Archive of Our Own ^beta

Prologue

From his place on the lounger he can see Rob, teasing Mark in the pool. Markie is gasping for air, giggling wildly, splashing water around. A little turn to the right and there’s Gaz, turning the meat on the barbecue, sipping on his Bacardi-coke, laughing about something Jason has said. A little turn to the left and there’s the birthday boy, by the pool, a towel around his hips, his hair dark from dampness, his blue eyes sparkling, smiling at him. The sight takes Howard’s breath away and sends a wonderful shiver of sweet sensation down his spine. Jason tilts his head slightly and looks at him questioningly, while his quiet smile broadens. One day, Howard feels, no he knows, he will remember this very moment. And all will be well.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

All the way down to Altrincham Mark wonders what might have happened. The last time he saw Howard he seemed to be okay. But maybe that was just wishful thinking. If anyone knows that Howard’s life will never be the same again and that he surely couldn’t be ‘all right’ by now, it was Mark. Still Mark’s not sure he knows what to do. Jason has always done this, taken care of Howard, he was the expert. Jason. Mark chokes.

 

 

Ashton-under-Lyne, October 1999

 

Howard wakes up in his bed, a cool cloth on his forehead, the sheets neatly tucked around his naked body. He tries to sit up and look around (where is he?) and regrets it the very same moment. His head rattles and hums, a dozen freight trains running through it, and every little move hurts madly. At least now he knows he’s home, so far so good. He tries to remember last night and fails. Blurry pictures of a club, and a girl in his car, and another girl here in his house, but these could very well be the club and the girls from the night before last night, or a random night last week, or last month. The club is always the same. And the girls mostly look the same. He has a tendency to call them all Lindsey, but no idea why. The Lindseys don’t seem to mind much, though. (As long as he pays for their drinks why should they?) But there’s no Lindsey in his bed this morning. Either she has already left or he was so pissed he didn’t manage to get her out here. Howard slumps back on his pillow, hoping the pain will stop, and soon falls asleep again.

 

Meanwhile Lindsey, real name Fiona, sits in Howard’s kitchen, sobbing into her breakfast. The breakfast Howard’s pleasant friend has prepared for her after he helped her get her clothes together. He’s also been nice enough to crawl under the sofa to draw out her left pumps. And right now he’s listening to her remorseful “how do I explain to my boyfriend and I swear I’ve never done anything like this before”-drivel as if he’d never heard something like this before. Of course she doesn’t eat any of the carefully prepared breakfast (they never do), but that’s not the point. The point is that preparing breakfast for someone he found in a state like this in Howard’s lounge soothes Jason. And he needs to calm down after driving Howard’s car out of his neighbour’s front yard into the garage. (No, Mrs Johnson, I’m sure he wasn’t drunk, he’d never drive drunk. Maybe something was wrong with the brakes? Of course he’ll fix your flowers…) He needs to calm down after realizing that Lindsey-Fiona is only seventeen (No, Fiona, I won’t tell your parents. – No, don't worry, love, Howard won’t either…) He needs to calm down after sorting all of last night’s detritus without finding one or several used condoms. (As far as you remember, Fiona, did you and Howard have sex? Please concentrate, sugar, this is important…) Can he be blamed for needing to calm down before explaining to Lindsey-Fiona the benefits of the morning-after pill and HIV-tests?

 

When Howard wakes up again he notices that a) the pain has eased a little, b) the house seems to be more quiet than last time he was awake, and c) Jason is sitting by the window, reading a book. Three things he generally likes a lot, with c) being his favourite. The small smile on his face dies down when he hears Jason say “We need to talk, How.” It’s not what Jason says, but how. There’s something in his voice, something Howard’s never heard before. This, Howard guesses, is the voice and tone he uses in his job.

“I’m not one of your offenders, Jay.”

“I know. Most of them behave more maturely.”

Howard feels the pain creep back into his head. If there’s one thing he hates about Jason, it’s his self-righteousness. What the fuck gives him the right to judge?

“Nowt wrong with a night out.”

Jason feels anger rising up inside of him (silly stupid Howard!), but he suppresses it. They seriously need to talk. “The girl was seventeen.”

“No, she wasn’t!” Howard snaps.

“Yes, she was.” With effort, Jason is keeping cool. He’s got five brothers, he’ll sure as hell win the “yes, she was – no, she wasn’t”-game.

“She said she was eighteen!” Howard knows the argument is silly, but why oh why must Jay always be right?

“Of course she did.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

A part of Jason would love to. “Did you use a condom?”

“What?!”

“Did. You. Use. A. Condom?”

“None of your business.”

“Sure. Not my unwanted children. Not my HIV-infection.” Jason’s eyes are cold and ice-blue.

Howard cringes, he hates what he’s become lately. But why does Jason come around here every day, tidying up and lecturing him? Why can’t he just fucking stay away and let him suffer alone, indulging in his self-pity?

“You don’t know what it’s like, losing everything that’s important! Why don’t you just shut the fuck up!?! Just go! Leave me alone!”

 

In his head Jason’s demons are fighting a gruelling battle. Demons vs. Jason. There’s a small but ferocious black one, 11-year-old-Jason, learning that Mums are able to hold back their tears when they tell their sons that Daddy will leave them. There’s an ugly green demon, the one that tells him “you’ll never have anything like this” at weddings and christenings. There’s a larger-than-life red one, a spitting image of Howard in a devil’s costume, the one that’s playing with his heart. And there’s a small, but very quick purple one, the one that constantly reminds him to fear life. Be afraid, it hisses through its gritted yellow teeth, be very afraid. Jason fights, he fights against loss, and envy, and the constant feeling of inferiority, and rejection, and general fear. But these are only feelings, he knows, I produce them myself, in my head. My thoughts. I can change them if only I want to. I don’t have to let them win. This is not about me. This is about Howard. Howard, who needs help. The demons admit defeat. They always lose when it comes to Howard.

 

“No, I won’t.” If Howard should guess just how much it takes Jason to say this, to still be there, to not burst out crying – he’d take him in his arms and hold him until all was well. But Howard is hungover, and still high on something, and generally fucked-up, and too busy with himself.

“What the fuck do you want from me!?”

“Nothing.” Jason sighs. “I just don’t know how long I can stand coming around here every morning dreading to find you suffocated in your own vomit.”

Silence. Because Howard knows this is not just Jason doing the shock-therapy-strategy. He knows Jason really means it, he can see the worry in his eyes, the pain, the helplessness. And something else, something Howard fails to detect properly.

“I’ve screwed up and lost everything. Everything.” Another pang in Jason’s heart. (I’m still here, silly fool, am I not? I am here! Doesn’t count, though, does it?) Before the red demon in his head is able to grow any bigger, Jason answers.

“And this is how you want to get it back?”

“Huh?”

“You want to get it back, don’t you?”

