I'm all snowed in, so some time was freed up to bring you ANOTHER update. A record, me thinks.

XOXOXO

"Brendan, I am raising a FAMILY here, okay, you can't just bring him back to the house like this – look at the state of him!"

Ste's head pounds. His eyes are solidified shut by sleep and crusted tears. He knows immediately – can sense in the smell and feel of the place – that he's not at home. Christ… where the fuck is he?

"He's not well, Chez."

Those voices are gut-wrenchingly familiar. Sickeningly so. They sound like another time, another place, another world. He feels like in he's in a dream of some kind – one that is vast and disturbingly authentic. And he might believe that to be the case if his body didn't ache with the need for a fix. How long has he been here, like this?

"Brendan, you need to let go. Okay? I told you yesterday – you don't want to be getting involved in all this; not now."

"It's STEVEN, Chez, what do you expect me to do?!"

"I am warning you. You are only going to get hurt. You have to trust me, okay?! …There's things you don't know."

Ste prises his eyes open… looks around to find himself in a living room of some sort – but not one that he recognises. It's big. He's surrounded by fluffy cushions and rugs and garish throws and a large overbearing vase of flowers on the coffee table… an overwhelming smell to accompany. There is a blanket covering him; tantalisingly warm and soft. The smell of coffee wafts from the adjacent kitchen – a conservatory conversion. The sun spills blindingly in through the windows.

His body feels unnaturally warm, and tossing aside the blanket he doesn't recognise the clothes that he's wearing. He's in a large orange jumper which swamps his body with it's fine cotton material. He's in only his boxers underneath.

Fuck. What the fuck has he done? Where the fuck are his clothes? He needs to get out of here.

"Mornin'." The gruff Irish voice interrupts his panic.

Ste turns… and it's surreal how casually Brendan holds himself. Everything about his early-morning image is vastly familiar… the bed- hair, the chest-hair that pokes over the top of his vest, his sleepy eyes….. as if it never went away. He holds out a mug of coffee and Ste feels himself take it.

"How ye feelin'?" Brendan asks him.

"Shit." Ste croaks back. It's a wonder Brendan hears him because he can hardly find his voice… it comes out more of a rasp. Still, Brendan nods as if he's registered it.

"I'm not surprised."

"Where are my clothes?"

"In the wash." Brendan grunts, "You were pretty sick last night."

Ste could have figured that out for himself; his own tongue tastes disgusting. That doesn't explain why he's here though… why he's with Brendan. And Brendan acting so casual, as if this is perfectly normal. As if the last three years have been a dream, and they never parted at all.

"I need 'em." Ste says firmly, "I have to go home."

"S'alright; you can keep that jumper – it's Nate's."

"I can't just go back in another blokes clothes!" Ste snaps. But actually, upon reconsideration, he doesn't give a shit. He just needs to get back. He needs a fix, and he needs to remove himself from this piece-of-shit situation as soon as possible.

As if reading his mind, Brendan passes him a pair of jogging bottoms from the ironing pile.

"Don't look." Ste says, as he shoves back the blanket.

The last thing he needs is Brendan's eyes all over him. The last thing he needs is for him to make some suggestive comment, or worse, question Ste's decision to slice those cuts into his thighs. Not that it's any of Brendan's god damn fucking business – but he must think it is, or he wouldn't have bought Ste back here at all, would he?

Ste shoves the joggers over himself as quickly as possible, whilst Brendan looks obediently in the other direction. The waistband is far too big, but whatever – he can hold it.

The world rocks a bit as he lifts himself off the sofa, but he does his best not to let it show. He looks around for his keys and wallet… he can't see them. Fuck sake.

"Brendan where's…"

"Heyyyyy, little man!" Brendan suddenly coos, in a voice that is unnaturally sweet on him… the kind of voice he used on occasion to talk to Lucas.

Ste winces. He doesn't want to think about that.

"Hey, come and meet Steven!" Brendan says.

Turning for the first time, Ste sees who he is addressing. There is a child here. A boy. He crawls on the floor, and he has maddeningly blue eyes – big, wide and trustful. His wisps of hair are dark and curly… his lips forming a smile that is nothing short of completely happy. Unaffected and unashamed and unafraid.

And Brendan lifts him into the air, and to Ste's horror… holds him out for Ste to hold.

"No." Ste croaks, again to find his voice has practically gone.

"C'mon," Brendan says, "It's my nephew, Connor. He likes meetin' people; he's like his ma."

Brendan continues to hold him out. What does he WANT exactly?! He wants Ste to hold this fucking kid? Probably drop him on his head, because he's shaking so much? Or scare him half to death because he's unfocussed and can't see straight and can't smile proper?

