Ste uncurls himself from Brendan's arms. He can't think think clearly when he's so close to him, needs the distance in this moment as much as he previously needed the proximity. He stands, glancing at himself in the mirror, shocked at his own appearance; his skin looks ashen, his eyes hollowed, as though sunken into their sockets.
He feels like he's just experienced Brendan's past with him. He hadn't interrupted once, had known that it would be difficult enough without questions. Brendan needed him to listen, so he had. He'd expected to be horrified, but he hadn't expected this. Hadn't known that the picture Brendan would paint would be so vivid, as though it had happened mere days ago, the years seeming meaningless because the pain is still fresh.
Brendan hadn't tried to protect him from it. Ste had felt a sting of jealousy as he'd told him about Macca, and he'd had to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking what he looks like, how he made him feel, if he meant anything at all. He'd felt angry on Brendan's behalf when Eileen had kept him away from the kids, and he'd turned pale and nauseous when Brendan spoke quietly about being alone with Seamus, the man's poison free to infect him again.
Brendan hadn't taken his eyes off him when he'd told Ste about killing his father. There was something challenging about that look, as though he was daring Ste to leave him, to be disgusted by him and rejecting. Ste had wanted to look away, Brendan's gaze too burning, too heavy with meaning, but he feared what Brendan would think if he did; if he'd take it as a goodbye.
So he looked at Brendan, and he didn't flinch when he told him how he crushed Seamus's skull to the floor, and he wanted more than anything for Brendan to realise that nothing had changed for him.
"Steven?" Brendan's voice sounds raw from overuse, tangled with emotion.
"I want to be with you." It's all he can say, feels inadequate, not beginning to explain how much he needs it.
"Do you see what this will do to you? How I had a life - a sister, a family - that was gone, just like that?"
He's trying not to think of Amy and the kids, but they appear before him now, and all the promises he made to them. They're expecting him to come home and be a better man. Amy's forgiven him for bruises and stinging words, but this would break them. Mike would never let him near his daughter again. There would be no more visits, no access to Leah and Lucas.
It's the word: murderer. He would be feared, hated.
"Lets just enjoy the time we have left."
"No!" He can't stand it, can't listen to Brendan thinking he's won, that they'll have seven days together and that's it, that's all they'll ever have. "I want more, I want..." His voice is thickened with tears. He faces away, rubbing his sleeve against his eyes. "I just don't see how you can do this to someone who loves you as much as me."
It feels oddly liberating, not caring how pathetic Brendan thinks he is, how desperate and needy. Everything in him is telling him to fight for this, that he's the only one who will.
But part of him feels like he's already lost.
His breath is hitching, sobs escaping from him, cheeks pink and body heaving. He waits for Brendan to hold him, but he doesn't, and Ste's scared that he'll be waiting forever. He doesn't care about being safe, doesn't care that Warren and Silas are still out there. He slams his way through the door before Brendan can stop him, running down the corridor and ignoring the jeers from the other prisoners that follow, delighting in his tears.
"Were you with him the entire time?"
"Yes."
"But what if -"
"Brady, the entire time. That actually means the entire time. I'm not trying to talk in riddles here, sweetheart."
Brendan looks at him, mouth a sharp line of irritation. "I think we both know you're capable of lying. And never call me sweetheart."
Walker sighs, but he's smiling. He follows Brendan's line of sight over to where Steven's slouched against the wall, waiting to be let into the visitor's hallway. Douglas and Ethan are talking to him, but Steven doesn't appear to be listening; he glances over his shoulder when he thinks Brendan's not looking, a scowl to his face when they make eye contact. When he looks away the scowl is gone and he's like a child again, so vulnerable that it makes Brendan ache.
"He's pretty when he's pouting. Well he's pretty all the time, but -"
"Watch it."
"Had a lover's tiff, have you?"
"Bet that would make you happy," Brendan mutters, never imagined that he'd be talking to Walker about his relationship. Jesus, he shouldn't even be talking to the man at all.
"I'm guessing it's because you refused his little plan?"
Brendan had expected this, had thought that Steven's determination would make him keep his promise to run to Walker and ask for his help.
