A/N: You might find the premise of this fic a little confusing so here's what you need to know. The canon basics are true (Brendan went to prison, Seamus is dead etc) but we start this fic some years later with Brendan and Ste happily married. The world they live in is run by a corrupt government, (the leader is called the potentate – emperor basically) and the UK is called The Isle. Think a Hunger Games style world. The rest, I hope is straight forward. It's an unusual premise but I really hope you enjoy. This is a long chapter to set the scene and the next chapter will be in a couple of weeks. Interested to know your thoughts!

::

Necessary Evil

It seems sort of funny to describe a part of my life as beautiful, when now each day comes with the dread of still being alive. But it was. I remember the good days. I remember them all too clearly but it's a blister I can't pick at. I don't touch it. Us. Long tangled kisses and my fingers in his hair. Our family. Before Diarmuid and the war and losing Brendan. Losing my life. It's like a movie I watched years ago and day by day the picture fades, the sound of Brendan's voice has diminished into silence, nothing more than a feeling. Brendan has become a sensation at the back of my neck and the pit of my stomach and the thud of my heart. I have no photos left of him anymore – lost to a fire – so when Diarmuid doesn't notice, I search for his half-brother, the man I love, in the hidden corners of his face.

::

Diarmuid had Seamus Brady's gristled qualities to his face, scalpel eyes and a barrelled build. He wasn't unattractive; like the rest of the Bradys, charm seeped from him like aftershave. When he shook Ste's hands for the first time he enclosed his one with two, fixing his gaze on eyes and lips and in low reverb said: "And how did my brother meet someone like you, Steven?"

Ste had gone red at the ears and collar and lying in bed that night with Brendan between his thighs, after that first meeting with Diarmuid, Ste had said quite casually. "He's alright, in'he? Your brother."

Brendan had quietened, seemed to operate on a slower speed, bringing shutters down. "He's not everything he seems," he'd said and his eyes bored into the pillow above Ste's head.

"What'd you mean?" Ste was on the verge of saying he quite liked him. He had that same intoxicating presence Brendan had – not just looking at you but looking right into you, inviting you into a soul-shared world. He spoke in a slow and considered drawl, smiling in all the right places. But there was a thinness to his manners and humour, a falseness, like he could snap at any moment. Ste had tried to push this out of his mind, Diarmuid was family now, after all, and he'd made a real effort with Ste. People could change.

"Just…" Brendan shifted in the bed, grunting a little as he splayed Ste's legs open wider. "Be careful around him."

"You're just saying that cos he's in charge now. You've got a thing against politici –" Ste was all loose smiled and cocky for a second, his legs gripped white, until Brendan's cock surged into him. "Oh fuck!" His head thrust back into the pillow, buckling his neck and although his vision was blurred he could just about make out the groaning mass of hair and muscles as Brendan built up the propel of his hips to pound him down into the mattress.

Ste hadn't even known of Diarmuid's existence until they had the telly on one lazy Sunday afternoon. It was one of those gloomy miserable days where all traces of sun had disappeared by four and they'd ended up cuddled up on the sofa, Brendan's fingers cruising the shaven nape of Ste's neck. Ste usually took zero interest in the news and barely understood Brendan's political persuasions, but he knew enough to know that an election was taking place to find a new potentate of the realm. The potentate was important – he supposed – they made all the rules and decisions. He tried to explain to the kids about the potentate, told them it was like their version of a king in the fairytales, only theirs didn't live in a castle. As long as the potentate didn't change the laws too much he didn't worry about it. He mostly thought that all those in the running were pretty much saying the same things as each other. He knew Brendan worried. He worried about capital punishment and invalidating gay marriage. Ste didn't. He was happy and devoid of any worry.

But this Sunday, with the news on, they revealed the three men in the running (female potentates weren't allowed to run since a law was formed thirty years back) and Ste felt Brendan bolt out of his seat when the third man was revealed. Diarmuid Brady – a cool eyed man, clean shaved and a sharp chin, with hair that was long enough to brush his ears.