No one in their right mind would entrust Ste with their kids these days. They certainly don't trust him with his own.

But then Brendan never was in his right mind, was he?

"Brendan, fuck off!" Ste hisses furiously.

"C'mon Steven," Brendan sighs. And he sounds genuinely sad. It's not even fucking pity – it's just plain simple sadness and Ste can't bear it. Who the fuck does he think he is?!

"Look! I shouldn't of come here, alright?!" Ste says in his strongest voice, forcing himself not to shake or waver because he doesn't want Brendan to look at him like he's some sort of tragedy. "I was fucked."

"Yeah," Brendan's eyes darken, "I know you were."

"I gotta go home – can you give me my wallet?"

"Let me get you some breakfast first, at least." Brendan puts the child on the ground again, thank God.

"No, Andy's gonna kill me."

"What – he gets to decide when ye come home, does he?! What is he, your Dad?!"

"No – he's my BOYFRIEND!" Ste cries, incredulous. "And I've just spent the night with some other bloke!"

Brendan's expression shifts. There's a flash… just a quick one… of hurt. Ste wants to laugh; wants to mock him for seeing himself as anything more than 'some other bloke'; after all these years of nothing, what did he expect?! But to his surprise, Brendan's upset – however momentary – stirs something in him. Regret. Sadness. An urge to correct his words, to fix the damage he just caused.

Even after everything, he feels an impulse to rush to Brendan's side; to soothe and aid.

He's so fucking weak.

And it's all Brendan's fault.

And this is a trap he will continue to fall into again and again, unless he pulls himself together.

"I'm going home." He repeats simply.

He doesn't care about his wallet anyway; fuck it, there's nothing in there worth keeping.

"You're skin and bone Steven – ye need fattenin' up. One burger – then I leave you alone."

"No."

"Tough. I'm not takin' no for an answer."

Ste turns furiously, only to find Brendan waving his own keys in his face.

The bastard. The sick, controlling, sadistic bastard. He hasn't changed at all, has he? His stint in prison – getting beat up, being on his best behaviour in order to get out early… it's all amounted to nothing.

"Give me them."

"Not until I can get ye some breakfast." Brendan says, and then adds in a silky almost-seductive-sounding whisper, "Indulge me."

XOXOXOX

He's in no mood to eat; has no appetite whatsoever. And yet here he stands now with a huge greasy burger dripping in his hands, plus extra fries and chicken nuggets and milkshake and mcflurry – none of which he asked for, but this is Brendan Brady after all; a man who thinks he can buy affection and forgiveness.

He nibbles cautiously around the edge of the burger, hoping the effort will be noticed by his ex, and he'll be rewarded with getting his keys back.

Brendan pretends not to be paying any attention to him whatsoever though. He absorbs himself in his own meal; wolfing down his double-sized burger like it's his last meal, crumbs flying everywhere and hanging from his moustache. Ste looks away pointedly.

"Animal." He mutters. It's supposed to come out harsh and dismissive, but Brendan only sniggers like they've shared a joke of some sort.

Ste feels a little sick now, so folds the rest of the burger into the wrapping.

"You not gonna eat that?" Brendan asks. The concern is back in his voice again.

"I'm savin' it for when I get home."

"Uh-huh. You can go back home now, then?"

Ste frowns. Obviously. "Urr…yeah?"

"Only yesterday you said you couldn't. Seemed like ye didn't wanna go back."

Ste swallows. He doesn't know how much he said to Brendan last night, but he trusts himself that he didn't go off on one. Not to him. He wouldn't give Brendan the satisfaction. He could never ever be that fucked.

"That's cos the heating's out at ours." He lies.

"Mm-hm. Need some money to fix it?"

"No."
"No? Cos it seems like ye don't have a lot."

Ste rolls his eyes. He wants to leave, right now, but that food's done funny stuff to his digestive system and he's scared he'll be sick if he stands too fast. And he refuses to do that in front of Brendan again.

"So," Brendan continues, "Ye not gonna tell me what happened to all that cash I left ye? Before prison? I left ye with more than enough to keep you safe – what happened to it?"

"What's it matter to you?" Ste mumbles, "If you cared that much you'd have checked up on it at the time."

"I'm just curious."

Ste shrugs dismissively. Two more seconds of deep breaths, and then he trusts himself to stand.

Brendan sighs, "I take it ye used it as drug-money then?"

"Oh, you know what?! You don't know ANYTHING!"

"No, I don't! So tell me!"

