A/N: This is the penultimate chapter.
Brendan
"Steven - Steven -"
"Brendan, Ste's not here."
"Steven." He's gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut, feels like there's a weight on them that's stopping him from opening them. But he's reaching out, arms grabbing for something - not something, Steven, but the body he's touching is wrong; it's not Steven. Their skin isn't warm like the boy's always is. Their face, when his hand traces over it, isn't the same: it's wrong. It's all wrong.
He can feel the dampness on his cheeks. The shame of knowing he's crying, that someone's witnessing him crying, forces him to open his eyes.
He sits up in bed, wrapping the cover around him, but even the thin sheet feels too suffocating, too hot. He's sweating, feels it against his hand when he presses it to his forehead, and his breathing reminds him of when he was a kid and he'd be running away from something, running for his life. He can sense eyes on him, and he both appreciates the concern and wants it to stop, needs to extinguish it.
"I'm okay. I'm fine," he says, even though Ethan hasn't said anything, hasn't asked him.
"You often have those?"
"What?"
"Nightmares."
Brendan laughs softly. "It wasn't a nightmare." The word sounds childish, something he'd expect Padraig and Declan to be having. It's for children, not for him.
"Seemed like it to me. You were screaming -"
"Stop." He doesn't want to hear any more. If he said something in his sleep, something incriminatory, then he'd rather not know. He looks at Ethan, trying to see if there's something different there, a different way of looking at him, but Brendan can't see anything beneath the surface. If he said anything about Seamus then it doesn't show.
Ethan stands up, and for a moment Brendan thinks he's going to turn off the light, forget this whole conversation. He settles deeper into his bed, beginning to feel less panicked, but it grips him again when instead Ethan turns on the tap in the sink. He's not turning off the light. He's pouring Brendan a glass of water, bringing it over to his bed, not taking his eyes off of him until he drinks it all.
"Thanks," Brendan mutters. It feels like it's torn from him, when what he really wants to do is scream at Ethan for waking him. A nightmare feels kinder than this.
"If you want to talk about it -"
"I don't." He sees the way Ethan leans back slightly, small but perceptible. "I'm tired," he continues, softer this time. "I just want to go to sleep."
He's relieved when they're plunged into blackness once more. He can hear Ethan's breathing evening out, thinks that he's fallen asleep. Brendan nearly jumps when he speaks.
"Ste will be here soon."
"Yeah." He grunts, but the words have an effect on him. He'd seen the boy earlier today, had told him what he was going to do, how tomorrow he's going to change everything. When he'd kissed him he could sense Steven's relief. His body had relaxed, and even when an officer had told them to stop, he hadn't stopped smiling. Neither of them had.
Brendan tries to smile in the darkness. It feels impossible, his mouth and jaw strained and tense. His courage from earlier has evaporated, and he wonders if it's too late to take his words in the visiting room back. It was Amy - it was the fact that Steven had finally told her, and he'd allowed himself to get swept up in it all. Steven will understand if he wants to hold off on things for a while. Maybe he can wait a few weeks, or a month, or -
He closes his eyes, bites down on his lip. The pain makes him wince, but he can't cry out. He's a coward. He made a promise, not only to Steven but to himself. Tomorrow. He's going to tell Desmond everything tomorrow, and whatever happens from there, he has to see it through.
There's no running this time.
::::::
Ste
It's been a week since he told Amy about Brendan. A week since Tony gave him a chance. Two days since his interview at the restaurant, where he'd mumbled his way through questions, had a tour around the kitchen open mouthed, couldn't believe that Tony had walked away from all of this to work at the prison instead. He thought he'd blown it, thought that he'd be told that they'd found someone better, that they couldn't trust him, couldn't depend on him; all the other excuses which he'd already conjured up in his head, trying to prepare for the rejection before he was faced with it.
Dom called him less than an hour after his interview, telling him he'd got the job. He'd told Amy, had seen her wrestle with her instinct to congratulate him before her mouth had set in a hard line. Well done, Steven. She'd offered him a stiff smile, and he'd heard the echo of her bedroom door slamming behind her. It was progress: a few days ago she wouldn't even have acknowledged the achievement. She was even beginning to call him Ste again.
