Brendan hears a frantic, persistent knock on the door the next morning, and his actions are immediate. He slings his sleep deprived body out of bed, quickly throwing on a t-shirt and rubbing his eyes when he anticipates who wants to speak to him at such an early hour, before the regular dose of caffeine at breakfast has awakened their frazzled minds. He imagines Steven standing before him, face lined with worry, something having happened in the night - another opportunity to help him, to save him, that Brendan's so cruelly missed again.
"Oh." He grunts, regretting the decision to leave the security and comparative warmth of his bed. "Didn't exactly expect to see you here."
Douglas hasn't even changed into his normal clothing. He's in his pajamas, striped and loose bottoms and overflowing top, looking like he's drowning within the material. He glances down at them, as though only just realising how he appears.
"You here to see your boy?" Brendan asks, gesturing over his shoulder to where Ethan lies. He'd finally fallen asleep at around four o'clock, tossing and turning until exhaustion had overtaken him. Brendan had considered starting a conversation, initiating contact, but the words had got stuck in his throat, lodged and too difficult to articulate. He wants to tell Ethan that he understands, that he knows the panic and the dread that are descending over him. But the boy will start asking questions, will be confused and curious, and Brendan can't risk him finding out, looking at him differently. It had been easier to pretend that he was asleep.
Douglas doesn't follow Brendan's gaze.
"Actually, I want to talk to you. Can we go somewhere before breakfast?"
"Where's Steven?"
"With Walker."
Brendan leans his hand against the door, fingers drumming into the wood. It's pleasure and pain: he's relieved that Steven has someone else watching over him now, someone strong and capable. But Brendan hates the fact that it's not him, that it's the person who he promised he would keep Steven away from.
He swallows down his bitterness, forcing himself to focus.
"You sure he's safe?"
Douglas nods, and Brendan sees no deceit there. The boy's many things, but he's not vindictive with his friends. He's loyal for life, and that's what has Brendan worried. He can't see Douglas ever loosening his hold on Steven.
"Give me a second," he mutters, closing the door and quickly getting dressed. He highly doubts that he can keep his reputation intact if the other men see him parading around the prison in his boxer shorts.
He feels better when he's in his standard uniform, his suit making Douglas appear even more boyish and fragile in comparison. The American keeps a noticeable distance between them, his arms close to his body, wrapped around himself. Brendan makes an effort to draw himself up to full height, Douglas trailing behind him.
They go into the games room, quiet at this time of morning, and take up the available seats by the pool table, the sound of the men playing drowning out their already hushed voices. Brendan waits for Douglas to speak; he senses a lecture of sorts coming on.
"I'm worried about Ste."
Brendan turns to him, attention no longer half hearted, all his senses tuning in.
"Has something happened?" His words spill out in a rush. Logically he knows that nothing catastrophic has happened over night - Douglas would have told him straight away, or risk being Brendan's new punching bag. But his brain isn't currently running on logic, or the realistic outcome. His mind's alive with concern.
"He told me what Warren did to him. The..." The boy stops, and Brendan registers the quivering of his lower lip. Douglas has always been nervous in his presence, but he's also been defiant; there's none of that now. He's scared.
"What?" Brendan presses, because he senses for once in his life that not knowing may be worse than knowing.
"He told me that he gave Warren a blow job."
It's not discomfort, Brendan realises. It's not the fact that he's talking about the act, not squeamishness on Douglas's part; it's the act itself. The brutality and the force that Warren used, which Douglas is aware of without having to have been in the room with them. Brendan feels a strange sense of solidarity, the fact that this boy, this boy who he's never liked, cares for Steven so much. It's another double edged sword; he doesn't want him to care, but he couldn't bear it if he didn't.
"Right," Brendan says, doesn't know what else to say, Douglas's words opening up the locked memories which he'd promised he wouldn't dwell on, but which had kept him awake the entire night. Steven's lips are soft when kissing, and sulky when arguing, and responsive under his touch. They'd transformed into something else entirely when wrapped around Warren; they'd become instruments of the boy's own torture.
