Present Day - 2nd November 2014

He's held a gun before. Put his fingers on the trigger, felt the cold, black metal underneath his hands. He's heard a million and one cliches about it. The power you feel when you hold one, how the thrill of it goes right to your cock. How it makes you more of a man. These people, these same people who had talked about the rush of adrenaline, the tingle in your bones, the contraction of your muscles - they hadn't entirely been lying. He'd felt it when he'd pointed a gun for the first time at Warren Fox. That immediate shift of power, the way another man had been at his mercy.

He'd felt alive.

When he holds a gun this time he feels dead. He feels like he's floating on thin air, vulnerable to dropping at any moment, crashing to the ground in a chaotic, fractured heap, until there's nothing left but fragmented body parts. His vision is inexplicably blurry, and he doesn't know if it's tears that are masking his line of sight, or whether his pupils have been doused in fire and his eyes are crying for relief. That's what it feels like, like flames are licking at him, burning at his insides, blackening his skin. His mouth is parched dry and his lips feel cracked, failing to moisten no matter how many times he licks at them.

He runs through the darkening street and every stride he takes feels like an impossibility. It shocks him that he's still able to move at all. His body already feels like it's slowing, shutting down. Too tired and too old and too strained with grief to continue. And yet it must, and it does, improbably kicking down doors and gripping the gun like it's a lifeline. And in a way it is, because it's the only reason that he's still breathing. He doesn't care who sees him. The police can come and arrest him, cuffing him and leading him to his cell. They can tie a noose around his neck and he'll fall without fear. As long as he gets to finish this. As long as he takes Walker with him.

He imagines his face now, looming at him through the shadows. That light brown hair, long and slicked back. Those sharp incisors, giving him an almost vampire like quality. The toned and muscular body, so often hidden underneath one of his trademark jackets, zipped up to the neck. Those eyes, observant, everywhere all at once. That mouth, which turns in at the corners, smirking at you as if he knows a secret which no one else will ever have access to. And those hands, capable of the most terrible, brutal acts. All of these things which form a man who has taken away the only light Brendan has ever known.

No, he cannot think about him now. He will drown if he thinks about him. The mere memory of him slows Brendan in his steps and causes him to take a long gulp of air, air which he can't afford because it only serves to remind him of the boy, the boy with blue eyes and dark long eyelashes and lips which were designed to provoke. Lips which sucked and licked and nibbled and kissed and loved and laughed and uttered three words which Brendan hated and adored in equal measure, such was their ability to tear him in two and give him the greatest happiness he's ever known. The boy was his oxygen, and every minute he breathes the air he's painfully reminded that the boy is not there to breathe it with him.

Passers by don't see the gun. The police will question them on this after. How could you not see it? Was it the darkness? Was he running too fast? Were you not looking properly? They'll struggle to explain that it was none of these things. They're not sure they could articulate how it was the expression on the man's face that held their full attention, which made them stop and stare after his retreating figure. They can't even explain it to themselves, what they saw. They only know that their hearts had caught in their throats at the look of the man. They had never witnessed such a look of pure devastation. Crippling devastation, to the extent that you almost had to look away, such was the expression of raw, unadulterated sadness. His face was twisted, every line appearing like a line of sorrow. Tears streaked his cheeks, but his eyes weren't sparkling from the onslaught of more. Instead they were rimmed in red, as if all the tears had been shed, and now there was only the aftershocks. His eyes blazed as if hiding a deep fury beneath the surface, a fury which was almost feral in its appearance. Even if they had seen the gun, they doubted that it would have scared them more than the man holding it.

If they had looked closer, they would have seen the barest hint of silver covering his chest, lying over his heart. A cross, which the man had had since he was a young boy. A necklace that was as much a part of him as the large dark moustache which marked him out as instantly distinctive. What they may not have seen was the thin yet solid gold band that lies across the necklace's chain, settling next to the cross. It remains out of reach through force of habit, not out of shame or fear, but out of a desire to keep a part of the boy close to him. Two sets of initials are carved round the middle.

BB and SH.

It shines as bright and as clear as ever. With his free hand the man reaches out and smooths his finger over them as he runs, a constant reminder of what he has lost, what he had loved.

He kicks down the last door that he has to try, the door that he senses is hiding his prize. He isn't wrong. He's reached the end.

