Ste thinks he must be going crazy.
Every day when he calls Amy to speak to Leah and Lucas she asks him how he is. He's mainly just relieved that she's still speaking to him after the visit, but their phone calls are becoming harder than before, the lies growing more difficult to tell.
He has no idea how he's meant to tell her "I'm actually quite enjoying being locked in a cell, because I'm sharing it with a big muscular Irish guy who I'm also sleeping with. Send hugs and kisses from me to the kids."
It's not as though he doesn't miss the outside world. He never thought he'd long to do something as simple as take a walk again, but he just misses the daylight, waking up and his senses not being assaulted by the sound of doors banging and men swearing and shouting.
But if someone offered him the keys and his freedom right now he's not sure if he'd take it, and that terrifies him. Definite insanity.
He's under no illusions about what's providing him with such a welcome distraction. Distraction being the operative word. He can barely concentrate on anything, forgot how to put his own damn socks on the other day, Brendan doing his annual morning routine of a hundred push ups before breakfast. Unlike before when he'd be wearing a white vest, he was now bare chested, only his boxer shorts covering his modesty. One of the many perks of sleeping with Brendan Brady is that he now feels the need to be half naked in front of Ste. All the time.
Even when he was pissing in the bucket in the corner he seemed to delight in it, holding his cock like it was a prize, and to Ste it was, felt pathetic but he couldn't take his eyes off it, and Brendan was a fucking tease and he knew it, holding the shaft and rubbing over the head when he'd finished, look of triumph in his eyes for being so intensely desirable.
Ste had discovered a whole new side to Brendan since their first night together. He'd known there was a lot more to him then permanently sitting in the corner of the cell scowling and telling Ste to shut up, but he hadn't realised he'd be this playful.
A few times when he was doing his evening routine - a hundred sit ups - he'd be wearing nothing, cock dangling between his legs, muscles heaving, light sheen of sweat on his chest. Ste would try to retain some dignity and pretend to find a spot on the wall suddenly fascinating, but his gaze would wander over.
"See anything you like, Steven?"
"So modest, you."
Brendan would chuckle, would stare at Ste shamelessly, lower his voice and say "Come here," and Ste was strongly beginning to suspect that these were the two best words in the English language. He'd walk over to him like he had no control of his own body, like Brendan was his master and he was a puppet, his strings being tightly pulled.
He'd seat himself on Brendan's lap, rub against his groin, give a teasing smile.
"You've been working hard. I think you need a reward."
Brendan would play along, change his expression so it looked just as innocent. "What do you have in mind?"
Ste would take Brendan's dick in his palm, stroke him until he came over Ste's fingers, both of them never breaking eye contact. He'd found that it seemed to be a sort of fetish of Brendan's, that he liked to look at him while Ste was touching him and when he was touching.
Brendan could have been thinking anything outside of the cell and Ste wouldn't have known. His eyes were impenetrable. Whoever had coined the phrase windows to the soul clearly hadn't met Brendan. But within this room and these four walls Brendan didn't keep a single thing locked up. If Ste wanted to know what the man thought of him then all he had to do was look at his face, at the desire and the need there, could see every emotion so strongly that it was almost painful, like looking into a too bright light.
On their first night together after they had sex Ste had seen that very emotion flicker across Brendan's face, had watched as his eyes had trailed over to his own bed, seemed to be battling with himself over whether to sleep separately again or share. He wasn't expecting Brendan to start spooning him or asking for his hand in marriage, that wasn't what this was about.
He'd felt like it was up to him to give Brendan the permission he needed, that otherwise he could foresee them becoming distant again after what they'd just shared.
"You're sleeping with me tonight, yeah? It's freezing, I'm not going to be able to stop shaking if I'm on my own."
Just like that Brendan had climbed into his bed, and his own had gone unused ever since.
When Ste wakes up he immediately senses that something's in him, half winces and half pushes back and moans softly against it. It had been a late night, even with lights out before midnight, and Ste was beginning to feel like he was eating the pillow more than he was the prison food, having to chew down on it to stop himself from shouting out.
