"He's fucking with us."
Ste sighs, lying his head against Brendan's bare chest in defeat. It took him an unbearably long time just to get the buttons undone on Brendan's shirt, the Irishman fidgeting and huffing in protest, anger still rising in him like a flame even when they'd left the gym. Ste had tried some tactile methods of persuasion, his lips trailing along the hairs on Brendan's chest, his hands wandering downwards, but still Brendan wouldn't rest, wouldn't still for long enough for him to replace his churning mind with nothing but pleasure.
He tries to hide the scowl that's forming.
"Let me guess - Warren?"
Brendan seems to be unaware of the sarcasm lacing Ste's voice.
"Who else? Jesus Steven, are you not at all worried about what just happened back there?"
Truthfully he is worried, but if he spends time trying to decipher Warren's words then he'll drive himself insane. Ste can't even begin to imagine the way the man's mind works, and he has no wish to. He's trying to concentrate on something solid and concrete and comforting; he's in Brendan's bed, and they're both safe.
"Maybe he meant what he said. Maybe he really doesn't know it's you, and wants you to help him," he mumbles, but he can tell that it's a weak argument, one that has Brendan releasing a disbelieving laugh.
"Foxy? You seriously thinks he wants me to play detective and solve the crime with him? This isn't fucking Scooby Doo, Steven."
Ste rolls away from Brendan's body, tiring of the attack when he's only trying to help, when he's trying to desperately cling onto anything that could mean that they're out of danger.
He's still in his boxers, had been hoping to coax Brendan into taking them off for him, but he feels like he's fighting a losing battle. He makes a grab for his t-shirt and covers himself up, noting with annoyance that Brendan barely looks in his direction, not even appearing to notice that he's getting dressed.
"Maybe he's changed. Maybe you killed his evil brain cells or something." He can hardly believe that he's joking about what Brendan did to Warren, but he realises with a start that this is his life now. An eye for an eye has become normal. His priorities have shifted; Brendan being here, being untouched and unharmed - that's what's replaced his previous moral compass, however frayed it already was.
"Maybe pigs will fly over the fucking moon."
"Alright, don't get angry at me!"
Brendan's leaning against the pillow, arms crossed indignantly, brows furrowed together. Ste feels a swell of affection mixed with irritation, the two combined so often with Brendan that he doesn't always know which one's stronger.
"If you're going to continue to crack jokes -"
"What would you have me do, Brendan? Get scared, never leave my cell? Stay by your side shaking the entire time, letting Warren know that he's already won? I have to do this okay, I have to crack jokes. What else am I supposed to do?"
It's exactly what he didn't want to say, a truth he didn't want to reveal. He's aware of how Brendan's looking at him like he's seeing his fragility, as though he's wearing it openly now. He wanted to appear strong, not someone that Brendan would need to protect, forgetting about his own wellbeing in the process.
When Brendan reaches out a hand Ste knows he should refuse it, shouldn't give into the comfort of it and reaffirm the message that he needs looking after. But it's impossible to refuse. It's warm in the bed, and Brendan's body is warmer. Ste holds onto the last remains of his self righteousness by not so accidentally elbowing Brendan in the ribs, climbing back in beside him and feeling the soft hairs that line Brendan's legs brush against his own.
They're silent for a moment, facing the wall with its cracks and peeled wallpaper and the locked door, a constant reminder that neither one of them are home. Ste shuffles closer, because Brendan's the only thing he's got in here that means anything, means peace and familiarity and the sense that if he did this the rest of his life, him and Brendan, then he'd experience something like happiness, the closest thing he's ever had to it.
"I don't want to argue," he says finally, voice cracking around the edges, giving away how much this is true; if he loses Brendan, then he has nothing to hold onto.
"Me neither." The sincerity of it surprises Ste, had expected that Brendan would reply with more words designed to hurt, accusing him of being the one to start it like they're two boys in a playground. It's not an apology, but he didn't expect that. He's learnt to live with the fact that it's rare for Brendan, that "sorry" comes once in a lifetime, and when it's spoken it should be cherished, that it's admitting a weakness where Brendan only wants to have strengths, a need to be the one who's right and holds that last precious word in a disagreement.
"Don't get mad, right..."
"What?" Brendan says warily, looking torn between fear and suspicion, as though Ste's hatched a master plan behind his back that's royally fucked up.