As Brendan Brady stares into the observant, all seeing eyes of Simon Walker, raising the gun to point at his head, one bullet for him, one for himself, he can almost feel the arms of Steven around him, welcoming him home.

6th January, 2013.

Christmas and New Year have come and gone. No more decorations, no more events at the club. No more presents to buy or spending time worrying about burning the turkey or not making enough gravy. There seems to be nothing to concentrate on, and all that's left on their minds is the one person they're trying to avoid thinking of.

Lynsey.

Declan, Paddy and Eileen had spent their first Christmas in Hollyoaks. Brendan had been surprised that Eileen had agreed to it, especially as he'd made it clear that Michael, her partner, didn't attend under any circumstances. He didn't think he could face being given daggers across the dinner table and probing questions about his own love life. Or lack thereof. If Eileen didn't want her boyfriend's face ending up in the brandy pudding, then she'd have to keep him away. He could tell she resented him for it. Or perhaps it wasn't that. Perhaps it was everything. Cheating on her, moving to a whole new city, leaving the boys, being caught with Ste, her realising that he had spent years lying to her, sleeping with her own nephew. He couldn't blame her for being angry, but he wished she'd understand that she was better off. She didn't have to contend with once a month visits to Declan and Paddy. She shared a bed with the person she wanted to. She hadn't had to see Brendan with someone else every single day, always knowing what she'd lost. It struck him that maybe she was the lucky one in all this, that she'd escaped.

Brendan wondered whether Declan returning to the flat brought back the memories of what had happened the last time he was there. When he'd been helping Brendan to wash up in the kitchen, there was silence between them. It wasn't lost on Brendan that this was the exact spot where their argument had taken place. Where Brendan had told him that he didn't want him to be there, and had sent him home. He remembered the events of that day, and what had followed afterwards. Finding out that Steven had been behind it. Going over to his flat, feeling like he was having an out of body experience, not truly knowing his own mind. Confronting him. And then...and then leaving the flat. Feeling like he couldn't go back there. And not just that night.

He didn't understand how Declan could stand to look at him. Paddy was younger. He hadn't seen Brendan at his worst. But Declan knew about a side of himself that he had never wanted him to see.

"Dad..."

Brendan's hands had stilled around the plate he was about to put away.

"Mmm?"

"I wish I'd got to know her more."

"Who?"

"Lynsey."

Hearing her name hurt him more than he'd anticipated.

"I know I spent a lot of time around her when I was here, but...it wasn't really enough. I wish I'd been there for her."

"You're a kid, Declan. You didn't have to look after her. She looked after you. She wanted to."

"Being with her at the funeral was probably the most time I've ever spent with her. How wrong is that?"

"Hey, hey. Shhhh." Brendan put the plate down and drew Declan into his arms. He wished he could shield him from all of this. Life.

"Listen to me. You didn't know you would lose her. None of us did. We all argue and go weeks without seeing people we care about. And it doesn't mean that you don't love someone, or that they're not in your head. You can't blame yourself for any of this, Declan."

If someone is to blame, it's him. He told Cheryl and Joel that he couldn't go to Lynsey's funeral because he couldn't face it. A half truth, as it were. He didn't mention the fact that he couldn't face it because he felt like he'd been the one to kill her.

He needs to see her. He knows he's put it off for long enough. The idea of being there with Cheryl and Lynsey's family had been too impossible. Cheryl had told him that Peter had been there too, and he and Brendan hadn't exactly parted on a good note. Brendan would have rather been surrounded by a million strangers than a dozen close friends and family. He knew he'd have had to be strong for them, even though he'd have felt anything but.

It's better if he goes alone. Then he doesn't have to pretend.

"Brendan!"

He turns, hearing that familiar voice which he'll never not be able to answer to.

Steven's in his apron, having run out of the deli. He has flour smeared around his face, the result of slicing the bread open and rubbing his face afterwards. It strangely suits him.

"How are you?" His voice is low, concerned. He sounds like he actually cares. It's been months since Lynsey's death, but somehow Steven seems to realise that there's not a set time in which it all gets better.

"I'm..."

He's not okay. He's sick of saying he is.

"I'm surviving. Like always."

There's no pity on Steven's face. No sense that he needs Brendan to support him, that he's breakable in all of this too. There's only a look of complete understanding.

