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Another Me, Another You I owe Candy a big apology for blatantly ripping off her idea about Brian having been a French courtesan and known Steve in a past life. What can I say except that I thought it was such a good idea I wish I'd thought of it myself? I just hope that by throwing in a few ideas of my own and taking a look at the whys and wherefores I've made this original enough to be an excuse. I think the bit about the paracetamol may also have been influenced by something Meghan wrote. Another scene in here came from Brian's remark that "If I was a girl I'd still swing both ways." I've given him the chance to put his money where his mouth is. All criticism is very welcome, especially regarding anything that either is too cryptic or labours the point, or where the language is too flowery. As for the title, well, I tried out a truckload of them and this one wasn't any worse than the rest: Another You, Another Me London, 2001 "I reckon you might wanna be gettin' along to the bogs, Stevo." Kev, the Wonder from Down Under, stood looking down at Steve and sipped his Guinness. Laconic as always, but not without a sense of theatre, he waited to be asked for explanations. Steve set his pint on the ring-marked table. "Why's that? Has the barman been putting laxatives in the beer again? Or is there something nobody wants to tell me--my fly's open, my nose needs powdering, what?" "Nah, nah. But you might wanna do a spot of troubleshootin'. Me spies tell me there's bit of a stoush goin' on in the gents' involvin' a small androgynous person of the Yank persuasion. Sounded like it might be one of yours." "Ah," said Steve. "Ah, yes indeed. It could well be one of ours, but you see, we have so many like that it's difficult to keep track of them. Pesky little creatures, you know, always running around your feet doing God knows what, and it's illegal to brand them or chain them up, unfortunately...Thanks for letting me know, Kev." The last part of the conversation was thrown back over his shoulder: despite the casual talk, he was already halfway across the room in the direction of the loos. O Christ! What had that little idiot got himself into now? If Steve hadn't been familiar with the layout of the pub, the noises coming from inside the gents' would still have guided him. A few people were standing around curiously listening to the racket, but not game, or not fool enough, to venture inside. "AND THEN I'M GONNA RIP YOUR LEGS OFF AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR SCRAWNY LIL ARSE--" Steve hurled the door open. In the first instant it appeared to him that the man standing inside--an individual constructed along the lines of a Sherman tank--had taken such a shine to Brian's pretty face that he was now attempting to hang him on the wall as a decoration, a relief from the piss-puddles and grafitti. A hand like a bunch of bananas was wrapped around the singer's throat, while another gripped the front of his shirt, holding him aloft as his feet dangled comically above the floor. "--DRY YOUR NUTS AND USE 'EM FOR GOLFBALLS--" From the stream of bellowed threats Steve calculated that this was a case of more bluster and intimidation than serious intent: if the tank-like one were bent on real mayhem he could have done it by now with a lot less noise, and Brian looked reasonably undamaged. Nevertheless, the situation was precarious to an extent. The guy might be just working out his aggression through a bit of verbal brouhaha, but the wrong words, any extra provocation, might tilt him over into real violence. And Brian specialised in provocation... "Steve!" cried the provoking one happily. It was clear at once that he was well pickled. "Good ol' Steve! Jus' get me down from here, would you?" His captor, who had ignored the crash of the door, now turned to find the object of the greeting. "Does this belong to you?" he snarled at Steve. Firmness without antagonism, Steve told himself. He strolled across the room, feigning casualness but tensed to swing a fist if need be. "What seems to be the problem here, mate?" he asked, not of Brian but of the lout propping him up. The lout scowled at him. "The problem, mate, is that this pygmy rent-a-gob needs a lesson in manners and I plan on being the one to teach him." "Now, now, I'm sure he didn't do anything that drastic," Steve lied. "Tell me--ah, what's your name, by the way?" "Dave," offered the lout grudgingly. "Alright, Dave, tell me, what did he do that was so bad? Or say?" There was a moment's silence during which the beefy red face turned slightly redder. Dave looked away, then said, almost primly, "He insulted me." From the wall above them came a drunken snigger. The situation was clear enough. In any one of a number of ways that