Chapter Update!

I'm going away on holiday – hooray! So this is a longer update and there will be a shorter update on Friday but then nothing for a few weeks.

There was something cold edging just at the corners of his warm, comfortable dream. He couldn't quite grab any real images from his subconscious, but he'd felt safe there and less alone and he wanted to hold on to that for as long as he could.

He ignored the coldness as it started to bite at his biceps. He felt the cold shake him like an earthquake. He fought against it. It was trying to drag him back to reality and he really, really didn't want to go back to that. Not yet. Not now.

'Ste.'

Ste's eyes snapped open. He leapt to his feet, raising his fists. It would have been more impressive if they hadn't been all tangled up in a blue and red fleece blanket. It took him longer than it should have done to untangle himself. He eventually managed to throw the restraint to the ground but he knew he wasn't in danger, which was lucky, because anyone of The Estate could easily have beaten him unconscious in the time he'd just taken to free himself of the fleecy prison.

He looked up and blinked the face ahead of him in to focus.

'Doug?' he frowned. 'What the hell are you doing? I was asleep, me.'

'You looked cold,' he shrugged. 'I just wanted to….' Doug gestured feebly to the blanket on the floor, which Ste could now see was an imitation of the US flag and was soaking up water like a flannel. 'You looked cold,' Doug repeated.

'Well, er, thanks, I guess,' Ste frowned. 'But as you can see, I'm fine. Don't need anyone me.' Which was a stupid thing to say even by Ste's standards because he was quite clearly not fine.

'Don't shut me out.' Doug actually had the brash insensitivity to look hurt. 'The guys would extradite me if they knew I was talking to you.'

'I don't know what that means,' Ste shrugged.

'They'll ban me from the house,' Doug explained.

'Why? They don't think you're a snitch, do they? Just me.'

'Look, Ste,' he said slowly. 'If you say you didn't tell Brendan anything….'

'I didn't.'

'Then I believe you.' He seemed honest. Truthful Doug, the vanilla criminal with a heart of gold. Ste almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. No one in his entire pathetic life, except possibly Callum, had ever believed him.

'You do?' he asked quietly.

'Of course,' Doug insisted, resting a hand on Ste's shoulder. It was a meaningless gesture when you thought about it, but Ste was grateful. He actually felt comforted, until Doug opened up his big yanky mouth and began to talk nonsense again:

'You were spending a lot of time with Brendan there for a while. It's only natural people would start jumping to some wild conclusions.'

'Hmm,' Ste hummed, wishing he could have just an ounce of Doug's optimism, just for a day. Just for a moment.

'I'm sorry it's over,' Doug continued.

'Don't be. It wasn't like it was a relationship or anything.'

'Well if you wanna talk, I'm here.'

Ste smirked a little. He couldn't exactly imagine opening up to optimistic little Doug about the hellish passion and black hole romance that he and Brendan had shared.

'There's nothing to talk about,' he insisted. 'I just want to come up with a way of seeing Rae again now, me.'

'Why? What happened to Rae?'

Ste was about to launch into a long theory about Rae being fired and how he loved her and needed her back and how Mitzeee was bang out of order for doing what she did. But a car horn sounded, distracting both of them.

They looked up to see Brendan's BMW and the man himself leaning out of the window.

'What's going on here?' he called.

'Just talking,' Doug answered, as though they weren't out of bounds and as though Brendan wasn't the single most infuriating and infatuating man in the world. Ste just couldn't look at him; there were too many emotions imploding inside him.

'Well … move,' Brendan shouted back. 'You know the rules Douglass. Central Square is for meals, meetings and picking up girls. Anyway,' he continued as easily as though they were chatting over a few drinks down the pub. 'Steven needs to get started on dinner. The food's been dropped at Blue Zone, House 4.'

'Don't live there anymore, do I?' Ste replied. He was sure Brendan would know the situation. He knew everything. So what was the point of this? To taunt him? To make him feel worse than he already did?

'Well,' Brendan began, but Ste would never know what he was going to say because Doug jumped in first with:

'It's okay. He can cook at my house.'

'Can he now?' Brendan almost seemed angry. Not that Doug noticed. He was just an endless stretch of American positive thinking.

'Sure,' he grinned. 'We will have everything ready by dinner time.'