An uncertain groan, vaguely uttering “mmmhyeahiguess”, but Jason knows he’s got him, Howard’s got that thoughtful expression on his face that means he might perhaps eventually think Jason could possibly maybe have a point here.

Jason also knows Howard’s too proud to ever admit that. He won’t make him have to.

But if I've done my job they won't want to mess with you.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

She’s tall and brunette and her boobs are perfect. Mark is not astonished. Howard might be an Old Age Pensioner, but he’s still a handsome man and he can still pull the stunners.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, I really don’t know what to do anymore!” she bleats excitedly, throwing back her long hair in an overtly dramatic way. Mark pats her arm and asks “What’s he doing?”

“Nothing! Ab-so-lute-ly nothing! He just sits and stares!” Her eyes widen. “And he’s not talking!” Mark bites his lip.

“What happened?”

“I don’t really know!” She shrugs her shoulders and does some silly jazz hands thing. Wannabe-actress, Mark assumes. She sighs. “His lawyer called and he went to see him and ever since he’s returned he’s sitting there.” She points over to the lounge. Mark can see the back of Howard’s head from where he’s standing. What could’ve possibly happened that left Howard in a state like this? And why did Jonathan call him in – he usually comes around here, doesn’t he?

“Why didn’t you call Jonathan first?”

“Who?” She looks very confused now.

“Jonathan. His lawyer.” Mark speaks slowly, accentuating every word.

“I know who Jonathan is.” She pouts and throws her head back in an I’m-not-daft-manner that doesn’t do her any favours.

“Well, then, why didn’t you call him?”

“What’s he’s got to do with it?”

“He is his lawyer”, Mark is slowly losing patience. “He’d know what happened.” They are not talking low, but Howard doesn’t move, not once.

She looks thoughtful now. “Oh, do you think his lawyer called Jonathan? Do they do that? Lawyers, I mean? Do they call each other?” It’s hard to say which one of them looks more confused now. Mark tries to think straight. Two lawyers?

“What do you mean ‘his lawyer’?”

“Well, his lawyer, you know?” She nods at him, her eyes open wide. “I didn’t even know dead people still could have lawyers. I mean, how do they pay them?” Mark feels bad, but his desire to smack her is huge. Holy shit, he thinks, I hope she’s good in bed!

“Jason. His name is Jason.” Mark begins to understand. Howard went to see Jay’s lawyer and hasn’t spoken since.

“His name was Jason”, she says firmly and a little bit proud of herself. Past tense for dead people – so much she knows. Mark wants to throttle her. Desperately.

“I’ll take care of him. Why don’t you go…shopping, or something?” He manages a smile, one that says “go shopping or I’ll kill you”. Surprisingly she understands. Or maybe she wanted to go shopping anyway.

“Okay. Bye.”

Mark doubts she can be that good in bed.

 

 

 

Manchester, May 2000

 

Howard knows it’s gutless, but he can’t think of another way to work this. The simple thought of telling Jason what he needs to tell him makes him squirm. He can’t possibly be alone with him when he tells him, because then Jason will look at him in a way that Howard can’t stand. Instead he asks Vicky to invite that model-girlfriend of hers, Laura. She’s pretty, and single, and who knows, maybe she can distract Jason. Maybe all he needs is a right proper girlfriend. Vicky loves the idea. “They’d be a perfect couple, sweetie – she’s ambitious and sporty and exactingly…”

“Does she eat healthily?”

“Howard, she’s a model – she doesn’t eat…”

“Oh, all right…”

So Laura accompanies them that night. Vicky’s given her instructions, the short-guide of how to handle this slightly bonkers, but very pretty friend of Howard, and Laura is determined.

Howard is nervous.

Jason is pissed off. The moment he enters the restaurant he realizes what’s going on, realizes they’re trying to set him up again. Seriously, when he told Howard to get his life sorted a couple of months earlier, he had thought about him drinking less and stop doing drugs. Howard’s choice, however, was to settle down with a girlfriend. Vicky. On-and-off girlfriend since 1989. It’s not that Jason doesn’t like Vicky, she’s nice enough. But he knows that Howard doesn’t really love her and only uses her to bring stability back into his life. He’s done that ever since 1989. Jason stopped counting just how often Howard has cheated on her, or the amount of split-ups and getting-back-togethers they’ve been through. And apart from the drama she’s able to create, she also has the very annoying habit of trying to set up everyone with everyone. And Jason is one of her favourite subjects. Ever since 1989. Jason’s sure he’s been introduced to every single female person Vicky has ever met. And so with Vicky back in Howard’s life, the “Jason-this-is-everchangingname” is back in Jason’s life. Not that he missed it.

The thing he’s pissed about, though, is that Howard didn’t at least warn him. He knows how much Jason hates this. And, by God, in 11 years it hasn’t worked once, so why can’t he just stop this sad attempt of setting him up with someone just so he won’t feel guilty for having a girlfriend? It might help, Jason muses, if they talked about this properly. Which they never do. And so Jason gets introduced to Laura, ambitious, sporty, always-hungry-but-never-eating Laura.

 

If Jason thinks this is the worst to come that night, he’s wrong, though. Howard is edgy and nervous and Vicky is giggly and beaming and Jason is beginning to suspect why. And, yes, they drop the bombshell after the starters.

“Erm, we, uhm…” Howard fumbles around with his hors d’oeuvre knife. “Vicky and I, uhmm, we….” Jason’s hands get sweaty.

Vicky is so excited she chips in. “We’re going to have a baby!”

Laura squeals excitedly, slightly jumping on her chair. “Oooh, Vicks! That is BRILLIANT!”

Howard smiles sheepishly. Vicky and Laura talk a lot in high-pitched voices, and Jason doesn’t understand any of it. He’s prepared himself for an engagement or wedding announcement, he sure wasn’t ready for a…a baby? (Oh my God. They’re going to have a baby...) Howard’s avoiding Jason’s glare for what seems an endless while until Jason forces himself to smile and end the silence between them. “Congrats, mate…that’s…wonderful.”

“Thanks, Jay. It’s…” Howard feels like he has to throw up every minute. (Christ, I’m not the one who’s pregnant!)

“Exciting?” Jason’s head hurts from emptiness. He’s almost sure someone’s made off with his brain.

“Unexpected.” Howard corrects, as if mentioning the accidental character of this conception would make it any easier for Jason.

“Ah.” Jason manages. He wishes the someone who took his brain had taken his heart as well. Because that hollow, empty, vacant feeling in his head is horrible, but not even half as bad as the pain in his heart. The waiter serves the main course. But for various reasons none of them really eats.

 

That night Jason takes Laura home and fucks her angrily. Laura misunderstands. Completely. A misunderstanding that months later will lead to disaster. That night he’s not himself, but the heartbroken, hurting, angry, dead lonely shadow of himself Howard and he have created by repressing their feelings. Unfortunately Laura falls in love with this monster and keeps on searching but never finding it in the gentle, sensitive, fickle, self-conscious Jason he returns to after fixing himself.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

The lounge is dark and stuffy from smoke, but there’s no mess. Looks as if what’s-her-name does look after him after all. Howard sits, strangely slumped on the sofa, but his head up high. He looks as if he hasn’t moved in ages. He’s in tracksuit bottoms, a shirt that’s clearly not seen a washing machine lately and he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, but then again that’s not a too unfamiliar look with him.

