Steven Hay

The sweet juice running down his hand as he bit into it. That's what he remembers from that summer, can still taste the peaches that became a daily tradition, cut into quarters for breakfast. Halved at lunch, when he didn't care if he was noisy, didn't care if he got the slices of fruit stuck between his teeth. When he didn't care who was watching. And then a whole one after dinner, sweet after savoury, when the sunlight still lingered enough for him to see the fuzz of skin before it came into contact with his tongue.

Days spent passing the time riding his bicycle along the quiet streets. Long, lazy afternoons when he'd do little more than watch Amy's hair growing lighter from the heat that browned their skin and made their clothes feel like an irritant. They stripped down, nothing but shorts and tight vests and bare feet when they knew they wouldn't be walking far. Black shorts for him; the coloured pair that he'd bought on a whim had gone unworn in a drawer. Ridiculous, Terry had called them. Too bright. You look like a girl, all skin and bone. Ste had shoved them into the back, piled clothes on top of them until no one would be able to see them.

"Who's the new victim?"

Ste felt as though her words were bringing him out of a dream. It was the hottest day so far, too hot to even want to make the effort of collecting the peaches that grew on the trees like a gift. His skin was glistening with sweat. He would have taken his vest off, but Amy had only ever seen him shirtless when they were swimming in one of the lakes. The water felt like a barrier, protecting him.

"What?"

"He's arriving today, isn't he? The new guy?"

It happened every year, was a tradition that they wished they could bypass entirely. There would be a new apprentice, someone to help Terry and Pauline around the house. They'd stay for a few weeks, their initial excitement dimming and then extinguishing entirely when they realised the reality of the situation. The reality of the people they'd be sharing their lodgings with. They always looked different when they left; a little less bright, a little less hopeful. A little more like they wanted to run.

They were nice enough. He made polite conversation with them. Too polite. Too careful. Good morning. How are you? Do you need anything from the shops? How's your work going? Once he'd exhausted the usual questions there was an uncomfortable silence that stretched on until he reminded himself that soon they'd be gone. He knew they were thinking it too.

"Think so. Don't know." He stretched, accidentally brushing against her foot. She kept her's there for a second, seemed to think it was deliberate on his part. Flexed her toes.

"Where's this one from?"

He tried to remember. Scotland, was it? No, that wasn't right. London, perhaps. Maybe they'd think they were better than him, coming from the big city. But that wasn't right either.

"Ireland," he said, it coming to him all at once. He'd only been half listening when Terry had told him. He's got a stupid accent. He'd had his mouth full at the time; Ste had been able to see strips of meat, blood red. Couldn't hardly make out what he was saying on the phone. Ste had wanted to remind Terry that he had chosen him, that no one had forced him into it. But he knew what would happen if he did.

"What's he doing all the way over here?"

"Don't know." He yawned, swatted away a fly that had landed on his leg.

"You're useful."

"Shut up."

"He's going to stay with you for months, Ste. Months. Living with you. And you don't even -"

"I wish he wasn't. I wish none of them were."

Amy shrugged. "They're not all bad. There was that one - what was his name? He was always making jokes."

"Lee. Don't pretend you don't remember."

"I didn't. Lee, that's it. He was alright."

Ste gave her a beady look. She blushed.

"I told you, nothing happened," she said.

"Except for that time you disappeared together all evening."

"I was showing him around."

"I bet you were."

He got an eye roll for that.

"I'm not interested in anyone else."

He looked at her. Repeated the words back in his head. Wondered if she knew how it sounded.

"This one's old anyway." He hoped the change of subject didn't sound as obvious as he feared. "Late twenties, Terry said."

Amy laughed. "Ste, that's not old."

"I'm just saying. What are we going to talk about?"

"Guinness."

He wrinkled his nose. "I hate Guinness. If he thinks I'm going to go out drinking with him..."

"Be nice."

"I am nice."

She gave him a sceptical look.

"I am. I'm just... tired. I always have to show them around, make them feel welcome."

"How horrific."

"You don't know what it's like." He heard the edge to his voice. Changed it. "Being here, it's the only time..." He couldn't speak for a second. He closed his eyes, could feel her watching him.

She gave in first.

"Ste?"

"When I'm in Manchester, it's... it's all the time, isn't it. Everything at home, it's... all the time. Being here is the only chance I have to get out. Not be in the house with them."

"I know."

"I know it sounds selfish, right, but I just don't want to talk to anyone. Not Terry. Not my mum. Not the new idiot who comes every summer."

"Not me?"

"You're not everyone else."

When he opened his eyes he could see her smile. It was the kind of smile that you tried to hide but couldn't.

"It'll be okay," she said. "I'll be here, won't I. We can meet this new guy together."

"Thanks Ames."

She smiled again, a proper one this time.

"What's his name anyway?"

"Brendan."

::::::

They were in the bedroom when they heard the car's wheels crunching along the gravel.

He stayed sprawled on the bed, watched as Amy went to the window. The strap of her top had fallen off her shoulder and was hanging halfway down her arm. She appeared not to have noticed.

"Aren't you going to come and see?"

"I'll come in a bit."

She was silent. It made him curious; she always had something to say about the new arrival. About their hair, about their clothes, about the way they walked. About the confidence they initially had in approaching the house, and that same confidence that faded little by little the more they were in it.

He stood up, joined her, his hip coming into contact with her's to make her give him enough room. She took his cue, shifted over, but the movement was slow. She looked like she was cast in a spell, and reluctant for him to break it.

The new arrival didn't seem like he was in any rush to be inside. He was leaning on the outside of the car, arms crossed, looking up at the house. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and a darker beard covered his face. He was dressed for the weather, shorts that barely covered him at all, and a white shirt that had three of its buttons open. There was a glint of something, a necklace, silver, but Ste couldn't see its design from up here. He found himself pressing his body against the ledge of the window. Leaning in. Forgetting that if he could see the man, then the man could see him.

And he did see him. Saw both of them, looked right at them, and Ste was aware of Amy composing herself, trying to pretend that they hadn't been spying. She waved. The arrival didn't wave back.

Ste broke away from the window, away from the sunlight.

"Maybe he didn't see me," Amy said, retreating with him.

"He saw you."

"The sun was probably in his eyes."

"He has glasses on."

He sat back on the bed. The last house guest - an American who seemed to have packed a vast array of interesting jumpers despite it being the height of summer - had practically bounded up the stairs to meet them both. He'd been excitable, talkative. Ste couldn't shake the feeling that this one wouldn't be the same.

You haven't even talked to him yet.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe the sun was in his eyes."

Amy nodded, satisfied.

He heard the call for him up the stairs, a rough Steven that he'd been expecting. They didn't like him to hide up in his room and leave them to do all the work.

Amy held out her hand for him.

"Let's go."

He took it. Her hand looked small in his, her skin soft. She didn't let go till they'd reached the bottom of the stairs.

Another shout of his name.

"I'm here."

He got a warning look from Pauline for that. He hadn't chosen the kind of tone she liked.

It was the first time he'd seen her that day. She'd brushed her hair, put some kind of perfume on that overpowered her. He wanted to cough as it filled his senses.

He could hear voices in the other room, muffled.

"I should go." Amy said, but she made no move to leave. She wasn't looking at Ste; she was looking inside the room, trying to get a better view.

"You'll break your neck," Ste said.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He steeled himself. Now was his time to be the host, to play his part.

He wanted to hide.

"You coming to meet him?" It would be easier if Amy was next to him. Pauline was still by his side - swaying slightly, he noticed - but he knew she wouldn't be any help. Her mind was focused: he could see her using all the brain power she had to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.

Amy opened the door.

It was a cross. The necklace, the silver one he'd seen earlier that had caught the light of the day. It was a cross. It was the first thing Ste looked at, and then he looked away. It was an abstract idea, God, as mythical to him as the monsters that he'd heard about growing up. He couldn't see any of them, couldn't touch them, and he knew he'd have even less in common with this man than he'd already thought.

Terry was in mid-conversation, laying down the ground rules. The new arrival still hadn't taken off his sunglasses. And there was the leaning again; Ste sensed a habit. It was the edge of the table this time, and he looked like it was all that was holding him up. The fabric of his shirt was thin; the kind that would stick to his skin if it got wet. Dark hair covered his legs - impossible to ignore, with the shorts smaller up close - and his trainers were so white they looked like they'd come straight from the store.