'We?' Brendan spat the word like an insult.

'Yeah, the dream team.' Doug put his arm around Ste in some kind of show of solidarity, but Ste could almost see the fury twitching in Brendan's expression. It was strange how easily he could read the Irishman, when reading other people had been like trying to understand Russian.

Despite that, all Brendan said was:

'Get to it then' before winding up his window and driving off.

'You shouldn't have done that you know,' Ste panicked, pushing Doug and his half-hug away.

'Why?'

'Didn't you see him?'

'I saw him driving away.'

'No, his face. His face was furious.'

'We'll deal with that later,' Doug sighed like it wasn't important. He was a fool. Brendan was important. He was the most important thing in The Estate. Even though Ste hated the boss right now, he wasn't stupid enough to think he would let this go.

'We need to get on with the cooking,' Doug went on. 'We need to have finished by the time the guys get back from that Green Zone Party.'

'Right, yeah,' Ste agreed.

::

He was still in a daze as he followed Doug back to Blue Zone. The place was deserted. The party in Green Zone must have been a big one. They had plenty of time to pick up the crates of food from outside House 4 and drag them to House 16.

They were well into their symmetrical cooking dance before Doug finally pointed out the obvious:

'So, it's Orange Zone's day to cook. Why are you doing it?'

'New policy,' Ste shrugged, tossing herbs into the mince to give the cheap, plastic-like burger patties some kind of flavour. 'I'm cooking every night now.'

'Doesn't seem fair.'

'Doesn't matter about fair,' Ste answered sharply. But Doug's hurt expression made him explain: 'As Warren put it: "You have no criminal talent",' he said in his best Warren impression, "but you can cook a pizza without burning it".'

'At least he thinks you can do something,' Doug reasoned.

'Huh?'

'You know Warren. If he could get rid of everyone from Green Zone and lower, he would.'

'I guess,' Ste agreed. He was reminded painfully of how little time he'd actually spent at The Estate. He understood the rules now, something Rhys was still trying to get to grips with, but he still couldn't quite wrap his head around all the politics. Then again, Ste had never taken in a single thing about Warren Fox, because if Warren was there, Brendan was there and when Brendan was there, Ste never managed to take in much at all. His brain would melt from overheating as hate and lust span around in a battle trying to outdo the other with their conviction for Brendan bloody Brady.

'Watch it!'

Ste heard the words but he didn't have time to react. He just watched as the tray of patties he'd spent the past hour preparing fall graciously to the floor.

He swore loudly. How could he have been so careless? But he already knew the answer. He'd been consumed with hate for Brendan … or something like it.

'What am I supposed to do now?' he groaned, just staring at the gourmet shrapnel around him.

'Put it back on the tray,' Doug said quickly. Ste just glared at him like he was mental. 'Put it back on the tray,' the yank insisted. 'We're going to cook it, right? The bacteria will be killed off. Anyway, I bet the other zones do worse than drop it on the floor all the time.'

Doug's logic could be described as sketchy at best, but Ste had no other options so sketchy logic was going to have to do. Besides, Doug was already scooping the patty remains back onto the tray – the damage was already done.

::

They were finally ready to put the final tray in the oven when they heard the creaking, hinge of the front door opening.

'Damn it!' Doug hissed, closing the oven quickly as though that would somehow hide what they'd been doing in the kitchen. He glanced apologetically at Ste: 'I didn't think they'd be back yet.'

'It's okay. You hide,' Ste insisted. It seemed like the only sensible suggestion. There was no reason for Doug to be an outcast too. 'I'll pretend I snuck in without you knowing.'

'N'aww,' came a disgusting sneer as Walker's face appeared in the doorway. 'How noble.' He smirked at Ste. He always had an expression like he knew a secret about you. Ste didn't think there was much Walker could do to break him down any further. It gave him a dangerous sense of invincibility. Walker didn't seem to agree, he just proceeded to take him apart coolly: 'I didn't have you down as the chivalrous type, Ste Hay.'

'What's shivel, shiver, shive…?'

'Hmm, don't strain yourself, kid,' Walker scorned, turning his attention to Doug and flashing what Walker probably believed to be a smile but looked more like an uncomfortable grimace. 'Doug. Doug, Doug, Doug.' Despite the smile, or perhaps because of it, every repetition sounded more threatening than the last. 'I need your expertise when it comes to O'Shaughnessy.'

