Day 9
On day nine Ste hears the words that he's been dreading. One of the officers comes to find him in his cell, his mind still foggy, his body still slow and languid with sleep.
"The governor wants to see you."
He goes to Tony's office quickly, relieved that Brendan's not here to witness his humiliation. It feels like a death march, different scenarios running through his brain of what he could have done wrong.
Tony's immediately there to greet him, a handshake once again exchanged, and Ste can feel himself shivering. He longs for aloofness, wishes he could lounge in the chair and put on a show of confidence like the other men would. He never has been good at being anyone but himself.
"Thanks for coming down here, Ste." Like I had a choice. "I've been speaking to Lynsey about your work in English class." Oh shit. She's ratted me out. The bitch.
"Whatever she's said -"
"Were you ever going to tell anyone about your dyslexia?"
Ste closes his mouth, his words dying on his lips. Not even Pauline had ever guessed about it, had called him stupid and lazy, told his teachers that he was born that way.
"It's a very common thing you know, Ste. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"What are you, my counsellor now?"
Tony laughs. "You definitely don't have any problems when it comes to answering back, do you?"
"If you've brought me here for some lecture..."
"I haven't," Tony says, turning serious. "But I do need to tell you that Lynsey's advised me that you attend a different class -"
Ste stands up so quickly that his chair falls to the floor with a crash. "She's kicking me out?"
"That's not what I said -"
"It all means the same thing! She just doesn't have the guts to tell me herself, so she got you to do it for her!"
He can't believe he'd allowed himself to trust her, that he'd actually felt bad for what he'd said to her. He was right all along. She's given up on him just like everyone else.
"Sit down please," Tony says sternly.
"No! This is a load of shit. I'm out of here." He heads to the door, but the officer stares at Tony, looking for his orders and then blocking Ste's way.
Ste spins around. "You're trapping me in here now then?" He asks accusingly.
"In all fairness, you are in a prison."
Ste scowls, and reluctantly lifts the chair back up, and plonks himself down on it, resolutely facing away from Tony. He knows he's behaving like a six year old right now, but he thinks he's earned the right. It's going to be humiliating to have to tell Doug why he's suddenly vanished from class.
"Lynsey discussed this with me because we're colleagues, Ste. She wanted to tell you herself, but I asked her if I could have this conversation."
Ste can't help but be curious. "What do you mean?" He tries to keep his best indifferent voice on for appearances sake.
"Lynsey said you're very intelligent."
He snorts. "If I was then she wouldn't be getting rid of me, would she?"
"There's different ways to be clever. She said you're excellent when it comes to the practical tasks, but that she feels it would be unfair to you to enter you for the exam when you find it hard in the written activities."
Hard meaning I'm crap.
"It doesn't mean you can't still be in one of our other English classes."
"Just not the one for the smart people, you mean?"
Tony sighs. "Do you enjoy the class - honestly?"
Honestly? No. Ste hates having to sit there and put so much concentration into the work that it feels like his eyes are going to bleed out of their sockets. He hates watching Doug and everyone else frantically scribbling on their pieces of paper, with no idea how hard he finds it at times to write a single sentence.
"Not really."
"Then why don't you do something you really like?"
The problem is, Ste has no idea what he likes, what he's truly good at. For a while he thought his greatest skill was successfully shoplifting things, but it turns out he couldn't even get that right.
He shrugs. "Like what?"
"Cooking," Tony says, quick as anything, and Ste knows now that he's had this little speech prepared this whole time.
"Cooking? Are you kidding me? Do I look like someone who wears an apron and bakes a cake?"
Tony looks at him with amusement. "I'm not asking you to be the next Nigella Lawson, Ste."
"Good, because I don't think someone would want me licking my fingers like she does, do you?"
"All I'm suggesting is that you give it a chance. Have you ever done much cooking?"