Brendan remembers that; looking at his own body and suddenly seeing it for the first time. The small jut of his Adam's apple, still not fully formed in its pre pubescent state. His arms, scrawny at that age, yet to be honed by regular trips to the gym. His legs, which were never capable enough of kicking his father away, of fending him off. He began to stop trying. He tried to look for what made him the one who'd been selected, why this was happening to him and not to Pete, not to Malachy or Francis or any of the other boys in school. He stared at himself for hours in the mirror, but he couldn't find anything.
He wonders if Steven's done the same. If he thinks about what he did to deserve coming to a place so devoid of hope, and meeting a man whose brought him nothing but chaos. Steven got sent here for something petty, stole a couple of things, made a few mistakes - he didn't ask for this. Didn't ask to share a cell with someone who's selfish, who couldn't resist seeing what he tasted like, what he felt like, couldn't stop himself from going that much further; kissing the boy, exploring him, licking along every inch, every morsel of skin, burying himself so deeply inside him that the voices in Brendan's head - the voices that tell him that he's his father's son, that he's made of the same depravity and inherent wrongness - those voices, they were subdued. Beaten down by the way that Steven makes him feel, miraculous and terrifying to the core.
"I can't...I can't talk about this."
He can see the surprise on Douglas's face, the alarm at the realisation that Brendan's losing his usual detachment so spectacularly. It's clawing away from him, his grip on who he is, who he's always been.
"I'm sorry."
Brendan's even more alarmed: an apology, from Douglas. He'd rather his contempt.
"I'm really worried about him. That's the only reason I'm...I wouldn't be talking about this - I wouldn't be reminding you if I didn't -"
"Why are you worried about him?" Brendan doesn't care about Douglas's reasons for being here - he can only think about Steven alone with Walker, needing him and wondering why he's not there, why he hasn't got the guts to be in the same room with him.
"He seems...fine."
Brendan frowns. "Fine? You're worried about Steven, because he seems fine?" He says it slowly, willing the boy to understand how his words don't match up, how none of this makes any sense.
"He talked about what happened like...like he doesn't care at all. Like it doesn't faze him. He's like a robot about the whole thing - I think he's in shock."
Brendan wants to ask what's so wrong about that - part of him thinks that numbness is better than pain. He doesn't want Steven to go through that.
"Maybe he's really okay."
"After what he went through back there?" Douglas asks skeptically. "Would you be okay, if it was you? You saw the way Ethan was when he first came here. He wasn't behaving like Ste."
"Everyone's different, Douglas. He doesn't have to have the same reaction."
The boy sighs, and Brendan knows he's not making this easy on him; nothing is ever easy with them. But there's persistence there, determination in his eyes, and Brendan doesn't think the concern's for noting. He considers the possibility that Steven's detached from what happened yesterday, and it scares him, the mere reality of it beginning to seep into his mind. The way the boy displays his emotions so openly is something that Brendan had recoiled from initially, but it's comforting now; when Steven tells him he loves him, he tries to believe that one day he might deserve it.
"Are you sure you don't want to tell Tony? Ste gets on well with him."
"We're not going to the authorities," Brendan insists harshly. It's not Tony's reaction that he's worried about - he's sure that he'd try to protect Steven, and make sure that Warren gets sent down for a lengthly sentence. It's everyone else he doesn't trust, everyone who gets to make the final call.
"I'm going to sort this out myself."
He can tell that Douglas knows the method he uses to sort things out; the American's face is clouded with disapproval and the desire to get him to change his mind.
Brendan stands up before he can speak, signalling the end of the conversation. Douglas reluctantly mirrors him.
"Don't tell Ste I talked to you about this. You know how he gets. I don't think he'd appreciate being talked about behind his back."
Brendan nods; he'd never considered bringing up their meeting. The fact that he's managed to have a relatively civil conversation with Douglas isn't something he particularly wants shared.
"You talking to me about this. That's..." Brendan looks up at the ceiling, muttering and barely audible at times as Douglas stares at him curiously. "Doing that for Steven..."
"Is this your long assed way of saying thank you?"
Brendan grunts in acknowledgement, and the boy laughs.
"It's two words, Brendan. It's not that hard to say. And neither is three."
Brendan frowns. "Sorry Douglas, but I don't love you."
The American gives him a look: you're unbelievable.