Amy jumped in when the conversation stilled.

"You must be Brendan."

She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek. It was her standard welcome for all the new arrivals. Ste couldn't tell if Brendan was surprised behind his shades. He saw him shift slightly, look at him.

"I'm Ste. Welcome." He offered him his hand. Brendan's was warm when he took it, his grip strong.

"Ste." It was the first time he'd heard Brendan speak. The accent was jarring. He'd been surrounded by Italian natives for weeks now, and to hear such a contrast made him want to laugh. He noticed Terry stiffen, and his words from before reverberated in Ste's head. Stupid accent. "That's short for...?"

"Steven," Terry said, and there was triumph there. Ste had insisted that no one would ask him that question when he'd told him what he wanted to be called. Terry had insisted he was wrong.

"No one calls me that though," Ste said, and hoped that he sounded final, that Terry would know he couldn't add anything: I do. I call him that.

"He loves being unique," Amy said, and she elbowed him, let out a laugh that sounded an awful lot like she was trying to keep things on a level.

"That's one word for him," Terry said.

"I'm just going to..." He headed towards the door. He needed to leave. Now.

"Show Brendan to his room," Terry said. It wasn't a suggestion.

"I was going to walk Amy home."

"Amy's a big girl," Pauline said, her voice drifting from the corner of the room. Ste saw how she looked at Amy. An annoyance at best. A poison at worst. Someone who had come into their family. Weaseled was how Pauline liked to put it, her face contorting with the word. And now we can't get rid of her.

Amy looked between Ste and Terry. Ste could feel her waiting, knew that she wouldn't go until he told her it was okay to leave him.

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I'll be off then." She hugged Ste quickly, turned to Brendan when they had pulled apart. "It was lovely meeting you."

"Likewise."

Ste stared at him. There was something about the way he said it. A carelessness. Or maybe it was the way he'd chewed his gum at the same time, noisy to the point of being rude, parting his lips so Ste got a glint of white before it disappeared again.

"Right, well..." Ste picked up one of Brendan's bags, gestured for him to follow him. Amy walked with them, gave Ste a thumbs up and a mimed good luck before she left. He wished she had stayed, had filled the silence with her mindless chatter about the house and the village and the best spots to swim.

The stairs creaked lightly as they took Brendan's belongings upstairs.

He opened the door of the bedroom, tried to look at it through new eyes. He'd tidied up a little, as was his way before a new arrival came each summer. The window was open - a futile attempt to get some kind of breeze into the room - and he'd put fresh sheets on the bed that morning. A bowl of fruit was on the bedside table, picked from the garden. There had been no need to test to make sure it was ripe; it always was.

"My room is now your room."

"This is your place?" Brendan said.

"It's bigger, so..." He didn't add the part about Terry and Pauline forcing him to switch. He had a feeling they liked watching the upheaval and the knowledge that the other bed's mattress had lumps that no amount of shifting in the night seemed to fix.

He expected Brendan to thank him like all the other guests had done.

He noticed the fruit. He dumped his bag, picked up the peach that Ste had left whole. Took a bite, as loud as he'd been with the gum. There was that trickle that Ste had memorised as the juice made its way down Brendan's arm. He stopped it short before it landed on his shirt or shorts; licked it off, a dart of his tongue and a hum of appreciation.

"We have more. Loads more," Ste said. "There's juice for breakfast too, but it's not as good."

He didn't say anything, just kept eating. Ste didn't know what to do.

"The bathroom's through here." The practical; the practical is what he'd do. He opened the door, showed Brendan where the bathroom separated their two rooms. "I'll be next door. I'll show you where the kitchen is, obviously. And there's a spare bike if you want. It's old but it's strong enough." He knew he was babbling, stopped in his tracks when Brendan stretched and then sprawled back on the bed. His shoes were still on, narrowly avoiding the new sheets. He didn't take off his sunglasses.

He had a feeling this was his cue to leave.

"I'll just..."

He looked back once before he left. He didn't like it; didn't like not knowing whether Brendan was closing his eyes or looking around the room or looking right at him.

He closed the door. He stood in the hallway for a second, could hear his breath coming faster now, as though he'd been holding it.

::::::

He knocked for him. Dinner was on the table, prepared from thrown together ingredients that they'd had left over in the fridge. He was soft at first, little taps, and then a single pound of his fist against the door. A call of Brendan, an edge of frustration creeping in. The other guests had been downstairs on their first night, exploring the house and the garden, asking him questions - too many questions - and planning where they'd go when they weren't helping Terry with his work.

He took a chance, opened the door. He was sleeping, must have been, his breathing rhythmic and his chest rising and falling gently, his shirt constraining around it.

Ste didn't want to shake him, didn't want to touch him. He looked for something heavy, his eyes settling on Brendan's suitcase. There was something solid in there that felt like books, not clothes, and Ste raised it into the air and dropped it, the thud making him jump even though he'd been expecting it.

It worked. Brendan sat up a little, seemed disorientated.

"What time is it?" His voice was thick, groggy.

"Evening. Dinner time. It's ready. Dinner, I mean."

Brendan yawned, turned away.

"Think I'll sit this one out."

Ste waited for the joke. For the laugh that he'd had him on, for him to stand up and come for the dinner that he'd cooked for him. It had been quick to prepare - some fish and a sauce to coat it with - but he'd made sure that there would be enough for all of them.

He wanted to say something, drop the suitcase again, but there was a chance that Terry would hear him downstairs.

"Where is he?" Terry said when Ste joined him at the table. The wine had already been opened, was more than half empty. Pauline's cheeks were pink in the low light.

"Not coming."

Terry prodded the fish with his fork.

"Smart man."

::::::

He didn't snore.

That was one thing he had going for him. Ste waited as he got into bed, strained to hear, but there was nothing. The last one had snored.

He hadn't put Brendan any dinner aside. He'd had his portion, had lost his appetite but kept going until the plate was clear. If Brendan didn't want to come for his dinner then it was his choice. Maybe this was how it would be for the rest of his stay here. Separate meals, separate trips into the village on their bikes. It suited him. No small talk, no pretense that they were going to stay in touch after the summer was over.

He closed his eyes, tried to settle. He could feel the lumps from the bed against his back, against his side, against his stomach as he wriggled and attempted to find a comfortable position. He tried not to think about the bed next door, about the bigger space. About the person who was now stealing that space.

He still hadn't seen his eyes. He didn't know why it should bother him, but it did. The least Brendan could do was look at him when he was talking to him. He was in his house, in his bed, and those sunglasses felt like a warning. Don't try to know me.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow he'd go to his favourite spot by the water, and Brendan could keep to himself.

::::::

It was hotter than the day before.

He put on a different pair of shorts - white - and didn't bother with a t-shirt. He didn't comb his hair, just pushed it back with his hands and left it as it was. His skin had darkened over the previous weeks, and he scratched the areas where it was peeling until they were smooth again.

He bounded down the stairs, knowing that Brendan might still be asleep, and not caring if he was.

Ste stopped when he heard voices coming from outside. One voice, distinctive.

They were sitting in the garden, the three of them. The table was full with food - fruit, toast and boiled eggs - and a pot of coffee was being shared around.

He felt suddenly underdressed even in the heat.

"Morning," Ste said.

He took the spare seat opposite Brendan. He was in those shades again. He'd get marks around his eyes if he kept it up. Ste tried not to smile at the thought of it.

Pauline had cooked the eggs. Ste could tell straight away. His egg didn't run; it remained hard, no creamy yolk to soak his toast with. Only Brendan's egg ran with colour, dripping onto the plate below before he scooped it up. A speck of white landed on his beard.

He ate his breakfast as hurriedly as he'd had the peach. Ste didn't know if he was rushing to be away from the table - he wouldn't blame him if he was - but there was a concentrated kind of energy to it that he couldn't look away from. The coffee, too. He drank with a desperation, didn't put down his mug until he was finished.

"More?" Pauline asked. The other guests had called her a feeder. Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite in a lad. She liked to look at Ste as she said that.

"Please."

"Steven." She looked at him pointedly.

He loaded Brendan's plate. Another egg, and more toast, and more coffee that competed with the day with its heat.

"Thank you." He'd hardly finished saying it before he was eating again.

"You must be hungry after last night," Ste said.

"Sorry about that. Travelling, you know..."

He said nothing to that. His retaliation was fading. Brendan had come a long way, and he knew he'd feel strange if he was staying with a family he'd never met before. It made Ste feel foolish, that long night of imagining what the next couple of weeks would be like.

