. They explore each others flavour like it's the first time. It feels like it is, almost. Ste savours the taste of Brendan in his mouth, the prickle of his facial hair on his face, the grind of his lips – so compelling in their combination of soft skin and tough pressure. He feels Brendan's breath on him and it feels so familiar, so safe, but so exciting and new at the same time.

Jesus, these years of numbness and weeks of bed-ridden pain have practically made a virgin of him again.

And he just wants more of it. Like drugs – he's climbing into Brendan's lap; pressed between the steering wheel and Brendan's chest and licking, sucking, kissing, practically consuming one another. Brendan grits the skin of Ste's neck in his teeth and leaves his rough able marks there. Strokes his hair, loving and gentle and contrasting with the ferocity of his tongue… but then clenches his fist around it, pulls Ste's head back so he has more room to make a real mess of his neck.

Ste's chest rises and falls and he pants heavily, so amazed and turned-on and utterly overwhelmed as Brendan's lips explore his skin, his collarbone. It feels too good to be real. He feels… he feels alive, for fuck sake.

"Get off…" Brendan suddenly grows; low and sexual and commanding as fuck. "We're goin' home."

Ste doesn't argue – knows never to argue with that voice, because it's always been followed by good things in the past.

He climbs off Brendan's lap and he's sporting the biggest hard-on he thinks he's had in his whole life, and Brendan starts the engine before he can even get his seat-belt back on.

It's taking too long. Brendan seems to be taking a random route home – not the route they came – and Ste doesn't know why he'd experiment with his journey now of all times, but all he knows is he can't take it any longer. He reaches into his trousers and touches himself, strokes himself repeatedly, eyes locked on Brendan… watching every blink and waver and nervous swipe of tongue against lip.

"Ye better stop that." Brendan says warningly, staring determinedly at the road. He's about 50 miles over the speed limit. "You wanna get back in one piece."

Ste's distracting him.

Brendan's eyes keep darting back and forth, for increasingly longer and frustrated periods.

"Jus' get us home." Ste sighs, impatient.

"You know I can't fuck you, don't ye Steven?"

Supposedly. But when has Brendan ever obeyed the rules? This might not be the conventional lust-filled journey home from a sex clinic, but it is what it is and Ste not only wants Brendan but craves him.

They don't pull up outside Cheryl's flat.

They pull up outside the new flat. Their flat. With their restaurant underneath it. And the 'SOLD' sign hanging proudly outside. And Brendan tugs the keys from his pocket and opens the door to the empty, gutted downstairs – theirs for the recreation.

"When did they move out?" Ste pants, already finding himself pushed back against the wall, Brendan's mouth back on his.

"Few days ago." Brendan breathes, hands pushing themselves underneath Ste's tracksuit bottoms, clenched around his arse, groin to groin and heat and pressure and dominance. "Ye wanna christen it?"

Ste swallows, nods certainly.

Before he knows it he's got his stomach pressed against the counter, legs spread wide, Brendan wrapping up and his dick sliding inside him. Brendan moves slowly at first so that Ste can feel every inch of him, feel that firm heat inside him, sinking deeper, big and hard and painful at first, but then scorching with pleasure… like a needle, but better.

Brendan gets so deep, so far inside that Ste doesn't even feel a part of his own body anymore – feels a part of two. He feels Brendan's chest pushed firmly against his back, Brendan's arms folded tightly around his chest and stomach, Brendan's cock doing unimaginable things to him – awakening every nerve he has in his body as Brendan pounds into him heavily, and then slows into deep, long, sensual thrusts.

He doesn't want it ever to stop.

He feels so impossibly good, so impossibly safe and complete like this. He turns and they kiss, and his lips are red raw with it but that's good… he can really feel everything. He's not numb anymore. He's all here, just him and Brendan and the grinding of their bodies.

When Brendan comes inside of him, Ste reaches back and puts his hands to Brendan's arse – making him stay and not pull out. He doesn't have the breath to demand it, but Brendan understands; presses kisses to the back of Ste's neck for the longest time, keeping him filled and them together for as much time as possible.

When they go upstairs, the flat is empty – no furniture.

"Ye wanna go back to Chez's?" Brendan asks.