"If you mean using the toaster, then yes." He'd been the one who'd made most of the meals in the house when he'd got old enough, otherwise it would just be a takeaway when Pauline and Terry could afford it. He remembers once bringing his mum tea and toast, laying it on a tray, putting a clean napkin there and everything. She'd woken with such a start that she'd sent the tray flying, the breakfast ending up on the carpet, Pauline telling him off for making a mess.
"Everyone has to start somewhere," Tony replies, like it's that simple, as though he can be the next culinary mastermind if he just tries. He really doesn't get how this works. Ste will have burnt the whole kitchen down by the end of the first lesson.
"I'll even let you choose the dish if you come."
"Wait - you're not the teacher, are you?"
"I was a trained, award winning chef before I came into this job, Ste." He says it with such an amount of pride that Ste wouldn't be surprised if he had all his medals stashed away in the safety of the cupboards, getting them out every day to dust them lovingly.
"But...is that allowed? I mean, do you even have the time to do that here?" He's starting to realise that Tony's not the conventional heard-but-not-seen governor that he'd had in mind.
"Don't worry about what I can and can't do, Ste," he says defensively. "Worry about yourself. So what do you say? You must be sick of all this prison food by now. When you close your eyes, what do you most dream of eating?"
"Chocolate," he answers immediately. He's sick of the stuff that imitates it in here. "Any type, I don't care."
Tony laughs. "I think that can be arranged..."
He nearly walks out of the classroom before he's even set two foot inside.
"Oh fuck."
His cellmate looks even less pleased to see him.
Being within distance of a burning flame and Brendan Brady wasn't exactly what Ste had in mind.
"What are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd be out preening the bushes with Foxy, did you? The further away that idiot and a pair of garden sheers are from me, the better."
Ste takes a step closer to him, trying to work out whether it's safe. He's been trying to ignore Brendan ever since he made it perfectly clear that he couldn't give a fuck what Ste did. Two could play that game.
The infuriating thing about him though is his limitless capacity to surprise Ste, and make it so he just has to ask.
"I never imagined you as a cook, Brendan."
Brendan looks mock offended, his lips parting in a display of pretend shock. "Really? You wound me, Steven."
"Ha ha, you're a comedian." But he can't help smiling all the same. "So why are you really here?"
"I like eating," he says emphatically. "So you better not disappoint me."
It takes Ste aback even further when he sees Tony striding into the classroom. Gone is the sharply tailored suit and any sense of professional detachment. He's wearing an apron and chefs whites, a large cook's hat and a beaming smile that could smash windows with its brightness and intensity.
He gathers everyone round, and Ste takes the opportunity to look at who he's with. The difference between the men in here and the ones in English class is vast. Most look like they could batter him with a rolling pin, and Ste finds himself standing closer to Brendan, right now thinking he's the better alternative.
"Right everyone! First of all I want to welcome our new classmate Ste. I've told him he can have first pick of what we make today - sorry Silas, you'll get your turn next week instead."
Ste tries to make his best apologetic face as Silas, an older man with grey hair and glasses, glowers at him, giving him the finger when Tony's not looking.
"So Ste - you said something with chocolate?"
"Yeah." He suddenly feels like his request's foolish, something that a child might ask for. He's wondering what kind of things the men make here, if they're going to laugh at him. You better not disappoint me. "Uh you know...maybe like a cake or something."
"With cream in. Buttercream," Brendan hisses beside him.
"Uh..."
"Chocolate buttercream."
"Sorry Ste, was there something else?" Tony asks him expectantly.
"Chocolate buttercream in it too."
The men around him hum in approval. Maybe the way to get into mens good books really is just through their stomachs.
Ste finds that he needn't have worried about the class being too advanced. For one thing, Tony's there every step of the way, bursting over with enthusiasm, looking like he's about to break into song and dance around them at any moment. For another, there are only so many things they can actually do, as there are minimal staff, so they're not allowed to work around the gas ring or with any sharp cutlery. A prison officer counts any metal spoons and forks that they do use, and Ste never thought he'd feel so guilty about using a piece of kitchen equipment.