"I was just thinking..." He's relieved when Brendan allows him to voice his thoughts out loud, no retorts, no: "Thinking? Always a dangerous thing for you." "Maybe we should ask Walker for help."
Brendan tries to look surprised, tries to look disgusted and like the thought has never even crossed his mind, but Ste knows it has, it must of, he's seen Walker and Brendan talking, looking thick as thieves to people who have no idea about their history, the wall that's formed solidly between them ever since Ste walked into their lives.
He waits for the jealousy to form, can see it rearing its ugly head, making Brendan's mouth twitch and suck in a breath. He can already guess the words that'll spill from his lips, something heated and furious, directed at him as though he honestly wants any of this, wants to have to be looked after by two grown men like he needs babysitting, unable to defend himself.
"I'm asking because I think we need it, not because I want to." He fills in the gaps so Brendan doesn't have to, but it's still there on the older man's lips, the desire to question him, to work out his intentions.
Ste lets him voice it, can tell that Brendan needs a release, and right now anger and accusations are his method of choice.
"Missed him, have you?"
Ste struggles not to roll his eyes. He can deal with the possessiveness, a twisted part of him even likes it, likes how it feels as though he's the centre of Brendan's entire universe. But now isn't the time; this isn't about who belongs to who or who wants who.
"I haven't missed him, alright? But you can't be around me all the time. You need to sleep."
"Says who?" Brendan sparks back, but Ste can already see the effects of sleep deprivation, the shadows that have formed under his eyes, countless nights spent imagining Warren's return taking its toll.
"What Walker did was awful." He's not going to deny that for a second, not going to brush aside the past like it's nothing, as though Walker didn't try to come between them by using Seamus to twist the knife in, separating them in the most brutal of ways. "But he's never tried to hurt me, has he? Even when I was alone with him, he never tried..." He stops, sees how this is affecting Brendan, making him ball his fists up tightly and grit his teeth, the composure leeching from him.
"He's the only one who can help." They both know it, both realise that it's not going to be the officers or Ethan or Doug who are going to solve this. It's going to take something more than that, someone who can protect him and who knows how prison works, can get into the mind of a murderer and read their next move like it's their own.
"I'd rather die than ask for his help."
"Bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"I'm just being honest."
Brendan jolts when Ste lays a hand against his thigh, before settling into it, allowing the boy to keep it there. Ste takes it as a good sign, however small it is, that he's not being pushed away.
"What do we do tomorrow, Bren?"
Brendan looks at him in confusion. "What do you mean? Want to go to the cinema, do you?"
Ste takes the bed cover in his hands, twisting it around his fingers. "Don't be daft. Do we just go back to normal, or...I mean, how are we meant to just..." He grapples for the right words to say, needs something like reassurance from the man beside him. "Do we just continue?"
Brendan's quiet when he speaks, but his voice possesses the authority that Ste urgently needs, that makes him feel like he's being anchored to the ground, no longer in danger of his thoughts spiralling, imagining the possible scenarios which are all black and poisonous.
"We go to cooking class, we go to the gym -"
"Er, as nice as it is to watch you all sweaty, I can see you like that in far more entertaining ways. Do I have to go again?"
"Fine," Brendan says, a smirk playing on his lips. "No gym. But we've got to show Warren that we're not going to put our lives on hold just for him."
Ste can't help but think that that's exactly what they're doing, running scared. Even in the privacy of the cell he feels aware of Brendan keeping him close, has to have at least a part of his body touching him, his eyes following every movement. Brendan doesn't believe that they're safe in here, not entirely, and the fear's transferring.
Ste remembers his earlier promise to himself, rising from the bed.
"I need to call Amy."
He's unsurprised when Brendan follows him, looking down at his shirt and suddenly seeming to notice that his buttons are undone.
"When did that happen?" He says, gesturing between his clothing and Ste.
The frustration from earlier rises in him again, and he feels heat flood through him.
"Finally noticed, did you? I was doing some of my best work there."
Brendan scoffs, leaving Ste affronted. "What?" He barks out, watching in disappointment as Brendan's chest disappears under the material, the Irishman concealing far more than Ste would like.
"Your best work?" Brendan asks with a smile, clearly enjoying the boy's suffering.
