March 2014
Ste
They've grown. It's the first thing he notices, even before he lifts them in his arms. They're still light as a feather, both of them, and they hold on tight and laugh when he kisses their soft cheeks, reluctant to let go.
"Look at you, Leah! Proper little lady now, aren't you?" He feels old when he says it. Like a distant relative who hasn't seen them in a while, and he hugs them closer to hide his embarrassment.
They want to know everything. They want to know what Benidorm was like, and why he doesn't look darker like their friends do when they come back from holiday.
"Benidorm's not really that hot." He hopes the kids can't pick up on how he's floundering. He distracts himself, putting the kettle on for him and Amy, staring round the flat and getting used to his surroundings again. It feels like he's been away for ever, and yet it seems impossible that he was in prison less than an hour ago, trapped by the locked doors and the high walls. Freedom feels like something unfamiliar; an old friend who he hasn't seen in a while.
"Let me do that." Amy takes the mugs from him, busying herself with grabbing the tea bags and pouring the kids juice to go alongside them. "Just relax. You deserve it."
He hadn't known how she'd react when he saw her outside the gates. He knew this wasn't the future she had in mind, waiting for the father of her children outside prison. Ste had proved everyone in Amy's life right, her father most of all. He'd got himself in trouble and dragged Amy down with him, just like Mike had said.
His doubts had been silenced when she'd put her arms around him. His small suitcase of belongings had dropped to the ground, and he'd wrapped himself up in her tiny frame. She smelt familiar, and he gathered comfort from it as Brendan's last words played out in his head again and again, his face flickering before his eyes like a black and white film.
He wanted to tell her. He desperately wanted to talk about Brendan, to make what they had real, because he felt it fading fast the further that he and Amy walked from the prison. If he didn't tell someone, then it felt like the last few months had been part of his imagination.
He resisted calling Brendan the minute he got home. He knew Amy would get suspicious, and he had to give this some time. He didn't want Brendan to think that he was that weak that he couldn't live without him for five minutes.
"Come on, lets sit on the sofa." Amy swats his hand away when he tries to take their mugs from the kitchen countertop, nodding at him to make his way to the other room.
"You're acting like I've been slaving away for the last three months. Most of it was dead boring." The truth would only frighten her.
"Don't think you're getting this kind of service forever. This is just for today." She shoots him a look, and he feels some of the tension leaving him. He forgot how much he missed this. He doesn't have to be on his guard here, alarmed by sudden sounds - the crashing of doors, the sound of broken bone at the contact of fists. It's peaceful.
He hands the kids their drinks. He can tell they're pleased to see him, but he's already old news. They're playing on the carpet, so secure in the knowledge that he was always going to come back. It makes him think of Declan and Padraig. Is it natural for them now, to be apart from Brendan?
"Are you okay?" Amy's staring at him, and he wonders how he must look.
"Yeah, fine." He sips his tea, and it scolds his mouth. He'd forgotten that too. Everything in prison was lukewarm at best. "Just getting used to everything, you know? It's weird."
"It must be."
He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve for Amy to be sympathetic to him when he was so close to doing countless stupid things. Of staying locked up for ever.
"Thank you. For always coming to see me." He's never truly said it before. He'd always been afraid that saying it would jinx it, and she'd stop coming.
"Of course." She seems shocked that he'd even question it. "I wouldn't just leave you in there, would I?"
"You were so angry at the trial." It's still fresh in his mind, the way she'd looked at him.
"I was still mad at you." He thinks she's putting it lightly, and for that he's grateful. "If you'd just told me that you couldn't get a job, then..."
Neither of them say the truth: that it'll be even harder now.
"But I don't want to talk about all that." Amy smiles at him, and he hates himself for underestimating this girl, this girl who let him into her life and gave him a family. "This is a fresh start."
She's so full of hope. He wants to feel it too. Needs to.
"I thought I'd start working on my CV soon." Just saying it's daunting. He can't face the idea of sitting down at his computer, trying to sell himself. A stint in young offenders before I was eighteen. Went to prison at twenty three for shoplifting.
Hire me. Employ me.
"Yeah?" Her eyes light up. "That's brilliant! What kind of work were you thinking of?"