He'd thought that Brendan had pulled out and binned the condom, but Ste vaguely remembers stopping him, holding him by the arm and telling him to just "stay here, just for one second." One second had clearly extended to a matter of hours.
He turns his neck, inadvertently rubbing his nose against Brendan's cheek which is pressed against him, can feel the stubble brushing against his skin.
"Brendan?"
He gets no response, almost doesn't want to wake him he looks so peaceful. Ste settles for a kiss instead, sweet and soft, contrasts with everything they did last night.
Brendan stirs, shuffles the smallest amount and pulls Ste closer. Ste lets himself be drawn towards him, wouldn't even dream of resisting, loves the warmth and the safety and the feel of Brendan's arms around him, still can't believe that Brendan wants him like this.
"Bren," he tries again.
"What?" Brendan says tiredly, still sounds like he's somewhere distant.
"You're still in me."
"What are you going on about, Steven?"
Ste pokes him in the ribs. Brendan has already told him that he talks too much, that "something needs to shut you up."
He reckons he's going to have to spell it out in plain letters here, that Brendan's too close to falling back asleep to notice.
"Your dick's still in me."
"Hmmm?" Brendan says idly, then seems to finally realise, opens his eyes and shifts along in the bed, separating them.
Ste almost regrets saying something, feels the loss of the contact acutely.
"I hope it's not stopped working," he teases.
"Why? Like it, do you?" Brendan looks like he's trying to stop himself from smiling.
"It has its uses I suppose," Ste shrugs.
"Oh yeah?" Brendan raises his eyebrows, and in one quick motion he moves on top of Ste, pins his arms onto the bed and gazes down at him, challenge in his eyes. "You seemed to enjoy it last night."
Last night. Ste hadn't even been tired, had felt like he had a never ending amount of energy, that he could never imagine a time when he'd get sick of this, Brendan being all over him, all that he could see and feel and taste and touch. They'd moved from the bed to the floor and back again, Brendan switching locations and positions whenever Ste was about to come, like he was getting pleasure in denying him what he wanted most of all, the bastard.
It was hard to resent Brendan though, hard to not all but worship him when he was making Ste feel like this. He was beginning to wonder how he could ever go back to his previous life, back to Friday nights spent in clubs, picking up someone and stumbling over in his drunken haze, making his way to the bathroom for a quick fuck.
Everything with Brendan was exploratory and slow, sometimes so agonizingly slow that it would feel akin to torture, that Brendan was deliberately holding out on him, so that by the time Ste came it felt painful, like his orgasm was being ripped from him.
He'd had to overcome the feeling that he was inadequate, that Brendan couldn't possibly want someone like him, someone who hadn't even known what rimming was. It was easy to forget though, easy to forget that he was younger and smaller, that he didn't have the experience that Brendan did. When Brendan looked at him it was easy to believe that Ste was at the centre of his whole world now.
"It was...okay." Even saying the word feels wrong. Ste can't keep it up, feels the corners of his mouth twitch.
"So you won't be wanting to do it again then?" Brendan releases his grip on Ste's arms, making a move to stand up from the bed.
"Wait! I didn't say that." He laughs, grabs hold of Brendan and brings their mouths together, can hear Brendan making the closest sound to a giggle that he'll probably ever make against Ste's lips.
Ste rolls them over until he's on top, hasn't set the pace or rode Brendan properly yet, and the thought makes him giddy. He reaches for Brendan's cock, plans on giving him a few hard strokes and then guiding him towards his entrance. He doesn't want any fanfare today, just wants them to fuck, wants Brendan deep inside him.
"It's breakfast soon."
"So?" Ste doesn't care, feels reckless.
"I don't want an officer to come in and find us like this."
Ste tries not to feel stung at the brush off, knows that he'd probably be mortified if the door opened and one of the guards saw him naked, that in this place it would only be a matter of time before word spread and Walker found out, the one thing he can't allow to happen.
It's like a cocoon in this cell though, he feels like nothing and no one can get to him, and he feels a pang of undeniable disappointment when Brendan gets out of bed and starts getting dressed.