"I hope you deserve him."
Brendan nods. "I don't, but I'm going to try to."
The honesty of his admission startles Douglas; he looks at Brendan as though he's just sprouted wings; black, tarred ones albeit, but wings nonetheless.
Who are you, and what have you done with Brendan Brady?
"One more thing," Douglas says, just when Brendan thinks the coast is clear, that this strange state of amicability is over.
"I knew there was a catch," Brendan says, sticking a piece of gum in his mouth, chewing roughly.
"No catch. Just a question."
"Shoot."
"Do you think Warren will hurt Ethan?"
Brendan doesn't answer straight away. He knows that his reply carries weight, that Douglas isn't ready to hear the deliverance of more bad news. Brendan sometimes doubts that the boy could have sold drugs to the girl he's done time for; there's none of that carelessness about him, no spark of danger or recklessness. When Steven first moved into Douglas's cell, Brendan knew that he could trust him, that Douglas would be the one to convince the boy to go to bed at a decent hour, that he would have attempted to prize the moonshine from Steven's grip.
But Douglas also knows when people are lying, and he doesn't take kindly to that.
"Yes."
The boy's face falls instantly.
"But I'm not going to let that happen."
He doesn't add it for Douglas's sake. He's not going to watch Ethan succumb to that brand of torture. Once he was just a prisoner, someone who Brendan could be distanced from, an ex copper, but now he's part of this - he's a person, and Brendan can't be the monster who doesn't listen to his cry for help, who lets the abuse continue.
"I swear to you." Brendan steps closer towards him, letting Douglas know how serious he is, letting him read it in his face. "I'm not going to let Warren ever hurt him again."
A smile flickers across Douglas's face: gratitude. He shines with it.
"Thank you."
"Do you want me to make you wet?"
Ste's eyebrows raise.
"You what?"
Walker grins, then points to the treadmill that he's currently running on.
"See," he says, now gesturing to his vest, damp with sweat. "Wet."
Ste curses under his breath. Walker's never been the most ingenious seducer, but this is low, even for him. Ste finds himself oddly relieved by the distraction though; it's nice, laughing again, even if it is in derision. He'd begun to forget what it felt like, to have his jaw anything but tightly locked, the tension in it making him physically ache.
They've been in the gym together for over half an hour. Ste had been surprised when Walker had suggested a change of location - he'd been sure that the man would try to convince him to stay in his cell, using the opportunity to bring up that God awful contract. They're surrounded by other prisoners here, and Walker can't try anything. But that doesn't mean that the constant innuendos have lessened.
"Leave it out."
"Aren't you at least a tiny bit tempted?" Walker asks, a quirk to his lips.
"To be with you?" No, not really."
The man laughs, the sound translating like a hum in his throat. "Not really is good enough for me."
"I was trying to be polite."
Walker increases the speed of the machine, starting to pant as his movements grow from relaxed to punishing, his brow creasing as his body colours from the exertion.
"If you want to talk, Ste - about what happened -"
"I don't." He's startled that Walker would bring it up - he'd relied on him not to have the sentimental nature that Doug possesses. He doesn't want to talk.
"Haven't you got any...you know..." Ste glances around, paranoid. It would be just like this place to not have a single camera around when he needs them, but to catch him now, when he wants this to be secretive, something that's just his. No one else involved, ruining it for him. He's sure that the cameras don't come with audio, and that no one will be able to hear him, but the chance that they can has him gesturing instead of speaking; it's like a game of charades, and he waits for Walker to determine his meaning.
The older man decreases the speed of the machine once more, and Ste doesn't like the way that he looks at him: he can see something like judgement there, mixed with concern, and Ste resents them both.
"You want moonshine?" He doesn't say it with the playfulness that he used the last time that Ste made this request, and Ste hates that he's making this difficult, that these questions need to be asked. That was the beauty of Walker. He didn't have morals, and Ste wants to tell him that this new version of him isn't working out for any of them.
"Can you get me some?" He tries to be commanding, but already senses that he's fighting a losing battle. He can't compete with the big boys.
"It's pretty nasty stuff. You never know what's in there."