It turns out Brendan wasn't kidding when he said he likes eating. Tony pairs them together, seems to think that just because they share a cell they're now bonded for life. At first they barely speak a word to each other, but even when Ste's back is turned he can sense Brendan's eyes on him, following him wherever he goes.
He leaves most of the actual work to Ste, his only contribution consisting of sticking his fingers into the chocolate buttercream.
"Oi!" Ste pushes him away. "That's for you, that is!"
"Exactly."
"Well there's not going to be any left for the cake if you keep on doing that!"
"Who died and made you Gordon Ramsay?"
"Gordon Ramsay? No way. Jamie Oliver, thank you very much." He puffs out his chest, quite liking this whole 'I'm a chef' pretense. It's better than being stuck in a classroom, trying to fool everyone that he knows what he's doing.
"This isn't bad you know," Brendan says, licking his fingers clean.
Ste can't help but cling onto the compliment, sensing that every one from Brendan is precious and rare.
"Not much to it really. It's all in the technique, isn't it?" He's letting himself get carried away, reveling in this new experience of not failing at something. He feels oddly proud, Brendan looking at him for instruction.
"Maybe you can bake a cake for your boyfriend Walker."
Ste stops in mixing the buttercream, tries to resume the stirring like nothing's ever happened, but it's too late, Brendan's words having already had the desired effect.
"Didn't think you gave a fuck."
"Language, Steven. Tut tut."
"Your words, not mine," Ste reminds him cooly.
"I was tired last night."
Ste scoffs. "You can't just tell me to get lost one minute, then care about me the next."
"Who says I care about you?"
Ste stirs the bowl with more vigor than necessary. "It's a figure of speech."
"Really? Never heard that one. Wow Steven, they really should have kept you on in those English classes."
Ste turns to him, fucking sick of these mixed messages and mind games. He's got enough to think about already, the issue of what Walker's going to do to him if he refuses his contract weighing heavily on his mind. He doesn't need this right now, for Brendan to be another person in his life who puts him down and regards him as some kind of pathetic joke.
"Maybe you should go and work with someone else."
"You kicking me out? I thought we were a team."
"You mean I cook for you while you insult me and eat everything?"
"Pretty much, yeah." Brendan's eyes dance, and Ste tells himself that he can't laugh, no way, not under any circumstances.
"I suppose you think I'm stupid, don't you? Getting kicked out of English."
Ste expects a snappy retort as quick as lightning, Well you're hardly Einstein Steven, anything that'll make him feel small and even more insignificant. He's surprised when Brendan says nothing for a moment, taking the bowl from Ste and stirring the contents.
"I never did that well at school either."
"You? Mr Hamlet?"
"Just because I read a book it doesn't make me a scholar, kid."
"What's it about, anyway? It sounds dead confusing." He can't believe he's talking about Shakespeare with Brendan. He can't believe he's talking about Shakespeare with anyone.
"Revenge. Madness. Loyalty. Death."
"Sounds really happy."
"You don't read a tragedy for the jokes, Steven."
"Guess not." Ste leans against the counter, enjoying seeing Brendan doing some of the work for a change. Tony's too busy showing off his chef skills to a group of the men to pay attention to them, and it's one of the first times that Ste hasn't felt trapped in a corner, in the spotlight, like something that's being inspected.
"So what were you like at school, then? If you say you didn't do that well?"
All Ste can picture in his mind is a sixteen year old Brendan with a ridiculously long moustache. He wonders if Brendan had any idea back then of what his future would consist of, that he'd be serving a life sentence, that he'd kill his own father. The idea that it came from nowhere, that it was all unplanned and a complete surprise scares Ste more than anything. It means it could happen to anyone, to him.
"What is this, twenty one questions?" Brendan replies gruffly.
"I'm just making conversation, aren't I?"
