The day that Brendan leaves him, Ste stays up till dawn. It's not intentional; the police search on the house is over, and Amy insists that he goes to bed at a decent hour, patiently listening to his insistence that he can't sleep in his room: less than twenty four hours ago, Brendan was there with him, beside him.

She does her best to tuck him in, making him feel like a child, trying to transform the sofa into an attractive alternative. Instead Ste's aware of the lumps of the material every time he shifts, and Amy finds him staring up at the ceiling at three o'clock when she gets a glass of water from the kitchen. She holds her hand out to him, and it's warm and soft and familiar in Ste's own, and he lets her lead him.

They tiptoe because of the kids, Leah and Lucas so blissfully unaware of what's happened today, but understanding that something has; they witnessed their daddy with tears streaming down his face, pulling them to his chest like they were the only things anchoring him to reality. Leah had asked where Brendan was, daddy Brendan, and Amy had told her that he had gone away for a while, and wasn't coming back.

Ste had cried harder.

Amy cuddles up to him, and he rests his head against her chest. It's not meant to be like this, him drawing strength from her, her looking after him. He had prided himself on transforming himself, being someone who held the family together, someone they could count on. But he can't stop the gasping sobs from racking through him, making his chest rise and fall, Amy kissing against his hair.

She's doing more than he deserves, but he knows that she can't completely understand; his loss resonates with her, the idea of it and the grief that he carries, but not the person behind it. Not Brendan, and all that he is, and all that he means. Amy wasn't here when things were good, didn't bear witness to Brendan's protectiveness towards the kids, the way that he would look at Ste, so much affection and want in his expression that it took his breath away.

He'd never been loved like that before.

He must manage a few hours of fitful, disturbed sleep, because the next thing he's aware of is a small hand shaking him lightly. He squints in the morning light, momentarily forgetting what's transpired; he wonders whether Brendan's already in the kitchen making coffee, before he remembers. His son is staring at him in concern, and Ste wants to smooth his hands down Lucas's forehead, take away the worry etched there. He's too young to look like that, and Ste won't drag him down with him.

"Mummy's made us breakfast."

Ste follows him out of the room, brushing the sleep out of his eyes, feeling lightheaded. The picture that greets him is one of normality - a traditional family layout, and he feels as though he's been transported back to an earlier time, before Amy left and before Brendan became his world.

Amy holds out a chair for him, beckoning to the table where cereal and toast is spread out, an all you can eat buffet that Ste's stomach doesn't feel prepared for. He makes an effort to smile, figuring that Amy deserves that after the trouble she's gone to, the conscious attempt to make things seem casual. He grabs a slice of toast, grateful for the way he can tear it into pieces, unable to contemplate taking whole bites, nausea gripping him.

"Do you want something with it?" Amy asks, showing him an array of spreads. "Some jam? It's seedless."

Ste shakes his head fervently, tearing his eyes from it and picking up the peanut butter instead. He rejects coffee for some orange juice, stuffing Brendan's favourite Nescafé container in the back of the cupboard.

The juice is hard to swallow, the toast even harder. Leah and Lucas eat their breakfast eagerly. Ste envies them.

"So, what do you want to do today?"

"Thought I'd just stay in," Ste says immediately, has formed a plan in his mind - to have no plan. He doesn't want to go outside and face the village and people's questioning glances, their attempts to pry into his business. Brendan's a well known figure, and his absence won't pass without notice or remark. Darren was outside the club last night, holding Ste back when his screams had torn through his body. Ste doesn't trust the man's ability to stay silent about this; he's bound to have talked to Nancy and his dad and step mum, and with Frankie Osborne involved, there won't be any secrets.

He doesn't want to be pitied, doesn't want to be the subject of scrutiny and ridicule: how could he have lived with a mass murderer? How could he have exposed his children to such a monster? He can hear their hushed whispers, what they'll think of him; what they'll think of Brendan.