His eyes are red, the piercing blue seems washed out. Light blue on red. Mark dares and flops down beside him.

“Hey, mate.” Howard doesn’t move. Mark knows this might take some time. Some things just take their time.

 

 

 

Manchester, March 1989

 

“He’s pretty, eh? Didn’t know you liked the hims more than the hers!”

“I don’t!” Greg laughs in that ugly, loud, annoying way that calls him a liar. “Fuck, you know I don’t!” A bit louder than necessary, maybe.

“Do I? Really?”

“I’m not gay!” Howard’s voice cracks a little. (Fuck.)

“Sure, mate, not.” Greg’s still giggling. “Shame, though, think he fancies the pants off of you.” Another dirty laugh. Howard blushes. (Shit, really?) He’d love to ask Greg why he thinks that, like a fourteen year old girl asks all her BFs if the object of her affection reacted to something. Or not. And how. But Greg’s only taking the piss. Right? (Shit.)

 

 

 

Two weeks later he dares.

“Erm, hi?”

Jason looks up from sorting stuff in his bag. Big blue eyes surrounded by the longest lashes Howard has ever seen (on a lad).

“Hi!” A drop of sweat runs down Jason’s temple. Howard suppresses the urge to wipe it off him.

“Hi, I’m Howard….I….” He runs out of words, too distracted by the eyelashes. He can’t remember having been distracted like that by some flipping lashes ever. He needn’t have worried. Mum Orange taught her secondborn a lot, and courtesy was up high on her educational agenda.

“Hello Howard, I’m Jason!” There’s only the two of them in this corridor between the restrooms and the dancefloor, but Jason still makes sure Howard knows who he’s talking about by pointing a finger at himself. (It doesn’t mean that Jason thinks Howard’s daft or anything. It’s more to remind himself of his own existence. Jason always knows who everyone else is, he’s just not too sure about who he is. And if he is at all.) The finger, Howard notices, belongs to a large hand, a hand the size of his own, but unlike his, with long and slender fingers, elegant and sophisticated. (Can fingers be sophisticated?)

“Hi Jason, I’m Howard.” (Did he really just say that again? Like really? Fuck, Donald, you’re not a bloody parrot! Do parrots get distracted by eyelashes and fingers?) He would smack himself if that wouldn’t make him look even dafter. But Jason, nice and suave and friendly and no evil bone in his body, has either not noticed or does not care.

“I’ve seen you dancing with your crew, you were great!” Jason’s finished his packing and gets up. Howard’s never quite noticed he’s that tall; they are the same height and eye to eye now. Which means the big blue eyes and the surrounding lashes are even closer now to bother him. And another drop of sweat, nastily dripping off Jason’s nose, is closer to his eyes now, too.

“Oh, erm, thank you, very kind – we’re not as good as you…” Howard can’t help but stare at the drop of sweat. (Holy shit.) The long, slender fingers of Jason’s right hand wipe it away. (Holy fucking shit!)

“Cheers, mate! I’m sorry, I’d give you a hand, you know, but I’m all sweaty, sorry!” Yes, Mum Orange’s done one hell of a job. “But you’ve no need to be that humble – I’ve seen you do the backflip, bloody hell! I wish I could do that!” Pointing at himself again. (Another reminder he exists. Do you exist when you can’t do a backflip? A question worth thinking about.) “And your body popping…,” he’s very close and right in front of Howard and he copies his body popping and his shirt is very tight and a little wet and he’s still body popping and Howard is very close to saying “Hi, I’m Howard.”

Fortunately he doesn’t. Fortunately Jason stops body popping. Fortunately he backs away a little.

“…your body popping is just awesome! Bloody hell!”

Howard bites his lip and tries to get his act together. (He watched me dancing. He fucking watched me dancing!) He takes a deep breath. “Erm, uhm, what d’you say, shall we ‘ave a drink, uhm, together?” He vaguely gestures towards the bar. Jason beams at him and now Howard seriously can’t decide what’s worse: the body popping or the smiling? All he can see are glistening big blue eyes, surrounded by those effin’ long lashes, who are now additionally accompanied by two rows of perfect white teeth. Suddenly he knows exactly where the expression “someone is all smiles” comes from. The corridor seems to light up while Howard’s heart seems to have grown wings. Like a frantic bird it flutters and waves around in his ribcage. Howard tries to steady his breathing. Then the smile speaks.

“I’m sorry, Howard, I’d love to, but I’ve got to go, you know? Me Mum comes to pick me up, can’t leave her waiting.” For a brief moment Howard doesn’t like Mum Orange very much. Jason looks a little sad, too, but then his face lights up again. “How about making good for that next week? Are you gonna be here again, Howard?” (He’s actually said his name twice in four sentences, is that a good sign?) Howard’s so flattered he forgets to answer.

“Uhmm, Howard?”

“Huh?!”

“Are you gonna be here next Sunday?”

“Uhmmm, yeah, sure. Yeah.”

“Great! We’ll have a drink then? And you show me some of your moves?”

“Yeah. Erm…yeah…”

“Brilliant! See you next week! Gotta hurry, sorry! Bye, Howard!” Jason forgets about his sweaty palms and pats Howard on the shoulder, leaving a damp stain on Howard’s swish new shirt and goose bumps on Howard’s well-trained arms. Then he’s gone. The corridor falls dark again.

“Yeah…bye…” Howard blinks, looking a bit lost. “…Jason.” He tells his heart to stop clattering and rumbling in his breast. A weird thing to do for a man who’s convinced he’s not gay.

 

 

 

A few miles further south, in a small blue 1981 Subaru, Jenny Orange checks on her secondborn on the backseat. He hasn’t spoken since he’s climbed in behind his brother. She’s worried about that, but –adjusting the rear-vision mirror slightly for a better view– she can see there’s no reason to. She’s never worried when he smiles like that.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

“So…. Any chance you tell me what has happened?”

No reaction.

“All right. You don’t have to. I’ll just wait here.”

Still no reaction.

“I’ve got time, y’know? Allll the time in the world.”

Nothing.

“I’ve send your girlfriend – what’s her name? – well, I sent her shopping. All right?”

Nowt.

“She’s pretty. Like her hair. How old is she?”

Nada.

“Okay then. I’ll just sit here and shut up.”

Zilch.

“All right?”

Still nothing.

“Okay, deal it is then.”

A single tear runs slowly down Howard’s left cheek. They’re getting somewhere.