He has to resist the urge to give Brendan the silent treatment, knows that he's being immature about this, but he feels a stab of humiliation, has to remind himself that to Brendan this is just sex between cellmates, is not even sure if he can call them friends.
Ste reaches for his jeans on the floor, covers himself with the sheet, feels suddenly insecure, like the heat of Brendan's eyes on him is too much, carries too much weight. He need not have worried. Brendan's not even looking at him, has his back turned, and this bothers Ste more, wills him to face him.
He blushes when he sees the marks on Brendan's back, half moon indents from his nails scraping the flesh, bites from his teeth. He hasn't even looked at the state of himself yet but feels tender all over, sore and sated.
When they're escorted down to the dining room Ste has to resist the urge to brush his hand against Brendan's as they walk side by side.
This place is definitely getting to him.
"Did a storm come in the middle of the night, Ste?"
He wonders if it's a trick question.
"Your hair," Ethan continues, when all Ste does is blink. "It's all over the place."
Ste flattens it down. Personal grooming hasn't exactly been high up on his list of priorities in here. "Just because we don't all use hairspray."
Ethan looks like he's walked straight out of an advert for hair waxing and male cosmetics.
"Alright, touchy! Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning."
Actually, I woke up on exactly the right side. Next to Brendan.
Ste feels like he's physically having to bite his tongue, focuses instead on his cornflakes, a soggy mess in his bowl.
He's aware of Doug's eyes on him, piercing and blue, tries to avoid his gaze but it's near impossible. He's not sure what would prove his guilt more, eye contact or pretending to be otherwise engaged. Either way he's sure he has 'liar' written all over his forehead.
"Walker set you up with one of the officers, did he?" Ethan says with a knowing smirk.
"No."
"Really? Because the last few days, you've been..."
"Been what?" Ste says it with more aggression than necessary, thinks that he must be the worst person in the world to have a secret, that he can't hide a damn thing.
"What he's trying to say, rat boy, is that you've been shagging around with someone."
"Oh great, Warren's here," Ste says acidly, watches as Warren slings his legs around the bench and moves so close to Ethan that he almost knocks him from his seat.
"What did you say?" Warren's threats are like something out of a pantomime, all bared teeth and contorted face, so much deadly enthusiasm that he all but spits.
Ste doesn't fancy his chances. "Nothing."
"Nice love bites. What animal did them?"
Fuck. He knew he should have looked in the mirror. He longs for a sudden change of fashion - the polo neck, knitted jumper type.
"I fell over." It sounds pathetic, and Warren laughs loudly and nastily while Ste resists the urge to stab him with a fork.
"That old gem. Nice try. Let me see...was it Walker, or was it Brady?"
"Drop it, Warren." Doug's voice is firm, not a ounce of fear there.
Warren turns to him, is still laughing but Ste can see it's a mask, it's covering something a lot more dangerous underneath.
"Are you trying to get tough, Dougie?"
"Forget it, it doesn't matter." He's speaking through gritted teeth, and the tips of his ears have turned faintly pink. He's not apologising though.
"No, come on. You obviously have something to say. I was just asking rat boy here if Brendan's gone and done what we all knew he would do to a twink like him. Do you have a problem with that?"
A twink like him. Ste thinks of everything that Brendan's told him about Vincent, wonders if they were alike, if he's one in a long line of many.
"Warren." Ethan's voice is low, coaxing, more intimate than Ste's ever heard it.
He sees him pulling Warren round to face him, strokes his cheek, kisses him, the first time that Ste's ever seen them like this. It's a shock, looks unnatural and cold, and Ste doesn't understand how Warren can't get that, can't see the immorality of what he's doing here, that even with his eyes closed Ethan looks disgusted.
Ethan's lips linger, and even when they draw apart he keeps a hand on Warren's shoulder, seems to be willing him to keep that position, be as silent as a statue, eyes focused on him and away from Doug.