"I'm sorry to spring this on you. I know you're probably busy, but the hot water's been a bit dodgy at the flat. I was wondering if you could sort it out, maybe sometime over the next few days?"

Ordinarily, an excuse to go round to Steven's home and spend some time with him would be something he'd jump at. If he's honest, the reason he decided to go into the property business wasn't for the money, or the connections. It was all an attempt to keep the boy in his life, of having a reason to see him.

He doesn't want to turn him down. But he has to.

"I'm sorry, Steven. I can't. I'm going to Ireland."

"Oh." Steven looks taken aback. Disappointment flashes across his face before he quickly masks it.

"For how long?"

"Just a couple of days."

"Oh. Right." He stares around uncomfortably. "Are you seeing the boys, or...Macca?" He speaks the last word in a rush, as if hoping Brendan won't hear it.

"Macca? Why would I be seeing him?"

The last contact they had was when he told Macca to leave after seeing him kissing Steven. He had needed him far away, where he couldn't get to either of them. He's never had any intention of seeing him or speaking to him again, and Macca never tried to get in touch. He was the last person that Eileen was ever likely to bring up.

"I don't know, I just thought..." He hesitates, looking like he thinks he's already said too much.

"I'm not there to see Macca, Steven. Or the boys. I'm going to visit Lynsey."

Again, that look of understanding. Brendan wonders whether Steven's visited Rae's grave since the funeral, and that's why none of this fazes him.

"Right, well I hope you're okay. Not that you can ever really be okay doing something like that. But I hope..."

"I know what you mean."

Because he does. He hopes that Brendan comes back in one piece, that this strange peace that's settled between them over the past five months doesn't dissolve.

"Give me a minute, and I'll go to the cash machine for you."

"The cash machine?"

"For money to hire someone about the water."

"No, don't be silly. It'll be fine. You've got other things to worry about."

"Steven, I'm not going to let you and your kids freeze."

"Really, we'll be okay. You can come over when you get back." He pauses, then looks at him speculatively.

"You will be coming back, won't you?"

"Of course."

Ireland isn't his home anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. Not since this boy walked into his life and changed everything.

Steven stares at him, then nods, seemingly satisfied, believing him.

"I should go and start packing."

He doesn't want some drawn out, long goodbye. He can't face the idea that when he returns, Steven may have changed his mind. Changed his mind about him again, and decided that he's not worth his time, that he's not worth anything.

If he doesn't say goodbye, then he can fool himself that he doesn't care.

"See you, Steven."

He starts towards the steps leading up to the flat. He can feel Steven's eyes on the back of his head, burning into his skull.

"Brendan!"

The voice which calls him back again and again. He's lost count of the number of times he's tried to be immune to it, before the sway of it pulls him under again. The resistance only makes giving in that much sweeter, and that much harder to try to give up again.

He turns, and Steven looks almost surprised by his own vocalness. Brendan wonders if he wishes he would have let him keep walking.

"You should get back to work. Douglas will be wondering where you are."

"Maybe I don't care."

Such a brave boy. Fearless. Still not giving up on him, after all this time.

Or is he just wanting to believe that?

"What is it, Steven?"

He licks his lips, screwing up the bottom of his apron in his hands, entangling it with his fingers until it's twisted.

"I want to come with you."

6th May, 2013

"Hi."

Brendan immediately knows something's wrong. It's something about Steven's voice. It sounds different, strained. It comes out as a mere high pitched squeak, instead of spoken in that relaxed, upbeat manner of his, syllables drawn out by his Manchester accent.

Going to the kitchen where Steven's facing the stove, stirring tonights dinner - which smells fucking amazing, Brendan's glad and unsurprised to note - he slinks his arms around Steven's waist. He feels the boy tense around him. Brendan strokes his arm.

"I can't stir properly with you distracting me," he says, and there's no hint of playfulness in his tone.

Steven, turning down a chance to be touched? Impossible, unless he's in a sulk. Brendan tries to think what he possibly could have done wrong. Is he late? No. In fact, he's fifteen minutes early, having made his excuses to Walker and bailing. Did he leave things on a sour note when he left? No. He had explained to Steven that he had to go in on his day off for a few hours, to sort out a problem with the stock. The last he'd seen of the boy, he was smiling across at him with those bedroom eyes that he's perfected so well, telling him to come back as soon as he could, because it was urgent. Very urgent.

