"Do you think we should stop using condoms?"

Brendan turns to Steven, taking in the sight of the boy's sweat slicked hair, his golden form propped on top of the covers, cooling himself off.

"Where did that come from?"

"I don't know. I was just thinking. It would be nice, wouldn't it? To have nothing between us."

It's not that Brendan hasn't thought about it. Jesus, every time he puts on a condom he has to swallow down his frustration that he's not going bareback, not pushing into Steven's hole without a barrier. But he hasn't been tested for more than a year, and has no idea what Steven's own views on protection are. From what he's told Brendan about his past, his sexual encounters were of the rushed variety; quick fucks in the bathrooms of clubs, combined with months when he'd go back to that girlfriend of his, trying to leave it all behind.

He should have expected this. When they left Tony's class Steven had dragged him back to the cell, Douglas immediately vacating the room like he'd been electrocuted. They'd barely waited for the door to close before they'd been pulling each others clothes off, the memory of the kiss in the classroom still vivid on Brendan's tongue. He'd never done something like that in his life, kissed a man that openly, tongues and teeth and hands in hair like he wanted people to look.

Determination had taken over, determination to make Kevin realise that he can't win this, can't act superior and make Steven think he's a threat. Brendan won't play that game, would have given anything to make Steven jealous when they'd been apart, when he'd flirted with Kevin for the exact purpose of wounding the boy. Now it hurts him, the fact that Steven could think he'd want anyone else. He doesn't want a poor imitation when he has Steven in his bed, the boy a constant thought in his mind; how to make him happy, how to give him the future he deserves, even if Brendan's own is wrecked to hell.

He'd been able to still the panic in him, Steven's hands and mouth providing the distraction that he needed to stop him from reacting to the fact that he was out, had been out for years but it felt more permanent now, something unavoidable, something that everyone knew, that they'd seen with their own eyes instead of being part of playground gossip, spoken in hushed whispers between prisoners.

The boy didn't allow him time to dwell on it, had sunk down onto his knees on the floor of the cell, fisting Brendan's cock while his lips had worked on Brendan's thighs. Steven had bitten down on his skin every time that Brendan's legs buckled from the feel of the damp heat and suction, and the warm hand gripping his dick. His senses were overwrought with pleasure, and Brendan found he didn't want to punish Steven for what he'd done in the classroom.

He leaned back against the door, closing his eyes to calm himself, letting Steven set the pace. It was only when he heard the sound of groans escaping from the boy's mouth that his eyes drifted lazily open; Steven had started jerking himself off, looking close to coming. It didn't take much at his age, least of all when he had Brendan's cock in front of him, thick and erect.

Brendan was about to watch while Steven came in his hand, but his impatience overrode the boy's need for release. He wanted them to come together, and he shrugged Steven's hand off him and carried the boy in his arms until they reached the bed. Steven was feather-light, hands circled around Brendan's neck as though he was hanging on for dear life, would trust him with anything, would let him take him into a burning building and believe that they'd come out the other side still intact.

Brendan laid the boy down gently, all gangly limbs and concave stomach. He didn't wait to sit down beside him before already sucking on two fingers, easing them into Steven and making him gasp, adjusting to the sensation, eyes locking with Brendan's to allow the older man to read every flicker of emotion, of the change in him when Brendan began to rub against his prostrate. Steven had angled Brendan's cock towards him before he'd worked up to another finger, trying to maneuver his own body to be fully seated in Brendan's lap.

The Irishman pushed Steven away, trying to be as gentle as possible but still prevent himself from going into the boy unprotected; he wasn't going to risk hurting Steven. He'd attributed it to the boy being caught in the moment, of allowing his need to connect to overpower his sense of safety.

Now he wonders if it was the making of a plan. If Steven has wanted to have nothing between them for weeks. No clothes, no material, no latex.

"We'd have to get ourselves checked."

Steven frowns. "What do you mean?"

