He's devoid of energy this morning, anger being the only emotion that gives him an ounce of drive. It makes him shrug the bed covers away, makes him rise from the pillow despite being awake the whole night, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he could have got himself into this mess. How he could have told Steven that he would go this morning, and sit in a room with a complete stranger, expecting to reveal his history.
Brendan ignores Ethan's protestations about playing his music earlier than usual, the thud of his body while doing his exercises waking the younger man.
He grunts as a sign of acknowledgment, a good morning, but no other words spill from his lips. He doesn't have the patience, knows that he's not capable of anything polite when he feels a sense of impending doom about what's to come.
Ethan's as much of a quivering wreck as he is, although Brendan prides himself on hiding his own distress far more convincingly. While Brendan tries to drown out his own thoughts in the music, Ethan feeds into his fears, pacing the cell and growing increasingly more anxious.
He wants to say something, wants to talk about Warren, but Brendan's purposefully looking away, not giving him the chance.
If the name of his rapist is mentioned then it'll only remind Brendan of his own, and what he has to face. What he's been afraid to face for years now, and it's only because of one person that he's even contemplating trying.
He washes the sweat off of himself in the sink, and begins to get changed.
"Where are you going dressed so smartly?" Ethan stares at him curiously, his eyes trailing over the suit that Brendan's changing into. It's one that's usually only been reserved for court appearances, and he has to brush it down to discard the dust that's lingered over time.
"None of your business."
Disappointment settles over Ethan's face. Brendan knows that he's breaking something here, a tentative sort of relationship that they'd formed, an agreement of sorts. But he's in no mood to be challenged about today, about where he's going. He knows that he sticks out like a sore thumb, not his standard uniform of black trousers or jogging bottoms.
But he needs this Desmond, this fucking therapist, to see that he's capable. That's he's more than a match for him, and isn't like most of the other people in here, a waste of space taking up air. He wants him to understand that he was someone once, that he owned his own club, and was a father. A proper father, and he had a future.
That's if he manages to last more than ten minutes without cancelling the entire thing. Jumping out of the window seems appealing, and already what Steven expects he'll do. Why surprise him when he lets people down so excellently? It's what he does. Anything other than that is taking a step into the unknown.
He's about to make the long walk down to the room that Steven's written down for him, when he's ambushed. He'd hoped to make his escape before he followed him here, had thought that rising at such an early hour would deter him. But the blue eyed, golden haired boy leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms and looking at him like he's got his number. He knows his game.
"Steven." He mutters it, can't hide the displeasure from his voice. He doesn't want Steven to see him like this, this anxious and out of control, his hands shaking in the pockets of his suit. He's meant to be the strong one. Steven won't want to be with this shell of a man.
He takes in the shadows under the boy's eyes, and how his hoodie is inside out, as though thrown on in a rush. He can imagine Steven running down the hallway, desperately trying to catch him before the appointment, and making sure that he attends. He's meant to be with the boy, not having to be babysat. He didn't want Steven up all night worrying about him, but he can see that his worst fears have been confirmed, the boy stifling a yawn and looking dead on his feet.
He can't help his mind from drifting to Walker. How Steven wouldn't be worrying like this if he was with him, because Walker almost appears sane in comparison. The better choice. The better man.
"Give us a kiss then." Steven puckers his lips comically, the kind of thing that would make Brendan laugh if he wasn't feeling so utterly humourless.
He looks over his shoulder at Ethan, signifying that they have company. He knows that's bullshit though. He fucked Steven with Douglas lying inches away from them. He doesn't care who sees them together.
But he's scared that this could be goodbye. Their last kiss, when Steven hears about how Desmond's been attacked, how Brendan can't even sit in a room with someone for fifty damn minutes without being violent. He doesn't want that memory. He wants to remember the last time, when things had seemed right and good.
Steven doesn't buy his sudden bout of shyness.
"Come on! I've had to wait all night, me." He smiles, and it eases something in Brendan, something twisted and strained. He feels lighter, and Steven's drawing him towards him, isn't even using his hands but Brendan's moving, and pressing their lips together.