He buried the sting of his words, started again.

"We can go into town today if you want. There's not much to it, but there's some nice places to see."

Just not his place. He didn't take anyone to his place. Not even Amy.

"If your father doesn't mind."

"He's not my father." There it was again, the sting. He looked down at his plate; the inside of his egg was getting harder, colder.

"Step-dad," Terry said. "Steven's dad left him. Years ago, it was. Never stuck around."

He liked to wheel the story out like a party trick. Ste concentrated on the piece of egg still on Brendan's beard, watching until he finally dabbed it away with his hand.

"I'll wait for you to finish your work," Ste said. He had a last remaining bite of egg and scraped back his chair.

He went back inside, found a t-shirt to put on.

::::::

They worked long into the afternoon. Ste saw them as he lay on the grass. They got started on the conservatory, the windows gradually changing from stained brown to clear white as Brendan dipped the sponge into the bucket of water again and again. Then they started shifting furniture, separating it into two piles. What they would keep would be dusted off, restored to something like new, and what was worn and breaking in places from years of use would be discarded.

Brendan could keep up. Some of the others hadn't been able to. They had embellished their applications, throwing around terms like strength and endurance like Terry was expecting them to run a race. He wasn't: he just wanted someone who would shut up and who would work until their muscles were sore. Some of the new arrivals had been barely out of their teens, and Ste had watched their alarm grow as they'd realised the extent of the work.

He had big arms. Brendan. Big arms, and shoulders that seemed too large for his shirts to contain him. He went back and forth from the house to the garden, didn't seem to say anything the whole time. If he knew that Ste was watching him then he didn't show it; didn't look in his direction once.

Ste was nearly falling asleep when he was shaken. He squinted, his eyes adjusting.

"I've finished."

He sat up, felt small with Brendan standing over him.

"I'll get the bikes."

::::::

The roads were busier this time of day. He considered taking the short cuts, but he wanted Brendan to see everything. Crema wasn't the kind of place you wanted to miss. When he had to go back to Manchester he ached for the place. Ached for the warmth and the food and the lakes. Ached for the buildings and the cafes and the narrow alleyways. He was mourning the loss of them already.

Brendan was a confident rider. The route they took didn't faze him. He overtook Ste often; they were rarely side by side. A couple of times Ste had to check that Brendan was still with him; glanced quickly so he wouldn't fall off his bike, saw the flash of his silver cross and the dark tint of his sunglasses.

They stopped when they reached the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi.

"Want to get a drink?" Ste said.

Brendan nodded, following Ste into a cafe where they placed their orders. Turns out Brendan liked his coffee the same way Ste did; strong, full-bodied. They sat outside, listened to the steady thrum of the traffic.

"What do you think of the place?"

Brendan looked around for a minute, took so long that Ste didn't know if he'd heard him.

"It's beautiful."

Ste liked the way he said it. It sounded considered, not a throwaway word.

"Different to Ireland?" He smiled into his coffee cup.

"Different."

He wanted to know more. Wanted to know what had made Brendan come all this way just to be the hired help. Wanted to know where he was going back to.

"What do you do around here?" Brendan said.

Ste shrugged. "Cycle. Swim. Eat. And repeat."

"Sounds fun." He didn't know if Brendan was mocking him.

Ste took another sip of his coffee.

"Amy's having a party in a couple of weeks. You're welcome to come."

"Bunch of kids..."

Ste frowned. "She's twenty."

"And you...?"

"I'm twenty as well. Why, how old did you think I was? Just because I'm here with my mum, doesn't mean -"

"It's not because you're here with her. It's just..."

"What?"

"Just thought you were younger, that's all."

"Well I'm not," Ste said stiffly.

"Glad we cleared that up." He scraped his chair back.

"You're going?"

Ste hadn't finished his coffee yet.

"Tell your girlfriend I'll see if I can come by."

Ste didn't know if he should follow him. But the decision was made for him. Brendan took his bike, disappearing around the bend of the road.

::::::

"You don't hate him."

"I'm getting there."

Amy had her arms crossed.

"Steven."

"Don't call me that. You know I don't like it."

"Sorry. I didn't... sorry." She uncrossed her arms. "But you don't hate him. You don't even know him."

"I know enough."

"He probably just wanted to explore the place on his own. He'd been working all day, hadn't he? And he's not completely wrong, Ste - we probably do seem like a couple of kids to him."

"It's not just that. It's the other things too. He didn't even come down to dinner on the first night."

"He'd been travelling all day. And he had no idea what a good cook you are."

He took a moment to bask in the praise. Then he was angry again.

"And what about the sunglasses?"

"What about them?"

"I still haven't seen his face," Ste said.

Amy laughed. "What are you so fussed about that for?"

"It's just odd, that's all."

"He's got a nose. He's got a mouth. I'm sure he has eyes too."

"Be nice of him to show them."

"It's not his face that I care about."

"What's that meant to mean?" Ste said, uncomfortable now. He wasn't sure if he liked where this was going. Sometimes he longed for the days when he and Amy used to only talk about what music they were listening to and share stories from school.

"Come on. You know," she said, like it ought to be obvious.

He stared at her blankly, like he had no idea what she was talking about. It scared him sometimes, how good he was at lying. Even to her.

"He's attractive, isn't he."

"Is he?"

"You must know."

"How am I meant to?" Ste said.

He supposed that Brendan was conventionally attractive, if you were into that sort of thing. Tall. Dark hair. Well built.

He supposed, if she forced him to think about it, then he would know.

"I know when other girls are attractive. I know that Anne's attractive. It's the same thing."

"No it isn't," Ste said.

Amy sighed, defeated.

"Well he is. I'm sure he'll be a hit at the party."

"That's if he even comes."

He couldn't imagine Brendan there amongst the crowd, having any kind of desire to fit in.

"You're still coming though, right?" Amy said.

He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Of course. See you tomorrow, yeah?"

He cycled away from her.

It wasn't the same.

::::::

He didn't see Brendan for the rest of the day. He made a place for him at dinner, waited. He waited for him to come for dessert. Waited for him to open the bathroom door that separated their rooms.

It was late when he came in. He had his back to him, was standing in front of the toilet seat. Ste kept his eyes open; could hear the sound of Brendan unzipping, unbuckling.

His eyes snapped shut when Brendan looked round. It was dark; he might not have seen that he was still awake. Ste heard the door close.

He slept fitfully.

::::::

Another breakfast. Another egg - several - and this time the yolks ran.

"These are good."

He looked up, saw that Brendan was directing his words to Pauline. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and a mottled bruise on the side of her neck that was transforming from colour to colour as the days went on. Ste knew it would still be tender if he pressed it.

"I made them." He said it quietly, speaking into his breakfast.

"They're good," Brendan repeated. He smoothed a hand over his beard, but he didn't need to worry this time. There were no traces of egg. It was spotless, looked freshly washed.

"Thank you."

They were both wearing cream shorts that day. Brendan's pair were secured with a black belt; Ste's hung loosely on his hips. Pauline's shirt was creased, her trousers too. She hadn't talked all morning, just picked at her food and looked away from the table, away from them.

Thank you. Ste heard Terry mutter it under his breath, an imitation of him. Ste kept his hands under the table for a moment, made sure that he wouldn't do anything.

"I'll be back late tonight." He only spoke when he trusted his voice not to shake. "I'm going to Amy's."

Terry grunted. Not quite an acknowledgment. Not quite ignoring him, just so that Ste would know that he couldn't wake him up in the early hours.

Brendan said nothing. He'd started on the peach juice that they kept in a large jug at the centre of the table. The sunglasses were back. Ste wished he could see his eyes, wished he could see if Brendan agreed with him, that it wasn't as good as the whole fruit.

Wished he would say anything at all.

"Ready?" Terry said, was staring at Brendan expectedly. He didn't believe in resting between meals. He had his eye on the conservatory already.

Brendan drained his glass, licked his lips.

"Ready."

He lay a hand on the back of Ste's chair before he left.

::::::

He slammed his bedroom door. There was a desk in this room, not as large as the one in Brendan's, but it would do. He got out his notebook from the drawer, started writing.

He hates me.

He stopped. Remembered. Thought about the way Brendan had left him in town the other day. Thought about how he'd dismissed him as a kid. Thought about the invitation to Amy's party and how Brendan wouldn't come, just like he never came to dinner.