"It's a lovely day. It's not good to stay cooped up in here." He can sense by Amy's tone that she's not going to let this drop; she's a battle axe when she wants to be, and he doesn't fancy being on the receiving end.

"Maybe we could take the kids to the park." It's all he thinks he can manage. It'll give him something to concentrate on, making sure that they enjoy themselves, that they remain unaware of the monumental shift that's occurred overnight. And he doesn't know how long he has left with them - whether things will be different now that Brendan's not here. Whether Amy will let them stay permanently, or he'll have to say goodbye to them all over again.

Amy seems appeased by his suggestion, and after breakfast Ste begins getting the kids ready. Leah finds Britney by the sofa, the doll that she previously couldn't go anywhere without, and that she left with Ste when he'd hugged her and Lucas in the flat, listening to the sound of the door closing behind them.

"Did you give her lots of kisses, daddy? Whenever you missed me?"

"Every night," he says, voice cracking around the edges.

"Did Brendan too?"

Ste can feel Amy tensing beside him; it hits a nerve, the thought of her children with Brendan, and Ste hates that, hates that more than ever, because Brendan would never hurt a child, would rather die than do anything to them - innocent, don't have the strength to fight an adult off -

"Yeah. Of course he did." He says it with conviction, doesn't care that it's a half truth. Brendan never kissed it, but he'd pick the doll up sometimes, and his touch would be tentative agains the material, as though afraid that it would break; that he'd break it.

"We both missed you so much."

You, me, Leah, Lucas - we're gonna be a proper family. Brendan had told him that, had wanted it. He isn't lying now: they thought about the kids everyday, but Ste had felt the certainty that they'd get them back, together. That Amy would thaw, and eventually she and Brendan would form an unlikely alliance, would have a grudging sense of respect for each other, despite everything that had previously happened.

"And Brendan, he's gonna be so excited to see you." Ste's mumbling now, eyes bright and vivid with the idea of Brendan walking through that door again, a swagger to his steps, stance confident and knowing, a lopsided smile that says what his words don't: You really thought I'd leave you, Steven?

"Ste." Amy's voice is sharp, cutting through his imaginings. "Why don't you go and get dressed?"

Ste nods, dazed, eyes travelling to the bedroom, sure that he'll find the familiar soft mound waiting for him beneath the covers, days old stubble brushing against Ste's lips when he kisses him, Brendan's moustache scratchy and satisfying, its masculinity making Ste slip his hand beneath the Irishman's boxers, craving more; more of the defined contours of his chest, and more of the strength of his legs, easily trapping Ste and bending him to his will, curled around his arse to drag him closer.

When he opens the door, movements tentative and eyes wide, half fear and half excitement burning within him, he finds the bed as he made it. The sheets no longer smell of Brendan, and there's no imprint on the mattress.

There's nothing to suggest that he was here at all.


He watches as the kids weave in and out between the trees, their laughter and their endless chatter their form of Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs; they tell Ste the path that they're taking, and he and Amy follow the sound, silent as Ste grapples for something of worth to say. He can't think of anything; his words seem stuck.

Amy begins to fill in the blanks for him, mindlessly talking about her life back in Manchester, about Mike, about how the kids are settling into their new nursery and school. Ste nods and umms and ahhhs and makes all the expected sounds of interest, but his mind's still back in the flat, trying to find out where Brendan is, how he could have gone so soon. A person can't be in your life one moment, sharing your home and drinking from their favourite mug and leaving bristles of their hair in the sink, and then their laugh and their voice and their warmth is snatched from you, and no matter how many times you reach into the empty air, you can't get them back.

They still haven't talked about Brendan, not properly, and it's like a wall between them. Ste wants to find someone who would understand all of this, someone who knows what Brendan's really like, strong and brave and loyal, stubborn as fuck for giving everything away for his sister. Cheryl - he wants to speak to Cheryl, even if he stands the risk of hating her.

