Chapter One: Fuckin' Eric

Steve Leonard was in control. By the age of 17, he'd outgrown his tantrums and violent tendencies. Does that sound a little late? You're damn right it is. But better late than never, and better late than prison as his corrections officer so elegantly spelled out.

"Ya got one more fight." Officer Crawley said with a fat, sweaty hand fisting a mug of tea at about 11:00 pm in the West Essex police station. Steve didn't even remember how he ended up in Essex from Central London, but there he fucking was.

"Yeah? What 'appens after 'at, 'en?" Steve asked through a busted lip and a smirk. Without the shiner and busted face, Steve Leonard was a rather handsome young man. He had a strong, squared-off jaw with dark stubble ghosting his chin and jawline. His nose, bless his Jewish roots for the nose, sat atop his angular face in a prominent slope. And, like the rest of his sharp face, his eyes were a piercing blue that just sang cockiness.

"After that, it's the penitentiary."

Steve's hot-shit demeanor died there. Somehow he'd managed to elude corrections facilities and Youth Courts up until now, and much of that was thanks to Officer Crawley. But that time was coming to a close. The thought of actual prison physically shook the young man.

"Ya understand what I'm saying, son? I can't keep coverin' your ass. God bless your mum an'all, but I'm at my wit's end here."

Steve nodded. There wasn't much he could really say. He knew Officer Crawley was right. With his banged-up face and platinum blond hair caked in blood, dirt, and beer, he knew he didn't have the energy to keep going the way he did. Steve, almost like he was born for the feat, raised Hell everywhere he went. He fought in pubs and bars he wasn't even supposed to be in. He purchased beer and vodka with fake IDs, and when that failed he straight up shoplifted. Damn, Steve even aggravated the general public on trains just to start a brawl. He assumed that's how he got here in Essex. Probably. The memories went in and out with the throbbing in his right eye, a real shiner, but he pieced the basics together: He said some unsavory comments about some bloke's mum, got clocked on the train, dragged said bloke out of the train and almost stomped his head on the platform, got arrested, pawned off to Crawly; The usual. But fuck was he tired from it all. Steve was exhausted, beaten to hell, and literally a fight away from prison. Not the best place to be at 16.

So, Steve took Officer Crawley's advice for once. He stopped cold turkey and all. Was he still angry? Oh, fuck yeah. White-hot rage swarmed his being about 70% of the time, but he learned to live with and around the anger. Rather than punching other people and getting into drag out, knockout fights in the schoolyard that either ended in severe bodily damage or his arrest, Steve punched a sandbag. And a speedbag. And a dummy. And, when he just really needed it, a worthy volunteer from the Left Hook Boxing Gym. But no matter how he got out all his excess aggression, he got it out in a safe, and above all legal, fashion.

Even with the residual anger seeping through Steve's boxing gloves in his downtime, his school life and grades were, as usual, top rate. Steve was on track to ace his A levels and was almost guaranteed admittance into top universities like Cambridge and Oxford. While his anger issues never got in the way of his grades, the change in attitude definitely made the whole academic experience not terrible. Classmates approached him more often, even asked him for help in history and math like he wasn't a delinquent who'd shank them upon eye contact. Teachers scolded him less, he almost never slept in class anymore, and he even participated. Like, raised his hand and answered questions and, much to the coach's delight, he didn't start quarrels at rugby practice anymore. Well, not as often. If Tommy Jones scrumed him one more time he'll knock that fucker's teeth out.

Hell, Steve even had his best friend back. Darren "Hot Shot" Shan, the only kid who could deal with Steve's temper, name every issue of Spawn (including the Japanese manga adaptation Shadows of Spawn), free-kick a football into a corner shot, and pick up any spider with his bare hands, was once again at the blond's side. Not without a lot of apologizing on Steve's part, of course. When the brunet came out to Steve 6 months ago, the news was not received well. In fact, Steve took it all abhorrently. There was only one thing Steve regretted more in his whole life than those five minutes. But calling your best friend a 'dick-hungry faggot' and demanding he get the fuck away from you was definitely one of the worst memories Steve had. He remembered regretting the words immediately. Tear-stained cheeks and raging green eyes were the last things Steve saw that night before Darren socked him in the jaw. Steve was out cold till his mum woke him up the following morning. They avoided each other for the next two months, literally ducking out of the other's way by hiding in bathrooms or empty classrooms just to nix eye-contact. But Steve just couldn't keep it up. His life was miserable without Darren. Those three months were filled with a lot of drinking, a lot of girls, and a lot of fights. When he wasn't getting faded at a house party or hooking up with a one-night-stand, he was trying to. And, apparently, it was in one of these cesspools of teenage fuckery that shitfaced-Steve actually made a smart decision. He doesn't remember any of it, but he woke up in the Shan household, on their couch, with his shirt tossed on the TV, puke dried onto the side of his face, and Annie Shan ogling him.