"Fuck," Brendan had said looking at the screen. The man was five years older than him and looked directly into the camera.

"What?"

"He's my half-brother."

Brendan had explained the whole story. How Diarmuid had been a bastard of his father's, adopted and raised by Seamus' brother. "I met him once. He pally'ed up with me when we were alone and then when Seamus appeared…well, Seamus he set the two of us against each other – made us scrap like two bulls to see who the pansy was. Diarmuid landed me in a single punch, just like Dad wanted."

Ste had felt a chill through his bones. "Did Seamus ever…with Diarmuid?"

Brendan was off, staring into another world. Cold. "No," he said, his voice a ghost. "No, Diarmuid was Seamus' favourite son. In a very different way. But I haven't seen him or heard from him since then." Brendan didn't want to focus on it and flicked the news off, heading to the kitchen to make a drink. They both made a good job at forgetting all about Diarmuid Brady's reappearance until the day they heard he'd triumphed in the polls and was to be crowned potentate just three months later.

Diarmuid had been living in The West States, coming over to the Isle with ideas of strength and economy. It was what the people wanted and democracy gave it to them. As soon as Diarmuid landed on Isle soil, he made contact with Brendan. They were meeting for dinner – the two of them with Diarmuid and a mistress of his. He even described her as that on the phone, saying he was 'beyond' a wife.

"What does that even mean?" Ste had said in the car on the way there. He kept touching Brendan's muscled arms through his shirt. It was a comfort thing.

"Means he can't keep it in his pants," Brendan said following the SatNav instructions.

"Not like us then," Ste said, scrunching up his nose. "Only got eyes for each other."

"Yeah and that's the way it should be. Fuck knows I'll take back that wedding ring if you've got any other ideas." Brendan's sense of humour came with a dry tone, rumbling out of his lips.

"What did Diarmuid say when he found out you was married to a bloke?"

Brendan shrugged. "Already knew about it. Said he looked me up. Potentates can do that sort of thing, I suppose."

Ste crossed his arms. "That don't seem right. Invasion of privacy or sommit, isn't it?"

Brendan said nothing, concentrating on the drive.

"So what did he say then? Was he surprised?"

"He said:" - Brendan started, adopting a thicker accent than his own, one that sounded coated in asphalt – "You've picked a young lad. I didn't have you marked as that shallow."

"What's that meant to mean?" Ste thought on it a moment longer. "He's looked up my age too?"

"Time to get used to it, Steven. He can do whatever he wants."

"We better keep on his good side then," Ste said, touching Brendan's arm again.

Ste's resolve to stay vigilant and suspicious of Diarmuid hadn't lasted long. His charms equalled Brendan's and Ste spent the time awed by the amount of extravagance on display. Even though he was a chef, working in a decent restaurant, Ste'd never eaten anything like the dishes Diarmuid ordered for them. The lady with him – his mistress Mariana - with her dark eyes and elegant features was like a model to look at and positioned herself as Ste's best friend as the night went on. Still, he felt Diarmuid's eyes on him most of the night. He felt exposed.

In bed that night, after Brendan had flipped him over and fucked him for a second time, wiping beads of sweat from his spine, Ste panted out flat next to him. "D'you think he liked me. Your brother?" Ste was still getting used to the Irish vowels of his name. They were jagged in his mouth.

Brendan lifted the hand that was masking his forehead, opening his eyes. "Why wouldn't he?" Brendan ran his fingertips along Ste's cheekbone and down on the soft pad of Ste's lips. Ste wet the tips of his fingers. They still tasted of cum and he wasn't sure whose.

"You've been dead quiet," Ste said. "Apart from all the grunting and groaning."

Brendan smirked. "Yeah? I worry about him. What he's got planned."

"Do you think he's nasty, like…like Seamus?" Ste didn't like bringing up Seamus into conversation, but now that he was dead his presence haunted them less.

"It's in our genes, isn't it? So…" Brendan let out a puff of air.