He underlined hates.

He'd pressed the pen into the paper too hard, ripped it. The ink seeped through onto the other page. He screwed it up, tight, small, and threw it into the bin.

He shut the notebook, banged it back into the drawer. He sat back in his chair, had his hand at his neck. He dug his fingers in, did it until it hurt. Until it clouded his thoughts, left them hazy, further to reach.

He could see them when he looked outside. He had a view of the garden from here, and he made sure he only looked for a second so he wouldn't be seen. Brendan was clearing away some broken glass. He'd burned a little. Ste had noticed it at breakfast, his arms a burnished red. He'd need to be more careful; skin like Brendan's wasn't designed for this heat.

He got his notebook out and started again.

I hate him.

::::::

They met in the kitchen in the middle of the night. Ste had come down to get a drink of water, and he caught Brendan rummaging in the cupboards. He turned the lamp on low, the contours of Brendan's face looking soft and undefined in the dim light.

He wasn't wearing his sunglasses.

It was the first time Ste had seen him properly. His eyes were startlingly blue, and there was a faint hint of a shadow underneath them. Somehow it suited him, made him look a few years older than he was, a complete contrast to the lads that Ste knew back home. Amy had thought him attractive before she'd seen him like this. Ste could only imagine what she'd say now. It seemed impossible that any girl wouldn't want him.

Without the protection of the glasses Ste knew that Brendan should be the one who felt exposed; but instead he did.

Brendan didn't look embarrassed at being caught.

"Are you looking for something?" Ste asked.

"I just felt a bit hungry, that's all."

It was an understatement. He'd gathered a box of biscuits in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.

"You don't mind, do you?" Brendan said.

Ste wasn't sure if he'd put it all back even if he did.

"No. Go for it. Do you want anything on the bread?" He started listing what they had available, feeling like he was back in Manchester and waiting on tables of demanding customers again.

"Do you have seedless jam?"

He liked the specific nature of the request.

"No," he said, wondering if he ought to. "Sorry."

"Butter will do."

Brendan toasted the bread as Ste grabbed a glass and filled it with water. He stifled the need to apologise for disturbing him even though it was his house.

His eyes trailed over to the table. There was a collection of books spread across it, their covers worn from what he assumed must be years of use.

"Are these yours?"

He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Terry or Pauline read. Terry bought the newspapers once in a while, but that was it.

Brendan wiped a biscuit crumb from his mouth.

"I bring them with me wherever I go."

Ste was curious, wanting to step closer and take a look at them. But it felt personal. He wouldn't go without permission.

"Do you read a lot?"

"I try to."

He had been right when he thought there had been books inside his suitcase.

He'd finished his water now. He had no reason to stay. No invitation to sit down.

"Night then," Ste said.

Brendan settled down at the table, already opening one of the books and finding the place he'd marked.

"Night."

::::::

He wasn't thirsty, but he found himself going downstairs again the next night.

Brendan was already sitting at the table, a glass of juice to his mouth, a book spread open before him.

"No midnight snack this time?" Ste said.

He thought he might startle him at the sudden interruption, but Brendan looked like he'd been expecting him.

"Not yet."

Ste hesitated, then opened the cupboard and rooted around at the back. He found his hiding place. He'd put it out of sight, making sure that Terry or Pauline didn't get to it first.

"I bought you this in town today." He held the jar up to the light so that Brendan could see it clearly. Jam. Seedless.

There was a shine to his eyes, surprise filtering through.

"You didn't have to do that."

"It was no trouble," Ste dismissed. "I was going there already." Into town, yes, but not into the shop. But Brendan didn't need to know that.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing." He hadn't done it with any intention of Brendan paying him back.

"I'll get my wallet." He was already rising from his seat and making a beeline for upstairs.

"Please don't," Ste said, putting a hand on his arm to stop him. He quickly took it away. "It's just some jam. It was silly really. But I just thought you might like it."

"Do you do this for all your guests?"

There hadn't been anyone Irish in his school. He could listen to Brendan speak all day. He liked that he sounded so different to everyone he knew.

"No," Ste said. "But then they never asked."

"I'll have to give you a shopping list next time."

Ste laughed, then remembered that they weren't alone in the house. He lowered his voice.

"Want me to put on some toast?"

"I can do it," Brendan said. "Sit down if you want."

"Okay." He'd been hoping for that. He sat in the seat next to the one Brendan had occupied. With his back to him he could look openly at the books in front of him now. He stared greedily from cover to cover. This felt like the most information he had about Brendan. It was a snapshot of what he might like, and that was a start.

"There are a lot of classics."

"Have you read them?"

"A couple. We had to at school." He didn't admit that he'd skipped the majority of lessons and watched the film adaptions.

Brendan joined him at the table with his food. He'd put on an extra slice of toast for Ste.

"Thanks."

They took it in turns with the butter and jam.

"Can I...?" Ste motioned to the books, still not sure if he could pick them up.

"Be my guest. As I'm yours."

Ste picked up the most surprising choice of the selection.

"Emma. I didn't have you down as an Austen fan."

The pages were stained brown, in that way that so many old books were.

"Why? Because I'm not a woman?"

"No," Ste said, although that's exactly what he'd meant.

"It's my sister's copy. It's her favourite book - she fancies herself a bit of a matchmaker too. She gave it to me a long time ago."

Every mention of Brendan's ties to his life in Ireland made him more interested in finding out everything about it. Ste couldn't work out if he was being deliberately evasive or if he honestly didn't know how curious he was about him.

He leafed through the pages, coming to one that had a sentence underlined. He carefully folded back the page, reluctant to bend the spine even though enough damage had been done to it over the years.

"'If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.' Did your sister underline that?"

"No," Brendan said, taking a bite from his toast. "I did."

Ste wanted to ask why. Instead he nibbled at the crust of his toast and looked around at the other books.

"You've got a lot by the Brontës."

"I prefer them. More... fucked up." He laughed.

"Put that in your English essays, did you?"

"Something like that. Maybe that's why I was always getting detention."

There it was again: that little glimpse into his life.

"But you must have liked that quote in Emma. Enough to mark it out, I mean." He had to circle back to it.

Brendan had finished all his toast before Ste was even halfway through his.

"I guess so. I'm heading to bed." He gathered the books together. "See you tomorrow."

"Okay," Ste said, wondering if he'd done something wrong. He didn't allow himself to turn around until he knew that Brendan was out of the kitchen. Then he watched his retreating footsteps up the stairs.

::::::

He listed all the titles and all the authors he'd seen in his notebook.

He'd get them all from the library when he was back home.

:::::::

Brendan was already prepared the next night.

He'd poured them both glasses of water and put biscuits on plates in their respective places at the table.

"It's nice to not have to do the serving for once." Ste sat next to him, surprised by how it already felt like they were slipping into an old routine.

"For me you mean?" He had the good grace to look guilty.

"No. For people back home. I work at a restaurant."

"I thought you'd be at university."

Ste shook his head. He'd had this conversation a lot of times. He'd almost been tempted to start inventing a course and a lecturer and a group of students that he was friends with. It seemed better than explaining.

"I didn't get the grades." He didn't want Brendan to call him stupid, so he did it for him. "I'm not smart enough."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"You don't have to try to make me feel better." But he liked it. Liked that Brendan was making the effort.

"I don't ever try to do that with anyone. People are smart in different ways. So you didn't pass some exams at school. That doesn't mean anything."

"It does if you want to count for something." He was sure that his future would consist of moving from one dead end job to another.

"Whoever told you that is lying."

Ste was sure he was wrong, but he smiled. Felt instantly better.

"But you know about books. I haven't even read any of these."

He picked one up at random. He knew it wouldn't matter which one, because they were all important. Important to Brendan.

"I can read you some if you want."

"I can read, you know," Ste said, heat beginning to rise to his face at the humiliation of it. He hated that that's what people might think; that he couldn't even do that.

"I know." Brendan put his hand on his shoulder. Ste's eyes moved towards it. He pulled away so suddenly that he was sure he'd imagined it. A trick of the light.

"Okay," Ste said. "I'll just..."

He stood back up and closed the door behind them. He wasn't sure why he needed to. He just knew he did.

He boiled the kettle and watched as Brendan settled further into his chair. The first page of the book was open for them.

Ste came back with their mugs of tea.

"You can start."

::::::

He found a note left underneath his door in the morning. He unfolded it with eager hands.