Steve preferred not to think about too hard, the guy's manhood had been diminished and he now had to re-establish it. If he could be allowed to feel that his point had been made, he might retire with saved face and without bloodshed. "Hell, if I had a pound for everyone Brian hasn't insulted, I'd be imprisoned for debt. Trust me, it doesn't mean anything really. It's just compensation--you know, little bloke, big gob. Look at him. Is it really worth breaking into a sweat to pound on him--a guy who looks like an anorexic hedgehog?" There was an indignant squawk from overhead, which Steve ignored. "Big strong bloke like you, you could flatten him with one hand. What would that prove? No satisfaction in it at all," he added untruthfully. "Why not be the bigger man, literally, and let him off this time?" Dave considered. "I might," he decided, "if I get an apology." Steve took a deep mental breath. "An apology? Ofcourse. Perfectly fair. Absolutely." He sent up a silent prayer to the gods of rock and roll, reflecting in passing that such gods had never done a particularly good job of protecting their followers from self-inflicted mishap. As if in response, a voice from on high entered the conversation. "Apodgoly?" it demanded. " 'm not apodgolising. Barssid." "I think that would be a very good idea, Brian." "Buggered if I do. So t' speak. Nononononono.What? No." Steve gritted his teeth. Persuasion with a drunk Brian was a lost cause; in any case, Steve wasn't in the mood for pandering to the little goblin's stubborn whims. He eyed his bandmate sternly and let some of his suppressed anger harden his voice. "Yes, Brian, you are going to apologise. You're going to do it now, and you're going to make it good." So it was to come down to a battle of wills, he thought, and what hero could stand against the raging monster that was Brian's will? The friendship between them was a mighty thing, but could it sway Brian in the armour-plated determination that even Dave the incredible bulk had failed to dent? Apparently not. "Won't," said Brian. Steve caught the challenge in his eyes, mixed with a spark of glee, and realised that his bandmate had scented the chance for an argument like a cat scenting fresh liver. A scene, with Brian as the centrepiece. Never mind the danger they were quite possibly both in--the tension of risk, and the ensuing explosion, would all just add to the melodrama. If that's what you want, you self-aggrandising bugger, you're going to be disappointed. Steve shrugged. "Alright, Brian. It's up to you. I just thought you might prefer to be out in the bar with beer and vodka and an audience rather than in here getting beaten up, but I guess that's your decision. Come and see me when the swelling's gone down." He turned and walked towards the door with his heart in his mouth. He had gambled that this would be the most bloodless way out of the situation, but if the gamble lost, his ears were primed for the thud of fist on flesh, his body tensed to whirl and fling himself on the adversary, to inflict whatever damage might be required to minimise damage to his friend. With actorly timing, Brian left it to the last possible second. "Wai' !" he commanded as Steve opened the door. Perhaps a latent sense of self-preservation had finally kicked in. Or maybe it was theatrical instinct: maybe, faced with the threatened loss of half an audience, he settled for the option that would not only make him the focus of proceedings but--unlike passively getting his head kicked in--would allow him to deliver a performance in the process. He paused until he knew he had their undivided attention before announcing grandly, "I will apodgolise." There was a longer pause. This time Steve wasn't sure whether it was dramatic timing or Brian had just forgotten what the hell he was talking about. Eventually he seemed to gather whatever passed for his thoughts. He looked down into the face at the other end of the arm pinning him to the wall. "Dave," he intoned. "O Dave. I am sorry. I am ve'y ve'y ve'y ve'y sorry. I shouldn't not have said what I done. Did. It was a drefful drefful thing. You are a priss among men. My swee' priss. Can you forgive me?" His voice rose to a rhetorical wail. "O Dave! Can you ever forgive me?" "I think that'll do," interrupted Steve hastily. As a performance it broached uncharted territories of ham, and not even the most generous theatre critic could have taken it seriously. Luckily Dave wasn't a critic. Or perhaps he felt that in forcing even the least sincere of apologies he had emerged as the winner. Or perhaps he simply wanted a graceful way out of an untidy situation, and tacit agreement among the three of them to pretend he had won permitted this. "Yes. Well." Brian was lowered to ground-level, where he promptly folded into