Ste merely stares at him, entirely uninterested in this information. He doesn't want facts, doesn't want to be warned. He remembers the calm that had briefly overcome him when he'd been drunk on the cloudy liquid, tipping the contents down his mouth and registering the feeling of warmth that had replaced the hollow numbness, the pain wanting to fight its way out. He wants to feel like that again.
"I've got money, if that's what's worrying you." It's not much, but since he returned to cookery class he's saved enough to gain the odd privilege in here, and he can't think of a better way to spend it than in the art of forgetting.
"That's not what's worrying me. It's you."
"What?" Ste asks, feeling like his head's a muddled mess that's beyond repair, out of reach of it.
"I'm worried about you."
He waits for Walker to laugh, for there to be a sign that this is an attempt at a joke, but it doesn't come, and the panic begins to gnaw its way through, past the barriers. He'd seen the way Doug and Ethan had started at him, as if he's something fragile, breakable. Walker's another person to add to the list, and it's destroying Ste's belief that everything's under control, that he can make it so. Three against one, and the person who matters the most, who holds the key to all this, is nowhere to be found; he doesn't care.
"You always tell me that I'm being dramatic," Ste mutters.
"It's a simple observation."
"Who's being dramatic now then, eh?"
Walker knows what he's getting at, but he's not rising to the bait; there's still that hint of compassion, and it makes Ste uncomfortable. Weak.
"It's not dramatic to get upset about being raped."
Ste shrugs. "So what if I was? It's just sex, isn't it?"
Walker presses a button, and comes to a standstill on the treadmill. His expression is defiant, eyes steely. "Rape isn't sex."
"What is this, a kid's education show? Are you trying to teach me a lesson, is that it?"
"You seem pretty wise to me. Doesn't exactly seem like you're lacking in life experience."
Ste looks down, unable to know how to respond. He wonders if it's that obvious, that he's seen more than he should have, more than he ever wanted to.
"It's not going to work, you know. Bottling this all up."
"Fucking hell. Is this some kind of role play? Therapist Walker?"
"Why not?" Walker says, unperturbed. "You had the same idea for Brendan, didn't you?"
Ste stutters over his words. "Did he...what do you..." He's aware that this might be a trap, that like the abuse that Seamus inflicted, Walker may be taking a guess, seeing if his suspicions are correct.
"Brendan told me."
Ste stares coldly at him, unconvinced. Brendan would never tell him about Des; his pride's too important to him.
"Okay, so I found out."
Ste narrows his eyes, silently willing for Walker to continue.
"I followed him. It didn't take me long to put two and two together."
"Wow, that's completely normal, isn't it? Really sounds like you're turning a corner, stalking people."
"Your boyfriend used that word too."
"Because that's what it is!" He insists heatedly.
"The point is: I know. And we both know why Brendan's seeing Daz -"
"Des. His name's Des."
"Right, Des. It's because of his past. Because of what that...thing did to him."
Ste's surprised by Walker's tone, how affected he seems, like it hurts to get the words out.
"Why are you so bothered?" He can't help but ask, doesn't correlate with what he's seen so far, the way that Walker was willing to screw over Brendan seemingly without a moments thought.
Walker grabs the towel resting against the wall, using it to wipe himself off. There's no show to his movements, no attempt to put on a display and use it as a means of making Ste look, drawing his attention to him. When he makes eye contact again, his lids are turned down at the sides, his usual vigor gone, and there's a hint of nervousness that Ste's never seen before.
"Ste..."
Walker opens his mouth, searches Ste's eyes.
"It doesn't matter."
"No, come on." Ste's curiosity has been piqued now. It's not like Walker to look this serious. He doesn't do serious.
"Let's get you back to Brendan."
Brendan rises from the bed when the door opens, moving closer to Steven. Walker's keeping his distance, is standing in the hallway, creating a space between him and Steven that Brendan doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to read it. It's been a constant, nagging thought: the two of them alone together, Brendan facilitating the whole thing. He doesn't know who he trusts less; Walker, with his wandering hands and penchant for scrawny, fiery boys, or Steven - having every reason to walk away, every reason to escape now that he's seen Brendan's cowardly nature first hand, knows that when it mattered the most, he was helpless.
"Everything okay?" Brendan asks, voice begging them to tell him that it is.