He'd wanted to tell Brendan, had planned it in his head on his bus journey. When he'd seen him he'd pushed it aside. It didn't seem important. What he did outside held its own merit, but what happened when he saw Brendan - he didn't want to talk about the outside world, about everything that Brendan was missing.
He looks at the clock. He knows he shouldn't keep checking. It's like watching a kettle boil; time seems to have stopped since he last looked. It's still hours until Brendan's session with Des. He imagines what Brendan's doing now. Is he deciding what to wear, going back and forth, clothes spread out across the floor like Ste does when he's nervous? Ste hopes he's still asleep. It'll stop him from worrying. But then he remembers: even in sleep Brendan frowns, a deep line of worry across his forehead that Ste tries to smooth away with his lips.
He picks up his phone, flicks to the photos there. They're filled with him and Amy and the kids, and some old ones of him and Rae that he hasn't got around to deleting yet. She'd swiped his phone from his jeans pocket when he'd been sleeping, had captured him, mouth open against the pillow, week old stubble, saliva coating his lips.
His hand hovers over the delete button. He presses yes, watches as the memories disappear. It's not that he regrets what they had - he wants to see her again one day. She'd been alright, Rae. They'd had a laugh together. If things were different, then maybe -
It feels like someone else's life now.
There's nothing of him and Brendan, no pictures or videos or texts. All he has is what's inside his head, and the vivid reminder of what happened in Tony's office. In the week since it happened the marks have faded, but if he looks hard enough there are still faint smudges across his thighs from where Brendan had gripped him.
"Stop being soft," he mutters to himself. He can't keep on doing this. The way things are forming in his head, the way he's looking back at his life like it's already over - this can't continue. He has things to do, things to plan for. There's an entire future awaiting him and if Brendan's starting today, doing something that will change everything, then he has to as well.
He riffles through his rucksack that's stashed in his wardrobe. He's unpacked almost everything, but there's still bits and pieces in the pockets, things he's left there. He hopes Amy hasn't noticed, that she hasn't wondered why he can't put everything away, make a fresh start.
He has a moment of panic when he searches the compartments of the bag, finding nothing. His heart's hammering, his breath caught in his throat. He doesn't remember the number by heart. It'll be somewhere online, but he wouldn't even know where to begin to look for it, and he doesn't know if this man will get in contact with him again; he got what he wanted. He did his job.
Ste's fingers close over a scrap of paper. He sighs, the heat that had appeared on his cheeks subsiding. He sinks to the floor, paper in hand, opening it up, his fingers already dialing the number. It takes a few seconds before someone picks up.
"Can I speak to Jim McGinn please? Tell him it's Ste Hay."
::::::
Brendan
He hasn't been able to have any breakfast. Ethan tried to talk him round, but Brendan had insisted. He can't stomach anything, won't be able to keep it down. He feels in a daze, skin grey tinged, eyes red rimmed, walking through the corridors with unsteady feet, feels half dead from lack of sleep.
He knows he shouldn't call Steven. There's a chance that Amy will pick up, and he can't predict her reaction to him - or he can predict it, and he knows it will be full of clipped sentences and torturous silences, all the evidence he needs that she thinks he's not good enough for Steven.
He's weak. He needs him, now more than ever, and he can't look away from the phone, willing it to ring but knowing it won't. Steven will think better of it, won't want to disturb him, will think he's a nuisance. He won't know that Brendan needs to hear him talking - the aimless chatter, the familiarity of his voice, the challenge there.
Perhaps he's wrong: perhaps Steven is expecting him. He answers on the first ring.
"Steven." He's barely audible. What if Desmond doesn't hear what he's saying? What if he doesn't believe him?
"Bren." He hears the note of surprise in Steven's voice. "I didn't think you'd want to...I hoped you'd call."
"Yeah?" Brendan clings onto the words. I hoped.
"You okay?" The way Steven asks him, it's like he already knows the answer. No, he's not okay. No, he's never been okay, but he has a chance to be. This is his chance.
"I'm here." Whatever that means. "You alright? Everything okay with that little blond of yours?" It's easier, this deflection. It's easier to hear Steven talking, to become immersed in his world.
"She just about cracked me a smile today, so yeah, I think we're alright. Getting there, you know. Brendan..."
Brendan doesn't like his tone. It's cautious, fearful. Like he's done something wrong.
His gut twists.
"What?"
"Don't kick off right, but..."