Ste listens as Amy tells him about her fiance, and it sparks something within him - the image of a bread ring, daft and ridiculous, that he'd held up to the light, slipping it onto his finger.

Brendan Brady, will you marry me?

The image fades as quickly as it comes.

"Do you ever think about Lee?" It comes from nowhere, and Amy blinks at him, startled.

"Why?" She looks offended by the question, as though Ste's picking away at an old wound that she thought had healed.

"Just thought that you would end up together."

He liked Lee. He could be frustrating as hell at times, and Ste had called him every name under the sun when he'd tried to take his family away from him to move to America, but there was a goodness about him - a kindness. And Amy had never laughed with anyone the way she laughed with him.

The first time she told him about her feelings for Lee, everything had just started with Brendan. There had been an excitement, the thought of the two of them being with people who made them feel that alive.

"So did I," Amy says in a small voice, and he regrets bringing it up, but he can't stop himself from probing further.

"Are you still in touch?"

"Not really. The odd text now and then, just to check in with each other, but...well, it's awkward, isn't it? Why, how often do you and Noah catch up?" She adds wryly.

It raises a flicker of a smile, dim and fleeting.

"Not much, funnily enough."

"Didn't think so somehow. It's always going to be weird, isn't it - exes."

He doesn't point out that they're exes, and they've done pretty well.

"I don't want to know who he's..." Amy stops, releases a small shudder.

"But maybe if you talked to him, you and him could -"

"It's not going to happen. I've moved on."

Moved on. It sounds like the words don't fit together, and Ste's grateful when Leah and Lucas come tearing out of the bushes, displaying their collection of muddy twigs that Ste pretends to find deeply fascinating.

He wonders if Amy's like him, whether she met the person who she was meant to spend the rest of her life with, and now she's settling, marrying someone who's safe, who will never compare to all that she had.


He hovers around the phone that afternoon. Amy takes the kids to the deli to visit Doug, but Ste declines the offer. He's not ready to see the look of pity, the firm insistence that he's had a lucky escape, the horror on Doug's face when he discovers what crimes Brendan's been sent down for.

He reassures Amy that he'll be fine, and when she closes the door it begins; the pacing, the furtive glances across at the telephone, and the desperate grasp of his mobile in his hand. He'll be allowed to make private calls, won't he? That's what Ste's seen on television, and he remembers being able to speak to his mum in young offenders. Perhaps Brendan was too busy being searched and shown his room last night, and he would have needed time to adjust, to take some breathing space.

Perhaps he still had the intention to end all contact. I'm going away for life. You have to live yours. But he'll have woken up today realising that he is Ste's life, and Ste is his, and he'll call, send a visiting order. Or if not today then tomorrow, but it's going to happen soon, this weekend, and they're going to piece back together what was broken.

So Ste waits, and he plays music softly in the background, not loud enough so that he won't be able to hear the phone, but so that he can hear the distinctive tones of Johnny Cash filling the room. Ste wonders whether it's a premonition, whether Brendan always knew that this was going to happen; the guy's singing about prison for fucks sake, seems to be in every song, and it feels like Brendan might have given up a long time ago and simply didn't tell him, fed him false hope that Ste made the world beautiful for him again.

Ste bounces his legs up and down, tries to find an outlet for the anxiety that's gripping him. Brendan had been detached in hospital, had told him the way that things were going to be like it was a business agreement, something clinical.

He jumps when he hears the sound of keys in the door, initially forgetting that Amy has a spare set that she's kept hold of. He moves before she can work out what he's been doing, how even when he asks how Doug is, he's glancing over her shoulder, willing to hear the familiar sound of the phone ringing.

He scolds Leah during supper when she's screaming over having to eat her vegetables, and Amy looks at him in shock at his sudden burst of anger. He mumbles an apology, but his thoughts are racing: did Brendan call when his daughter was having a temper tantrum, and now he's lost his chance?

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom and quickly checks the answer machine, but there's nothing there.