He tries to keep it as chaste as possible, but it deepens despite himself. Steven's mouth is warm and inviting, and a reminder of why he's doing this. Why he's agreed to seek help, that four letter word that he hates, because of the weakness that it brings. He can't help but feel grateful at how Steven's willing him to try. Like he hasn't yet realised that he can't be fixed.
"I'll be here when you get back, yeah? I mean obviously I wouldn't be anywhere else, it's not like I can get out of this place, but..." Steven laughs, his words a jumbled mess. He looks dazed from the kiss, resting his forehead against Brendan's, and the Irishman thinks he understands what he means. He's not leaving him.
"Thank you, Steven."
He tries to move out into the corridor, but the boy follows him.
"You going to tail me the whole way there, or..." He doesn't believe that he's going. He thinks that he'll chicken out, as though there's somewhere to run to and hide in this place.
"No, course not." Steven lets out a shaky laugh and stands aside, but Brendan can see the reluctance there.
As he walks down the hallway, he doesn't have to look back to know that Steven's watching him. Observing him, most likely in concern. He hates that he's someone's worry, someone's problem.
Brendan finds the room easily enough with Steven's instructions. He's surprised that there's a single inch of the place that he's not yet familiar with, but he's never been this way before. The therapy centre feels closed off from the rest of the place. It's quieter, and he guesses that the atmosphere is designed to be peaceful, almost spiritual. He feels faintly surprised when he doesn't encounter Walker doing yoga on a rug somewhere.
There's a woman at reception who smiles at him, asking him if he needs any help. He tells her he can find the place himself, already beginning to feel stifled by the attention, by the kindness. He's not used to it.
If he wasn't within the woman's eyeline then he's sure he'd lose his nerve, and wouldn't even be able to knock on the door that he knows is Desmond's office. But he's got an audience, and his knuckles tap against the wood with more confidence than he feels.
He hears a murmur telling him to come in, and he steps into the room.
The man isn't what he expected. He looks in his forties, black and dressed more like a priest than a therapist. Brendan was anticipating someone far older, perhaps with thinning grey hair and glasses, with a collection of Freud books in the corner.
Instead the room is sparse, with two seats including the one that Desmond's sitting on, and a large bed covered by thin sheets. Brendan's eyes travel over it. He's heard of the cliched couch in places like this, but he hadn't envisioned this. He wonders whether he's expected to lie on the bed.
That's never going to happen.
He immediately sits in the chair facing Desmond, his stance guarded. He draws himself up to his full height, and stares across at the man coldly. Starting as he means to go on.
"Brendan?"
He nods, resisting the urge to ask who the fuck else it would be.
He notices the softness of the man's voice. It's lowered, unintimidating. Deceptive, because Brendan's sure that by the end of the session he'll have seen his true nature, and he won't be so soft anymore.
"I'm Des."
"Desmond," he corrects, on instinct.
Desmond blinks at him, but doesn't comment. Doesn't scold him for it, and it surprises him.
"I'm a registered psychologist here, and a psychodynamic psychotherapist."
Brendan gaze is blank. These are just terms to him, terms straight from a fancy textbook that mean nothing.
He doesn't hide his confusion well enough, and Desmond nods his head knowingly, like this is a standard part of his job, revealing the specifics.
"Psychodynamic psychotherapy consists of exploring the unconscious mind of the client's psyche."
Not so different to his initial suspicions about Freud then. Brendan sighs and leans back in the chair, already internally counting the time away. Forty nine minutes to go.
"You don't look very impressed," Desmond says. It sounds like a statement rather than a judgement.
"I've heard it all before, Doc. People trying to convince me to come to these...things," he replies with distaste, thinking that Desmond should consider himself lucky that his words are being considered, and not designed to offend. Not yet.
"But this is your first time in therapy?"
"Do I look like a regular?" He stretches his hands over his head, eyes travelling over the man before him. He wonders what could possibly make someone voluntarily work in a place like this, trying to pick apart the minds of murderers.
"What's made you want to come and see me?"
Brendan laughs. He'd thought that it would be obvious that he was dragged kicking and screaming.
