Ste feels like a cornered animal, small and defenseless, boxed into the corner of the room. It's eerily familiar, reminding him of instances when he'd been left alone in the house with Terry, and an argument had escalated. He'd somehow manage to offend his step father, would answer back too brashly, would be mouthy and unwilling to back down, and he'd find himself pushed against the wall, the man's breath hot on his face. Terry wasn't a tall man, wasn't muscular or frightening based on first appearances, but when he towered over Ste's cowering form, the boy was sure that he would kill him.
There had been obstacles in Terry's path: the threat of prison, the moment when Pauline would walk through the front door and interrupt them, witnessing the blood streaming down her son's face. She would force herself between them, bearing the brunt of bruises to avoid Terry from rendering Ste unconscious. It made her resent Ste more, made her words grow more poisonous, her drinking worsen until there was no break from it, no time when she didn't seem to be swigging from a vodka bottle, cans of beer littered around the sofa. Ste knew that there was a part of his mother that didn't want him alive, that wanted him to be in the firing line so she could escape, could get some form of relief from it.
But he was alive, would be bruised and bloodied, staying off from school because he couldn't walk for days, lying in bed and clutching his sore ribs, but Terry had never taken that final step.
There are no obstacles now, nothing to stop Warren, and Ste's caught between desperately fighting for his life or surrendering. It's inevitable, the way this is going to end.
Warren's standing at the other end of the room, slouched against the door casually, face smooth and unlined. His calmness is unnerving, the lack of feeling striking terror within Ste; he doesn't know when the man's going to act, when this all going to begin. He still can't make sense of his earlier words, can't comprehend how Brendan is supposed to find them together. Warren must know that they have a limited time here, that someone will begin searching for him, but he's not doing anything. It's as though he's waiting.
"If you're going to kill me, get on with it," Ste says, with more bravery than he feels.
Warren laughs, shaking his head at Ste as if he's made a fatal error. "You're asking me to end your life?"
"That's what you're here for, aren't you? That's why you locked me in here, payed Silas off with..." Ste can't bear to say it, the memory of the older man's reaction to holding Lynsey's ring making him feel nauseous. He wonders if she's next in that sick little mind of Silas's, that he's had her planned as his next victim.
"I told you. We're waiting for a special guest," Warren whispers conspiratorially, full of gleeful excitement.
"Don't bring Brendan into this." His voice is urgent now, moving closer to Warren to stress the importance of his words.
"Brendan's always been in this. Ever since he put me in a coma." His calm exterior has been threatened now; he's gritting his teeth, eyes wide and glassy.
"That wasn't Brendan." He says it like even he believes it, honestly thinks that Warren's misinformed and Brendan didn't do a damn thing.
"Brendan's taught you well, I see. All these mind games, all these lies. Brendan's hated me for a long time. Long before you came here. This was his chance, wasn't it? His chance to finally kill me."
"So all that before, about you and Brendan teaming up, trying to discover who hurt you..."
Warren smirks, cocking his head to the side and surveying Ste. "I can play these games too."
"It was all just to buy you time, wasn't it? Get me alone?"
Warren steps closer to him. His face is still covered in a patchwork of bruises, reds and purples and yellows that show the damage that Brendan inflicted on him, every place where his fists and feet connected with Warren's skin. There's still a slight limp to his movements, and he's feeling the effects of dragging Ste back so forcefully into the room now; he winces when he moves. He can still take Ste effortlessly, can still overpower him. Ste wishes that he hadn't lost weight when Brendan left him, wishes that he at least stood a chance here. His body's betraying him, letting him down when he needs it the most; he's not strong enough.
"He must not care about you very much, to leave you all by yourself. You think after Vinnie he would be more careful."
It's this which is the torture, his words affecting Ste more than bruises could. His voice is defensive, grappling for an explanation for himself as much as Warren.
"No, he...we have to trust each other, don't we? He does care." He's exposing his weakness, Warren's smile only growing as he realises that this has the power to break him.