"NO!" Ste cries. "It's NONE of your business! You decided that three years ago – so STICK TO IT."

"Steven wait…"

Ste doesn't even realise that he's walking away until he's half-way down the street. He can barely even register his own movements; can only hear the dull thud in his head and the itch in his skin that craves some sort of injection or pill or liquid or anything. Anything at this point to make it all stop, because he's been awake and alert for too long now.

The world is warping around him – the cars becoming nothing but a blurred mass of colours and Brendan's voice an irritant that fades and distorts in and out of his consciousness.

He's making Ste claustrophobic. Following him like a disease he can't get rid of… like a persistent ache that won't go away. Ste's heart-rate increases as his mind takes in the fact that he can't escape, that Brendan is trapping him, looming on him. He's catching up and Ste can hear his footsteps and there's nothing he can do to make it stop.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" He screams out in panic, and on an impulse throws the bag of food at his pursuer.

He spins on his heel, JUST catching a glimpse of his mcflurry and burger-juice spilling all over Brendan… all down his suit.

"Oh right, okay!" Brendan leers. There's anger in his voice but he's trying to suppress it, "Okay, NOW it feels like old times!"

But it doesn't.

It doesn't feel a bit like old times, and Brendan doesn't realise that he's like the poltergeist of olden times; taunting Ste with what he'll never ever ever get back. A time when he'd have chewed his burger happily, revelled in the 'wonderfulness' of his tempestuous relationship with his scumbag lover. A time when going 'home' would have been going back to two kids, and his arms and legs weren't creeping with cuts and bruises. A time when he was naïve and trusting and every second on the verge of having that carpet tugged unwittingly from under him… never stopping to suspect it was all too good to be true.

Brendan being here is fucking with his head, and he doesn't need that. He just needs to be numb. Why doesn't Brendan see that?

"STEVEN!" The voice echoes through his head. It's not angry now, nor seductive or taunting or concerned or casual. It's afraid. Really afraid. Like maybe now Brendan is realising too how fragile everything is – how quickly it can all break. "STEVEN!"

It takes Ste a long time to realise he's on the ground. Brendan is now standing over him instead of next to him … he's really, really, really high above him. . The frozen pavement is against Ste's lower back, where the orange jumper has ridden up.

Orange is too bright a colour on him, he notes dully… it's too bright against the paleness of his hands.

He holds his hands up – inspecting them with numb wonder.

They're grazed and bloody. There's dirt all in the graze, like when you're a kid and you fall over. How did that happen?

"Steven…"

That voice is still there… distant. All Ste can see is his own hand though, and how that graze grows and shrinks; tricking him so he can't tell how big it really is in reality. It feels like it's burning him though. Like it's bubbling. Like it's carving itself into his skin. Like it's bleeding all over him. Like it's infected and killing him, and this is when he dies.

"Ow…" he mumbles groggily, and with his left hand he tries to scratch the graze off himself. That only feels like he's clawing at his own insides. "OWWW! Ahh! Help!"

He panics. He tries everything – scratching, pushing, picking, tugging – anything to get that grotesque infection off of him.

The terror rises into his mouth and eyes and seeps out of him in strangled noises and watery vessels.

"Get off GET OFF GET OFF!"

"STEVEN! Steven! It's just a graze! Hey! Leave it!"

"GET IT OFF ME!"

"STEVEN – STOP!"

Brendan's hand clasps around his own, and the blood disappears beneath it. The hand feels warm and protective around his skin.

This is his trap though, isn't it? Brendan makes Ste feel safe, so that Ste never knows the danger is coming.

But despite knowing this, he can't help but feel calmed by it. He wants to feel safe – just now, just for a minute. Cos safe is nice, and he hasn't felt it for ages.

When his head lands exhaustedly against Brendan's shoulder, the leather of his jacket feels warm against Ste's cheek. Brendan's hands feel soft in his hair. His finger feels light and gentle on the back of his neck, as it trails up and down; piercing Ste with a sense of vivid nostalgia.

"Animal." He says again, only this time without any reason or motivation… just because he feels he should, because it made Brendan laugh before.

He doesn't get a laugh this time though. Christ, Ste's getting it all wrong. Maybe he doesn't remember Brendan right at all.

"Stop it." Brendan said after a moment. He sounds exhausted.

"What?"

"You're all over the place, Steven. Just… just stop it."

Ste still doesn't get what he's supposed to stop exactly… he's only sitting here for Gods sake.

"Let me take you back to Cheryl's." Brendan says, "Please."

"No."