Steven nods, a slight movement of his lips, an attempt at a smile that doesn't provide Brendan with the answer he wants; there's something about it that he doesn't entirely believe.
"I've got to get back to Kevin, so..."
Brendan struggles not to roll his eyes at Walker's words.
"Even you could do better."
"I never said he was for keeps," Walker says with a wink. "Just a...distraction."
"Look, I appreciate you looking out for me, but if I have to hear about that...thing..." Steven says with distaste, accent thicker when he's like this; riled up, heat spreading through him. It's a thrill to see, and Brendan can't take his eyes off him.
Neither can Walker.
"Jealous, are we?" Walker asks, playful and delighted, and it's too much, too close to Brendan's already fractured insecurities.
"Get out of here."
Walker knows he's hit a nerve, doesn't push it, but it's already there, filtering through Brendan's mind. He doesn't deserve to ask the question, but he needs to know: do he and Steven still belong to each other, after everything that's happened? Or does he have no claim there now, nothing to stop other men from taking their chance? And they will take it - there's no one on this earth who could not want Steven Hay.
Brendan makes sure that the door's closed when Walker's gone, trying to believe that if he shuts it hard enough then he can keep everything else out, the fear of losing.
He can't lose this man.
Steven doesn't meet his eyes. He leans his back against the wall, staring down at his trainers, playing with his hands in that nervous way of his that makes Brendan nervous too.
"How was Des?" He asks, quiet, voice muffled. He sounds afraid to speak.
"I didn't go." Immediately Brendan regrets the words, regrets not realising the impact of them. Steven looks at him in shock, and it turns into something harsher, makes Brendan look away, ashamed at the admission.
"Well that's great, isn't it?" Steven says, voice high and mocking. "You could lose your place there, you know - he took a chance, agreeing to see you everyday."
"I never asked you to -"
"You never would have, Brendan!" His cheeks have turned red, his tone vicious. "I was always going to have to drag you there kicking and screaming, wasn't I? You'd never change otherwise."
It takes the power out of Brendan's argument. His intention to fight back and make excuses dies on his lips. He registers that lack of faith, the knowledge that Steven regards him as a broken toy; not working properly, something you want to push away, replace with a newer model, one that works right. That isn't damaged.
"I'm...I'm sorry." It's all he can manage, doesn't know whether Steven will ever understand how much he means it, not just for this but for everything; he wrecked the boy's life from the moment that he entered it, and he's not sure that Steven even knows it yet.
Steven's anger isn't abating. He shakes his head, discarding Brendan's words. "That's you giving up then, is it? On therapy, Des - the whole thing?"
"No," Brendan says, trying to install conviction into his voice. He can't help but think that Steven sees this as a rejection of him, a giving up on him. "I'll go tomorrow, I promise." He's made a thousand promises that he can't keep before, but fuck, he means this one. "I'll apologise...explain."
"And what are you going to tell him? That you just couldn't be bothered?"
"It's not that," Brendan insists, needs him to understand. "What was I...how could I sit in that room, and pretend that everything was normal after...after you were..."
Steven stares at him coldly. "After I was what? After I sucked Warren's cock? Come on Brendan, you've never been shy about these things before. Why start now?"
"I know what you're doing." Brendan's voice is cracked, but there's an absence of shame. He thinks Steven would let him cry, if it came to it. He doesn't think the boy would turn him away. And here, with everyone at lunch, there's a quietness about the place, a darkness; it could just be them, in another world.
"Tell me then, Doctor Brady," Steven says with a sneer. Brendan sees it then, gets a glimpse of what the boy must have been like with Amy, when the girl was an outlet for his anger. He's a slip of a thing, Steven, but there's a fire inside him that gives him the ability to wound.
"You're doing what I did. What I'm still doing."
It knocks some of the determination out of him, exposes Steven for what he is: afraid. His eyes are shining, tears so close to the surface that Brendan thinks it wouldn't take much, that the boy's close to sinking to the floor, falling like he's in quicksand.
Brendan's not going to let him. He doesn't like his cold state, can't let it become permanent, but he knows that if Steven lets himself feel everything that's brimming to the surface, then he may not ever be able to switch it back off.
