Warning: There ain't nothing remotely romantic about this chapter. Except grim romance, I guess.

XOXOXOX

"What the hell has happened to you?"

Brendan looks firmly into his sisters panic-stricken eyes. Despite the disappointment that knots in his stomach… the feelings of anger at her that gnaw away inside of him… he manages to produce a smirk.

"You should see the other guy."

"Five minutes you've been out of prison, Brendan, and look at you!" She sighs, exasperated. "C'mon, come inside."

Cheryl's new place is convincingly domesticated; blooming with the signs of a couple living inside. There's a rack of shoes by the front door, a family-sized living area with three large coushy sofas, some birthday cards lined up on the fireplace which Brendan assumes must be Nate's. At the same time, there's enough décor to insist that Cheryl wears the trousers in the relationship. Garish pink fluffy cushions and tacky storage boxes decorated like tins of Celebrations. Christ. Where does she get this shit?

The floor is scattered with the baby toys that remind Brendan that he has a nephew crawling around here somewhere.

"Where is the little scamp?" He asks, allowing the presence of innocence to offload his anger somewhat.

"Nate's taken him out. They'll be back soon."

"Mm-hm."

"Tea, love?"

"Ye got anything stronger?"

"Yes." Cheryl resigns immediately. If she argues, she'll only be wasting time – and judging by Brendan's battered and bruised state, his brooding persona… he's here for more than just tea and catch-up. There's something on his mind.

Once the whisky's in his hand, he comes out with it.

"I saw Steven."

Cheryl releases a shaky breath.

"Oh." She answers simply.

"Oh?"
"How did you find him?"

"That doesn't matter." Brendan snaps, the anger in him rising again, "Did you know where he lives?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why not? You should see 'im, Chez; he's a state."

Cheryl winces. She doesn't seem all that surprised. Only upset that Brendan has found out. Brendan's disappointment tugs hard at his gut. Why wasn't she looking after him? They were best friends, weren't they? They'd cuddled up on the sofa, and laughed goofily at Brendan and poked fun at him together. They'd been close – almost like brother and sister themselves. How had Cheryl let this happen to him?

"I lost touch with him, Brendan." She says quietly, as though afraid of provoking his rage.

"Why?"

Cheryl shrugs limply, "I had the baby, I had… I was trying to sort things out with your lawyer, with the business."

"So?"

"He was just… he was so angry, Bren. When you wouldn't see him – and he blamed me, like it was MY fault! And I just… I'd never seen him like that; he was going off the rails, love."

"So you just let him."

"Look," Cheryl snaps, growing angry, "He's not my responsibility! Okay?! I can't tell him what to do – God knows, I tried!"

"And why didn't you tell me any of this when it was happening?!"

"Because! I was trying to make prison easier for you, not harder! I know what you're like; you'd have only wanted to get out of there, and you wouldn't have been able to, and you'd have driven yourself crazy as well."

"So just let Steven take the fall, yeah?" Brendan seethes.

"Don't say it like that!" Cheryl has tears faintly growing in her eyes.

"He's living in a crack-den, before you bother asking."

Brendan feels his heart hitting hard against his ribcage as those images swarm and haunt his mind all over again; the bruising on the inside of Steven's arm, the hollow eyes, skinny frame, angry words, hateful eyes. Eyes that Brendan recognises and feels; eyes that reflect loathing of the entire world, and blame for everybody in it. Brendan's felt that way before. It's relentless, painful, absorbing revulsion; all-consuming. He never wanted that for Steven.

"I didn't know." Cheryl whispers shakily.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Couple of years ago."

"Couple of…" Brendan splutters, hardly able to believe his own sister would be so quick to ditch Steven when the going got tough.

"Yeah, when he told me he never wanted to see me again." She says plainly. "And I was seven months pregnant, and he was driving me half insane. You'd understand Brendan – if you'd seen him. I had to think of my family; let him make his own mistakes."

"Yeah, and he sure did that."

"Well maybe he did. But I did everything I could."

Brendan scoffs. Yeah right.

"Ye always were a selfish cow, Cheryl." He says lowly, before he can stop himself.

He doesn't mean it, of course. He doesn't mean to be so cruel; stoop so low. He'd never want to hurt his sister, but right now he does – because right now ALL he can feel is pain and hurt for his boy; for the lad he loves. The lad he's lost to the dank, dark, pitiless world of the broken. A shell of his former self. Maybe gone forever.