"Am I that fascinating?" Brendan comes right up close, invading Ste's personal space like he did when Ste woke him from his nightmare. But it's not like then. Ste doesn't want to take a step back or push him away. He can smell Brendan, musky and masculine, hot breath on his face.
"Maybe," he answers honestly. Definitely.
"Hmmm." Brendan steps away, and the loss of contact is strange, cold. "You wouldn't have wanted to know me when I was younger, Steven. You wouldn't have liked me."
"Who says I like you now?" Ste teases, playing Brendan at his own game.
Brendan looks at him, momentarily shocked, like he can't believe someone has the nerve to say that to him. Ste wonders if he's going to get the bowl smashed over his head, but then Brendan's face softens.
"You're not scared of me, are you? Not like the others."
Ste's about to argue, about to admit that actually he's pretty damn terrified of Brendan a lot of the time, about what he'll do to him, about what he's capable of. But he stops himself, realising that this hasn't prevented him from talking back, to pushing him to his limits at times, to waking him in the middle of the night, no matter what the repercussions.
"No. No, not really."
"I'm questioning my earlier assessment of you not being an idiot."
"Is this the part where you tell me you're the big bad wolf and you'll swallow me whole?"
I'm mocking a murderer. Oh fuck.
Brendan's eyes travel to Ste's lips, and Ste wonders if he's planning on hitting him square in the mouth.
"You should stick to your school boy friends. You're safe with them."
"We do have to live together though, Brendan. It would be nice if you didn't ignore me the whole time."
"What did you imagine, that we'd be plaiting each others hair and singing Britney together?"
Ste rolls his eyes. He's starting to get what Walker meant about sarcasm wearing thin.
"You know what I mean. You don't have to be a little girl over it."
Brendan tenses. "A little girl?"
"Yeah! In fact no, that's an insult to my Leah. She's more mature than you."
Now he's really pushed it. He wouldn't blame Brendan for stuffing his head full on into the cake. He just wishes he'd be honest with him, say what he's feeling, drop the big mystery act and the defensiveness. He doesn't seem like Warren, taking kicks at people just because he can, because it gives him some kind of perverse pleasure.
He's sure that Tony walking towards them is the only thing that stops Brendan from taking a swipe at him.
"Wow Ste, you actually got Brendan to lift a finger! What's your secret?" He pats Brendan on the back, and Ste can see his face tensing, his expression twisting at Tony when he's not looking. He's never seen anything like it, someone being so intimidating one minute, and almost childlike the next. Perhaps he's just got an insight into what teenage Brendan was like.
While the men are waiting for the cake to be finished, they sit around the classroom, Tony desperately trying to make something that resembles conversation. Ste has a feeling he does this a lot, trying to be the glue that holds them all together. He's not ready to admit yet that Tony was right, that being here, even with Brendan making digs at him and being as cryptic as ever, is preferable to trying to force his brain to do something that it pointedly refuses to.
As Ste stares at the clock, he begins to grow more and more nervous, and the image of the buttercream suddenly makes him feel sick. Perhaps requesting a cake wasn't exactly such a good idea, especially with Silas kicking his chair, still bitter for having to wait a week longer for his apple crumble.
"If you fidget anymore I'm going to throw you off that chair," Brendan growls in his ear, and it only makes Ste more anxious. "What are you so skittish about anyway? Worried about your night of passion with Simon?"
"No! It's visitors hours soon, isn't it?"
This is the first time that Amy's agreed to come and see him. Every time he's phoned her she's barely said two words to him before handing over to the kids. At first he was relieved that she was even still allowing him to speak to Leah and Lucas, fearing that she'd keep him from them for good. But now he's itching to see her in person, to try and explain how he ended up in this position. He just wants her to know how sorry he is.
"Is your ex coming down?" Brendan says, catching on.
"Yeah. She's not bringing the kids because...well, she says that it wouldn't be good for them, seeing me in this place."
"She has a point." Ste's surprised that he's defending her.