a cheerful heap on the floor, smiling at the urinals. Dave brushed himself down as if he'd been involved in actual violence. "You'd better not try anything like that again," he warned with ritual menace. Steve and Dave eyed each other awkwardly. Some further gesture of closure seemed needed. "It's just his way," said Steve. It passed for his own apology. "You're better off without friends like that, mate," Dave replied. It passed for acknowledgement, and, perhaps, a compliment. Dave turned and stalked out of the room. "Barssid," mumbled Brian as the door closed. He laughed. Steve exploded. "YOU BLOODY STUPID IDIOT MORON HALFWIT!" "Wha?" "YOU GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD CRETIN RETARD!" Steve recalled an incident a few months ago when Emily had run out into a road full of traffic. The only thing that had differed was the language. He grabbed Brian by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. "Why do you do it, eh? Why do you go round looking for thugs that you can goad into beating you up? Is it some sort of perverted kink with you? Or are you so desperate for attention you'd rather be thrashed than ignored?" "Are you mad at me, Steve? Don' be mad at me. You're my frien'. My frien's shoun't be mad at me." "You arrogant little fuckwit, how dare you tell me what friends should and shouldn't do? After all the times Stef and I have put our arses on the line, pulling you out of the messes you get yourself into. It's because I'm, God help me, your friend that I've got the RIGHT to be mad at you. And right now, by Christ, I am." He gave Brian a little shake and pushed him away, before stalking off on a quick circuit of the room to vent some energy. By the the time he returned to his original spot Brian seemed more subdued, eyeing him uncertainly. "Listen," said Steve more calmly, "Stef and I have both taken risks for you. I just grovelled to that lunkhead for you. And we'll keep doing it. But sometimes you make me wonder if you even care about what happens to us, much less yourself. I just wish I knew why you keeping sticking pins in people to hear them yell. I wish I knew what I'm risking my arse for." Brian looked deflated. He hung his head. "I know, Steve. I'm sorry." "Sorry like you were with Dave?" "No. I really am sorry. An' not jus' cause I'm drunk. I know I put you on the spot." "Then why do you keep doing it?" Brian gazed into space. "Have to." "Why?" "Because. Because if they don' take any notice of me...I'm not real. S'like I'm not there." "Bloody hell, Brian. You're saying you've got no existence outside what other people think about you?" "I have to make things happen. Make a diff'ence. Hunnerd years from now all be dead anyway. Maybe no-one'll 'member me. But NOW I can make people say, 'Tha' Brian, what a tyke'. Or 'What a genius'. Don' much care which. S'long as I matter. An' maybe they will 'member me arffer all." "You need to learn about a little thing called self-sufficiency. Cogito ergo sum and all that". Steve shook his head. "Which is probably far too much for you to be contemplating in your present state. Come on." He put his arm around Brian's shoulders and steered him towards the door. "Let's get you home." But Brian hadn't finished. "S'you too". "What's me too?" "You'n Stef. Specially you. Because you come. When I'm in trouble. It means I matter, see? Because you care." "Yes, yes, hearts and flowers, very nice. Now let's get you home before you throw up on your shoes, or more to the point, mine." "S'like power." "Power? You're saying you've got power over me? To make me come running to your rescue every time? Is that what my friendship means to you?" "Nonononono. S'not like that. But s'long as I know you'll come, I'm not nothing. I need you, see? 'Thout you I'm nothing. So you've got power too". "If you say so." "I do say so. You don' HAVE to save me. But you alwaz do." Maybe Brian was right, thought Steve as he flagged down a taxi and bundled his bandmate into it. Maybe they did have a kind of power over each other. A bond of mutual need. Maybe he required someone in his life who was weak enough to depend on him, yet strong enough to command his respect. Weak enough to need looking after; strong enough--smart enough and brave enough--to be worth the effort. Ah, the joys of co-dependency. And he knew, as the taxi slid through the late night London streets on this oh-so-familar errand, that he would play this role many times again, as often as it was required of him. Just as he'd played it many times before. ********************************************************************** Nice, 1865 Men came and went, but Etienne was the constant. The callers were not clients nor customers, but Marie's "gentlemen". She was very specific about that. She was a courtesan, not a whore, and