"Yeah," Ste insists. "I tried to create a mood, and all you could talk about was bloody Warren Fox."
Brendan strides towards him, eyes low and voice even lower, rough and full of intent. "I'll make it up to you later."
Ste swallows, Adam's apple jutting out, inches away from the older man's lips, and he can't not look. But that's not enough today, not nearly enough, and he needs a taste too, pressing his lips against Brendan's and waiting for him to part his mouth, allow his tongue to rub against his, for hot breath to transfer, lighting up his insides.
Ste feels lightheaded, ridiculously so. That could have been his first kiss with the way his heart's hammering, standing up on tip toes to have the best available access. Brendan rests his forehead against his, and Ste can feel the pulse in his neck under his fingertips, stuttering under his touch. Brendan looks like he's regretting his previous actions, hand moving to the front of Ste's trousers, cupping a palm around his groin and making him hard.
"Are you sure you want to go?" Brendan breathes against him, and for one second Ste misunderstands his meaning, imagines for one agonising moment that he's asking him about the bigger picture, about leaving this place, the prison and him, and this is an attempt to ask him to stay. He's about to open his mouth, about to say No, I don't want to go, and I don't have to either, fucking stupid and it doesn't make any sense; he has to go, has to leave this place and live the rest of his life, but the rest of his life means very little without Brendan.
"I need to talk to the kids." Even as he says it he's got his hands on the front of Brendan's shirt, pulling at the material and creasing it, imagining how much better it would look on the floor, allowing him access to the older man's skin. He shakes his head, feels like he's in a dream like state, and Brendan does this to him, makes him want to never leave the room, never reject anything that he can give him.
"Come on," he tuts. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
Brendan follows him out of the door, eyes on Ste's arse when the boy turns to look at him, grinning sheepishly when he catches where his gaze has settled. He raises his eyebrows, a wordless gesture that explains his actions away, did you expect anything else? and fuck he's beautiful, and Ste wants him more than he ever has.
When they reach the phone, Ste begins to dial the numbers and has a moment of panic. He gets it wrong, mixes the numbers up and has to start again. He's worried that he's forgetting, blood rushing to the surface of his skin as his hands begin to grow clammy. He can't forget, can't allow everything that's happening to push out Amy and the kids in his life, the space that they have there.
"You alright?" Brendan asks, a concerned frown on his face as he watches Ste's hesitation.
He remembers it then, feels relief wash through him as he dials the correct number and hears the sound of Amy picking up, the kids playing around her in the background, their voices filtering through. Ste gives Brendan a reassuring smile from beside him, registering the way that the Irishman tries to hover around the phone awkwardly, not wanting to appear to be listening in, but Ste can see that he's never not aware of Warren, thinks that a fifteen minute phone call could give the man a chance to steal him away.
It calms him, hearing Amy's voice at the other end of the line. It's becoming a distant memory, her fury at him for shoplifting, her acidic words in the courtroom, the coldness that had been present during her initial visits.
"How are you?"
"Good." He's surprised when he doesn't have to force it, the realisation hitting him that he is good. He glances at Brendan, isn't under any allusion as to what's causing his happiness in a place where he should feel the opposite.
"Have you gained any weight?"
He rolls his eyes, glad that she can't see. "Since I last saw you? How am I supposed to know?"
"Don't they weigh you in that place? Make sure that you're not about to disappear?"
"It's not really high on their list of priorities, Ames." He thinks of Warren being let out of hospital less than a week after he'd woken from a coma, several of the officers barely trying to conceal their sniggers when the man limps past them, a patchwork of bruises distorting his face.
He doesn't tell Amy about Warren, doesn't think that she'd be able to rest easily that night knowing the most graphic details of what the men do to each other in here. That the man he's sleeping with is the one responsible for his injuries.
"How are you doing?" He needs her reassurance, needs to hear that she's surviving without him. That he hasn't brought shame on her, her life open to ridicule now that the father of her kids has been locked up.
"Fine. Dad came down to visit the other day."
Ste's hands tense around the phone, an involuntarily reaction to whenever Mike's mentioned. He had dreaded Amy's father turning up at his trial, had imagined the smugness of his expression when he'd been sent down, the man being proven correct about him being a failure who would amount to nothing. It isn't that Mike's vindictive, isn't even in the same league as someone like Terry. Ste even thinks that a part of him's right, that he's never been good enough for Amy. But he likes to keep those insecurities hidden as much as possible, likes to believe that one day he can prove to the world that he is.
