"I love you, Steven."
"You..." Ste stumbles over his words. He can feel the accelerating rhythm of his heart banging against his ribcage. He imagines that this is exactly what people mean when they talk about flight or fight - except he isn't going to fight against these three words and everything they mean. And he sure as hell isn't going to run away.
"Say that again."
Brendan nibbles on his bottom lip, a nervous gesture that Ste finds endearing. It's not often that he gets to see Brendan nervous.
"It was hard enough the first time."
"Why, because you don't mean it?"
"Because I do," Brendan says quietly. "I'm not used to saying that to a person that I'm...with. I've never wanted to, before now. I've never felt..." Brendan narrows his eyes at him. "You're loving this, aren't you? Me squirming?"
"Aw, there's that word again - love," Ste teases. He's not sure this is even beginning to sink in yet. Brendan loves him. Is in love with him. Everything that Ste's been feeling - the overwhelming connection, the need to have Brendan close, the future that he so desperately wants - Brendan's been feeling that too.
"How long have you loved me?" The prospect of his answer makes him giddy, but it makes Brendan turn pale.
"Come on, don't make me -"
"Are we talking days or -"
"Of course not," Brendan allows, staring down at his hands before making a conscious effort to look at Ste, as though needing him to understand that he means this. Every word. "I've loved you for...a long time."
Ste can't speak; just listens and watches, retaining it all to memory.
"I can't tell you a moment, or a conversation. I just...I love you, Steven." Brendan smiles, relief flooding through him, like this is already getting easier. "There - you satisfied?"
He looks satisfied. Looks happy.
Ste surges forward on the bed, pressing his lips to Brendan's before the older man has a chance to react. After the initial surprise, Ste feels the pressure of Brendan's mouth on his, responding. But it's not enough; this is something that requires words, and he breaks from the kiss to settle his lips against Brendan's neck, his breathing coming in gasps, sheer exhilaration spreading through his body.
"I love you too." It's what was missing, he realises. Brendan knows how he feels, but Ste can sense the Irishman's muscles growing slack, tension leaving him. He can hardly believe that after all they've been through Brendan is still capable of being insecure, of doubting that Ste's feelings aren't going to disappear.
He says it again. It sounds powerful, something that connects them now that Ste's not faced with silence, or a change of subject, or I do care about you Steven, I really do, a 'but' silently added on.
"I love you so much." He wonders if his words do it justice; they can only stretch so far.
Brendan's eyes are warm. He reaches for Ste's hand over the cover, placing his own on top of it. Ste almost flinches from the shock of it; it's still a novelty, Brendan holding his hand. He looks faintly embarrassed to be doing it, but he's not taking it away.
Ste squeezes it gently, to show he understands.
"I want to...do something for you. For us." He slowly moves his free hand towards Brendan's trousers, reaching for the zipper.
Brendan takes his hand away like he's been electrocuted by the touch.
"Jesus, Steven." His eyes are wide. "That's not why I...do you think that's why I told you? So I could get an easy fuck out of it?"
"No!" Ste feels panic starting to grip him, can see the anger heating up in Brendan's eyes. He can't allow this to turn sour, not after finally getting something that he's wanted for so long.
"Of course not! You would have said it months ago if you just wanted that, wouldn't you?"
"Is that the kind of person you think I am?"
Ste wipes his hand across his forehead, can feel the perspiration breaking out there. This is escalating, and he doesn't know how to get it back to the way it was mere seconds ago.
"Do you think this is some kind of fucked up attempt to sleep with you after what Warren..." Brendan hesitates, and Ste pictures him counting to twenty in his head, trying to calm down. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to erase the image of Brendan in that library, his face contorted like a wild animal in pain, his hands desperately trying to he released from the binds to no avail.
He was mistaken when he thought that it would only be him who'd have to deal with the fallout from what Warren did. Brendan's been right there with him the entire time. He believed the man's absence and coldness to be indifference; he sees it for what it is now.
"I'd never do that to you, Steven. Never."