Brendan waits, imagination running wild. His first thought is Douglas. Maybe he's taken Steven out again, tried to show him the greener grass.
"I talked to Jim."
Brendan frowns. "Jim?"
"McGinn - you know, my lawyer."
"That idiot."
"He's not an idiot, Bren. He got me off, didn't he?"
"Excuse me?"
"The charges. He got me off the charges, didn't he? He got me a reduced sentence. He can't be all bad. Better than that Browning fella of yours."
"Not arguing with you there." Browning had hardly looked at him during his trial. It didn't create a good impression, his own defense hating his guts along with everyone else. The minute Brendan had been sent down, Browning had washed his hands of him.
"I talked to him about you."
Brendan tenses. "What did you say? You didn't -"
"Of course not." Ste hurries to say. "I didn't tell him...you know, about anything personal. Just what everyone knows."
Brendan can imagine how that conversation must have gone. Steven fighting his corner, defending him. McGinn keeping quiet, thinking that Steven was some swooning schoolboy, blind to the truth. Standing by his prison sweetheart.
His fingers scrape down the wall opposite him, burrowing down beneath the plaster, getting it under his nails.
"I just said to him, what if there was something else. Something that the jury missed, some new evidence."
"Jesus." He hopes McGinn isn't smart enough to work out what new evidence means; that he doesn't read between the lines, get at what Steven was trying to say.
"Stop worrying. I promise you, I didn't say anything. But he's decent, Brendan. He was proper pleased for me when I told him how I've been doing since I got out. And he asked about the kids."
"All that means is that he cares about you, not me."
"Same thing, isn't it? If he knows that I'd do anything for you, that I can't live without you -"
Brendan closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath. "You think he's our guy?" He manages to say, and the words feel impossible, the reality of them. All of this is becoming too concrete, too close to happening. Him and Steven, and Jim McGinn - a lawyer who may not want him dead - it's all sounding less like a fantasy, more like a plan.
He hasn't had a plan in five years. Serve his time in here and die. That was his plan.
"He'll work with us. I know he will. He won't charge anything crazy either, will he?"
"I don't care about the money."
"I care. It's bad enough that you're going to have to go to court again. No way are you going to come out of here with nothing."
Court. He's tried not to think that far ahead. Standing in front of a judge and jury, having to reveal what Seamus did to him.
"Steven?"
"Yeah?"
"You don't think..." He doesn't want to say it. But this boy - this man - he knows, doesn't he? He knows everything, things that Brendan's never told anyone, and he's still here. He hasn't left him. That has to count for something. "Are they going to make me tell them everything? About...my dad."
It's the details he's worried about. They'll want evidence, and there's no physical examination Brendan can give them. No swabs or semen or bruises or blood. It's too late. There's only his account of what happened. Account: it sounds cold, stoical.
There's silence. Maybe Steven's thinking about it too, for the first time.
When he speaks, there's a tremble to his voice. Brendan has to believe it's not pity. The line between that and love seems thin sometimes.
"You'll get through it. I'll be with you."
"They're going to ask me things." As Brendan says it he can feel his body sagging, folding it on itself. "About what he did - about when we were together -" He breaks off, a strangled gasp released from his throat that he hopes Steven can't hear. He feels the humiliation of it already. If his family come to court then he'll have to look into their eyes, know that they're listening. Know that Cheryl's entire perception of their childhood is shifting, being destroyed. Know that to Steven he's less of a man, more of a thing, and further apart from him then ever. He won't be able to shake that the next time they're alone. It'll be in Steven's head, poisoning him, the image of what Seamus did.
But if they don't come to court -
If they don't come then he'll be alone.
Steven hushes him gently. "Come back to me."
"I can't -"
"You can."
He can't. He's drowning.
"I'm alone." He can hear the edge of desperation to Steven's voice, and he's disarmed by his sudden words. "Amy's gone out with the kids. They'll be gone for a while."
Brendan's about to interject - are you okay? Do you need someone with you? His mind wanders to Douglas. Loath as his is to suggest it, he'd rather Steven was with a friend than by himself.
Before he can say anything, the boy starts talking again. Always talking. It causes the ghost of a smile to appear on Brendan's lips.
"I'm on my bed." The way he says it, it sounds more like a question, like he's willing Brendan to say something, to continue it for him.