"Don't get like that."
He wonders if he's just spoken all of that out loud.
"What?"
"I know what you're thinking."
"No, your dad's...decent."
Amy laughs at his lack of sincerity. "You don't have to pretend. At least he's never thrown a brick at your head."
Ste smirks, can't help but still be gratified at the fate that had befallen Josh, one of Amy's ex boyfriends who he could never stand the sight of.
"I'm glad that he was with you." He means it, hates the thought of Amy being alone in the house. There's always something to do with Leah and Lucas: playing with them, bath time, cooking, cleaning, but it doesn't stop the loneliness from seeping through, the emptiness that comes from not having another adult to communicate with.
"I'll have to get used to having another man around the house anyway, won't I?" He can hear the amusement in her voice, making him feel like he's missed a step, that he's on the outside of a private joke that he ought to understand.
"What?"
"You know. After your big announcement," she says coyly.
"Oh." He blushes, eyes travelling to Brendan and seeing whether he's watching. He's staring at him curiously, sharply looking away and pretending to find a spot on the wall fascinating when their eyes lock. "It wasn't exactly an announcement."
"Ste, you told me you're gay."
"Keep your voice down! The kids could hear you."
"So?" She says, laughing. "They're not going to understand. And even if they do, there's nothing wrong with it, is there? By the time they're teenagers they'll be used to seeing men coming in and out of your room."
"Amy!" He scolds her, not knowing what's bothering him more - the fact that Brendan's standing inches away from him, or the fact that it's a plural. Men.
"What are you going to do, take a chastity vow?"
"No, but..." He presses the phone closer to his ear, praying that Amy's voice isn't carrying so that Brendan's catching snippets of their conversation. "Maybe that's not me. You know, being with...more than one." He's trying to make it as ambiguous as possible, but he's aware of Brendan listening in, could put money on the Irishman frantically trying to work out his meaning.
"I'm only kidding! I think it's sweet, you wanting a boyfriend. Wanting to be exclusive."
He could tell her now, tell her how he's already found that person. That he's seeing someone, and they may not be using the term boyfriends, but they're not far behind.
But he's sure that her excitement would turn to horrified indignation the minute that he tells her the details, that it's someone who he met inside, and they're not about to be released within the next decade.
"Aw, are you embarrassed?" She continues, picking up on his silence.
"Shut up." He can feel his cheeks burning up, and he turns to the side, blocking out Brendan. "Can I speak to the kids for a minute?"
"Sure. I'll put you on speakerphone so they can talk to you together."
He waits to hear their voices, nearly letting out a strangled sob when he does. It doesn't matter that he speaks to them almost every day, doesn't matter that Amy brings in new photographs when she visits. He misses them, aches to see them and watch them grow into the adults that they'll one day be. He can envision them jumping up and down in the flat in delight, can hear the movement and the chorus of "daddy" that echos down the line.
"How are you?" He asks, trying to conceal the emotion that's gripping him.
They interrupt each other, and all he can hear is a combination of both their voices, shouting and giggling until Amy restores order.
"You go first, Leah. Tell daddy about school."
Ste listens as his daughter tells him about the praise she's received from her teachers, the gold stars in her workbooks that she looks at at every opportunity. He can feel his smile stretching his face and almost hurting his jaw, but he doesn't care. He'd feared that his absence in their lives would result in problems at school, problems at home, but he should have had more faith in Amy. She's built a solid foundation for them, sheltered them and provided them with the kind of environment that he never grew up in.
Lucas comes on the line next, talking animatedly about judo, about how he goes every week, and Ste's mind wanders to Walker and his assortment of black belts and marital arts moves, and he tries to contain the laughter that threatens to be released. He wants the kids to talk forever, dreads the question that he knows is to come, and it's spoken before he can distract them.
"How's Benidorm daddy?"
He's used to lying, has made it into something of a fine art, but he still feels a pang of guilt as he tells them about taking dips in the pool, stretching out on a sun lounger and eating fry ups for breakfast. Leah and Lucas don't probe further, haven't truly learnt to be suspicious or distrustful yet, and he's able to appease them by promising to come home soon, to never leave them again.