He almost laughs at the way she says it. Like he can have his pick.
"Maybe restaurant work." It's the first thing that comes to mind. The only thing he's ever been interested in.
"That's amazing, Ste." She rubs his knee. "It sounds like that guy was really impressed with you. What's his name again? Tony?"
"Yeah." He doesn't want to say his name. He should of said more when they'd last spoken. There are so many things he wishes he'd said.
"Thank God there were some decent people in there. Every time I visited I looked round, and..." She shakes her head, and he remembers her in the visiting room, terrified and jumping at the smallest sound. "All those men. Remember that old guy with the glasses who kept on glancing at us?"
"Silas. Yeah." He doesn't tell her that he's dead.
"And that guy who had that massive cross tattoo. He kept on looking over at us as well."
Ste's silent, and it doesn't go unnoticed.
"You don't have to be worried anymore though." She clinks their glasses together like they're toasting something. "You don't ever have to go back there and see those people again."
::::::
Brendan
Ethan keeps on asking him if he's alright. When he's in the gym. When he's in the games room. When he's getting lunch, and dinner. Before bed and when they've settled down for the night.
"Fuck sake." Brendan scowls into the darkness. He's tired of saying yes, of feeling that he has to reassure him. "I'm fine. Now will you just leave me alone and go to sleep?"
He hears the hurt in Ethan's voice. He didn't mean to snap, and he can't get to sleep now. A few of the men are having a conversation between cells, but he's so used to it now that it barely registers; it's background noise, nothing more bothersome than the wind. He'd had insomnia for weeks when he first arrived, but it had soon faded and given way to the nightmares.
He's scared of what he might dream about tonight. Something tells him that it won't be about Seamus. The nightmares have grown worse since his therapy. He wants to ask Desmond about them, wants to know if that's common, for things to get worse before they get better. But asking would reveal the truth, and he can't do that. He won't ever be able to do that.
He wonders if he'll dream about the boy. It's what scares him most of all, because what if he only comes to life in his dreams? The worse thing is thinking that he might forget. That Steven's features and voice will become distant memories, something which he'll struggle to recall. He needs them to be sharp, and to remain as vivid as they've always been. They're his only hope now, in here.
This isn't goodbye. I'll see you next week.
What would Steven say, if he found out that he's already thinking of breaking his promise?
"Ethan." It's been hours since they spoke, but he's certain that Ethan's still awake. He hums in acknowledgement. "Sorry about..." He doesn't elaborate. This is humiliating enough as it is.
"It's okay. Your first night away from him is bound to be hard."
Jesus. He never thought he'd be doing this, speaking to him about Steven.
"You've just got to keep busy."
"I can't keep busy now, can I?" It's easier during the day when he has things to do. He can listen to music, watch television, exercise. Now there's nothing but black.
But he doesn't think this will be the hardest part. That'll come when he wakes, and realises all over again that Steven isn't with him.
"I don't mean right now," Ethan says, as though it's obvious, and Brendan wonders who he misses the most in here, if anyone. They've never talked about Ethan's family, or the people he's left behind. Brendan doesn't know if he had a girlfriend before coming in here.
"But tomorrow." Ethan continues. "And every day after that. Just...distract yourself. Keep going to those cookery classes."
"I can't." They'll remind him too much of Steven. "I can't cook, can I?"
"That's kind of the point. You could surprise him. Make him something when you get out."
Brendan scoffs. He's getting tips on this from him? From anyone? He pretends that it's not crossing his mind, the idea of Steven's reaction when he comes home to find a home cooked meal in front of him. He shouldn't even be considering it. It's ridiculous.
"I just wanted to say sorry, that's all. You don't have to go on."
"So you're aplogising for snapping at me by...snapping at me?" Ethan sounds more awake now, and Brendan wonders if he's smiling at him from across the room.
He grunts. "Something like that." He's not even going to try and convince him that he's making any sense right now.
"You're one of the strangest people I've ever met, you know that?"
Strange. It should go alongside everything he's ever thought about himself: freak and abnormal and wrong. But he surprises himself. He laughs.
"Watch it, kid."
"You know how I know that you'll be okay?"
