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Brendan had driven along the deserted Irish roads like he was trying to get them killed. Ste wondered if the Irishman would have any regrets if he rolled the old van and sent them all to hell in a fiery inferno. Probably not. Brendan didn't seem like the kind of man who had any regrets about anything.

He didn't drop them off at their individual zones like he usually did when they came back from a job, he just pulled up outside his house and got out of the van without a word to anyone.

'Is we supposed to just walk back right?' Spike asked. The question had been to everyone, but he couldn't help feel that the three boys in the van were expecting Ste to be able to answer it. He just shrugged in response.

They didn't have to wait long until a disgruntled looking Warren stomped out of the house and got into the driving seat. He didn't have much to say for himself either except:

'Blue and Violet Zone?'

Everyone nodded silently and he drove them home. They drove along a different road to usual. In the few times Ste had been driven to Blue Zone before, they'd always gone in to Central Square first and then taken the street out to Blue Zone from there. This time they took the first left, on a road that took them to the very bottom of The Estate's hill, to Violet Zone.

It was very different to Blue Zone, which surprised Ste. He'd expected them all to be pretty similar, run down and council estate-like, but this was … nice. There were no burning bins, no piles of rubbish, the roads weren't filled with skateboard ramps. None of the windows were boarded up and the houses had real brass numbers screwed to the neatly painted doors, not just the large spray painted numbers which were more common in Blue Zone. This zone was almost middle-class.

Warren stopped outside a house with the number 12 on it. It had flowerboxes and a small water feature for god's sake.

'Wishing you were here in Violet Zone, Mickey Mouse?' Warren asked. Ste glanced around to see the boy in question pressed up so close to glass that he looked like he was trying to merge with it to become some lesser known superhero; "Glass Man".

'S'nice, innit,' he shrugged, falling back into his seat like he didn't care.

'How comes we don't get nice houses like this, yeah?' Spike muttered to Mickey.

'Blue Zone used to look like this,' Joel answered coolly. He wasn't whispering anymore. He had some weird understanding with Warren. 'But when the Blue Zoners first moved in, they, er … redecorated.'

'Exactly,' Warren agreed.

They continued along the road through Indigo Zone to get to Blue Zone. Indigo Zone was just as posh as Violet Zone had been. Ste began to resent Brendan for sending him to what was clearly the cesspit of The Estate.

They pulled into Blue Zone eventually, only narrowly avoiding the House 14 boys who were still skateboarding under the single working streetlamp.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' Warren yelled, winding down the window. 'It's two in the morning. Who the hell skateboards at two in the morning?'

'Sorry, bro,' one shouted. He had a distinctly Aussie accent, or was it Kiwi. Ste knew there was some boy in the zone who got dead offended if you called him Australian even though he sounded like one. That could be him, all dark hair and pale skin, he didn't look Australian.

'Get out,' Walker snarled at them. Whatever semblance of patience he usually possessed was well and truly worn out. He held Doug back. It looked like part of Warren's job was to give the American some ice and some kind words, but all it really did was give Ste time to run over to the House 14 boy-who-may-have-been-Kiwi-or-possibly-Australian and ask to borrow his skateboard.

'No worries, bro,' the boy nodded, kicking his board up from the ground and catching it deftly. 'All yours, just return it, eh?'

''Course, yeah,' Ste agreed. The boy hadn't even asked what he needed it for, just handed it over as though it was nothing. Some people were just too trusting in Ste's opinion.

He snuck back to the van and crouched down, balancing carefully on the board and clinging onto the tailgate.

'What are you doing?' Joel asked, barely moving his mouth. He was pretending to be casually waiting for Doug.

'Going back to the house,' Ste whispered, drying his sweaty palms on his trousers and trying to get a better grip. 'I need to see him,' he explained, when Joel's face flinched with confusion just for a second. 'I need to see if he's okay.'

'What's going on with you two, eh?'

'That's what I have to find out,' he explained as a black hoodie decorated with a silver fern landed on the ground next to him.

'Put it on,' the owner of the skateboard muttered. He didn't sound that different even with his teeth pressed together in a similar weird smile to Joel's. 'You'll get cold tailgating at this time of night, eh. And you need to swap sides.' The boy's eyes flicked quickly to the exhaust pipe as explanation.