"I don't want to. Someone made me."
Someone who is, unfortunately or fortunately, worth it. Worth this pain and humiliation.
"Really? So someone tied your hands and made you come here?"
Brendan's disarmed by the question, finds himself stuttering before clearing his throat, alarmed by his own uncertainty and nervousness.
"No, but there were...conditions."
"Such as?"
Already probing and sticking his fucking nose in. Brendan's about to tell him to back off, but perhaps he should get this over with as soon as possible. He wants to get a rise out of him, wants to get a reaction that'll force the man to drop this nice guy act.
"I'm gay."
His eyes don't leave Desmond's face, but he sees no evidence of shock or disgust there. It's unnerving.
He continues, trying to get something. Revulsion. Something that'll prove his belief that this is all a waste of time.
"And this condition was that the guy I'm..." He deliberates over his words. "Seeing," he eventually settles on, "Will leave me if I don't come here."
Desmond nods, and it only makes Brendan more unsettled, doesn't understand how he can seem so calm about this. Dressed in his smart attire, a cross settled around his neck, Brendan had thought that Desmond would start preaching him the ways of God, how his sexuality is an abomination.
"So you don't want to lose him?"
"No. I don't." It's difficult to admit it out loud, and he already feels like he's revealed too much. He'd planned to come here and not say anything.
"Why does this man think you should be here?"
Brendan shrugs, pretends he doesn't have a fucking clue and that he's fine, everything's fine.
"Is he concerned about you?"
His throat feels dry, feels like there's a lump lodged there.
Yes, he's worried about me.
No, of course he's not.
Brendan wrestles between it - saying too much, or not enough. Not nearly enough, because he's seen the concern, seen how much Steven thinks about him, even if he can't understand why.
"Maybe." It still feels too honest, too close to the truth.
He waits for Desmond to press it, to ask him what the boy's so worried about. To try and get inside his mind, and hunt out what's so wrong there.
There's only silence, and it stretches before them, making Brendan feel even more uncomfortable. He was meant to be in control here, but he can't predict this, can't tell what the man's next words will be, or his next line of questioning. He thought this would be an interrogation, but Desmond's sitting back in his chair like he has all the time in the world to hear. Like he wants to hear.
In the quietness, Brendan's eyes are drawn to the bed again.
"Do you expect me to lie on that thing?"
"It's beneficial for some people."
"I'm not going to." He says it firmly, a hint of panic betraying his attempt at coldness, detachment.
"That's okay."
He'd rather stay where he can see the man. Where he can still cling onto safety.
Brendan plays with his hands in his lap, digging his nails into his skin where Desmond can't see. He stares at the man expectantly, wants him to say something, make these fifty minutes pass quicker so he can get back to his cell and tell Steven that he tried. That he went to one lousy therapy session, and it didn't work. That they can all move on now.
The sound of the clock ticking on the wall is too loud, and he can feel the man's eyes boring into him.
"Is this it? Is this what I'm supposed to do here? Sit in silence?"
"What did you expect to be doing?"
Brendan snorts. He'd heard how this is the way they do things, that they never answer anything, just throw more questions at you.
"I thought you might give me some leaflets, wave a watch in front of my eyes."
"This isn't hypnotism, Brendan."
"Come on, Doc. Don't you want to find out all about my deepest darkest secrets?"
When Desmond doesn't reply, it only causes Brendan to swear under his breath. He's not rising to the bait, looks as collected as ever, like this isn't even frightening him, sitting inches away from someone who's done what he has. Is he that used to it, to working with murderers and rapists and psychopaths, or is he like Steven, and he views Brendan as a man?
Brendan shakes the thought from his head. Steven's made him grow sentimental, and to trust people far too easily. He's certain that Desmond's misleading him on purpose, and is waiting to strike when he's at his weakest, most vulnerable. He expects him to be lying on the bed, tears dripping from his eyes while he tells him everything, and then he'll reveal the hatred that lies behind his pleasant exterior.
He's not falling for it.