It works. Warren seems to think with his cock ninety nine percent of the time rather than his head, and he's like a panting dog, moves out from the table within an instant and lifts Ethan up alongside him.
"As fascinating as this little chat is, we've got some more interesting things to do, haven't we Ethan?"
Ethan nods his consent, and now Ste understands that it's possible for a person to truly look green with sickness.
Warren leads him away, looks like he has to steer Ethan or he'd be dead on his feet, would collapse onto the floor.
Ste breathes a sigh of relief when they're gone.
"Thanks Doug -"
"Do you have any idea what I just did for you back there?"
"Yeah -"
"Really? Ethan wouldn't even have had to be like that with Warren if he hadn't been trying to save my arse. I can't believe I'm defending you from what you're doing with Brendan."
"What do you mean? I'm not doing anything with Brendan." His voice screams guilt. No wonder he had difficulty convincing the jury to give him a more lenient sentence. The idea of a poker face is lost on him.
Doug shakes his head, looks ashamed, and Ste feels it sink into him, feels ashamed of himself.
"Where did you get all those bites then?"
Ste hasn't worn a scarf in years, not since he was younger and his mum felt the need to pretend that she wasn't completely neglecting him in the dead of winter, but he's sincerely wishing that he could have at least two wrapped around his neck right now, covering the marks which Brendan's left.
"I told Warren -"
"Oh, you fell over? Onto what, a rabid dog? Or headfirst onto Brendan's mouth?"
"Doug, I know you don't like him, but he's different with me."
Doug is banging his spoon into the bowl so vigorously that the contents are going to end up on the ceiling soon.
"That's just one of the games he plays with people. He does it with everyone, Ste - everyone who catches his eye. I knew he'd be like this with you, but I thought I could save you."
Ste feels a twinge of annoyance seeping through. Save you. Like he needs to be saved, like he's not capable of looking after himself. He's not a child, he's older than Doug and he could put a wager on him seeing more of the world than he ever has, not just the cookie cutter white picket fences, but the grit and the dirt in between.
He's been trying to hold his tongue about Lynsey but it's in danger of coming out, every hypocritical thing that Doug's preaching, that Ste makes his decisions about his life, no one else.
Doug seems to read his mind.
"Before you say anything about my situation -"
"What, I'm not allowed? So you can sit here and judge me for my choices, but I can't say anything about yours?"
"So it's true then? You and Brendan?"
Ste looks over his shoulder, makes sure that Walker hasn't decided to end their holiday prematurely.
"Yes, it's true," he says in a hushed whisper.
"God, Ste!"
"It's not a big deal." Like he didn't spend time himself debating whether or not he could sleep with a murderer.
"Did you not hear what I said about him bashing his father's head in with a hammer? Did that not sink in?"
It had been all that Ste could think about at first. The image of Brendan slowly ending someone's life, not stopping even when his father had begged and pleaded, when his screams had filled the room, blood spilling out like the Red Sea.
He had imagined Brendan doing it without reason or explanation, that he had done it simply because he could.
But Brendan had given him something real and concrete that he could hold onto, a way that he could understand. He wonders whether his own reaction would have been any different, if his body was invaded in that way when he was just a child. He thinks the answer is probably a resounding no. If Brendan's an animal, then so is he.
Part of him thinks that Doug would understand, but it's not his information to give away. He'd rather be seen as reckless and idiotic than someone whose betrayed Brendan's trust.
Doug sees the determination on his face, the steely resolve.
"I hope you realise what he does with the people he sleeps with. You'll be thrown away for a better model soon."
"You know what, Brendan was right about what he said. You do think you're better than everyone else, don't you? Just because you're not going to be in here forever. It doesn't change what you did - you still killed a girl."
For one moment he thinks that Doug's going to hit him, that they're going to have a brawl right here in the dining room, the other prisoners huddled round them in a circle, chanting fight fight fight while he and Doug smash bowls over each others heads and throw cutlery.
Part of him longs for it, wants to dispel some of this angry energy that he has, needs an outlet, and Doug's as good as anyone.