"No?" Brendan asks, a touch of curiosity there. He wants someone to tell him that he will be.
"Because you're already threatening me."
"Just go to sleep, alright?" He turns over in his bed, and he feels it then. The possibility that maybe he really can make it.
But then the dreams start. That night, the first of many, he dreams of golden skin and dark eyelashes and strong, assured limbs, and when he wakes up he feels grief paralyse him all over again.
::::::
Ste
He's in his own bed again.
He can't get used to the warmth. He wraps himself in several layers out of habit, and when Amy knocks on the door she finds him in the process of tearing off his jumper, another one underneath.
"What are you doing?"
"I just forget what it's like to have heating." He climbs back into bed, pulling the covers up over him. The bed's not lumpy. He forgot what that was like too.
Amy looks at him like he's being daft. "You're acting like you've been away for years." She sits on the edge of the bed, her pajamas swamping her.
"It feels like it." So much has happened that it feels impossible that it was only three months.
"Ste?" Her voice is tentative. He doesn't think he's going to like what she has to say. She plays with the covers, fingers winding over the fabric.
"What?" He considers telling her that he's tired and needs to get some sleep, but he can't brush her aside like that. Not after everything she's done for him. And he's meant to be happy, being here. He remembers what Doug had said before he left. He can sleep anywhere, anytime. He's meant to be doing something memorable, something that matters. He's making a mockery of his freedom.
"Is everything okay?"
He shifts in bed, discomfort clawing at him. "What do you mean?"
"It's just...you've been a bit...you know...since you got back."
"No." He doesn't know what you know is. Odd? Non celebratory? Downright miserable?
"You just don't seem like your usual self," she finishes, and there's an apologetic note to her tone, like she doesn't want to be saying any of this.
"Don't be silly." Perhaps it's easier, making this all about her. Pretending that it's her problem, her issue.
He's a bastard.
"Maybe I'm finding it a bit hard," he admits. What kind of man is he? What kind of father is he? This - his home, his best friend, his kids - it should all be enough. It should be everything.
"I don't blame you."
"Really?" He feels startled; he was sure that that's exactly what Amy was going to do.
"Ste, you went through a massive thing. It must have been terrible in there. Of course you're not just going to go back to normal."
He can't completely argue: it was terrible. But it was also the best time of his life, and there's no way that Amy or anyone else will ever understand that.
"But if you want to talk about it -"
"I don't."
"It might help." He can see how desperate she is for it; she needs this for herself as well as for him. He gets a glimpse of what it must have been like for her, holed up in the flat with the kids for the majority of the time, waiting on visits and phone calls to find out how he was. It hurts to remember the weeks where he barely said anything to her, too tangled up in Brendan ending things between them.
"Sorry Ames." He reaches for her hand. It feels tiny in his. "I just don't want you to hear any of it."
"But I want to."
She doesn't. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. She doesn't want to hear about the rape, or about Ste seeing people die around him. She doesn't want to know that he fell in love with another prisoner. She wants the cuddly version - that he kept his head down, that everything was plain sailing. It's a nice picture she's painting, but it's not the truth.
"It was okay." There's a dull ache in his head, you're a liar. "My cellmate - Doug, you remember me telling you about him? He looked out for me."
"That's good." Her relief is palpable.
"Yeah. We're even gonna meet up - he gets out next week too."
He can see the way her mind's working. She's seen Doug across the visiting room; Ste had pointed him out. He's every mother's fantasy in the flesh: prep school clothes, butter wouldn't melt expression. He's the last person anyone would assume would get into trouble.
Whereas Brendan -
"That's great! So what are you two going to do together?" Her eyes light up a little too much.
"Why are you saying it like that?" He suddenly feels uncomfortable.
"What?"
"Come on. You've got that face on you too."
"No, it's just...you and Doug...I know you said he's seeing someone, but -"
"Amy! He's not gay!"
"Bi?"
"No!"
She silences him. The kids are asleep, and he hadn't realised he'd been yelling.
"Look." He lowers his voice. "Me and Doug are just mates. He's straight. And even if he wasn't, I wouldn't be interested."
"Why not?"
"He's not my type!"
"Ste, you've only just come out. How do you know what your type is?"