Brendan swallows. "I know what you're trying to do, but..."
He can't find an objection. Something within him feels like it's burning, coming to life. His exhaustion is evaporating, his senses acute. It's been a week since he had Steven in his hands in Tony's office; it could have been a lifetime.
He should tell Steven to stop, that he doesn't have to do this for him. He can't even be certain that Steven's telling him the truth. He might not be in his bedroom at all. This could all be a rouse, an attempt to make him feel better.
He takes the bait. There's men behind him, their sounds and smells drifting across the room. Brendan lowers his voice, huddles closer to the phone and the wall, and he focuses on what's on the other end of the line, tries to crowd everything else out.
"Keep talking."
::::::
Ste
He spreads himself out. He's never done this before, has never had to. He wonders if it's for Brendan's benefit or his own. When he hasn't been thinking about Brendan's promise during their last visit, he's been thinking about this. He's tried other methods while they've been apart: bedroom door locked, laptop propped up on his bed, headphones in, clumsily typing gay porn into the search engine and feeling faintly ridiculous, a blush rising to his cheeks, scrolling through websites and videos until he finds one that piques his interest.
Some do very little for him; the panting and moaning and overdone reactions seem overly choreographed. But there are others - few and far between - that have him pulling at his dick and fucking his hole with his fingers, spilling into his hand and trying to avoid making a mess of his bedsheets. He has a type, he's realised. A narrow waist and broad shoulders. Arms which are large enough to crush you. Stubble. Tattoos. If he ignores the men's accents and doesn't look at their eyes, he can believe they're Brendan.
Sometimes he doesn't need his computer. Sometimes all it takes is a memory. He'll take off all his clothes, leaving the pajamas he'd ordinarily wear in his beside drawer, his boxer shorts peeled off, his socks removed, everything a heap on the floor in case he has to get up in the night for a drink or to use the bathroom.
He'll bury himself under the covers, which always feel too hot even when he's naked - a by product of being in prison for three months with little more than a thin piece of fabric over him. He starts out slow. It takes time for him to shake off his embarrassment, for what he's imagining in his head to become something that feels real enough. He'll stroke his chest softly, fingers trailing over the wispy hairs that cover his skin, gradually going lower until he's at his treasure trail, the hairs growing thicker as he moves closer to his dick. If what he imagines is vivid enough - if he can see Brendan in his head, if he can hear his voice and picture his eyes and lips and hands and dick, then he'll already be hard by the time he's wrapped a hand around himself. He'll play with himself until he feels a shudder run through him, pre-come leaking from the slit of his dick, and he'll smooth it over the skin of his cock, spitting into his palm to further ease the glide.
He never used to play with his hole. It was something he didn't go near until he met Brendan. He didn't know how to work it right; it would feel tight under his touch, and even going in with one finger had felt uncomfortable. Since his release he's worked himself up to four without feeling sore the next morning. He curls them, moves his hand the same way that Brendan does, tugs at his dick with the other.
"Keeping talking." Brendan's voice sounds warm. He's coming back to him.
Ste smiles, pushing off his underwear. He shivers; the air feels thick in his room, but there's a thrill running through him that makes goosebumps erupt on his skin. Brendan likes that: in prison he had liked to kiss along every one of them until they disappeared.
"I'm all yours," he says, and he doesn't think he's ever meant anything more. He can hear the sound of Brendan breathing. It sounds like when they're in bed together, when the weight of his body is on top of Ste's, when he's bearing down on him, laying kisses across his neck, his chest, his thighs. It's the sound he makes before he goes inside him.
"Do what you want with me." He touches his cock but doesn't move his hand. He's waiting for instructions.
"You wearing clothes, Steven?" Brendan's whispering. He'll be in the games room, will be with the other men. It makes blood rush to Ste's cock, the thought of them having this conversation under everyone's noses.
"No. Nothing." He's whispering too - doesn't need to, but it adds to the feeling of secrecy, of privacy.
Brendan hums softly, feels like it ripples through the air between them.
"You wet?"
"Yeah." Ste can feel the pre-come against his thumb.
"Lick it."
He hesitates. It's harder when they're apart, harder to do these things, but with a flicker of his eyelids he's seeing black, and in the black is Brendan in the room with him. He brings his hand up to his mouth, swipes his tongue over it, wonders if Brendan can hear in the silence. Ste makes an Mmm sound.