"I know you wouldn't," he insists, cutting through, unable to bear Brendan believing it any longer. "I just meant - this was meant to be our time, wasn't it? I used to dream about this in my head, plan it - what it would be like, for you to say those words." He admits it quietly, a part of him expecting Brendan to laugh, but he doesn't make a single sound. "We were meant to go to bed together. It wasn't...it wasn't meant to be like this."
Ste touches his wrists where the red marks lie. He can still taste Warren on his mouth, against his gums, his cock hitting the back of his throat. Having his lips wrapped around Brendan hasn't got rid of the lingering residue.
"Look at me."
"No." He whispers it.
"Are you...scared of me?" Brendan sounds pained by the thought.
Ste meets his eyes. "I've ruined it, haven't I?"
"You haven't ruined anything. I'm not angry at you Steven, I'm just..." He rubs his eyes tiredly, and Ste can see that he's had the same restless night as he has. Funny, when just this morning he had been imagining Brendan lying soundly in bed, peaceful. He feels like an idiot. Of course he won't have been peaceful; of course he cares.
"I should of been there. Instead of Walker. I should have been the one to..."
"It's not a competition." He used to fantasise about what it would be like to have people fighting over him, wanting his love. It was childishness driving the desire: he wanted to know how it would feel, to be that important. To not be the object of ridicule, to not clear up empty beer bottles and draw the blankets over Pauline on the sofa, his mother not stirring or feeling how delicate he was being, the care he was taking.
The glamour's gone. He's glimpsed the reality, the games and the lengths that someone can go to to secure him, feeling like a rag doll being stretched and grabbed and torn into.
"I know," Brendan says quietly. "But he didn't have to watch you, didn't have to see Warren... It should have been me." He repeats it, sounds like a hollow chant which is being torn from his lips. "It should have been me."
"What was it like, the first time you slept with someone else? After what your dad..."
Brendan stares across at him, the shock evident on his face. "Where did that come from?"
"Sorry." He immediately feels like he's crossed an invisible barrier, that he's exposed something that Brendan's never told anyone. "Forget it."
They're silent, and Ste thinks Brendan will change the subject, that it'll be something never spoken between them.
His heart begins to beat rapidly when Brendan begins talking, reluctantly but with a confidence that leaves Ste in awe; this man is unrecognisable to the person he met all those months ago. The defensiveness is gone. There's an openness there that Ste's sure he doesn't allow to show with anyone else.
"You've got to understand, Steven. I was...you wouldn't have liked the person I was back then."
"You think you would have liked the person I was? Some stupid kid on a council estate pretending to be a thug?"
"You ever break a guy's nose when you still had your cock in him?"
Ste visibly baulks, and his attempt to disguise it is poor. Brendan almost smiles at the attempt. There's twisted satisfaction there, and Ste wonders if a part of him wants this, the rejection. If he's been waiting for it for all these months, for Ste to see everything that's been hidden from him, the darkest recesses.
Ste swallows down his discomfort, and fights to sound blasé.
"You did that?"
"Had him bleeding all over my fist when I pulled out of him." Brendan looks away, at a blank spot on the wall that he focuses on, his voice detached. "I left him in the alleyway. Anything could have happened to him. He could have been mugged, could have been killed." He looks at Ste, his face as hard and cold as marble. "Do you still love me?"
"Yes," Ste answers without hesitation. "I still love you."
"Why?" Brendan asks, voice breaking and mask slipping until it's crumbled completely.
"Because I understand." Ste wills him to understand too, to know why he's still here. Why when he leaves prison, it doesn't mean he's leaving him. "Did you...was he okay, the guy?"
Brendan shrugs, shoulders heavy with tension. "I don't know. I never saw him again. I get it, you know. If you don't want to...be with me."
Ste shakes his head, eyes wide and frantic. "I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you've done - I'm never going to feel any differently about you."
"I'm never going to feel any differently about you, I promise you, okay?" Brendan looks like he's desperate for Ste to believe him, puts his hand over Ste's on the mattress, squeezing gently before smoothing it away slowly, leaving Ste with the memory of its warmth.
"Let me do something for you, Steven."
"Like what?"
Brendan's silent for a moment, and Ste can see him deliberating, staring up at Ste from under his lashes. From the angle that they're sitting on the bed, Ste can see the near identical red marks on Brendan's wrists.