Fuck. Has this boy never heard of an STI before? Brendan nearly snorts at his naivety, but then remembers that Steven's new to all this, was telling people he was straight until a few months ago. He had a girlfriend, was playing the family man. He probably thought rimming was a cooking technique.

"You and these...guys you've been with." Brendan hates the direction of this conversation, feels his stomach coiling with the mention of these other men. "Did you always use a condom?"

Steven looks into the distance, looks like he's trying to remember, and it fucking hurts, hurts how there have been so many others that he can't easily recall them individually. Brendan knows he's being irrational; he has a past. Time was when he'd go out every night, visiting bars and picking up a new boy, not even going to the effort of learning their name. But he privately hopes that every one of these former conquests of Steven's turns up here soon; he'd like to meet them, and then kill them.

"I think so. I never would have put Rae at risk."

Brendan isn't so sure; Steven already went unprotected with Amy, didn't care about being safe back then. He'd been the same with Eileen, until his fear about making her catch something had made him paranoid, overly cautious at times. He couldn't risk the chance of her questioning him, and discovering his secret.

Now there's no one to hide it from, but he's not going to let his own greediness about being inside Steven without a barrier make him become lazy and careless. He's going to get this right, wants to start doing things properly. Steven's his incentive to try.

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Rae?"

Brendan nods, internally wondering what kind of name Rae is. He can't think of anything that it could be lengthened to. It frustrates him.

"Not really. We broke up before I came here, didn't we?"

"So she hasn't been sniffing around?"

"She's not a dog, Brendan."

He rolls his eyes. "Figure of speech, Steven."

The boy doesn't look as though he believes him.

"Amy mentioned her a couple of times. I asked how she was doing."

Brendan hears manic laughter filling the room, takes a moment for him to realise that it's his own. Steven knows how he gets when he's like this, looks less alarmed than he would have been months ago, but there's still wariness there. He's keeping his distance, removing his hand from Brendan's chest.

"Why?" He knows why, knows that Steven's not the type to mercilessly cut someone out of his life, but his rational thinking isn't playing a large role here, jealousy making his understanding lessen. His mind's churning, forming ways of ensuring that Rae remains out of the picture.

"She was my girlfriend," Steven says, slowly and calmly like he's aware that Brendan's not far from erupting. "It can't have been easy on her, me going to prison. Leaving her like that."

Brendan turns to the side, facing the wall opposite and away from Steven, their arms no longer touching.

"Are you just going to go back to her then?"

He can almost visualise Steven's mouth gawping like a fish, silence stretching before them. When the boy speaks his voice is incredulous, and Brendan dares to hope that he's truly never considered it.

"No, why would I?"

"You did that a lot, didn't you? Break up, get back together. That's what you told me."

"Yeah, except back then I hadn't just announced to the mother of my kids that I'm gay. What do you think Amy would say if I started dating girls again, stringing Rae along?"

Brendan knows better than anyone how powerful lies can be, how they can be used as a weapon. He'd insisted to Eileen that he was straight, had run down the stairs after her when she'd caught him balls deep in Macca, protesting his innocence and saying that he was drunk, it was stupid, it was a mistake. He'd seen that flicker of doubt form in her eyes, that momentary belief that maybe, just maybe he was telling the truth.

"Besides, I don't want to be with Rae anymore, do I? I'm with you."

It's tempting, to let the boy's words sink underneath his skin, infiltrating him so much that he begins to believe that it could be real, that there's not a single other person on this earth that Steven could want to be with.

But if Brendan starts trusting that, then it'll make any loss that much harder to bear.

"What does she look like? This girl of yours."

Brendan can feel Steven's hand on him then, fingertips rubbing gently against his knuckles. He remembers when those same knuckles were red and sore from the glass that they'd punched through, and Steven's lips were the only thing that had eased the pain, soft against his skin.

He's trying that now. Trying to coax the pain from him, transferring it somewhere else entirely.

"Look at me, Bren."

Brendan can't resist the pull of his voice. It forces him to nestle in closer, to make that connection again.

"She's not my girl. I don't belong to anyone, except..."