 

 

 

Las Vegas, February 2008

 

By the time Robbie and Mark leave the bar, secretly but not unnoticed, Gary has left the club classics behind and sings a couple of songs none of his little audience have ever heard before. Howard watching him from his place at the bar, knows these are Gary's songs, written a long time ago, and he also knows it means Gary’s really really drunk, because he’d never play them if he was sober. He can hardly remember he ever wrote them while he's sober. Very good, Howard thinks, I’ve got them all relaxed and drunk and a little bit out-of-themselves. Vegas, baby! What happens here, stays here. (Howard loves it when a plan comes together.)

Next to him, Jason listens to Gary (…what do you hear? A million songs just trying to make the love song of the year…) and marvels at the beautiful dark red hue of his wine. The wine he’s had so much of that it’ll make his head hurt madly tomorrow morning. Something he couldn’t care less about right now.

“You know, mate, I wasn’t so sure about this trip, but fucking hell, it’s been brilliant! I’ve never seen Rob happier, what a fucking fantastic moment! I love that you made us do this, really. You’re genius.” Howard loves Jason’s a-little-more-than-slightly-drunk-but-not-completely-pissed ramblings, and the tone his voice has when he utters them. A part of Howard would love to keep Jason in this state of intoxication constantly because in this state sometimes he says things he wouldn’t normally. Things Howard loves to hear. Like once when he said “I love you”, real proper, not mate-like, no, like he meant it. Howard would do a lot to hear him say that again.

“I knew you’d love it once we were here.”

“Oh, did you, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, okay. The things you know.”

“Another thing I know?”

“Yes, please, go on.”

“Those two,” Howard nods into the direction of two stunners, one blonde, one brunette, in the far corner of the bar, “those two over there like us.” He nods knowingly. Jason smirks.

“I’m sure they do, mate, we’re smoking hot.” But still, Jason thinks, we won’t get their services for free.

“And we’re loveable.” Loveable and able to pay, Howard knows.

“Absolutely loveable.” And, Jason muses, I’m drunk enough to not fucking mind that this is wrong on all levels.

“So, what d’ya think…shall we go over and try our luck?” There is, Howard finds, no reason to tell him that they’re not here by chance. Yes, Howard loves it when a plan comes together.

 

Only his plan doesn’t come together. Jason is charming the brunette one into sweet redemption and the blonde one almost sits on Howard’s lap. So far, so good. There’s this old plan, or fantasy, to be more precise, of Vegas, and two girls, and one room, and one Howard and one Jason. And now Howard sees the flaw in the plan, that two girls only divide them, not bring them closer together. It should be Vegas, and one girl, and one room, and one Howard and one Jason. Because, really, this isn’t about girls. So, how to get rid of one of them? The blonde one’s very close and her hand is somewhere it shouldn’t be and he’s only turned on because he’s watching Jason, whispering into the brunette one’s ear, his hand softly caressing her neck. Howard turns away, glances over to the other side of the bar, where Gary is caressing the piano. Gary. Howard grins. Gary likes the blonde ones. Sure he’s dating this woman, Charlotte, but oh well, the lad has only ever shagged three women in all his life. And this is fucking Vegas. He whispers something into the blonde one’s ear. She looks at him, not surprised, more validating, and he nods reassuringly. He’s back on plan.

Jason’s not quite sure what happened to the blonde one, she was mysteriously gone at some point, not that he’s bothered. This, he guesses, he hopes, is not really about girls. He stumbles down the corridor behind Howard, dragging the brunette one along. She’s lovely. No really.

Heather is from Tipton, Iowa, where she is known as Ann-Marie Sheridan. She left Tipton four years ago, right after High School and she hasn't looked back once ever since. Vegas is the best place she’s been to so far, so much more relaxed than L.A., and so much more fun than San Francisco. The guys are more relaxed as well. They come to Vegas with ideas in their head, once in a lifetime fantasies coming true, and they enjoy them to the fullest. She’s not been beaten up once since she’s come to Vegas. And this constellation here, two guys, who obviously are in love with each other, but who can't admit it, is one Heather likes. They don’t really want to fuck her, but she’ll still get paid fully. It’s their version of Brokeback Mountain – they don’t go fishing, they go to Vegas. Only usually the guys don’t look as good as the Brokeback Mountain guys. Or these two. These two are the tastiest eye-candy she's seen in ages. So yeah, job’s a good one. Heather really doesn’t mind being the alibi girl for these two beauties.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

When she comes back, she’s close to freaking out. She’d left one guy sat on the sofa, staring into space, and now she has two. Silently she turns on her heels and leaves again.

“You know, mate, if you don’t start talking again any time soon, I guess what’s-her-name is going to leave you.”

Silence.

“No pressure, though. Only saying.”

More silence.

“We can just sit here. ‘Tis okay. Who needs what’s-her-name, eh?”

Unbearable silence.

“She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed anyway, is she?”

Neverending silence.

 

 

 

Manchester, July 2046

 

The apartment is very silent now Howard’s gone. It’s strange he’s bothered about that – a few months ago this kind of silence was a normal feature in his home. But since Howard comes around every day, Jason has gotten used to his place being livened up and the silence now that Howard’s gone becomes close to unbearable.

Jason’s been sorting his stuff over the last couple of months. He’d been dreading this, but with Howard around it is actually fun, an endless teasing and giggling and taking-the-piss and laughing and oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-you-kept-this-rolling-of-eyes. They’ve been looking through a hundred or more boxes with old photographs, laughing about the ridiculous outfits and hair-do’s of their younger selves, and the younger selves of those they loved. There was a whole box filled with flight tickets, backstage passes, and faded wrist bands of events long gone. An old suitcase, long out of use, with two dozen different hats in it, all of which Howard tried on and pulled a face he thought fitted the hat. A kitchen tray with various kitchen helpers, whose exact use Jason had long forgotten, but expertly assigned new purposes by Howard, preferably as sex toys, of course. “Oh, c’mon Jay, you want to tell me this is to sift flour with?!?!” Every cupboard, every trunk, every box a new source of giddy joy for Howard, The Explorer. At times they laughed so hard, Jason forgot why they were doing all this.

 

Tonight, though, Jason welcomes the silence, embraces it like he used to in the years gone by. Silence is good, he knows, it’s helped him a lot of times in his life, helped him sort the chaos in his head, the clutter in his mind, the confusion in his heart. Silence will be helpful once more tonight, when he has to come to terms with one box he’s successfully hidden away from Howard. The one he’s been dreading the most.

It’s a small, grey box, former home to a very expensive pair of Italian leather shoes he bought for his oral exam. He places it on the kitchen table and sits down in front of it, his hands resting on either side of the box, not yet ready to open it. He’s hidden this box in the deepest back of his wardrobe and not taken a look at it for many years, but still he knows exactly what’s inside.

