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Stephen sat up, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the darkness. Charlie was passed out beside him, and he didn’t have to look to know what was scattered over the floor on his side. The almost empty whiskey bottle was still clutched in Charlie’s hand, pills crushed into the bed sheet below him, and Stephen let out a silent laugh through his nose.
He couldn’t do this anymore.
Throwing the quilt off, he pushed on his glasses and grabbed his things, not caring about the racket he was making; nothing would wake Charlie up when he was in this state. Meeks dressed himself in Charlie’s sitting room after switching on the light, a heaviness falling upon him as he looked around. He’d only gone to bed – he checked his watch and raised a brow. He’d been asleep for five hours and Charlie had trashed the place before crawling into bed.
He couldn’t do this anymore.
For seven years, Stephen had tried. First, as friends, then as lovers, and now… he didn’t know what they were now. He hadn’t known for a long time, and Charlie barely knew who he was most days. The emotional and mental strain of this was too much for one person to bear alone and Meeks was tired. He was so tired. Pulling on his jacket, he flipped over a receipt and grabbed a pen, a single tear staining the paper. He stuck it to the fridge with a magnet and left, his message waiting for Charlie whenever he awoke.
I can’t do this anymore…
The car had grown cold the moment he’d switched off the engine and he was frozen. An hour had passed but Stephen couldn’t move. His face was slick with tears, tears that wouldn’t stop but no longer ripped at his soul. Silent, mournful tears of acceptance.
He’d loved Charlie for so long he couldn’t remember when he’d first fallen. He remembered the cocky boy he’d met at Welton, admired the confident man he’d become. Remembered wrapping Charlie in his arms and let him soak Stephen’s shirts, the two of them cramped tightly into Meeks’ bunk. He never opened up, even when Stephen begged him for answer, desperate to know how to help him. Just to help him.
He didn’t know when Charlie had changed. It had been gradual, and dangerous. He’d spent a week at home, celebrating a family birthday, and on his return… he wasn’t Stephen’s Charlie anymore. Meeks tried his best to pull that beautiful man back but to no avail. Charlie numbed himself with drugs and alcohol, his only calls to Meeks coming when he wanted sex in the end. And Stephen accepted them every time, because he wanted to make Charlie better. He wanted to fix him. Because he loved him.
Charlie had once said that he sometimes thought it’d be better for Stephen if they’d never met. What was he supposed to take from that? A world without Charlie? He’d never been able to fathom it until now. A world without Charlie was one that didn’t bear thinking about. Now, however, it was his only choice.
His Charlie was gone, and Stephen wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to get him back. He was so tired of trying and being hurt. There was only so much a heart could break before it crumbled completely, and he was too close to that point to risk it. He’d love Charlie forever, it was the kind of love that branded you, and that made the whole thing worse.
A knock on the window made him jump, Meeks staring through bleary eyes into his best friend’s. The sympathy on Pitt’s face had Stephen bawling all over again, his lanky friend pulling the door open and unbuckling Meeks, leading him from the car by his elbow. Locking the car, Gerard took his sobbing friend inside and closed the door.
The steam from the mug Pitt’s placed before him clouded his glasses and Stephen had to remove them, pulling the blanket tighter around him as he shuddered. The chair scraped against the kitchen floor as Gerard sat opposite him, wrapping his hands around his own mug. He’d said nothing since bringing Meeks inside; he didn’t need to. With a sigh, however, he’d apparently decided now was the time for questions, and Stephen didn’t want them.
“Is it over? For good?”
Stephen nodded as his face contorted with grief. “It has to be. I can’t keep doing this with him, Pitts. It hurts too much.”
“What happened, Steve?” Pitts permanent expression seemed to be one of frustration at the moment, Meeks staring into his coffee. “You guys get like this all the time and you always go back,” Stephen watched as Gerard clenched his fist, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “If this is for real… if this is serious, you need to mean it, Stephen. I can’t keep seeing you like this. Charlie’s my friend and I care about him, but you’re like my brother, and I won’t sit around for much longer and watch him do this to you.”
“He’s not doing it on purpose-!”
“That’s not the point!” Gerard shouted, throwing his hands up as he stood, making Stephen jump and watch him with wide eyes. “Charlie’s had shit going on for as long as we’ve known him and he hasn’t told any of us any of it. Fine; if he wants to keep his shit private, that’s his choice; but what about your feelings, Stephen? What about the way this makes you feel? The way he makes you feel? Does he even know how much he hurts you? Is ever sober enough to bother realising?”
“Will you fucking stop?” Meeks cried, grabbing his mug and tossing it at Pitts before he could think, tears leaking from his eyes. “Yes, he’s an asshole, and he’s an addict, but he’s broken, Gerard! And I… I tried… I tried so hard…”
Pitts caught him before he fell to his knees, cradling his best friend as he cried himself out. Meeks’ clung to him, gripping the back of Gerard’s jumper for dear life. He felt himself be pushed back into his seat and Pitts went about cleaning up, ignoring Stephen’s apologies and telling him not to worry about it.
“What are you gonna do?” Pitts asked, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned against the counter. Stephen was quiet for a long while.
“I need a break.”
“From Charlie?”
“From everything,” he croaked, sniffing and wiping his face before more tears could betray him. “You… I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” Gerard replied earnestly, sliding back into his chair and placing one his large hands over Stephen’s with a squeeze.
“Just… promise me you’ll look after him,” Pitts’ jaw set and Meeks could see the refusal already ignited in his eyes. “Please, Pittsie! Please. I can’t bear leaving not knowing he’s got someone.”
It was Pitts turn to stay quiet now, Stephen’s turn to squeeze his friend’s hands. Gerard held Meeks’ gaze and sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. Fine, but I’m doing it for you. Not for him.”
“I’ll take it,” Stephen smiled as best he could, thanking his friend again before heading upstairs to pack.
It was still dark when Charlie finally managed to rouse himself out of sleep, his hangover immediate and familiar. He checked his alarm clock; four? That couldn’t be right. He’d only gone to bed an hour ago… unless..
“Shit.” He’d slept an entire day, which was now becoming evident from the piss stain on the front of his jeans.”Fuck!”
He tore his clothes off and left them where they fell, having the quickest of showers before exiting the bathroom in a towel. Something else was wrong. He grimaced as he turned on the sitting room light, rummaging in the paper bag on the table for a new bottle of whiskey since his other one had spilled all over the floor.
Taking a swig, his brow lifted as he looked around the room. It was a tip, which meant Stephen hadn’t returned. Charlie shook his head and sighed, taking another generous sip as he held the receiver between his head and shoulder, punching in Meeks’ number. It rang four times before it was answered, Charlie sniffing in annoyance.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Pittsie. Steve home?”
“No,” His tone caught Charlie off-guard, the man curling his lip as anger began bubbling.
“Oh. He at work still or-?”
“He’s not here, Charlie. He’s gone.”
“Gone? What the fuck do you mean gone?”
“As in not coming back,” Charlie experienced a fear so tribal it caught him by surprise. “Check the fridge, Charlie.”
Pitts hung up, Charlie staring at the phone before hanging it up, too. He moved slowly, dread coursing through him with every step that took him closer to the kitchen. He flicked another light on and winced, allowing his eyes to adjust. He could see Stephen’s handwriting, recognised it as quickly as he’d have recognised his own; but he couldn’t read the words. He didn’t want to. He was afraid of what they’d say.
He took one step, then another, and then he had to set the bottle down on the counter. Charlie screwed up the note and grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed to stop tears as he rest his forehead against the fridge. He should have seen this coming. Everyone left eventually.