He stares at her indignantly. "Same way you do." He feels slightly insulted: he knows. It doesn't matter that he hasn't been out his whole life. He knows what he likes.
"Sorry." She has the grace to look like she means it. "I'm new to this whole thing too, you know. I'm still getting used to the idea."
Ste hadn't considered that. He thought that once he'd told Amy, that would be it; the hard part and all the questioning would be over. He hadn't thought about how it might still be strange for her.
"I'm still the same."
She smooths her thumb over his hand. "I know. I never for a second thought you weren't. But..." She sighs, like she's struggling to articulate what she wants to say. "I want you to be happy. More than anything. That's all. Ignore what I said about Doug - I just want you to find someone."
"I'm not pushing on forty, Ames. What's the rush?"
She laughs. "You do realise my own love life's deader than dead, right? Who's going to want to go out with a single mum who has two kids and lives with her gay ex?"
"Well when you put it like that..." He pokes his tongue out at her.
"I need this information. I pretty much live through you now." She gives him a playful shove.
"There's no one. Really."
"But you've...been there." She raises her eyebrows.
"Are you asking me to tell you about my sex life?" His mouth's agape.
"Don't be such a prude! Come on, you used to tell me about you and Rae all the time."
"Yeah, only like...kissing and stuff..." There hadn't been much to tell. They'd fooled around for a week few until she'd been ready, and they'd slept together whenever they could, but it hadn't been easy to get time along together. He never wanted to risk the awkwardness that would ensure if Amy walked in on them. And the idea of Rae's live-in grandmother seeing them together gave him nightmares.
"Is it easier with a man?"
He doesn't know how he feels, talking about this. It wasn't a lifetime ago that Amy was in his bed.
"What do you mean?" He draws his knees up to his chest. Amy moves to join him on the spare side, getting under the covers with him.
"You know what you like, don't you? So it must be easier to...you know...please him."
"What are you asking me all these questions for? You doing some kind of questionnaire or something?"
"No! I'm just curious."
"It's different for everyone, isn't it?" He shouldn't be giving advice on this. Most of the time he feels like he's fumbling his way through life blindly in the dark. "Everyone likes different things." He hadn't really considered it before Brendan. Alcohol had fueled most of his interactions with men, and it had all been about immediate gratification: what he was feeling at that moment. It didn't matter what came afterwards. It didn't even always matter who the other person was.
He doesn't say anything for a moment. Talking about this without mentioning Brendan feels like he's lying. He wants to tell Amy that she doesn't have to worry about him, that he'll be okay.
He listens as her breathing grows heavier, and she begins to slump against his shoulder. Ste gently dislodges her, laying her down on the pillow. It's been years since they slept in the same bed, but it feels like an old familiar comfort. He doesn't want to be alone tonight.
"Ste?" She's mumbling, drifting between being asleep and awake.
"Hmm?" He tucks the cover under her chin, making sure she's warm.
"I'm really glad you're back, you know."
"Me too." She doesn't need to know that it's more complicated than that.
He turns off the bedroom lights, being careful not to hog the covers like she always used to accuse him of. He lies awake staring at the ceiling, and he wonders if Brendan's doing the same.
::::::
Brendan
He's been sitting in silence for thirty minutes now. Desmond hasn't tried to get him to speak, and it feels like a waiting game for the session to be over. He can leave any time he wants to, but he knows that it'll make it harder to come back. And he needs to come back.
"Steven's gone." It's the first thing Brendan's said, and the last thing he wanted to say.
"He was released yesterday?" Desmond leans forward in his chair. Brendan feels a twinge of annoyance: Desmond must have known when Steven was due to be released. He's asking these questions to make him talk more, and it's working. He hates that it's working.
"He's back with his family." He wonders what they're doing now, the four of them. It's a nice day; perhaps he's taken them to the park. He remembers doing that with Padraig and Declan. It was always a good excuse to get out of the house for a while, under the guise of giving Eileen some time for herself. Except it largely backfired. He felt distant from the whole thing. He'd act the way he thought a father should: pushing the boys on the swings. Watching them run around. Teaching them how to ride a bike. He felt like someone was going to come along at any second, tap him on the shoulder and tell him that they'd discovered his secret, that he was a fraud.