"So he told you?"
"He wants me to be some kind of sidekick. Keep watch while he kills Fox. Can't say that I wouldn't like to see him dead, but..."
"If you help him, you know I'll kill you."
"I know," Walker says immediately, smile fading. "I wouldn't try to stop you. I'd deserve it."
They move forward in the line, and several of the men stare as Brendan laughs loudly. They're used to his manic turns by now, but it still causes some of them to jump and take several steps forward, elbowing the men in front of them to do so.
"This doesn't suit you, Simon. Being so..." Brendan searches for the word, openly wearing his ridicule. "...Nice."
"I'm just saying," Walker continues, nonplussed. "If a person hurts the thing that a man loves, they've got to deal with the consequences."
"You make that up all by yourself?" Brendan drawls. "Real poetic. Please, give me more inspirational life quotes."
He's relieved when the door opens and they can go inside. At least in the visitor's room he can keep an eye on Steven, can be sure that he's safe. He watches as he embraces Amy. Brendan feels like he knows her already; Steven's spoken about her enough times for her to feel like a part of his life too. Brendan catches her eye once as she sits down, and she glances away hurriedly, as though afraid to look for too long.
She's scared of him.
Cheryl crosses her bare legs, wearing a too tight skirt and her usual skyscraper heels, her hair a plethora of golden curls. It doesn't matter how many times he tells her that she's the perfect target for the other men's jeers and roaming eyes; she ignores him, seems to want to pretend that they're just catching up for a coffee, that she can wear whatever the hell she wants, has nothing to fear.
He gets lipstick on his cheek when she kisses him. Wiping it away with a fond smile, he takes in the newly acquired tan from a week spent away with Nate. She seems to read his mind, begins as she usually does, "Nate wanted to come, but..." He silences her. It doesn't matter - or he's trying to make it not matter. Nate makes her happy, and it's one less thing for him to worry about. Perhaps if he'd been around years ago, things would have been different. Seamus might not have got to her so easily. Nate could have protected her, could have stopped the doting housewife routine. He's intelligent. During his one and only visit, he'd understood when Brendan had wanted to sit in silence, or when Cheryl's talk of appeals and early release had been too much.
A lot could have been different five years ago.
"How was the holiday?"
She gets a dreamy look in her eye that speaks of beaches and palm trees and sand so hot that it burns the soles of your feet. Brendan can remember that, feels vague but if he concentrates hard enough he can recall the feeling of it; the sun beating down on him, its rays falling on his exposed back like a blanket. He'd taken Eileen and the kids abroad in the early days. He'd thought things would be easier out there, with things to distract them. It backfired: Eileen wasn't one for sightseeing. She preferred lying by the pool, and the heat made her almost giddy, made her bold. She'd engineer ways to get Brendan alone, and he ran out of excuses.
He wouldn't have to close his eyes and imagine someone else with Steven. He can picture the boy's joy at being taken somewhere hot. He doubts he's even been on a plane before, and it sends a thrill through Brendan, the idea of being the one to show him all that, to watch his childlike enthusiasm.
The idea flickers and burns out, its vividness diminishing. It has no place in this life.
He's distracted as Cheryl tells him about the hotel, the bar, the food. His eyes wander; he can see Steven looking away sharply, embarrassed to be caught staring back at him.
"I have something else to tell you..."
He looks back at Cheryl, staring dazedly at the hand that she's holding before him. She's beaming, all teeth and red lips and unbridled contentment, and he can't help but match some of it.
"Jesus, Chez." He takes her hand, gently placing his finger over the ring. It's what he expected from Nate - ridiculously expensive, sparkling even in the dimmed lighting of the room, big without being garish or overdone.
He can see her waiting for him to say more, but he's not capable of it. Ever since his divorce he's seen marriage as a trap, a noose around his neck. But it's hard to argue when Cheryl's like this. She seems to get it, seems to realise that his silence isn't through lack of caring. She softly smooths her thumb over his hand.
"He wanted to ask your permission," she says, amusement in her voice.