"Lick your palm now. Coat it."
He does what he says, wetting his palm until it's damp. He's had practice at this: he'd payed special attention to Brendan's thumb when he'd done it, tongue sweeping over it again and again.
"Put it on your dick. Start stroking."
Ste's greedy in his actions. Being alone in his bedroom isn't the same as this. He can fool himself, can pretend, but nothing in his imagination is the same as hearing Brendan's voice.
He raises his hips slightly off the bed. He's barely holding the phone now, has it propped up between his neck and his ear, his hand moving deftly, thumb rubbing against the head of his cock, his fingers brushing against his balls.
He's swearing. Brendan can hear it, and Ste can hear the whispers. Come on. That's it.
"What do you want, Steven?" His voice is so close that it seems impossible that he's not here. Ste imagines him lying on the bed next to him, clothes alongside his on the floor, not taking his eyes off him, pupils blown and hand stroking along Ste's chest. He'd be hard - he must be hard where he is, facing the wall, dick a bold outline in his pants, hands clammy with excitement and the fear of being caught.
"I want you to fuck me."
Brendan's laughing. It's as cruel as it is delicious; a reminder that he can't.
"Slow?"
"No." Ste shakes his head, thrashes it from side to side as his hand pulls roughly, legs shaking. He's close. He must be close already. "Hard. Hard, like -"
Like all the other times, he thinks. He wants it hard.
"You on top, yeah?"
"You." He wants to feel Brendan everywhere. He wants Brendan to pin his hands to the bed, to rock into him, to make him come without him having to touch his dick.
"Get on your front, Steven."
"But I haven't -" He hasn't come, and he needs to.
"On your front," Brendan repeats, firmer this time.
Ste rolls over, balls heavy, dick rubbing against the mattress as he moves up and down, creating friction and waiting for Brendan to tell him what to do next.
"Are your fingers still wet?"
He wets them again, stomach muscles hollow as he sucks in a breath, body all wrought up tension and unsatisfied desire.
"Hang on a sec," Ste says. He knows what's coming next, knows what Brendan will want him to do. He reaches out and opens the drawer beside him, searching until he finds a freshly opened bottle of lubricant. He opens the cap - listens to the sound and wonders if Brendan can hear it too - and pours a generous amount into his hand.
"Ready."
"I want you to fuck yourself." He barely sounds like Brendan anymore: he isn't the controlled, detached man who everyone else knows, who Ste had first met. Ste doesn't want to think about the men who have come before; when he hears Brendan like this, it sounds like he's the only one who's ever heard the freedom there.
He lies his head against the pillow, face forward, bum in the air, knees drawn up to his stomach, one hand around the phone, the other wet with lube. He waits.
"Go on."
Brendan doesn't have to tell him. He moves his hand behind him, a single finger running down his arse cheek, building himself up to what he's going to do next. He doesn't know how Brendan senses it - he can't see what he's doing, can't know where Ste's hand is, but it feels like he does. When he says go in, Ste's helpless to resist. His finger circles his hole, gliding over his entrance, getting himself ready by covering himself with lube.
When he goes in, there's an ache that has him gasping into the pillow.
"You okay?" Brendan's voice is soft, coaxing.
Ste mumbles that he is. He stretches himself with his finger, puts it all the way in until he's up to the knuckle. He shifts a little, adjusting, getting comfortable. It's not the same as when Brendan does it; it never will be, but it has its own kind of pleasure that makes his toes curl and his body spasm.
"Put it another, Steven."
He can't. He tells him: I can't, and then he comes. He moves away from the wet patch on the bed. He'll have to wash the sheets again, will try to do it before Amy comes home with the kids.
He's panting when he lies on his back, looking up at the ceiling. The flat hasn't been decorated in years - he finds it hard to believe that it was ever decorated - but it doesn't have the stains and the chewing gum sticking to the plaster like he had in his cell. He clutches the phone, lets Brendan hear him breathing, the way he's struggling to get back to normal.
"I need to -" Brendan hasn't come yet; his voice twists.
"Go. I love you."
"I love you too. Thank you."
Ste knows what he's really saying it for, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't want to mention what Brendan will be doing in less than a hour. He can't risk losing him again.
