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Ten years.
You get less for manslaughter.
Ten years of bickering over the washing up, forgotten birthdays, about whose turn was it to put the bins out. The Incident. No anal within 48 hours of anything resembling a curry (see: The Incident). The steady accumulation of infirmities and indignities, Deep Heat and Voltarol and haemorrhoid creams and the Rogaine (Jake's) and the citalopram (Felix's) and, because of the citalopram, the Cialis.
Of every spring and summer bank holiday weekend spent at a different country hotel, chicken-or-salmon and strawberry pavlova for pudding, oh you two'll be next, the bashful scoffing, and then, at the start of the pandemic, the accidental, mutual proposal in the car after the all-hands briefing, shocked into sincerity by predicted death statistics and back-up plans for when the emergency mortuaries overflow. The sparse ceremony at the town hall snatched in between lockdowns, just Jo and Carl as guests and Jake's parents as witnesses, everyone suited and booted and beaming behind their facemasks. Of shielding and bubbles and socially distanced visits to Shoreham, of grinding through business as usual while the rest of the country made sourdough and TikToks, of Debbie, who they all had been worried about, sailing through the pandemic without so much as a sniffle, and it being Robert who had ended up in High Dependency, Eat Out to Help Out gone wrong, wheezing into FaceTime around his oxygen mask, touch and go for a while there.
Ten years of Robert and Debbie and Jo and their strangely durable three-body problem, which hadn't taken long to grow into a four-body problem, and then it had been nappies, and soft play, and princess-themed birthday parties, and now interminable ferrying of the child by her ‘uncles’ from Scouts to ballet to lifeguarding to Jujutsu and back again, even though her three parents all live in the same house, have a car each, and don't work a single full-time job between them.
Ten years of holidays and promotions and not getting promotions and Crossfit and experiments in facial hair, and of being open, and of being exclusive, and of being nothing much of anything, lately. Of shared jokes and shared council tax and a shared life, for better or worse, richer or poorer.
Ten years, reduced to a scrap of elastane and polyester.
“I'm not wearing it,” Felix says, flatly.
“You won't be, for long. That's the point.”
“Jake, it's ridiculous. I've worn condoms that covered more.”
“You'd look good in it.”
This is where Felix would tut, theatrically, and fire out a quip about not wanting to poke someone's eye out.
“What - what about the trunks?” is what he manages, instead, in a small voice.
Felix waits for the eyeroll and smirk, for the ‘why don't you go full Victorian bathing suit, then, and we'll see what your chances are?’ For Jake to tackle him to the bed, laughing and brandishing the ridiculous gold thong/Speedo contraption, for everything to be normal -
Instead, he gets a deflated smile that doesn't quite reach Jake's eyes.
“Um, yeah. If - if that's what you want. It's - it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it”
Felix has grown to hate this smile.
“You should go without me,” he hears his own voice say, nasal and pathetic.
“Felix -” Jake starts.
“I’ll cramp your style,” he says, because it’s true. “And it's not like I'll be able to actually do anything, when we're in there.”
The flicker of annoyance on Jake's face is gone so fast that Felix would have missed it, if he wasn't looking. He feels a dull echo of victory at managing to coax it out, followed by a sick thud of guilt.
“Sorry.”
The deflated smile is back.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about." Jake looks so very tired. "C’mere.”
Felix lets himself be held, lets the miserable trickle of wetness leak from his eyes, and wishes - not for the first time, not for the first time today, not for the first time this hour - that he could just disappear.
Sun, sand, sea, sauna? It had seemed like a half-decent idea, a fortnight ago. Shoulder season, school holidays over, and a cock-up with the dates of Jake’s carbine recert course had all aligned like a cosmic joke, and suddenly there were flights to Barcelona-El Prat and an AirBNB in Sitges, just the two of them, and then Debbie had invited herself and Jo along, probably because a week of just the two of them would be beyond even Jake’s saintly patience.