With a deep breath Jason opens Pandora’s box, filled with 24 unsent letters, or fragments of letters, all of them addressing Howard. Written over a period of 36 years, on various different types of paper, with various kinds of pens. There are letters on hotel stationery (Four Seasons, Paris, and Le Mirage, Las Vegas, to name but a few), letters written on clean white copy paper, and those written on the back of papers that originally served other causes – a street map of Berlin, a West End theatre programme announcement for September 2004, and one is actually written on a paper napkin from a night club in New York (God, he was desperate then! And very drunk.). Slowly Jason sorts them by age, and reads them, one after another, laying them out on the table in front of him like cards for solitaire. All together they paint a picture of a ridiculously self-conscious boy, utterly in love with another boy, seemingly unrequited, and too shit scared to talk about it, turning into a still not very self-secure man, in love but knowing he won’t get what he wants and too shit scared to talk about this either, turning into a secure but guarded man who knows that fear is useless and love isn’t always what you want it to be, but is happy and grateful, if still scared at times. Once more Jason is strangely bewildered about how odd a journey his life has been.

Even with all he knows now, going back on that journey hurts. Every letter a reminder of a place somewhere in the world, and a time in his life when he was lonely, hurt, disappointed, heart-broken. Silly. Shit-scared.

But Jason reads anyway. It’s not so much for torturing himself (he’s read them for that reason many times before), he’s far past that by now. This time he reads to remember. To remember all these feelings, all these emotions he was only ever capable of feeling because the universe let him meet this one person he knows is his other half. If ever he was sure of one thing in his life, it’s this. And no matter how much it hurt at times, it’s still the happiest feeling Jason has ever known. So he reads these letters one last time, taking him to this place in his head, in his mind, in his heart, where he’s safe and happy and never scared. That’s where he needs to be to be able to write this one and only letter Howard will actually get to read. The one letter Jason will finish. The only letter that counts.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

The room has gone dark, the light outside slowly fading away as does the day. Mark has lost track of how long they’ve sat here and for a silly little moment he wonders if he’ll ever be able to get up from this sofa again. Maybe, he muses, we’ll both just die here. He could think of worse places to die. Maybe his plan of sitting here with Howard isn’t half as clever as he thought. Maybe he should’ve gone and prepared some dinner, or got Howard a drink or a cuppa or...what’s this? There’s movement. Howard moves. At last. He straightens his back and sighs. Something makes a crinkling noise by his right side. Then he speaks. One word only. “Bastard.”

 

 

 

Manchester, May 2019

 

Later Howard couldn’t exactly say how, but Rob managed to organize an inconspicuous exit and drag Gary and Mark away with him. Rob, of all people – the same Rob Howard had accused of stealing Jason away from him just a couple of weeks earlier, green with jealousy. Rob had only laughed and pulled him into a hug and called him “silly twat” and “fucking stupid”. Anyway, when Howard returns from Jason’s tiny kitchen he finds Jay on the sofa and the other three gone. He hands Jason the mug of tea he’s prepared and sits down in an armchair opposite him. If Jason’s hurt by the space he puts between them by choosing the armchair instead of joining him on the sofa, he doesn’t let it show. Or maybe there are just too many other worries in his head playing a louder drum than this one.

 

“I still can’t get my head round this, Jay. Why did you keep this to yourself?” Howard shakes his head. He’s done this so perseveringly ever since arriving that Jason starts worrying he’ll suffer a sore neck tomorrow.

“I…to be honest…now…I don’t know. Back then…I…I just….couldn’t. I thought it was all my fault, I’d driven her into doing this and…”

“But you said she did it before you’d decided whether to have it?!”

“Yeah…” Jason’s stroking his chin, searching for the right thoughts, and the right words to express properly what he means. “But…” One of his sustained “buts”, “…uhm,…I still thought, I guess I did still think…that…I dunno, I just thought I could’ve prevented it…which I didn’t and…I don’t know. It’s not that clear now anymore, but it was impossible then, somehow, you know?”

“It wasn’t your fucking fault!” Howard bangs his fist on the rest of the armchair, causing Jason to wince, sink even deeper into the sofa, and suddenly be very interested in the grey, green and brown shades of the hot fluid in the mug he's holding in his hands.

Howard takes a deep breath before he continues his interrogation. “Why didn't you just tell me?”

Jason is still very intrigued by the play of colours in his cup.

“Jay?”

Jason shrugs his shoulders, trying hard to fight the tears.

“It might have helped you, you know? Like I always tell you everything, and it always helps me. You help me.”

Jason clasps his hands tighter around the mug. It's so hot the pain will numb any other feeling creeping up on him.

“Why didn't you let me help you?” There's a tone of am-I-not-worthy in Howard's voice that Jason knows very well but still knows not how to handle. And what is he supposed to say? That he wanted to talk to him? Desperately? That he nearly choked on his pain? That he came over to his house one day to talk and then heard him play with baby Grace in the garden, heard them giggling and chuckling? That he he almost got sick on Howard's drive because it hurt so much? Surely not.

 

Howard knows he won't get an answer if he goes on like this. All he can see of Jason right now is the top of his head while he's intently staring into the tea he's not taken a single sip of yet. He wants to say “Don't you know I'm always there for you?” in a soft voice. Or something else in the way and the manner Jason would talk to him if things were the other way around. But he isn't Jason, and if he's honest he isn't always there for him. Never has been, probably never will be. And how could he, when Jason never lets show when he needs him the most? Why does this bastard never want to bother anyone? (Fucking precious twat.) Howard takes another long look at this enigma of a man, today once more a closed book to him. (How can you know someone so well and not at all?) He looks hard at the top of Jason's head, the white of his knuckles, the unusually slumped shoulders, and suddenly isn't angry anymore. He gets up, goes over to the sofa, sits down next to him, takes the cup from his hands and puts it down on the coffee table.

“You know you don't have to be perfect for me, do you?” Howard places a hand on Jason's neck and strokes him gently with his thumb until Jason slowly nods. With a softly mumbled “now c'mere, you daft sod” Howard carefully pulls him into a hug and holds him and strokes his hair until the tea in the mug is ice-cold and the tears on Jason's face are nothing more than stains of salt on his cheeks.

You might lose your dignity, but it's not what it used to be.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

Mark’s never been happier to hear a man speak. He doesn’t approve of the choice of language, but oh well.

“What’s he done to deserve you calling him that?”

“He left me behind.”

“So have Gaz and Rob and I’ve not heard you call them that.” Stating facts.

“’Tis not the same.” It’s not even a full sentence, but still includes an unspoken “and you know it”.

“I know.” Of course Mark knows.

 

 

 

Las Vegas, February 2008

 

They are so much taller than her that they can look into each other’s eyes, above her head. Heather can’t really see this, though, for she’s squeezed in between them, in a tight hug, her head buried into the bulkier one’s chest hair. Howard. Howard is the bulkier, scruffier one, the one with the curls and the big wide eyes. The other one, the one who’s erect cock presses hard against the small of her back, is Jason. Bare-chested, skinnier, more fragile. Jason, she thinks while running her hands down Howard’s back, is the one who’d be more willing to give in and go for it. On the other hand, she muses, judging from the way Howard got hard while watching Jason undress himself, she might be wrong there. This way or another, she knows, they desperately need to shag. Each other. Soon. She's dead certain, because even though she’s been in the middle of this naked, sweaty love triangle for more than ten minutes by now none of their needy, shaky hands have touched her body.