Amy interrupts. "Daddy's very busy, lets get off the phone now -"
'No," he cuts in, trying to make his voice neutral again, to not alert her to the fact that something's amiss. "Let me just speak to them for a little bit longer."
He's not going to let his last words to the kids be about bloody Benidorm, isn't going to end things on a lie. Brendan's presence by his side is a constant reminder to be on his guard, that he needs protection in this place. If something happens during the remainder of his time here, then he needs the kids to remember his parting words as being something important. Something that they can be proud of when he's gone.
"Amy, can you take them off speakerphone for me? I want to talk to Leah." He knows that as the oldest, his message has more of a chance of sinking in. She could remember it in years to come. "Can you hear me darling?"
"Yes." He hears the soft voice of his daughter, imagining her blonde hair and large round eyes, the picture of innocence. He's been thinking about it a lot lately, her youth and her complete trust in those around her. It won't be long before Leah's eight years old. The same age as Brendan was when his life was taken away by his father.
Ste swallows around a lump wedged in his throat.
"You know that I love you a lot, don't you?"
"Yes daddy." She sounds distracted, possibly playing with a toy by her side.
"Have you got Britney there?" It's the name of Leah's favourite doll, the one that she sleeps with, the one that she won't leave the house without.
"Yes."
"I want you to do something for me. Whenever you miss daddy, I want you to give Britney a big hug and a kiss for me, yeah?" He can hear the shake in his voice, despises it because he needs to be strong now. He can't let Leah think of him as crumbling at the seams. "Can you do that for me?"
"Yeah."
"And you know that mummy and Lucas will always be there, don't you? They'll be there for you forever, and they'll love you forever."
He knows his words don't make complete sense to her, don't carry the weight that they should. He's grateful for it, doesn't want Leah to be scared by the intensity, by how it sounds like he's saying goodbye.
"I love you, Leah." He doesn't care how many times he repeats it, could speak it for eternity and it still wouldn't be enough.
"I love you too."
"It's Kevin's choice today."
Ste scowls. Fucking Kevin. He's lucky that he's still in this class, shouldn't even still be standing after everything he's done.
The boy looks smug as hell, standing next to Tony, donned in a flowery apron and wearing his newly fucked hair like a prize. He's adjusted to being Walker's whipping boy, shows the signs openly now. Ste had passed them in the hallway, Walker's hands down Kevin's jogging bottoms as his tongue had delved in his mouth. Ste's face had twisted, and he'd shoved them out of the way of the door to get past.
He's expecting Walker to join them in cookery class next, feeding Kevin cake mix and fucking him on the nearest available surface. He shivers.
"You cold?" Brendan asks, whispering into his ear as Kevin acts like selecting what recipe to use is the hardest choice he's ever had to make. The Irishman starts lifting off his jacket, preparing to offer it to Ste.
"No, don't worry. I just...I mean, look at him." He grimaces over at Kevin, doesn't like the way that Tony's looking at him like he's just found his next gifted pupil.
"He's just a sewer rat, Steven. Ignore him."
"I can't, he's always here. This was meant to be our place." He's being possessive, but he thinks he's earned the right after finding out about what Brendan was planning to do to Kevin all those weeks ago. The memory of it hasn't left his mind, and Brendan knows it. He becomes more openly affectionate when Kevin's around, overcompensating as though trying to prove to Ste that there's only room for one person in his life.
"This was where we properly started talking, wasn't it?" Ste continues, feeling Brendan sigh in defeat beside him, knowing that he's not going to be able to distract him. "Does Kevin even like cooking? He's fucking scrawny, isn't he?"
He pointedly ignores the glance that he sees Brendan give him, a full up and down assessment of his own less than robust body.
"Can't we just get rid of him?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know, just...dispose of him somehow." He barely knows what he's saying, is too consumed by envy. Kevin got to be close to Brendan when he was shut out, when he was alone and in the dark and barely got a glimpse of the Irishman. He'll never forget those weeks, never forget the torment of lying awake at night and replaying Brendan shoving him against the bed, his spine burning, the man's revelation that he'd cheated on him ringing in his ears, however untrue it proved to be.
"Steven, are you asking me to kill him?" Brendan hisses, sounding more outraged than he should for a man whose considered killing for less, who has killed.