Brendan chuffs a laugh, kind of wishes that he had. There would be something gloriously entertaining about watching Nate blush and bumble his way through his speech, afraid that Brendan wouldn't agree to it when of course he would. Nate's one of the good guys, even if Brendan doesn't completely trust a man with that much curl in his hair.
"You know, now that dad's not around..."
Brendan stops laughing. Five years haven't equipped him to deal with mentions of Seamus, particularly not from Cheryl.
"He would have loved this, wouldn't he? A big wedding, walking me down the aisle." She's wistful, not far off from tears. He withdraws his hand, leaning back in his chair.
"You're gonna have the day of your dreams, yeah?" He tries to make his voice sound bright, wonders if Cheryl can hear how disingenuous it sounds.
He can see that she wants to say something, is half afraid to encourage her in case it's about Seamus, but guilt makes him probe further.
"What is it?"
"I wish..."
It doesn't matter that she's heavily made up, wearing more mascara than she is clothes. She's still just his baby sister, scared to talk.
"I just wish you could be there with me."
He swallows, doesn't want to make a big deal out of this but it's hard not to; this is his sister's wedding, the most important day of her life, and he's missing it. She'd always talked about what it would be like, had planned out her perfect dress and cake and honeymoon. It never included this, never involved her brother being locked up for life. Never involved taking Seamus away from her.
"Me too," he says quietly, wishing that she hadn't mentioned it. He hates that every event is marked like this, that something that should be happy is tarnished because of him.
"Maybe..."
It's that word again, seems to be spoken a lot by her, maybe and what if and but, as though she prefers living in an alternate reality altogether. It reminds him of Steven - the way that the boy tries to find a solution. Always tries to change something, make it better.
Brendan doesn't live in a world of what ifs.
"You could be there. With me."
He doesn't comprehend what she's saying at first, thinks that she's lost her mind and has temporarily forgotten that he's behind bars, that he can't simply stroll out of the gates and attend her wedding as a free man.
Then it begins to sink in; this is what Cheryl does. He can feel it starting over again, the desperate hopefulness that never leaves her, that makes the truth seem so irrelevant.
"You know I can't." He hates being the one to say it, but it feel crueler to let her believe that he can be at a church, dressed in a suit like any normal brother, free from controversy and other peoples fear and judgement.
She's defiant today, her steely eyed gaze on him, determined.
"I've been talking to people - lawyers -"
"Chez, you know what they've said." He doesn't think much of his lawyer - a cold, manipulate man called Paul Browning. He used to put men like Brendan away instead of trying to prove them to be innocent, and it shows. He'd barely looked at Brendan during the trial, and when he had there had been unmistakable disgust in his eyes.
"Not Browning, someone else. Someone better. They reckon we can make a new case, say that you were set up by the police." Her eyes are alive; she's excited, and it only makes Brendan feel more dead inside.
"Which police?" He asks, deadpan. He wants to make her trip up, to stumble and realise how this is never going to work.
"There were always people sniffing around the club, weren't they? Accusing you of all sorts." She looks around, making sure that an officer isn't within earshot, as though it makes a difference when he's locked up here for a thirty year stretch. "You know...dealing."
He doesn't tell her that they interfered for a reason. That if they'd been more thorough with their investigation then they'd have found the cocaine stashed away in the toilets. He never touched drugs, but it was an easy way to make money, to get the kids what they deserved, and keep Eileen from worrying about their future.
"You think they'd hate me that much? To stitch me up, lock me in here, throw away the key?" Some coppers he'd met had been bastards, but even they weren't capable of this. They had bigger fish to fry, more important people to worry about than a suspicious club owner.
"They must have. Why else would you be here?"
For a second he considers telling her, thinks that she could already know, must have known all along. His sister isn't stupid. She believes what she wants to, but Brendan's wondered how many times she's wanted to ask him, wanted to see what his reply would be: did you kill our father?
"I've got a lot going on at the moment. I don't think now's the best time for a new appeal," he grunts.
She's disbelieving. "A lot going on? In here? I thought you'd want to fight this, want to have something to do if nothing else!"