"Ah, but does he love you?" Warren traps him against one of the shelves, Ste's back digging into the metal as the man's arms settle either side of him, their chests almost pressed together. "Because that's what this is really about, isn't it? Does he love you enough to save you, Ste? Or will he leave you in here to rot, feed you to the wolves? To me." Warren licks his lips, fucking licks them like he's going to make a meal out of Ste, devour him whole.
Ste lets out a whimper, unable to prevent it. He sees no reason to hide his fear; he can't mask it, doesn't have that sense of detachment that Brendan's mastered, easily intimidating everyone and pretending that nothing makes him afraid.
He can't say that Brendan loves him, doesn't have an ounce of certainty that he does. He could lie, but his doubt would seep beneath he cracks, glorifying how the man's never told him, that he's been silent when Ste's spoken those three words, his inability to say them back making Ste's hope dim, the stinging feeling of rejection replacing it. He's tried to sustain himself with false platitudes: Brendan thinks about him, Brendan likes spending time with him, Brendan's talked about their future like it's something alive with possibility.
But it's not the same as love, and Warren senses that, a smile forming in the face of Ste's doubt.
"You see, it's important that Brendan comes here, that he finds us together. But if he doesn't..." Warren's eyes track Ste's body, his movements, the shaking of his hands as he makes a half hearted attempt to push the older, stronger man away. "Then it's quite poetic, don't you think? Your lover finding your dead body here."
"Why do you want him here?" Ste asks with a newfound sense of urgency. Brendan would stop him, Warren must know that, but there's no hint of uncertainty within him. Ste's eyes are constantly travelling to the door of the supply room, desperately trying to will Brendan into appearing by mind control alone, but Warren doesn't glance away from Ste's form, looks like he could stay here forever, has all the time in the fucking world.
"You ask a lot of questions, don't you? Always talking, with that little mouth of yours." Warren has one arm locked against Ste's body, holding him back against the wall and digging into Ste's flesh painfully, while his free hand begins a journey north, fingers brushing over Ste's lips.
The boy flinches, eyes screwed up tightly against the looming dread that this is nothing, that it's baby steps for a man who gets gratification from rape. The pressure of Warren's hand against his lips is harder now, more intense and impossible to ignore, and Ste feels close to releasing a droplet of blood as the older man grasps his lower and upper lips, catching them between his fingers and making Ste let out a gasp of pain.
"What do you do to him, rat boy? What does Brady make you do?"
Ste feels trapped in a nightmare, no release from the onslaught. He remembers his embarrassment at being asked these same questions by Walker and Brendan, what do you like?, but fuck, that was nothing like this, didn't feel like an intrusion, an assault. He tries to clamp his lips together, determined not to answer the man, but Warren's forcing his mouth open, and he's pressing his thigh against Ste's leg, and he's hard through the fabric of his trousers.
Ste wants to scream, feels like he's being engulfed by a black fog which is making him freeze in panic, rendering him unable to even whisper. Warren's everywhere, leaning into him, his hands moving down Ste's body, holding him still when the boy makes a vain attempt to kick him, to struggle free.
When Warren leans forward to kiss him he feels defenseless, hears himself say no, but the voice is unlike his own, sounds blackened with horror and fear, with the certainty of what's about to happen. He doesn't take his eyes off the door, imagines it opening and being released from his captivity, able to breathe again and not have Warren's dick rubbing against his own, his fingernails digging into Ste's shoulder and creating marks.
No one comes. Warren's mouth is crushing against his, and Ste's doing everything he can to fight now, trying to push him away, to hit him and scream for help, but the man's overpowering him, has had complete control ever since he locked him in here. There are warm salty tears running down Ste's face now, rolling into his mouth, transferred to Warren's tongue when the older man kisses him, biting Ste's lip and drawing blood.
The last thing Ste remembers before he loses consciousness is the sound of his own strangled sobs.