He awakes the next morning with renewed hope. Today will be the day that Brendan calls. He's thankful that he only had a few hours of sleep - it means that he can concentrate on waiting by the phone, his attention not diverted. He gets out of bed, gently dislodging Amy from around him where her head rests against his shoulder.

He uses Brendan's mug to make himself a coffee; he wants it to look used, not for it to become an ornament gathering dust. When he drinks from it, he feels mildly ridiculous for thinking about the fact that Brendan's lips were once around the rim, the soft hairs of his moustache against the china. It's the closest he's come to kissing him in over twenty four hours.

It's cold at this early hour, and he grabs the dressing gown off the sofa. His hands freeze around it: he wore it, made it his own. At first Ste had tried to deter him, had suggested that he buy one, had imagined the thought of him and Brendan in matching sets, partly nauseating, partly something that flooded him with that particular feeling: the feeling that this was it for them, that they were a couple, did couple things, whatever that meant. But he'd grown to like it, the sight of Brendan in it. It suited him, and it made for quite the image, seeing him walking around the house in it and little else, hair-covered legs on display, a flash of skin showing through the top of it.

Ste slips it on slowly. The material's still soft despite the repeated washes, and it stops anymore goose bumps from erupting down his arms. He perches on the sofa, and he lets the excitement build within him; it's only been a day, but he's missing the accent, the drawl, the teasing, the sarcasm.

The phone rings, and he snatches it urgently, almost knocking it over in the process. His words tumble over each other; there's so much to say, and he's afraid that he doesn't have enough time, that Brendan will never understand how when he says that he's in, that he's all in, for life, that it'll sound like a promise that's designed to be broken, something that a child makes. He's not a child anymore; he can handle it: the weekly prison visits, the distance, the years without sex - he can deal with that, won't matter worth a damn if Brendan stays by his side. It's the shutting out, the darkness and the loneliness that he can't take.

"Steven." His voice is a rasp, and he sounds like he's been through the wars, is wounded already, but he's here, and he's talking to him, and Ste could cry from happiness.

"Bren." It's a familiar nickname, and it feels good to say it again. No one else but Cheryl calls him it, and she's not around to say it now. He needs to keep it alive, that intimacy.

"How are you? I knew you would call." Because he did, he knew it.

"I didn't mean to. Didn't even know I was going to do this until I dialled the numbers."

Ste smiles at that: there's some twisted satisfaction to be had from the fact that Brendan couldn't resist getting in touch. That despite his good intentions, they're always pulled back to each other.

"What I said at the hospital..."

"It's okay," Ste immediately interrupts. He doesn't want to be reminded of that. It's too raw, not ready to be pressed at again.

"I didn't..." I didn't mean it. It's what Ste wants to hear, only it's not the truth: Brendan did mean it, meant for them to stay away from each other, but nothing has ever been about what should happen, and what's right, and what's fair. Desire is a different breed of monster, and love is even worse.

"I want to take it back," Brendan whispers, and Ste holds the phone closer to his ear, wants to hear every miraculous, beautiful word.

"Please take it back." He's begging now, but he's not ashamed; some things are worth throwing away pride for. He'd screamed at the hospital, and cried and held onto the railings of the bed: his dignity has already been lost, but that's not what he's afraid of losing.

"I'm a bastard."

"I know."

"And selfish for doing this."

"Probably."

"I'm gonna fuck up your life."

"You already have," Ste says, choking back a sob and a laugh, doesn't know which is stronger, which wants to be released from him more.

"Steven, are you sure about this? Are you sure that this is what you want? It's going to be impossible, you do realise that?"

Ste shakes his head, even though Brendan can't see him.

"Not impossible. Impossible suggests that we can't do it. But we can, Brendan. We can. I know we can." He wills him to have that faith; Brendan's always been the more religious of the two, but this requires a different kind of belief altogether.

"You'll become bored."

"Bored?" Ste says, voice full of disbelief. "You're a lot of things, but life with you has never been boring."