"No, of course not," Ste says, although moments ago he was seriously contemplating it. "I just can't stand him."
Brendan faces the front, his eyes burning into Kevin. "You're not the only one."
Ste's surprised, hadn't expected that. "Since when?"
"Since he told me that I could do better than you." His voice sounds thick, heavy with darkness and an edge of warning that sends a chill through Ste's body. Brendan would kill for him, he has no doubt about that. He's never had someone who loves him that much, whose entire life depends on his own safety.
They're interrupted by Tony's announcement of today's dish. Kevin's chosen something predictably boring, something without flavour or spice, and Ste grabs a mixing bowl and imagines that the contents are the boy's head, stirring aggressively. Brendan handles the fish. Tony's gone to the effort of securing some from a market, and the eyes and mouth are still intact. Brendan holds them up to Ste, putting on voices and making the fish's mouth go up and down with his fingers.
"You're disgusting," Ste says, laughing and ducking away when Brendan tries to come closer. If Brendan's aim was to put him in a better mood than it's worked; he feels his earlier grumpiness ease, and he allows himself to feel the way he usually does when he's cooking, concentrating on the task and enjoying the methodical nature of it.
"Have you thought any more about starting your own business?"
Ste hasn't spent much time considering it since their last discussion. It's hard to imagine being hired at his local pizza deliverer with his criminal record, let alone having the money, drive and backing to start something of his own from scratch.
"Not really. It's a bit silly, isn't it?"
"What's silly about it?"
It's difficult to explain without revealing his lack of self belief. He knows that it's not an attractive trait - how is he meant to expect Brendan to want him if he realises how incompetent he feels?
"Steven."
He looks up, meeting Brendan's eyes. There's understanding there. Comprehension.
"One of these days, you have to start believing in yourself."
It takes his breath away. He's only ever heard the opposite, that he's not intelligent enough for school, is too lazy to get a job, is too reckless to be a father. It's like looking into a bright light, blinding to hear someone think that there's something in him worth seeing.
"You ran a club once, didn't you?" Ste asks, vaguely remembering Brendan telling him about his life in Ireland, one of the few things that he's revealed about when he used to be with Eileen and the kids.
"A couple of them, yeah."
"I'd like that," Ste says, only realising just how much truth is in it when the words form. He can picture himself in a club, bathed in the dark lighting and listening as music fills the place, dancing to the beat of it. He didn't used to just go to them to find someone to fuck; he liked the atmosphere, the steady stream of booze and the way you could get lost in the crowd, but still feel like you were part of something.
Brendan smiles, and Ste imagines him remembering the days of his youth, back when he used to stay up till the early hours, running the establishment. It suits him.
"Imagine if I had been your employee." He grins at the thought, picturing the hours spent in Brendan's office, the Irishman watching as he sucked him off under the table. Or trapped in a toilet cubicle, Ste's chest molded against the door, the press of Brendan's cock into his hole making his insides spark and light up.
"I don't think we'd get much work done," Brendan says wryly. "In the next life, maybe."
"It would be good though, wouldn't it? You being my boss."
Brendan looks at him, knowing exactly what he's getting out. The pink and fleshy edge of his tongue is peeking out, barely contained lust in his eyes.
"I thought I already was your boss, Steven."
His cheek earns him a playful shove, but Ste doesn't deny it. Doesn't want to.
"You could help me though, couldn't you? I mean, maybe not straight away obviously, not for a few years, but..." He stutters, becoming entangled in his own words. "But once you get out."
Brendan goes towards the sink, wiping the trace of the fish off his hands, his head bowed. Ste watches his back nervously.
"Out?" It's quiet, questioning.
"Yeah. Maybe one of these appeals...they could work."
Brendan huffs a laugh. "You sound like Cheryl."
"Well maybe she's right." He's grasping at straws here, forgetting - or ignoring - everything that Brendan's previously told him.
When Brendan faces him again his eyes are downcast. Ste's unaware of anyone else in the room.
"They found my DNA all over Seamus. All over the hammer."
"You could say that someone framed you, stitched you up."
It only makes Brendan laugh louder, sounding humourless. "You've been watching too many episodes of CSI."
"I just don't think you should give up. Loads of people must be wrongfully convicted. And maybe if the judge knows what your dad did to you -"
"No." It's unequivocal, no room for argument. "I'm not using what happened to get me off the hook. That would make me as bad as him."