What do you think about Heathcliff so far?

He liked his handwriting. The unexpectedly tidy nature of it. The way he did loops for certain words. He wondered if he'd just missed Brendan leaving the note for him, and what would have happened if he'd got to the door in time.

He tore a sheet out from his notebook and scribbled back.

Seems like a really nice bloke.

He could practically hear Brendan laughing. He smiled at the thought of it. He made sure that no one was in the hallway and then slipped the note underneath Brendan's door.

::::::

He didn't try to keep quiet in the kitchen. He dropped a bowl on the floor and banged the cupboards so that Brendan would know he was there. There and not in his room.

He only stopped when Pauline shouted at him that she was trying to sleep.

He decided he'd left enough time. He ran up the stairs again, heart thumping harder when he saw the note.

We've clearly still got a lot of reading to do, Steven.

::::::

"Have you started to despise them yet?"

He'd never felt this way in classes at school. He'd be looking out of a window or doodling on his exercise book or talking to one of the boys next to him. He'd never listened when the teachers had been talking. And he'd definitely never given his opinion before.

Now he leaned forward, crossing his arms and feeling like he was part of an actual discussion.

"Why would I?"

Brendan sat back and regarded him.

"You surprise me."

He didn't know if he'd given the wrong answer. But Brendan had never told him that any of his opinions weren't valid.

"Why?"

"People usually do."

He wanted to ask if Brendan knew these people personally. If they had been friends of his. If Brendan had once read to them.

He felt jealous of them.

"But I thought it was a classic?"

"It is. That doesn't mean that people can't hate the characters though."

When Brendan had started to read to him, he'd been worried that he might not enjoy it. That he'd have to pretend he found it interesting but would secretly wish that he'd never agreed to it.

He hadn't expected this. That it would become his favourite part of the day.

"What do they say?"

"That Cathy's a bitch and Heathcliff's a psychopath."

"She is," Ste conceded. "And he is."

Brendan closed the book. It was already two o'clock in the morning. They had to get to sleep, but still he didn't move.

"But you don't mind?"

"I don't want to read about perfect people. It's not interesting to me. I can't get anything from that."

Brendan reached out a hand. For a second Ste thought he was going to touch him, but he gathered up their mugs of tea, bringing them over to the sink and clearing up the evidence of their night together.

Back still turned, he started to speak.

"Maybe you can put the book in your room tonight."

"Okay," Ste said, wondering if he sounded a little too eager, a little too surprised. "Thanks."

::::::

"Where were we?"

Brendan took the book from him, about to pick up where they'd left off.

Ste had done all the usual checks. He'd made sure Pauline and Terry were asleep. He'd boiled the kettle and poured the tea into the mug that Brendan seemed to always gravitate towards. He'd filled the table with their chosen snacks for the night. He'd closed the door. He'd put the light down low, enough for them to still see each other.

They were ready to go.

But he had one more thing he needed to do.

"Brendan?"

"Yeah?" Brendan said absentmindedly, still flicking through the book.

Brendan letting him keep the book over night had given him the confidence he needed to ask this. He wasn't sure he ever would have done it otherwise.

"Can I read tonight?" He kept his eyes on the table, his hands grateful to be concentrating on the food in front of him. "Just a couple of pages," he added, because he loved it when Brendan read to him, and he didn't want to be without that.

He imagined all the ways that Brendan could turn him down. But then he saw the book sliding across the table towards him.

"Of course."

He could feel himself colouring. He knew it would get worse as he started to read. But he risked it. Waited until Brendan had started on his food, when the atmosphere grew relaxed enough, just like any other night. They'd only been doing this a couple of times now, and yet that's exactly what it felt like - something familiar and comforting and theirs.

He stumbled a couple of times. It reminded him of the humiliation of having to read aloud in class. He hesitated, was about to give up when Brendan put a hand on the table, near enough to Ste to make him notice and look up.

"Just keep going."

He didn't stumble after that. He wasn't afraid anymore.

When he wanted to finish he handed the book over. He felt a strange sense of pride that he'd been able to do it. That Brendan had smiled at him as he started on the next page. That he appeared to have been listening the whole time he'd been reading. Not staring out of the window. Not making another drink. He'd been there, right beside him, completely present.

They stopped later than usual. They were both taken aback when they saw the time.

"I don't know how I'm going to get up for work in the morning," Brendan said.

"Sorry." But he wasn't sorry.

"That's okay." He yawned and stretched his arms up to the ceiling. "Only because it's you though."

He didn't have a comeback for that. He wondered if he'd misheard. Wondered if Brendan knew that it was, in so many ways, one of the best things anyone had ever said to him.

They climbed the stairs together, closing their respective bedroom doors.

The memory of the evening lingered, together with all the others. The idea that Brendan had suggested that somehow he an exception. His exception.

::::::

It was different seeing him in the daylight.

Brendan was different. More distant, like what they shared every night didn't exist. Ste had made excuses for him at first; that this was his work persona, or that he didn't want Terry to know that they'd started to spend time together. Perhaps he worried that Terry might think it was unprofessional, that Brendan was only here because of his job, and that's all it should be.

But it bothered him.

And he still felt that Brendan held all the cards here. He knew details about Ste's life, but he was still holding everything back.

He was in the garden, writing up a recipe that he wanted to try later that day. He kept them just in case he was ever given the opportunity to recreate them at work. He'd asked multiple times to be allowed into the kitchen. But for over a year he'd remained on the main floor, waiting on tables.

He saw Brendan heading into the house alone. He quickly followed him, making sure that Terry wasn't watching them.

He was helping himself to water straight from the tap, his head to the side, his body bent into position. Some of it landed on the floor and on his shirt.

"Is that what you do back home?"

It wasn't the most subtle of ways to find out anything about Brendan's life, but it gave him an easy entrance to it.

Brendan straightened up, wiping his mouth dry.

"Usually I'm more civilised."

"Somehow I don't believe that." He edged closer, watching every action. The way he dried his hands on the towel. The curve of his spine as he got something out from the cupboard. The way he ran a hand through his hair. A quick tuck of his cross necklace back inside his shirt.

Ste lifted himself onto the counter top, trying to be casual about it.

"I never asked you about university," he said. It meant to come off as something that had only just occurred to him, but he wasn't sure it had the desired effect. It was laboured, unnatural. "When you asked me, I mean."

Brendan frowned. "Where did that come from?"

Ste smiled, thought that if he kept doing it then he could keep this all light and easy.

"I was just wondering."

Brendan busied himself in the fridge, hiding his face behind the door.

"I never went either."

Ste's grip on the counter top tightened. He stopped moving his legs, keeping still. He didn't want to miss any of this.

"Really?" Again, an attempt to be light. A show of disinterest. Boredom, almost.

"No. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

Ste couldn't imagine that Brendan hadn't got the grades.

"Did you bunk off too?"

He closed the fridge, then switched to patting down his shirt, trying to remove the stain the water had left.

"Not exactly."

Ste wanted to shake him. Nothing seemed to be straight forward with him. Why did it have to all be so mysterious?

"I've heard the education system is really different in Ireland."

"Something like that."

He wasn't getting very far with the stain removal.

"Come here," Ste said, temporarily abandoning the attempt to pull blood from a stone. "I'll do it."

He grabbed a clean tea towel and held it against Brendan's chest, applying pressure where he needed it. He almost wished Brendan would start wearing his sunglasses again. When he looked at him, there was nowhere to hide.

Ste's eyes darted to the door. As much as he didn't want Terry to see them before, he definitely didn't now. But he didn't know why.

He turned again quickly when he felt a hand over his, and the swift removal of it when Brendan took the towel from him.

"It'll dry in the sun," he dismissed, leaving it on the side. He moved hurriedly past him, back to the garden and back to his work.

::::::

He made pasta from scratch. He could block out everything else when he did this. All he could see were the ingredients and the measurements and the technique.

At the end he stood back and surveyed his work. He felt something like pride at the finished result, and it made him call out with abandon.

"Brendan."

He could hear the rising excitement in his voice. The knowledge of what he'd managed to do, and the realisation of who he wanted to share it with.

He called his name again, watching as he emerged from the garden. He'd just finished for the day; he knew that Terry could spare him, but he also knew that he'd be tired now. Ste would have understood if he'd headed straight for the shower or even to bed. But he ran into the kitchen, coming to a sudden halt when Ste presented his newest creation.