But there are cameras all around him, guards, a judge and jury who can extend his sentence, Amy and the kids back home who are depending on him to not be a complete screw up.
Doug's not Warren though, not Walker or Brendan, and tears of hurt spring into his eyes rather than the outbreak of violence. It cuts Ste worse. He feels like he's just wounded something fragile, kicked it when it's down.
It's not the same guilt that he used to feel when he hit Amy, not even close, but it's something like it, that he had something good and he's turning it into something unrecognisable, turning someone's trust in him into hate.
Doug stands up, looks like he's desperately trying to hide the tears that are forming, brushing them away with the back of his hand, not meeting Ste's eyes. For a second he looks like he's going to say something, and Ste wants to hear it, even if it's "go to hell", "fuck you", even if it's "I hope you die."
What's worse is someone walking away and not even glancing back. What's worse is Ste being in a crowded room but feeling completely alone. He doesn't want to be alone anymore, has been alone his whole life and it's got him here.
He dumps his tray, appetite non existent, and tries to follow Doug's path out of the hall, thinks he may manage to catch up with him, but there's too many people in front of him blocking his way, men with frames far bigger than his own, and he feels like a small child in comparison, lost and trying to find his parents.
When he sees no sign of Doug he goes in the direction of his cell, thinks that he must have gone back there, possibly to start creating his very own version of a Ste voodoo doll.
It's quiet in the corridor except for a banging sound, as if a desk is repeatedly being thrown against the wall. It reminds Ste of something, but he has no idea what, moves closer to the sound to try and identify it. Most of the cells are empty, everyone at breakfast.
He walks towards the one that he knows to be Doug's and the noise grows louder. He envisages Doug in his cell, tearing about furniture because of what he's done to him.
When Ste looks through the screen window it suddenly comes to him, what the noise reminds him of. Him and Brendan, their first night together. Their bodies crashing against the wall, so hard that it seemed like they'd fall through the concrete, plaster and wallpaper surrounding them, that the power of their movements was enough to tear down a building.
He knows that the sight of him and Brendan could never be described as nice. It was rough and carnal, more than Ste had ever known. He'd never woken up before with bruises on his thighs from someone's grip on him, had never bitten down on someone's skin like he was carving a home there.
But he knows the difference between what he and Brendan do and what he's looking into, knows the difference between biting, shouting out in pleasure, demanding more with your movements and your voice, and rape.
Ste can't look anymore, leans against the wall and away from the window for a moment to gather his breath, feels like he's about to hyperventilate from the sheer brutality.
All doubt about whether he would have killed someone who hurt him the way that Brendan's father did vanishes. There's only one answer.
Brendan reckons this is the closest to heaven he's ever going to get. Steven's cooking for him, making him something that reminds him of home, back when home actually brought him comfort. He's concentrating hard on the recipe, tip of his tongue between his teeth, forehead creased in a frown.
"Never made an Irish stew before, Steven?"
"I've never made a lasagna before."
"Well chop chop, time's ticking."
"Don't rush me! These things take time." Steven says it with the air of an experienced chef, hand on his hip like he's trying to make Brendan realise. He's a natural, better than everyone else in this class put together already.
Tony sees it, regards Steven with a mixture of pride and envy, was all ready to take him aside and make him a kind of pet, show him the ropes and pass on his expertise. Instead he's occupied with another prisoner who's having difficulty chopping an onion, the man beside him refusing because he "doesn't cry, not for anything."
Steven passes him a potato. He's about to refuse, tends to sit back on his chair and chew gum while the men around him struggle and try to come up with something half edible, but with Steven smiling at him so expectantly he finds he doesn't want to refuse.
"Do you always manage to convince Tony to make a meal that you want?"
"In one word: Yes."
Steven laughs, looks like he's torn between scolding him and saying congratulations.
Brendan watches the boy's hands as they chop up the food, thinks that there's far better uses for them, has never wanted the class to finish more than he does today.
"Brendan?"
Brendan curses inwardly, recognising that tone. Steven sounds like he's gearing himself up for a lecture, for saying I don't want to be with you, Brendan. This was a mistake.