'I don't really have any "expertise".' He quoted the last word with his fingers.

'You slept with him,' Walker stated matter-of-factly. 'You were in his home, in his bed, in his life. You'll know something important … or you better hope you do,' he added menacingly as he all but dragged the yank out of the room. 'You,' he snarled at Ste. 'Get on with dinner.'

::

Ste worked as hard and as fast as he could, but it was a mammoth task and the kitchen was filled with an orchestra of noise from the kitchen appliances. If it wasn't the deafening drone of the extractor fan, it was the whirring of the fan oven of hissing of the kettle or bleeping of the microwave or the….

'What the hell are you doing?'

He span around to see Rhys, Spike and Mickey staring at him through the doorway. None of them looked particularly pleased to see him, but he decided to play dumb. Maybe if he pretending this was normal, they might pretend too.

'Just cooking dinner, me,' he said, turning back to the over and altering the dial just a fraction for no real reason.

'Not here, you ain't,' Spike snarled.

'Please,' Ste heard himself beg. 'It's almost done and then I'll be gone, I swear.'

'Get out,' Mickey growled.

It was so clear that they were beyond reasoning but reasoning was all Ste really had.

'You don't wanna starve do you,' he tried.

'Rather that than eat some crap cooked by a traitor.'

And with that, the lads of House 16 grabbed him roughly, pinching at his skin and pulling his hair as they literally dragged him through the house and hurled him onto the pavement.

That was how Ste found himself running like an Olympic Athlete towards Brendan's house, stumbling through the sitting room like a crazy person and hammering on the office door with his fists.

'What the…!' Brendan roared, yanking the door open so hard that Ste nearly fell through onto the floor. He just about managed to compose himself and Brendan seemed to calm down too. 'Steven,' he said less murderously. 'What the hell is going on?'

'Food.' He panted heavily. 'House' – pant – '16' – pant – 'kicked me out.' He took a huge gulp of air. 'It's going to burn.' And: 'someone needs to rescue the food before it all burns.'

'Okay. I'll give Walker a ring and tell him to sort it.'

It was that simple. And Ste saw himself as the pathetic, oxygen-using, insignificant waste of time that he was. Ste had actually managed to build the problem of a few burned patties up until he'd felt like the word was going to end. To Brendan, it had been nothing; a tiny inconvenience, easily fixed, like waving a fly off a steak. And now Brendan was just shutting the door, because he had more important things to be getting on with.

'Where is Walker?' Ste heard himself ask. He didn't know why he said it. Some kind of tragic attempt at a conversation. It didn't really worked, Brendan just snapped:

'On an errand.'

'Oh, right. Sorry.'

He didn't want to fight, not anymore. He'd fought all day. Fought to get warm, fought to get to sleep, fought to stop thinking, fought to start thinking. He was done. He was exhausted. It was like he was blindly fumbling about trying to find a light switch and then, a beam of light with an Irish accent:

'You can get a shower if you want.' And: 'You smell like you slept on the streets.'

Brendan knew. It was obvious he knew and part of Ste wanted to yell at him for not stepping in and giving him a roof for the night, but he was tired, so he just thanked him and tried not to read anything into this current burst of generosity. He'd heard Brendan loud and clear when he'd said it was over. Besides, Ste had chosen Rae … or at least he'd tried to.

Going to dinner was a mistake, a huge mistake. No friends and no zone. It only meant one thing for Ste; no food. It didn't matter that he'd cooked it. It didn't matter that he hadn't eaten all day. None of it mattered. He was just pushed to the back of the queue, which was a special kind of hell reserved usually for the weakest member of Violet Zone.

There was nothing but scraps left in the large trough-like serving trays; a few crumbs of bread, half a burger and no chips. He'd starve sooner or later, with no access to lunch or breakfast and only the dregs of dinner to look forward to. He knew he could steal some food whilst he was cooking, but if Brendan, Warren or Walker found out, he'd be finished. Stealing on The Estate was out of the question. The only real question for Ste was which would kill him first: starvation, or the freezing Irish weather.