Brendan's steps are tentative when he leaves the therapy centre. He feels lightheaded, feels like if he doesn't move slowly then he could fall. He clears his throat, grabbing a paper cup from the water cooler and filling it with the clear liquid, swallowing down three cups before he begins walking to the library.
He can see the receptionist looking at him, knows how strange he must appear, strange for him because he's never like this. She's become accustomed to seeing him taking long confident strides out of Desmond's office, or slamming the door shut behind him. Not this silence, not this nervousness as he sips at the water, wiping his perspiring forehead with the back of his shirt sleeve.
He hadn't known how to react at the end of the session. He'd settled for a rather sheepish nod of his head in Desmond's direction, believing that to attempt a smile would be too much, too mawkish. He had felt it though, had felt the atmosphere change. He'd feared mentioning Seamus's name to anyone, was difficult enough with Steven. To say it out loud felt almost blasphemous, felt like Seamus might rise from the dead in anger and smite him, dragging him to hell for all eternity with him.
The name had settled between them in the room, passing without mention or further questioning from Desmond. He'd expected the man to bring up the court case, to place his conviction between them like an impenetrable wall filled with disgust and blame. He didn't trust the way that Desmond looked at him, couldn't understand how there was empathy there, was almost tempted to remind him of what he'd done to his father, just so that his reaction would be appalled like everyone else's. That was familiar. Safe.
He needs to see Steven, feels an urgency to share this with someone. He doesn't want to gather false hope, doesn't want to be excited about this, about being able to mention Seamus's name and feel something like relief from being honest, from revealing something real, my dad always taught me that it was wrong to be with men. But it's under the surface, a spark of something, something that gives him freedom, however small.
The first thing he notices when he enters the library is the quietness. Silas has always made sure that people only speak in hushed whispers, and has thrown them out when a member of staff isn't looking if they disobey his rules. But it's never been this quiet, this still. He feels his stomach twist uncomfortably, walking past the shelves and looking round corners, trying to find some evidence of life.
"Lynsey?" His voice has an edge to it, sounds desperate and begging. He needs her to be here, needs Steven to be safe beside her. He'd been skeptical when Steven had mentioned a change of location, but the boy had sworn to him that he'd keep within the group's sight at all times.
Brendan suddenly feels that he was incredibly reckless and stupid to place his trust in this. Steven's stubborn, has proven this on more than one occasion. Brendan's calling out his name, voice high pitched, sure that Steven wouldn't have left without waiting for him, knowing that they'd arranged to meet here beforehand.
Is he rebelling, is that it? Is it a test, something to push Brendan's limits and make him go crazy with worry? Anger swells within him; doesn't Steven know how important he is? How the boy's safety is the thing that keeps him up at night, considering murdering Warren and extending his sentence just to ensure that Steven's not harmed?
He doesn't believe that Steven would be that cruel, that he'd make him pace the library's floors, panic increasing when he finds no trace of the boy, no suggestion that he's been here at all.
It's not until he nears the entrance to the library again that he understands what's happened, feels a raining blow land on the back of his head. It makes him double up, makes his eyes water with pain, his chest hitting one of the book shelves, his hands gripping it to stop himself from falling.
"Warren..." It's not a plea; he doesn't expect mercy from this breed of monster. When Brendan crashes to the floor from another punch, his eyes scan the room and search for Steven, to see where Warren's placed him, sure that he's to blame for the boy's absence. He frantically tries to stand up when he sees nothing, to keep his head clear enough to locate the boy. He's scared of losing consciousness, scared of allowing Warren one single second of leeway in order to kill Steven. Brendan can't allow himself to think that it can happen. Steven's not going to die, not today or any other day that Brendan's on this earth.
When Ste opens his eyes, his entire body aches. He feels a pressure on his arms and realises that Warren's bound him with cable ties, the ones that Ste's often seen being used in the prison garden, tying up large bags of weeds. There's dried blood on his t-shirt from where it's spilled from his lip. He's still clothed though, and he doesn't hurt there; he'd woken terrified that Warren had raped him while he'd been unconscious, the memory of the older man's cock rubbing against him still vivid in his mind.