"G' morning Steve." She said, resting her arms and face on the back of the couch. Her soft red curls framed her face in such a sweet, innocent fashion. But those piercing green eyes betrayed her looks. Her intentions were as apparent as Steve's hangover as she eye-fucked the older man. "Sleep well?"

Steve tried lifting his head off the couch arm, but that was a bad fucking idea. Everything started swimming and throbbing and the lights fucking pulsed with the blood surging through his temples. " Oy gevalt...m'fuckin head…" He registered Annie's presence then. "Why'er ya in m'house…?"

"Look again, you drunkard." A surprisingly deep voice came from Annie's general direction, and Steve thought very long and hard about female puberty. "Annie quit starin' at him and get."

Annie glared at her older brother before complying with his demands, walking off with a quick glance back at Steve's bare chest. Steve might've felt compelled to cover himself if he was sober enough to care and if Darren wasn't staring at him. Those two things together just short-circuited his brain into a state of dumbfounded silence.

"You somehow had the foresight to call me. I was outside when you made your way to our house, and Good Lord, you were thrashed, mate." Darren said, grabbing Steve's shirt off the TV and tossing it at the blond.

Steve didn't try to catch it. The realization of where he was, who he was with, fought with his sobering mind and culminated in a pitiful question: "When'd I call?"

"Around 3 in the morning," Darren said.

Steve nodded, accepting that as fact in an attempt to piece together his night. "Why'd I call?"

Darren gave Steve a look that he couldn't quite decipher. Instantly, fear crept up the back of his neck and took hold of his vocal cords, trying to yank the words back from the air.

"To apologize," Darren said softly. He was smiling now. "I mean, I couldn't understand what you were saying, you were so drunk, but then you came over. And you were crying, and vomiting, and crying some more-"

"Ah, fercockt…" Steve cursed, getting bits of memories back from the night before. He cried like a fucking bitch.

"That too, you said a lot of things in Yiddish, but all I could make out was 'fuck,' 'sorry,' and 'fucking sorry'."

"Good, I probably said sumfin real fuckin' embarrassin'." Steve rubbed his hands over his forehead and eyes, feeling the headache roar into a state of soberness. He wanted to leave, get a drink and forget the memories that edged on his mind. He got bits of Darren's face from the night before. He looked concerned one second. The next, his memory flashed into a hellscape. Darren looked fucking broken. Green eyes on the verge of tears, dark brown hair tousled by the wind. The dark of the night hid his face, but the lamp lights glowed just enough for Steve to make out an expression of true pain.

God, Steve needed a damn beer.

"It was kinda sweet, though. I mean, it be nicer if you weren't drunk, but I get it." Darren said before settling on the couch next to Steve. He was taken back by the action, clutching his shirt tight in his fists. "I'm just happy you don't hate me anymore." Darren chuckled at his own words, but maybe more out of nervousness than actual joy.

"I never hated you, Dare," Steve said, not an ounce of slurring in his speech. "I couldn't hate you."

Sheer surprise gripped Darren's features, twisting his face into that unreadable visage that frightened Steve to no end. Steve wanted to say more, to properly apologize for hurting Darren so horribly. But just as he mustered up the courage, a familiar voice stopped him as it rang through the air. It was a rich soprano, one with an endearing Irish twang that echoed subtly in her son's own voice.

"Oh, good mornin' Steve!" Mrs. Shan called from the stairway, waving at the boys down in the living room. Her dark hair was a complete mess, and that oversized robe consumed her, yet she looked absolutely ecstatic. "I didn't know you were staying over, but it's so good to see you lovely! Are you staying for breakfast? I think we still have some of those kosher sausages in the fridge…"

Steve looked to Darren for approval, but he was already helping Steve off the couch to lead him into the breakfast nook for tea and those sausages he didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. Shan were horrible.