"Okay then - you won't be able to cope. It's going to be difficult, you must know that? A constant fucking headache. You're strong, you're the strongest man I know, but even you can't -"

"Yes I can. Whatever it is, I can do it." He's sure of that, doesn't have a flicker of doubt beneath the surface.

"You'll want to see other people. I can't give you what you need in here."

"You think I was with you for sex - is that it?"

"No..."

Ste's sure that he can sense Brendan rubbing his temple on the other side of the line. Still causing him stress, even with all these miles between them.

"Not the only reason. But you're young, you have needs -"

Ste laughs at that, some cliched line that doesn't apply to this situation in the slightest. Yeah, he has needs - he needs Brendan.

"I can give you a blow job under the table, can't I?"

That makes Brendan laugh, reluctantly at first but then he gives into it, low and filthy, a chuckle.

"I don't think prison quite works like that."

"Shame. It would make everyone's life a lot happier."

He can't believe they're doing this, joking like there aren't cordoned off fences separating them, barbed wire and locked doors. A life sentence. But it feels good to laugh, and better to be laughing with Brendan.

"What I'm trying to say is - I meant what I said. You and me, we can do anything."

"And I meant what I said too. I'm selfish. And...I love you."

Ste closes his eyes, concentrates for a second on those words, lets them take hold of him, become a blanket enveloping him.

"I love you too." He hears similar relief from the other side; the sound of a sigh, and silence as they both adjust to this, to the fact that they're going to do this, they're going to make this work -

Ste stares at the phone for so long that be begins to think he can hear it ring, but it's merely the hopeful workings of his mind, clinging onto something which he doesn't want to let die. His eyes sting, and his vision is blurry. It takes him a moment to realise why, and then he brushes the tears roughly from his eyes, and decides that he can't exist in this silence any longer.


When he goes into the village it's still relatively early, and all the quieter for being a Sunday. He buys flowers and a bar of chocolate from the local shop, and when he enters the flat again, he tries to be brave.

Amy's watching television, and the kids are eating breakfast when he walks in, jam clearly displayed on the table.

"Hey, don't scoff everything - save room for this." He hands over the chocolate bar like a prize, and tries to make their elation become his own; he can vaguely recall that, becoming excited over such a simple thing.

Amy applies the doting mum card, the one that he hasn't always managed to make up for since she's been gone.

"Chocolate, for breakfast?"

"Why not?" He makes it sound like a celebration, kissing Lucas, and it is something to celebrate, the kids being here after so long, but it doesn't fill him with the comfort that it should.

He presents Amy with the flowers, thanking her, because she's been holding him together since she came here, the sticking plaster that refuses to let him come undone. Then he begins his attempt to drum up some enthusiasm, deliberately pitching his voice to how he wants it to be. He sounds normal - he hopes he sounds normal.

"I thought we could go into town. There's a new fair that's arrived. It's got bouncy castles and everything, and the big slides that you like."

They whoop and cheer; Brendan's taken a trip to the seaside for all they know.

Amy voice rings over them. "Ste, we can't."

Ste's smile fades. He knew this was coming, but he thought there was some way to change it, that he could salvage something from this.

"I've got to take them home. I'm so sorry, but we've got to go back today."

He stares at Leah and Lucas. Have they grown taller in the months since they left him, or is it just his imagination, his fear twisting things? He wonders what he's missed - what new developments he hasn't caught up on, because it's impossible to find out everything in the short space of time that he's had. He shouldn't have been so preoccupied, waiting for the call that never came. He should have been with them.

Amy's gathering the kids up now, wiping the crumbs off their faces and keeping the chocolate bar out of reach from Lucas's outstretched hands. She's rushing, Ste can feel it - perhaps she can tell that there's something wrong with him, something that drives people away. The same thing that made Brendan reject him. As she does their coat buttons up and reaches for her own, he feels like everything's spiralling away from him in slow motion, and if he doesn't try to stop it, then they'll walk out of that door, and he might never see them again. Why would they want to come back?