Brendan wants him to say it. Wants to hear Steven telling him that he belongs to him. It's fucked up and it's twisted and he knows that, but the desire's burning within him, its flame bright, resisting any attempt to be watered down by normal conventions that dictate that Brendan's fucking insane for wanting to be this possessive. He's not meant to want to have this much of a claim over Steven. But nothing about this is normal, shouldn't have even fallen for the boy to begin with. It wasn't part of the plan.

He nearly keels over the fucking bed when he hears it, whispered so quietly that it's almost inaudible.

"Except you."

The boy's braver than Brendan is, looks at the Irishman, bold as brass and unashamed, and the fear's fading as fast as Brendan's doubt is growing. Doubt because no one can love him this much. It should be an impossibility.

"I belong to you. Don't I?"

All Brendan can do is hum low in his throat. He's starting to sense that this may not be enough, that Steven needs more from him, more than he's sure he can give. Every time he tells him he loves him, he's faced with silence from Brendan, and his desperate attempt to fill in the space between them, space that his lack of words have created. There's an expectation there now; Steven wants him to say it, the thing that he's never said to another man, that he struggles to articulate to Cheryl, that he found difficult to speak aloud to his own children.

But he wants this. He wants to have something that belongs to him. Someone. Steven.

He puts an arm around the boy, pulling him in closer until he can press his lips against his hair, inhaling the scent of him, the remnants of his shampoo.

"Yes. You belong to me."

He stopped bleeding after the fourth or fifth time, when his body adjusted. Seamus had seen the blood in the bedsheets, had watched it spiralling out of Brendan's hole, unavoidable evidence of the pain he had inflicted on his eight year old son's body.

He was more careful after that. He left fewer bruises, had known that there was the chance that Cheryl's mother would see them, and would stop believing that they were from the usual playground scraps that people were involved in at Brendan's age.

Closing his eyes helped. His father allowed him that if nothing else, didn't force Brendan to look at him when his body was being invaded. He squeezed his eyes so tightly shut that he began seeing stars, and waited for everything to pass. For it to be over, and for him to get off the bed and clean himself off, trying to remove the scent of his father from his skin.

He began to hate everything that Seamus did. The way he ate, as though it were human flesh, Brendan's own, that he was chewing down on. The way he whistled, a chilling edge to it that made Brendan feel as though it was his own death march. The way he touched Cheryl, hands smoothing down her back, Brendan checking for the merest sign that all of this was happening to her too.

Boys weren't meant to hate their daddies. But Brendan was beginning to realise that daddies weren't meant to rape their boys.

He wanted to take the power back. And when he was twenty seven years old, he did. He crushed Seamus's skull into the floor, watching as the blood spiralled out of him, making sure that it was thicker and redder and deeper than it had ever been from his own body.

Seamus was the first man he had ever killed, and Brendan sat down at the kitchen table afterwards in the near darkness, staring at his father's unmoving form, finally feeling something like freedom.

The stance of intimidation is gone. Brendan's abandoned the attempt, and he stares down at the floor in Desmond's office, eyes not meeting the man opposite him.

His mind swims with memories, memories that are always on the surface, never far from being accessed and dwelled upon. It feels like torment, feels like peace evades him at every turn. Especially here. There's something about this room, something that doesn't allow him to forget what he did. It's the knowledge that this is the purpose of this place, to remember, for Desmond to pry into his psyche and extract the most painful of thoughts, trying to make sense of them, to heal him.

It feels like rubbing salt into an already open wound. The fifty minutes are becoming torturous, a long and dragged out expanse of time for him to sit in silence, only opening his mouth to try and challenge the man, to try and find out what makes Desmond tick, and exploit it.

So far he's found nothing. The man hasn't risen to Brendan's attempts to provoke. He's calm as he regards him from his chair, and endlessly patient. He never tries to initiate contact, even if more than twenty minutes have passed without Brendan saying a single word.