His shirt and tracksuit bottoms feel like the only form of protection that he has, the only part of him which isn't naked and exposed and humiliated. He wishes that his hands were free so that he could wipe his lips. They feel damaged from Warren's touch.
Ste looks around for what Warren used as a weapon to make him lose consciousness. He gasps into the silence of the room, making out Brendan's pale and unmoving form across the floor from him, his head hanging forwards. His hair's coated with a light layer of blood, his wrists raw and red from the ties. Ste's never seen him look so physically defenseless, so at the power of another person. It's not his rightful state: Brendan's not a victim.
"Brendan." He whispers it, terrified that Warren's hiding somewhere in the room, waiting for them to wake. He gets no response, and when he tries to maneuver his legs to lightly push against Brendan's own, the ties securing his feet don't allow him any leverage. Everything's too constricted, the result of a carefully thought out plan. There's no route of escape, and he feels tears smart in his eyes from being held so completely captive.
"Brendan, please. Please, you've got to wake up." He sounds like a child, fearful and alone. Unwelcome thoughts are attacking him. What if he's...what if he's not going to wake up? What if he never...
Ste tries to keep his expression neutral when the door opens. He's not naive enough to think that it's a rescuer. He doesn't know how long he was out cold for, but he can't hear any sound of movement from outside. He's sure that Lynsey and Doug have left, thinking that he's safe back in his cell. It could be hours before the alarm's raised.
Warren quirks his head to the side, watching as sweat pools down Ste's face in the effort to try and release himself from the binds. He doesn't care that he risks making the man do even more damage to him; he needs to get out of here, needs to make sure that Brendan's seen by a nurse, before anything permanent and irreversible is done to him.
"You're not getting out of those things," Warren says, matter of fact.
"Watch me." Ste can hear the sound of the older man's laughter as he struggles, groaning at the attempt to free his trapped hands. He knows Warren's right - the material's sturdy, and Ste's only exhausting himself further by fighting against it. Warren's eyeing him like he's a type of entertainment, something to keep him amused. He's enjoying this.
Warren crouches down, touching a hand to Brendan's hair. When he draws back he's covered in the red, sticky coating of Brendan's blood, and he stares at it in fascination.
Ste looks away.
"Shall we wake him up?" Warren's voice is lowered, as though they're two friends sharing a secret, playing a childhood game that's within the boundaries of right and wrong. This is normality to him.
"Please, it's not too late. You can let us out of here. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
Warren laughs, a sneer to his mouth. "How many times do you think I've heard that one? It's what you all try."
Ste wonders how many others there have been. If Warren makes a habit of this, torture becoming a type of sport.
"She said it too."
Ste has to strain to hear him, and his brain works on overdrive, trying to make sense of Warren's muddled, convoluted speech. His eyes are glazed over, the sheen of blood still on his hands, and he's not talking to him now. He's directing his words into the darkness of the room, letting them float through the air, disappearing into the stillness.
"She held a gun to my head, told me that she was going to kill me. Then I turned the tables on her, and that's when she told me. You can let me go. I won't say a word." He lets out a noise, sounds like something between a laugh and a disbelieving sob. Ste doesn't know whether to keep him talking, whether this is a good thing. He's still alive, still relatively unharmed, but the longer that they stay here the more blood Brendan's losing.
"I mean it. I'll say that Brendan got into an accident. I won't even mention you."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
Ste can't hold it in any longer, feels his anger brimming to the surface. "Well you must be if you're keeping me here."
Warren's eyes are wide, livid.
"Someone's going to find out what you've done. Tony -"
"I could get Tony killed. And Doug, and Ethan, and all your other little friends." Warren grabs holds of him by the scruff of his t-shirt, pulling Ste towards him forcefully. "Your boyfriend," he hisses, and Ste shakes against the feel of Warren's breath on his cheek, nowhere he can escape to.