He decides that if Desmond's going to remain silent, then so will he. He stares at a spot on the wall, focusing on it so intently that his vision begins to blur, but still he doesn't look away. His jaw feels like it was carved from plaster, painfully rigid from tension, but he doesn't relent, continuing on in his mute state.
He expects Desmond to talk, to ask him something, to comment on his lack of speech. But he never does.
His only words are at the end of the session.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Brendan."
He feels like a dead weight's just struck him.
"What?" He's sure that he must have misheard.
"You've been booked to see me everyday."
He doesn't try to hide the expletive that spills from his lips. "Every fucking day?"
"That's what you're down for, yes."
Brendan stands up, punching a fist against the chair. Desmond doesn't even blink.
He tries to say something, tries to protest and make it clear that this wasn't any of his idea, but he feels too overtaken by anger, and it's contorting his words. He abandons the idea, and can only roughly open the door and smash it closed behind him, charging out of the office and ignoring the alarmed stare of the woman at reception.
He charges through the corridors and others move out of his way, pressing themselves up against the wall to allow him to pass. Those who aren't so accommodating end up on the floor, Brendan forcefully pushing a hand against their chests. He can hear officers calling after him, but he escapes from their demands and their suffocating presence, instead treading the path that he's walked down for years now, back to his block.
Instead of moving back to his own cell he enters Steven's without knocking, and removes Douglas from the room by the scruff of his collar before he even has time to argue.
Steven stares at him speechlessly from his bed, eyes roaming from Douglas now exiled outside, and Brendan's dark and furious eyes.
He can see Steven make a conscious attempt to recover his nerves, and he feels a stab of guilt for making him so momentarily scared. He's aware of how he must look right now, how insane and wild and frightening.
"What did you do that for?" The boy's insolent tone is strangely comforting. Familiar.
"Why did you book me into that place everyday, Steven?" He tries to keep his voice measured, restrained. He's on thin ice here, and if he touches the boy aggressively again then he knows that's it. His lifeline gone.
"They were offering it, and -"
"And what? You thought that was an excuse to sign my life away to them?"
Steven huffs, crossing his arms. "Stop being so dramatic, right? It's not even an hour. And it's not like..." He cuts off, and if Brendan was smart and self protective then he wouldn't press it. But he's neither of those things.
"Not like what?"
It hangs between them, unsaid but evident, that he doesn't have a life to sign away. That he's not like Steven, who has the right to be choosy, to dream of something better than these four walls. For Brendan, this is as good as it gets.
"Look, I'm sorry. I should have asked your permission first, but I thought that if you really want to make this work, then..."
And he does. A part of him does want to make this work, for Steven's sake if nothing else. He's tried to want this for himself, just like the boy had asked. But he's only doing this for one person. He wants to make him proud, the kind of proud that Brendan gets when he sees Steven cooking, when he sees his intelligence and his strength and his dedication and passion.
He feels his anger numbing, replaced by exhaustion instead. Exhaustion at what he's just had to sit through, with the energy it took to try and appear normal, when he feels anything but.
"How was it?" Steven asks tentatively, his voice soft now.
"It was fine."
"It wasn't. I can tell from your face."
"Why did you ask me then?"
"I wanted to see if you'd be honest with me." The boy's biting his lip, cheeky and deliberately seeing how far he can go.
"It was..." He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to alarm Steven, to make him understand exactly how difficult he found it. But he knows that he can't hide anything, not from him. "I don't think I can do this." He whispers it, half hoping that the boy won't hear, and together they can forget about this, and agree for him to never walk through the doors of the therapy centre again.
"The first time I went to anger management, I was a mess after."
"Yeah?" Brendan asks, and doesn't know whether to feel more compassionate for him, or grateful that he's not the only one to be such a complete wreck.
"I swore to myself that I'd never go again, that it wouldn't help. I felt so weak, so...pathetic. Like I couldn't even sort it out by myself. I hated that I couldn't just stop hitting Amy, that I had to see someone else to get better."
"It takes time, Steven."
"Then why aren't you believing that?"