"What?"
"How long have you known Warren for?"
Not exactly what he was expecting.
"Foxy? A couple of years now. Why?"
"Do you...do you know what he does to Ethan?"
It's impossible to not know. Five minutes in this place and you'll learn the whole story.
"Of course."
"Don't you think we should do something?"
Brendan wants to laugh at the boy's innocence. He's a newbie, he doesn't know the way things work here. You don't question men like Warren.
"Like what? Hold some kind of intervention? Start some sort of campaign? Free Ethan?" He scoffs, wishes he could have Steven's belief for one second that things could be different, but knows that would get him killed, thinks that the expression hope dies last should change to hope dies first, that it's imperative to a man's survival in here.
"I don't know - just something. Brendan -" He leans in closer, breath warm against his face. "I saw them today in Ethan's cell. Warren was raping him."
"Ethan agreed to it."
Steven looks at him incredulously, shakes his head, rejecting his words. "He had no other choice. Doug told me all about their deal."
Douglas fucking Carter, sticking his oar in as usual. Brendan can imagine everything he's said to Steven about him, had seen the Yank storm out of the dining room, looked like he was one step away from bursting into tears.
Douglas still hasn't learnt the codes of this place, or goes out of his way to try and break them. Rule number one: keep your mouth shut. To become a snitch is to become an enemy.
"He either dies or he has to...you know. Do that."
He can't say he blames Steven for putting it in those terms. He doesn't particularly want to think about Warren fucking someone either. Not even Walker has ever been in such dire need as to knock on Foxy's door.
"It's just something that happens, Steven."
He expects the boy to just get it, to suddenly come to the same conclusion as Brendan had, that this is the way things will always be, that to try and escape is impossible.
The potatoes lie on the side forgotten. Brendan makes sure he keeps all sharp implements on his side, doesn't want Steven to get any ideas, the way he's looking at him right now.
"I can't believe I'm hearing this. Not from you."
Brendan rounds on him. He doesn't know what Steven expects him to do. He's not Mary bloody Poppins, he can't sing about spoons and sugar and make everything okay, he hasn't got some magical power that he can cripple Warren with.
"What do you mean, me? Why am I so much worse than everyone else?"
He sees Silas looking over in their direction out of the corner of his eye, the old git. So fucking satisfied at Brendan's downfall, looks like he's enjoying every second of this, can read the frustration on Brendan's face, his desire to hold onto this, that Steven's not just a piece of trash that he wants to discard.
"After what you went through." There's that look again, that in amongst the anger Steven feels sorry for him.
"It's not the same," Brendan chokes out, suddenly thinks that being surrounded by all this food isn't a good idea, wouldn't eat anything right now if someone paid him.
Seamus had always insisted that Brendan finish everything on his plate, wouldn't be satisfied until he'd licked the damn thing clean. Once they'd been interrupted, Seamus's hot sticky body crawling off from on top of his own, doing up his belt buckle and walking out of the room, leaving Brendan in the dark.
He'd heard Cheryl's mother calling him, had come for dinner trying to control the shaking in his legs. She'd brought home some chicken, and it felt slimy in Brendan's mouth, had slipped uncomfortably down his throat. There had been so much of it, too much, and Seamus had sat at the table with him until he'd had all of it. For years he'd had no real appetite at all, had looked at food and seen something bloody and rotten.
"I'm not trying to say..." Steven looks defensive now, apologetic. "I know it's not. But Ethan's still being raped, like you were. You should have seen them." Steven looks like he's recalling the memory, is distant and silent for a moment like he's somewhere far away. "Seeing it like that, it made it more real. Before I could just pretend that it wasn't happening."
"That's what you're going to continue to do." He says it with all the conviction he can muster, needs Steven to hear the message loud and clear. He's not going to allow the boy to get involved in this, wants him as far away from Warren as possible.
He hadn't realised the true extent of Steven's stubbornness, that when Brendan says no he hears yes.
"What if someone had had the chance to save you, eh? It could have changed your whole life. You might not have even been in this place."