Desmond doesn't fear him. He isn't like the other professionals that Brendan's encountered throughout the years, who he's come close to doing some real damage to. They haven't been interested in him, have seen him as one more statistic to add to their list. It's been something of a thrill for them, to be working with the infamous Brendan Brady, his reputation reaching them by the newspapers and words of the officers before they even meet him.

Desmond hasn't mentioned his crime. Every session Brendan can see the cross tucked underneath the man's shirt, but he's never drawn attention to the Irishman's sexuality. He's never judged or stared at him as though he's an abomination, something disgusting and abnormal. He'd barely blinked when Brendan had told him about Steven.

Brendan doesn't like the ease of the man. Doesn't like how normal he's being. They're walking on unfamiliar ground here, forming something close to a relationship, something based on trust.

It makes him feel sick, makes bile rise to his throat, the taste on his tongue. He's entertained ideas of possible ways to destroy this, of wrecking any chance he has to work alongside Desmond. He's imagined attacking the man, beating him up so badly that he has to leave the prison for months to recover. Brendan's come close, rising from his seat five minutes into the session with the full intent of brandishing his fists, only to sit down again, plan dissolving under the knowledge that he can't.

Brendan looks around the room to try and distract himself, looking for anything personal, anything that tells him about the kind of man that Desmond is. He searches for photographs of children, of one tucked away in the corner of his wife. But the room is bare aside from the furniture, the bed still a looming presence that makes Brendan's anxiety grow. He doesn't want it in the room.

"Have you got children?"

He knows what the answer will be before the words have fully formed.

"I'm not here to talk about my personal life, Brendan."

"So you can know everything about me, but I can't find out a single thing about you?"

He's being irrational. He understands, knows that there's a risk of telling his clients anything private. A man like Warren would track Desmond's family down within a matter of days if he was given that kind of sensitive information.

Desmond remains silent, and Brendan fidgets in his chair, trying to remain mute. His resolve is crumbling though, been far too long since he allowed himself to truly think about his own children.

"I've got two boys. Declan and Padraig."

He doesn't know why he's being specific; Desmond must already know all of this.

"I haven't seen them in years." It scares him, how unaffected he sounds by it, not a single shake to his voice. These are his kids, and he's missed the milestones, missed the chance of watching them grow up. He'd been witness to Steven's phone call with Leah and Lucas, had heard how much it had choked up the boy, how he'd been on the edge of tears afterwards.

He used to relish it, feeling dead inside. It's beginning to terrify him now.

"I want to see them."

He wants to take it back, wants to reach out into the air and grab the words and erase them, hates how true it is, something he hasn't admitted for a long time. He's shut them out, has denied all of their pleas to visit. He's made Eileen scream at him down the phone for what he's done to Declan, for being blunt and cold, verging on cruel with his desperation to make his son let him go, to realise that he's better off without Brendan infringing on his life, dragging him down into the depths of degradation with him.

"You can arrange a visit."

Brendan snorts. "I know that." Like it's that simple, like a maths equation that has a perfectly neat answer, wrapped in a fucking bow. "If you had kids, or if you do...would you want them near a murderer?"

Silence, again. Brendan feels like kicking his chair, would do it if it didn't seem so childish.

"My ex probably wouldn't let me anyway. If she's smart, she'll keep them as far away from me as possible. And you're thinking it too, aren't you? That I'm dangerous, that I'm a psychopath?"

He doesn't expect a reply, feels shock spike through him when Desmond's voice fills the room, firm and with more warmth that Brendan deserves.

"I don't think you're a psychopath."

"No?"

"No. You care about things, Brendan."

He can't talk, can't do anything but drink in the man's words. He wants to believe him, wants to believe that he's not a monster. That there's still something human about him.

"You care about your children. You care about Steven. You've mentioned your sister as well - Cheryl?"

Brendan's surprised that he's remembered, has only spoken her name once or twice. Desmond doesn't write anything down in the room with him, doesn't have any notes. Everything's consigned to memory.

"Yeah. Chez. She's...we're...close."

"So you have people in your life that you love."