It's different. He doesn't think Steven can understand the true implications of that, how Steven lived with it for eighteen, nineteen years, and it's been here his entire life. That Steven was never pinned down and raped. That he's not a freak like him.
"I just don't think this is going to work."
"You went, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Brendan says, unsure where this is going.
"Don't you realise what a massive achievement that is?"
"Come on Steven, I don't need all this psychologist shit from you too." He feels weary, doesn't feel like he's achieved a single thing today except humiliating himself and losing his temper in front of someone who's now no doubt writing notes about him, assessing him.
"I mean it. The fact that you sat in that room and you survived it..." The boy's staring at him like he's actually proud of what he's done. As though his words aren't just lies to make him feel better about himself.
He dares to smile, and to gather strength from Steven when he returns it.
"Maybe you should apologise to Doug though," he says in amusement, nodding to the door.
"He deserved it. Always sniffing around..."
"Bren, he's my cellmate! You can't just get rid of him like that whenever you want."
"Why not?" He struggles to see the use of Douglas, how his presence could actually make the world a better place. He can't understand Steven's attachment to him, can understand Lynsey's even less.
"Play nice," Steven says warningly, but his voice is light, still buoyed by what Brendan's just done for him. He sees accomplishment where Brendan only sees failure.
Steven steps closer to him, smile coy and eyes dancing. "Now that you've done something for me, it's time for me to do something for you."
"Oh yeah?" Brendan's heart is already beginning to hammer in his chest.
He imagines Steven on his knees, staring up at him through thick and fluttering lashes, his lips closed tight around his cock, swallowing it down to the root and palming his loose and heavy balls.
He's never wanted to talk less, and his hands find Steven's shoulders, already preparing to gently let him know what he wants, pressing down on them and directing him to the floor.
"Yeah. That's what relationships are about, aren't they? Give and take."
They both still at his words, Steven looking like he hardly dares believe that they came from his own mouth. He looks apologetic and bashful, eyes scanning Brendan's face to assess his reaction.
Brendan remembers when Macca and Vincent had tried to tie him down, branded what they had as something exclusive, something normal, something that seemed so distinctly heterosexual to Brendan. Men weren't designed to have relationships with each other.
He thinks about his earlier words to Desmond, that he's seeing Steven. He's never been afraid about being crude, about setting people on edge and making them uncomfortable. He could have told the man that he's fucking Steven, that it's nothing more than the exchange of salvia and having a warm body to keep him company, that in this place you need someone to satisfy those urges, otherwise you're little more than a robot, a machine.
But he hadn't. He'd said something conventional, something that he would have told people about Eileen in the days when they began dating. Except this time, it didn't leave him with a sinking feeling in his stomach, because with her he knew that he should want it, but he didn't. He couldn't make himself feel anything, no matter how hard he tried.
He's been silent for longer than appropriate, and Steven's staring at him worriedly. Brendan can already sense him wanting to retract his words.
"Yeah. Like I said, you're a wise one."
Any doubt leaves Steven's face, relief flooding through him, and he delivers Brendan a smile that's almost too intense. He doesn't think he's ever caused someone to feel that much joy, and it feels like a responsibility. Like if he lets him down now then he'll be destroying them both.
Brendan removes the dryness from his throat, trying to stop Steven's words from reverberating in his head. For the first time in his life he wants to be okay with this. He wants to drown out Seamus's hatred and all the things he would say if he could see him now, contemplating his life and his future with another man.
He wants to win.
"So, this thing that you're going to do for me..." He presses, hands moving to Steven's hoodie, his fingers working on the zip. He doesn't know when it started to not be enough, simply having Steven sucking him off. Suddenly, he has to see him. All of him.
"I didn't mean that! One track mind," Steven tuts, bating his hands away.
Brendan feels a sour mood descending. A school boy sulk, only the stakes are higher now. His cock had already begun to stir hopefully, and he groans in frustration when Steven does his zip up again, the peek of skin that he'd managed to reveal being concealed once more.
It's like being given the keys to the kingdom and not being able to step inside.
"What else am I meant to think? You always want to fuck."