"I haven't seen them in over a week though!" He protests.
"Do you really want your kids to see you in this dump? I wouldn't even let my oldest boy come here. Imagine what that would do to them."
It's like Brendan changes when he talks about his children. Ste noticed it the first time, when he opened up about them. The mask slips, and he forgets to be in control, to project the image which he wants everyone to see. This is the version that Ste likes, that he's kept on trying to dig for this past week. It's as though Ste's looking in a mirror and seeing his thoughts reflected back at him, and somehow Brendan's not just a prisoner anymore. He's a person, a person who Ste could have been, who he already is in so many ways.
"I just miss them," Ste admits in a small voice.
"They're too young to remember this. You'll be back with them before you know it, and they'll have forgotten you were ever away. Trust me."
Trust me. He doesn't know if he's stupid for finding that he wants to.
"You think so?" He craves Brendan's reassurance, knows that he's not the type to give it away for free unless it means something, that he has no obligation to make Ste feel better.
"Of course." Brendan doesn't break eye contact with him, doesn't make a jibe, and Ste feels himself calming down, the nausea leaving his body.
If he's truly honest with himself, one of the reasons he's been craving visitors so much isn't just because of his longing to see Amy. This is his first chance to see the men's friends and family. Brendan's friends and family. Ste's created an image of Cheryl in his head, of a female version of Brendan with hardened features, tough and just as detached as him.
When Ste meets her, it's a bit of a shock. She practically bounces into the place, so full of energy, from the large curly hair to the shock of a pink outfit, even more bright in the dull, grey surroundings. She's wearing a low cut top and high heels, and all the mens eyes fall to her, some not bothering to hide the inevitable cat calls and wolf whistles. "Alright darling?" "Always a pleasure to see your sister again, Brendan." "Give us your number, won't you?"
Ste can't help staring, although he can't say he's interested in her like that. He had hoped he'd discover more about Brendan through his sister, but it's more of a mystery than ever.
He can immediately tell that they're close, Brendan enveloping her in a hug, an intimacy that he sure as hell hasn't shared with anyone else in this place. They hold onto each other for as long as possible before the officers break them apart. When they sit down Ste can see tears in Cheryl's eyes, contrasting so acutely with her joyful outer shell. She takes Brendan's hands between hers and asks "How are you?" like nothing in the world is more important to her.
Ste strains to listen to their conversation, but it's then that he sees Amy arrive. He stands to greet her, and does his best to paint a smile on his face, hoping that his nine days in prison haven't changed him somehow, half scared that she won't even recognise him.
He doesn't get a hug like Brendan, but he doesn't want to push it. He has to wait for her to make the first move, to build up the trust that was lost there. He's screwed up enough times to know how this works.
"You look like you've lost some weight." As far as conversation openers go, it's not what Ste was expecting.
"It's all the prison food. Tastes like cardboard."
Amy doesn't look that well herself, circles around her eyes like she's barely been sleeping. She looks around the room nervously, eyes flickering over the other prisoners.
"So...what's it like in here?"
He doesn't know what to say to that. If he tells her the truth, that he's scared for his life at times, that he dreams of the day when he'll be released, then he worries she'll go back home imagining their kids without a father, that there's no way he'll return in one piece. She'll never buy him painting it like a five star hotel though. He never has been able to fool Amy.
"It's what you'd expect."
She nods soberly. "Terrible then?"
He laughs softly, unable to deny that much.
"How are the kids?"
Amy's face softens. "They miss you."
"I miss them too. You've got no idea how much." It comes out then, words tumbling over each other before he can stop it. He needs to get this out, doesn't know how much time he has left. "I'm so sorry about what happened, Ames. I did stupid things, I didn't think clearly at all. I know you're angry, but -"
"Angry doesn't really come close, Ste."
That stills him, as he takes in her expression, the barely concealed bitterness there.
"I did it for you."
Wrong thing to say.