It's like a throbbing tear in his gut, and he can't bear it.

But worst of all is that he knows this isn't really Cheryl's fault. And so does she.

"Well maybe if YOU'D not ABANDONED him!" She suddenly cries defensively, "Maybe if you'd given him a break! Maybe if you'd TRUSTED him when he said he wanted to still be with you – then NONE of this would have happened!"

She's on her feet now, pacing. Those months of watching Ste helplessly call the prison, to no avail. Watching him crumble and burn as a result. The pain of seeing that is spilling out of her now.

"You have the nerve to call ME selfish, Brendan Brady! When you wouldn't let him see you all those months, only because that would have made it more painful for YOU!"

"That's not what it was." Brendan mumbles, shame piercing him.

"No?! Well whatever your stupid reason, it doesn't matter. It killed him, Brendan. And whatever he did after that – it is YOUR fault. YOU who made him feel worthless."

She's deadly sincere when she breathes, "Ste DESPISES you, Brendan. Believe you me - he does."

XOXOXOX

Brendan's at a loss. He wants to return to that council flat; construct a second attempt to free Steven from the lifestyle he's become rooted in. But that would do no good, and he knows it.

Ste despises you Brendan. Believe you me, he does.

His brain aches with all the questions he has.

Does Steven love that brute? Andy? That violent, insufferable thug; that waste of space? It shouldn't surprise Brendan as much as it does… after all, Brendan was violent and awful too and Steven had kept coming back for more. Perhaps he gets off on it… the power and dominance. The fear.

But no… that can't be right. It was the fear that drove Ste away from Brendan, not towards. And while Steven's undoubtedly changed… it seems too much to assume he would walk back into another violent relationship after what he and Brendan went through. Perhaps Andy doesn't hurt him at all. Perhaps he only hurts other people… and why should Steven care, since he didn't much care that Brendan owned guns, did he?

Or perhaps his and Andy's relationship is relatively new. Perhaps Steven was planning on leaving the old twat anyway… until Brendan came along. It wouldn't be the first time Steven's fear of falling back into Brendan's arms has sent him cowering persistently into the arms of another man. For him it's protection from the dauntingness of his real emotions.

Ste despises you Brendan. Believe you me, he does.

Or maybe Brendan has to face the cold hard fact that none of this has anything to do with him anymore.

XOXOXOX

He'd been planning to hold off… at least for a little while. He assumed it would do no good sauntering round there again, and perhaps a week of distance would make Steven miss him in some way. They've worked in similar methods before. At least… old Steven did.

He honestly wasn't expecting to find Steven here tonight. Sure, this bar is closer to Steven's place than it is to his… and it's dog rough and certainly not the typical establishment Brendan would choose to visit. So perhaps on some sub-conscious level he's sat alone at this bar with some kind of intention to be closer to Steven. But he hadn't expected for him to show up here. That, as far as he's concerned, is just a twist of fate.

Steven doesn't think so.

"What the FUCK are you doin' here?!" He cries, outraged.

His voice is slurred. He seems uneasy on his feet. His pupils are unmistakably dilated. He holds a bottle of beer, and his fingers are going pale with how hard he clenches onto it. Perhaps he's imagining that it's Brendan's neck.

Brendan resolves to remain calm.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing, Steven."

"What – stalkin' me now, are ya?"

"No."

"Well you need to get out; me mates are gonna be here in a minute." Steven's voice seems thick and too loud, like he's lost perception somewhat. "An' they'll kick your head in if they find ya here."

"Your mates, are they? They didn't look like your mates."

Brendan's playing old games here; winding Steven up just because the boy can't resist his back-chat, and it guarantees conversation at least, no matter how awful.

True enough to form, Steven just can't walk away.

"And what would you know about it?" He bites.

"I know you."

Steven laughs at that. It's hard and bitter at first, but it softens - only enough so that someone like Brendan would notice. Perhaps it softens into a touch of sadness, or perhaps that's just wishful thinking. Either way, it resembles something of the old Steven… the one who was tough but sensitive, indiscreet but caring, endearingly shameless but shy and self-conscious at times.

In this moment their eyes meet.

And Brendan knows – knows rather than wishes – that there's electricity there.