 

Howard is drunk enough to enjoy this fully. He’s watched Jason’s physique before, secretly, stood in a corner in The Apollo, hiding in the dark, or from a lounger by some pool in some sunny country, hiding behind a paper or his shades. But nothing ever came close to this. This isn’t just naked Jason, or sweaty Jason, or breathless Jason – this is naked-sweaty-breathless-aroused-thrilled-loose Jason. Howard notices that with one touch of his own hands he can make Jason catch his breath, and softly moan, and flutter his eye-lids. (God, those lashes. Holy shit.) The realization that he, Howard Donald, is causing this, that he can actually do this, sends a wave of sheer and utter and pure happiness through his body. Sure, there's a girl somewhere between them, but this most definitely is not about girls.

 

Jason is confused, drunk and utterly nonplussed (Tori Amos singing “This is not really, this is not really happening…you bet your life it is…” in his head. I love you, Tori, I do, but can you please go now, please?). He’s naked and slightly shivering and he can feel Howard’s hands softly stroking his shoulder blades. As much as he anticipated this, hoped for this, wished on a star for this to happen, it's still surprising, if not a bit scary. He opens his eyes and glances at Howard and Howard looks back at him and for a blink of an eye everything is all right. For one moment then, we understood it all.

And for one moment they’ve both forgotten about home, their lives and those attached to it. The ones they kissed goodbye before they boarded the plane that took them here, to this place where everything’s allowed and nothing needs to be forgiven. Those who trust them and wait for them, unaware of the danger. After all these years Howard and Jason finally give in to what feels right while every nagging thought about commitments and duties and good intentions lies knocked-out in a corner of their minds. But like every so often in Howard’s plans, there’s a flaw, a loop-hole, a weak spot – and this time, tonight, this weak spot is called Gary. Gary, who, bless him, has no better idea of how to deal with a heavily drunk and high-on-whatever Vegas prostitute who’s passed out on his plushy king-size hotel bed than to frantically knock on Howard’s door and cry for help.

 

Two hours later, after they’ve convinced Gaz that he’s not killed the girl, after they’ve awoken her, paid her, and sent her home, and the really lovely Heather with her, after they’ve promised Gary a million times that this is going to be one hell of a story and that neither of them will ever tell Charlotte, but can’t possibly promise him that Rob won’t (can’t keep anything to himself, can he?), Howard has to admit to himself that his plan has failed gloriously. That moment they had, that shiny brilliant sparkly light at the end of the tunnel, is gone and all that’s left now is headache, doubts and a still shaking Gary. The nagging thoughts of it’s-not-right entered Jason’s mind again while he went to collect Heather’s stuff from their room. The sour feeling of don’t-do-this took over Howard once more while was calling the receptionist for a taxi. Jason wonders how to tell Howard, how to talk to him about it, so it won’t be misunderstood, awkward, or ruin their friendship forever. He wonders, and he worries until Howard, fucking practical Howard, starts cracking jokes about Gary destroying their threesome. Howard knows this will make Gary giggle and feel comfortable again. Whether he also knows what he’s doing to Jason’s heart by turning what they almost did into a funny, naughty anecdote, no one will ever know. Because once Howard’s made this decisive chapter of their story nothing more but a side note of a trip to Vegas, it’s officially dead, burnt, and buried. They were drunk, and high, and out of their minds and this is fucking Vegas, after all.

Jason chews on his lip for a while, and dies a little inside, but he doesn’t run away, and he doesn’t break down here in front of them. (He’ll save that for later, when he’s on his own, and no one sees him crying.) Yes, it hurts, what he missed, what he can never have, and most of all that Howard can be so casual about this. But as much as it hurts, there’s also this feeling of relief that it didn’t happen, that there won’t be room for guilt, and drama, and that they will still be able to look into each other’s eyes. Of knowing that things wouldn’t suddenly be happily-ever-after, because it would’ve been wrong, as right as it felt. After all there's no doubt – and who knows better than Jason? – that it's downright wrong to give in and be selfish and cheat on a heavily pregnant girl, unsuspectingly waiting for their return in a huge house in Altrincham. That’s no way to start something. No matter how much it hurts now.

Don't start thinking with your heart again. Don't start thinking we can start again.

 

 

 

Altrincham, October 2046

 

“His lawyer gave me this. That’s what he left me.” Mark glances over to Howard to see what this is.

“A letter?”

“A fucking letter.”

“What’s wrong with a letter?” Mark shifts on the sofa and studies Howard’s profile.

“Everything.”

“Ah, yes. Silly question.” Howard turns his head in surprise. Is Mark being sarcastic? Their eyes meet and now Howard knows for sure.

“It’s just so typical him, always has to have the last word. Bastard.”

“Well, he had a way with words, our Jay…” Mark grins.

“He loved words, he did.”

“Self-absorption.”

“Introspection.”

“Conundrum.”

“Solicitous.”

“Predicament.”

“Compartmentalising.”

“You win.” Mark surrenders gladly, he can see a glimpse of a smile playing around Howard’s lips.

“I always win.”

“You do.”

“Always.”

“But he always had the last word.”

The brief smile on Howard’s face dies down. That’s it. No more last words. Jay’s last last words are in this rotten letter, that Howard can’t bring himself to open. Because the moment he’s read them, Jason will have said his last last words and then he will be gone. And Howard isn’t yet ready to let him go. Not yet.

 

 

 

Manchester, September 2045

 

Somehow Howard knew there was bad news coming up, he felt it, there was something in the air that morning. But now it’s out, and even though Jason chose the words, his beloved words, oh so carefully, and even though he said them in his softest voice, they seem to cut through Howard’s body like rusty daggers. Howard feels sick and he wants to run, but he knows he won’t, he knows he’s an old man now, and old men don’t run, they face things, they’re old and wise and beyond everything. But Howard isn’t any of those things, and he hates it, (when will he ever get there?) and he slumps onto Jason’s sofa, suddenly feeling each and every one of his 77 years.

“So, basically, you’re saying you’re giving up?!” Jason sits down on the coffee table in front of him, fully facing him. He can’t ever remember seeing Howard so upset. The way he looks at him with that kind of anger and disbelief in his eyes makes Jason’s insides churn, he can feel every single bone in his body grow heavier, and every single muscle tighten. It’s been a long time since loving someone has caused him physical pain. He wishes he could make this easier for Howard, but he just can’t think of a way how to. And God knows he tried. Ever since he decided to stop treatment he had dreaded this the most: how to tell Howard. It’s even harder than he could’ve ever imagined. He shakes his head slowly and instinctively takes Howard’s hands into his hands, to steady him, to steady them both.

“I’m not giving up.” Very soft. “I’m…giving in.”