"But Ames -"

"You know we can't stay."

"Can I just have a few more days, please?"

He needs the chance to get things sorted in his head, and he knows it's not possible without the kids, without Amy here with him, a grounding presence. The girl that he grew up with, and the man he wanted to grow old with; gone, just like that.

Amy reminds him of the practicalities: Leah's school, that she's only just begun to become comfortable in. They'll call, ask questions. He has an answer for that, because there has to be an answer - they can tell them that she's sick, maybe take the whole week off, stay here. He can feel Amy growing restless, and she drags him away from the kids like he's a nuisance, a difficulty.

"I need you here." Ste's almost crying as he says it, as he realises the truth that lies behind it. He needs them, otherwise he'll crumble.

Amy thinks he's more capable than that, tells him so, but he thinks she's doing it as a means to get away, to escape the exposing nature of his tears.

"Brendan's bad news." She's finally said his name, and it's what he'd feared it would be, a way to blame. "He always was, and he always will be."

Always: it strikes a chord in him. He and Brendan were robbed of their always, and all that's left is ruined reminders. The ghost of a future.

"In time, you'll come to realise that what happened is probably for the best."

She says it gently, as though talking to one of the children.

Do you want me to spend the rest of my life with people telling me that I'm better off without you? Because I'm not.

Ste shakes his head, needs to deny it. They were happy, they had a chance at something, were going to be together, and he can't understand how Amy doesn't see that, how someone who knows him so well is so utterly blind to the effect that Brendan had on his life. She sees an abuser, a manipulator, a murderer. She doesn't see the man.

"How can you say that?" His voice is thick with tears that are desperate to be shed.

"Because it's true!" She's passionate now, all riled up like she always is when talking about Brendan. Her anger gives her drive, makes her eyes wide and doll like. It makes her feel powerful, hating someone this much.

"Now you can learn to stand on your own two feet."

It sounds like she's asking him to be alone.

"You went from me to Doug to Brendan. You've never given yourself the time or the space to figure out who you are, and what it is that you want."

He knows what he wants. It's in a prison cell.

"I can't do it on my own."

I can't do this without you.

Ste puts his hand over his face, tries to hold back the onslaught of emotion that's rippling at the edges, making his body tense with trying to hold it in.

"Yes you can." Amy takes his hand, repeats it again and again, you can, you can, until it ceases to mean anything, just feels like false hope. Her arms wrap around him, and it feels like she's already saying goodbye.

Over her shoulder, Ste can feel his fear, sadness swelling within him, threatening and insurmountable. He realises with an acute clarity that he has no idea what he's going to do next, and as he waves the kids and Amy goodbye, he goes back inside the flat, staring around at the emptiness, the lack of a home that the place has become. He can feel his name wanting to form on his tongue, nearly says it out loud, Brendan, but it's too foolish, too naive. He's not going to appear from Ste summoning him. If Brendan wanted to see him, then he would have fought for this precarious thing they have, treating it delicately, like something precious.

Ste goes into the bedroom, getting as far as the doorway before his steps falter. It's one thing to quickly grab some clean clothes from the drawer, but another thing entirely to look around, noticing the things that are undeniably Brendan's - the shirts hanging in the wardrobe, and the pack of gum on the table. Ste wants to touch them, run his fingers along these objects, feel some sort of connection, any connection - but if he does that, then he'll remove the prints of Brendan's hands, and it'll be like he's played a part in erasing him completely.


The deli's empty when he first arrives, and he uses the opportunity to look around, take it in. He chose the colours of the walls, the furniture - the entire decor. He'd said that to Brendan in an instance of anger, when he'd been desperate to carve a life away from him, create something that was his. All those months, years spent hating the person who he loved the most.

He begins to unload some of the stock, and it's then that he hears a key in the lock, the door opening. Ste's hands tremble the slightest amount around the edges of the cardboard box; he's not ready for this, but he has to be.