emphatic about the distinction, possibly because of a small doubt about its validity. She was not paid, but received gifts--nothing so vulgar as cash, though whether she would have refused if it had been offered was open to some doubt. Etienne made no judgement on all this, ofcourse. Etienne never judged Marie. He watched, accepted, and adored, unconditionally. A gentleman lasted a few months as a rule, spending scattered days and nights at the elegant little apartment or taking Marie out on the town in the evenings, but only Etienne got to live with her all the time. She'd lavish her full attention on a gentleman, laying before him the cornucopia of her charms and graces, at least in the early days before he grew boring or ran out of money. But after he was gone it was Etienne she'd come to laughing, telling him how this latest one had almost convinced himself that he wanted to leave his wife when in fact the thought terrified him, or how easy it was with a little flattery to make this pompous windbag forget that his boss walked all over him. Or after a squabble--and Marie's temper being what it was, there were frequent squabbles--it was Etienne who listened impassively to her screaming invectives and hurling the cushions about after the hapless visitor had fled. And after one of her solitary drinking sessions, when she'd throw her arms around his neck and cry into his coat, it was Etienne who would comfort her by licking her face. Sometimes then she'd fall asleep on the floor next to him, and he'd stand guard over her, thumping his tail gently against the rug because it felt good to know that she needed him. She was beautiful, but he was unaware of it. Her breakable bird-bones and translucent skin, her aquamarine eyes that entreated "take me" and "don't hurt me" by turns, had nothing to do with his love for her. It wasn't even about her fine uncontrolled spirit with its defensively vicious streak, or her desperation to seize everything life had to offer in case it turned out to contain the one thing she was really looking for. Quite simply, she was the one fate had selected for him to love with all the singleness of purpose in his doggy heart. Now and forever. Perhaps it was platonic love in the true sense--two halves of a soul reunited, though in different bodies. Or perhaps the laws of karma decreed that in order for them to learn in this present series of lives, she needed to be protected from herself, he to protect. And so they were destined for each other. She was the focus of his world; he was the anchor in hers. He would have given his last breath to serve her. But, ofcourse, he was only a dog, and Marie wanted something more. She found it in Baptiste, or thought she did. Baptiste didn't serve; he expected to be served. He was full of what Marie believed to be fiery passion. There was a simmering tension between them that often boiled over into shouting and threats, or intense sweaty bedroom sessions. "You make me want to break you," Baptiste often said to Marie with a menacing laugh that might have made it a joke. "When you're being an impertinent strumpet it makes me want to teach you a lesson. You're all pride and steel and impudence, and what's a man to do with that if he's a man, except show it who's master? And then you go all tearful and vulnerable. Have you ever held a blown eggshell in your hand? It's so damnably fragile that it begs you to break it just because you can. You're like that, begging to be either conquered or smashed." And it was true that Marie was strength wrapped in fragility cased in strength. Layer upon layer, contradiction upon contradiction. "But we both know it's just more of your games," said Baptiste. "You like to have a man to master you, and you have your little tricks to entice him to do it. You enjoy it really." Marie seemed to agree. Sometimes after Baptiste had left the apartment, and Marie had finished crying herself out, she would sit on the floor surrounded by the pool of her long skirts and try to analyse herself aloud while Etienne listened. "I know what you're going to tell me, Etienne--I shouldn't always go seeking out the big bullies and goading them into a reaction. Encouraging them to hurt me in all the ways they can. But you see, it's so easy to be mistress of most men...twist them around your little finger, get what you want out of them, laugh in their faces if you feel like it and watch them cry. At first it makes you feel strong; then you realise that all it means is you're surrounded by people who are weaker than you are, and there's no-one to protect you or take charge of you. You've dragged yourself up from nowhere, made it to the top against all the odds, and you look around one day and realise there's nowhere to go but down and no-one to catch you when you