"Yeah, but..." But he can't count on that. He can't let himself believe that they're a permanent fixture. That Cheryl and Steven won't suddenly realise that he's bound to break them eventually, that it's what he always does.

"But what?"

"I can't tell Steven that I...you know." He doesn't think Desmond will pick up on his meaning, thinks his ears are deceiving him when the man's voice rings out, compassion lacing it.

"That you love him?"

Brendan nods. It's easier, not speaking the words out loud.

"I couldn't when he told me, and...I still can't."

"Because you don't feel it?"

Brendan makes half moon marks on his palm with his fingernails. It takes the edge off the pain.

"Because I can't ask him to wait for me. I can't let him think that we have a future. I can't let him think that he deserves to be with someone like me, that he shouldn't be with a man who can give him more than I can. And...because a part of me still believes that it's wrong."

Rejection begins to seep into him when Desmond doesn't speak; rejection for his words, for what he's just revealed, and the courage it took to be honest.

Desmond's voice is quiet when he begins to talk. It's as though he's working this out at the same pace that Brendan is, trying to piece together the past and the present. It's what makes this entire process so dangerous; Brendan can't let him find out anything too close to the truth.

But he can't stop talking. It's been locked up inside him for so long, too long, and it's tumbling out now, begging to be released.

"My dad...he always taught me that it was wrong...being with...men."

It's the first time that he's ever mentioned Seamus in this room. He doesn't say anything for the rest of the session.

"Thanks for letting me tag along again," Ste says awkwardly.

He's carrying a load of Lynsey's textbooks, thinks it's the least that he can do when this is the second time that he's gatecrashed her English lesson. It's been uncomfortable, trying to explain to both her and the other men why he's suddenly joined them in class again, despite being kicked out months ago. He knows it would have been impossible if it wasn't for Brendan taking Lynsey aside, lowering his voice, coaxing and persuading her, "This is important, Lyns. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."

"It's fine. Just don't make this into a regular thing, yeah? You know I don't mind, but it's all rules and regulations, behind the scenes politics - if Tony finds out..."

"Don't worry about him. All I have to do is make him a souffle and he'll be happy."

Lynsey smiles, something like pride washing over her. "He won't stop talking about you. Reckons you're a chef in the making."

Ste nearly drops the books he's holding, still doesn't know what to do with compliments, and hopes that he hasn't turned a shade of maroon.

"He's just getting carried away, isn't he?" But fuck, he hopes he isn't. Hopes that in some alternate universe, maybe even this one, it could be true.

"Stop being modest," Doug scolds, upper half hidden behind a stack of paper that he's carrying, biros balancing on the top. He's standing next to Ste, seems half scared that if he even touches Lynsey's arm by mistake then someone will begin to suspect something. Ste feels somewhat of a gooseberry, isn't ignorant to the furtive glances that are being exchanged over his shoulder, sickeningly sweet smiles.

They're doing a terrible job of being subtle, Doug's release date making them grow slack, restless to make this thing public. Ste's forever grateful that he didn't walk in on them completely naked when he first discovered them, thinks that the image of his friend and former teacher together might have scarred him for life.

"Are we nearly there?"

"Don't you know where the library is?" Doug asks, almost falling over the stairs, looking away from Lynsey before he ends up surrounded by a sea of paper and pens on the floor.

"I've only been there once. I don't exactly read much, do I? Not like Brendan. All those classics..."

"Am I the only one who finds the image of Brendan reading Romeo and Juliet hilarious?"

"Play nice," Ste warns, doesn't want to spend an afternoon having to defend their relationship again. He's started to realise that it's something that no one else truly understands, viewing it in black and white where he sees colour, sees the many reasons why walking away from Brendan would be the biggest regret of his life.

When they enter the library Lynsey begins to get them settled, gathering them all around a table, handing out textbooks and starting the lesson. Ste had suggested a change of scene, hadn't wanted a repeat of last time, Brendan charging into the classroom and interrupting everyone, all the men observing them and watching as Brendan had searched for him desperately, on the verge of mania. At least here it's a larger space, and they can go somewhere private, away from prying eyes.