He wasn't the only one hurt that day.
"When Seamus used to...I used to have a bath."
Ste closes his eyes for a moment; he can't easily control his reactions when Brendan mentions his father. He feels a protectiveness that he's never known, hasn't even felt like this with his own children. If Seamus wasn't already dead, he'll kill him himself.
"It's cliched, isn't it?" Brendan continues hollowly. "Washing yourself after...it's cliched..."
"Sometimes it's a cliche because it's true." He fights to keep the images from his mind; eight year old Brendan, locking himself in the bathroom away from his parents and sister, scrubbing himself clean, blood swirling down the plughole.
"What did you used to do?" He senses that Brendan needs to tell him. He's never been able to talk about this with anyone, never thought he'd be believed. This is his chance.
"I cleaned my teeth first," Brendan says, voice almost mechanical from trying so hard to get this out. "Brushed so hard that my gums began to bleed."
Ste can imagine it all too vividly, feels as if he's the one living it.
Brendan meets his gaze, knees huddled up to his chest in a position that reminds Ste of the child that he once was.
"Do you feel like you can't be clean ever again?"
Ste nods immediately; it's been growing stronger since he left the library. He can still taste Warren, can still feel him surrounding him, on top of him and trying to be inside him. Nothing's erasing that feeling.
"I can make you feel...better."
Ste wants it, doesn't have an ounce of hesitation as he takes the hand that Brendan offers him, clasping it and allowing himself to be pulled from the bed and its security. It's cold, hard floors that he fears, not the safety of here - Brendan's cell. Brendan.
Brendan slings an arm around him, and doesn't remove it even when they're outside the confines of the cell, a towel placed over his shoulder. They pass other prisoners in the hallway, and Ste knows how it must look; two men, as openly together as they are. He catches a few glances thrown his way, unmistakably judgmental and disgusted.
He ignores it. With Brendan beside him, the importance of everyone else is numbed.
They reach the bathroom, and Brendan makes a show of letting Ste know that the door's closed behind them. Ste hates that Brendan knows exactly what to do; he'd rather he was clueless in the situation, searching desperately for things to say and a correct way to act. He's only too aware of why Brendan's handling him so expertly, why he's making him feel so at ease. He knows more than he should, more than anyone should about what's happened. He's been there, and it makes Ste ache for the lifetime he's spent trying to come to terms with it.
Ste grapples with the shower head. He wishes he could have a bath, desires nothing more than to emerge his face under the steaming hot water, engulfed in heat, everything else becoming a mere echo.
This place doesn't afford him the luxury.
"Hey." Brendan takes the shower head from Ste's grip when he struggles in desperation, frantic to get the water over him to wash away the dirt.
Ste leans back against the tiles, only realising as he does so that he hasn't even undressed yet.
"Sorry." He's not sure who he's apologising to, what he's apologising for.
"Do you want some help?" Brendan gestures to his clothes.
Ste's about to refuse; he's capable of removing his own clothes. What Warren did to him hasn't left him useless and deficient.
But he feels so exhausted that it's an effort to remain upright. And Brendan's looking at him like he wants to help, like he needs to.
They begin by pulling Ste's t-shirt up from over his head, exposing his torso. The marks that Brendan's left on him over recent weeks make the Irishman wince. Ste lays a hand over his face.
"I wanted you to."
He doesn't want Brendan to put him in a box, victim of abuse. He chooses the marks on his skin, and he chose these.
Brendan holds out a hand, and Ste guides it to the lightly coloured bruise lying close to his stomach, imprinted when he'd rode Brendan, the older man's fingertips digging into his flesh. He smooths it down with his thumb until it no longer hurts.
"Can I..." Brendan touches Ste's jogging bottoms fleetingly, and Ste nods, gulping down the fear that's an instinct now, telling him that no one can touch him there, not again.
Brendan goes slowly, gradually revealing more skin. He stills when Ste sucks in a breath when his trousers are bundled around his knees; it feels like too much is on display, and he hates himself for thinking it, for Warren taking something from him, reducing him to this mess of a man.
"We can stop if you want."
"No. I have to do this."
"You don't have to do anything, Steven."
