The first thing he does is take care of Trevor. Hires a guy with some of the money that didn't go to lawyers and child payments, and makes it as discreet as possible.

He hires a brain dead cronie, someone who Brendan thought only belonged in action films as the hapless sidekick. But what Skunk - that's his name, not John or Frank or Phil, just Skunk - lacks in brains, he makes up for in his ruthless determination to kill.

He phones Brendan afterwards.

"It's done."

"You sure?" He needs to be sure: there's no margin for error here.

"I think I'd know if I'd killed a guy or not."

"No pulse - no movements at all?"

"He's fucking dead, mate. Turned blue."

"Good." Or not good, because nothing about this is good. But it's the way it has to be. "And you did what we planned - made it look like an accident?"

Skunk sounds insulted.

"Course I did - what do you take me for?"

"Alright, alright," Brendan mutters, can hear the guy's temper fraying. He's learnt the way that he has to be around men like him. He has to patronise them, make them think that they're high and mighty, that he's lucky just to be talking to them. Has to stroke their delicate little egos.

He hangs up after he learns all he needs to know. Trevor's gone.

Brendan doesn't think about the word revenge, doesn't process it. But if he allows himself to stop and take a hard look, he supposes that's what it is. Trevor touched his boy, bruised and bloodied and left Ste in the hospital. He's paid the price now. It doesn't matter that with Brendan back, Ste would have been safe forever anyway. It's the principle.

No one touches Ste.

::::::

Ste comes out from the bathroom, skin smelling of the tropical shower gel he's used. A towel's hanging loosely from his hips, until he remembers that it's just the two of them in here, and he doesn't need to hide anything. He lets it drop to the floor, and the gentle sound of it makes Brendan's head tilt to the side, his eyelids heavy as he stares at him.

"You should have let me join you."

Ste shivers at the sound of his voice, smooth as nectar.

"We'd never get ready in time if you did, would we?" He answers with a smirk, walking over to the bedside drawer and getting out a fresh pair of boxer shorts.

"Would have been fun though."

He can't argue with that, doesn't want to.

"You're okay with this, aren't you? I mean, not okay, I know you're not -"

"Lets just get it over with, yeah?" Brendan says tersely.

The frown lines look permanently settled into Brendan's forehead. Ste forgets about dressing, hooking his arms around Brendan's shoulders. Brendan doesn't protest against the water falling onto his clean clothes. His arms wrap around the boy, hands firm on his back. Warm.

"It's gonna be fine," Ste says with an air of conviction that he hopes Brendan believes in. Something about this hurts - Brendan hurts. He's sure that he didn't sleep last night, that he felt him turning in the bed, restless. Ste had tried anything to take his mind off it - had called Declan and Padraig to try and distract him, had tried to get Brendan into a conversation about Johnny Cash that he ended up bluffing his way through, his knowledge in that particular field sketchy. When that had failed he'd stroked Brendan through the fabric of his jeans, but he'd felt the tension in his thigh muscles when Ste had secured his lips around the length of his cock, sucking him down.

Nothing had made it better.

"We're gonna come back here, and it's just gonna be you and me again, yeah?"

Brendan nods, but the smile he gives Ste doesn't touch his eyes. He stops him when he tries to get dressed, and Ste gets it - he needs to get some semblance of control back. Needs to feel like Ste's here with him.

"What do you want?" He whispers, staring at Brendan imploringly. "Tell me."

Brendan smooths his hands down the contour's of Ste's back, his touch satisfyingly rough.

"Do we have time?" He lets the question linger, lets Ste know what he's asking.

The boy's eyes travel to the clock on the wall. They're meant to be at the house in an hour, and it's not a quick drive. But the way Brendan's touching him - hands everywhere, eyes lingering on Ste's cock - it's too much for him to say no to.

He kisses him, tongue swiping against Brendan's upper lip, pushing his body against the older man's chest, transferring the heat between them. There's something about this, something that Ste will never tire of - the act of Brendan being in his clothes, and Ste being naked and exposed, without a trace of vulnerability. That scared, timid boy that he once was feels distant, gone.

He doesn't try and remove Brendan's clothes, knows that he likes it this way too. The water from the shower dries under the heat of Brendan's touch, and Brendan lifts Ste until he's on his back in the bed, wriggling and squirming when Brendan kisses down his body. He knows it's only a matter of time before Brendan shaves the beard; he doesn't like it when Ste laughs instead of groans at the feel of his facial hair rubbing against him.

Ste will miss it. He likes waking in the early hours and seeing Brendan beside him, eyes closed and the thick hair covering him, scratchy against Ste's lips. It's become familiar in the months since Brendan's return. He'd tried to grow his own once, had felt ridiculous and only gone a day before shaving it. It had felt like he was dressing up as Brendan Brady. Trying to bring him back through imitation, when nothing else ever could.

Until he walked back into Ste's life and changed everything, again.

::::::

Ste's on top, fingers in the warmth of Brendan's arse, mouth secured around his balls. Brendan's lying against the pillow, Ste's cock in his mouth, hands free to massage the boy's spine.