Was he meant to have called? Perhaps that was it. An unspoken agreement that he'd broken. He'd thought the text had been enough.

I'll be back soon. I hope you're keeping the bed warm for me.

He'd added a kiss, then erased it. Then added it. Then erased, until he'd gone back and forth so many times that his thumb had begun to hurt. In the end, he'd settled for leaving it as it was, sans kiss. There was only so much sentimentality he could take.

Now he wishes he hadn't deleted it.

"How was your day?"

"Fine. Good." Spoken in a monotone now.

Brendan really doesn't need another ambiguous conversation in code right now. He has Walker for that. He loves how honest Steven is, how open. How he gives himself completely to the people he cares about.

Trying another tact, Brendan begins peppering him with small kisses on the back of his neck, stopping to inhale Steven's scent, a combination of aftershave and sweetness. He can feel the boy melt into his embrace, his body slackening, a small sigh escaping from his lips. Not for the first time, Brendan strongly thinks that dinner can wait.

He tries to bring Steven round to face him, but he instantly becomes stiff, denying him the opportunity.

"Okay, I give up. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The boy's voice is barely audible.

"Well I've obviously done something. You won't even look at me."

"It's not...it's not your fault."

"What, it's not you, it's me? Come on, Steven."

"Look, I'm really tired. I'm just going to go to bed. Help yourself to food, yeah?" He tries to wriggle out of Brendan's grasp, but he holds him there, firm.

"Tell me," he murmurs, fear rising to his throat. Alarm bells are sounding in his head. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.

"Okay, but you have to promise not to go mad."

Brendan swallows, wondering what could possibly be coming.

"I promise." He's not lying. He won't get angry if this is the end, the end of them. He'll experience an emotion far more terrifying than anger.

Slowly, Steven turns around, and their faces are so close that they are almost nose to nose, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. This close, Brendan can practically count every one of his long, thick, sooty eyelashes.

He can also see the bruise which covers Steven's eye, fresh that day, still in the process of fully forming.

"What the fuck happened?"

"You promised you wouldn't get mad!"

"That was before I saw that fucking bruise on your face!"

"It's really not a big deal. It looks worse than it is."

Brendan's fingers trace the wound, and they're so gentle and soft that it's like he's trying to take the pain away.

"When did this happen?"

"Earlier today."

When Brendan wasn't around to protect him. That stupid stock check. As if that means anything compared to this.

"Who the fuck did this to you, Steven?"

"No one -"

"Oh, really? So an invisible hand just reached out of its own accord and decided to imprint you with the colour purple? Or are you going to use the classic, that you banged into a door?"

"Don't start getting all sarky with me!"

"Then don't think I'm about to drop this. I can go on all night if I have to."

"It's over now. Why does it matter?"

Brendan would laugh if he didn't feel so furious.

Why does it matter? Is Steven really asking him that? Did he honestly think that Brendan would drop it aside, pretend that someone hadn't laid a finger on his boy? That he would let someone get away with that? His fists clench involuntarily, his tendons standing on end. He'll find them, whoever they are.

"It matters because..."

Because I love you. Because the thought of you being hurt is the worst kind of pain imaginable. Because I am more than aware that I was the one who made you suffer, that for so long the only person who hurt you was me. And it still kills me, even after all this time of not raising a hand to you. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, and I will make sure that anyone who ever wounds you will pay.

"...Because I have to know, Steven. What would you do if I came home looking like that, eh? Would you not ask questions?"

Steven chews on his lip, considering Brendan's words. His face is creased in worry, almost like he's imagining that very prospect - Brendan being hurt, and him being left in the dark.

"It was Joel."

"Joel?" He's surprised. He knows the two don't get on, to put it mildly, but he had thought that Joel's unwavering loyalty to him would have made him realise that Steven is strictly off limits.

"Why?"

"Usual reasons. Daddy Brendan's not spending enough time with him, apparently." He rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his distaste.

"Then he found out that me and Theresa used to date."

"How did he find out?"

"I sort of...told him," Steven admits sheepishly. "According to him, he has nothing of his own that I haven't had first. Like I'm even interested in Theresa! Unless she grows a tache and develops in a certain area, I think he's safe."

"And Joel hit you - for that?" He knows the boy has a temper on him, much like his dad, but he's not completely reckless.