There's so much still between them, hanging heavily in the atmosphere. Because of course, theirs is not a relationship that gradually fizzled out. Theirs was not a marriage that grew tiresome, or even an end-of-tether break-up that was messy and exhausting. In fact, the last time Brendan saw Steven before all this, they were at the prime of their relationship. They were in love; passionately, recklessly, unconditionally. Their relationship was solid and trusting… and seemingly everlasting.

"Let me get you out of here." Brendan hears himself saying.

But Steven snaps out of it.

"You what?!" He cries, "My God. You seriously think I'm gonna fuck you, don't ya?!"

Brendan blinks; taken aback by that. Where did that even come from?!

"If I thought that, you'd know it."

"You're unbelievable."

"Thank you." Brendan jokes half-heartedly. But he doesn't really have it in him. Steven's behaving erratically. His body is rocking, and not even subtly. He's making Brendan dizzy, making his stomach twist uncomfortably with his concern.

"Steven," He says seriously, "What have you taken?"

"Nothing."

But Steven's not even looking at him now; his eyes are fixed into the distance, concentrating, like he's working hard at keeping himself upright or not puking. Brendan's seen it all before on old wasters in his darker days. But it doesn't suit Steven, and Brendan will never be convinced that he's equipped to deal with it.

"Are you here on your own?" Brendan asks.

"Yeah."

"Let me walk you home, at least."

"No." Steven snaps. And then explains, quieter, "I can't go there yet."

"Then let me take ye for some food. I'll get you a burger."

"I don't want anythin' from you, Brendan! Stop harrasin' me!"

But he sounds more panicked than angry. So when he turns and moves away from Brendan, Brendan follows him. He follows him into the hot centre of the dance floor, where figures blur and dance all around them. Steven is becoming more and more alarmed. He starts looking around, his body physically spinning as he scans the dance-floor for something… or someone…

"Steven…" Brendan reaches out for him.

"GET OFF!"

"I wanna HELP you, Steven!"

"YOU DON'T GET TO!"

"What are you lookin' for?!"

"The…" sweat plasters across Steven's forehead, and Brendan can see that he's shaking a bit… his breathing is intense and fast. He's seriously panicking, and the urge to help him is overwhelming.

"C'mon speak to me!" He shouts urgently.

"The bathroom." Steven croaks.

Brendan seizes him by the shoulders and physically pushes him through the crowds, guiding him all the way to the clearly labelled mens-room.

In here is even worse than the bar, which Brendan wouldn't have thought was possible. The sound of a womans heated gasps comes from inside one of the cubicles, and a mans grunts to accompany; not an ounce of shame or subtlety between them.

Ste, recognising his surroundings now, pushes his way into a cubicle forcefully. The door swings shut behind him but he doesn't lock it.

Brendan leans back against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, momentarily careless that it might stain his suit. He allows the condensation to soak into the hair at the back of his head, calm him slightly. It is an act of great naivety that he believes Steven to be being sick. Naivety or short-term-memory loss, because for one blissful moment it's like they're together again, back in an old time, and Steven's just drunk. He'll puke his guts up and then moan pitifully that he wants Brendan to take him home. Brendan will drop him into bed with an exasperated groan and then have to listen to Steven's goofy ungraceful snorts of laughter and rabbiting on for another couple of hours. Brendan will indulge him until he falls asleep, and then Steven will wake up the next morning acting like it's Brendan's fault he's got a hangover.

A smile twitches ever so slightly on his lips as he imagines this.

But there are no sounds of Steven being sick coming from that cubicle at all.

Brendan crashes the door open so fast that it SLAMS hard and cracks against the wall of the adjacent cubicle.

"The FUCK are you doing?!" He cries, outraged.

Steven's eyes are watery and ever so slightly bloodshot; the direct impact of something being snorted off the dirty back of the toilet seat. In his left hand is a blue weird-shaped pill.

"GIVE ME THAT!" Brendan rages.

Steven resists with a furious growl of restraint as Brendan tries to prise the pill from his sweaty fingers.

"Ye need more of this shit, REALLY?!" Brendan fumes, "Look at ye – you're fucked-up enough already!"

"GET. OFF!"

With a sweaty pop, Brendan releases the pill from Steven's hand and tosses it resolutely into the toilet.

Steven looks down at it for a silent second, and at least shows enough restraint not to go diving in after it, like Brendan momentarily feared.

But then Steven's face forms a smirk and he announces, "I already took one anyway."

His words barely make sense; they're so slurred and intoxicated.