"I didn't think you'd be in today." Doug's voice is full of concern, and it's exactly what he doesn't need right now, a reminder of what's happened.

"Why wouldn't I be? I've got two deliveries to do. And do you know that stock room's not been cleaned for weeks?"

Doug's not convinced. He sees through it, Ste's front transparent, weightless. He says his name, Ste, and it sounds like stop. Listen to me.

Ste ignores him, heading towards the kitchen. "It's got to be done, Doug." He talks about a rival business that's opening up nearby, "we've got to be top of our game," has a competitive edge to his voice that surprises him: he didn't know he could slip on a mask so easily, pretend to care about something that seems meaningless now.

Doug tears down the foundations of the mask, cuts away at it. "Stop!" He sounds almost angry, frustrated by this display. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Ste leans against the counter, a swirl of memories attacking him. He can still remember the last taste of Brendan's lips before he was ripped away.

"I really don't want to talk about it." This is why he wanted to return to work; it allows him to focus on the mundane, on tasks and preparation. Cooking gives him that outlet, could do it in his sleep.

"I know how hard this is for you."

Ste wants to laugh, feels anger boil beneath the surface, thick and dark and overpowering.

"Oh do you?" His voice is dripping with scepticism, and it makes Doug vicious in return.

"To lose someone you love? Yeah, I've got a pretty good idea."

Is it him, is that who he's talking about? Or is it that girl of his, the blond girl who Silas killed? It's not the same, either of them, and Ste thinks it in the silence, thinks how Doug losing Bex wasn't like this. If Doug's always been gay then he can't have loved her, can't have wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. A friend, maybe, but not the same hurt when she died; not even close.

If it's him, if Doug's talking about losing him - he's got him here. He's living and breathing right in front of him, is real and within reach, close enough to touch.

Ste can't touch Brendan anymore.

"You're gonna get through this."

No one's listening to him. No one knows him. He feels like he's screaming, and no one can hear.

"Here come the clichés." He's smiling as he says it, face contorted so it looks like a sneer, ugly and cruel. "What are you gonna say now? Time's a great healer? Well Brendan's looking at a thirty year stretch, so I reckon I've got plenty of time to heal, don't you?"

Doug wants him to stop, eyes downcast, can't even meet Ste's own. It's too much. He's too much.

"Alright." He's quiet, and Ste knows that this is his cue to apologise for snapping, to be dutiful and compliant and make this work.

But he doesn't.

"No, it's not alright, Doug. Don't stand there, pretending that you understand how I feel. Because you don't understand. How could you?"

Ste wants to leave, needs to leave, get the fuck out of this place, but he's unlocked something now, and he can't chain it back up again, can't stop the venom from leeching through.

"It's not gonna be okay, because I've just lost the only man that I've ever loved."

Ste has his back to him, pulling on his jacket, and he feels triumphant, dangerously so. Dangerous because this isn't what he does anymore, making a misery of people's lives, sticking the knife in, twisting it until it bleeds, surveying the damage like it's a beautiful wreckage that he's created. He's meant to be better than that, had gone to anger management sessions to leave all that behind, the desire to turn the people he loves into victims, helpless to his every command, the hold he has over them toxic.

The father he is, the boyfriend he was, the person he's trying to be - he doesn't do this, not now.

He can feel the pain he's caused without having to glimpse it.

"Ste, I know you're hurting but that doesn't mean that the rest of us have to suffer." He's pushed him too far; Doug's voice is shaking, and Ste garners more satisfaction from that: if someone else is hurting, then maybe he won't be.

"Awww, that's nice." It's acidic, and mocking, and he could do real damage here - wants to get his hands on something, break something, set fire to it and watch it burn. Laugh as it goes up in smoke.

It's hit a nerve. Ste's not the only one who's looking to wound now.

"You knew what Brendan was like, so don't go playing the victim, okay?"