"I may also have said some stuff about...Warren."

"Steven!"

"I'm sorry, but Joel pointed a gun at you until you talked him round! Warren could have killed you if he'd led you to him."

"That was a long time ago."

"Well, some of us haven't forgotten. Besides, he's always hanging around."

"He works at the club. He runs the place with me."

"Hmmmm," Steven says, his lips sticking out in annoyance.

"Jealous, are we?" Brendan can't help but feel secretly pleased. He's glad he's not the only one who doesn't like having to share.

"No," Steven replies stubbornly. "I just...he looks like me, doesn't he?"

"What?" Brendan laughs.

"Don't say you haven't noticed!"

"So he's young and has brown hair. He's hardly your twin."

"So you don't like...fancy him, do you?"

Brendan cocks an eyebrow. "Fancy him? Joel? Steven, don't make me laugh. He's just a kid."

"He's nineteen! Not that much younger than I was when we got together."

"He's not even gay!"

"Oh, so that's the only thing that's stopping you, is it?"

Brendan rubs his temple, incensed. Joel? Scottish Foxy? Really? Yes, maybe in layman's terms he's his type. Young, skinny, eager to please. But Brendan thinks of him as a rather endearing annoyance, like a breed of puppy who follows you everywhere with pleading eyes. He'd only flirted with him initially to piss off Warren which, he'd noted at the time with pleasure, had more than worked.

"Steven, I don't have time for this. Excuse me."

He heads towards the door. Steven runs in front of him, blocking his path.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"I'm going to talk to him."

"Talk meaning punch?"

"Talk meaning...iron things out."

Steven scoffs. "Am I meant to be believing this?"

"Such little faith," he says, pretending to be outraged.

"Stay here. I've made carbonara, one of your favourites."

Brendan sniffs appreciatively in the air. It does smell amazing.

"With extra sauce?"

Steven nods, and captures Brendan's lips with his own.

With his eyes closed, it's easier to forget that Steven has been hurt. But throughout dinner, it is a constant drip in his mind, like poison. Drip drip drip. Black eye black eye black eye. He can barely meet Steven's gaze, because doing so makes him want to run from the house and find Joel.

When they go to bed that night, he makes sure their mouths are never apart, so he can ignore the bruise. But as Steven dozes in his arms afterwards, he can't stop focusing on it. It hasn't affected his beauty. His skin still remains as flawless as ever, but Brendan can't erase the image of Joel's fist connecting with his face, inflicting pain there.

He rolls over and checks his alarm clock. Two am. The club will still be open. Brendan creeps out of bed. Steven's a deep sleeper, but he often has the uncanny ability to sense when something's amiss. He'll fidget in bed, waking up in a panic. Brendan knows he'll be furious with him if he finds out what he's about to do, but decides that it's worth the risk.

Quickly throwing some clothes on, he unlocks the front door and makes his way across the village.

They're finishing up for the night, Rhys locking up the cash register, Mitzeee wiping off some vomit from some drunken student which didn't quite miss her shoes. Brendan waits till they're all gone, telling them that he'll lock up. He's not sure where Walker is, but guesses that he must have left with the crowd.

He finds Joel sorting through the safe in the office, deep in concentration. Even after owning the club for a year, he's still so desperate to impress, to not get anything wrong. Brendan steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Joel jumps.

"Brendan! What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?"

Brendan simply stares at him.

"I thought today was your day off, anyway?"

Brendan steps closer.

"I had a special call to make."

Joel looks confused. He's not used to seeing Brendan like this these days. On edge. Speaking in riddles. Not since he found Steven walking out from Brendan's bedroom at 9 o'clock in the morning one day, a pair of pajamas covering his modesty, a silent announcement that they were definitely not just friends. Since then, Brendan had been almost...calm.

"What special call? What are you on about?"

"What did I tell you about Steven, Joel?"

Brendan can see the lad's mind kick into place, like a series of dots connecting. He gets it now.

"Ste?" Still trying to play dumb, then. Unwise move, kid. Did he really think Brendan wouldn't find out? What did he think would happen, when he came home and saw the bruise?

"What did I tell you about him?" he repeats. "About touching him?"

Joel looks nauseous. "Not to."

Brendan nods manically, smoothing down Joel's t-shirt. His hands twitch.