"I never thought the day would come when you didn't want to see me naked," he jokes, sounding strained and forced.
Brendan doesn't laugh, just waits for Ste to give him an instruction, to tell him if he can continue. He remembers the niggling thoughts in his first few days in prison, when he considered the possibility of Brendan forcing himself on him, of violating him. It's like something from a different world, not correlating with the gentleness of the man standing before him.
If he can do this with anyone, he can do it with Brendan.
"You can take them off."
After Brendan's ascertained that he's ready, he removes the rest of Ste's trousers and places them to the side, close to them both, and Ste knows that it's in case he changes his mind.
He still hasn't decided if he's at risk of that happening.
"My boxers too," he releases on a shaky breath.
"We don't have to rush this."
"I know. But...I trust you. I can't...I don't think I can do it myself. I know that sounds stupid, but..."
"It's not stupid," Brendan interrupts, and Ste sees it then, so clearly that it's dazzling: he sees that Brendan loves him. It's everywhere, in everything he's doing. It's more powerful than words, and Ste's only just beginning to realise that.
When his underwear's been removed, Brendan's eyes roam over his body. Ste's never felt so naked in his life, is shivering from being this exposed, feeling this vulnerable. The bravado has gone, and he can't believe that he was sucking Brendan's cock a couple of hours ago, wanting to tear his clothes from him and feel Brendan pushing into him, that delicious fullness stretching and burning.
In one fluid motion, Brendan removes his shirt.
"What are you doing?" Ste asks, suddenly fearful.
"Making it easier for you." He begins unbuttoning his jeans, rolling them down his legs along with his boxers. Everything's on display, his cock hanging between his legs and the contours of his arse perfectly sculptured as he turns on the water. He's not touching Ste, but he's close enough to him that he could lean forward and be able to run his tongue along Brendan's moustache.
The water's cold at first. It's always too cold here, and Ste wonders whether it's on purpose, a reminder that for all their televisions and game consoles and pool tables, they don't deserve privileges.
He shudders, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. Brendan senses it, running his warm hands down Ste's back, replacing the chill with his heat until Ste's body begins to grow slack, some of the tension leaving him.
He leans against the tills, aware of Brendan repositioning the shower head so that it's above Ste, the water falling down him.
"Close your eyes." Brendan's voice lulls his lids shut, its sound soothing and breaking through the pounding in his head and the tears threatening to fall. He wonders if it would be noticeable if he were to cry, or whether it would mix with the water and wash away.
He squeezes his eyes to stop it.
"Sit down. It'll be easier."
Something about Brendan's voice makes him follow the instruction. Ste slides down the tiles and sits down in the cramped shower, and he's right, it is easier. He can let go like this, unaware of anything other than the water cleansing him. He takes the soap from Brendan's hand when he offers it, beginning to swirl it over his skin in circular motions.
It's tempting to be overzealous and to try and scrub away the very heart of him; the dark, filthy core that Warren invaded. But under Brendan's gaze he takes it slowly, soaping his entire body until he starts to believe that the only fingerprints that are on him are Brendan's and his own.
Brendan crouches down to wash him free of the soap, and Ste leans his chin against his arm, feeling something like safety surrounding him.
Ste wakes regretting his decision to spend the night in his own cell. He wants Brendan's arms around him, nearly cries out with the loss of not having him there. He opens his eyes and looks at Doug across the room from him; he's holding onto his pillow, and Ste wonders if he wants Lynsey beside him, if they're both missing someone and don't know how to fill the void.
He dresses quietly so as not to disturb Doug. The marks from the ties still show up on his skin, red and a constant reminder of what's happened. He'll be grateful the day that they begin to fade, needs the experience to become a distant memory. He stares down at the skin there, softly stroking a single finger across the area. He tries to remember the way that Brendan had kissed him there, tries to recall the look on the older man's face. Brendan hadn't been afraid, hadn't been repulsed. He loves him.
Ste has time to kill, twenty minutes before he has a meeting with his lawyer. They have weekly appointments, but it had been something that Ste had dreaded during his first few weeks inside; he would be fed the same information, the same facts. He had three months to serve, and he had hated being reminded of it in the beginning, the time stretching before him and seeming impossibly long.