Ste immediately releases himself from Brendan's arms. He doesn't want this – he only wants a second of warm safety… just to venture into that dreamlike state for a tiny bit. He doesn't want Brendan thinking he has rights to him; he doesn't.

Ste makes to stand, and he's not wobbly on his feet anymore. In fact everything's blazingly clear – and the bright orange jumper is even brighter than before. Quite nice, actually… but Ste doesn't want his charity.

"I'll bring the jumper back tomorrow." He says firmly. And then, for what feels like the thousandth time – "I'm going home."

This time, Brendan doesn't try to stop him.

XOXOXOXOX

"Ste… love… can I talk to you a second?"

"Mm-hm." Ste lies flat on his side across Cheryl's sofa, staring into the shut-off television set. It's been 28 days. 28 days since Brendan left him. 28 days of trying to reach him, calling the prison, requesting visiting rights… and being shot down time after time after time.

"Is everything okay?" Cheryl's voice is soft with concern.

"Mm." Ste mumbles. He doesn't really have the energy right now for any other reaction.

"I've just been on your phone. I've been on your sent calls." She takes a deep breath; bracing herself, "Sweetheart, you understand that Brendan doesn't have his phone in prison, don't you?"

"Yeah." A half-hearted grunt, barely audible.

"There are… hundreds… of sent calls to him on here. Were you… what were you hoping to achieve from this?"

Ste suddenly breaks out of his stupor, and Cheryl jumps as he snatches the phone furiously from her hands. His head is awash with panic as the realisation of what Cheryl has seen overcomes him. Not just his phonecalls to Brendan; proof of how weak his is, how insanely desperate. But the other phonecalls too… the ones that will guarantee she never EVER forgives him…

The door slams open and shut, and Ste jumps out of his daze.

When Andy walks in, Ste still feels shaken; reeling from the memory he's long since shut away. All those days… all those hazy days back when he crashed and burned have been locked undisturbed in his mind all this time. Why does he have to remember them now? How can it all come swarming back… haunting him like this? It's only a matter of time before he's forced to relive something drastic, and then what? Then the repercussions of Brendan destroy Ste all over again.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Andy asks him, forcing Ste to remember he has another tricky situation to deal with at present… and he doesn't want a row with Andy tonight.

"Oh… oh, I were proper wasted last night, me." Ste gives a convincing chuckle, "Fell asleep on the bus."

"Mm." Andy chucks his cigarette to the floor, burning a hole in the carpet. "Sure you did."

He doesn't sound convinced. Nor does he sound too bothered about it, which means perhaps he's got Ste's redemption already planned in his head. Whatever; it's better than having an argument. Ste only hopes that it doesn't involve Andy's mates in any way; not as participants or audience. He's spent nights before with his head between Andy's legs… Andy and his friends continuing their heckling banter throughout. Even being wasted out of his mind doesn't ease that sort of embarrassment.

"I got ya a Burger King." He says sheepishly, and nods the remains of the fast food… the bits of it that didn't end up all over Brendan's suit or the ground.

"You mean you got it with my money." Andy reminds him, before tossing the remains of it in the bin. Perhaps he's more pissed-off than Ste first reckoned. Perhaps there will be an argument after all, because Ste's had quite enough of taking peoples shit for one day and he can already feel the anger bubbling away inside of him – merging with the stress of barely-suppressed memories and ex-boyfriends.

To his pleasant surprise though, Andy pulls him in for a deep kiss.

"I'm not hungry." His voice is low and suggestive.

Ste presents a wide sheepish grin, "Me neither."

He kisses back, harder. Andy backs him into the wall and starts pulling the orange jumper off of Ste's body. He barely even notices that he's never seen it before.

This is what Ste needs. Contact. Closeness. Pleasure. The consistency of Andy Fischer; whose been the same since Ste first met him – never changes, never leaves, never contradicts or complicates. Their love for each other is simple; it's made up of compatibility and sex. It doesn't mess with Ste's head or his mind; it doesn't fuck him up.

Andy turns him around, pushes him over the arm of the sofa. The joggers are tugged from around him, the boxers yanked off, and Andy's pushing inside him almost immediately. Ste grits his teeth; emerges himself in the mix of pleasure and pain and rough raw contact.

When his mind starts to wonder to Brendan, breaking down carefully-built barriers that have been standing for years, he simply pushes his nails hard into the skin of his wrist until blood trickles into his fingernails. He listens precisely to Andy's ragged breaths and grunts… so distinctly different to the way Brendan used to sound. He lets the voice hum through his brain, remind him who he's with and why. Remind him this is now and not then. When the blood stops running he pushes his nails in again, generating more pain, which he'll later numb out with a generous line of coke.