“It’s my last chance for anything fun before my radiotherapy starts up again,” Debbie had declared, stretched out on her sofa like a cat napping in the sun. “And you never know. I could die on the table.”
“Stop being dramatic, Debs,” Jo had said from the other sofa, around a mouthful of hairpins. “It’s basically a sunbed with extra steps. You should know well enough, by now.”
“Still, I’ll be laid up for weeks, afterwards. And Spain is so lovely at this time of year. What do you say, darling? We’ll crash the boys’ holiday, spend a week on the beach getting squiffy and embarrassing them.”
“Mummy, what’s a squiffy?”
“It’s when grown-ups drink too much wine and act silly. You'll understand when you're older. Head back, love, I’m almost done.”
“Mum, you do know what Sitges is known for, yeah?”
“No, Jake, do enlighten your aged mother.”
“Or, you could not, yeah? Right, Pops, that’s you done. Now sod off.”
“Are we going on holiday, Mummy?”
“You aren’t going anywhere, you’ve got school. Put that lip away, you’ll trip over it.”
Poppy had departed with a pre-tween flounce, and the next half an hour had been dates and flight times, all of it happening somewhere over Felix’s head while he’d cradled a long-cold cup of tea, entirely surplus to requirements.
And that’s how they’d ended up here, suitcases on the bed of an apartment with a sea view, the itinerary options being beach or sauna or going straight for cocktails; lying curled in the fetal position staring at the wall was off the menu, apparently.
“Have you taken your meds today?”
No, is the answer to this question. Jake knows that the answer is no, and he knows that Felix knows that Jake knows, and still, he asks, frames it as a choice.
“Um, not yet. Maybe with food, later?”
The deflection is accepted, but noted, and Felix wonders how much more that ledger can take before it’s full.
At least he’s eating, these days.
“Californian rocket fuel,” the psychiatrist had called the combination, laying out the information leaflets like a moderately successful poker hand. “You’ll feel like crap, but at least you’ll feel something. It’ll fix the not sleeping, and the weight loss. Should start to help with the thoughts.”
Felix had nodded, probably. Jake had asked questions and taken careful notes, probably. Everything from the hospital had been a haze, ears and nose and mouth stuffed with cotton wool, and Felix still isn’t sure about a lot of the details, even now, but a few moments had penetrated the fog, and the absurdity of ‘Californian rocket fuel’ had been one of them.
“Okay. Food, later, that’s good. So are we doing the beach today, or the sauna?”
Closed-choice question, two options, the way you’d speak to a toddler. Fish fingers, or chicken nuggets? Red jim-jams, or blue? The Gruffalo, or The Very Hungry Caterpillar? But you’re going to bed one way or the other, child, don’t even think of trying to get out of it.
“Don’t negotiate with the terrorist,” Jo had warned them darkly, that first solo overnight, Poppy on her hip and an alarming amount of luggage at her feet. “Give her an inch and she'll make off with one of your kidneys.” But Jake had taken it in his stride, managing teatime and bathtime and bedtime without breaking a sweat, and Felix had watched them from the hallway, mirrored features in the soft lamplight, “Again, Uncky Jake, again! Do the voices again!”, and thought how Jake would be a brilliant dad, actually.
Not that that would be possible, now. Not after what Felix had -
“Hey,” Jake's voice breaks through, gently. “With me.”
Breathe in for two, out for two. Recognise the thought, name the thought. Catastrophising occurs when we think things are much worse than they really are by jumping to the worst conclusion. Let the thought go, like cloud across a blue sky. Or was it a ripple on a lake? Something blue and placid, anyway.
Jake’s hand is warm on the back of his neck, calluses catching at the shorter hairs there.
“Earth to Felix.”
An ancient joke. Felix blinks his eyes open, and finds Jake watching him.
“Receiving,” he answers, dutifully.
Jake smiles, for real, this time.
“You on your way back to me?”
“I’m trying.”