Steve was in control. Really, he was. It took the teens years to finally get there, but he had a grip on life finally. Everything was pretty great for him. Good grades, improving mental health, great fucking friends, everything was wonder-

"Hey, babe~" A deep voice called over the school practice fields. It was faint, and not directed at any rugby players, certainly not towards Steve, but at a shirtless goalie over on the football field.

Steve cringed. "Fucking Eric…" Steve said aloud to himself, taking his eyes off the game for a split second. Just in eyesight, a sweaty Darren bounded away from his game to give his boyfriend, Eric, a running hug. Eric caught the built teen easily, giving him a kiss on the side of the mouth. Steve scoffed before getting full rushed into the ground. A chorus of jeers and swears erupted from the sidelines of the rugby and the football fields as Steve gathered his bearings. Tommy Jones trotted away looking very pleased with himself.

"The FUCK, Jones…!?" Steve shouted, up off the ground and at the offender in an instant.

"What?" Tommy shot back. "You should've been payin' attention, mate! Just tryin' to keep ya on your toes, s'all!"

"Whatever, mate." Steve retorted but gave Tommy a weary smirk all the same.

Tommy gave the teen a few good slaps on the back and Steve just couldn't lay into him. Not only was Tommy a stellar athlete, but the kid had a heart of gold. When he played goalie for the football club, Jones even surpassed Darren, and that was a feat. And his talent was quite persistent in rugby as well. But Tommy was never one to boast. The kid's too sincere and too much of an idiot to have any malice towards anyone.

Steve wanted to set up again, give Tommy a good mauling and send him home crying. But a would-be-nice sight caught his attention. Steve saw Darren leave the football field and make a b-line straight for him. That was the nice part. The tall, reluctant shadow following his best friend soiled the sentiment. Darren was a good 10 feet ahead of said shadow, Eric, the older man clearly lagging behind with a strained smile.

"Smooth, Leopard, smooth," Darren called, wiping sweat from his dark brow with a bundled up jersey. Though Darren may have been a little chubby back in the day, years of football turned the short teen into a stack of lean muscle. His upper body wasn't as muscled as Steve's, but his lean build and practice gave the brunet a great set of calves and thighs. His face also lost the baby fat, and now a rounded, well-shaven jawline and lean cheeks took its place. The one thing he couldn't seem to shake from childhood was his 'adorable' button nose. "What happened to those predatory reflexes?"

"I think Jones knocked'em out of me last season," Steve replied, raking a hand through his own sweaty hair, nicking a forming bruise. "Who the fuck let him play rugby?"

"I think you invited him, genius." Darren retorted.

"Who the fuck let me do that?! Why didn't ya stop me, Dare? The man's a fuckin' machine!"

"Yeah!" Darren said. "An' that's why I didn't say anything! You think I'd ever get to play goalie with Jones around? Sorry Steve, but you're collateral damage."

"Oh, Darren…" Steve faked hurt, placing a hand over his shirtless heart. "You'd betray me like that? Now, I really thought we were friends, mate."

Darren gave a soft chuckle, punching Steve in the shoulder playfully. Now, as any best friend of Steve 'Leopard' Leonard would know, 'playful' often turned 'violent.' A small glint sparked in the blond's eye, matching that trademark Leopard grin. The two broke out into a mini-wrestling match reminiscent of their childhood. Steve had Darren in a headlock-noogie, ignoring Darren's cries and soft slaps to his forearm. Each time the smaller teen tried getting out, Steve would swing their weight around, keeping his dark-haired friend off balance and locked in his rugby oiled muscles. This is the shit Steve missed. Fucking around with his best friend, laughing and having a go at each other. It was all perfect. Like, truly nirvana levels of perfection. But the dirt-bag shadowing Darren gave a grunt and coughed at the pair. Darren untangled himself from Steve, almost rushing to his boyfriend's side to quell the older man's sensitivities. Steve wasn't sure what Darren saw in Eric. The man wasn't particularly attractive, he was a fucking ginger for Christ's sake, and he was the clingest wanker Steve ever met. Honestly, who gets bent out of shape over some rough-housing? And Eric just couldn't hide the disdain in his gaze for Steve. The pair had made only brief eye contact, but Steve recognized hatred when he saw it. Eric's stance was wide, and his right hand was relaxed in his pocket. As far as Steve could gather, the older man was trying to appear relaxed and calm. But with his hand sprawled over the brunet's hip bone, rooting the teen in place beside the 23-year-old, Eric seemed nowhere near calm. Steve surveyed the hand. He held onto Darren like he was a possession; like he was a thing that Eric and only Eric could touch or find enjoyment in. He wanted to wrench the appendage from his friend and shove it up the pedo's ass. You'd laugh then, wouldn't ya?