He knows it sounds ridiculous, but he's not completely lying. He doesn't intend to waste the next week, doesn't want it to pass by uneventfully, just treading water until the time that Steven's released. They can't carry on as they have been - can't be separated, can't spend hours away from each other. He wants to make the next seven days count. Wants to try - even if it's in vain - to make Steven remember this for the right reasons.
"This is because of him, isn't it?"
"What?" Brendan asks bluntly, feeling gripped by panic.
"This mystery guy."
He frowns, can't hide his confusion.
"I know there's someone. The way you've been acting..."
Brendan fidgets in his seat, prays that he doesn't go red otherwise Cheryl will never let him live it down. He never gets embarrassed about anyone. No one's ever been worth it before.
Cheryl leans forward in her seat, and he can tell she's deliberating over her words, trying to sort it out in her head.
"You do know that I'm okay with all this, don't you? You being gay."
He wishes she wouldn't be so upfront. It's different in here - he's beginning to get used to it, to the idea that he and Steven are together and that everyone knows they are. The men don't bother him here, wouldn't dare say anything if they want to keep their teeth.
Cheryl's different. She knew him her whole life as one person, and now he's something completely different. They never truly had a chance to talk about it; weeks after she first found out he was arrested, and he's mumbled his way through her attempts to bring up the subject.
Brendan hums in acknowledgement, silence stretching before them.
"I don't care, Bren. Nothing's ever changed for me."
He meets her eyes, giving her a weak smile. She's so entirely different from Seamus. Sometimes he doesn't believe that they're related, that they share the same blood at all.
"Is this you trying to manipulate me into telling you who I'm seeing?" He needs to joke, needs to break the tense atmosphere.
"So there is someone then?" She seems half delighted, half surprised that he'd be so honest.
Brendan's eyes flicker over to Steven, and before he can look away Cheryl notices.
"Is that him?"
He grunts, hoping that she'll drop it, but knowing she won't.
"He's gorgeous."
He smiles, taking in Steven's body, his lips and the curve of his mouth, and how it all belongs to him.
"He's not bad," he says wryly, a smile forming. Steven must feel the heat of his gaze; he breaks off from talking to Amy, seeing Brendan and Cheryl's eyes on him. After a moment of confusion he colours, looking down at his lap and then back at Amy, trying to pretend that nothings happened, a hint of a smirk spreading across his features. For all the boy's uncertainty and doubts, Brendan thinks he knows sometimes: knows how important he is to him, how there's nothing Brendan wouldn't do to protect him.
"Have long have you two..."
He knew she'd be like this, that one question would lead to a hundred. She's been this way ever since he can remember, and it's only grown worse since he came out. Cheryl had never liked Eileen, had been wary and competitive at times, sucking in her stomach around her, competing in a bizarre game of who could wear the best outfit that Brendan never completely understood. Vincent had been different; she'd been pleased for him at first, had noticed the way the boy looked at him from across the visitor's room. Even when he'd denied it and refused to talk about it, she knew.
"Couple of months now." Brendan can hardly believe that that's all it's been. It feels like years, doesn't know if it's because of how time goes so slowly in prison, or whether it's Steven; the way the boy's made him feel in such a short amount of time.
"And is it serious?" There's concern mixed with her excitement. He knows she's imagining another Vincent, another case of a vulnerable boy who Brendan will use and then throw away, not taking responsibility for the damage that's caused.
Steven's not Vincent. Brendan had realised that straight away. Vincent had seemed younger than his years, had clung onto Brendan for dear life even before he'd pushed him away. He'd been a virgin when they'd met, eager to please and even more nervous than he'd expected; the boy had been shaking in his arms the first time he'd taken him to bed.
Steven's more worldly, but Brendan doesn't think that's it. Even if he'd been his first, the boy's reactions are different: he isn't needy, isn't terrified and impressionable. There's a strength about Steven, a bravery that suggests years spent fending for himself. Being self sufficient because he had to.
"Are you sure?"
He blinks, disarmed by Cheryl's question. He wasn't even aware that he'd said something.
"About him not being another Vincent?"