The table's too cramped for all of them, and Ste volunteers to busy himself elsewhere, searching the shelves and pretending that he recognises the titles, that he understands the different genres. He keeps within Lynsey's eye line, knowing that it's a condition of Brendan going to therapy; they made an agreement, that he stays somewhere safe in exchange for Brendan seeking help. He's not about to break that, knows how difficult it must be for Brendan to even contemplate leaving him.

He walks towards the section that holds the most interest to him, its connection to Brendan making him put aside his hesitancy about his own right to be here, to ignore the words of Pauline who had told him that he was too stupid to even pick up a book. He remembers his foolish attempt to impress Brendan, borrowing Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde to try and find some common ground, some way of making Brendan think that he has substance, isn't as feckless as Ste believes he is.

His hands move over the spines, over Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, Frankenstein and Pride and Prejudice. The words inside are intimidating, some of which Ste's never heard before, and he swallows down his feelings of unease, trying to remind himself that Brendan doesn't give a fuck about his intellectual capabilities. He's not Pauline, and he's not Terry, and he's not his teachers. He's not going to judge him.

He only half believes it. It's not Brendan making him doubt himself, and it makes it worse; it's himself, and his own lack of confidence that can't be solved by someone else's praise.

"What are you doing here?"

A book falls to the fall, Dracula, and Ste lets it stay there, doesn't want to give the man the chance to make him feel small, vulnerable.

The same day that Ste borrowed Jekyll and Hyde, Brendan also warned him about staying away from Silas Blissett. He hasn't managed that feat, and he realises with trepidation how closed off from the English class he's become, straying to the other side of the library. He glances around to try and locate them, but all he can hear is the twang of Doug's American accent from a distance.

Silas bends down to pick up the book, never taking his eyes off Ste. Ste registers his features, takes in the greying hair and the glasses, the tweed jacket and the un-ironed trousers, the loafer shoes.

This man shouldn't have the ability to scare him. Ste can barely believe that he's responsible for the murders of multiple woman, strangling them and stealing their jewellery, the details splashed across the newspapers for the world to see. He was branded sick, twisted, remorseless, and it doesn't go with the image of the unassuming man standing before Ste, someone's grandfather. The most aggressive thing that he's seen Silas do is knock the chess pieces off his playing board.

"Looks at bit like Brendan, doesn't he?" Silas points to the book, the picture of a vampire's face adorning the front cover, a droplet of blood escaping from his mouth.

Ste doesn't laugh.

"Do you want something?"

"I'm just making sure that you don't steal anything."

Ste raises his eyebrows, irritation replacing his fear. "And why would I do that?"

Silas smiles at him knowingly, expression cold, never any warmth overriding it. "You have form."

"That was for my kids. I'm not going to rob your poxy library books, am I?"

Silas ignores the slight, placing the book back on the shelf. "What are you doing here? I thought you were kicked out of the class."

Ste looks away in humiliation, hating how nothing's hidden in this place, least of all from a man like Silas.

"It's none of your business," he says, with as much authority as he can muster.

"I work here, Steven."

Ste freezes, unable to look away from the man. "Don't call me that. Only Brendan calls me that."

He doesn't miss the smile that fleetingly appears on Silas's face. It looks like triumph, and Ste curses himself as he realises that he's just given into it, has added fuel to the fire, delivering to the man what he wants.

"I hear you, you know. At night. I hear you."

A chill runs through him. He glances around, wetting his lips to try and stop the dryness that's forming in his mouth. There's no one here, no one in the immediate vicinity. He wants to run back to the class, wants to find Lynsey and be surrounded by the security that she offers him, the safety that a member of staff can bring. But he doesn't want to see the smug look of satisfaction on Silas's face, the knowledge that he thinks he's a coward.

"What do you mean?" He doesn't know why he's whispering now, why he's dreading the answer so intensely.

"You know what I mean."

Ste rests a hand against the shelf next to him, needing something to steady him. Silas's cell isn't even next to his or Brendan's, but something about his tone of voice makes Ste believe him, makes him believe that he's heard everything.