"No I don't!" But the boy's blushing, and his eyes travel to Brendan's crotch, eliciting a smirk from the older man.
"Come on, Steven." He's sure that if he plays this right then he can still get what he wants, and he invades the boy's personal space, breathing hotly onto his cheek. "You love having my cock inside you."
He feels Steven give in to it, feels his reluctance melt away as the boy moves closer as though gravity's pulling him.
Then his stubbornness kicks in, and Brendan's rewarded for his attempts at seduction by being pushed back firmly.
"I'm trying to say something serious here!" Steven argues, and Brendan sighs in frustration, laying down on his bed and hoping that the slight reveal of his skin as he t-shirt rides up will be enough to deter the boy.
He can see Steven looking, and it's a start.
"I mean that I want to do something serious. Something big."
Brendan stares at him as though the answer's obvious, and points down at his groin.
"This is big."
"Even bigger than that."
"Is that possible?"
Brendan's admonished for his cheek by having the sole of Steven's foot kick against his thigh.
"Alright, alright! I'll stop being -"
"Stupid?" Steven suggests, and Brendan can see that this is going to have to wait. That he's not going to get anywhere when it's clear that something's playing on Steven's mind.
He ignores the insult, and tries to stop the rising panic from flooding his senses. This is something that's meant to be a reward, a thank you.
"What is it?"
"I'm going to tell Amy. About this."
He feels a wave of anxiety hit him, and is relieved that he's lying down. He's seen the fragility of Amy, and can't imagine that someone so meek and young could possibly accept the idea of the father of her children being with him. Brendan knows how he looks to the outside world, knows how the tattoos and build and strength of him do nothing to change peoples views of him as dangerous, trouble.
"Do you think that's sensible?" Everything in his voice betrays that he thinks it's the opposite; risky and thoughtless, the consequences potentially damaging.
He can see Steven's own self belief take a knock, the question not being what he expected. He so desperately wants to cling onto the normality of Brendan, the fact that they're not doing anything wrong here. He isn't seeing how this looks on paper, how they're the last people in the world who should be together.
If Amy's anything like Eileen then she won't want to expose her children to someone like him. Even phone calls or letter from Steven once he's released will feel tainted. Brendan can already imagine what she thinks, that she'll worry that he's involved with people who could hurt Steven, hurt their family.
He can't guarantee that she'll never receive a visit from Warren's friends on the outside if he makes it known that Steven's a permanent part of his life.
Steven's experienced more in his twenty three years then most people have in eighty, but he's still naive. Still wonderfully, beautifully naive, and it shows when he nods eagerly, trying to convince himself as much as Brendan that this can work.
"I need to tell her, don't I?"
"Why?" Brendan's default position is being secretive, of revealing the bare minimum to get by. It's alien to him that Steven wants to share something this important with a woman who he once shared his bed with.
"Because she needs to know how it's going to be when I get out!"
It's one of the only times that Steven's mentioned his release, and it looms over them, too real now to ignore. While it was unspoken Brendan could pretend that it didn't exist, but Steven's just stripped away his ability to stay in denial.
"And how is it going to be?" He asks, very quietly. He doesn't think he deserves to hope that Steven envisages something beyond these gates, something that they can create together, and watch grow and develop.
A relationship.
"You know..." Steven shrugs, as though Brendan should already understand. That this is something they've talked about, and planned for, when in reality Brendan's never felt so unprepared for anything in his life.
There's no guide book to follow, especially when this was the last thing he expected when he first saw Steven, when he imagined him to be all looks and no substance. Someone easily replaceable, who wouldn't get under his skin and carve a place there.
"I'm going to be visiting you, talking on the phone to you."
Brendan can't believe how casual the boy's being about this. As though it's normal to have the person you love in prison, and the only interaction you have with them is when you're surrounded by police officers and other inmates.
He wants more for Steven. Better.
"She's going to need to know who I'm speaking to, isn't she? Amy knows I don't exactly have a lot of mates. She's not an idiot."
"What are you going to do, tell her it's your jailbird?" Brendan says dryly, imagining how that scenario would play out.
