When it happened, Doug reminded himself, Brendan was still Brendan. Still violent, still obsessed with Doug's boyfriend, and still a hairy Irish psychopath. But when it happened…the hair looked dark and thick and soft and sexy, the accent sounded dark and thick and soft and sexy, and that goddamn psychopath was dark and thick and soft and sexy if that was even possible.
He didn't know what was possible anymore. He'd thought he was straight a year ago, now he was thinking "sexy" in terms of the worst possible man he could be thinking of that way.
It happened by moments, by seconds, by minutes—just long enough for Doug to realize he had been out of his mind for a bit. He would catch himself and swallow, a jolt of worry probably flashing in his eyes as he checked to see if Brendan noticed, and if anyone else was there to see if they had noticed either. No one was ever looking. When Ste was there, he was never looking. People didn't look at Doug when Brendan was there making himself the center of attention. And if the first and second reasons to hate having these thoughts about Brendan were 1) Doug's relationship with Ste and 2) Brendan's fucked up history with Ste, then the third reason was that he hated even the idea that he was validating that arrogance.
"Look at me," Brendan said figuratively every time he entered a room—and literally on several occasions, as if he was something amazing. Eventually Doug just found it delusional and sad. You're good at intimidating people, that's all you're good at, Doug would repeat in his head like a mantra as he waited for Brendan to tire of bothering him and just leave. It was a fitting mantra for Brendan's tactics with him, as most of them consisted of trying to prove that he was better, cooler, more suited for Ste, whatever. He'd prepared himself for another tactic—something that Brendan had used on Noah. From Ste's account of what happened there, Doug was expecting to hear that it had turned into a threesome with them. Hearing how it actually turned out though made Doug positive that Brendan was going to try something with him to mess with him and Ste.
He kept waiting for it every time Brendan leaned in close and taunted him or tried to get into his head. But either Brendan knew it wouldn't work or he just wasn't interested. He still adjusted Doug's clothes and got too touchy with his face, but there were no propositions or come-ons. When Brendan had mocked him about his sex life with Ste, he kept expecting an offer. I think you need a little practice. I am an excellent teacher. I could teach you exactly what he likes. But there was never any offer and Doug was relieved, mostly.
What was driving him crazy were those few seconds of a day where he wasn't relieved. He would replay something in his mind—Brendan tapping his chin, Brendan straightening his collar, Brendan leaning right into his face to whisper that Doug had better do as he's told. What if…he thought, and he hated himself for those few seconds of "what if."
It all kicked off because of a few inches of leather.
No. That makes it sound justifiable. "A few inches of leather." This was not justifiable. They were circles of leather, maybe suede for all Doug knew. He tried not to get close enough to look. Whatever they were made of, at the end of the day they were fucking elbow patches. College professor, 1950s TV dad, "let's go for a hunt, son" elbow patches.
And when Brendan Brady wore a shirt with elbow patches, something in Doug's throat tightened up and Professor Papa Brady was all he saw until his brain caught up with the rest of him and put a stop to that.
He'd never had some kind of professor-daddy kink; most of the time Brendan's aggressiveness creeped him the hell out. When he was doing jobs for the guy, when Brendan thought he owned him, he was always in one of his suits. They were harsh and sharp and reminded him of low budget Las Vegas gangster films. That Brendan, the Brendan who he saw most days since he'd arrived in the village, he might as well have been a character as well. Nothing real to him, always putting on a show, trying to intimidate. Doug would look at him sometimes and wonder what Ste could have seen in him. Ste would slip sometimes, like the time he almost went on about their great nights together. It had made Douglas sick and he'd forced himself to shut up before asking Ste "What's wrong with you? Why? Him? Why? Why? Why?"
It wasn't just Ste though. It was a revolving door of men and Doug just didn't get it. It couldn't just be about being good in bed. How could they put up with Brendan long enough to even get there and find out?
It was like blowfish. This delicacy that could kill you that people kept eating, saying it was so great. Doug couldn't imagine the blowfish was worth it and he couldn't imagine Brendan was worth it. And you know what? He was happy like that.
Then there were those other days. Those sweater days. Those elbow patch, Professor Brady is in the building, fuck, I'm someone's father and I miss being a daddy days. On those days it just took a bit longer for Doug to remember the list of faults that normally played through his head automatically when Brendan showed up. Once he thought it though the damage was done. One time he'd just spaced out on whatever was going on around him and tried to figure out what it was that made him look at Brendan as a whole different person because of some fabric.
It was just a black shirt. Was it a jumper? A Henley? Low-life-criminal Underoos? Brendan was gesturing subtly and Doug realized at the same time that a) he had been trying to track the movement of the elbow patches as Brendan moved his arms, and b) there was a pause in the conversation and his spacing must have finally been noticed. He started to look up, but not before Brendan had reached out and tapped Doug's chin with the back of two fingers, telling him to wake up. Doug shook away, rolled his eyes, and huffed away with Ste calling after him.
"I'm fine," Doug said firmly, not wanting Ste to come after him. One of Brendan's fingers had brushed against Doug's bottom lip and he was feeling dizzy.