Howard’s face mirrors the emotions that are fighting to gain the upper hand over him – rage, fear, frustration, agony, despair. Jason can see them all, every single one of them. Every single one breaks his heart a little bit, makes him feel bad. He knows this face so well. He knows the man so well.

Howard shakes his head. “Giving in…?” he murmurs, unbelievingly. Jason is not one to give up, or give in, if that what he prefers calling it. It’s still giving up, so much Howard knows. And Jason has never before given up, he’s run away once, okay, but only to fix himself. And he came back, right? But now he wants to leave him. Leave him behind. Forever.

“’Tis not right.” He looks up, unwraps his right hand, points at himself. “I’m first, I’m older.” A simple truth, but a truth nonetheless. Howard build a life on that truth, the truth that Jason would always be there, somewhere, for him. “I’m first.” Watery bright blue eyes meet dark blue eyes. Howard rests his pointing hand on his chest.

Jason wants to say “I know, and I’m sorry”, he wants to agree with Howard, just to make him feel better. What he does say is the truth instead.

“There’s no need to be scared.” Very soft. “I’m not scared.”

Two big truths. Jason isn’t scared. But Jason knows Howard’s scared, because he’s afraid of what will or won’t come after death, and he’s scared he’ll have to go there without Jason. “How can you be not scared?”
Jason decides to be honest once more. “I’m too tired, How.” Very soft. “I’ve had a good life.”
Howard shoots him an angry glance “Don’t speak as if you were…!”

“I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean that…I just…” Jason runs out of words. Now Howard is not just angry with the world but with him. That wasn’t his intention, not at all. What he wanted to say was that he knows his life was good, and that Howard was a good deal responsible for that. His most important person. His other half. And that it’s okay to go now, to say goodbye, that he’s in peace with himself and his life. And that he believes, no, that he knows, there’s better places than this world out there, and dying is not the end. And that he’s not leaving him, only going ahead. But he knows Howard won’t buy any of it, he’s ruined it by speaking of himself in past tense. 75 years old and ready to take his last journey and still able to screw up important situations. Important situations with Howard. He should know better by now, but somehow still, after all these years, 56 years, Jason still has this lump in his throat, and this flutter in his tummy, and this swoosh in his ears, when things between him and Howard get decisive. It’s funny how the person who makes him feel the most comfortable, content, loved, understood also is the person who can make him blush, and stutter, and say the silliest things, and not be able to string one sensible thought together. Just like back in 1989, back in those days in The Apollo when they were still young and not afraid of anything, except maybe for falling in love with a bloke.

“I’m just so tired, How.” Jason strokes his hand. Very soft. He doesn’t mention the pain, or the amount of pain killers he has to take every day just to get along. He’d take these forever if it meant he could be with Howard longer.

The anger is gone, Howard’s eyes soften again, he knows he has no right to be cross with Jason. “I know, I’m sorry….”

Howard wants to say more, he wants to explain, how he knows he has left Jason behind so many times, going to London, and to New York, and L.A., and to Ibiza, and to numerous other places all over the world, taking only his headphones and a girlfriend whose name is now long forgotten, but never Jason. And that he still can’t quite explain the feeling that made him do this, this fear of getting what he really wanted, but thought he didn’t deserve. The fear of screwing up. The fear, the horror, of disappointing Jason. Flawless, precious, wonderful Jason, who he always thought and still thinks is too high above him. All those times he ran away from him, Howard realizes, Jason must have felt a little of that pain he feels now. Maybe, the thought crosses his mind out of nowhere, uninvited, maybe the pain he feels now is nothing else but the cruel sum of all those little pains he’s caused Jason. Like everything you’ve given out gets returned. Karma balance, Jason has told him about it many times, but he never quite listened.

He feels Jason’s hands around his hand, tight and tender at the same time, steadying him.

Howard thought he knew the pain of loss, he’s lost Rob, and his Dad, and then his Mum, and then Gaz. And even though it’s not true what they say, about time being a healer, but time at least numbs the pain. Makes the pain bearable. Nothing in the world, so much Howard knows, will be able to numb this pain, though, not even time. This pain will remain, like a tight knot in his chest, and a stake in his heart, and a heavy weight on his shoulders. Every single goddamn day of his further existence. Yes, existence he calls it, because whatever comes after Jason will have gone, won’t deserve to be called a life. He will exist, he will breathe, he will eat, and sleep, and generally function, but he will not live. He will hurt. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of the fucking rest of his fucking existence.

Howard, one hand still on his chest, feels his heart beat faster, and he knows why. He’s just done the same, he’s thought of Jason as if he was already gone. This, he knows, is giving up. Tears dwell in his eyes, Howard knows he’s going to break down soon, and he won’t be ashamed. This is giving in. Jason looks at him, unblinking, loving. It doesn’t make the next question easier. The first heavy tear slowly runs down Howard’s cheek, he swallows hard. “How long have we got?”

Jason wipes the tear away, gingerly. Howard remembers another drop of a salty fluid that once got wiped away by this hand, a long time ago, 56 years ago. And for all he cares in the world he knows he’s one lucky bastard, because how many people are out there who have memories like that? Who get so many years together? Who find a love like that?

“6 months.” Very soft. “Maybe a year.”

Howard hangs his head, the tears now stream uncontrollably, he’s shaking. Jason may be suffering from arthritic knees and hips, but he still is a dancer and he still knows how to elegantly bridge a distance with a single, flawless move, even from the most awkward positions, and he closes in on Howard and carefully pulls him into a hug, for a short while resting their foreheads together, then tightens the hug and lets Howard rest his weary head in the crook of Jason’s neck and cry.

Tears are words you can touch.

 

 

 

Alt rincham, October 2046

 

There’s silence between them once more, but it’s not awkward. Silence between the two of them was never awkward. Strange, but true. They’ve never been cross with each other, not once in all those years. They’ve both been cross with every one of the others – but never with each other.

“So, are you going to open it?”

“I don’t know, Markie.” 74 years old and he still gets called “Markie”. Not that he’s bothered.

“Aren’t you curious? I mean…”

“Curious? Not so much…I dunno…”

Howard struggles to explain properly that he is curious and scared in equal measures. He glances over at Mark and notices he’s biting his lip and fumbling with his scarf. (74 years old and still wearing silly scarves.)

For the first time that night Howard shifts on the sofa, turning to face Mark. Mark fumbles a little more, then takes a breath and mutters “I’d give a lot if Rob had left me a letter.”

Howard wants to smack himself. (Fuck, Donald! Pay attention, you silly twat! Think!)

“Markie…”

“It’s just…he went away so sudden, so fast, there was no time and…well, there were things we didn’t talk about, and I…I wish we had.”