'Oh,' Ste gave an embarrassed chuckle. He probably should have worked that out for himself. 'Ta.'

He pulled on the sweater and switched sides quickly.

'No worries, bro. Do this, you go up on the wall of fame.'

Ste was about to ask what that meant, when the van coughed into action. He zipped up the jacket and held on so tight his knuckles went a strange white colour.

The cold wind was snatching his breath away, and even with the jumper, it felt like he was being sliced in two by the cold air. He wished more than anything that he had enough strength in one little chicken arm to hold himself steady so he could drag the hood up around his face. But his fingers were burning and his biceps were in agony and he could barely keep balanced on the board as it was. Every stone in the road felt like it was trying to hurl him off into the black vortex of certain bone breakages that surrounded him on every side. The bugs seemed to be magnetically drawn to his face and the petrol fumes were making him feel dizzier by the second. He was beginning to realise what a stupid idea this was. He could have just walked to the top of the hill, he could have gone tomorrow, but seeing Brendan felt urgent somehow.

Eventually, they slowed to a halt. But they weren't outside Brendan's yet. Instead there were in the middle of one of the zones. He had no idea which one it was, but it wasn't full of scaffolding so that ruled out Green Zone. He pulled the hood of his jacket up and tightened it. He was glad that it was black, helping him disguise himself in the shadows, especially when the door of the van slid open and he heard Warren get out. He pressed himself as close to the van as he could. Had Warren somehow spotted him in the wing mirrors? Or maybe he just had some vampiric sixth sense when it came to things like this.

'Well,' a voice he didn't recognise asked out of the shadows.

'Didn't go as planned.'

'Cian?'

'Alive.'

'How?'

'I don't know. I wasn't there.'

There was a pause in the conversation and Ste thought about sneaking a glance around the side of the van, but a few scraps of information about Brendan's schemes weren't really worth risking his life over.

'Was anyone there?'

'No.'

'So….'

'All taken care of,' Warren seemed pretty smug. 'Nothing for you or anybody to worry about. Everything's on track.'

There was a final bit of muttering, too quiet for Steven to overhear and then the door creaked again, and once again the van was driving away. They didn't have to go very far this time until they were in front of Brendan's house and he let go of the tailgate as the van continued on to the garage. He didn't really know how to control the skateboard and ended up stopping by crashing it into a hedge, which wasn't nearly as soft as it looked like it should have been. He tucked the skateboard into the branches, and made a mental note to remember to pick it up later, before turning to Brendan's house. He could just about make-out a shadowy finger standing on the balcony; Brendan.

He glanced around quickly. There had to be some way of getting to the balcony without going through the house. If Warren had driven to the garage, there was every chance he would end up in Brendan's house, and how would Ste explain away the fact he was in the house smelling of petrol fumes.

He saw it, the drainpipe. He could shimmy up that easily enough, shuffle across the window ledge to reach the chrome rail of the glass-fenced balcony.

The reach wasn't as easy as it had looked from the floor. He was really straining his arms to get a grip, and the shiny chrome surface wasn't ideal material when attempting to hang from something. He was just about to bite the bullet and make a leap for it, when the loud roaring of an engine distracted him. He lost his footing and only just managed to cling on.

He glanced down at the thing that had nearly killed him; a hot pink convertible car. How embarrassing.

By the time Ste had regained his balance and dragged himself on to the balcony, Brendan was long gone. Ste paused for a moment, looking over The Estate. He pretended for a second that everything he could see, all the streetlamps, the outlines of the houses, the orange glow of indoor lights, was his. He wondered if this was what it was like to be Brendan Brady. He liked it.

'He's on the balcony.'

Those were the first words out of Anne's mouth, when she barged her way into his bedroom.

'What?' Brendan asked, exasperated. He'd called her because he wanted to forget about Macca and O'Shaughnessy. He'd called her because he wanted to drink whiskey until dawn and listen to her ramble on about how she was cheated out of the part in her most recent shambolic attempt at a television audition. He hadn't called her because he really fancied solving a cryptic clue.

