The floor feels cold against his skin.
Brendan hasn't seen it like this in a while. Hasn't felt the crippling edge of grief, hasn't allowed himself to drown him, let it envelope him like a blanket, an old friend.
The last time he was on the floor, he had Steven with him. Had the boy's back against the rail of the bed, the heat of his body pressed up against his own. Their faces had been close enough that he could see every dark eyelash, every blotch of red from where Steven coloured as Brendan pushed deeper inside him.
Now, there's only this. Only the echos coming from somewhere above him. A part of him is aware of being hoisted up, strong arms around him, and he allows himself to be pulled to his feet, staggering when the arms release him. He feels unsafe like this: he's unsteady, feels like he's swaying. He can hear a strangled noise, and in a moment of humiliation and amazement, he realises it's coming from him.
"Is Steven alive?"
He's terrified of the answer. It feels like there's a pendulum swinging, the choice between knowing and not knowing. There's something beautiful about remaining oblivious. It opens up a world of possibility, a world which Steven still inhabits.
But if he knows, and it's not the answer he wants -
His eyes are focused, but he strains to look, needs to know that the slight nod of Tony's head isn't something make believe.
"Tell me." He grabs Tony's shirt collar, sees the way that the man reels back, and Brendan can only imagine what he looks like right now, wonders if Tony's thinking that he's a monster after all. Someone deranged and out of control.
"He's alive."
Brendan's being touched again, being kept on his feet, and it's only when he sees Ethan's hands around his waist that he realises how close he was to collapsing again.
"I need to see him." He's slurring like he's had too much whiskey, and it aches that it's not even close to the truth. He'd like something warming his insides right now - needs to get courage from somewhere, doesn't even entertain the idea that he has any left of his own. Whatever bravery he had vanished when he woke up to find Steven gone.
There's no fight without him. There's nothing to fight for.
He needs to see him with his own eyes. Doesn't trust that Tony isn't lying to him, that Steven isn't lying in the morgue, hasn't already been taken from him. He tries to get past the doorway, stares wide eyed at the resistance he meets, can't understand why they won't let him see Steven.
"Brendan, listen -"
"No." His chest's heaving, panic gripping him. They're going to keep Steven from him. They only have a few days left together, a few days before the boy forgets all about him, finds someone better, and they're not even going to let Brendan say goodbye.
"He's in the hospital."
Brendan stops, head swimming, cruel new scenarios presenting themselves and tormenting him: he sees Steven in a coma, sees him with a head injury. Sees him with his skull smashed in, and what if this is Brendan's punishment? What he deserves for what he did to Seamus.
"Some staff found him covered in blood."
"Is he -" Is he okay? Am I going to have to deal with the possibility of losing him all over again?
"It's not his blood."
Brendan hears Ethan whisper fuck from behind him.
"You think he did it, don't you?" Brendan advances forwards, feels something like power charging through him, so much easier to deal with than loss.
"You think he killed them? You pretend to be different to everyone else - pretend to care about him, but you don't, do you?"
"Brendan." Tony holds up a hand warningly, and there's a distinct hint of compassion in his face that Brendan wants to destroy. "We can't talk here."
They're out in the corridor now, Brendan's movements driving Tony backwards, and they've attracted something of an audience. He can see some of the officers making their way towards them, staring at Tony for guidance. The prisoners expressions egg him on: some are beginning to jeer, waiting for the show to begin. It's not enough that Brendan's managed to manipulate the officers in the past. This - Tony - is the main prize. Always has been.
Tony leans forward, speaks into Brendan's ear before he can stop him, before he can strike out.
"I can take you to him."
Is this the ultimate fuck you? Taking Brendan to where Steven's dead body lies and watching him fall apart? Is this what the last five years have been leading up to?
Brendan knows some people would do it to him. They've probably been planning it for years - waiting for this moment, for him to fall in love, and then watching it ruin him.
He doesn't know whether Tony cares about him. But Steven -
He cares about Steven.
"If you're lying to me..." He says it for show, is already following Tony down the corridor, ignoring the disappointed catcalls of the men who expected Brendan to be part of their evening entertainment.
There's some relief that Steven is in the prison hospital wing: it means that whatever injury he's sustained isn't serious. It's all minor cuts and bruises here, and Brendan keeps repeating the thought to himself as he runs up the stairs, Tony panting lightly in his attempts to keep pace.
Brendan crashes through the doors of the hospital, startling several of the staff who are gathered around reception.
"Steven Hay." He's shouting it, doesn't know whether he's asking where he is or calling directly to him, expecting him to walk down the hallway, sheepish expression, what's all the fuss about, Brendan?
He goes to the reception desk when no one answers him.
"Steven Hay - do you know where Steven Hay is?"
It seems impossible that they don't know. Impossible that Steven could disappear, fade into the background. A man like Steven - you can't not notice him.