Ste shook his head; Brendan wasn't like that, not to him, not anymore.

"We just gotta keep in his good books for an easy life." Ste repeated his beliefs, resting his head down on Brendan's chest, kissing through the forest of his hair. "We're his family, in't we? Politicians always look after their family. It's what they do, isn't it?"

Brendan hummed, stroking the back of Ste's hair and they fell asleep like that. At least, Ste did.

Before they knew it, Diarmuid had moved them south, to the capital, and had them set up in their own private estate. Brendan resisted for as long as he could, vocalising his hatred for being treated like a charity case. Diarmuid had compromised in the end, when Ste put up a fight too, giving them a place to live but backing down on giving them staff and security. Assassination attempts on the life of the potentate and associates used to be a regular occurrence decades ago but was less common by the time Diarmuid came into power and Brendan hated the thought of being boxed in. Ste managed to transfer jobs, although he was slightly wary of Diarmuid having pulled the strings for him.

When Ste thinks back on those good days now, it's one weekend in particular that has burned into his memories. It's a memory that feels like it's in his blood; it's a part of his soul. It was a Saturday six months into Diarmuid's ascent into power and Ste had christened his and Brendan's new home as "our little love nest". They were settled, blissful. As settled and as blissful as two hot tempered and aggressive men could be living together. The testosterone was a smog in the house. Thick and intoxicating.

That evening, as the storm of a row had dragged their moods down to a pitch grey, Brendan had somehow ushered Ste into the car and took him on a long and mostly silent drive. It was a clear night after a hot day where the sun took hours to finally leave. Ste found it impossible not to feel overcome in the car's trapped scents as Brendan had sprayed himself in a new and gut-warming aftershave. He couldn't even remember what they'd argued about. He rarely could. Being so close meant they knew how to rile each other all too easily. When they had driven to the outback of fuck knows where, Brendan stopped the car. It was positioned on the high point of an expanse of hills. In the daytime these hills would be a patchwork of earthy shades of farmland but at night that were overshadowed by the pin pricked star light. They had stopped in the very definition of isolation.

"You're not going to bury my body here, are you?" Ste asked, mouth sulkily pouting but with a soft tilt of the corners.

"Not today," Brendan said switching off the engine and plunging the car into the shared darkness of the night. He unbuckled his seat belt and unloaded himself from the car, hopping into the bonnet so that his back rested like the windscreen was his recliner.

Ste was full of tuts but followed the move, surprised they both had their feet up on Brendan's car. Brendan always loved material things - god forbid anyone mess up his suits - but it didn't match the depth of his feeling for people. He had his arms folded up against his chest, making them look even more muscular. Ste had made an agreement with himself years ago that even after an argument, even after the words and the glares, he was only human: he still found himself admiring his husband's attractiveness.

"What are we even doing here?" Ste asked with characteristic impatience.

Brendan shushed him and pointed up at the sky. Ste puffed out his cheeks, sighing.

"Makes you realise how small we are. Tiny, insignificant." Brendan said.

Ste had his eyes rolled, sceptically following Brendan's gaze. If this was his way of erasing their spat he wasn't having any of it. They'd made a rule of talking through their problems, not just shoving them to one side.

"I used to look at the stars when I was a kid. To me, Heaven was out there, up there. The stars were just a taster of how beautiful it was. And as I got older, those stars they looked further and further away. Out of reach." Brendan's gaze stopped mapping across the constellations, he turned his head and before Ste's glance caught up with it, he realised Brendan's eyes were fixed on him, his expression lit up in navy and silvery greys. "When Heaven was too far, I looked out for the sea. To this isle. It was closer. Reachable. I thought it was for escape but maybe it was something else. You know? Something drawing me there. Better than some kiddie notion of heaven. Something warmer and grounded, flesh and bone. Something that would accept me when those pearly gates wouldn't."

"What?" Ste said even though Brendan's pauses and the dark openness of his mouth made him sure of the answer.

"You."