Ste shakes his head disbelievingly, moving closer to Brendan so that no one can hear. Silas is usually only tables down from them, and his nosiness knows no bounds.
"You could never be as bad as him. Never. It's not even a possibility, okay?" He needs any comparisons to stop. It's a dangerous game, when Brendan starts talking about his own actions and Seamus's in the same sentence. He knows how Brendan's mind works, how self punishing it can be.
"Maybe because I have you. Maybe that's all that's stopping me."
"There's too many maybes in that sentence. You could lose me, lose your kids, lose your sister - you still wouldn't be anything like him."
Brendan leans against the table, hand clenched around the side of it. There's no pretense there; he's not even trying to be put on an act. He wears his emotions for Ste to see.
"Don't talk about...about me losing you."
"I was just saying -"
"Don't. Please." His voice is strained, needing Ste to realise how much it hurts. "Before, with Amy..."
Ste puts the spoon he'd been holding down, doesn't think that mixing something to death out of anxiety is going to help him here.
"What were you talking about?"
He considers telling Brendan that it's private, but he doesn't want there to be lies in their relationship. That's why they were parted for all those weeks in the first place - a lack of communication which led to Brendan believing Walker's word over his. He can't let that happen again.
"With Leah, it sounded like...sounded like you were saying goodbye." When Ste doesn't say anything Brendan continues, tentative and unsure. "Were you?"
"Maybe."
"There's too many maybes in that sentence."
"Brendan -"
"There shouldn't be any," Brendan says, cutting in, his tone firm. "Nothing bad's going to happen to you, Steven."
"You thought it too. Earlier, back in your cell. You were crying with it, Bren." He hates to draw attention to Brendan's vulnerability, but he's not the only one whose had to think about loss.
"I was off my head. I wasn't thinking properly."
"Maybe you were. We both know what Warren's capable of."
"Yeah, to his fiancée. To Ethan. Because I...I didn't protect him. I didn't think it concerned me, when of course it did. Of course it did, because it..."
"It happened to you," Ste finishes for him, voice tinged with sadness. Brendan gives a slight nod of his head, more sorrow experienced in a lifetime than Ste can contemplate, doesn't know what to do in the face of so much suffering.
"I'm not going to let him do that to you."
Ste doesn't voice his real fear. They've been over this ground, and every time Brendan brushes his worries away, assures him that it's not going to happen, that what he fears above all else - Brendan being hurt - is an impossibility. Ste had wanted to talk to his kids, to tell them that he loves them, because if things escalate, and Warren hurts Brendan... Ste won't need to be killed himself. The pain of surviving will be that much worse.
"Listen to me." Brendan cradles Ste's face in his hands before he can pull away, the boy struggling because he doesn't want the Irishman to see the doubt in his eyes. "You're going to live a long life, okay? You're going to get out of this place, and you're going to be with those kids of yours, and that girl of yours, and you're going to get your own club, Steven."
Ste's disbelieving, turning his face away to reject Brendan's words. The older man won't let him, forces Ste to look into his eyes, his finger gently tracing his jaw.
"You're going to make the best fucking food that the world's ever tasted. And you're going to be with someone. Whether that's me, or some other guy..."
"There won't be another guy." It's his turn to speak with conviction, won't let Brendan entertain these thoughts. "There never will be."
Ste doesn't like the smile that appears on Brendan's face, doesn't like how it has a mocking edge to it, like he's laughing at his naivety.
"I just want you to be happy."
Ste removes Brendan's hands from him, placing his own around the man's face. It's a face he's come to know better than his own. He knows how the hair of his moustache feels against Ste's finger and upper lip. He knows how Brendan's morning stubble feels against his cheek, around his groin. He knows those eyes, pools of blue which have seen too much, more than they ever should have.
He loves him. He can't remember a time when he didn't.
"How can I be with happy without you?"
Again, that smile which is quick to wipe away his words, as though Brendan thinks that he's a boy who doesn't know his own mind, hasn't lived long enough to know what he wants. But fuck, Ste knows. He knows that he could be with a better man, but they'd never make him feel this alive. He's not blind to Brendan's imperfections, but it's too late; he's in this till the day he dies now.