He hadn't been able to afford a lawyer of his choice, so he'd been assigned one: Jim McGinn. Ste had immediately been unimpressed. Jim had appeared disheveled during their first exchange, a mustard stain on his shirt and his hair greasy and sticking up erratically. He'd dropped all of his files before hurriedly scrambling for them, joining Ste at the table.
His words had carried more weight. There was intelligence underneath the exterior, and he used long, convoluted words that Ste struggled to understand, forcing him to nod along, too embarrassed to ask for clarification.
Most importantly, Jim smiled at him. A smile was a rare thing in this place, and Ste savoured it in the early days more than he wanted to admit. When he had nothing - frosty exchanges with Amy, no visits from the kids, and a cellmate who was a murderer and who Ste was sure wanted to kill him - he had Jim. Jim was the one shining, bumbling light, and despite the deliverance of bad news every week, Ste never cancelled their appointments, never faked illness like some of the other prisoners, reluctant to hear that their appeal had been rejected.
Ste doesn't know why he feels nervous, why his recent meetings with Jim have felt different, uncomfortable. He's walked into the room with his stomach churning, not being able to settle into a position that doesn't make his entire body feel tense.
He wastes the time he has to kill pacing up and down the hallways. The library's within walking distance, and the police tape that had initially cordoned off the area is gone; it's no longer being treated like a crime scene. He could walk in there now if he wanted to, could find that same room where he was held down by Warren.
He can't decide if he's masochistic enough to go back there.
When he enters the room where his meetings with Jim always take place, he declines the man's hand held out to him, leaving Jim staring at him in confusion. Ste's never been the type to shake hands, but he's never refused it before. He hides his wrists under his jacket sleeve, making sure that Jim doesn't see the raw, angry marks.
The earliness of their meetings has always left Jim grumbling about needing a coffee, the circles under his eyes particularly prominent. Ste waits for him to start on the same vein, already ready with his sympathetic reply.
Jim's smiling, a beaming grin that shows his teeth.
"What?" Ste asks, feeling his anxiety spike and ripple through his body. He's seen Jim frustrated and angry and apologetic; he's never seen him happy, this happy.
"You're getting out, Ste."
Ste forgets about hiding his wrists. He puts his hands on the table, needing something to steady himself. His throat is locked; he can't say anything.
Jim reaches into his bag, showing Ste paperwork that he can't take in, can't understand. He's aware of him talking him through it, can see Jim's fingers tracing the paper and pointing at various words, but Ste's eyes are hazy, unseeing.
"Ste?" Jim's voice is firm, and he snaps his fingers in front of Ste's face.
"Alright, you don't have to do that." Ste frowns, pretending that he was listening the entire time, hasn't just got lost in his own head.
"You looked a million miles away."
"Jim..." He leans forward, lowers his voice. He doesn't want to say the words too loudly, has the sudden crazy, irrational fear that Brendan can somehow hear him. "How can this...you told me that there was no chance. That I'd be here until the end of my sentence."
"Things can change. Call it good behaviour."
"Good behaviour?" Ste snorts, can still remember the taste of the moonshine on his tongue. There's been nothing good about his actions in this place.
"And a recommendation from Tony."
"Tony?" He doesn't know what to say to that; he'd been worried that with Kevin joining the cookery class, Tony had found a shiny new toy, someone to believe in and make him feel foolish over thinking for one second that Ste was something special.
"He thinks a lot of you."
Ste blushes under the attention, looking away from Jim and down at the floor, skin burning.
"No offense Ste, but you look bloody miserable."
Ste looks at him sharply. He's not miserable. He's -
He's meant to be pleased. Meant to be on top of the fucking world.
"No," he says defensively. "It's just...it's a shock, isn't it? I didn't think I had a chance. How soon are we talking?"
"Next week."
Ste's grip on the table grows tighter.
"Next..." He's aware he's gawping, but he doesn't try to hide his disbelief. He was expecting to have a couple of days taken off his sentence, thought that he'd at least have time to say goodbye, to prepare himself. A week gives him nothing; how is he meant to say goodbye to Brendan in seven days? Seven days compared to the months they've spent together.