Ste drew his mouth to one side. The romantic in him blushed, but he was stubborn when he wanted to be. "You didn't know I was out there; you don't believe in all that stuff."

"No, you're right. I don't." Brendan nodded, leaning his head to the side. "I got lucky I guess." He smiled at Ste tightly as if he still wasn't sure if he was let off the hook. Then his fingers reached out and his thumb made contact with Ste's cheek. "I'm sorry."

Ste looked up, covering Brendan's hand with his. "Me too." They were quiet, sat like that for a good while longer, until Ste's ego took over and he curled. "Better than Heaven, am I?"

Brendan looked at him with a sly glance. "More fun."

Ste propped himself up onto his palms and leaned across, wetting his lips. "Now I'm beginning to see why you brought me here," he said, nose scrunching. He sunk down, pressing his lips around Brendan's top lip and moustache. A hot breath of mischief spurted out of his nose and a hand crept under Brendan's t-shirt until Brendan's hand stopped him and gripped it.

"Let's go for a walk," he said, pulling himself and Ste off the bonnet of the car and hurtled in a half-skid down a narrow path towards the fields.

The crop fields were crisp, a papery brown, and rustling as they passed through. Brendan wasn't one for walks or the countryside and Ste found himself tripping over his feet in order to keep up. He piped up now and again with a, "Wait a sec..." or a, "Brendan, will you just...". But his requests fell on deaf ears and before he knew it he'd lost sight of the car and they were in the midst - waist high - of a neglected field. Brendan stopped dead and the height of the moon made his shadow stretch threateningly over the grass. He turned and with it, gulped Ste into its darkness and in that second, mouth and hands were on him like he was a fallen piece of Heaven.

Their bodies flattened a well of crops underneath them. Ste hoisted up his hips and edged down his clothes, teeth chattering in the excitement of it all. He wasn't cold but the patterned expanse of goosebumps on his abdomen seemed to be offering up and invitation, which Brendan met on his knees, his tongue drumming at the skin. There were animals in a nearby farm making noises in the dark that might've shivered a coward, but Ste's body arched coiled up without inhibition. As he watched Brendan tug down his clothes and rescue lube from a pocket in his jeans, Ste rubbed a saliva driven finger across the shy ring of his opening.

"This ain't a solo project," Brendan said, betraying his words and fisting his own dick before his knees were muddied on the ground again.

"I was making sure I was ready, wern'I?" Ste said, opening up his legs and feeling that tightness of his chest as Brendan positioned his body into a fold.

Brendan grunted, ploughing the soft head of his thumb inside Ste and rubbing against the resistance. Ste's hands at the side clawed at the earth, nostrils flaring at the flood of air. His foot jerked, caught between pushing Brendan away and pulling him closer, but splayed in the air like that he wasn't even close to changing Brendan's motives. When Brendan came up and over him, panting like the finish of a manic laugh, Ste was blocked in total darkness. Brendan had blacked out the moon. Without sight his other senses held reign. Brendan's cock filled him, slow at first, letting his body adjust, letting each ripple of motion blossom out over the skin. Ste felt the intensity in waves, heavy and thick like cement being poured into him - no, fiercer than that - like lava. Brendan was molten and fluid as time progressed, transfixed in the sweeping moans of Ste's body. Ste couldn't see a change in Brendan's face or movement. He could feel it in the air surrounding them. Brendan's hips whipped back and forth crippling Ste into words and sounds that had no meaning. His insides were liquid, bones thrumming with heat. Brendan didn't last much longer and the starred sky blurred once he'd come. Spent, Brendan slumped on top of Ste and Ste was left milking whatever friction was left to finish himself off. They separated, half dressed and bodies reeling, their backs flat to the earth.

Perhaps Ste remembers that weekend for another reason. He remembers it for being the last of the good days. Days which were clear and untainted. He remembers it for being the last days he felt truly safe, truly happy. The last days of it just being the two of them. The Monday after that weekend seemed like not just a new chapter, but a whole new book.