"You alright gentleman?" Tony's voice reaches them as though from a distance.
Ste had blocked out the other men in the room, hadn't listened to the sound of cutlery scraping and ingredients being chopped, arguments forming over whether to use cheddar or parmesan. He suddenly realises how this most look, how he's stood in the classroom cupping Brendan's face, so close to him that their lips are nearly pressed together. Tony looks uncomfortable, Kevin standing beside him with his arms crossed, not even trying to avert his gaze.
They've attracted something of an audience, Silas's eyes darting their way from where he's standing by the hob. His gaze is judgmental, peppered with disgust. Ste's fingers reach for his flies, because he feels exposed right now, as though Silas's caught him in a state of undress, even though he knows that not a single item of clothing has been removed.
"Sorry. I'll get back to it," Ste mumbles, attention turning back once more to the bowl he was mixing. He has this unwavering need to impress Tony, to make him view him as capable. He feels a sense of satisfaction coursing through him when he leans against the counter, telling Ste about a cooking show he saw the other day, one that he thinks he might enjoy. Kevin's standing behind him, playing with his hands and looking decidedly out of place. It makes Ste feel giddy.
"How's your chopping going, Brendan?"
"You know me, Anthony. I always rise to the challenge."
Brendan moves aside and lets the governor admire his handiwork. Ste can hardly believe that this is the same man who'd been threatening Tony in the not so distant past, eager to see him come to harm in order to get what he wanted. Ste knows this is because of him, knows that Brendan's making an effort because he likes Tony. It makes him believe in this life that they could have together. If Brendan's treating Tony with respect, then he could do the same with Amy, with the kids now that he knows how important they are to him.
The fantasy that Brendan's presented to him doesn't seem so difficult to reach.
Even the sight of Kevin staying behind when Tony's gone to another table doesn't make his temper rise. He concentrates on the warmth of Brendan beside him, eating the food when he doesn't think anyone's looking.
"Can I help you?" Ste asks, aims for politeness but it still comes out sounding like an accusation.
"Just admiring the view." There's the prison gardens behind them, visible out of the window. But Ste can see where Kevin's gaze has settled, directly on Brendan, eyes trailing up and down the Irishman's body. It's the same way that Ste's looked at him in the past, the same way that he continues to look at him, unable to believe that he's able to do whatever he wants to him. He's touched every part of Brendan, fucking gorgeous is what he is, and Kevin doesn't get to have access, doesn't even get to look.
Ste grabs Brendan by the scruff of his shirt collar, the older man letting out a surprised yelp that's soon transferred to the inside of Ste's mouth as he sucks on his bottom lip. He keeps his eyes open at first, wanting to watch Kevin's reaction as the boy's face falls, his previous confidence evaporating. Ste no longer cares that they're surrounded by a dozen men, most of who are homophobes behind closed doors and polite out of obligation to Brendan's face.
He doesn't care that Silas looks positively murderous when Ste deepens the kiss, closing his eyes as Brendan's tongue meets his, his hips colliding with Brendan's, their bodies so close and hot and connected that he could fuck him right here, right now. Ste's growing hard, the frustration from not having Brendan's cock inside him earlier making him so easy, gasping to come, and fuck he'd climb onto the table right now if he could, would lose his clothes and work himself with his own fingers to get loose and ready, his come stretching him open.
Brendan lets him do what he wants with him, lets him kiss him until their dicks are mounds in their trousers, gasping into each others mouths. Ste thinks he knows that he's got a point to prove here, and it may be a childish one but Brendan's his, not anyone else's to take away and claim ownership over. Kevin Foster won't be admiring this particular view ever again, unless he wants Ste's hands around his throat.
When the two men draw apart they fight to get their breaths back, Kevin staring at them with wide eyes, not any fucking different to his normal expression. Anything has the capacity to scare Kevin, but Ste knows he's won this. It feels like a triumph, feels like he wants to get fucked and he lets Brendan know it, lets the Irishman see the outline of his erection straining in his pants.
Silas's gaze is unmoving, and Ste can't not say something.
"Oi, Blissett. You like chess, don't you?" He's seen the older man play it alone in his cell, although Ste doesn't have the first clue how a solitary board game even begins to work.
"Yes." Silas's voice is clipped, cold.
"I think that's what they call checkmate, isn't it?"