He pushes past Brendan, making sure to bang their shoulders against each other with poignant ferocity as he does so. He's half way out of the mens-room, when Brendan's animalistic, raw reaction takes over.

He's had enough. He's not putting up with this shit. Cheryl may have been happy enough to stand back and let Steven do this to himself, but Brendan sure as hell isn't just going to watch it happen before him.

Steven gives a scream of genuine-sounding panic when Brendan seizes him round the shoulders, physically dragging him back into the cubicle.

"GET OFF BRENDAN!"

Brendan is a tunnel of raw rage, regret, shame, sadness. He just wants to save him, and he's at a loss to do so with words. He has Steven hunched over the toilet in an instant. He's driven by mad emotion as he forces two of his own fingers down the back of Steven's throat, holds him still while he gags and struggles, rocks him while he throws up violently into the toilet below him.

Steven chokes back on tears and anger and his own bile. He tries to resist Brendan's arms, tries to break free, but Brendan won't let him. Not until every bit of toxic waste is OUT of the boys precious young body.

"I gotta do this Steven," his voice comes out shakily, apologetic. He tries to block out the sound of Steven's dry-sobs, pushes his fingers back down his throat, forces him to vomit intensely all over again.

He's taken aback by how much smaller Steven's body is. He was always slim, but now with his arms wrapped tight around Steven's chest, he can feel every corner of every bone. It's alarming. He nuzzles his nose into the back of Steven's neck on instinct, and emits gentle 'shhhhh's, in response to Steven's strained, distraught noises.

"One more time, I promise." He sighs as reassuringly as possible, and though it hurts him to have to do it, he forces his fingers back down Steven's throat.

Steven's body judders as he tries to restrain, but finally the last of what's left inside of him comes up, and turns to a pitiful dry-heave into the basin below that seems to be ever-lasting; mixed with cries of pain and humiliation, anger and upset.

Once Brendan's sure that that's everything, he releases the struggling body in his arms.

They both fall back into the walls of the cubicle.

Steven is pale and his body is trembling. Tears lace his eyelashes as he breathes through his shock and begins to come to terms with what Brendan has just done to him.

Brendan is exhausted, panting. His fingers are covered in Steven's vomit, but he just wipes them on his own trousers, unable to take his careful eyes off the figure before him.

He expects a shit-storm. He expects Steven to scream and yell and fight and swear.

But he doesn't.

And perhaps that's even more concerning.

Since when would he have accepted such a shameless display of physical control?

"I'm sorry." Brendan breathes out again.

Steven just sniffs miserably, his chin against his chest. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and in a small barely-audible voice, he whispers, "I wanna go home."

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay. C'mon."

Brendan stands and holds a hand out for him.

He doesn't really want to take Steven back to that place. Knows that if he does, Steven will just find the same pills Brendan rid his body of. But he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Right now he's just going to make the most of Steven's compliance, however unsettling it might be.

Steven doesn't use Brendan's help, and instead struggles to pull himself onto shaky feet.

He is silent as he leaves the bathroom, and Brendan follows close behind him. He is silent as he moves through the club, silent as he slides back to the bar where his coat is still draped over the bar-stool. Silent, blank, un-emotive. So very unlike Steven Hay.

Brendan can't help but touch his back tenderly, hoping that his touch transmits some kind of care or help or anything.

But Steven only shakes him off.

Brendan draws a low sigh and prepares to follow Steven in similar stone silence towards the door of the bar.

But just before they get there, the door bursts open and some thug-like figures walk in. A mix of muscular and drug-induced skin-and-bone. There's about five of them, all sticking together like some god-forsaken school gang. Brendan only vaguely recognises them from his encounter with their fists and steel boots – the perpetrators of his black eyes and bruises.

The sight of them immediately stirs Steven from his stupor. He jumps in alarm, concealing himself behind Brendan's back. Brendan feels Steven's fingers fumbling feebly with the material of Brendan's blazer as he hides back there.

Brendan edges backwards, concealing the two of them further amongst the crowds. Because clearly Steven doesn't want to be seen by these guys, and whilst Brendan is determined to find out why, he knows now is not the time for a scene.

"I can't go home." Steven's voice sounds from behind him, shaky and croaked. And Brendan knows he's only talking because he's desperate.

"It's okay." He responds steadily, "We can go back to Cheryl's."

He can sense Steven's reluctance, but also sense there's not much he can do about it.

Steven's fingers don't un-grip from his suit until they are safely outside and away from the club.