He feels weightless. Bony.

You've got to eat something, Steven. There's nothing of you.

I didn't have much of a reason to eat when you were gone, did I? I didn't have much of a reason for anything.

They're beyond late. Ste's already had four missed calls, has seen his phone flashing and ignored it, closing his eyes and forcing himself not to come, not yet. Fuck being on time. He wants to prolong this, wants to experience nothing but the feel of Brendan taking him all the way in, nose against Ste's pubic hair, lips a tight seal around him.

He releases Brendan's balls, panting for breath as his fingers continue to scissor.

"We really should go." It's half hearted. He doesn't mean it.

"Okay." Brendan takes him in even deeper, causing Ste to tremble and arch his back. Brendan's not playing fair.

"He's going to think we're really rude."

"He already does," Brendan points out.

"Yeah, but..." Ste struggles for breath as Brendan's finger trails along his hole, movements light and teasing. "He's gonna think we're really, really rude."

"And I really, really don't care."

"Bren -"

He forgets about what he wants to say as soon as Brendan pulls him into his arms, seating Ste on him fully and lowering him down onto his cock until the boy's seeing stars.

::::::

"Hiya," Ste says, false cheeriness making him feel even more uncomfortable. He can sense Brendan looking at him where he's stood beside him, eyebrows raised at his bad attempts to act his way out of this.

"You're late." Doug's mouth is a tight line of disappointment.

"Sorry, we were caught in traffic."

He doesn't believe a word of it, but he stands back from the door, letting the two men pass, making sure that not an inch of Brendan touches him as he steps into the house.

"Nice place you've got here, Douglas."

"No need to be sarcastic."

"I'm not." He didn't intend to be: it seems like it's a habit where Doug is concerned.

It is a nice place. Not to his tastes, but it's big and spacious, and not Ste's, and that's all that counts. Brendan looks for any sign of company, any trace of another man living here, but nothing stands out. Shame. The sooner he finds out that Doug has a new boyfriend, the sooner he doesn't have to worry about his head being consumed with thoughts of the same man who consumes his own.

"Do you want us to take our shoes off?" Ste asks, not waiting for the answer. It's only as his trainers come off that he seems to realise what socks he's wearing: the moustache patterns cause Doug's frustration to develop into obvious annoyance.

"How have you been?"

It's a compulsory question, but Ste does his bit, filling him in on his job at Chez Chez and how the kids are getting on in school. Brendan feels a twinge of jealousy spark through him when Leah and Lucas are mentioned; the months of daddy Doug are still far too prominent in his mind. He focuses on a spot on the wall and tries to drown out the conversation, not starting an argument like Ste's so wary of him doing.

But his eyes wander. They trail over Doug, taking in his features - same quiffed hair, the shirts and blazers which have replaced the former knitted jumpers. There's no sign of redness around his eyes, no trace of sleepless nights or shed tears. He looks like he's coping. It proves to Brendan what he'd already known: Doug didn't love Ste. Not real love - not love that leaves its ache when it's torn from you. Not love that'll never heal, that'll never fade, doesn't matter how much distance or time exists. Not love that can survive prison.

When Doug sees him staring, he seems to jump into action, bringing a halt to the politeness and excusing himself to go and get the box from his bedroom. The last of Ste's stuff that he'd left in their old home together.

Brendan doesn't look at the box when it's settled in Ste's arms. He doesn't want to see what's inside, doesn't want to imagine the things they could have done, the things they could have shared.

"Cheers," Ste mumbles, and Brendan doesn't look at him either - can't bear to see any flicker of doubt, any sign that he thinks he's chosen the wrong man.

There's nothing left to say after that. Doug makes the excuse of having dinner to prepare, and there's no suggestion of them staying for it. They make their way back outside into the coldness of the night, the box like a shield between Ste and Doug.

The goodbye seems startlingly final.

::::::

"You're in a sulk now, aren't you?"

"Shut up."

"Oi." Ste kicks him on the shin, lightly but with irritation in his movements. Brendan knows he ought not to push his luck. It follows him every single day: the fear that Ste will get sick of him, that he'll put an end to all this, and he'll be left with nothing.

"It's over with now. We never have to see him again."

Brendan dares to look at him. "Is that what you want?"

Ste shrugs. "Me and Doug haven't talked in months. It is what it is."

"Do you really mean that?"

It scares him, the idea that he's the only reason that they're not together. He can imagine what would have happened if he hadn't come back - the years that they would have spent as a married couple, playing happy families, wedding bands ever present. It makes him feel ill. That he was so close to having to live with the knowledge of losing Ste forever.

"Doug means nothing."

They've had this conversation too many times. Brendan knows it must be wearing thin - that there's only so many times that Ste can reassure him before he grows tired of it, tired of him.

"You got back together with him," Brendan reminds him. It's all the evidence he needs.

"Because you weren't here."