He takes a swig from the paper cup that on the table in front of him, wetting his dry mouth, wondering how much he's revealed. Fuck, he wasn't meant to talk about Steven at all.
"I'm sure. He's not gonna..." It's too painful to voice, the idea of Steven falling into someone's clutches, and Brendan not being able to save him. He couldn't stop Danny from getting to Vincent, but Steven...
Steven's never going to get hurt by anyone. Not again. Not ever.
"I promise," he says firmly, is promising himself more than he is Cheryl.
"I know you don't mean to hurt anyone, Bren." There it is again, that unshakeable faith in him. He's tempted to correct her, I really do, have done before and will do again, but he needs these visits, needs her. Before Steven, this is all he had. And if Steven meets someone on the outside, decides that he's tired of Brendan and the lack of anything that he can give him, then he's going to need Cheryl again, more than ever.
"He's getting out soon, Chez. You don't need to worry." His voice cracks as he says it, and she notices. He sees the shock that flashes across her face, knows that before Steven he never showed any of this. Barely showed any emotion at all.
"When?"
"A week." He thought it would be easy to slip back into his old way of thinking; the detachment, the coldness, as though it would be a button he could press. It's not working. It happened so gradually that he was unaware of it. Steven's changed him. He can't reverse the process, and he's not sure if he'd want to now. He was existing before, getting through each day and hoping that it would be his last.
He wants to live. He'd felt it when he'd been in the library with Warren. He'd clung onto life desperately, suddenly feeling like it was worth something.
It's going to be taken away, that worth.
Brendan shifts in his seat, running a hand through his hair. Anything to distract himself.
"Are you going to keep in touch?"
He glances over at Steven on instinct, and for a moment he could swear, swear that the boy can hear them, that he's listening intently. That everything depends on this answer.
But there's no way. No way that he knows.
"I don't..." I don't know.
"You could do this for him, you know. Appeal, and be with him."
It's manipulation of the highest order, the sort that Cheryl's not usually capable of. And fuck, it's working. Brendan sees it, imagines it. Imagines getting out and being with Steven. Moving in with him. Meeting his kids. Convincing that waif of an ex girlfriend of his that he's not all bad. Winning her round with years of being clean: no dealing, no dodgy connections.
Jesus, he wants it. For a moment it feels like it's in his grasp.
"It wouldn't work." He sounds mechanical, not even beginning to convey how it kills him to admit it, that they're going round in circles here and he wishes that they weren't - that he'd give anything for Cheryl to be right, and for her daydreams to be something solid, something that he could believe in too.
He thought there would come a time when she'd give up, but as his sentence progresses it's getting worse. It hits her more, the fact that she'll never see him in daylight again. That all they have are these structured, rigid visiting hours in this artificially lit room, where contact is minimal. She can't hug him for too long, had clung onto him once in tears before they'd been separated by an officer, Cheryl escorted away and searched, suspected of trying to pass him drugs.
He looks towards Steven. It must be simple, that girl of his knowing what he's done. Knowing the truth. He can't remember what that's like; not lying to Cheryl, and having to perform in every visit, acting the part of a man who he no longer is, who he never was outside of his sister's eyes.
This time when Steven catches him looking, Brendan doesn't look away.
His eyes are sad. Ste doesn't want to notice - doesn't want to care - but he does. He's worn a scowl or a look of indifference when Brendan's gaze has drifted towards his across the room, but something tells him that Brendan can't take much more. That continuing to be cold may break him. Brendan being breakable: it's a strange concept.
"Who are you looking at?" Amy turns around in her seat, and Ste quickly takes his eyes off Brendan, trying to deter her. He's in their line of sight though, and not easy to miss. He stands out; his muscular form, the moustache. The fear that he evokes in people, rising in Amy now and making the colour fade from her face.
"Do you know him?"
It feels like a loaded question. Dangerous. Impossible to answer in one sentence.
He shrugs, an I don't care, a lie that Ste doesn't think he can pull off. He cares too much.
"Everyone knows each other in here, don't they? You live with people day in, day out, and..."