"He wants to come and visit, but..." He shakes his head. The idea of Steven being out there, and voluntarily choosing to return - its madness is more apparent now.
"But you don't want to see him?"
"Of course I want to see him." He chokes on the words. "But he shouldn't be in a place like this. Steven's got these dreams, this idea of a relationship - you ever heard of something successful coming out of this place? Everything in here gets twisted - everyone comes out wrong, and he's got a chance to be different to all that. He is different."
"What about what you want?"
Brendan looks away dismissively. Sometimes it feels like he's talking to himself in here. It doesn't matter what he wants.
"I'm in here for life." Steven had made him think that the world could be good again. That he had a shot of getting out. Now that he's gone, he can feel the hope dying around him. "Just because Steven doesn't think so..."
"He thinks you can get out?"
Brendan's disarmed by Desmond's lack of surprise. Shouldn't he think that the idea's crazy?
"I told you, he's got these dreams. He's smart, but he's..." He's not smart when it comes to me. "It's unrealistic. All of it."
"Maybe he doesn't think so."
He's growing tired of this. Weary. Talking about it won't make this any less true: he's never going to be with Steven outside of here. His life is done, but Steven's doesn't stop. It separates them, a harsh, unavoidable line that can't be blurred.
Brendan looks at the clock. There's still time left, too much time. He wipes away perspiration that's gathered on his forehead, aware that Desmond's looking at him. He's in the spotlight here, and the thought of him being a case study, a patient, makes him wonder why he was so eager to have this in his life after Steven's release. The boy's not here to keep tabs on him anymore - why should he continue?
"I'm not sure about this." His hands are on either side of the chair, fingers drumming against the material.
"What?" That same calm tone, unchanging.
"Being here..."
"Do you want to stop your sessions?"
Jesus, doesn't this man ever get angry about anything? How can he be so calm, so controlled?
"Maybe." Brendan shoots a quick glance his way. Desmond's expression is impossible to read. He's mastered the poker face, but Brendan wonders if he's surprised him underneath it all. If Desmond's thinking back to their last conversation, about how sure Brendan was that he would continue seeing him, and where all that certainty's gone.
"It's just that nothing's getting better." It's not entirely true, and they both know it. He's saying it to get a rise. To make Desmond tell him that he's got better - that he's changing. He needs to hear it. Steven isn't here to tell him. "And the nightmares have got worse."
It's out of his mouth before he can stop it. Desmond's expression shifts. Brendan still can't read it, not completely, and he wonders if it's too late to take it back. To pretend that this is all bullshit.
"What nightmares?"
::::::
Ste
He wakes up early every morning to make sure he's there when the post comes.
One day he misses it. His alarm doesn't work, and he shakes it so hard that it breaks. Amy finds him in the kitchen, laying an envelope in front of him. He's still half asleep, has just been in the process of trying to pour milk over his toast, realising at the last minute what he's doing. His son is standing at the counter next to him, laughing.
"This came for you." Amy starts making the kids lunches. Her tone is casual. She doesn't know. Doesn't suspect a thing.
Ste takes Lucas in his arms, carrying him to sit at the table. He hopes that he and Leah are too young to start suspecting things; he knows that he hasn't been himself since he returned. He's been distracted, and has answered their questions about his holiday with half hearted replies, not so subtly changing the subject.
When he's finished making Lucas breakfast, he makes his escape. He goes into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, hands shaking.
He knows what it is. It looks so ordinary, in a plain brown envelope. There's little to give away its true significance. He'd worried for days that Amy would immediately catch onto what it was, and start asking why he was so desperate to return to a place which he should be trying to shake off.
He can't remember ever being excited about a letter before. Perhaps when he was younger, and he believed for a short time that his dad would send him something at his birthday or around Christmas time, but Pauline would deter him of the fantasy, and in recent years all he's ever come to expect is bills and bank statements telling him how fucked he is; how close he is to having nothing.
He tears the envelope open greedily. For a moment he panics: he's ripped the letter in his haste. Will they care about things like that in prison? Will they not let him in if he sellotapes it up? Will it be void now?