"And what did you do?"

"Touch him. But Brendan -"

Brendan slams him up against the wall, his hands markedly close to Joel's windpipe.

"But what? But you thought you could hurt him and I'd watch it happen?"

"No, I -"

"Remember what I said to you the last time you hurt him, Joel. Tell me."

He shakes him when he remains silent. "TELL ME."

"That you'd kill me if I laid a finger on him."

"And yet you didn't listen to me, did you?"

Joel looks genuinely terrified, his eyes darting continuously to the door and around the office, as if searching for an escape route, or some kind of weapon with which to fight back. He seems to realise it's futile, his face defeated.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"Sorry?" Brendan laughs as if it's hilariously funny. "He's got a fucking black eye."

"He said stuff about my dad. About how I'm just like him, and one of these days you're going to realise it."

"Maybe he was right."

A look of deep hurt crosses Joel's face. "Do you really think that?"

"Warren liked messing with Steven too, you know. Just because he could."

"That's not why...look, I'm sorry. I know I broke the rules. But things haven't been the same since you got with him. You moving out, and him being attached to your hip the whole time..."

"Strange, he says the same thing about you."

Joel shakes his head furiously.

"You know, you and Steven aren't so different."

He stares at him, horrified.

"We're nothing alike!"

"Really? I would list on my hands how many similarities you have, but I'd run out of fingers."

"Are you trying to insult me?"

Brendan's grip on Joel tightens.

"Alright, alright! I'm sorry! Just let me go."

"Why should I?" Brendan snarls.

"Because I don't think your boyfriend would be too happy knowing you've beaten the living daylights out of me, or whatever it is you came here to do."

Brendan stills at that. He imagines Steven at home in bed right now, his hand cupping the empty pillow next to him. He imagines him finding out what he's done to Joel, and looking at him with disappointment and disgust. Not understanding that Brendan would never beat him again, but that he has a need to defend him from those who do. All that trust they've built up, knocked back down.

"You can't ever do this again," Brendan whispers, and Joel nods his consent. Releasing him, Brendan tries to keep his movements under control, to stop the frantic energy which is pouring out of him.

Going back into the fresh air, he finally feels a sense of peace again. He has walked away. Perhaps Steven would be proud of him if he knew. That's the problem, though. He can never know.

The house is still dark when he enters it. Steven is as he left him, curled up in a ball, looking angelic. Brendan slips into bed as softly as he can. He can't quite believe what he did tonight. That he backed down. Strange, how he wants to hurt others for Steven, and wants to protect them for him too.

Leaning forward, Brendan lightly kisses just under Steven's eye where the bruise lies, and begins to fall asleep.

21st September, 2014.

He drops a hand forward, his movements lazy in his sleepy haze. He feels around in the bed, trying to feel the boy next to him. He doesn't know why he does it. He should trust after all this time that he's sleeping softly beside him, his chest rising and falling, in that way that reminds Brendan of a kitten, curled around itself for warmth. Perhaps it's a subconscious act, his need to make sure that Steven is still with him. That they sleep in the same bed, that they share the same life. That he hasn't left him.

When he feels the empty gap, he rubs his eyes tiredly and peers through his eyelids. The room is dark, not quite pitch black, but he can only see outlines of things - his wardrobe, his side table, the door. He leans over and switches on the lamp.

Steven's standing beside the bed. Brendan has interrupted him in the middle of putting on a t-shirt. It's in his hands, plain white, not yet covering his nipples, which are pert through the breeze that envelopes the room. It's not particularly cold outside. Brendan has slept naked as is his typical practice, but he knows that the boy gets cold easily.

"Come back to bed," he says, and he gets that strange sense of deja vu, like he's said these words a thousand times before. That it's a cycle he's doomed to repeat. If it is, then he'd happily stay doomed for the rest of his existence.

Steven grins wolfishly at him, and he jumps into bed beside him. He snuggles under the crook of Brendan's elbow, and Brendan pulls the covers up over him, tucking him in. Steven intertwines his body with his, running his feet over Brendan's lithe, hairy legs slowly, causing goosebumps to rise there, and the hairs to stand on end.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Ta."