They both had the day off. It was a public holiday, celebrating the birth of a long dead potentate. Brendan was up early and dressing, against Ste's wishes and to his surprise.

"Where you off to so early in a suit?" Ste asked, groggily running a hand over his eyes.

"Diarmuid called. Said he wanted to see me. Us."

"What about?"

"How should I know?" The mention of his brother's name and all its associations had made him snappy. Even though they'd moved closer to the capital they hadn't seen much of Diarmuid. It had been a relief that he hadn't invaded their life, although it seemed like things were progressing exactly how Brendan had feared: once he'd laid the foundations of his government in The Isle, he was ready to involve himself in their lives.

::

When they arrived at Diarmuid's estate they were greeted by a whole host of security checks and searches that resembled that of a prison. It put them both on edge and Brendan made sure to keep touching the small of Ste's back or his shoulder blades to make him feel safe. Ste liked that, he needed it. They were left in a reception room by a woman claiming to be Diarmuid's PA and Brendan nudged Ste after she left, saying he expected Diarmuid was screwing her too.

"Yeah well, it's all that power, innit? He can have whoever he wants."

Brendan glanced at him from the side, raising his brow. Ste tutted as if it didn't even warrant any further comment.

When Diarmuid entered the room, he didn't have any guards with him. He was lighter on his feet than Brendan – his importance made him float – but the thinness of his cheery mood was transparent. A violence gleamed underneath. He reached out to shake their hands and Ste felt his icicle fingers linger and stroke his wrists. It was done so fast but felt noticeable still.

"What's this all about, Diarmuid?" Brendan asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"Business," he said vaguely, "Come through here. Let me show you the property first."

They were given the grand tour. Staircase after staircase. Hundreds of staff. Diarmuid lived, worked and played here. Ste asked about Mariana – where she was – and saw a cold shadow pass Diarmuid's face and then he smiled rigidly like it was made of stone.

"Creative differences," he said with a wink and while Brendan looked out of one of the floor length windows, Diarmuid passed behind Ste and squeezed his shoulder.

They eventually sat down for a meeting and Diarmuid said it plainly.

"There's a war brewing. In the east. With us. They want to take me and the whole system down. They say it's corrupt." Diarmuid laughed hollowly and Ste didn't dare himself to look at Brendan. He knew that Brendan felt the same as those who had started the conflict. Brendan didn't believe in having a potentate. He said it wasn't a democracy at all. Ste wasn't sure what the difference was; it was how it had always been.

Ste zoned out of the conversation and when he reconnected he saw Brendan's fists balling.

"No. I ain't doing your dirty work."

Diarmuid clasped his fingers together. They looked like stacked bones. "Brendan I'm afraid I can't give you that choice. It's one short trip. You negotiate a settlement and then we won't have a full scale war on our hands."

"What? No," Ste said, catching up. "You can't go. It'll be dangerous." He felt like a child.

"It's okay, Steven. I'm not going." Brendan raised his hands at Diarmuid. "I've got too much at stake. Send someone else."

Diarmuid paused, taking in a slow breath. "Look. I didn't want to have to tell you like this, but you're making it difficult for me. If you don't go over there for me, exchange some drugs, some cash – keep them sweet – then you'll be joining the army. This, brother…" – from his time in The West States, he'd developed a twang to his accent – "is my compromise. All ex-cons. Ones who've served longer than two years, will be shipped off to fight."

"Cannon fodder."

Diarmuid gave a fraction of a shrug. "It's a necessary evil."

Brendan stood, and with it the chair fell backwards. "Fuck!" He slammed his hands on the desk. "So you're telling me that you, YOU, can't bend the rules for me? Your own brother. You came up with this fucking law!"

Ste saw Diarmuid process the word brother and push it out of focus. "Brendan, I am. You have my word. You'll be back here in a blink. Young Steven won't even notice you gone." At this his eyes met with Ste's. Ste saw something softer in him, if only for a second.