This was the lowest point of his life; shivering, starving and smelling like a smoky street skank. He might have had a shower, but he'd been wearing the same tracksuit for two days and you could tell. He tried to make himself invisible to the other criminals in Central Square. He tried to disappear into the shadows. It didn't work.

'Where are you going, Ratboy?' The fat hand on his shoulder almost stung as Ste found himself being spun around to look at Warren. He was smirking, eyes shining and nose red from the biting cold. 'You know the rules.'

'What rules?'

'The Zone that cooks, also cleans up and as it seems that no one in Blue Zone is willing to help,' he gestured to rapidly emptying Blue Zone tables, 'I guess you'll be doing it alone.'

'I haven't got a sink.'

He knew that didn't matter. He knew that the dishes were done in the huge sink behind Brendan's house, but even if that wasn't the case, there were no favours on The Estate; no excuses.

It had taken Steven just over a week to start looking really ill. He'd got into a routine of stealing breakfast leftovers from the bins like an alley cat and he slept where he could. He was still using the blanket Douglass had given him, but he couldn't have possibly seen much of the yank over the last few days. Douglass had been kept very busy with some top secret, probably pointless project of Walker's.

'Potatoes?' Walker asked, holding the dish under of Brendan's nose.

'Is that some dig because I'm Irish?' Brendan demanded, which Warren into a fit of stifled laughter. Walker just smirked.

'They're good. That's all I'm saying.' He placed the dish on the table in front of Brendan. 'But you're clearly distracted.'

'Ah yes, where is Rat Boy?' It was Warren's less than affectionate nickname for Steven and Brendan scowled. Not because of the insult but because of the assumption that if Brendan was distracted then Steven must be the distraction. There were other things in Brendan's life, more important things so he just shrugged uninterestedly, which was how he felt and said:

'No idea.'

But he did have an idea. This was around the time in Steven's new schedule when he began washing the day's dishes. He looked at the empty seat at the Blue Zone table and….

'What the hell is he doing?' he asked. Douglass was parading up and down the Blue Zone table occasionally tapping some of the scrawnier, blonder boys on the shoulder.

'Duck, duck, goose,' Warren suggested. 'Or he's been spending too much time in Green Zone.' The mimed spliff was probably unnecessary but Warren wasn't exactly one for subtleties.

'I'll talk to him,' Walked sighed, pushing his plate away and marching down the steps towards the Blue Zone table. As always when one of them descended to ground level, The Estate twitched nervously and everyone within a four row radius of Walker suddenly developed impeccable table manners. Those on the opposite side of Central Square didn't seem as affected and two Violet Zoners began scrapping furiously over what looked like a shred of chicken.

'Lesbos are fighting in Violet Zone,' Brendan stated, stuffing his face with a potato. 'You're up, Foxy.'

'Great, I'll squirt them with oil,' he laughed.

Brendan just chewed on his potato and wondered if Steven had used rosemary to make them taste this good.

'Wasted on you,' Warren muttered, getting up and stomping off towards Violet Zone. The fight was over before he'd managed to lug his oafish body over there and Walker had kicked Douglass out so everything had returned to its peaceful state. Well, as peaceful as dinner at The Estate can be.

'Hey.'

'Oh, hiya,' Ste nodded as Doug appeared with a small pile of dirty dishes. 'Thanks.'

'Do you need a hand?'

'Nah,' Ste rubbed at his face with his forearm. The last thing he needed were soap suds all over his face. It was already covered in little spots and grubby patches of grime. His hands had blistered and cracked over the last week; long hours, no sleep and hard work was destroying him inside and out.

'You're worth more than this, Ste,' Doug sighed, voice full of undeserved sympathy.

'Am I?'

'Yes! You're smart, funny, you've got your adorable quirks.'

Ste couldn't help feel that Doug had just listed the three non-specific clichés of a boyband ballad but to say it aloud would be admitting he liked boybands and he'd only ever told one person that, right after he'd had them involuntarily tapping their €300 shoes to Katy Perry's "Kissed a Girl".

'Ste. Ste,' Doug called, catching him by the shoulders and holding him so that they were facing each other. And then, because he was completely insane, Doug said: 'Let's run away.'

'What?' Ste frowned. 'When? How?'

'I've got a way. Free passage to The States.'

'America?'

