Beta-reader: Hannival Kinney
Category: Soap opera
Characters: Brendan Brady, Stephen Hay
Genre: introspective, sentimental
Warnings: one-shot, slash, lemon
The last customer was gone in a puff of drunken laughter; Joel had put away his records in the hard case and was preparing to leave. Soon after, Brendan heard him he was off in his trailed Scottish accent and finally, the patter of his footsteps faded away over the stairs.
The only presence, except his own, was washing the last glass. Brendan came out of his office, arms folded, leaning against the door frame, and began to observe him as he bent to place one glass at a time, cleaned and polished, on the lower shelves. Months, or years, had passed since the last time he had spied him in those habitual gestures, without having something else on his head. Warren and the desire for revenge had occupied the most of that in the last period, and resentment against Stephen the remainder part.
While he was still in prison and his sister had said, almost trembling, that Stephen thought he was guilty, as if he was anyone of the villagers, Brendan had experienced the hard way the 'feeling of the world falling on his head'. Not even when Eileen and his son had found out who was really the man who had been an exemplary husband and father he had never experienced that catastrophic feeling.
Funny to think that he had to thank only Warren, and the hatred for him that was multiplied day after day, for his own survival.
But now that Warren was out of circulation, his head, his whole body and, yes, even his heart, had returned to take care of the one thing that was worth continuing to live in this lousy town.
His steps were quick and quiet, just as the hand that stroked his neck. Stephen winced, dropping the cloth with which he was cleaning the counter. Brendan could distinctly hear his breathing speed up, but it was just a moment. Stephen drew back, taking the first of those steps that would take himself away from him again.
But before he could do it, Brendan held him, imprisoning him in his arms and keeping his back tight to his chest. He wanted to say a million things in that stolen moment, everything he had thought in the last months, but especially during the last week; he wanted to tell him that he had never stopped loving him, even when he had tried to hate him with all his will, but his voice came out croaking a few words, full of longing and impatience: "Cheryl is not home tonight." Stephen stiffened in that possessive embrace. "Please."
Brendan counted the tense and silent seconds, which separated him from happiness or despair, like a condemned man awaiting the final sentence, then he felt Stephen's body softening against his chest, his head thrown back, laid on his shoulder, heart beating faster and faster than his own.Finally, Stephen turned, looking at him with his sullen and in disbelief eyes. One day he would tell him that there was that crazy thing about his eyes, and his lips ... his lips were simply a masterpiece of nature.
Stephen loved corny things. One day he would tell him, just for the sake of seeing those beautiful lips stretch into a surprised smile, a little blush coloring his cheeks, welcoming those very same lips to crash on his own.
But Brendan could not wait for Stephen to do the first move and so he grabbed him ungracefully, as he almost always did, plunging his tongue into his mouth and his fingers into his skin. After a few seconds they were trying to undress each other. Then Brendan went off suddenly, in an attempt to give a few coherent words in the midst of his panting. "No... don't... Let's go ...hf... home! I want ... yahf ...alf night. "
Then he kissed him again, but he had to muster all his self-control to stop himself, for dragging him outside the club and not have their first time, after ages, in the back of a dusty bar.
When they made it to the front door they were already half undressed. They didn't even try to reach the ladder to go into the bedroom. Stephen was surprisingly quick, pinning him against the just closed door, and kneeling at his feet.
Surely someone outside or his neighbors had caught his moans and the inevitable liberating roar that came after, but in the chaotic flowing of time he couldn't care less.
In the last week he had thought carefully about what he intended to propose Stephen: a home for just the two of them, the bare minimum in order to have him at his side every night and in the morning to get him exactly in the same place. He loved to keep him close when he was asleep, and even more he loved re-opening his eyes to meet his everytime. He would have said that tonight, and he wouldn't have taken no for an answer, it was not his style and even less in his programs.
Now, that was the right time. And the desire that still shook their bodies and Stephen's erection, not satisfied yet, could be a very persuasive argument.
"I need to talk to ye," he began, as he was re-dressing himself. Stephen whimpered against his lips, sliding back his shirt from his shoulders and unbuttoning his pants for the second time.
"Later – he said rubbing his erection against Brendan's pelvis – We'll talk later."
How could he ever think to disappoint him in this moment? He answered with another kiss and then, taking his hand again, dragged him up the stairs and finally entered his bedroom, knocking him on his bed with a little push.
Stephen was right. There were more important things to do in that moment and he wanted to take all the time in the world to relive everyone of them.
First, he wondered how much time had elapsed since the last time he slid his tongue on every inch of his skin. Too much, for sure. And yet he asked himself if his taste had remained the same and if he was still able to recognize him after all this time.