"Don't you dare put this on me. I didn't force you to steal those things. You lied to me - I thought you were going to work everyday, not nicking things around town! I never asked you to do that for me, so don't for one second try to say that I'm to blame."
"That's not - that's not what I meant. I just wanted the best for you, the best for Leah and Lucas. I didn't want them going through what I did."
"Oh yeah, because their dad ending up in jail is really giving them a good childhood, isn't it?"
Ste knows none of this is making sense to her, that no matter how many times he tries to explain away and excuse his actions, he still royally fucked things up. What's more, he's just dug himself an even deeper hole.
"You know how much I love you all." It's all he has left, the only certainty in his life right now. He can't tell her that he'll make it up to her, because he's not entirely sure what that would take. How can he be the man and the father they want him to be if he hasn't even got a clue how to like himself? He hasn't ever looked in the mirror and seen someone he's truly proud of. Ending up in here has just reaffirmed all his beliefs: he's no good.
If they were anywhere else, their little display would have caught other peoples attention. Ste can image eyes being drawn to them at their domestic, people judging and making assumptions without even knowing them. In here, they barely even register on anyones radar. The other men are all too busy with their own visitors, their own dramas.
Men who Ste's heard threatening to crack others skulls in are now in floods of tears when faced with their wives and girlfriends. Some are visited by their adult children, and its only with input from the officers that they don't cling onto them for dear life.
Ste can see how much Brendan's trying to hold it together. His face is strained, like he's consciously having to control it and regulate his emotions, a tick going off in his cheek. Cheryl seemed to abandon all hope of being calm the moment she entered the building, and Ste can hear snatches of their conversation. "I'm going to get you out of this place." "We're going to try again with the appeal." "Wrong conviction...people have to know that."
It answers Ste's question of how she could possibly still visit her brother after what he's done. She doesn't believe he's guilty. He wonders if Amy would have that kind of loyalty, when she can barely seem to stand the sight of him, for a conviction that isn't even in the same league as Brendan's.
"You're not even listening, are you?"
Ste's snapped out of his Brendan induced haze, his eyes turning away from him and Cheryl. Amy's glowering at him, and standing up now.
"Where are you going?"
"If you can't even be bothered to pay attention to what I'm saying -"
"I am, I swear!"
She looks at him accusingly. "You were too busy checking out some other woman, Ste." Her eyes trail to Cheryl.
He laughs, in disbelief that that's the conclusion she's jumped to. Wrong thing to do. Again.
"You know what, I really thought you might be sorry, but you're not are you? This is all some big joke to you."
"Amy, no!" He makes an attempt to grab her, to just make her stay with him, to give him that comfort that only she can provide. He sees an officer eye him suspiciously, sees that he thinks that Ste's going to hurt her, that he's capable of that, even though he hasn't thought about in years.
She shrugs out of his hold and walks away from him, disappearing behind the door before he has a chance to call after her, to convince her to come back.
It's enough to make him want to kick over the table and take out his frustrations, but he sees Brendan's eyes on him, and the smallest shake of his head, so subtle that he thinks he imagined it.
When he's accompanied back to his cell, he paces the floor in agitation, the conversation with Amy flooding his mind. He wants to phone her the minute she gets home, but he's afraid of making things worse and losing her for good.
"Fuck." He's tired of being stuck in this dark, cold, rotting cell. Tired of having to look over his shoulder to see whether Warren or Walker are there with their cruelty and possessiveness, and not quite knowing which is worse. The bruise from Brendan slamming him against the wall is still there, he can feel it when he leans against something, a constant reminder that even when he tries to help someone, all he gets is a smack in return.
He doesn't know how long he just spends standing in the middle of his cell before Brendan comes back. Ste barely acknowledges him, knows that mindless chatter and an attempt at politeness isn't going to help him now, not with this. He expects Brendan to ignore him and sit on his bed like he usually does, all but denying his existence. He surprises him.