"That's..." He wants to say sick, but something stops him. Fear. Silas moves closer towards him, real, raw hatred in his eyes.

"You remind me of that slut Lynsey." He's so close that Ste could count his eyelashes. "Always wanting more, always taking. Greedy. Fucking that American jailbird lover of hers."

"They're not -" Ste begins, fruitlessly trying to deny it.

"Don't lie to me. Everyone knows. Just like everyone knows that Brady's screwing you. Do you enjoy being a whore, Steven?" Silas forces him to step backwards, moving in his space so much that Ste has no other choice. "Do you enjoy being another one Brendan's used and abused toys? Do you like it when he makes you scream?"

Ste's moving backwards at a rapid pace now, almost breaking out into a run. Fucking hell, where is Lynsey? Why can't he find the exit?

"People like you disgust me."

And Ste feels it, feels disgusting in that moment, as though Silas is all over him, crawling under his skin and he can't get him out. He wants Brendan here, needs Brendan to make this stop. He's tripping over himself with nervousness now, Silas looking at him as though it's entirely possible that he'll do this, that he'll kill him without a moment's doubt or guilt.

He tries to get back to the group, opens his mouth to start calling for help, pride be damned, but there's a hand over him then, arms dragging him backwards and away from Silas, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or more afraid.

The moment he's led into the room, he realies that it's a trap, that he was meant to run, meant to walk straight into it. It's a supply cupboard stocked full of books, large enough to fit all three men.

Ste doesn't have to turn around to know whose got his hand over his mouth, constricting his air passage. He can feel the bulk of the stranger, his hot breath on Ste's ear, the excitement coursing through him at winning his long awaited prize.

The door shuts behind them, and it's louder than it ever was when Ste first came to prison, louder than the door which meant freedom or captivity. He doesn't know how it doesn't alert everyone in the building, waits for someone to start banging on the wood, demanding to be let in, to save him.

He realises he's not waiting for someone. He's waiting for Brendan.

Warren releases him, shoving Ste away from him roughly, the boy slamming against the wall. He narrowly avoids falling into it face on, turning his head on instinct at the last moment to escape injury. He watches as Warren composes himself, brushing his clothes down. His eyes are bright, his face flushed, and Ste knows now that he's been building up to this, that he's been waiting for this moment.

Warren digs into his pocket, and it's with confusion that Ste watches him bring out a ring, its silver glinting in the darkness of the room.

His dread only grows when he realises that it's Lynsey's, that it's a reward. Silas is reaching for it like he's Gollum, grabbing into the air when Warren teases him and holds it out of reach, laughing at the man's urgency.

"Give it to me!"

There's anger there now, boiling to the surface, and Ste sees it, catches a glimpse of what Silas is like when he drains the life from his victims.

Warren plays with him for a moment longer, his laughter high and mocking. It's only when Silas slams him against the door, hands around Warren's throat that he relinquishes; Silas may lack the youth and strength of Warren, but his grip is firm.

Warren hands him the ring, and Silas stares at it as though he's never seen something so beautiful.

"Leave us alone now, won't you?" Warren instructs, lips parted as he stares at Ste. "I want to have some...private time with young Steven here."

Silas barely seems to register the direction, just wanders aimlessly from the room, his full attention on the ring, fingers stroking over it before the door closes behind him.

The silence of the room is heavy, and it makes Ste's anticipation rise. He doesn't know whether to start screaming, whether he'll even be heard. He's wary of provoking Warren further, of making him decide to skip the intimidation and end his life abruptly. It's real for the first time, no longer a distant threat. He knows Warren will kill him.

"Brendan's going to find me..." His voice is shaking, giving away how little belief he has in his own words. Brendan will still be with Des, and he might not come and look for him afterwards, might think that he's safe with Lynsey. It could be hours before Brendan finds his lifeless body.

"I'm counting on it."

"What?"

"I want Brendan to come and find us, Steven. We wouldn't want him to miss the show now, would we?"