“Markie, I’m so sorry…I…”

“No, no, don’t be sorry! It’s just…I dunno…we did talk, you know? But then we lost it a bit, over the years, and we never started talking properly again later and I…you know, as you get older, you…you start being so shit scared, and you see things differently, and then again things that seemed to be so important when you were young suddenly…aren’t so important anymore…and…I just wished, we’d talked properly when we were older…you know? But he…left…before…” Mark hangs his head, fumbling with the scarf once more. Howard watches him for a while. (Brave sweet humble Markie.)

“I know, Markie, he left with a big bang.” Howard softly strokes Mark's cheek.

“Yeah. The show-off!” Mark's voice sounds slightly bitter, but there's a little smile playing around his lips.

“Limelight hog!” Howard won't stop until Mark smiles fully.

“Attention seeker!” Mark giggles softly. Howard gets serious again.

“He did know you loved him, though.”

“I hope so. I wasn’t very…nice to him before he...left...”

“I didn’t notice…?” Howard’s surprised.

“He had this boyfriend I didn’t like. I told him he wasn't good for him, but really I was just jealous, dead jealous.”

 

Howard remembers the boyfriend, a younger version of Mark, somehow. It was a bit ridiculous, but then again, when had Rob ever not been ridiculous? (Very often, actually, but Rob always made sure there were no witnesses.)

“I once accused him of being in love with Jay, you know? That he was stealing him away from me. Pretty ridiculous, eh?”

Mark shakes his head. “Not ridiculous at all. He was in love with Jay, for a while.”

“No way! What the…I never knew that?!”

“Oh, c’mon don’t be silly! It was effin’ obvious!”

“Naaww…maybe had a bit of a crush on him…” Mark’s grinning turns into a thoughtful smile.

“You know, How, in a way that’s funny…seeing you were the reason Jay never returned that love…”

Howard cringes.

“He loved you so much, How. Why are you so scared of this letter?”

(Yes, Howard, why are you so shit scared of this fucking letter?) Howard would love to tell Mark the reason. But it would include telling him how they spent so much time together ever since Jason had told him he was…he would be…he’d…(I can’t say it. I still can’t say it!). And how they sorted Jay’s stuff and talked and laughed and cried and then talked some more. How they were lucky enough to get what Rob and Mark didn’t get: time to talk without fear, time to catch up with everything they’d missed of each other over the years, time to say goodbye. And that this is the reason why Howard’s so scared of the letter – everything was said, so what’s in that letter?

“Jason…well, when he knew…when he knew he was… (why the fuck can’t I say it?)…and started sorting his stuff we were…close, we talked…we were okay, you know? No need for a letter. What if he wrote it years before, when things weren’t so well between us and had simply forgotten about it?”

“Mmmmh,” Mark looks at him, thoughtful, “Jason’s not one to forget about something like this? Like you said, he sorted his stuff – he gave me this scarf, just ‘cos he remembered I’d said I liked it in…I don’t know, in 2006, or something, you know?” Howard doesn’t quite see the connection between the silly scarf ‘round Mark’s neck and the letter in his hand. Mark giggles silently when he notices the bland expression on Howard’s face. “I mean, he kept everything in his life and when he realized he… (Mark can’t say it either. Bloody hell.) …he started sorting his stuff, giving it all away to whoever he thought should have it. I mean, he was so careful and considerate with all his…his treasures…I can’t believe he’d have forgotten about something as important as a deposited letter that wasn’t valid anymore. You know, if he remembered something as unimportant as me liking this scarf, he sure as hell remembered everything that has to do with you?”

Mark nods reassuringly, still playing around with the scarf. (He remembered I liked it. He remembered shit like that.)

“I think,” Mark pauses, a bit scared of the impact his next words may have on Howard, “mmmhh, I think, he might have wanted to give you something to remember him by. Like…uhmmm, a souvenir, you know?” He can feel Howard tense beside him. (Darn! Be bloody more precise, Owen!) “Not that he thought you’d forget him! Just so…just so you have something that reminds you of good times when the going gets tough?”

Howard realizes this makes sense, in that strange Jason-Orange-kind-of making sense. The kind with the long-winded but unfortunately completely logical explanation. It’s not really surprising it’s Mark who explains it to him. (Mark and Jason, the two over-thinkers. Gaz once pointed this out, Howard doesn’t quite remember where or when, and maybe they were all a bit drunk, but anyway, Gaz said “you know, Dougie, you and I and Bob – we’re just silly twats, us, but Markie and Jay – they are precious”. He didn’t expand upon it, but he really didn’t have to, did he? After all it was fucking obvious, wasn’t it?) Howard has to swallow hard before he can say it out loud.

“You’re precious, mate, do you know that?”

Mark bites his lip and shakes his head once more. “Don’t be silly…”

“I’m not, Markie. You are precious and I love you. And I can’t thank you enough for bearing with me today. You’re a saint.”

“Surely not. Will you read the letter now?”

“Not now.” Mark pouts. “Later, Markie. Promise.”

Mark nods, he understands. Howard wants to be alone when he reads it. Enough public display of emotion for one day. “That’s the official ‘time for you to leave, mate’, innit?” Mark grins and gets up from the sofa, his bones aching.

“Eh, watch it! Show a little respect for the elderly!”

“The elderly with the very young girlfriends?” Mark chuckles. Howard rolls his eyes and playfully shoos him to the door, where he pulls him into a hug and mumbles “thank you” into his hair. Mark holds on to him, knowing it’s not over yet, it can’t be, but at least Howard’s finally opened the door to letting Jay go.

 

 

Howard shuts the door behind Mark and walks back into the lounge, past the sofa, and to the windows. He opens one of the doors and steps out into the night. A clear black sky and the stars above him, he stands and remembers the man he’s loved. For the first time since Jason’s stopped breathing, Howard allows himself to remember. He remembers him with greying hair, crying and holding on to Howard, the day his twin brother was buried. He remembers him in a tuxedo, radiating, dancing with Gary’s first wife. He remembers him with bleached blonde hair, in a hotel lobby in Moscow, looking ridiculous and hating it. He remembers him in a grey suit, blue shirt and blue tie, the day he got promoted and rightly so. He remembers him on a holiday in Barbados, reading David Foster Wallace, three weeks reading 1,500 pages with glistening eyes and a dropped jaw. He remembers him in a blue-and-white adidas tracksuit, back in The Apollo, a drop of sweat running down his cheek. He remembers him naked, in Vegas, shivering, pure and beautiful. He remembers him in a black leather jacket and black boots, on a motorbike somewhere in Scotland, taking his helmet off, smiling. He remembers him arriving at Manchester airport, with long, curly hair, finally returning from his year off, in a cropped jeans and Birkenstocks, sunburnt forever. He remembers him behind his desk in the office on Talbot Street, serious and with tired eyes, surrounded by tons of files and watched over by a Manchester-City-rubber duckie. He remembers him with a towel around his hips, his hair dark from dampness, smiling at him with his head slightly tilted to one side. He remembers him in a black shirt and dark blue jeans, the day he told him he was dying.

 

Howard remembers all of this and more. And he knows it’s time to open his last letter and let him go.