fall. It makes you frightened, Etienne. So you find someone who's strong--stronger than you--and you keep poking him until he shows you just how strong he is. Makes you respect him. I need boundaries, Etienne, and I need someone to set them for me, because I can't seem to do it for myself... Sometimes I have this daydream that there could be somebody who'd do that just because they cared about me and wanted to look after me, not in order to have power over me or take me down a peg. Someone kind and loyal, as well as strong. But when did God ever make the man that had so many virtues? Only dogs are like that. What if you were a man, Etienne? Would you keep me safe and make me be sensible? Or would you roll over and grin foolishly when I tickled your tummy, just like all my gentlemen? Hmm?...alright, let me scratch behind your ears, then..." And he would put his nose in the place between her neck and her shoulder for a long moment, by way of comfort, because he was only a dog and he had no words to give her. For all that, Etienne had never seen Baptiste actually hit Marie. There was that smouldering tension between them that was part sexuality, as well as part rage (not only his), part fear (perhaps not only hers). There were noises that came from the bedroom, where Etienne wasn't allowed, that didn't sound quite like the sounds that were made when her other gentlemen were visiting her in there. There were quarrels, shouting, things thrown. There were many tears after he'd left. But there were no blows. Until. "I heard a rumour about you today," said Baptiste, who had been drinking. "Only one?" asked Marie carelessly. "There have been so many". "I heard," said Baptiste, "that you haven't always limited your...affections to the male sex". "No?" said Marie. "And what did you think of this rumour, my Baptiste? Would you like it to be true?" She gave him a sly sideways smile. Baptiste's face, which had been carefully neutral, darkened like a thundercloud. "Like it to be true? Would I like it to be true that my mistress has been a harlot with other harlots? A filthy pervert? Tell me, Marie, if I ought to like it." Marie faltered. "I thought...some men do like such things, Baptiste. A lot of men find the thought...enticing". The thundercloud boiled. A storm was on the way. "A lot of men would cut off their own pricks to please a woman," he growled. "A lot of men are such simpering eunuchs that they get excited at the thought of bedroom games in which they couldn't possibly participate, because it relieves them of the burden of having to perform--mentally, physically and emotionally. Men who are so scared to be MEN that the women who please them most are ones who couldn't possibly need them in any way. Ugly dowdy bluestockings, strongminded virulent bitches who'd castrate the entire male sex in one go, body, mind and spirit, if they could. Sapphists!" He came nearer and seized her wrist, bringing his face close to hers. "So now, tell me, Marie. IS it true? Are you one of those sluts that mock men in their beds?" She hesitated only a moment. Softness and aquiescence had always been, in her, reserved for moments of real emotional tenderness, not for manipulation or the averting of danger; whatever else she might be she was honest in that. Confronted and challenged, she knew no course except defiance. "I've never limited myself to the pleasures of only one sex," she pronounced, looking him in the eye. "I believe in keeping my options open, and if you can't live with that it's your misfortune." "It'll be yours if you don't show me some respect. Am I an option to be rejected or replaced according to a slut's whim?" he asked with something like desperation. "Or am I a proper man with a man's faculties who expects to be treated as such--whatever unnatural excuse for your sex YOU may happen to be." The sting of that showed in the anger that flared in her eyes, then settled into a cruel, knowing smile. "You put a lot of stock in your male powers, don't you, Baptiste...and aren't you terrified of them being taken away? Well, I'd be frightened too if all the power I had was fitted into six, or is it five inches--expendable, too--" The storm broke, knocking her halfway across the room. He came at her again, face and fingers working in frantic rage; his hands were tangled in her hair, bending her as if to break her, dragging her down. During the six months that Baptiste had been coming, off and on, to the apartment, he and Etienne had developed a compact of muted mutual hostility. Without fully understanding the emotional mechanics of the lovers' relationship, Etienne sensed that it disturbed yet was somehow desired by Marie, and was therefore to be resented but tolerated. He offered Baptiste like for like--as long as the man was passingly civil to