But no, today she was Mystereee (with three "e"s) Anne and all she did was repeat:

'He's on the balcony.'

'Who is?'

'Steven.'

'What?' Had she lost the plot somewhere in that pretty little head of hers? 'I think all the botox and hairspray has finally done something to that thing you call a brain.'

'Oh great,' she scorned, pulling at her blazer, there was a sort of playsuit thing going on tonight. 'We're in that sort of mood.'

'What kind of mood were you hoping for Anne?'

'Oh I don't know.' He almost forgot that her ability to be sarcastic probably surpassed his own. 'Stupid me, I thought you might actually be smiling. You've spent a dirty evening in my apartment and now he's on your balcony.' She paused for a moment before adding: 'You've obviously got better at it since we … you know.'

She was making lewd hand-gestures and Brendan wanted to launch his glass at the wall, but there was scotch in it and the thought of being blind drunk was more appealing than the thought of shattered glass.

'Can you stop?' he muttered. 'I've had a bad day.' He took a long swig of his drink as though to emphasise the point.

She frowned for a second, took a big theatrical breath.

'I repeat,' she said. 'You've spent a dirty evening in my apartment and now he's on your balcony. If I were in your position, I certainly wouldn't be stomping around as though someone had broken my favourite vase.'

'Not funny,' he warned. He really wasn't in the mood for idiotic comments like that. He hated losing things, it didn't matter what they were, the vase, Macca. They'd both been his, they were both gone.

'All I'm saying is I wouldn't be drinking my own body weight in scotch … unless it's in celebration.'

Brendan swirled the liquid around in the glass for a second and downed it.

'Macca's gone.'

'Oh, so we are celebrating,' she was grinning semi-idiotically and he'd really been hoping she would join his miserable attempt at a quick, one-night downward spiral. He just shook his head once and poured himself some more scotch. He wouldn't look up at her again, he refused to let her spoil his bad mood. He felt her sit next to him rather than saw it. There was a dip in the bed and her arm touched his.

'What happened?' she sighed.

'He was cheating,' he almost snarled the words out. It had annoyed him. He'd given Macca so much and…. 'Cheating, Anne.'

'So were you.' He could always rely on Anne for unwanted honesty. 'It's not about that though, is it?'

'I don't know,' he said staring down at his empty glass. 'Sometimes I feel like I'm losing control of this place. I'm on an island in the middle of the ocean and parts keep breaking away.'

'You're poetic when you're drunk,' she mused, resting her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickled the side of his face.

'You're the only one I can really trust, Anne,' he whispered, trying to drain the last few drops from his already empty glass.

'You know,' she said, reaching for the glass and pulling it carefully free from his fingers. 'I hate to keep taking this conversation in circles, but…'

He felt her hand on the small of his back, pushing him to his feet.

'… he's on the balcony.

Brendan floated blindly to his feet and more or less stumbled towards the balcony doors. He wasn't drunk, far from it, but Anne, alcohol and angst and mixed into a weird cocktail and he felt a bit like he was dreaming when he opened the door to find Steven looking over The Estate grooming a fake handlebar moustache.

Brendan couldn't stop the smile from splitting his face. Maybe he hadn't lost all control.

'What are you doing Steven?'

The boy jumped like a gun had gone off and even in the dim glow through his thin curtains, Brendan could see the colour drain from his face. He still had the misplaced audacity to say:

'You wanna watch what you're doing! Sneaking up one people like that, you almost gave me a heart attack.'

Brendan said nothing. He just raised an eyebrow in amusement and went to stand next to the boy. He didn't know if it was the cold night air or the silvery moonlight, but he felt a lot more relaxed now that he was on the balcony. He felt comfortable with the silence, and wasn't stressing himself out over what he'd have to say to the boy who's climbed onto his balcony like some kind of delusional Romeo, but he would have to think of something.

It shouldn't have surprised him that Steven thought of something to say first. On all the occasions he's stood here with Macca, his ex had only ever managed to stand in silence or whine about the weather. Steven wasn't like his ex, wasn't like any of his exs – not beyond the fact he ticked every box on a sheet marked "Brendan Brady's Type".