Doug had lost the plot. His eyes were shining, his grip on Ste's shoulders tightening with excitement.

'We just get on a plane,' the yank continued, as though it was actually that easy. 'Leave Ireland, leave The Estate, leave Brendan.'

'But….'

'Don't worry about your criminal record,' Doug interrupted. 'I know people who can make that disappear.'

Ste hadn't been worried about his criminal record, he hadn't realised it might have caused a problem, but he did know one thing with absolute certainty:

'I can't go to America.'

'Why not? What have you got keeping you here?'

'I've got….' Ste couldn't think of a single, solid reason to stay, so he pointed pathetically to the pile of dirty plates in the sink and muttered: 'I've got the dishes. Who's going to sort this mess out if I leave, eh?'

'Who cares!' Doug exclaimed. But Ste cared. Cooking, the dishes, they were the only reason he had to keep waking up in the morning. It gave his life a purpose, however trivial, because he kept The Estate ticking over.

He plunged his hands into the dirty water and felt a sharp pain slice across his left palm.

'Argh,' he yelled clutching it to his chest.

'Ste?'

'I'm alright,' he insisted, but he could feel sting of the washing liquid in the cut, could sense the blood dribbling from the gash, over his fingers, onto his top, falling to the floor. Doug would had to have been blind to miss it.

'No you're not,' Doug frowned, snatching up one of the clean, dry towels and twisting it into a makeshift bandage. 'Here,' he said, pushing it against Ste's palm and holding it there tightly. The pressure was mix of pain and comfort and Ste began to feel better.

Doug seemed to care, just at the moment when Ste felt most alone. And, although he did his best to stop it, he felt a tear leak down his cheek. He closed his eyes to stop any others following.

'Oh Ste.' The pity in the words stung more than the cut on his hand, and the gentle cupping of his cheek felt like a burn. A thumb swiped across his face dislodging the tear and then lips, soft and slick, pressed against his own.

His eyelashes snapped open and he saw a blurry mess of eyes, nose and too-large eyebrows which made up Doug's face attached to his own face. He shoved the other boy away so hard that Doug nearly lost his footing.

'What are you doing?' he snapped. 'I ain't gay, me.'

'Well I think Brendan would argue differently,' Doug scoffed.

'That's different,' Ste muttered. He couldn't explain the weird hold Brendan had over him to himself, let alone to someone else. The best he could do was:

'It's just him. Was just him.'

'But how do you know?' Doug was practically begging. He looked pitiful, needy and desperate, his face still scared from his fight with O'Shaughnessy and two soapy handprints in the middle of his chest. 'How do you know if you've never tried it with a different guy?'

'I just do,' Ste insisted, but his brain unhelpfully reminded him of the time he'd kissed Callum in Manky Manchester Street and just maybe that had meant more to him than he'd been willing to admit at the time. But even that he could have lived without. He was living without Callum, but the thought of never seeing Brendan hurt more than the starvation, more than the cut, more than the punches and kicks. It was even worse than seeing him every day and knowing that he meant nothing to the man. At least in The Estate, Brendan still had to look out for him, even if he was just one of almost 500 that Brendan was responsible for. One five-hundredth of Brendan's attention was better than none at all.

'I'm not going to America, Doug,' he said firmly. He'd never been so sure of anything in his life.

'But….'

'Just leave me alone.'

'Look….'

'Do one, Doug!' he yelled and the American finally got the message. He turned his back on Ste and as Ste watched his only friend walk out of his life, he felt more alone than ever.

It had been raining solidly for two days and the usually temperamental drainage system in Violet and Indigo Zones was showing more than just cracks. This was one of the major issues with setting up on a "nearly-complete" ghost estate. The drainage system hadn't been thoroughly tested and the slope of The Estate meant that majority of the water raced past too rapidly for the other zones' drains to catch it.

This meant only one thing for Brendan, a visit from Jacqui McQueen. She was the loud-mouthed, unofficial leader of the collective Purple Zones and she had been in his office most of the evening before with a million complaints about flooding.

He'd placated her because it had been late and he'd still need to buy a suitable gift for his little sister's big day. He'd told her that the rain was due to stop overnight and that everything would be okay in a matter of hours.