The boy reaches down and trails his hand across Brendan's stomach. Brendan leans into the touch, closing his eyes against the intimacy of it. Steven continues in his gentle exploration, tickling the hairs that surround Brendan's cock. Then he reaches what his hands and mouth and arse are after, which has the ability of fitting around Steven like a glove. He sits up in the bed and straddles Brendan, grinning as he regards the man's face, which is the picture of ecstasy. His lips are parted the slightest amount, a small smile gracing his mouth, his eyes fighting between returning Steven's scorching gaze, and fluttering shut from the overwhelming feeling. Steven's hand grips Brendan's cock in his palm, but he doesn't move a muscle. A guttural sound comes out of Brendan's throat. His pride tells him not to beg, that the boy has another thing coming if he thinks he'll play these games. But his instinct, something right at the heart of him, which is screaming with desire and need, tells him to urge Steven's hand on. Even Brendan isn't entirely sure which one will win out, until he says those words.

"Steven, please..." He tries to shift forward to force the boy's hand to move, to gain some form of friction. But Steven remains stubbornly still, biting his lip and staring in enjoyment at Brendan's obvious arousal.

It took a long time to get to the point where Brendan could ask for what he wanted. He barely needed to in the beginning, not when Steven's sole mission in life seemed to be to make him as satisfied as possible. But when they officially got together, no more manipulation, no more violence, no more lies, Steven realised that he didn't have to be afraid of anything anymore. He'd always been a cocky little chancer - Brendan had known that since the start. But he seemed to transform overnight. His stares became more provocative, his movements more affected, the words he whispered in Brendan's ear when they were alone no longer making him blush, but inducing a tenting in his own trousers which he wore with pride.

And then the teasing started. He'd be rimming Brendan senseless, and he'd stop his darting movements for what felt like a torturous amount of time. Or he'd be riding Brendan, and would still his hips, his legs surprisingly strong in holding Brendan in place, so he found it difficult to get any leverage. Or he'd have his lips around Brendan's cock, those sinful lips, and unexpectedly drop him from his mouth, leaning back on his knees. Brendan would stare down at him from where he rested against the wall, feeling like he was going to cry out if Steven didn't immediately recreate that warm, tight vacuum around him.

The boy would give him that look, both infuriating and delicious, a challenge in his eyes.

"Tell me you want it, then."

Playing Brendan at his own game. He'd met his match in this one, that was for sure. Brendan, confused and exasperated the first time, had tried to anchor Steven's face towards his own, attempting by coaxing and a light dose of sexual persuasion to get his way.

But it hadn't worked. He's found that the boy relishes hearing those words that Brendan had denied him for so long. Whether in the form of "I love you" or "I want you" or "Fuck me, Steven", they returned him to Brendan in full force, the boy licking, pumping and sucking like he was in a frenzy.

Lying in bed now, Steven's hand immobile on Brendan's cock, Brendan tuts. He really shouldn't allow the boy to be so bossy, but he finds that these days, he is almost powerless to stop him. Playing this game of cat and mouse only seems to make him want Steven more. He's fixated with the pout of his lips, the mock outraged cross of his ams, his raised eyebrow, the way he pushes Brendan and takes him out of his comfort zone, like no one else ever has.

Raising his lips to Steven's neck, Brendan sucks on the skin there. There will be marks there tomorrow, imprints of his teeth, the area around the skin puckered and red. But neither man cares. No scarves or high necked jumpers or shirts will hide the signs of sex. They will wear them without apology or explanation.

Nibbling at Steven's jaw, Brendan whispers those three words, words which fall from his lips like a vow, words which Brendan first spoke three years ago. Words which kept the boy from walking out on him, which led to them fucking on the carpet, Brendan giving him a blow job up against the wall. Words which used to terrify him, but now give him a quiet kind of strength. Steven's hands run over Brendan's chest, ghosting over the hairs there. He shivers, and he's not sure whether it is from the touch of Brendan's defined muscles under his fingertips, or hearing those words uttered from his mouth so emphatically and honesty.

Steven wonders whether those words will ever lose their magic, and he hopes this continues forever so he can find out.

24th September 2014

It's a slow Wednesday night. Takings have been down lately, always inevitable in the winter, when going out in a minidress and bare legs feels akin to dipping your body in ice cold water. The only people at Chez Chez are the brave, the stupid, or a certain boyfriend of Brendan's, who doesn't let the temperature stop him from bounding up the stairs and staring around the floor, searching. He's wearing his standard Carter and Hay uniform - cream chinos, with a blue shirt. He used to go home and change before he visited Brendan, until the man told him not to bother, that it was wasting time. Steven secretly suspects that Brendan has a thing for his 'formal' look.