He puts the phone down, imagining Brendan going to his cell, jerking himself off until he spills over his hand.
Ste cleans himself up, stripping his bed, putting his clothes back on. He feels a looseness in his bones, like they're relaxing all at once. But his head feels full. Less than an hour, and their world changes.
::::::
Brendan
I love you.
You're my life.
I can't live without you.
The words echo in his head. He clings onto them with a desperation that feels dangerous. They're all he has, all that's keeping him from losing his nerve, from things collapsing around him.
He's loved. No matter what he tells Desmond or Cheryl or Jim McGinn, he's loved. Steven loves him. He's not alone anymore.
He wants a drink, needs one, but he can't go down that path again. When he's sick in the bathroom he swigs his mouth clean with water, flushing the toilet and washing his hands, trying to avoid his reflection there. He's scared of seeing it; scared of seeing a monster or a weak man. He doesn't know which one's worse.
He's functioning on no sleep, no food. All he has is Steven's faith in him. He knows he could lie to the boy, could pretend that he's told Desmond when he hasn't. He could tell Steven to back off, that he's decided not to take this to court. That he'd rather spend his life behind bars than talk about his childhood to a group of men and women who will never understand, who'll recoil in disgust at him, who'll think he's a liar.
He could say all that. He doesn't think Steven will leave him for it.
For the first time, he realises that he has to do this for himself. As he makes his way to Desmond's office, there's a voice inside him that's screaming at him to stop. To turn back. But there's another voice, and it's growing louder by the day, and it's telling him that there's a different life he could have, a life that he was robbed of. He's been so close for so long. He doesn't want to be so close anymore. He wants to have that life.
He knocks on Desmond's door; loud, solid knocks that make him sound more confident than he feels.
"Come in." It's just an ordinary day for the man. When Brendan enters the room and stares across at him, Desmond doesn't do anything to suggest that he knows what's about to happen.
Brendan closes the door, then freezes, unable to move an inch. Desmond looks confused. They've settled into a routine, a way of being around each other, and this sudden shyness goes against that.
"Take a seat, Brendan." There's no force behind his words. It sounds like an offering, an illusion that everything's in Brendan's hands, under his terms.
When he can move again, he doesn't sit in the chair. He lies down on the bed.
He can't see Desmond, can't see his reaction. Brendan doesn't hear him make a sound.
The bed's not as lumpy as the one in his cell. The pillow's softer, and the cover isn't as scratchy underneath him. He stares down at his feet, hands clasped together. He pulls his shirt down lower, making sure it's over his stomach. His belt feels suddenly tight. He shouldn't have worn one.
He clears his head, begins.
"Don't say anything." It's unnecessary; he doesn't think Desmond's the type to interrupt. He seems to be able to sense when Brendan wants his input and when he doesn't. "Please," he adds. It's difficult - he finds it difficult, all the pleases and thank you's, the manners that have never come easily to him. But he wants this man on side, wants him to see the good in him.
He's thought about this in his head, what he could say, but now it's just a jumble of words fighting to get out. He thinks about leading up to it, but it feel too much like telling a story, narrating someone else's life, a nightmare from a storybook. He wants this over as soon as possible, like peeling a plaster off a wound: sharp, quick, painful but then painless.
I love you.
You're my life.
I can't live without you.
"When I was eight years old, my dad sexually abused me."
He lets the words sink into the air around them. Lets the silence drag on, needs to be sure that Desmond won't interrupt like Brendan had asked.
"It went on for years." His throat feels raw. His legs feel incapable of movement, like they're tied to the bed. Sweat's trickling down his back, his pulse flittering in his wrist, heat flooding through him. He's going to pass out. He's going to stop breathing. He feels panic grip him, and it's with all the determination and strength that he possesses that he continues.
He's sure he's dying, but somehow he's still talking.
"I thought I never had to see him again." As he says it he can see it: escaping from home when he was a teenager. Meeting Eileen and marrying her. Having Declan and Padraig and trying to bring some semblance of normality into their lives. Seamus's shadow had never gone away, but Brendan had learnt to endure it. He was distant from their lives, from him and Cheryl. They had been safe.