Brendan dares to risk moving closer. It feels vulnerable, dangerous, and he can feel Steven triggering, taking a step back out of safety. He's still in the library. Stepping outside the door didn't mean anything.
"This isn't you," Brendan whispers. "You care."
"It's not the end of the world."
Brendan huffs a laugh of disbelief, sorrow lacing it.
"This is what I did too. Tried to block it out, pretend that it was nothing, that I had control over it."
"That's different. You were...that was rape. It was your dad." Steven breaks around the words, looks like they're torn from him, agonising like a shard of glass ripping through him.
"What happened to you - it was rape. He raped you." He's spelling out the obvious, but he needs to say it, needs to let Steven know that it isn't his fault, isn't something he did or said. It's him. Steven got hurt because of him. Became a target because Warren knows his weak spots, and Steven's become the weakest of all.
"Don't become what I did, Steven. Don't become a bastard. Don't shut me out."
"You're not a bastard," Steven says, so quietly that Brendan thinks he doesn't want him to hear, wants to hold onto his anger for a little while longer.
"Yes I am." He knows he is.
Steven looks at him then, stops the fleeting eye contact and properly looks. Brendan hopes the boy sees it in his expression, how he would do anything for him.
"Well I love this bastard." Steven sounds half embarrassed to be saying it, to be giving in, watches as Brendan lips spread around a smile as he wonders what the fuck he did to deserve this.
"I'm sorry for disappearing yesterday." It's only when he says it that he realises how mind numbingly stupid it was. He's been a dick in his time, but he hasn't always wanted to take it back like he does now.
The defenses are back, and some of the warmth goes from Steven's face.
"Where did you go?"
"The gym. The games room. My cell. Called Cheryl."
"So basically everything but come and see me?"
"Yes," Brendan admits, doesn't want to insult Steven any further by lying to him.
"Is it because..." The boy stops, starts again but he's mumbling, stuttering over his words.
"What?"
Steven sighs, sweat beading against his forehead. "Did you not want to...touch me?"
Brendan stares at him open mouthed, fighting to know how to convince Steven that that was never, ever the case. Never could be.
"I would never not want to - don't even think that."
A small spark of relief floods through Steven's face, but it's not enough, doesn't make the fear lessen.
"I thought you were...disgusted by me."
Brendan feels a rush of pain, is propelled forwards and Steven doesn't retreat, doesn't run away when he anchors his face closer with his hands, pressing his lips against Steven's softly, ghosting together at first, teasing and testing and seeing if this is okay, if this is within the limits that Steven can take. His lip must still be sore from where Warren split it open.
The boy feels tense in his arms, his mouth closed as he adjusts to the feel of it again. It feels like a long time since they've done this, before Warren robbed them of the enjoyment, of the touch and taste and the feel of a kiss, and the promise of what it could lead to.
Brendan isn't thinking of that now, has no inclination to try anything beyond this. He handles Steven as if he's delicate, fingers gliding down his sides and lips tender, tongues yet to make contact. Steven doesn't like that, drags Brendan closer by the collar of his shirt, an aggression to his actions that makes Brendan gasp, part arousal and part surprise. They were arguing a moment ago, and now this.
He feels it then, the warm press of Steven's tongue, the boy's hands roughly smoothing down Brendan's cheeks, trying to coax him into opening his mouth further, letting him in. He gives Steven what he wants, their tongues rubbing together, mimicking what Steven can do to his cock, that warm suction and heat.
Brendan moans into his mouth, doesn't know how to stop this. Something seems delicate about it; Steven seems delicate, but he's kissing Brendan like he's never desired anything more, like he needs this to survive, and Brendan's ability to say no to him is disappearing like ashes in the air.
"I want you -" Steven's pawing at Brendan's trousers, is battling to get his buckle open, the buttons of his shirt proving just as difficult for his desperate, fumbling hands.
"I want you too." He does, he does want him, but this is moving too fast. He hasn't even had the chance to talk to him about what happened in the library, feels important that they don't bury it. It had been Steven who'd told him that you need to face your demons. This isn't facing them, and Brendan knows what it's like to replace the chaos in your mind with sex; he wrote the fucking book on it.