Ste doesn't say anything, laughs that joyless, silent laugh again. Doug's right; he did know what Brendan was like, went into this relationship knowing everything - the fucks, the fucks ups, the blackness of Brendan's eyes when he would use his fists to bruise and mark and scar. He went into the relationship because of what Brendan was like, not in spite of. He had police arresting his boyfriend, drugs in the club, had his own kids taken away. But for Ste, there was no one else.

He can't stay here anymore, fears for what he'll do if he does. He slams the door shut behind him, relishing the sound of it, the violence. He stumbles along the pavement outside; the lack of sleep makes his moments clumsy, uncoordinated, and he takes a deep lungful of air to try and steady himself, stop his head from spinning.

He's got nothing back at the flat, nothing to make going back there seem like an attractive option. He can't go to Chez Chez - it's boarded up while the police are using it for their investigations, and he's afraid of the ghosts he might find there.

The Dog is quiet when he approaches it, and he orders a drink - a beer for himself, and a whiskey because it's what he would order, and he doesn't want to be alone right now, wants to feel Brendan beside him. He takes a small sip from the whiskey, but it's an acquired taste, just like Guinness, and Ste winces as it runs down his throat. He'd licked it off Brendan's chest once, the liquid making a trail down his groin, over his public hair, so Ste had lapped that up too, giving little darting flicks of his tongue. They'd both been heady with intoxication, and Ste remembers giggling - a lot, high pitched and endless, until Brendan had kicked his ankle, frustrated and amused when Ste had stilled in his actions. He'd concentrated after that, pouring more of the bottle into the grooves of Brendan's arse cheeks so that it trickled into his hole. "Go on." Brendan had coaxed him, fixing him with a heated glance that did something to Ste's hands and legs and cock, made a sweet thrill run through him. He didn't entirely understand why Brendan wasn't doing this to him; he was the one who liked whiskey, and fuck knows he liked to rim. Perhaps this was part of the continued education he was giving Ste: the lesson of drinking Jameson's, and enjoying it.

Ste drinks more of the whiskey, lets it sting and burn.

He hears Doug before he sees him, hears the sound of a chair being scraped back, and only then looks.

"Ste, I'm sorry."

He feels a stab of guilt, can recall everything he said in the deli, and the way that he said it. He should be apologising, but the words still don't come.

"Don't worry about it." He's softer now, doesn't know if it's the drink or his way of saying how much of a mess he is, how fucked up he feels.

"Look, why don't we just take off and go for a chat somewhere?"

Ste plays with the whiskey glass. There's a little bit left inside. Maybe Brendan will walk through those doors, finish the rest.

"No, you're alright."

Doug's insistent, doesn't give up. "Ste, please. Come back to mine."

He laughs, can read the desperation in Doug's face. It's fucking hilarious, all of this: the person he doesn't want is the person who's here, not letting go.

"Wow. You've been waiting for any excuse to get me back into bed."

He considers it, then; fucking Doug, burying himself inside him, making him arch his back and shoot down Ste's throat when he wraps his mouth around his cock, tip of it smooth. It would be so simple, to go down that path again.

Doug's not amused. Ste's ruined things, again. "I'm trying to be a friend."

"Tell you what. If you want to help, you can go back to the bar and get me another drink. And if you don't, just leave me here. All by myself." He lifts up his beer glass, slugs it back like it's air, stares at Doug, waiting for his move; stay here and play babysitter, or leave him to rot.

Doug rises from the table, and Ste thinks he's made his choice.

"What do you want?"

Ste blinks, the lights on the ceiling blinding.

"What?"

"To drink." He's reluctant, doesn't think he's doing the right thing. But he's not leaving.

"The same again - a beer, and a whiskey. Ta."

He starts on the beer first. He keeps the whiskey glass on the table, his free hand wrapped around it. His palm warms the glass, making sure that it's still here, that he doesn't lose it.

He's ready to forget now.