"I've never made it fresh before." He was reluctant to admit it, feeling slightly ashamed after all his years visiting Italy. But underneath there was the growing satisfaction of what he'd achieved.

Brendan inspected the pasta like it was an artifact at a museum, appreciating it in all its brilliance.

"I just finished it," Ste said, feeling like he needed to once again claim it as his own, scared that Brendan might not believe that he'd made it.

Brendan turned to him. He had mud from the garden on his right cheek. Ste wanted to clean it away for him.

"I'm not surprised."

Ste wet his lips, his mouth dry.

"You're not?"

"No. Not at all."

He smiled and put a hand on Ste's shoulder. He didn't take it away immediately like all the other times before. It settled there.

"See you tonight?" Ste said, already anticipating the sound of Brendan reading the next chapter of the book.

"Why? You going somewhere now?"

"No. I'm just planning ahead."

Because this mattered. Every evening, every chapter, every drink that they shared together. It mattered.

"Tonight," Brendan said, the promise that Ste needed.

::::::

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Arranged his hair so it was as he wanted it. Put a tiny bit of lip balm on to smooth over the cracks on his mouth. Moved his face to the left and then to the right, trying to decide if he had a better side.

He'd have to do.

The last minute checking had made him late. Brendan glanced at the clock on the wall and then back at him, pretending to be displeased.

"And here I thought you weren't going to show."

"Never," Ste said, not wanting to let on how truthful this was.

Brendan tapped the book on the table: a signal they'd developed that indicated a discussion instead of going straight to reading.

"Edgar. What do you think about him?"

Ste wrinkled his nose.

"He's nice, isn't he."

Brendan looked amused.

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

Ste sat back, took his time to think about it. It wasn't that he was afraid of his opinion being wrong - he'd overcome that, knew that Brendan never seemed to judge him for what he said - but he wanted to explain this as carefully as he could.

"Cathy would have a good life with him," he said slowly, as Brendan gave him all his attention. "He'd treat her well. And she'd be safe with him."

"Sounds sensible," Brendan said quietly.

"Exactly. Sensible. That's not the same as happy."

"And Heathcliff would make her happy?"

Sometimes it felt surreal, that they were having these types of conversations. People back home would laugh at him if they could hear him. They would never believe that he was capable.

"Not always. They drive each other crazy, don't they? They fight. But she wants him more than anything else. It's like she said." He struggled to remember the exact quote. "What was it? Something about them being the same."

Brendan didn't even have to refer to the book.

"'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.'"

He liked that. He wanted to remember it by heart, the same way Brendan did.

"I reckon poor Edgar doesn't stand a chance."

::::::

One night they didn't go to sleep.

It started out as any ordinary night. They read a couple of chapters, taking it in turns. When Ste stumbled over some of the passages, Brendan was patient and didn't jump in to correct him. When Ste turned to him for guidance, he dutifully took the book from him and helped him out, sounding out the word for him until Ste was confident in its pronunciation.

They drank coffee, wordlessly deciding that sleep could wait.

There were a couple of close calls. They heard Terry and Pauline making trips to the bathroom. They'd sit very still in their chairs, struggling not to laugh at how their bodies would transform into statues. They'd creep around the room when they'd get more food out from the fridge.

Ste had already crafted a speech if they were interrupted. He'd needed a drink and he and Brendan had crossed paths. The book could be hidden easily. The snacks could be stored away in the cupboard if they heard footsteps.

He didn't know why he felt the need to hide what they were doing. He just knew that he had to.

The hours passed. They yawned and slumped in their seats, but something kept them there. The promise of another chapter. Ste attempting to make memorable impressions of the different characters. Yet another slice of toast. A competition over who made the best coffee.

Still Ste wanted to know more. He revealed more about his life under the hope that Brendan would do the same. Except some things weren't planned. Some things just came out all by themselves.

"Sometimes I wonder where my dad is."

It was nearly morning. They were both exhausted but they'd made no attempt to move. Tiredness was making his tongue loose. He felt disorientated with it, his usual staunch attempts to modify himself no longer falling into place.

But Brendan didn't look like he'd said anything unusual.

"Did you ever meet him?"

Ste shook his head. This wasn't a subject he talked about. Not with Pauline. Not with Amy.

"My mum never really tells me about him. She just said he left after I was born. Guess I was a disappointment even when I was a baby." He had to get the insult in there early, so no one else would. As though there were a hundred people in the room, all ready to tear him apart.

"Have you ever seen a picture?"

"No. Nothing. This is going to sound really stupid, but when I was younger I kept having this dream that he would come and save me."

"Save you from what?" Brendan said. Ste thought about telling him about it all. The fights and the beatings and the humiliation. But it all led back to the same place: him being weak.

"Everything," he said, the truth without the specifics. "I'd think about him all the time."

"You don't now?"

"I had to stop."

Brendan closed the book. They were done for the night. Ste expected him to start heading upstairs, back to bed and away from the uncomfortable nature of the situation.

He poured Ste another cup of coffee. Put a sugar in it. One. He'd memorised it. He stirred the cup carefully for him.

"I don't think it's stupid. I used to dream that my dad would come too."

He put the spoon down, sliding the cup over to Ste. Ste tried to touch his hand in the exchange, but he was too late.

"But I thought you had a dad?"

"I did. I do." He clasped his hands together, the knuckles white. "My real dad. That's what I dreamed about."

It felt like the most honest thing he'd ever said.

"He isn't your biological dad?"

"No," Brendan said. "He is."

Ste was desperate to know more.

"Brendan -"

Brendan pushed his hair back, clearing away their plates. It felt like he'd already left the room.

"I better get some sleep. I've got to be up with Terry in a few hours."

"Right. Okay."

He downed his coffee quickly, no longer wanting to stay in the room. It would only be a reminder that Brendan was no longer there.

Ste went upstairs first. He was constantly aware that Brendan was following right behind him. Was most likely looking at him. He tried hard to walk in a straight line.

He sat on his bed, suddenly not tired at all. He'd left his door wide open, hoping. And then there he was: coming back like he was answering that hope.

"Sometimes it's not such a bad thing, not having a dad."

Ste had been trying to believe that his whole life. He just wasn't sure if he did.

But Brendan kept going, heavy on his feet at this hour, swaying more than standing, but he was still here. He was still trying.

"I don't think you need saving." He was whispering, not wanting to wake Terry and Pauline now they were on the same floor. But it didn't matter. Ste heard every word.

"Thank you," he said, knew that Brendan wasn't doing it for the gratitude. But he felt it. He felt thankful. "And thanks for last night. I've never had an all nighter like that before."

"Me neither," Brendan said, rubbing his eyes.

"It's weird. It didn't feel like we were up all night."

"You aren't tired? That makes me feel old."

Ste laughed.

"I don't mean that. I mean it went so quickly." He wet his lips, kept going. He wanted it to last. He wanted to keep Brendan here with him. "You're not that bad to be around."

Brendan looked at him, not breaking away. It was Ste who looked around the room, focusing on everywhere else but him, pleased and embarrassed and not knowing how it was possible to feel both at once.

"So... sleep," he said eventually.

"Yes," Brendan said. "Night, Steven."

::::::

He liked the way he did things. Simple things that no one else would have given any thought to.

The way he buttered his toast, careful like it mattered, like there was some hidden art to it all. The way he tied his shoelaces, taking the opposite approach - slapdash, so they'd have to be done all over again. How his stomach would show when he'd reach up to the highest shelf in the kitchen. His laugh when he allowed himself to release it. The unexpected joy of it. The way he'd hover over the pan that Ste was using to cook, taking in the smell of it and nodding his approval. How he'd ride his bicycle, controlling it instead of it controlling him even though he hadn't been on one in years.

All of this Ste studied and consigned to the place in his memory that gave him comfort.

::::::

She'd forgotten to eat.

He prepared her something and knocked on her bedroom door, tentative. He never knew which version of his mother he was going to get: the one who would shout at him, or the one who would be collapsed in the bed.

That day he got a bit of both.

She was buried deep underneath the covers. The only sign of the hour was the sun streaking through the curtains.

He carried the tray of lunch precariously, having to balance it on his knee to open the curtains. Even with that amount of light, the remaining darkness that she'd managed to create still feel unsafe. He didn't like being alone with her in the dark.

"Mum?" He chanced shaking her, growing more insistent when she didn't respond. He'd had that fear many times, that she would never wake up.