"Steven -" His words are being drowned out by Steven's mouth against his, and the feel of the boy's hand gripping his cock now that it's free from the confines of his trousers. "Please, I need to -"
"Not now." Steven's insistent, skin blushed ruby red, erection a clear outline in his tracksuit bottoms. He's burning up for him, trying to drag him back onto the bed, pulling off his own clothes when Brendan falls against the mattress, landing with a heavy thud. It surprises him, the strength of the boy, the sudden onset of aggression in him. It usually excites him, but Brendan's stomach twists, dick softening as unease spreads through him.
Without a jumper to cover them, Brendan can see the redness of Steven's wrists from the binds. They haven't faded; he knows that it's naive to expect them to within a day, but he needs the physical evidence to be gone. It's a constant reminder. He can look at his own scars and see nothing, but Steven's are different - his pain is different.
Brendan tries to concentrate, tries to give Steven what he wants.
The boy climbs on top of him, assured and with a confidence that would ordinarily have Brendan needing to fuck him, forgoing further foreplay. Brendan hisses, crying out when Steven takes his nipple in between his lips, biting and sucking and coiling his tongue around it, wetting it so thoroughly that Brendan feels himself getting harder, his cock straining against his stomach and his balls heavy. He throws his head back against the wall, exposing his neck to Steven's hands, shivering as the boy strokes down it.
"Come here"
He's powerless to the sound of Steven's voice, opening his eyes and being flooded by blue, Steven staring at him as his lips go lower, kissing down his chest.
"You sure that -"
Steven silences him, takes Brendan's cock in his mouth when he's not prepared, tongue running along the underside.
"You like that?" He hums when he draws up for air, lips spit slicked, shining.
"Yes," Brendan groans, body shaking when Steven takes him down again, hands toying with his balls while he uses his tongue skillfully, licking in the way that makes Brendan crazy, arching his back and digging his nails into Steven's neck, noises released from him against his will.
He's going to come soon, too soon, too much pent up tension and longing, wants to shoot down Steven's throat and feel his inner muscles rippling, pull the boy closer and taste himself in his mouth.
He gently pulls his dick out of Steven's mouth, taking it in his hand and giving it a few quick strokes, keeping it hard while he maneuvers Steven onto his back, nibbling the tattoo on his hip, making his own mark there.
"Gonna make you come," he promises, needs to make Steven feel pleasure more than he ever has. "First down my throat." He kisses against Steven's jaw, feels the heat there, warm like the sun. "Then over my hand." He moves to the boy's fingers, takes two in his mouth and sucks, slurping and obscene with it. "Then against your stomach." He crawls down Steven's body, licking against his belly button, dipping his tongue into the curve, the boy giggling at first before groaning deeply when Brendan takes his cock in his palm, easing his fingers over its tip, brushing back the foreskin.
He shuffles forward, getting himself at a more accessible angle, leaning against his elbows as he opens his mouth, guiding Steven's dick closer, getting ready to feel the smoothness of the head against his gums -
"Put a condom on it."
Brendan stills, hand still holding Steven's cock, mouth agape now.
"What?"
Steven reaches over to the bedside table, riffling through the drawers until he finds a condom, taking it out and offering it to Brendan.
"Please, just use it." The boy's voice is pleading, child like.
"Why?" They've never used a condom for oral before. It's not that he minds - he wants to taste Steven, not latex - but he'd do it, if it's what Steven wants.
Steven doesn't look like he knows what he wants.
"Just...please. Warren...Warren touched me there. I don't want you to..."
His face creases, Steven fighting to keep control, but he can't stop the single tear from falling, making a path down his cheek. It's a catalyst for more to follow, and the boy's eyes swim with them, skin red and blotchy, the previous desire that was there being replaced by something else.
Brendan had expected this, but it doesn't make it any easier to see.
"Hey. Shhhh, shhhh." He brings the cover up and wraps it around them both, taking Steven into his arms, pulling him against his chest. The boy keeps his distance at first, his touch sparing and light, but as Brendan kisses against his hair he melts into the feel of his hands against his own.
"I'm sorry."
"Never, ever say that. I mean it. You did nothing wrong."