She seems exasperated with his reply, the worry not abating.
"Yeah, but do you know him? I mean, does he give you any trouble?"
He feels oddly defensive, angry that the first thing Amy would think about Brendan is that he'd be trouble. She's not entirely wrong, but it's the principle: Ste doesn't want people thinking that about his boyfriend.
Fuck. He's become one of those people. Taking a slight against the person he's with like it's an attack against himself. Except it hurts more: he can't defend Brendan, not in here. Not when it could cause Amy to become suspicious.
He's so concentrated on remaining calm that it's only doing the opposite. He clasps his hands tightly together, feeling the blood drain from them, the skin turning white.
"He's okay. He doesn't bother me. Really."
She doesn't look convinced. He can see how it appears. Brendan's taller than him, bigger than him, and he's barely taken his eyes off Ste from the minute they walked through the door. He doesn't blame Amy for being judgmental. That's his rational thinking, buried underneath. His feelings at the surface are entirely different.
"I promise, okay? He's decent. He's my..." He's going to say friend, but almost laughs at how it sounds, how it feels like 'special' should be added in front of it, teasing. "He's my mate." Somehow it's better, if only marginally.
"Your mate?" There's an edge of horror to her voice. "Ste, he's...look at him! He looks like he could eat you alive."
Ste looks, feels like he spends most of his time doing nothing else. He wonders if Amy can see it too; the darkness to Brendan's eyes, and how they draw you in. There's something private about it, secretive. It makes Ste think of everything they've done together. The fucks. The fights. The conversations that never end the way he'd like, because the fact that they have an ending at all makes fear strike through his body.
There shouldn't be an ending for him and Brendan.
Brendan doesn't colour under their attentions. There's a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth when he looks away, and it makes Ste want to release a string of expletives. He was meant to stay mad at him, even if it made him seem like a child.
Brendan knows he's got him. Knows that the silent treatment is over.
"I don't know how you can -"
"Ames." He interrupts, sensing that whatever she's got to say isn't complimentary. "My release date's been pushed forward."
He doesn't know he's going to say it until the words are out, and he immediately wants to retract them, wants to pretend that they were never spoken.
Shock settles in for a few moments. Amy blinks, startled and wordlessly asking him to repeat himself, and it's only when he elaborates that it starts to sink in, and the joy that Ste expected appears. Her arms are around him, her hair falling onto his shoulders, the scent of her perfume filling his senses. She's rubbing his back, and he waits for the familiar feel of comfort to set in, but it doesn't reach him. It's okay when she's not facing him. He doesn't have to morph his features, but when she draws back he arranges his face into a perfect smile, and it begins to ache.
"When did you find out?"
He doesn't want to let her know that he didn't tell her straight away. She'd only ask more questions, and be confused and hurt that he delayed the news.
"Just before the visit."
"Ste!" She makes his name sound like a song with her joy, and several of the men look in their direction, surprised to see the girl with gangly limbs throw her arms around Ste again, nearly knocking him off his seat with the impact.
He's missed this. The two of them against the world. It's always felt like that, and it should be enough, but he can already imagine his life when he walks through the gates. It will be altered, split into before Brendan and after Brendan. Before he met him, when there was an endless stream of clubs and men and shoplifting, and after he met him. When everything changed. When he changed.
"I know, it's brilliant." He has to at least put some effort in, even if his words sound forced.
"I brought this for you by the way. I was going to wait till the end, but it seems appropriate now. Here's what you're coming back to." Amy takes a roll of photographs from her bag, placing them in Ste's hand.
He can't look away. He hasn't seen Leah and Leah in almost three months, and now they're here - may not be in the flesh, not even close to being the same, but they're in front of them, their smiles and their blond curls. They have their mother's looks, and they appear startlingly beautiful to him now. His touch on the photographs is light; he doesn't want to risk blurring them with fingerprints. He needs their faces to be as clear as possible.