Ste shook his head. "Nah, nah. It's dangerous. I don't want…"

Brendan honed his attention on Ste. "And if I go…what then? What of Steven?"

"You'll have your criminal record wiped free and Steven will be looked after. I'll make sure of it. He'll have the greatest protection I can offer."

"Why are you talking like you're gonna do it?" Ste said, looking imploringly at Brendan.

Ste felt like the two adults were talking over his head.

"If I come back and even one hair on his head is outta place…I swear…"

"Not gonna happen."

The brothers were standing face to face – matching heights, matching eyes, matching colouring. Diarmuid rested a hand on Brendan's shoulder.

"I trust you - only you – to pull of this deal for me. It's the Brady charm!" Diarmuid tried teasing, lightening the tone. The transparency returned like a two way mirror. Ste's head was rushing with the feeling of being completely out of depth.

"And the laws, what other laws are changing?"

"Minor. Minor details."

"How do they affect us?" Brendan gestured to Ste.

"Well. If you can't go through with this deal then…" Diarmuid rubbed at his temples and then adjusted his tie. He sat on the corner of the heavy mahogany desk. His leg touched Steven's. "All those ex-cons who don't sign up will lose all property and will not have any legal rights to work."

"Fuck you Diarmuid."

His cheek twitched. "It's not a choice I made lightly. Why else do you think I'm sending you over there to negotiate for me? You're family. Both of you. I want to protect you."

"I need some fucking air," Brendan said, storming towards the doors. Ste got up to join him but he told him to stay and Ste soon felt Diarmuid's hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his seat.

"I am sorry for taking him away from you," he said.

"I don't understand," Ste said, scratching nails down his face. "We never had wars before…we never had nothing like this…everyone had rights…"

"Oh Steven…" Diarmuid said, his voice absorbing this velvet quality of someone trying to soothe. Just then a knock at the door came. A young blond man in a clumsily fitting suit entered, a press pass swinging at his neck.

"Sorry to disturb," he said, his voice scratchy with nerves. "Mr Brady, you wanted to see me?" It was unnerving to hear another Brady surname.

Diarmuid's face morphed, his mouth sprouting upward arrows. "Of course," he said. He sprung off the table and introduced the young man. "Steven, this is Aaron, my most trusted member of the press office. Aaron, this is Steven. My brother's husband. I know I've mentioned him before."

Ste saw something slip into Aaron's expression and he held out his hand. "Yes. I've heard a lot about you," he said and then moved quickly next to Diarmuid.

"Steven if you can just excuse us. We're just stepping next door for a minute." They headed into another wood-panelled side room and as Diarmuid left, Ste realised his mobile phone had been left behind. He didn't like to interrupt so Ste sat there staring at the phone, hoping Brendan would return soon. He felt sick at the thought of him leaving to go and deal with some sort of bad people, even if Diarmuid had promised safety. Something wasn't right.

The mobile phone rang persistently after ten minutes of it sitting on the desk in front of Ste. He took a breath, realising it could be important and crossed the room to disturb the meeting. He didn't think to knock and as soon as he hadn't, as soon as he turned the handle and strode straight in, he realised his mistake.

As soon as he entered the room everything was skewed. It wasn't the conversation or meeting he expected. The young man from the press had his hair pulled back from his face, saliva running off his chin and his eyes closed. On his knees. Diarmuid, eyes fixed on the walls ahead, grunted in a thudding rhythm matching the movement of his thrusts. He fed his dick into Aaron's mouth without care or apology, groaning hungrily as Aaron's hands squeezed his arse.

Ste didn't have the speed of thought then to realise, only on hindsight did he acknowledge it, but Diarmuid had wanted Ste to walk in on him with the young lad from the press office. He'd wanted him to see it all. To plant a seed. To infect him in some way. Ste never told Brendan what he saw. There wasn't even time, even if he knew how to reveal it. By nightfall Brendan had packed, ready to be shipped off to the eastern territories and Ste would remember that night as the last time he saw Brendan alive.