"Babe," Eric said. "You wanna get outta here?" He massaged Darren's hip as he spoke, words low, tongue swiping over his lips in a shameless display of horn-doggery.

"I'll meet up with you after catching up with Steve, alright?" Darren said, not even flinching at the pure fuck-boi waves radiating off the older man

"Ah, but you know how much I hate waiting, babe~" Now both hands gripped Darren's hips, pulling the 17-year-old closer and closer into what would surely be an open-mouthed tongue raping.

"Oh, no, please." Steve dead-panned. "Don't temper the passions for my sake, boys."

Darren playfully batted his boyfriend's hands away at the comment. The two kissed goodbye, Darren mouthing a silent 'sorry' for his friend's attitude. Eric gave an understanding nod, and mouthed back 'You owe me' with a wink. Steve shuddered as Eric's hand slithered down his friend's back to grab a handful of Shan ass before heading back to whatever cesspool he called a flat.

"And you were doing so good, Steve…" Darren drawled out, pulling his jersey back over his shoulders with a huff.

With mock incredulousness, Steve asked "Wha-What?! What I do, Dare?"

"Oh, come off it." Darren shot back. The brunet gathered up his play-gear, speed-walking off the field.

Steve quickly grabbed his own stuff, school bag and gym bag in tow, before catching up with the shorter teen. "You come off it, man. You know I don't mean nothing nasty or homo-hating. I just think the bloke's a fuckin' wanker."

Darren rolled his eyes. "You don't even know him, and God forbid you even try or something."

"I don't need to get to know him, I've seen his kind all the bloody time," Steve said. "It's statutory Dare, he's like 10 years older than you, and he's always grabbing on you, pulling you into all his twisted, perverted shit. He's corrupted your sweet, innocent, virgin mind."

Darren gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. "First off," he said, "Eric's only 6 years older than me, not 10, you ass-"

"Six, ten, whatever, it's basically the same."

"And second," Darren cut back in with that trademark sass. "You basically just described yourself. Like, every girlfriend you've ever had's been younger than you by a lot, you fucking cradle-robber."

"Like who?" Steve asked, but immediately regretted it when he saw that glint in Darren's eyes.

"Who? Who?" Darren was laughing now, like a damn mad man. "I don't know Steve, maybe the entire volleyball team?"

"Entire? Nah, Dare, I'm good, like good-" He gave Darren a raised eyebrow, nudging him a little with his elbow, making sure he absolutely got the innuendo. "But not that good."

"Emily Watts, Sarah Neil-Porter, Sumia Patel, Julia Evergreen, Suzanna Johnson, Lydia Bell Sahri - Should I keep going?" As Darren counted off the girls, fond and not so fond memories came rushing back to the blond.

"No, I get the picture. I'm a whore." Steve admitted. "But they all weren't that much younger than me. I mean, fuck's sake man, Julia was like 14 when I was 16-" He took notice of the death glare Darren gave him. "Which is fucking gross, don't get me wrong!" Steve added quickly. "But not as gross as a 23-year-old, grown ass man getting it on with a 17-year-old."

Darren rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Age of consent is 16, therefore Eric isn't doing anything illegal, unlike some people…"

"I get it, I get it." Steve retorted, waving off Darren's judgment. "I've made some terrible decisions in my life. And sometimes they weren't really legal-"

Darren gave the taller man another look of pure hellfire.

" -but that's why I don't need to get to know him, Darren, because I use to be that kind of guy."

"Use to be?!" Darren sputtered, chuckles bubbling deep in his stomach as the pair walked in tandem to Steve's house.

"Hey, hey! I've done a lot of growing these past few months, Dare. I'm practically a changed man."

"Oh, no, totally, Steve," Darren replied. "That's why you practically lit Eric on fire with your eyes. I saw it all mate, don't play innocent."

"But I didn't actually light him on fire. And if you saw everything, how could you not see that fuckin' look he gave me?" Steve asked.