"That doesn't make sense. I mean...don't they have to do things first, before they can just let me out? Like...what's that word? Reh...rehab -"
"Rehabilitate you?" Jim asks, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah. Don't they have to do that?"
"Ste, you stole a few things from the corner shop. You're not a serial killer."
"Yeah, but -"
"Ste." Jim leans towards him on the table, eyes boring into his. "Is there something you're not telling me? Most guys would be crying into my shoulder at this news - you look like I just told you that your wife died."
"I've never even had a wife."
"You know what I mean."
"I just don't think I'm ready."
He's aware of how he sounds; Jim's face is a reflection of the insanity of his words. He feels guilt stirring within him when he imagines how hurt and bewildered Amy would be if she could hear him now. He hasn't even begun to think about how he can explain this to her. She doesn't even know Brendan exists, knows him only as a face rather than a person. The only glimpse she's had of him is when he'd knocked over a chair and made his sister reel back in shock during visiting hours, an initial impression consisting of violence and fear.
Jim picks up his briefcase, collecting his paperwork and stuffing it untidily back in.
"Look, I've got another meeting coming up. But I'll be in touch in the week, and you know you can give me a call if you need me."
Ste nods, feeling shaky on his feet when he stands. He's scared that Jim will schedule another meeting with the judge, telling him that Ste's reaction proves that he's not ready to be released.
He's even more scared that a part of him wants this to happen.
Jim leaves with a shake of the hand and a smile that wanes before fading completely. It's not the one that Ste's come to know, and it leaves him closing the door behind him in defeat, walking slowly back into the corridor.
Brendan's leaning against the wall, humming under his breath. Ste stills, using the opportunity to look at the Irishman. There's something fascinating about watching him when he's unaware of his presence. He can see the Brendan who is instead of the Brendan he's trying to be. There's a nervous energy to his movements, his fingers twitching where they lie by his sides. But even with only his side profile visible, he's beautiful. Brown hair sticking up slightly in unruly tufts, a thin vest displaying the rippling muscles of his arms, and the large cross tattoo that's grazed and muddied with Ste's teeth marks.
His masculinity is startling; Ste never knew he could want someone like him. He'd gone for delicate blonds that look like they could be blown over in the breeze. Brendan's strong, solid. The opposite of everything that Ste's ever known.
When he sees Ste standing across from him, his face clears.
"Some people would find that creepy, Steven. A violation of my rights."
"Coming from the man who I once found watching me sleep."
Brendan shrugs. "I was bored, and you were the most interesting thing in the room."
"Oh, that's alright then," Ste says wryly.
It's only a distraction for a second, joking like this; he can't keep it up, and it shows.
"Are you okay?" A frown appears on Brendan's face and he uncrosses his arms, looking poised for a fight, as though the cause of Ste's discomfort is something he can physically push away.
"Not really," Ste admits, mumbling and trying to resist asking Brendan to hold him, to reassure him. He'd done it too many times with Pauline, before he realised how futile it was.
He adjusted to that rejection. He can't adjust to Brendan's.
"Can we go somewhere?"
They walk back to Brendan's cell, and Ste can feel the tension crackling between them, can feel how Brendan's trying not to question him, forcing himself to wait until Ste begins talking.
When they're alone, Ste can't hold it together anymore. He presses his face against Brendan's chest, trying to silence the gasps that are racking through his body, wanting to be released.
"Steven." He feels Brendan's hand lightly touch his hair, then begin sweeping through it.
"I'm sorry." Ste can feel how distorted his voice is. "I'm pathetic. You didn't fall in love with this."
"Look at me."
"No."
"Please."
Ste sighs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and daring to face Brendan.
"This is exactly what I fell in love with. You - this - this honesty. You're not like me. You don't try and hide anything."
Ste scoffs. "Except the fact that I'm seeing you and not telling the mother of my kids about it. Except the fact that I was stealing everyday and not telling her. Except the fact that I don't want to leave this place, and no one but me knows."
Brendan stares at him with amazed eyes. "What? Are you -"
"Crazy? Stupid? Yes." Ste buries his face back against Brendan's body, shame coursing through him. "Jim told me that I'm getting out in a week."