He concentrates on taking deep breaths. He's being stupid. Everything's falling down in that place. They won't take the time to worry about a small tear or the paper being scuffed at the edges.
It's real. All of this, it's real. His address is there, and his name. Brendan's there too: visitor of Brendan Brady. He has an identification number, and there's a separate list of procedures; things he should bring, and what he should expect. His eyes drift over them. He's not taking it in. It's just words on a page, and Ste sits down on the bed to steady himself, imagining Brendan filling in the paperwork, agreeing to see him. Deciding that everything they've planned - all the days and weeks and months of talking about the future - it's happening. It's finally happening.
He can hear Amy calling him from down the hall. His breakfast's getting cold, and he hides the letter in his bottom drawer, stuffed behind his t-shirts. He checks his reflection in the mirror before he joins her. His cheeks are flushed, and the residual tiredness that he was feeling before has left him. He wants to go in there and tell Amy everything. He wants to tell everyone, and it's a sinking realisation, knowing that he'd only be met with disapproval or people who wouldn't care.
He keeps his head down when he goes back into the kitchen. He turns his back, spreading jam onto his toast.
"You alright?" Amy's behind him, a hand on his back.
"Fine, yeah. I'll take the kids to school if you want."
"Are you sure?"
He nods, hugging her, making sure that she can't see his expression. "I've got to go into town anyway."
She misunderstands, thinks he's talking about applying for jobs. He half listens as she presents ideas to him, not just restaurant work. There are things which seem a million miles away, even before the trial and his sentencing.
All he can think about is the letter safe in his room. In two days time, he'll be seeing Brendan again.
::::::
He didn't want to tell Amy about the true meaning for his visit into town.
He drops the kids off at school first. Some of the other parents glance at him curiously; it's been months since they've seen him at the gates. Some even wave at him and make attempts at conversation. After talk of their children dries up, he's lost. Most of them are in suits, quickly doing the school run before hurrying off to their jobs. He's in his tracksuit. The stay at home mums don't look like Amy: they're in their thirties or at the very least their late twenties. Amy often goes to the school without a scrap of make up on, her long hair in plaits. She looks like Leah's older sister. They don't fit, either of them.
When the other parents drift away, clearly feeling uncomfortable by the prolonged silences, he's left with one of the mum's that he's seen a few times now. She's gorgeous: he remembers Amy telling him that she's a model, probably one of those models. Probably has her tits out and all sorts. Amy hadn't talked to him during dinner that night after he'd suggested that she might be jealous.
"Where have you been then, Ste? It's been ages since I've seen you!"
He didn't think she knew his name.
"Just went on holiday. Benidorm."
He watches, mystified, as Mitzeee splutters in his face.
"Benidorm?" She seems to think he's joking. She doesn't stop smiling even when he makes it clear that he's not. "Why didn't Amy go with you then? She could do with a tan. Spends half her life looking like Casper."
"Couldn't leave the kids, could she." It's alarmingly easy to lie. This little tale of his sounds convincing enough.
"Shame. I missed seeing your face around here." She's playing with her hair, winding it around her manicured fingers. She doesn't wear a ring. She's never talked about a boyfriend, and Ste's never seen anyone else bringing her son Phoenix into school.
"Cheers." He doesn't know what else to say. She's standing close to him, and he wants to take a step back but doesn't want to seem rude. She smells strongly of perfume, and he fights the need to cough.
"What are you doing now?"
He's taken aback by the question. It's cold out, but Mitzeee's wearing a particularly low cut top. He can see goosebumps on her chest.
She sees him looking. Her smile increases.
"Want to grab a coffee?"
"Er..." His brain desperately tries to think of an excuse. He has one, a legitimate reason not to go, but words don't seem to be forming on his tongue.
"Come on." She sidles up to him, and she's so close that if he stepped back they'd both stumble.
"No, I've got to go. Got to go shopping, so..." He can see his bus coming, and uses the excuse to run.
When he's safely inside, he goes to the top deck and faces away from her. He wants to tell someone about this. Wants to tell them that he - he, Ste Hay - has just been hit on by the most beautiful women he's ever seen. A model.
He wants to tell Brendan. He gets out his phone, then realises that he can't.