He can feel the dampness of Steven's tears, and holds him more securely.
"I'm gonna kill him for you, Steven. I'm gonna kill him."
"He said I liked it."
Steven shifts beside him, leaning on his elbows to look at Brendan.
"What?"
"Seamus. He said it once. Said that I liked...having that done to me."
Brendan's never seen someone look so upset. It's so powerful that it makes him want to take his words back, wishes that they'd stayed as they were, lying on the bed together, touching but not speaking. He can't hurt anyone that way.
"You were eight years old. He was your dad. Of course you didn't..." Steven looks sick.
"I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want you to...know me."
"Did you think I would judge you?" Steven asks slowly, as though the words sting.
"I thought you would think it was my fault," Brendan admits, can't look at Steven, knows he wouldn't be able to say any of this if he did.
"Would you blame a child? If they got raped, would you think it was their fault? That it was something they did?"
"Of course not."
"Then why would you think it was yours? It was Seamus's job to protect you, Bren. He was meant to look after you, meant to... I don't know - take you to the park, and teach you how to ride a bike - be a role model. There was something wrong with him. There was nothing wrong with you."
Brendan tries to listen to the words, tries to let them wash through him, feel the truth of them.
He can't convince himself that he didn't deserve it.
"He said that it was me. That I caused him to..."
Steven sits up properly, forcing Brendan to look at him.
"You're the best man I've ever known. The strongest. The bravest. You had nothing, Brendan - you had a sister who never knew, and a family who didn't think to see. You had a dad who let you down when he was meant to save you from people like him. But you're still here - you're still trying, and you can love, can't you? You love Cheryl."
"That's what Desmond said."
"He's right. Do you know how amazing that is? To have survived all that, and still be the man you are?"
"I'm a killer, Steven."
"Seamus abused you for years - he deserved it."
"Steven -" He doesn't want the boy to make excuses for him.
"No, listen. He deserved it, okay?"
"And what about everyone else that I hurt? Do they all deserve it too? I nearly choked Douglas yesterday. I wanted to kill Kevin."
Steven shakes his head; he doesn't approve, but there's no disgust there. No outright rejection.
"All I know is - you gave me strength in that library."
Relief spreads through Brendan. They're finally talking about it. Steven isn't numb anymore.
"I didn't do anything," he says, full of shame.
"You just being there gave me hope. Yeah, Walker saved us - but it's you, Brendan. It's you who I'm always going to remember."
Brendan sighs, emotion pouring out of him. He can't go back to what he used to do, who he used to be: the man who would have laughed at this version of himself, would have thought him to be everything he hated.
He thinks he could like this Brendan, if he let himself.
"Meeting you was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me."
Steven laughs. "Wow, thanks."
"You know what I mean," Brendan says, wills him to understand.
"Yeah," Steven says, quieter now, thoughtful. "Yeah, I do."
"The making and ruining of us both."
"No need to be so dramatic about it."
Brendan smiles. "Shut up. I'm trying to..."
"Sorry. Is this you trying to make a big romantic speech here?" Steven asks, warmth and fondness to his teasing.
"Maybe it is," Brendan concedes, because God, he needs to get something right for once in his life. And he wants it to be this. Right now.
"Don't talk, okay? Just let me get this out."
"Okay."
Brendan begins.
"Before I met you, my life was...black. I had no hope, Steven. I pushed my kids away until they didn't want to know anymore. I lied to Cheryl so much that she began to trust me, began to think that I could really be innocent. I went along with her perfect vision of our dad, made it so she'd believe me even less if I ever told her what he did. I let Vincent down when he needed me. I slept with people that I hurt, people that cared about me, that were good, you know? I broke them. I thought that this was going to be the rest of my life - being alone, going over and over what Seamus did to me. It never leaves me. I'm always waiting for people to leave me, to find out what I did when I was eight. To blame me. My mum...she used to always say: under the shelter of each other, people survive."
Brendan smiles, soft and sad.
"I never knew what she meant by that - shelter. Having someone to depend on. Lean on. Open up with."
He turns to Steven, eyes shining.
"Until you. Then I knew what it was, to be happy. I'd never felt that before. You saved me. More than I could ever save you. I love you, Steven."