'I get why you stand here,' he said, sliding his hands up and down the chrome bar slowly. If felt suggestive and Brendan wondered whether his addiction to Steven was as unhealthy as it felt. He gripped the bar himself, suddenly he needed something to hold on to. 'It looks nice.'

'Does it?'

'Doesn't it?' Steven glanced up at him, their eyes met just for a second just like they had a million times before, but somehow it felt different to all the other times. There was more than lust in Steven's eyes now. He seemed shy about it, looked away quickly and continued:

'I'd stand here all the time, me. Just taking in the view.'

'The view of The Estate.' He would have laughed if Steven hadn't seemed so serious. 'It's not as peaceful when the sun comes up. I promise you that.'

They were quiet for a second and Steven slid his hand across the bar, fingers sliding just barely over Brendan's. He flinched away instinctively. He didn't really hold hands, it was too intimate. Touching, kissing; that led somewhere had an ultimate purpose. Holding hands was romantic, he didn't do romantic. Not in public. Not in private. Not even in his head.

'Why're you going cold on me now?' Steven demanded.

'Oh not this again,' Brendan groaned. He took a few steps away, needed the breathing space. 'You're beginning to sound like a whining woman.'

'I just don't get it,' Steven reasoned. 'I wanted us to be together. You said we couldn't. I ask why, you said: Macca.'

Brendan felt Steven's hands on his arm. He wouldn't look at the boy. He just knew somehow that that would be a bad idea. It didn't stop Steven from continuing:

'But he's gone now'. The tone of his voice wasn't as pleading as Brendan had expected. It was more like Steven was placating him, like he was talking to a raging dog. Maybe that was how Steven saw him, a beast that needed taming. Maybe Steven had some twisted notion that he should be the guy to tame Brendan Brady. That was what Vincent had believed too, and where had that got him? A broken heart, a few too many Bacardi's and a horrific car crash.

'Macca's gone, Brendan,' Steven repeated. 'There's nothing to stop us being together, now is there?'

'What about May?'

'Rae.'

'Her.'

'Well….' He hesitated. It was just for a second. Steven probably didn't even notice it himself but Brendan did. He'd spent years perfecting his ability to read people. 'She's nothing, is she?' Steven said. He sounded sure but there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes and Brendan knew better than anyone that it was easy to stay in worthless relationships for less than a flicker of guilt.

'She's just a prostitute,' Steven continued. 'She probably doesn't even like me.'

'Probably.'

He couldn't look at the boy, but from the corner of his eye, he could see Steven chewing on the chord of his borrowed black hoody; trait of an uncertain liar.

'You should leave now,' Brendan said calmly.

'What? No!'

'I have enough people around me who I can't trust, Steven. I don't need another.'

'What?' He seemed genuinely confused, but Brendan was three scotches beyond common sense and a lifetime beyond regret.

'Leave,' he repeated, quieter but more commanding. He expected Steven to do as Macca would have done, pout and whine about how unfair he was being, or perhaps Steven was more like Vincent, so he'd yell and make threats about having plenty of other options. But Steven, as always, surprised him.

The boy walked straight towards him and Brendan found himself being kissed hard, almost painful and full of anger and promise. And then it was over and he was looking at Steven who muttered:

'Don't push me away, right. Or it might start to work.'

Steven left through the house, probably bumped into Anne, maybe even Warren on his way out, but Brendan was too dumbfounded to react to it. Steven had come back to him after a fight and Brendan hadn't even had to make him. Maybe he wielded more power over this boy than he thought.

'I like him,' Anne's voice distracted him from his thoughts.

'You don't like anyone,' he answered coolly. 'Except me,' he flashed her a grin. It felt forced, smiling wasn't really something his face did naturally. She was leaning against the door way, one arm above her head against the frame, body curving like a supermodel. It was wasted on him all he saw was an obstruction as he tried to go back inside and refill his scotch glass.

'Move.'

'I like him more than I liked Macca,' she clarified, ignoring him.

'Move.'