He waits for Brendan's counter argument, for him to grow furious, to not accept it.
There's silence.
"Bren? Did you hear -"
"Yes, I heard." His voice is clipped. Cold.
"I'm meant to...to want this, aren't I? It's meant to be everything that I've waited for, everything that I've dreamed of. Then why do I feel so..."
"It's shock." He feels Brendan swallow, his body lightly moving from the action. "You just need time, that's all."
"Exactly - I need time. Not seven fucking days."
"Steven -"
"No - don't you realise? That's all we have left together, Brendan. Things are finally - fuck, I know they're not perfect, I know that after Warren it's...but you love me, don't you?"
"You know I do." Brendan says it with such sincerity that it takes Ste's breath away, takes all the strength he has not to say it back a thousand times over, imprinting it onto his skin with his lips.
"This can't...this can't be the end." He grabs onto Brendan's shirt collar, drawing him closer and trying to silence the sound of his sniffs, so near to tears that he can almost taste them on his tongue.
He can't pretend that it's not real anymore. He can already imagine Brendan's reaction; he'll let him go. Ste can envisage it, has had half remembered nightmares of calling Brendan's name, of watching him disappear behind the gates, eyes turning black and gaze wandering until he's no longer looking at Ste, no longer seeing him at all.
Brendan's love isn't the same as a promise to stay with him.
Brendan's warm against him, but it's not enough.
"I can't leave here."
"You have to."
"No." It's a childish protest, going against logic. He knows Jim and Brendan are right - he has to go home, has to try and be the father that Leah and Lucas need, and the man that Amy deserves.
He'd be able to return to them, if he knew that he wasn't going back alone.
"What are you going to do, rot in here with me forever?"
"We can get you out - try and find some way to escape."
Brendan doesn't hide what he thinks of this particular idea. "This isn't like in the movies, Steven - I can't just build a hole in the ground. There isn't a way out."
"There has to be," Ste protests, fingers digging into Brendan's collar to try and emphasise the point. "You can't just give up."
"I'm not giving up. I'm being realistic." He sweeps a hand through Ste's hair, and Ste reels back from the touch. He doesn't want to be placated, doesn't want to be patronised with Brendan's reassurance. He can't bear it.
"Fuck being realistic."
He takes several steps back, staring at Brendan with eyes burning with something like hatred.
"Fuck being practical or sensible or smart - I'm none of those things, Brendan. I'm never going to be. But I'm always going to want you."
"Things can change," Brendan says quietly. "A couple of months, a few years - you might feel differently."
Ste laughs loudly, devoid of humour. "See, I knew you'd be like this. I knew you'd give up, that you'd find some way of saying goodbye."
"I'm not saying goodbye -"
"Fucking liar."
"Steven -"
He's never seen such a reverse of power between them. Brendan's staring at him imploringly, eyes shining and ringed with sadness. He's the frightened one now. The one who needs to be held.
"You always do this when things get tough. You walk away, do anything that'll avoid you having to try."
Ste's sure that he's going to argue back, but Brendan's shoulders sag and he stares down at the floor, chest heaving in a sigh.
"You're right." He mumbles it, possessing none of the authority that Ste's come to expect. It sounds like defeat. "I just don't see how this is going to work. You deserve someone who you can have a future with. Someone you can spend your life with."
"What I want is you. I don't know how many more times I have to say that before you get it through your thick head."
Brendan snorts lightly. "You're so romantic, Steven."
"I didn't think you were the chocolates and flowers and love letters type," Ste mutters, determined to retain his anger. This isn't a fight that Brendan's going to win.
"I'm not. I just...I want you to be...free."
"Are you going to listen to what I want?"
"Go on," Brendan says tentatively, clearly fearing the answer.
Ste pushes away from the wall that he'd been leaning on, anchoring Brendan's face in his hands before the Irishman can stop him. Ste needs him to look at him for this. Needs him to listen, realise that what he's proposing - a life spent away from each other - is impossible.
"Bren?"
He only continues when Brendan nods slightly, looking too tightly wound to reply.
"I want to stay here, with you. I'm going to kill Warren, and we're going to be together."