"No, m'tired."

He's exhausted, actually. After the comedown from sex his body has chosen to remind him that that was too strenuous an activity. He slumps onto the floor, muscles sinking and relaxing in shuddering relief.

"Come be my pillow."

Brendan sighs; grunts like an old man, which amuses Ste somewhat as he sinks down onto the floor. Brendan sits with his back against the wall, allowing Ste's head to fall into his lap where his eyes instantly start to melt into sleep.

"You not sleepin'?" Ste asks.

"Mm." Non-committal.

"Hm?"

"Not tired."

Ste doesn't even know how that's possible after what they've just done, but before he can even muster the energy to retort, he drifts off to sleep.

At first there's Brendan. Ste's got his head against his chest, breathing in the scent of his aftershave and that other indefinable scent that is so uniquely his. But Brendan's nervous – there's no real way that Ste has of knowing that... he just does.

"S'the matter?" He mumbles groggily.

Brendan doesn't reply. There's just silence… Ste wants to crane his head to look at him but for some reason he can't move; his neck's stiff, and all he can absorb is the material of Brendan's shirt over his chest, which now feels suffocating.

"Brendan? What's the matter?" He says, more urgently.

He can feel Brendan's heart going a mile a minute.

It's scaring him.

"What's the MATTER?!"

He pulls back – finally. Released from the strangle hold.

But he immediately wishes he wasn't.

Now he can see Brendan, he can see that he's trembling. His shirt sleeve is pulled up around his biceps. There's a belt around his arm. He's jabbing a needle into himself. It pricks into him – drawing blood, making bruises.

"Won't fucking work." He says. His voice sounds rasped and distorted and agonised.

"Stop it." Ste gasps.

"You try."

"N…no…"

"IT WON'T WORK!" Brendan shouts. His voice echoes and then breaks into a sob. He's in pain. He's convulsing. Blood POURS from his arm.

Ste pulls the needle away from him and is overcome by it… the need for it… the desperation to inject.

He throws it… but it won't leave his hand. It's stuck. Plastered to him.

He struggles, trying to pull it off himself but Brendan's mumbling in his ear; a voice ghosted by loss and misery, "Ye need to try it Steven. Try it for me – tell me why it won't work. Just do it once – it's not gonna hurt."

"I can't."

"Ye don't do anything to help me – I just need ye to… to do this one thing."

"M'sorry, I do try."

"You jus'… jus' make things worse."

The needle's burning him. He winces, tries to bat it off his skin but it won't LEAVE… it's burning INTO him, corrupting under the flesh and building a mould in his palm. The ring around his wedding finger is hot… burning… turning to ash.

"Steven."

"Urrrr, I can't get it OFF!" He cries, fighting the needle.

"Steven…" Blood dribbles from between Brendan's lips. The bruise on his arm from the needle spreads and comes up his neck, and Ste knows what's going to happen next… can FEEL death and destruction and trauma just seconds away.

"I'm… I can't… WAIT!" The needle is prickling into his fingers, tying them, but he NEEDS his fingers – needs to free Brendan from death.

"STEVEN!"

BANG.

A gunshot. An explosion. Blood. Blood everywhere. Brendan gone. Ste unable to move; his hands held in fists.

"STEVEN!"

He wakes with a start, sweat covering him, heart hammering frantically.

Brendan's got Ste's hands, holding them high in the air, fending them off from where they scratched and hit.

"S'alright." He breathes, "S'alright it was just a dream…"

Ste allows the room to sink back into focus… blinks as he addresses Brendan's concerned eyes above him… no blood, no bruises, no gunshot… just Brendan. His Brendan. His fiancé, Brendan. Still here. Not sick of him yet.

Ste reaches his hand up in silence… traces his fingers down the side of Brendan's face.

And realises why Brendan didn't sleep. Because he was expecting this. Wanted to be awake to make it stop.

Ste winces in shame. God, he is a liability.

"You alright?" Brendan asks.

"Yeah."

"Ye sure?"

"Yes." He finds himself snapping. He's frustrated with himself; can't believe he still can't get over all this, despite being given this whole chance at a fresh start that most don't have. "I'm fine, Brendan."