She grabbed at the covers, trying to ignore him. He could take her anger, if it meant she was still with him.

"I made you some lunch."

"I don't want it."

It felt like it had been a long time since he'd heard her voice. He knew that wasn't true. He heard it every day, but it was all snatched sentences and unconcealed anger. It was fading away, what she sounded like when she used to pretend that she loved him.

Or maybe he'd never heard that. Maybe he'd just wished for it.

"You have to eat something."

"I said I don't want it. Are you stupid?"

She threw the covers up in the air, making an attempt to fight him off. It took him by surprise; he dropped the tray, the contents landing on the bed and on the floor.

"Look what you've done!"

"Sorry," he said, hastily trying to clear it as quickly as he could. But the juice had transferred to the sheets and to Pauline's skin. She grabbed a tissue that had fallen from the tray, mopping herself up.

"You better call Brendan in."

Ste stopped in his tracks, the mess temporarily forgotten.

"Brendan?"

"Tell him to clean it up."

Usually he'd relish the chance to hand over the responsibility to someone else. Typically Pauline made him feel like it was his fault, and therefore he would be the one who had to put it right.

This way he could pass the load to Brendan, and escape from the room. Escape from her.

But he didn't call out for him. Didn't go to find him in the garden, where he knew he was taking his break.

"I don't think that's his job."

He could see Pauline's face now. She looked like she hadn't washed in days. All the good intentions at the start of Brendan's visit - her perfume, her best clothes, the show of respectability - had gone now.

"Of course it's his job. He's here to help us."

"He's here for Terry."

He didn't want Brendan to see her like this. But that wasn't it. He hated the thought of him cleaning up her mess when he wasn't the one to blame for it.

"Are you speaking back to me?"

"No." This was what he was reduced to every time; a meek, apologetic little boy. "But it's okay. I can do it." He gathered the food up again, increasingly desperate at the thought that she might call Brendan in herself.

He saw her settle back in the bed again, and hoped that she was too tired to do anything else.

"We might have to get rid of him anyway."

Ste shot up from where he'd been crouched over the floor.

"What do you mean?"

She spoke languidly, not realising how important this was. He wished he could shake her again. Keep shaking her until she told him everything.

"We might not be able to afford him."

In that moment, he hated her as much as he ever had.

"What do you mean? You hired him. You brought him all this way. He's travelled across the world to be here, and now you've suddenly worked out that you might not be able to pay him?"

Even from where she lay, spent, she could look at him like she wished he was dead.

"Be careful, Steven."

But he couldn't be careful. The news had made him bold. Foolish.

"So you're just going to send him back, are you? Well you can't. I've seen him work - he's good. Really good." He hoped she hadn't seen just how carefully he'd been watching him. "And we all know why you can't afford him."

He was being reckless. He knew she could call Terry and tell him what he'd said. That would be it. He'd wait until Brendan was out and he'd corner him and make sure he never said anything like this again.

But he still couldn't stop.

"Maybe if you spent less on booze and Terry's cigarettes then you could actually have enough money for someone who needs it."

The truth was, he didn't know if Brendan needed it. He didn't know anything about his financial situation. But he was sure only desperation could make him stay on as Terry's assistant. And Brendan might not need the money, but Ste needed him. He needed him to stay.

He didn't give Pauline a chance to speak over him. He just kept going, standing tall now, his arms tensed at his sides and his fists clenched.

"I'll pay him if I have to. I'll use my money from the restaurant." He tried to ignore the fact that this wouldn't be nearly enough. "But you're not getting rid of him."

He grabbed the tray as he left. Pauline could clear up the rest.

::::::

A promise was made to him that night.

It would happen when they went back to Manchester. Not here, where Brendan or Amy or anyone else could see the punches.

Back home. Terry would make sure of it. It was worse than here and now. The idea of it. The knowledge that it would come. The waiting. Knowing that Terry wouldn't forget.

But they didn't get rid of Brendan. There was no more talk of it. It was a worthy exchange.

::::::

He was taking the boat out. He hadn't gone in a while. He considered asking Amy, but there would be plenty of time. Years in front of them to come here, against the months that he had with Brendan.

He felt nervous about asking him. Their midnight meetings were one thing, but planning an afternoon together was a step that he wasn't sure Brendan wanted. It was his day off, and it seemed almost arrogant to assume that he'd want to spend it with him.

He watched as Brendan made a spot for himself on the grass, sunglasses perched on his head.

Terry had gone into town and Pauline was upstairs. This was his chance.

He sat on the grass next to him, wondering if he should match his position. But the idea of lying down next to him felt too intimate somehow, even though he'd never given it a second thought with his male friends in Crema.

"Nice day, isn't it?"

It felt a pointless comment; every day was nice here.

"Not a bad way to spend a day off," Brendan said.

Perhaps he'd guessed what he was going to ask him. Maybe this was his polite way of telling him not to bother.

He liked it when Brendan closed his eyes. He could look at him and he wouldn't know.

"I was going to go out on the boat. Amy's sister usually takes me out - she's got a car." He'd wanted to learn to drive for a while now, but encountered the same problem every time - Terry and Pauline wouldn't pay, and he couldn't afford it on his wages. "Can you drive?"

He was sure he'd be able to. He could imagine Brendan behind the wheel, the window rolled down and music playing.

"Yes."

This was it.

"Can you take me?"

"You mean drive you there and come straight back?"

"No," Ste said, although he was worried that's exactly what Brendan wanted. "I mean for you to stay. With me."

Brendan sat up. Put his sunglasses back on so Ste couldn't see what he thought of the idea.

The silence made Ste fight to fill it.

"You can always go off on your own if you get bored. There are a couple of restaurants around there. If you want to split up then -"

"Sounds good," Brendan said. Ste didn't know which part he was agreeing to. "Will Terry be okay with me taking his car?"

"He'll be fine," Ste said, waving away the concern. If he wasn't then he'd take the blame again. "When's good for you to go? If you want to wait then -"

"No." Brendan stood up, reaching round to brush the grass from his back. "We can go now."

"Okay," Ste said, taken aback at his eagerness. He hesitated. "You've still got grass on you."

Brendan tried to crane his neck round to see, but he couldn't reach.

"Can you get it for me?"

"Sure," Ste said, feeling his heart speed up. He struggled with the impulse to take his time. To pretend that there was grass where they wasn't. "Done."

"Thanks. I'll see you out front in a couple of minutes."

"Great. I'll get the car keys."

A whole afternoon together.

::::::

They secured the boat to the top of the car, strapping it down until they knew it was safe.

The image he'd anticipated slotted into place. Brendan and the open window and the music from the cassette that Ste brought with them, and the light wind that increased as they picked up speed. He'd always hated this car, the noises it made and how it would break down every couple of months. But with Brendan it ran smoothly, and it didn't matter that it looked awful when they both inside it, out on the road and heading somewhere good.

Ste put his head out of the window, because it seemed the thing to do. Something from a film or from a dream. Brendan smiled at him when their eyes locked again.

They didn't split up when they arrived. Brendan never suggested it.

They got the boat out on the water. It felt right to see him like this, away from Terry's instructions and the monotony of it all.

Here was an opportunity to be with Brendan for hours. To ask him whatever he wanted. But there were those old feelings again; he was shy. He'd grown so accustomed to meeting him in the middle of the night that it felt exposing, being out here like this.

There was one question that he wanted to ask him most of all. It also felt like the hardest.

There was no easy opener to it. However he said it, it would sound out of place.

"It must be hard sometimes, being so far away from home."

He could sense Brendan tensing up. He must have thought that Ste was about to ask about his family again. He'd already worked out by now that it made him uncomfortable.

"It's fine. I'm used to it."

"So you're often away from home?"

Brendan looked out at the water.

"Home doesn't really mean anything to me."

He knew what that felt like.

"I bet it's hard to have relationships," he said, cursing at how he sounded the opposite of casual. Brendan still wasn't helping. He knew it was up to him entirely. "Did you leave a girlfriend where you were, or..."

"No," Brendan said, after a minute. "I didn't."

The afternoon had just got even better, but he wasn't sure why. He didn't want Brendan to be lonely, if he was. He just didn't want him to be with anyone either.

"What about you?"

"Back in Manchester?" Ste asked. "No. There's no one." He'd had a few girlfriends - brief, never lasting more than a few weeks - but there was no one currently.

"And you and Amy?"