The rain didn't stop. If anything, it was getting heavier and the noise of thunder had woken Brendan twice during the night.

He went to the window the second time and watched the lightening for a while. He remembered back to when he was a kid and he would sneak in Chery's room and pretend to be looking out for her during thunderstorms just so he wouldn't have to be alone. He smiled a little. She probably knew, but she'd always played along. He missed that. Now he didn't even know her well enough to pick out a birthday gift. He only saw her a couple of times a year, always with Anne on his arm and lie on his tongue as they improvised this wonderful, normal life that Cheryl avidly disapproved of all because she didn't trust "Mitzeee". That was fair enough, Brendan didn't trust "Mitzeee" much either, but Anne? He trusted her with his life.

The lightening flashed and Brendan jumped, heart pounding in his chest. He still hated this weather. It reminded him of the time his nana had told him that lightening was God's way of showing he was angry with you. Brendan didn't believe that anymore. If it had been true, The Estate would be a under a permanent thunderstorm. Another flash of lightening, illuminating the driving rain and Brendan's mind drifted to Steven and wondered where he was. He hoped the lad had found some kind of decent shelter. He didn't really fancy getting a call from Walker when he went around on his early rounds saying that he'd found Steven's body on a pavement somewhere.

He needed a drink.

Brendan walked over to his cupboard and opened it. Of course the bottle was empty.

'Bloody Macca,' he growled under his breath. The lad must have been working his way through it when Brendan wasn't around. He'd have to go and get the one from his office.

He walked downstairs, flicking on the lights as he went, and turning on the radio. It wouldn't hurt to drown out the sound of the thunder as he moved through his house in the dead of night. He still wasn't quite used to living alone. Little did he know, he wasn't alone.

Brendan found him in the office. He was huddled in the corner of the room, shivering violently, water still dripping from his hair, eyes closed and head lolled. Steven. He looked asleep, or possibly dead and Brendan just stared at him for a second or two before slamming the door shut hard behind him.

Steven jumped awake violently and stared up at Brendan with fear in his eyes.

'S-sorry,' he stammered. 'So-sorry. I was s-so c-c-cold.'

'It's okay,' Brendan soothed, watching as Steven struggled to his feet.

'N-no, I thought I could leave before you g-got up. S-sorry. What time is it?'

'About two.'

'In the afternoon?'

'Morning.'

Steven wavered drunkenly as he tried to stand. Brendan found himself walking towards the lad. He took his trembling arm, helping to keep him steady. He could feel the dampness of his hoody under his fingers. He could smell the sweat and dirt and grime mixed with a smell like wet dog. Steven's eyes were bloodshot. His skin was greyish and pale and his face was gaunt.

Steven sneezed suddenly and his whole, bony body seemed to rattle with the force of it.

'Sorry,' Ste apologized quickly.

'Stop,' Brendan said firmly. 'Stop saying "sorry".' He brushed some greasy strands of hair from Steven's dull eyes and whispered: 'What are you doing here Steven?'

'I didn't have anywhere else to go,' he replied in the same tone. A tone which made Brendan cup the lad's face and say:

'Why don't you go and get a shower? You remember where it is, don't you?'

Steven nodded steadily.

'Good,' and because it was early, and because Johnny Cash was on the radio and because Brendan's brain wasn't quite working properly, he said: 'Leave your clothes outside the bathroom door. I'll wash them for you.'

'But, why?' Steven asked.

'You know me, Steven, I'm always there when someone from The Estate needs me.'

It was that moment that there was a loud hammering at the office door and a rough, female voice shouted:

'Brendan! I want a word with you!'

'Get lost Jacqui,' he yelled back. 'I'll hear about it in the morning.' Then he turned back to Steven.

'Go on, go and get a shower,' he said gently. Steven didn't take any persuading. Gone was his foolish sense of proud independence, gone was his fight, gone was everything that had been Steven. He was complete broken and wasn't that just exactly what Brendan had been hoping for? So why, when Brendan showed the lad to Macca's old room, didn't this feel like a well-fought victory?

I just want to reiterate how grateful I am to all of you for your continued support, reviews and silent reading regarding this fic. It's looking as though it might be my last foray into "fanfiction", so hopefully I can go out with something akin to … well, not-a-drizzle.

Cheers, Sisi…xx