"He's just protective of me, Steve."

"So am I! I mean, what would ya do if some Uni bloke tried to date Annie?"

"Don't even Steve, it's not even remotely the same thing," Darren said. "Annie's 15 and too nice for her own good. I don't even think she's interested in anybody. Well, other than you."

"Don't remind me, mate…" Steve shuddered a little at remembering how Annie's eyes followed him whenever he was around. He used to shower at the Shan's after practice. Used to. The last time Steve hopped out of the guest bathroom he swore the door was cracked just enough for a prying eye to peep through. Now he just showered at home, sweat and filth be damned. "But still Dare, you're my best mate. I just don't want to see you get hurt s'all."

Darren's face softened into a warm smile, bumping shoulders with his taller friend with just enough force and care to say 'I know, but you don't have to be such a prat.'

Steve felt his stomach flip at the contact. Small, ugly thoughts reared up in his head as he looked to his best friend's comforting face and then to their small contact.

"I know, and you're great for that," Darren said warmly, pulling Steve into a side hug that he was not ready for.

Steve stiffened noticeably at the contact. Before Darren came out as gay they were never the touchiest of friends. The rough-housing and wrestling were all fine and good, but hugging? Steve just couldn't get over the way his stomach lurched at the thought of it all. Darren took notice and awkwardly shifted away. Steve kicked himself mentally for it, hating the tinge of pain Darren tried to conceal. The brunet clutched his bag closer to his body, the other hand snaking tight around his own waist as they walked. Steve felt overwhelming guilt for his reaction. It had been almost three months since the pair made up, but Steve still couldn't shake his gut reactions. He wanted to pull away, to distance himself, to run. But he knew an apology was the right thing to do. He hurt Darren, no matter how unintentional it was, and he needed to swallow his pride and make up for it. He wanted to apologize to Darren, he really did, but the words kept jumbling up around his tongue. How the fuck can you say 'sorry' for literally feeling disgusted by a friend? You can't. So the pair walked in silence. And Steve hated himself for it all.

The walk to Steve's home was uneventful and terribly awkward. Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he unlocked the front door because the light, airy voice of his mother broke through the deafening silence that loomed over them.

"Hi love, how was-" Mrs. Leonard's voice cut out upon seeing Darren. She gave a noise of unadulterated delight as the pair walked through the hallway. Mrs. Leonard gave a little shuffle in her house slippers, opening up her arms and giving the boys a great, mother-bear hug. Darren hugged the smaller woman with much enthusiasm, and Steve reciprocated with a quick, one-armed squeeze.

"You've brought Darren!" She laughed, wrapping both arms around Darren as Steve wormed his way out by giving his mother a small pat on the shoulder. Again, Steve wasn't a hugger. Which was fine by his mom, who latched onto Darren happily as only a Jewish mother could. Mrs. Leonard was a petite, middle-aged mother with blonde-white hair. She'd gathered quite a few silver strands over the years, and quite a few wrinkles here and there, but that didn't stop her from strong-arming the strapping football player.

"Darren, love, you just look so thin!" She said, pulling at his built, yet still rather stringy appendages. "How can ya play when you barely eat anythin' dear." She doted, offering tea and cookies and latkes and knishes as they walked to the couch.

Darren denied all the treats but chatted away with her all the same. Steve retreated to the kitchen, dropping off his bag next to Darren's in the hallway, while the two talked in the living room. Darren and Steve's mum huddled up on the small sofa whilst flipping channels on the old CRT TV. They mindlessly chatted on about their day, Steve munching on cold, leftover latkes like an animal. Hanukkah was still three months away, but his mother recently got back into cooking, and latkes seemed to be her favorite. He would've joined them in the living room, his mom and Darren on the couch with himself on the floor or the like, but the awkward walk home left him craving some distance. He needed to gather himself and regrow his fucking balls. And if there's anything he learned from his therapist, the best way to mend something is to 'confront the situation.' In this case, 'confronting the situation' meant bribing Darren. Steve finished off his latkes before opening the fridge for the peace offering: two cold root beers and a half-empty jar of pickled onions. Really, Steve wanted a cold beer right now, but his mum was doing so well. He couldn't risk a relapse with alcohol in the house, so rootbeer was a nice, but utterly pitiful, alternative. Steve held up the snacks as he walked out of the kitchen, earning Darren's undivided attention. Emerald green eyes locked onto the Haywards Sweet and Mild jar. The man fucking loved his pickled onions.