In one fluid motion he shoves Ste back, his spine hitting against the shelf, a groan of pain emitted from his mouth. Warren's gaze is remorseless.
"Now lets start making things interesting."
He turns towards Brendan, and Ste watches in shock to see what the older man's next move is, Brendan's head still lolling forward onto his chest, his eyes closed. Warren taps his palm against the Irishman's face, trying to rouse him. When there's no response he slaps him, so hard that Ste feels as though the sound is still ringing in his ears minutes later.
"Stop it, you're hurting him!" Ste cries out, distress twisting his voice.
Warren stares at him in bafflement, a hint of amusement there, that's the whole idea.
Brendan's cheek is colouring from the indent of Warren's hand, but he still hasn't stirred. Ste whines low in his throat, please don't leave me, don't leave me here in this world alone.
Warren reaches along the floor and picks up the bottle of water that lies beside him, unscrewing the top then positioning it over Brendan's head, letting the contents wash over him, soaking through his shirt. There's a merest flicker of Brendan's eyes, a momentary movement which makes Warren release a satisfied hum, leaning back on his heels and observing his handiwork and waiting for Brendan to regain full consciousness, for the realisation of his entrapment to overcome him: the cable ties, the fact that he's not alone, that his best attempts to protect Ste have failed.
The knowledge leeches through slowly; Brendan's eyes open, their lids heavy, his forehead creased in apparent pain. He blinks several times as though trying to take in the appearance of the room, the memory of how he came to be here. Any semblance of calm leaves him when he takes in his surroundings, observing the bound spectacle of the boy beside him, and Warren inches away from them both, reveling in the situation that he's so carefully orchestrated.
"Brendan. Nice of you to join us." Warren sounds like he's reading from a pre-planned script, waiting for Brendan to say the appropriate line. Brendan swallows, turning his attention from Warren, scanning Ste's body for injuries, eyes settling over the red marks that have formed on his wrists from his struggle with the ties.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is thick, torn at the edges. Ste shakes his head, trying to hold back the outpouring of emotion which is demanding to be freed.
He thought Brendan was dead.
"You sure?" Brendan questions again, and he looks as though a lie might destroy him, might make him keel over and never be able to get back up.
"Really, I'm fine."
Brendan reluctantly tears his eyes away, and when he looks at Warren his expression is guarded, controlled, authority replacing its previous softness.
"If you hurt him, I'll kill you."
Warren stands up, towering over them both. "Like you tried to do last time, you mean?"
Brendan doesn't break eye contact, his tone measured. "That wasn't me. Whoever put you in the hospital, it had nothing to do with me." His voice doesn't betray anything; no guilt, no hint of doubt.
It incenses Warren, makes him abandon his former composure, hand clenching tightly around one of the shelves, jaw locked.
"You're a very good liar."
"I'm not lying," Brendan answers back immediately. "What's my motive?"
Warren's laugh is high and uncontrolled. He paces the room, wringing his hands as Brendan follows his movements from below. Ste gathers some strength from the display, from how Warren's increasingly crumbling and Brendan's stance is relaxed, the only evidence of his tension being a slight shake of his hands from behind his back.
"You hate me."
Brendan rolls his eyes. "Grow up, Foxy. We're not in a playground. I'm not going to go to the effort of beating you up because I don't like you. You think I'm going to risk getting another ten, fifteen years in this place?"
"Why would you care? You'll be here for the rest of your life, makes no odds."
Brendan flinches, regaining himself a moment later, face impassive once more. He speaks slowly, enunciating every syllable. "It wasn't me."
Ste knows that it's a mistake the moment that the words are out of his lips; Warren releases a shout of fury, charging forward and punching Brendan in the face repeatedly; wild, frenzied blows that land on Brendan's eyes and cheek and mouth, drawing more blood and making Ste cry out, fighting against the ties and crying harder still when he can't break free of them. He's sure that this is it, that he's going to be made to watch while Warren beats Brendan to death in front of him.