Brendan laughs, high and manic, ignores the way that Steven's looking at him like he's even more nuts than he'd first presumed, ignores the triumph growing in Silas's eyes, ignores the slightly alarmed expression on Tony's face, mouth gawping open.
He wants to tell Steven that there was more than someone, that he feels like his whole life is spent trying to block out who could have saved him, otherwise he'd kill them too, he'd break out of this prison right now and do what he did to Seamus. They're just as bad in his eyes, just as guilty because they did nothing, knew exactly what was going on and yet they created a prison for him to dwell in long before he was locked up in this one.
But he was never meant to tell the boy about the abuse, and to say more now would be making it more real, would make Steven involved, would muddy him with the same filth.
"I'm not helping him," he says simply, as if it is that simple, as though he hasn't imagined a thousand times what he would do to Warren if he could.
He goes back to chopping the potatoes, slices them open roughly, narrowly avoids stabbing the knife into his skin, wonders if he'd feel a kind of relief if he did.
He can feel Steven's eyes on him. Even if the rest of the class have resumed their movements he hasn't, and the air seems filled with the boy's disbelief and his judgement. Brendan feels like he's spent more time arguing with Steven than fucking him, and the ratio doesn't sit right with him, isn't used to a boy he's with not being compliant. He'd never been like this with Macca or Vincent. The arguments had come afterwards when he'd ended things, not during.
Steven's passion extends to every area of his life, and it's an adjustment. Brendan's reaction would be to forget the entire thing, to intimidate the boy until he moved cells and Brendan was put with someone new, preferably a gangly, young, impressionable someone.
His hands seem to act of their own accord when they reach towards Steven, brushes his own against the boy's on the counter, the lightest of touches but it's enough to get him moving closer towards Brendan, some of the coldness evaporating. It's the closest thing he gets to a sorry.
"Everything okay over here, gentleman?" Tony's eyeing them warily, looks like he's preparing himself to break up a fight.
"Just chopping some potatoes, Anthony," Brendan drawls, tries to keep the casualness in his voice.
Tony looks at Steven, and it's the confirmation that Brendan's the big bad wolf here, that it's the boy who needs protecting from him, as if he didn't already know that. It's not the fact that Steven's smaller and younger than him, it's Brendan's crime, it's that even with the less judgmental of staff he's still a psychopath.
Steven smiles at him, Brendan's not going to kill me, move along, nothing to see here.
When Tony walks past them Steven reaches for Brendan's hand under the table. He doesn't do hand holding, but Brendan's starting to realise that there are a lot of rules he's breaking for this boy.
"I'm sorry. It's just been a shit day."
"It's barely even noon."
"Don't remind me. Can't we just...I don't know." Steven's smiling, linking their hands together and swinging them like they're in a playground. "Go to bed for the rest of the day? Forget everything else?"
Jesus, the boy may as well be a mind reader.
"That sounds...acceptable."
Acceptable. As though he hasn't fantasied about it since the moment he rolled out of bed.
He doesn't fool Steven, can't hide his eagerness from the boy. A single finger is tracing his hand now, moving softly up and down, bringing goosebumps to his skin, Steven's eyes drawn to Brendan's lips, can barely look away.
"Good. I just want to forget about Doug, and -"
Douglas. He knew it.
"What's he done now? Acting fucking high and mighty again, is he?"
"No, it was my fault."
"Want me to get him for you, Steven?"
Steven laughs, thinks he's joking. Maybe not a complete mind reader then, and Brendan's partly grateful, thinks that if the boy could see his thoughts then he'd run a million miles, never look at him in that way again.
"Don't worry, I think I can deal with it." Still doesn't catch on to the seriousness of Brendan's tone, that he wouldn't particularly mind if the Yank was six feet under where he could no longer spread his stories.
Steven doesn't know exactly what he's capable of, that he's a man of his word and when he gets an idea in his head it grows, that sometimes there are no limits.
The next day, Warren Fox is beaten up in his cell, and everything changes again.