"You made love to him." He almost laughs at the words, would do if it didn't sting so much.

"I slept with him. It wasn't...it wasn't even like that." The boy sounds defensive, and it aches that Brendan's the one making him like that. Jesus, why can't he just let things be?

"So you two just lay there talking, did you?" Brendan asks, tone injected with venom.

Ste's firing up, eyes blazing and finger pointing in Brendan's direction like a stabbing motion. "So we fucked - who cares, Brendan? You shagged around in prison, you've done things that make me feel insecure, but it's all in the past, isn't it? We're together now. Well, we were together. But you always manage to ruin it."

He storms out of the room in a huff, leaving Brendan staring after him, mouth open in amazement, the fear of loss sending a chill through him.

::::::

Ste entertains the idea of sleeping on the sofa, hates that he misses him too much. He scowls when he realises it, when he knows that he can't stay away.

Sighing, he knocks lightly on the bedroom door and enters, finding Brendan already under the covers, eyes drifting open slowly.

He's not ready to admit defeat yet. He stands against the wall, arms crossed and mouth sulkily soft.

"Sorry," Brendan says almost immediately, and Ste knows he means it, can hear the sincerity in his voice. It doesn't mean that he's not going to make him work for it though.

"Why did you do it then? Why make things so difficult?"

"I was in prison for two years, Steven. Things are still...it's still difficult."

He tries to imagine how much the world must have changed. Being in young offenders for a few months had left Ste feeling like his life had been snatched away, that the world was moving on without him, and he was getting left behind.

"You were with Douglas for a long time. That's not easy for me."

"It's not easy for him either, you know. Being with someone for years and then they drop you the minute that their ex comes back. That's not something you just get over. I did a really shitty thing, Brendan."

Brendan sits up in bed, turning on the bedside light. The sadness in his eyes makes Ste want to come closer, forgoing any anger for what he really wants to do. He needs to hold him, doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't.

"Do you regret it?"

Ste doesn't pause to think. Doesn't need to think.

"Never. I regret allowing it to go on for as long as it did with Doug. For stringing him along when I always knew that if you came back..."

"You didn't know though, did you." Brendan knows he's not being fair; no one knew that he'd get a reduced sentence. He didn't expect for time to freeze for Ste, for him to survive on memories alone, even if Brendan did.

"I love you," Ste says, voice strained with the truth of it, how much he needs Brendan to believe it. "I don't know if that's enough -"

"It is."

"Can I sleep in here with you tonight?" He can already see Brendan pulling back the covers.

"Always."

::::::

"We're closed!" It's difficult to gather the breath to shout when Ste's lips are on his jaw, his teeth sharp and purposeful.

The hammering continues.

"Jesus Christ." He wants peace. Has been craving this time with Ste all day, clothes ripping off in a bundle on the floor of the club the second that they bolted the door. It's one of the many perks of running a club together - they can decide when closing hours suddenly come a little earlier in the day.

"Leave it." Ste's words sound like a warning: don't you dare open that door.

"They're not going to fuck off though, are they?"

Ste makes a desperate attempt to keep him here, hands trailing to Brendan's cock persuasively, but the knocking continues and grows louder, more persistent.

Brendan swears, gently dislodging Ste and giving him a firm slap to the arse, draping a dressing gown over his naked form. They make sure to keep one in the office at all times. It comes in handy these days.

Brendan makes sure that Ste's out of sight, body concealed before he opens the door, face already set in intimidation and possible violence: he's not feeling friendly after the interruption, doesn't care if it's bloody Ian Mckellen behind that door.

His eyes widen, his hands slipping off the door frame.

"Jesus."

"No, not Jesus. Someone better."

"What the fuck are you doing here, Skunk?" He feels ashamed to be speaking the name, not a fucking name at all.

Skunk peers over Brendan's shoulder, trying to see inside. Brendan blocks it from view, vividly remembering a naked Ste still lying on the leather couch.

"Why, have you got company? That boy of yours that you're sweet on?"

Brendan had worked hard to keep Ste's existence hidden. He hadn't planned on dragging the boy into any of his dealings, hadn't even known at the time whether Ste would want him back in his life.

But Skunk had found a photo in his wallet, had asked if Ste was his son, and Brendan hadn't thought of lying. The no, he's my - had been followed by deathly silence, but Skunk had used his few brain cells to piece together the rest. Something about Brendan's reaction had given the game away.

"What are you doing here?" Brendan snaps, securing the dressing gown more tightly around him. Skunk appears to notice for the first time what he's wearing, his expression softening into a smirk.

"Nice ensemble."

"What do you want?"

"Money."

Brendan stares back, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"I need money. I'm in a spot of trouble, and I heard you own yourself a nice little business here. Looks a bit of a dump to me, but -"

"I'm not giving you anything," Brendan cuts through, would throw the man out if he was wearing something more appropriate. He tries not to raise his voice, doesn't want Ste to hear any of this.

"Oh I think you are. Unless you want your fancy boy to find out what you got me to do to our friend Trevor."