Mrs. Leonard took notice and gave Darren a quick pat on the shoulder as he headed up the stairs with her son. Usually, Steve would've just followed his friend up with little word to his mother. But his therapist, Mrs. Fairfield, was really pushing for some vital 'regrouping' with his mother. That meant regularly talking with her, asking her permission for things, hugging her and shit. Steve felt now was the time to do at least one of those things.

"Mum?" Steve asked from the first step of the stairs. "Is it alright if me and Darren chill upstairs for a bit?"

His mother turned her head from the TV looking rather surprised, but very joyed as well. "Of course, yeah, of course, love." She said softly.

Steve nodded before giving her a small smile back. "Alright, uh… thanks, Mum." He said.

Mrs. Leonard smiled back, but the corners of her mouth perked up in a hesitant manner. "L-love you, Stephen." She said.

"You too." He couldn't really say the 'L' word yet, but she seemed very happy with the sentiment, smiling beautifully as she settled back into the couch. And Steve was rather alright with that.

The minute the pair reached Steve's room, Darren flopped down on his friend's bed. It was covered in discarded shirts and a few comic books, but Darren still curled up with the thick blankets all the same. Though Steve's bed was literally just a mattress on the ground, Darren acted like it was the comfiest thing in the world, despite the mess. Unlike his bed, the rest of Steve's room was pretty well maintained. His collection of vampire and folklore books were neatly alphabetized on his small bookcase, his comic book collection laid neatly on display underneath that, and his desk was immaculate in its orderliness. Darren popped a pearl onion in his mouth before scanning over the pages of an opened Spawn comic.

"How can you stand that stuff?" Steve asked, reclining back in his desk chair and cracking open Treatise on the Apparitions of Spirits and on Vampires, one of his most recent finds from Watkins Books in London. He sipped on the rootbeer as he thumbed through the pages.

"Remember when I went to summer camp before 8th year? My cabin mate-I think Sam, maybe?-always hid a jar of pickled onions under his bed. He'd share them with me at night, so I just grew to love'em." Darren said, popping two in his mouth without shame. "What printing is this, by the way?"

"You're the nerd," Steve replied, knee deep in Camlet's interpretation of vampirism and starved Balkans. "You tell me."

"You're the one reading a history book, nerd." Darren jeered back, re-reading Spawn and Tremor's matchup against Twistelli for what was surely the hundredth time. "And these comics will be invaluable, like, 10 years from now. Sell'em to the right collector and you could score $120 per issue."

"Really?!"

"Well, not yours," Darren said. "You've opened yours, mate, and some of these pages are bent and dog eared. And there's no way these are first printings." Darren clicked his tongue, now surveying the comic page by page. "I mean, they're not as bad as Tommy's, Good Lord, but I wouldn't even give you $5 for this."

"Shit, there goes my Uni fund," Steve said, flipping to the next chapter of Camlet. "Think I'll get anything for this?" Steve held up the weathered book, but Darren didn't even have to look up.

"Your virginity back."

"Oi, you fuckin' wanker, Shan!" Steve was upon the smaller teen in an instant, putting him in a headlock. Darren laughed at the assault, gripping Steve's built forearm as he struggled with his friend. Steve shifted their weight, taking them both down onto their sides with Darren's neck still caught between his strong arms.

"If you keep usin' the same move-" Darren slipped out of Steve's forearms with a slight twist, burying his face into Steve's chest and rushing the man onto his back. "-I'll just learn how to get out," Darren said with smug charm.

Steve collided with his mattress, taken back by Darren's speed. He was actually pinning him down! For a split second, Steve was immensely proud. Darren and he were both decent athletes, but rugby gave Steve certain advantages; giant arms, a built chest, a ruthless need to drive people into the ground, all the traits one needs to whup ass at wrestling. So, Steve was very proud of his lean friend - until he noticed the inherent closeness of their bodies. Darren's hands were above the both of them, locked onto Steve's wrists to keep the larger teen down. Inevitably, this caused his friend to lean over quite close. Their faces were so close. Too close for Steve's comfort. He noticed features and details that stirred him in ways he couldn't quite figure. Darren's tan, red-tinged face. A thin sheen of sweat over his forehead. His tongue darting out between pants to lap at chapped lips. Warmth crawling up his thighs. The press of Darren's hips- They were too close. Way too fucking close.