"Meeting with the missus didn't go that well, then?" He all but grunts it, like he doesn't care either way, but Ste knows he wouldn't ask if he didn't want to know.
"She hates me." It hurts to say it.
Ste's anger is renewed when he hears Brendan laugh darkly. Ste moves towards him, not exactly knowing what his intention is, but pretty sure that it'll involve returning the favour of a bruise somewhere down the line.
"She doesn't hate you."
Ste stills at the words, at the sincerity behind them.
"She came, didn't she?" Brendan continues. "That means she gives a shit. She left because she's angry, Steven, angry that you've left her with the kids and no explanation to give them, that she's to blame for this somehow. You implying that didn't exactly help matters."
"You were listening?" His fury is diluted somewhat by the fact that he was listening to Brendan's conversation.
"Can't exactly block my ears, can I?" He drawls.
"I suppose you think I'm a failure, don't you? That I let my family down?" Brendan's opinion shouldn't matter to him, not after what he's done, not because of why he's here, but somehow it does. It matters.
Brendan rolls his eyes. "You know what your problem is, Steven? You keep on thinking that the entire world has the same opinion of you as you have of yourself. You feel like you're nothing, and you think everyone else thinks the same."
Ste blushes, can't believe that he's getting a life lesson from this man. He can't believe that he's telling him the truth.
"This is a bit rich, isn't it? The guy who punched me giving me a lesson on confidence."
"I didn't punch you." He looks worried, scanning Ste's body like he's inspecting for the offense.
"You gave me a massive bruise! It may as well have been your fist."
"So fucking delicate, Steven..." But he continues to look concerned much to Ste's confusion, and holds a hand out, motioning for Ste to come towards him.
Ste looks at him like he's just been asked into the lions den.
"Come here. I'm not going to bite."
He takes a small step forwards, like it's his body drawing him there when his brain is screaming at him to do the opposite.
"Lift up your top."
"What?" Ste says, high pitched and shocked.
"So I can see the bruise. Turn around."
Ste considers refusing, not wanting Brendan to see his scrawny ribs, especially after Amy's told him he's lost weight. Brendan must look at him and see something tiny, minuscule compared to his own defined muscles and broad shoulders. He reluctantly turns and shows him the mark, glad that he can't see Brendan's expression, worried that he might see rejection there.
He feels hands on him then, the lightest touch of a fingertip. Ste flinches, not from any pain, but from the contact, the unexpectedness of it.
"Sorry about that," Brendan mumbles, and Ste doesn't know whether he's apologising for the touch or for hurting him to begin with. "I've got some cream, to rub into it. God knows I've used a lot of the stuff in here."
"You, get into fights? Never."
He can hear Brendan laughing from behind him, muttering something that sounds like "cheeky bastard."
"You can use some, if you like. It helps it to heal quicker."
"Thanks." Ste can't help but be touched by the gesture. Somehow it means so much more coming from someone like Brendan.
Brendan reaches into his drawer and hands Ste the cream. Ste sits on his bed and tries to rub it into himself, but his t-shirt becomes soaked in it, and he feels clumsy and idiotic, wondering whether Brendan's watching him making a mess of himself.
He reluctantly takes his t-shirt off. It's the first time he's ever been like this in front of Brendan, having been so careful since he's come here to stay covered up, to not give him or anyone else anymore reasons to make fun of him.
Ste prays that Brendan's so immersed in his book that he's not watching him. Why would he even want to watch me? Get over yourself.
"This is the most awkward thing I've ever seen in my life."
Ste's heart sinks. "It's proper difficult, trying to rub it into my back! Like rubbing suncream in."
"I've forgotten what that's like. Not exactly done a lot of sunbathing in here."
It's hard to get used to, Brendan suddenly sharing all these facts about his life. Not unwanted, though. Ste soaks them all up like a starving man.
"Give it here, Steven. I can't watch this any longer."
Brendan takes the cream from him before he has a chance to protest. "Lie down, I'll rub it in."