He can hear Tony calling his name, telling him to calm down, and it makes him angrier: makes him ignore the pleas of the staff and go from room to room, staring into the windows and feeling an ache in his chest every time he doesn't see Steven. He sees the faces of nurses that he's known for five years; nurses who have never seen him like this, and the shame is almost more than he can bear. He wonders if they'll ever look at him in the same way again, or if they'll always remember him as he is now - this terrified, broken creature.
He's near the end of the ward, and it feels like the place is getting smaller, the walls closing in on him.
He reaches the last room, chancing a quick glance, not expecting to find anything. He half believes that Steven has been an illusion this entire time. Three months of insanity in which Brendan made him up as a way to experience happiness.
But he wouldn't imagine Steven like this. Wouldn't be cruel enough to conjure up the boy sitting on the hospital bed, face pale and eyes staring ahead unseeingly, arms crossed over his body.
He doesn't seem to notice Brendan's presence. Doesn't look up for a good few seconds, and when he does he blinks slowly, looking like he's emerging from a dream.
"You're alive." Steven whispers it, seems in awe, and Brendan sees a single tear roll down his cheek.
He's beautiful when he cries.
Brendan steps closer, his footsteps sounding impossibly loud. He's never heard the hospital this silent - or is it just that he's aware of the fragility of his own movements for the first time? It suddenly feels precious, being here with him.
"I could say the same thing." He laughs gruffly, but his attempts to lighten the atmosphere are weak, and they both know it.
Brendan senses that he's not alone. Tony's standing in the hallway, looks like he's witnessing something that he's not entirely sure how to handle, and Brendan tries to smile, tries to tell him that it's okay, that he's not about to explode. But he can't manage reassurance.
It's Steven who takes charge.
"Can you give us a minute, Tony?"
"You really should be speaking to the police. Both of you." There's no authority in his voice, and his hand's already on the door, ready to close it. "You won't be alone for long." He sounds almost apologetic. "A nurse will be in to check on you, Ste. They need to clean you up."
"Sure. No problem." Ste clears his throat, sounds like he hasn't spoken in a lifetime, and the idea's almost laughable. The boy talks more than anyone that Brendan knows.
When the door closes behind them, Brendan rushes to the bed. Steven feels tiny in his arms, and Brendan gathers him up, pressing his lips against Steven's neck and breathing him in.
"I thought I lost you."
Steven's saying everything that Brendan's thinking. It feels like a trick.
"What the fuck happened?" He can hear the fury in his voice, and the alarm that it produces in Steven, the boy drawing back from his hold and staring at him in concern. His face is still ghostly white, and it appears even more so in contrast to the blood that's on his hands. Brendan notices it for the first time, registering the way that Steven flinches when he touches it.
"Don't be mad at me."
It's Brendan's turn to flinch. "Jesus, I'm not..." He's not mad at him. He's mad at this - this whole fucking situation that's led them here. He's mad at how last night he went to bed with Steven, and this morning he woke without him, and the world seems to have changed overnight.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, taking Steven's hands in his own and holding them until he doesn't tremor at the touch. "I promise you, I'm not mad at you."
"It's my fault, all of this." Steven's not crying now, but he's gasping, and somehow it's worse. "If I hadn't left Lynsey and Doug that day, then I wouldn't have been in the library alone. Silas wouldn't have been able to get to me, and Warren wouldn't have -"
"I don't understand."
"I wouldn't have been raped, and you wouldn't have needed to kill them."
"You think I - "
He wants to laugh, but he thinks Steven would hit him if he did. Would think that Brendan was laughing at him.
"I thought you killed them." It sounds ridiculous, the mere idea of it, but nothing else makes sense - he can see the blood. He can see the horror in Steven's eyes.
Steven shakes his head, closing his eyes as though he doesn't want to see.
'I woke up and you were gone." It's still fresh in his mind: looking around the cell and knowing instantly that Steven wasn't there. Searching for him in the hallway among the sea of faces, imagining the relief of finding him there and feeling his heart drop when he didn't.
"I'm sorry," Steven says in a small voice. He wrings his hands, doesn't seem to notice that there's blood there, makes no attempt to get rid of it.
"Explain." He needs to hear it. The sooner he knows what happened, the sooner he can start putting a plan in motion - whatever needs to be done. If he needs to protect Steven, then he'll do it. But being kept in the dark like this - he never understood before how much it hurts. Secrets used to seem so necessary.
"I had to go and see him."
Brendan wants to tell him that it feels like he's speaking in riddles, nothing clear. But he can see the effort that this is taking, the way that it's draining all the energy from the boy to talk at all.
He lays a hand on Steven's knee, does it as much for his own benefit as he does for Steven's. He needs to know that he's not going anywhere.
"Des..."
Brendan's hand grows cold, his touch firm. He takes a deep breath, feels like it does nothing, and will it always be this hard - controlling his anger, trying not to hurt the person he loves? Jesus, it shouldn't even be something that he has to think about. It's not normal.
"Desmond?"