Marie, Etienne merely ignored him, while any implication of physical menace to her met a warning from bared teeth and raised hackles. Baptiste's reponse fluctuated between utter indifference to the dog, as though Etienne were merely a fitting in the apartment, and scowling epithets of "filthy shit-coloured mongrel" and "smelly old rolled-up carpet on legs". On boths sides, however, threats had remained only that. The balance had now been tilted. Justification had been given for the pent-up resentment to spill over into an opposite but not necessarily equal reaction. A solid brown canine body was launched across the room, jaws seeking almost randomly for a mouthful of flesh. It was perhaps more blind bad luck than design that the mouthful in question should happen to located squarely between Baptiste's legs. Or perhaps, considering the root causes of the preceding quarrel, it was the gods' idea of irony. Probably such distinctions made little difference to Baptiste, whose scream was piercing enough to startle Etienne into loosening his grip. But already the first shriek of pain and shock had turned to a furious roar as the man lurched backwards to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and brought it up over his head and down again in a swift deadly arc connecting neatly with the dog's skull. Very likely his actions were more instinctive than deliberately murderous, as uncalculated as Etienne's and as disastrous in their results; let's give the benefit of the doubt all round. It happened so fast. One moment Etienne was caught up in a whirl of rage and action; the next moment was black and void. Then the blackness faded to grey fog, through which the room seeped back into view, but strangely distant and unreal. He couldn't quite understand what had happened, and so was unable to select an emotion other than confusion and a little fear at being confused. Then through the haze in his throbbing brain he remembered that Marie was somewhere nearby, and equally, danger. It appeared that he was badly hurt; that being so, what peril might not she be in? and what was his function but to protect her from it? So then, he must get to her...and after he'd done his duty as her defender, she would somehow take away this ache and confusion and make everything alright again. But for some reason his legs didn't seem to be working properly; he fell, whimpered, and crawled blindly in search of her like a day-old puppy looking for its mother. Screams and bellows somewhere above him hurt his ears. Sounds and images swam milkily into his brain, registering no sense: Baptiste in hazy focus, stalking bow-legged from the room, clutching his wounded crotch; the noise of a door slamming, followed by the shattering of china and thud of metal against wood. And then. Marie's arms around him, lifting his head into the velvet cocoon between her lap and her bosom. Her broken sobbing disturbed him: was she hurt? He managed to raise his head a little...so heavy...and lick her face. It tasted of salt, and wetness. Why wouldn't his body obey him? He should be leaping to his feet, looking around for danger. The man might return; Marie might be injured. But it was so soft in this velvet nest; he was soothed by the rocking motion of her body as she held him tightly, so tightly, and moaned his name over and over... "Don't go, Etienne, don't leave me. You're the only one that's stayed with me all through, don't you go as well. You've got to stay and look after me, I can't do it myself, I'm too flighty, everybody says so. Etienne? You can't leave me, Etienne, it's not fair! Etienne? Etienne!..." How strange that she should think he wanted to leave her. And yet how strange that implacable hands seemed to be drawing him away from her, deeper and deeper into darkness, however he might struggle to hold fast to that last diminishing speck of light. Yet even as the speck vanished he had no sense of utter and irrevocable separation. He felt the waves of time and distance rush between them, the tide drawing the ship from its harbour; he felt too the cord of communion that linked them, uncoiling and stretching over the growing distance, but not snapped. Never that. In the last fading seconds before whatever followed, he understood and wished--too late as always--that he could explain to her how the cord would be (had been) rolled and unrolled many times, drawing them close together, flinging them wide apart, as lives began and unfolded and ended, but connecting them eternally. There was no need to grieve broken-heartedly over a separation destined to be only temporary, as inevitable as the reunions that preceded and would follow it. They wouldn't know each other, or remember, the next time they met. They'd wear different forms, go under different names. Only the souls would