His lips part in surprise when Warren's hands still in mid air, their knuckles reddened, bruises already gathering.
He doesn't breathe.
Brendan stares between them, his eyes swollen, and he looks like he desperately wants to keep Warren there beside him, wants to take punch after punch if it means that he's the one in pain, he's the one at the centre of it.
Warren extends a hand, settling it over Ste's face, a single finger stroking down his cheek as Brendan begs and pleads with him, fragile and exposed and desperate, don't, stop, and Ste wonders if he sounded like this when his father was raping him, and it's too much for him to take; there are tears cascading onto his lips and chin, and he can't brush them away.
"Lets see if you're like Ethan," Warren whispers, and he pulls Ste as far as the ties will stretch, making sure that they don't unravel. Ste can hear a scream, but it sounds distant now, as though he can't reach the source. It's strangled, sorrowful, and he blocks his ears against it when it hurts too much.
He feels outside of his body when Warren's weight lands heavily on him, the man straddling him as he unbuckles his jeans, and then there's no material covering Warren, his cock springing free from his underwear, the hard jut of it that Ste had felt earlier. He can still hear that scream, but he's eerily quiet, feels like he's already been stripped of something, his dignity torn from him. If this is going to happen then he doesn't want to feel. He begins to shut himself down, tries to switch off the cogs of his churning mind, silence the thoughts that are making him feel like he's going to suffocate.
Warren's smiling at him, settling his cock over Ste's lips, rubbing it back and forth, back and forth, and the screaming never stops, nor the sound of Brendan struggling to be able to use his hands again. Ste's paralysed with fear, and even if he was able to move, he's sure that he couldn't do a damn thing now. He lies like a corpse on the floor, mouth forced open by Warren's hands, until the tip of Warren's cock is inserted over his fleshy tongue, the taste bitter, the older man trying to force more of himself inside.
Ste gags, spluttering as Warren ignores his discomfort and humiliation, placing his hands on Ste's cheeks and holding them open wider, making Ste take him in. Brendan sounds like a wounded animal beside him, his voice raw and scratched from overuse, and Ste's convinced that someones going to hear and open the door, and fucking hell, someones got to save them, haven't they?
His mouth's full of Warren's cock, and he squeezes his eyes closed to block out the images, but the smell and feel and taste of it can't be erased, can't be ignored. The older man's beginning to rock gently now, hips thrumming, and Ste's defenseless, can only open his mouth wider to accommodate, has no other choice. He tries to bite, tries to draw blood and make Warren stop, but Warren's wise to his game and digs his nails into Ste's shoulder blades every time he attempts it. The pain's searing, and all he can do is remain motionless, Warren thrusting into his mouth.
There's no end to the onslaught, and when Ste chances a glance at Brendan he regrets it acutely; his face is red and blotchy, tears frozen there, his body heaving from his continued attempts to wrangle himself out of his binds. Ste's certain that Warren's not going to stop until he comes and he can hear that the man's close, thinks that his ordeal may soon be at an end.
When did it end?
It never ends.
Suddenly he can breathe again.
Ste's gums feel sore and bruised, and he's still gaping from having Warren inside him, but he closes his mouth hurriedly, daring to believe that something's happened: a noise from outside to startle Warren, an abandonment of his plan.
"What can I do with you now, hmm?" Warren muses, tongue between his teeth, hand moving to keep his cock erect.
Ste's hope dies.
"Kill me." Brendan's voice is the merest whisper. His eyes are black, sunken and hollow.
"What?" Warren asks, and there's amazement there that he doesn't manage to disguise.
"No," Ste says, knows too well how Brendan's mind works, how a martyr exists within him, and he's not going to let him do this.
Brendan ignores him.
"Kill me instead." His voice is full of conviction. "Rape me. Do whatever you want to me. Just don't..." Brendan hesitates, unable to say the word again. "Don't hurt him."