"Yeah, cos you looked real fine a minute ago." Brendan snaps back.

"I am. You don't… you don't have to be with me all the time; I don't need a babysitter, right?!"

"You telling me to get out of my own house now?!"

"No! I'm jus' sayin'. I'm…"

He can't even say he's sorry, because Brendan doesn't like that.

"I am gettin' better. I know it don't look like it to you, right, but I am."

"I know you are." Brendan says, softer this time.

Ste sniffs, wipes his sweaty palms against his tracksuit and admits weakly, "I jus' keep dreamin' bout it."

"That's okay." Brendan says. "You're my fuck-up."

"Oy. I didn't say I was a fuck up, did I?!"

"I was offended earlier too," Brendan muses, smirking, "I wasn't sure I should say anything, cos y'know, you're a bit unhinged right now; I get it."

Ste laughs – punches Brendan lightly in the chest.

"Fine. We're both fuck-ups then." He settles.

"That's … cute." Brendan says dryly.

But Ste's serious… about wanting to stand on his own two feet.

Half of him is terrified every time Brendan walks out of the room. Terrified he'll crumble on his own. Terrified Brendan will get taken away from him again.

The other half of him is determined to resume normality, and normality is not living in one anothers pockets like this; escalating what's already a co-dependent setup. He wants to prove to Amy, the kids, Brendan and himself that he's clean, and not just because he's being body-guarded.

So the next day he insists that Brendan go and get the furniture, and he waits on his own in the flat.

He gazes out of the window at the group of teenage delinquents swigging larger and swearing loudly. He attempts a few press-ups but gets bored and exhausted after four. He takes pictures of himself pulling stupid faces and sends them to Brendan's phone. He texts Amy 'love you all'.

The next time he's on his own is two days later when Brendan is interviewing bar-staff. Ste stays upstairs… does a bit of home décor. He rearranges the food in the fridge and cupboards. He puts some drawings by the kids up… then takes them down and puts them up somewhere else where they're more visible. He fiddles around trying to install the playstation. He texts Amy again 'twelve days now x'

Three days later Brendan goes to pick up an order, and Ste busies himself in the restaurant kitchen. He wipes down the counters… imagines doing it when there's actually food there. He flicks through a couple of the recipes Brendan's bought and folds down the corner of the pages. He scrawls down a couple of things for potential menus. He texts Amy 'gona get the kids to rite the kids menu – thatll be wel cute x'

The day after that he even leaves on his own to buy some cigarettes.

It's not much, but it's something. He still gets flooded with relief when he's back with Brendan; relief that everything they're working hard to sustain is still sustaining. But his confidence grows with every day that he's actually doing this, and doing it on his own two feet as well.

So when Brendan has to go for the standard meeting with his lawyer in London, Ste makes a bold decision.

"I'll stay here for the night." He says.

"The night? You sure?"

"Yeah." Ste nods adamantly. "Might start paintin' the red behind the bar actually, what d'ya think?"

"Whatever ye want." Brendan says. Ste smirks, cos he knows it takes all of Brendan's willpower to say that.

"Awwwww. Will you miss me?!" He teases.

"I'll miss my cock in your mouth, yeah." Brendan breezes, swinging his jacket on.

"Oy!"

Brendan grins, turning back and planting a firm, tender kiss to Ste's lips that speaks volumes over his crudeness.

"Call me." He says seriously.

The painting serves as a good distraction when he's gone. Ste puts music on; blasts it loudly through the bar-speakers. He splatters paint across the wall, a cigarette in his mouth and his phone just centimetres away, waiting for when Brendan inevitably sends him the custom dirty text.

He's prepared with a whole series of distractions to see him through the night; glasses that need stocking, playlists that need selecting, clothes that need ironing.

He doesn't get that far though.

The thunderous hammering at the restaurant door is even louder than the music.

The crowd of demented looking men who reside there are immediately familiar.

Coked up and wired, Andy leers through the window. There's a hood pulled over his head and a glint in his eye that looks positively deranged. He's out of it. Blazed. A ghostly mirror-image of how Ste looked just seventeen days ago.

"Alright baby?" He leers through the window; voice loud with disorientation. "You lookin' for a good time?!"