He leaned over him and began to savor his neck. When he began to suck the piece of skin under the lobe of his ear, Stephen's moans of pleasure were enough for him to get excited again. Then he passed to his nipples and Stephen's body arched under the lap of his tongue. Finally, he unbuttoned his pants, and the breath almost failed him, for what everything suddenly was so familiar and beautiful like. His tongue was well aware of where and how to take him, when satisfying him without doing all the way. When he departed, even if only for a few moments, Stephen used to squeeze the sheets and bit his own lips. Brendan loved his frustrated expressions in those moments. He wouldn't lose any of that for anything in the world.
So he kissed him and Stephen reacted with a savage kiss, as if he was devouring him. Then he returned to his erection, but he played with for most of the time, and so Stephen covered his face with his hands, arching his back to sink deeper into his mouth. Finally, he begged him to fuck him while his breathing was becoming more and more deafening.
Sometimes he would turn on his stomach with a quick leap, sometimes, like in that case, he remained on his back facing him, quivering with impatience, and Brendan, as slowly as he could, took a condom and discarded it. Stephen roared in exasperation, as he addressed him with a smile askew.
Then the game suddenly ended and in a few seconds he spread his legs wide and slid inside him, so swiftly and so suddenly to make him breathless. And once in his body, he remained motionless for a while, giving him time to adjust, while he looked straight in his open eyes wide with some slight hint of tears. He began moving only when he saw him smiling and his amazing lips searched desperately his own.
He had lost count of the orgasms that night, and certainly he had time to recover. Stephen was the only one whom he had been with for one year and the only after nearly five months. He didn't know if for him it had been the same, but even he didn't want to know. He preferred to ignore that.
Now they were together, and their lives would be completely changed after that night. He had promised him that five months earlier and he had every intention of honoring his promise.
"Stephen ..." he whispered, while languidly stroking his head resting on his chest. "I have something to tell ye."
He heard him groan and immediately after he noticed his breath being heavier. He slept, the bastard, but happily, like an angel.
Brendan sighed, exasperated. However, the fatigue had begun to cloud his thoughts, so he decided that the next morning would still be a good time to talk to him.
A few hours later, the midday sun came through the window like a sharp knife. Brendan blinked his eyes, annoyed, and sought protection against the pillow beside him, burying his head in it. He realized immediately that something was wrong. When he decided to open his eyes and sit up in the bed, looking around with his eyes still sleepy, he found out to be completely alone. His moustache twitched for a flash of disappointment. It was the hardest awakening he could get.
He'd have to keep a long conversation with Stephen and let him know, among other things, that he hated waking up alone, although at first he would probably sound like a little pathetic fag.
He heard a noise coming from the lower floor. Probably that idiot had put into his head to prepare breakfast.
Okay, he might have to consider the idea of forgive him, but not before bringing him back to bed again, even if he would have to drag him by his ears.
He stood up, put on a clean pair of boxers, and slowly walked down the hallway and then down the stairs that would lead to the kitchen. He frowned, perplexed. Stephen was not there, nor were there signs of a breakfast being set up, or something like that.
Understanding hit him worse than a punch in his nose. He ran to the window facing the street and looked out. As he saw Stephen walking away from the building, pain and anger invested him like a train.
At that desperate cry Stephen suddenly stopped, then turned slowly, as though afraid to do so.
Brendan looked at him quizzically intense, and repeated his name, this time more sweetly.
Stephen answered him with a strange expression on his face, it seemed as if he was apologizing for something that was going to do, or had already done. And, in fact, he shook his head and added: "I can't do it."
Brendan pressed his breath as if he'd been running for hundreds miles.
"What can't you do? Stephen! "
"I'm sorry," he said with the same expression as before, then turned again, continuing along his path.
Brendan joined the couch and sat down in disbelief, a burning sensation in the middle of his chest. They had sex all night, they made love all night, and now... that incomprehensible end.
It was true that he had failed to tell him what he had been brooding over the last week, he had not told him he still loved him, for example; he hadn't told him that was the only person he had ever loved, the only one that would ever love; he hadn't told him that he wanted him by his side at night before falling asleep and then when waking up in the morning. He couldn't say anything of all this. Though, it seemed that Stephen had already answered all those unspoken words and the questions not yet formulated.
But had he ever gave up? Certainly he wouldn't do so now.
He stood up from the couch and, with small taps, began to sprinkle a dress that did not exist. Then he took the direction of the bathroom, stroking his moustache with the pride of his re-found military planning.
"Okay," he said to himself.