A sharp buzz rapted through the small bedroom. Before Steve could even register the motion, Darren was off him. The brunet flipped open his phone, a small smile lingering on his face.

"W-what is it?" Steve asked, uncertain of why it was so difficult to speak. His mouth felt dry and cottony like he just woke up from a bender.

"Eric. He's taking me to a movie tonight, so I better get going." Darren said.

"What? Ya just got here mate, no need to rush." Steve said, rising from his bed. "When's he gettin' here? Mum's been crazy about baking the past few months, so you could-" Steve took notice of his friend's odd expression. He looked rather amused, if also a tad embarrassed. "What?"

"He's already here," Darren said, pointing his phone at Steve's bedroom window.

Steve peered out to see a 2000 honda civic parked outside his terrace house. Eric leaned against the car, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Oh...uh…" Steve stammered out. "Alright then."

"Sorry, Steve," Darren said. "See you tomorrow in history?"

"Yeah, see ya then."

Darren gave his friend a weak smile, mouthing a quick 'sorry' as he passed through the bedroom door.

Steve watched his friend make his way to the stairs, leaning against the doorframe for stability. His mouth still felt dry. His head was swimming just a little, and he found that his voice still hadn't quite returned to him.

"D-Dare…?" Steve called from his door.

Darren looked back over his shoulder, not even over the first step down yet. "Hmm?"

"I-I uh… I'm a… really sorry about earlier today. Ya know. With Eric an' all… " Steve said. "I know I'm an ass, and I know I haven't really been friendly towards'em. An' I know that I'm… I'm uh… " He searched for more things to say. His brain wracked over words and sentiments, but nothing really could come out. He just stood there in his doorway like a complete idiot in front of his only real friend. He felt the frustration and anger just seize him up all over again. His hand dug into the doorway, his fingers ached, his temples pulsed, everything was becoming unbearably hot-

"I get it, Steve," Darren said softly with a faint smile over his face. "You don't need to apologize."

Everything seemed to melt away from the blond. He released the door frame, his blood cooled, his aches ceased. Darren always seemed to have that effect on him. When the world screamed at him, when his own brain never shuts off, Darren quieted everything.

He waved Darren off on his way down the stairs, feeling strangely light and peaceful. Hearing him shout a goodbye to his mum made Steve chuckle for some reason. Darren acted more like her son than Steve did, and while at one time that would've boiled him over, now it seemed bemusing in the happiest of ways. Steve thought he could read the rest of Camlet in peace for the night. He settled down in his desk chair, flipping to the chapter on the possession of Mademoiselle Elizabeth de Ranfaing. This was the third time Steve found himself reading this particular chapter. He found striking similarities between Ranfaing and the notorious Loudun Possessions, most notably her connections with a soon-to-be convicted magician. He got comfortable in his desk chair, setting his foot on the desk so he could use his legs as a prop up for the book. Everything felt right again. His anger was quelled for the moment, and it was just himself, his book, and the light feeling rolling over his shoulders. But he heard a familiar and wholly unpleasant voice. He looked down from his bedroom window to see Eric wrap his paws around Darren. They kissed long and hard, Darren clinging around the older man's neck while Eric's hand once again slithered down the teen's back. Steve saw those unclean, calloused fingers dig into his friend's athletic shorts, surely bruising the flesh underneath. Darren's lips parted in a silent keen. Steve tore his eyes away from the sight. He nearly ripped the curtain off trying to conceal the scene unfolding outside. He could hear them. In his head, he heard the small chuckle in the back of Eric's throat as he kissed Darren.

Steve rammed his fist into Eric's face, feeling the bones crack and give under his force.

He heard Darren's soft moans, the ones that inevitably caused Eric to smirk with pride.

Steve wailed into Eric's face over and over again, marveling at the blood that stained his knuckles and drained the life from that fucker's face.

He heard Eric's grunts, how his thrusts shook the car, how he desecrated his best friend in that fucking car.

He'll murder him. Steve clutched at the lump of bone and flesh that was once Eric's disgusting visage and watched the light leave him.

Steve Leonard was in control. The fresh hole in his wall and the broken fingers in his right hand were a testament to that restraint.