"No it's alright, it's really not that bad."
"Stop being difficult, and do what I say."
"Alright, bossy!" Ste huffs, lying down on his front. He can't believe that this is happening, that Brendan's actually offering to touch him, that he's not repulsed. Anyone could look through the screen in the door and see.
At first Brendan's hands are cold on him, and Ste wriggles and squirms, unable to stop the laughter from escaping his mouth.
"Jesus. What is that thing?"
"What?" Ste asks self consciously, turning round to look at his body.
"That laugh. You sound like a fucking donkey."
"Oh." He's partly relieved, partly offended. "It's not my fault, is it? I can't help it."
"People in Australia are covering their ears." Ste can hear it in Brendan's voice though, the amusement. Fucking hell, he sounds almost fond. Fond of him.
They're both silent for a moment then, Ste struggling for things to say. It's hard to think of anything even close to interesting when another man's hands are on him, massaging his skin in soothing circles, no longer cold but so warm that when he withdraws them to get more cream, Ste makes an unsatisfied sigh, before trying to cover it up with a cough.
"Your boyfriend wouldn't like this."
Ste's eyes which were closed moments before drift open, blinking in confusion.
"My boyfriend?"
"Walker," Brendan says quietly.
Ste leans on his hands, the memory that he still has that to deal with coming back to him.
"You know he's not that."
"What is he then?"
Ste knows that these questions are personal, intimate. But he doesn't want to tell Brendan to stop. He's scared that he'll take his hands away.
"He's...Walker."
Brendan laughs softly, his hands continuing to move in circles. The bruise doesn't hurt when he touches it anymore.
"That's not exactly answering the question, Steven."
Ste shrugs, a flicker of a smile on his mouth, growing stronger under the knowledge that Brendan can't see it.
"Why are you so interested?"
"He's an acquaintance of mine. You're my cellmate. I don't want to come in here and see you two cuddling." He spits out the word.
Ste snorts. "I don't think Walker's really the cuddling type, do you?"
He feels Brendan's hands still on him for a second, wonders if he's said the wrong thing, and arches back into the touch, encouraging him to keep going.
"Anyway, if you're so friendly with him then you must approve, right?" Ste doesn't even know why he's asking these things. It's not like he even has the slightest desire to go through with the contract.
"I never said I was friends with him. I don't have friends."
"Everyone needs somebody."
"I have my sister."
Ste wants to ask about Cheryl, to see what could make her so convinced that Brendan's innocent, when a jury found enough evidence to convict him. He can't risk pushing Brendan away though. Not now, not when they're like this.
"Yeah, but...well, you're not that bad, you know." Ste swallows, tripping over his words, not knowing what the hell he's saying.
Brendan's hands cease completely, and the loss of them is painful.
"You don't mean that."
The crazy thing is, he does.
"Yeah, I do. I...I like you better than Walker."
There's silence, and he wonders if he's well and truly scared Brendan off, if he's fucked everything up when they were just getting started.
"Turn around, Steven."
"I can't," he whispers. He actually can't. He has a...situation here, and he hadn't even realised, had been too swept up in the whole fucking thing.
"Look at me."
"No."
Ste feels shame and embarrassment coursing through him, thinks that this is it, he's going to get the shit kicked out of him, he can't turn around.
Brendan physically does it for him, bends forward and reaches out, picking him up around his stomach, hands against his bare skin, turning him until he's propped up, facing him.
Ste tries to look anywhere but at Brendan, heat flooding to his body, erection tenting his trousers, a hard on from a fucking massage.
He covers his hands over himself but it's futile, it's too late. He chances a glance at Brendan, searches for the disgust and hate in his face, but finds none. He's assessing Ste's reaction just as closely.
Ste's eyes fall to Brendan's trousers then, sees his dick straining against the material, recognises something like lust and want and need in Brendan's eyes for the first time, that's reflected like a mirror image in his own.