"Yeah, thanks," the lad mumbled as Rodney stood pointing a pudgy finger at the vibrating lump in his jacket pocket. He made no move to take the phone out of the pocket or quiet the buzzing noise.
"Answer it if you want," the other man said, speaking for the first time. An Irish accent, Rodney noted with surprise. His eyes were still on the lad, raking over his face, concerned. What did the kid have on him, Rodney wondered. It must be something good.
"No, no," the lad mumbled, running an anguished hand down his face. "No, I'll call him later."
The lad gave his shoulders a quick shake and brought his eyes up to meet the older man's again, reassuring him. Trying to hide the guilty flash that Rodney had seen in them.
"Why, who is it?" Rodney broke in suddenly, unable to put a lid on his curiosity.
Curiosity. That had always been Rodney's problem.
The Irishman's gaze broke for the first time since they'd entered. Two black eyes swung to Rodney. They were menacing now. Furious. Involuntarily, Rodney felt himself take a step backwards.
"You haven't given me your order yet," he said quickly.
The black circles continued to bore into him, unblinking, his whiskered mouth slowly curling into a snarl.
"Brendan, don't," whispered the younger man urgently, pulling at the suit sleeve with half-bitten fingernails. I wouldn't do that if I were you kid, Rodney thought. He knew exactly what thugs like this were like. Bullies, built that way from birth. Never knowing what it felt like to be on the receiving end, to be the underdog. Rodney shrank back further under the unflinching gaze. Untouchable.
The black eyes flicked back to the lad, relenting slightly. It must be something really good the kid had on him. When he returned his gaze to Rodney, there was restraint holding the menace back. Really good.
"Coffee," he drawled, imperiously. "Please."
Rodney nodded and hurried away, gratefully.
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The chubby fluorescent figure scurried away, back to the kitchen, back to safety. Brendan watched him leave, that familiar sadistic satisfaction flashing through him as he watched him flee, afraid. Stephen's fingers were still resting on the sleeve of his suit jacket, pulling him back from it. From his cruelty.
He turned back to him, to the long-lashed eyes and graceful cheekbones, the full pink lips chewing nervously on themselves as they studied him. With effort, he forced his shoulders to relax slightly, forced the anger to fade away from his eyes. The other man saw it happening, and the pink lips widened into his spectacular smile. Brendan was dazzled for a second. The pure white brightness of that smile.
"Maybe I shoulda got summat to eat," Stephen rabbited, shrugging his heavy jacket off his shoulders, happy now the anger had faded from Brendan's eyes. Thinking it had gone away, Brendan knew. That he hadn't merely pushed it down a bit, lodged it in his oesophagus as always. Ready for the next time. "Haven't eaten since lunchtime, y'know. That's–" he glanced at the cheap plastic watch on his wrist "–fourteen hours ago now!"
Brendan said nothing, just smiled half-heartedly at him. But his gaze never left the blue pools.
"Hey," Stephen said, the joviality fading from his voice and softness replacing it. "Hey, you alright?"
His face was nervous now, though he was trying not to show it. Trying to hide it, on that open face! His fingers moved from the suit sleeve to the skin on Brendan's hand, stroking it gently. They were still cold from the sea.
Cold hands, warm heart. Brendan remembered his mother saying that, when he was a kid.
"Look," Stephen was still talking, soothing, cajoling. "We'll just drink these coffees, right, and we'll be gone again. Just you and me. Together. We'll get home, we'll climb under the duvet, and we'll just talk… for as long as we need to."
His father's hands had never been cold.
Brendan's eyes fell to the table, to Stephen's bitten-away fingernails tracing patterns over his own pale Irish skin. How many of those fingernails had been bitten away because of him, he wondered sadly.
"Yeah," he said, huskily. He tried to throw himself back into those blue pools. "Yeah."
"Right," Stephen said, seeming relieved. "Listen, I'm gonna run to the loo before our coffees come, yeah? I'll be back in a minute."
Gingerly, he eased himself from the booth, withdrawing his hand from Brendan as he did. He walked across the small space of the café and disappeared into the door marked "Gentlemen", taking the blue pools with him. Brendan stayed, eyes still resting on the pale sickly Irish skin of his hand. He couldn't see the patterns now, the invisible lines drawn by the soft sallow-skinned fingers with their worried-away nails. They had disappeared as soon as the fingers did.
Suddenly, the familiar buzzing noise sounded again. He had heard it so often tonight, it didn't even surprise him anymore. He glanced, automatically, at the vibrating lump in Stephen's jacket. Douglas. At least Stephen wasn't here this time, so he didn't have to see that flash of guilt in his eyes, that anguished hand with its half-bitten nails running down his beautiful face.
He had watched them, Doug and Stephen, for months on end. Watched them trying earnestly. Watched them laughing out loud. Watched them holding hands unthinkingly as they walked down the street together. Doug, the puny little runt, allowing Stephen to be proud, to succeed, to live in the light. To live with people who didn't keep anger screwed up in a tight little ball in the oesophagus.
People who didn't have dirt embedded all the way through.
Brendan stood suddenly and strode to the counter as purposefully as his limping gait would allow. The chubby fluorescent man jumped when he turned to see him standing there, drumming his fingers on the countertop, glancing furtively at the bathroom door.
"Alright, alright, your coffee is coming," the man began to protest, warily.
"Keep it," Brendan said, throwing a ten pound note down. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on him unblinkingly. "I need you to do me a favour."