Warren smirks, hand rubbing over his shaft. "That's too easy, for someone like you. Do you think I'm going to let you win? Death's too good for you, Brendan."
He slowly rises, shrugging himself fully out of his jeans, throwing his shirt to the side with them. He's exposed, Brendan and Ste dressed, covered, but there's no bargaining over power; one man has it, and two men don't.
"I'll kill you." There's very little fight left in Brendan's voice. "That little sister of yours. I'll kill her too."
Warren tuts, surveying Brendan like he's something small. "It's all just talk with you, isn't it? Idle threats. How are you going to touch anyone on the outside? You don't have any friends." Warren stares down at Ste. "You won't even have a boyfriend soon. Sorry about that, by the way," he says lightly. "It must be really difficult for you. All these years, all these boys, and you finally, finally find someone you love, and..." Warren shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "I fuck him and kill him. Life's a bitch."
Warren strips off his boxer shorts, standing before them naked now. He turns towards Ste, the boy's jaw still aching from the assault, his body tensed, pulse fluttering like it's trying to tear itself from his body.
"It's nothing personal, rat boy. Okay, so that's a lie," Warren says, laughing to himself. "But in another life, you and me...we could have been friends."
Ste can't hit him, can't kick him, but he gathers saliva in his mouth and spits squarely in Warren's face, hatred and revulsion making it brutal, violent in nature. For a moment Warren seems stunned into silence and inaction, his eyes closed, and Ste jumps in fear when he's abruptly rolled onto his front, his trousers roughly pulled until they're gathered around his ankles, his underwear quickly following until his arse is exposed. He can hear Brendan calling his name, blood rushing in his ears, underneath his skin.
He can feel the large building pressure of Warren's dick pressing against his hole, and he's going to enter him, this is it now, he's going to be raped and he can't even cry anymore, can't make a single sound, and is this what it's like to be dead? Will it make any difference, Warren ending his life when he already feels like this?
He turns to Brendan, needs to see him one more time before everything changes, but he's not Brendan at all anymore; he's gone, and there's only the blank terror of grief in his place, the sheer devastation of it, like the after effects of an earthquake, when nothings been left behind.
A goodbye forms on Ste's lips.
Then there's a sound, like an explosion. A struggle. A fight. Swearing, and groans of pain. Ste's being knocked into, and he's still naked from the waist down.
Then he's being carried.
His body's sprawled like a rag doll's in his rescuer's arms, and his jacket's being draped over him to cover his modesty. The person's arms are warm and strong and secure, and Ste loops his own around their neck, holding on for dear life.
He glances back at the retreating room, and his heart bangs painfully in his chest when he sees Brendan still trapped there, Warren motionless beside him, cheek pressed to the floor.
"Brendan -" He says desperately, hand reaching back into thin air, trying to feel him under his fingertips.
"We'll come back for him."
"No." Ste's the one screaming now, his body thrashing with the need to go back. He can't leave without Brendan.
"We'll make sure you're safe, then -"
"No," he insists again, trying to escape the man's hold and run back. Warren could wake up, and they could be too late. "Get Brendan."
"But -"
"I'm not going anywhere without Brendan. I'll tell them you did this, I'll accuse you of the whole fucking thing if you don't go back. You know that I'll do it. You know that I'm capable. You know."
"You're such a stubborn bastard."
"Please."
The man deliberates, then sighs and doubles back, his footsteps fast, grasping Ste close to his chest. He releases Ste gently onto the floor when they reach the room, taking a pen knife from his pocket as though he's had it here the whole fucking time, using it to effortlessly cut Brendan free. The Irishman collapses forward, nearly crashing to the floor before Ste holds him up, supporting Brendan and stroking his hands down his back, seeking comfort from how very alive he is.
Walker maneuvers his hand in between them, ending their brief display of affection.
"Lets get the fuck out of here."