And when she ignored him a second time, he just hoisted her up over his shoulder and carried her inside, dropping her unglamorously onto the bed. She spent a few moment glaring daggers at him while she fixed her hair. Her hair looked the same as it always did, but it gave Brendan a respite before she spoke again. He knew she wouldn't let this go.

'I like him more than I liked Vinnie too.'

It was his turn to ignore her. So she continued:

'And do you know the best bit, Brendan?'

'What's the best bit, Anne?' He tried to sound angry or bored of her opinions about Steven. It didn't work, he sounded genuinely interested.

'You like him more than both of them too.'

She was wrong. Complete wrong. Even if she wasn't wrong, it was early days with Steven. Neither Vincent of Macca had made him want to tear their voice boxes out at this point either. Although it wouldn't be false to say Steven interested him more than the other two had. Steven interested him more than anyone ever had.

Joel was staring at Ste like he had bird crap on his forehead and was too scared to tell him, or maybe that was the expression Joel wore when he just worked out you'd been screwing the boss. Ste ignored him. It was difficult because the game he was playing "see how much water from your drinks bottle you can get into Bart's shoes" wasn't very interesting. He was sat too close to the Nikes and so far he'd barely spilt a drop. Even so, the thought of Bart returning to find the inside of his ugly old Nikes drenched and smelling like cat pee should have been enough to make Ste smile. It wasn't, and that was because of Joel and all his uncomfortable staring. It was making him squirm.

'What!' he snapped eventually, abandoning his game.

Joel just glanced away infuriatingly and mumbled: 'nothing.'

But the dam was broken and Joel's questions soon began to leak through.

'Macca was right, wasn't he?'

'About?' Ste tried to sound bored, hoped that he wasn't blushing too much or squirming too much in his seat.

'You and …' he lowered his voice, 'Brady.'

Ste nodded. Joel already knew, this was just confirmation and Ste didn't really feel like hiding. He'd never cared what anyone thought about him or his life, he wasn't going to start now that he was on The Estate.

'How though? I thought you were straight.'

'I am,' Ste shrugged, it made a kind of weird sense to him, he just hoped Joel would understand that: 'It's just him.'

'So you've never done it with a bloke before?'

'No,' Ste sounded disgusted, felt disgusted by the idea.

'But you have with Brendan?'

Ste nodded again. He knew he was blushing, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and it was pathetic, he wasn't some prudish teen recounting his first time. He pulled up his hood. Just as he thought Joel's questions were over, the Scott asked:

'Does it hurt?'

'I'm not answering that!' Ste groaned.

'Okay, okay,' he was smiling a bit as he bounced straight back with: 'You must get stubble rash.'

'Maybe a bit,' he shrugged. 'I don't know, do I? I can't see my face afterwards.'

'What about in other places?' he asked, looking meaningfully towards Ste's crotch and before he really knew what he was doing, he'd got Joel full in the face with the water from his bottle.

'You little….' But the insult was lost as he flung himself across the room and sending both himself and Ste to the floor. The fight may have been open-fisted, but there was still pride at stake and Ste didn't appreciate being sat on by Joel. They tussled, rolling over and over the occasional sound of palm meeting skin ringing through the room.

There were a few insults lost in the melee and Joel kept trying to get out an insult about stopping before Brendan kills him for messing up the face of his dirty, little lover, but Ste would catch him with a stinging blow to the cheek and they'd be off again.

Ste didn't know how long it took them to get to where they were now, slumped on the sofa panting breathlessly and occasionally remembering they were supposed to be fighting and sending a half-arsed slap in the other person's direction.

'Hey,' Ste said eventually. 'You won't tell anyone, will you?'

'Not even Kevin?' Joel asked, earning himself another half-slap. 'I'm joking,' he moaned. 'Course I won't mate. And the London boys haven't got a clue. They just think you've "got the ear of the boss", like you're gonna be the new Warren. What a joke, you're about as threatening as a butterfly.'

'Thanks,' Ste said solemnly, earning himself a confused expression. 'For not saying anything,' he clarified. And with all the false bravado of a high school stud, he added, ''cause I got Rae, me and I don't wanna mess that up.'

'Might wanna stop sleeping with Brady then, eh?'

But that just wasn't an option.

Thanks for reading. x