"No, I'm going to tell her it's you." As though there's a difference, a world apart between the two titles.
"She won't like me," Brendan warns, thinks the boy ought to know that he triggers an immediate dislike in some people, if his interactions with the men in here haven't already taught him that.
"Of course she will!" Steven looks at him as though he's the daft one. "Maybe tone down the swearing and the dirty looks, but apart from that she'll love you!"
Brendan laughs, can't help himself.
"What do you see happening, Steven? You, me and your ex missus sitting around the sofa, her making me tea?"
"Why not? Makes dead good tea, does our Amy."
"I think you're missing the point."
"Yeah, and we're going to miss visitor's hour if you don't hurry up and get off the bed. Don't you want to see your Cheryl and tell her all about therapy?"
"Jesus, you don't think I'm going to tell her about that, do you?" He can imagine her reaction already - the overbearing joy, and her belief that once the therapist knows about how happy Brendan's childhood was, they're bound to be a witness in his appeal.
"Fine, you don't have to tell her. But just come on, I don't want to miss this."
Brendan rises from the bed, holding Steven back by the material of his hoodie before he can make his way from the room.
"You're not really going to tell her, are you?" He'd seen how Steven was when Amy wouldn't let him see the kids, and when her frostiness had been between them like an impenetrable wall. He can't watch him go through that again.
"Before I met you I didn't even know who I was, but I do now. And that's thanks to you."
He's shocked by the sincerity of the boy's words. He can't bear to accept gratitude for making anyone fall in love with him. Steven should realise how it's a curse, not a blessing.
"You shouldn't be thanking me."
"Brendan, do you know how confused I was before? About whether I wanted Rae, or all those other guys."
Brendan's jaw tenses at his words, trying to remove the images that are flickering through his mind like a motion picture. He reminds himself that Steven's here now, with him. He's all his.
"But now I know what I want. Who I want."
It's hard to question that amount of conviction.
"You're a good man, Steven Hay."
Steven grins, his nose crinkling like it does when he's trying to concentrate. "Where did that come from?"
He doesn't know, but it feels right. Something he had to tell him, because he has the lingering doubt that anyone else ever has.
"You too, you know," Steven adds when Brendan doesn't speak. "Better than you think."
All Brendan can do is hum, can't say anything because he doesn't feel good, but he still has some pride intact, and he can't allow the boy to see how weak he is. How the thing that he questions the most is his own faith in himself.
"And it's proper sexy when you say my full name."
"Oh really?" Brendan says, eyebrows raised. Perhaps this morning can be salvaged after all.
"Yeah," Steven replies, eyes dark and hands reaching forward to grip Brendan's shirt.
"Steven Hay," he whispers into the boy's ear, and feels a shudder of desire go through him, his hold on Brendan tightening as he steers him towards the bed.
"I thought you said we had to go?" Brendan reminds him teasingly, although he's already beginning to paw Steven's clothes off, his hands searching for bare skin. He's been wanting to do this for hours.
"We have a couple of minutes."
It doesn't feel nearly long enough, not for what he wants to do to the boy. But he's a master at making the most out of a situation, and he intends for them to both come before they leave the room.
"Couple of minutes, eh? I wonder what I can do to you in that time..." He lands on his back on the sheet, Steven scrambling on top of him, his hands reaching for the flies of Brendan's suit.
"Oi, watch it," Brendan warns when Steven begins to roughly undo his shirt. "This wasn't cheap."
His heart's not in it though. He'd gladly see the suit lying in a heap on the floor and
covered in dust if it meant he'd get to see Steven naked in front of him again.
The boy's more careful now though, gradually unfastening him until his chest peeks through and his tongue laps against his skin, biting at his nipples until they become red and bear the brunt of Steven's touch.
He doesn't fully remove his shirt though, or his trousers, and when Brendan makes a move to, the boy pins his hands onto the bed, fully seated on his lap now, grinding against him through cotton.
"I've always wanted to fuck a man in a suit," he says, glint of mischievousness in his eyes.
Kinky fucker.
Brendan leans back on his elbows willingly, and gestures to his body.
"Be my guest."