::::::
He feels like everyone's looking at him. He avoids the shops that he used to go in; there's a good chance that the security guards are the same. They might remember him, remember what he's done. He tries to concentrate on what's important: he's got money now. It may not be much, but he's still got some leftover cash from cooking classes, and he needs to believe that he'll find a job. If he starts thinking that he won't, even for a second, then all this - coming back, living with Amy, earning back her trust - it's all pointless.
He's never enjoyed clothes shopping. He's sure there's a joke in there somewhere - he's out now, and he can imagine what people would say, the stereotypes and the opinions forming in their minds if they knew. But he wants to be in and out as quickly as he can be. All he needs is a few outfits that he can wear when he visits Brendan; something decent, something that doesn't make him look like he's some cheap council rat. He wants to impress him, wants Brendan to look at him and find it impossible to turn him away.
He considers a suit, but everything looks too formal, too like he's planning on going to a funeral. When he tries several on they're all far too large, and he doesn't know if it's the artificial lights of the changing rooms highlighting every flaw, but he can barely look at his reflection. He sees the way his ribs jut out, and for a moment he imagines smashing his fist into the glass.
He sits down against the floor in only his boxers, making sure that the curtains of the changing room hide him. He can't do this anymore: can't focus on everything that's wrong with him, everything that Brendan could reject. Brendan wants him. He took him to the mirror in the bathroom and he told him what he saw, what was good about him, what he loved. Ste wants to hold onto that, but without Brendan here beside him, it's struggling from his grasp, floating away like dust.
He puts the suits back, trying on a pair of jeans instead. They fit him better, and he looks more like himself. But something's still wrong: he's not himself, not completely. His reflection, the jeans and the polo neck buttoned all the way up and the plain black shoes that shine from how new they are - it's pretend. It's like he's dressing up as someone else.
He hands back the clothes to the girl who's manning the dressing room. She smiles at him, and he wonders if she's seen this before, a man so indecisive about what to wear. Perhaps it's in his expression, how nervous he is, how he's wondering if Brendan will take one look at him and wonder why he bothered.
Ste wanders over to the section with the sports wear, and he instantly feels some of his tension dissolve. This feels familiar - the tracksuits and the trainers and the safety of it all. Most of his own clothes are years old, and he grabs a blue tracksuit top in his size, trying it on in front of the mirror. He looks younger than his years, but at least he's not pretending. At least this is him.
He buys the top and a pair of grey jogging bottoms to go with it. He hands over the cash hurriedly: he's never been in this shop, but he's cautious of the security cameras, of someone in here knowing him. It's a nice feeling, walking out with a receipt, knowing he has nothing to hide.
::::::
There's a flaw in the plan. Something that amongst all the arranging and discussing was missed.
He has no way of contacting Brendan directly. He has the prison's pay phone number, but there's no guarantee that the person who'll pick up will be him, and there's the chance that he'll be seen as over eager if he calls this early. It's only been a few days, and Brendan will be expecting him to be with his kids and Amy, to pick up where he left off.
He's okay during the day. The mornings are busy, and shopping has temporarily distracted him, but he's alone now. Amy's visiting her dad, the kids are at school, and the flat is so silent that Ste wishes something would happen - wishes that someone would cause trouble, that he'd have something to deal with. He puts the television on and lets its mindless chatter fill the house, but he can't concentrate. He tries on the outfit that he's going to wear during his first visit, imagining Brendan's hands unzipping it. He moves from the sofa, going to his bedroom and locking the door just in case, drawing the blinds and getting into bed, reaching under the covers for his dick. When he comes it's disorientating. He's used to Brendan being there beside him, but there's just an empty space in the bed now, and it's not their bed.
Ste clears himself up, taking a shower and letting the screen doors cloud over with steam. His skin's pink when he comes out, and he wraps himself in a towel and goes back to his room, staring at his phone. He'd written his number out for Brendan clearly, and again on a separate piece of paper when he'd been afraid that he'd lose it.
He misses the sound of his voice. He misses his sarcasm. He misses his grumpiness. He misses his laughter, his true laughter, however rare it can be.
He gives it an hour. An hour with no phone calls, no word, no assurance that Brendan's alright. Then he dials the number, and waits.