remain unchanged, except for whatever lessons they'd managed to learn from the past--lessons perhaps to be forgotten and relearned, over and over, until they got it right. And always each would be part of the other's learning. But what way was there for her to know this at the moment of parting? To her there was only the present, no memory or expectation of seeing him in other times and places, and consequently no comfort, only black grief. "Don't go, Etienne! I need you..." ********************************************************************** London, 2001 "Need to know you're gonna be there," said Brian as Steve took his key off him and let them into the flat. "You're my s'curity, see? The on'y thing thass certain." "I'll decide tomorrow whether to be honoured or resent the fact that you take me for granted. Do you have any paracetamol in the bathroom? I'll leave it by your bed for tomorrow morning. Though really I ought to let you suffer for your sins." When he'd found the pills he sat Brian on the bed and started unlacing his Doc Martens. "What I don't understand is why you just keep getting into trouble over and over and never seem to learn from the past. Is it because you're so certain you can depend on us to bail you out? Would it be better if we just left those thugs to pound some sense into you so you'd finally grow up? Maybe that's the lesson I need to learn--to let you stand on your own two feet." Brian shook his head. "Woun't make any diff'ence. Alwaz been the same. Alwaz got beat up at school for having a big mouth. Din't have anyone to bail me out then--still din't change anything." "Why not? Why can't you learn?" "Can't change who you are." "Maybe not, but you can change the way you behave. There are other ways of making people take notice of you; God knows you've tried enough of them." "S'not that easy. I don't know, Steve. I'm tired. My head hurts." "No more than you deserve. Hangover is nature's karma. Alright, lie down and I'll tuck you in." Brian snuggled into the pillows. "You alwaz look after me." "Well, you're a hard habit to break; I've been taking care of you for so long there doesn't seem much point in stopping now." "G'night, Steve. Thankyou." "Goodnight, you infuriating little bollocks," said Steve gently. "And you're welcome." He let himself out of the flat, wondering about the cycle of behaviour in which they both seemed caught. Was it as inevitable as Brian seemed to think, or was it possible to break it with an intellectual effort, rather than just succumbing to nature's impetus? If Brian refused to change, should he, Steve, be the one to break the cycle and perhaps ultimately save them both a lot of heartache? The streetlamps threw regularly-spaced pools of light on the footpath; between them lay brief intervals of darkness to be crossed. He paused in one of the bright spaces to think. Suppose he were to try tough love, leave Brian to the consequences of his own actions. It was possible that it might teach him a little tact and discretion. Teach him to avoid getting himself into these predicaments. Teach him to save both his reputation and his butt from a mauling without depending on outside help. Teach him not to need Steve so much. I must put aside sentiment and self-interest, Steve told himself. I must take the broad view on this; I must think of what would really be best for him in the long term. Don't they say that the best way to help someone is to make them help themselves? He stepped into the dark. Alternatively, Brian might just end up getting his butt kicked into next week. Steve remembered his insistence that it was impossible for him to change, that the absence of a champion made no difference to his reckless propensities. Whereas, Steve thought, it was just possible that the reassuring certainty of at least one loyal friend might, over time, assuage the insecurities that drove him to call hostile attention to himself. That Steve's solid presence might be not only a physical buffer against disaster in the short term, but a bulwark imparting some of its own strength to Brian's precarious psyche until he grew the confidence to stand alone. Steve tried to imagine a secure Brian turning serenely away from confrontation. No longer needing the constant affirmation of reaction. This was going to be a long term job. He crossed the dark divide, entered another pool of brightness, and strode on towards the next. Moving on from one bright space to another and another and another, all the long way towards home. Fuck tough love. He'd made his choice long ago. And it wasn't to abandon his friend in his hour of need. It wasn't to betray his trust. It wasn't to stand by and watch any harm come to Brian while he could do something about it. Steve Hewett didn't do that. Not in this lifetime. end Home |