"He came back." Again he sees it. He see's the way Seamus had looked at him when they'd come face to face again. There had been a smugness about him, a triumph like he knew exactly what chaos his reemergence was causing. He can hear the snarl in Seamus's voice when he'd been talking to him. He remembers Cheryl telling him that their father wanted to move closer to them, and he'd known then that he was trapped. The kids would want to see their grandfather. Eileen would want to see her father in law. Brendan would appear cruel if he'd tried to stop it.
"He tried to...he tried to do it again."
He can feel the fear that he felt that day, the day when he'd changed the course of his life. He can still smell the stench of alcohol that had been coming from his father, and the words he'd spat at him. You've been a naughty boy, Brendan.
"He tried to get me onto my back." He's crying now. Not the kind of crying that makes a sound. Silent tears, ones that roll down his cheeks and disappear like a swirl of dust in the air. "I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to."
He hadn't wanted to kill him. He'd just wanted it to stop.
It's done now. He's said what he needed to say. He can't look back at that day again, not now. If he has to say it in court then he will; he'll force himself to. But once. Just once. Any more than that and he won't survive it.
Desmond's done what he's asked. They're both silent, Brendan closing his eyes so fiercely that it begins to hurt.
He needs him to say something now. He needs to hear that he's not a monster. That even if he did something wrong, he isn't wrong.
Help me, is what Brendan finally says.
::::::
Ste
He's been sick.
Amy hasn't been able to keep the coldness up. She's tucked him up in bed, a cool flannel pressed against his forehead, a collection of magazines on the bed in front of him. She's brought him a copy of Gay Times. He stares at it in bafflement when he sees it; imagines her deliberating what to buy in the shops, what he'd like. He turns the pages idly, only one of the men catching his eye: tattoos, a beard, boxers tight and looking like they can barely contain what's underneath. It makes him feel better, and then it makes him feel worse. This man isn't Brendan. No one is.
Amy's asked him questions. She's not stupid, she knows that he rarely gets ill, that usually something's triggered it. Whenever he used to receive unexpected visits from Terry and Pauline he'd been like this - skin almost translucent it was so pale, stomach queasy, head feeling feverish. He's okay for half an hour, flicking between channels on television, talking to Leah and Lucas. They don't want to get too close to him. They think it's catching, and he'd rather let them believe that than the truth, that he can't stop thinking about what Brendan's telling Des.
Leah's not that much younger than Brendan was when Seamus -
Ste sits up in bed, scared that he's going to need to rush to the bathroom again. He's pleased that Amy's not sitting beside him; she'd only fuss, try to dig around and find out what's really going on. The sun from outside is pouring through the curtains. Ste can hear the sound of children playing outside, of talking and laughter and life. But for him, the world seems to have stopped.
When the phone rings, Ste almost runs from his bed in his haste to answer it.
"Hello?" Please let it be him. Please. He can't wait any longer. This is what torture feels like. Not what happened in the library with Warren. This. It's a sobering thought: he's more scared for Brendan than he was for himself back then.
Ste knows it's him. He doesn't say anything, but through the silence Ste knows.
"I love you." He doesn't know why he says it. He only knows that if he doesn't he'll regret it for the rest of his life.
"He believed me." There's an astonishment behind Brendan's words that makes Ste desperately sad. He's spent too long thinking that no one would believe him. Ste hates it; hates that he can do nothing to change it.
"Because it's true."
Brendan's relief is palpable. The sigh he releases sounds like it's been locked away for ever.
"Tomorrow -" Brendan begins, but he cuts himself off. Ste hadn't dared mention the possibility of tomorrow. Whatever Brendan wants, they'll do. If he wants to forget all this, then he can. If he wants to take this to court, then Ste will be with him the whole way.
"Tomorrow it begins."
Ste doesn't know what that means. He's scared to ask. Perhaps Brendan senses his fear, because he keeps going.
"You and me. It begins."
"You mean -" He thinks this is it; he thinks this is what it feels like to be happy.
"Give me McGinn's number," Brendan says.
Ste grabs the piece of paper that he's stored away carefully by his bedside, reading the number out, his voice as clear as he can make it. He feels like his body's floating, like it's unchained from something that's being holding it down for a long time.
"You're the..." Ste's crying now; he thinks they both are. "You're the bravest man I've ever known."
He hears Brendan say it: I love you. I love you. I love you.
"Tomorrow, it's..." Ste laughs, can't believe that any of this is happening. "It's everything, isn't it? After today, we get our happy ever after."