He imagines Steven, nervous but determined, knocking on Desmond's door. Imagines him sitting in the chair that Brendan usually fills - or will he be the dutiful patient that Brendan never is, and lie on the bed? They'll have discussed him, perhaps laughed about him: stupid Brendan, can't even get therapy right. Wasn't even man enough to fight his father off.
Their cruel voices reverberate in his head, carve a home in his skull.
"Bren?" He can hear concern there, but that can't be right, can it? Steven could never have visited Desmond out of care.
"Had a nice chat, did you?"
He rises from the bed, doesn't want to look at Steven, but he can't look away - has only just felt the palpable, overwhelming relief of getting him back, of finding him safe.
"What did you say?" He's baring his teeth, vicious.
He sees confusion spread across Steven's face, and he fights the own guilt that he feels. The boy's been through enough; he doesn't need this. Doesn't need him.
"I didn't -" Steven splutters as though he's underwater and fighting for air. "I didn't go to him about you. God Bren, I'd never - I'd never do that. I know how much you'd hate it."
Brendan feels the first ripples of hope washing over him, wonders if Steven can hear how hard his heart's beating, seems impossible that he can't.
He stares down at the floor, mutters "You didn't?" It's not something that he dares to believe, not completely. Not yet.
"I went to Des for something else."
Something about Steven's voice makes the last of Brendan's anger leave him.
"What was it?"
It's Steven's turn to avoid eye contact. He's all gangly, self conscious limbs as he shuffles from foot to foot, wetting his lips and making his hair more unruly by running his hands through it.
"I went for me," he finally says, voice small, and Brendan doesn't think he's imagining the shame behind it.
Brendan doesn't say anything - thinks that he could lose this chance forever if he does. He stands across from Steven, barely moving, not wanting to disturb anything, and waits.
"Cos I still...I see him sometimes. Warren. At night I mean." The boy says it in a rush, glancing at Brendan every few seconds as though to gauge his reaction, check that Brendan doesn't think he's crazy.
"You never told me." But he knew: of course he knew. It had been the same with Seamus, and Brendan had never assumed that it would be any different with Steven. He'd just wanted it to be different. Wanted it more than anything.
"I didn't want to worry you."
Brendan almost argues, wants to tell him that it's his job to worry about Steven, but he realises it's not - it's what happened the moment that they met, something entirely out of his control.
"I thought Des could help me. Like he's helped you."
Brendan flushes, an involuntary reaction that he despises and that he hopes Steven doesn't see. He shouldn't feel pleased - it's not appropriate, it's not the time - but he feels a swell of pride that Steven thinks he's changed: that there's the slightest chance that the boy's recognised something in him. Something that's no longer entirely ugly.
"I just wanted to talk to him - I wasn't gonna name any names, cos I thought he might go to the police, tell them about Warren and Silas. But I just needed to tell him - I thought it could make it better, talking about it with someone who wasn't so involved. And I know I should of told you where I was going, but I thought - I thought you'd hate it. I thought you'd hate knowing that I was still dreaming about it. What Warren did -"
"Did you find him?" Brendan interrupts, thinks about telling Steven that it was a fucking stupid thing to do, walking about the place with two people wanting to kill him on the loose, but it all feels so pointless now. He can't change anything, and Steven's right: he would have hated it.
"Yeah. I told him that it was someone from ages ago. You know, who...touched me. I don't know if he believed me, but..."
"Then what happened, Steven?"
He can't compute how Steven was missing for hours. How Desmond wouldn't have alerted someone. How they wouldn't have been found together.
"After I talked to Des, I came out and I was - I was making my way back to your cell, and..." He breaks off, and he's got that same look again. Drawn. Distant. Like he's remembering all over again.
Brendan's not sure that he wants to know.
"I saw blood. On the floor. It sounds mental, but I thought it was something else at first - something normal, like food, or - I don't know, just not blood." Steven laughs nervously, and Brendan can see him trying to inject humour into it, make this something ordinary, otherwise it's too terrifying.
"I called for you." He looks at Brendan, eyes shining. "I called, but you weren't there."
"Steven, I'm sorry." Brendan closes the distance between them, pulling Steven closer and kissing against his hair, stroking the warm skin on his neck. "I'm so, so sorry."
He should of been there.
"I saw their bodies," Steven whispers, voice muffled. "There was so much blood. I thought I did it."
Brendan draws back, looks at the boy. "You thought you'd done it?"
"By wishing for it so much." Steven shakes his head, wipes his nose against his sleeve. "I know how stupid it all sounds, but I wanted them dead, didn't I? I thought I made you kill them."
"Steven. You believe me, don't you? You believe I didn't kill them?"
Steven stares at him, and Brendan waits for the boy to search his eyes, for him to try and see if anything like innocence exists in him.
But Steven takes less than a minute; reaches out a hand and smooths his thumb over Brendan's cheek. The touch is so light that it's barely there, but it's enough.
"I believe you. But who was it, Brendan? Who killed them?"