He sees Cheryl at the bar, and leans over to give her a quick kiss.

"He's in the office," she says by way of explanation. Often Steven and Cheryl will find a corner to sit in and chat when it's quiet, a beer and a white wine in hand, but she's leant by now that he likes to say hello to Brendan first. Their 'hellos' usually extend to an ample half hour in the office or the toilets, Brendan using his keys to lock the latter so they are not disturbed. She's scolded him for this.

"What kind of reputation do you want us to have, Bren? A club where you can't even use the bathroom!"

He tends to give her his best innocent expression, pretending that he has no idea what she's talking about.

Doing his customary knock on the office door - two sharp raps and then a pause before the third - Steven enters. Brendan's sitting behind his desk, Walker facing him in the opposite chair. They have some paperwork out, the latest accounts figures, and the desk isn't visible beneath it, every inch covered. Although this isn't Walker's responsibility, Brendan soon discovered in prison that he had a good business head on him, and more logic than most.

"Steven," Brendan says, standing up from his seat. "I didn't think you'd be here for another hour."

"I got away early, so..." Steven looks between the men, wondering if he's intruded on something.

Steven and Walker being in the same room together makes Brendan feel...uncomfortable. He can't put his finger on why exactly. It's not as though anything ever happens when they cross paths. They usually both say a quick hello, make some small talk about the club, and go their separate ways. Perhaps it's the idea of mixing business with pleasure that Brendan hates so much, although he had no problem doing so with Walker, or Steven himself.

Brendan's never told Steven about the time he and Walker slept together in the office. It had happened after Steven had given him a letter, revealing all about the scam that he had pulled, and that he had chosen Douglas over him. Brendan had suddenly looked around and seen a world that he no longer recognised, where Steven couldn't be won back by sentimental words or promises to change. For perhaps the first time, Steven had felt truly lost to him.

Walker had been there. It had been something they'd never spoken about again, and Steven finding out is the last thing he needs. The boy has never been able to hide his jealousy over Macca, Vincent, Peter or Sean. Brendan could argue all he liked that his situation was similar, as he's still working side by side with Douglas, but he knows that Steven wouldn't see it that way.

What worries him more however, is the way that Walker acts towards Steven. It could easily be missed by an outsider if they didn't look closely. But Brendan trains his eyes on them during their encounters, and sees the effect that Steven has on his employee. Walker's voice would lower, as if he was communicating some secret. He'd barely blink when looking into Steven's eyes, and if he was talking to someone - usually a nameless woman who Walker had managed to ensnare - he'd leave them mid conversation, coming over to speak to Steven instead. All of these little things on their own are inconsequential, but when he puts them all together, Brendan can't get rid of the uneasy feeling he feels in the pit of his stomach.

"Is this a bad time, or...?"

"No," Brendan says, and he stands up, offering Steven his chair. Steven brushes up against his arm as he moves past him. They have a strict no touching policy when in front of certain company. The cheeky git always manages to break it somehow.

"Walker, would you mind getting Steven a drink? Your usual?" he asks, and Steven smiles.

He turns to Walker. "A -"

"I know, don't worry." Walker disappears through the door.

Brendan's sure that he'll make a mistake, that he'll get the wrong drink. But less than five minutes later, he's back clutching Steven's favourite bottle of beer.

"Thanks," Steven says, surprised.

Brendan doesn't understand. Walker has never drunk with him and Steven before, and Brendan and Steven usually stay in the office, alone. How would he know a thing like that?

Walker hands Brendan a cocktail, a sparkly umbrella in tow. He's holding a red wine for himself. The colour is so dark it looks like blood.

Brendan had hoped that asking Walker to get him a drink had signified an end to their meeting, but Walker doesn't seem to have got the message. He sits comfortably against the side of the desk, in between them both.

"Wait!" He says, as Steven is about to take a sip. Brendan is already thinking of the fastest way in which he can split up the two men.

"Lets make a toast."

"To what?"

"To...the future. Our future."

They say it in unison, and their glasses chime.

Present Day

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume.

A gun shot is fired.