He can't not see them again. It falls like a heavy weight: he can't live without them. If he gets sent down for murder then they'll be kept away from him, and by the time they turn eighteen they may not want anything to do with him. Why would they? They'll read about it in the papers, hear the local gossip from the village. People will say that he was always scum. Perhaps Terry will try and worm his way back in again and say that he was right all along, about everything.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He sniffs, betraying himself, but passes it off as mere emotion about seeing his children after so long. Amy doesn't have to know the rest. "Can I keep these? He asks, motioning to the polaroids.
"Of course," she says, as if he's daft. "One week, Ste." Her eyes light up. He wonders what his must look like in comparison. "One week, and you'll see them again."
Ste hasn't laughed like this in a long time. It feels wrong, a foreign sound, but fuck, it's good. He laughs louder than he usually would, just to prolong it. Just to make it feel real.
"You can stop now." Doug's narrowing his eyes, shooting daggers at him.
"But...what are you..." Ste's gasping, feeling like he can hardly breathe, is clutching his stomach when something like a stitch begins to form.
"My parents have unusual taste."
Ste had seen Doug's parents for the first time when they'd left the visitor's room. They'd been what he'd expected; preppy and polished and incredibly, undeniably American. Even their names set them apart: Connie and Herb. They sounded like something from a story book.
Doug had tried to hide his pajamas behind a large and thick dressing gown, but Ste had caught the pattern sneaking through before he'd managed to disguise it. He'd wrestled his friend out of the gown, ignoring his protests, not stopping until it was a heap on the floor.
"Aww, I think they're dead cute." Ste cocks his head to the side, taking in the assortment of sheep that make up the pattern. "I'm sure our Leah has a similar pair."
He gets a pillow aimed squarely at his head for that, that he only just manages to avoid by a rather uncoordinated attempt at dodging out the way.
"We can't all look like you in boxers, Ste."
"You're kidding me, right?" Ste stares down at himself in disbelief. There's nothing of him. He can feel his ribs protruding. He's pretty sure Doug could fit a hand around his waist if he tried to.
He's the opposite of desirable.
"You should see the way people look at you. Brendan. Walker. That old guy Frank from down the hall -"
"Doug! Stop it." Ste turns away, embarrassment flooding through him. "Anyway, I don't know what you're worried about. You have Lynsey, don't you? Your life's sorted."
Doug doesn't miss the subtext.
"What did Brendan do now?" He's got his I'm settling down for a long conversation tone.
"Nothing!" Ste insists, feeling his temper rising. That's the problem: Brendan isn't doing anything, isn't letting him do anything. "In fact, he's trying to stop me from doing something really stupid."
He curses under his breath. He's an idiot.
"Does this have something to do with what Walker was talking about? Your plan?"
Ste wishes he'd chosen friends with lower IQs.
"No, 'course not. I just mean - he looks out for me. He only wants what's best for me."
Even with his back turned, he can sense Doug rolling his eyes.
"Why have you been off with him then?"
Ste faces him, mouth agape.
"How do you..."
"Do you know how mind numbingly boring it is in this place? When Lynsey's not around I spend half my time planning how I'll decorate our flat when I get out. That's how dull my life has become, Ste. I need something to focus on."
"That doesn't mean you can go snooping around in my business!" He hates that it's that obvious that he and Brendan aren't talking.
"I wasn't snooping. I was observing. It was hard to miss you giving him the death glare over my shoulder every two minutes."
Ste grunts, unsatisfied. "We're just...you know..." He trails off, unable to come up with an explanation that doesn't sound insane. We're arguing because he won't let me kill someone. As you do.
"Please tell me it's not to do with..." Doug screws up his face.
"What?"
"You know...what you two do in..." He gestures over to the bed.
"No!"
"Good, because if I'd had to talk about that..." Doug says in distaste.
Ste sighs, head in his hands, eyes screwed up. There's silence, and he doesn't want to be the one to break it, doesn't know what to say. There's nothing that can make this right.
"I'll sleep in Ethan's cell tonight."
Ste raises his head tentatively. Hopefully.
"What?"
"Go and see Brendan. I'm sure he'll manage to twist it with Darren somehow, convince him to bend the rules. Just talk to him. Let's face it, Ste - I'm miserable without Lynsey, and you're miserable without him."