He hadn't expected that Brendan would have his own questions.

"We're just friends."

He didn't know why they were both smiling at each other. Neither of them had said anything funny.

"Maybe we should have brought our book," Ste said.

"And risk it going overboard?"

"True." He imagined Brendan getting into the water to save it. "It's strange. I used to hate going to school. Reading out loud. Reading books like that. I felt like I could never understand them. But I like it with you."

"Maybe you just needed to find the right book." He swirled his hand in the water, the back and forth motion soothing.

Maybe he just needed to find the right person.

::::::

They both took it in turns to swim. One of them would stay in the boat while the other paddled alongside. They both took their tops off, leaving their shorts on.

When it was Brendan's turn he lay on his back, looking up at the sky. Ste made sure that the boat was never far away; he didn't want to not be able to talk to him.

"What were the others like?" Brendan said, floating like it was effortless, like he belonged there and always would. "The men who helped Terry."

Ste hadn't given them much thought.

"They were alright. It was hard, sharing a place with some of them."

"Why hard?"

"They weren't my type of people."

He heard the gentle splash as Brendan circled the boat.

"What are your type of people?"

Ste didn't know how honest he should be. If he admitted the truth, then it would make him sound like he barely had anyone.

But something told him that Brendan could take it.

"I don't really have a lot of friends. I've tried, but I can't really...whatever it is that makes people able to connect, I don't -" He didn't have it. "It's different out here. I have friends. I don't know why, but I trust them. They've never made fun of me."

"Why would they make fun of you?" Brendan was holding on to the boat now, giving him his full attention.

"That's what people do. The last guest we had, he was fine - but he kept going on about Brooklyn and all the things he did there. Can you imagine me in Brooklyn?" He was being presumptuous; he wasn't sure Brendan ever imagined him at all.

"You're in Italy," Brendan said. "Seems pretty impressive to me."

"We only have a place here because of Terry's drug money."

His eyes quickly travelled to Brendan, looking for his reaction. He had a good poker face; he didn't even seem shocked.

"I didn't mean to say that." He felt oddly defensive, even though he'd fantasied about telling the police about his step-dad for years. "I'm not sure, exactly. It's not like I have any evidence."

"But you think he's involved in that?"

"I don't see where else we'd get money from. He barely works. And he has all these... I don't know if you'd call them contacts, but..."

"But you're not into that, are you?"

"Drugs?" Ste said, registering the worry on Brendan's face. "No. I'm not saying I've never tried them, but it doesn't solve anything, does it? You're in the exact same place as when you started. It helps you forget, but it's still all there. I didn't want to end up like that."

"Good. Because if anything happened..."

Brendan sunk below the water, clearing his face and clearing the thought away with it too.

"It won't. I swear."

Brendan climbed back into the boat. Ste handed him the towel they'd brought with them, watching as he patted down his wet chest with it. He'd left his necklace in the boat to keep it out of the water. He didn't put it back on again; he must have planned to go for another swim later.

"Want to take your turn?" Brendan asked.

"Okay." Ste felt uneasy, rising in the boat without his t-shirt on.

"Here. Let me help you." Brendan stood up, offering him a hand into the water. As Ste took it, all he could think about was the fact that he was holding his hand.

He needed the relief of the water to cool him down.

::::::

"Can I ask you a question? It might sound kind of weird, but..."

They were lying on the boat, drying off their clothes. There was just enough room for both of them.

"I'm curious now."

"Why do you like reading?" Ste asked.

Brendan thought for a second.

"You lose yourself. You're not in your world any more. That's an entirely unoriginal answer, I know. But it's true."

"No, I like that." He wondered why Brendan didn't want to be in this world. If it was sometimes, or all the time. Why he wanted to be lost. "And the classics? What's that about?"

"They're classics for a reason." He said it so seriously, so I'm-so-highbrow that it made Ste laugh. "Gone With The Wind, for example. They don't write them like that anymore."

"Is that the one that's like a brick?"

"It's worth it." Brendan sat up, staring straight at him. "'You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.'"

Ste, eyes wide, sat up like Brendan had personally summoned him.

"What?"

"It's a quote. Rhett Butler says it." He leaned back a little, on his elbows now. "Maybe we'll read that one next."

"Yeah," Ste said, wishing he could hide in the depths of the water. "Maybe."

::::::

He didn't want to go back.

They reattached the boat to the car. Ste dawdled, finding excuses not to leave yet. But soon it would be dinner, and Terry would expect him to have something prepared. He ran out of reasons to stretch the trip out.

He was quiet on the way back, wondering if this meant that they wouldn't be meeting in the kitchen that night. He doubted that Brendan wanted to spend even more time in his company.

But at midnight, there he was. He'd already pulled out the chair for Ste. Already boiled the kettle. They settled in for the night.

Inside Ste's pocket was Brendan's necklace that he'd left in the boat. He'd stored it away carefully, intending to give it back to Brendan once they got inside.

It was still there when they went to bed. Ste gingerly slipped it on, liking the way it looked in the mirror.

He wore it for a couple of days, making sure it was hidden underneath his clothes when he was inside the house. Brendan didn't ask him if he'd seen it; maybe he thought it had got lost in the water.

But he didn't want to take it from him. That had never been his intention. He put it back in Brendan's room, hoping that he'd assume it had always been there.

He missed the feel of it against his skin, knowing that it had passed between them.

::::::

Often he wondered if Brendan had joined the ranks of his friends in Crema. Amy, Anne, Justin. He could be one of them now, only not a permanent feature that he'd see every summer.

But Brendan didn't feel like a friend. He ought to - they did everything that friends do together. They talked. They laughed. They found reasons to spend time together. They cycled into town to pick up food when Brendan was free. Ste enjoyed his company. He liked the way that Brendan made him feel; like he could do anything if he wanted it badly enough.

But he wasn't sure that he was meant to feel nervous every time a friend touched him. He wasn't sure he was supposed to want to see the sight of them in the morning, when they'd not yet put a t-shirt on for the day. Or when their hair was wet from the shower and smoothed back.

He didn't know whether a friend could truly be just a friend if he thought about kissing them.

He'd grown into these new feelings, which meant that he could grow out of them. If he gravitated towards Brendan - and he did, all the time - then it was only for platonic reasons. Or if it wasn't now, then it would be one day.

That's what he focused on. One day. He waited for it all to change.

But the waiting never seemed to end.

::::::

"Want to go for a bike ride?" Brendan said, his shoes on in preparation. It had been a working day. He must have been tired, but still he asked.

Ste had been about to go out and meet Justin, to see if he was free.

"Sure." He headed outside where his bike was, before Brendan could change his mind.

Before they set off he pointed at the sky, drawing Brendan's attention to it. He could tell it would be another beautiful day tomorrow; the mixture of orange and red punctuated the skyline.

"Amazing," Brendan said, and they stood and stared at it for a while, taking it all in.

Ste had been working hard to feel indifferent. When they set off and Brendan would look back at him as he cycled, he tried to feel nothing. He tried to wish he was anywhere else but here, when really he wouldn't have traded places. He wouldn't have wanted to be in Brooklyn, living someone else's life.

He wanted to stay calm whenever Brendan touched him, both accidentally or on purpose. The quick brush of a hand against his. Fingers on his shoulder, pressing down. Their feet coming into contact when Ste walked a little too fast. This was why cycling was safer: he could keep his distance.

They were riding round a corner when it happened. Another cyclist wasn't paying attention, - wasn't even keeping on the right side of the road - and they collided. It felt like it was happening in slow motion; the sound of their bikes knocking together and the free fall through the air as he landed on the side of the road. His elbow scraped along the tarmac but his mouth was spared. He'd always had a fear of losing his teeth; the result of several of Pauline's front teeth being knocked out by Terry years earlier.

He became aware of something else: a shout, Steven, as Brendan discarded his own bike and ran towards him.

"I'm okay," he said, examining the broken area of skin on his arm that was bleeding.

Brendan's hands were on him, checking, and there it was again. That same feeling. The desire for Brendan to keep touching him, even in these circumstances.

But then his hands were gone again, and he was standing up and running towards the other cyclist. He'd fared better, just a few small grazes that looked like they would heal in a day or two.

Ste watched, unsure of what was happening.

"You fucking idiot." He grabbed the stranger, pulling him towards him, lifting him off his feet with the force of it. The man shrank away, instantly afraid. "What the hell are you doing?"

He drew back his fist.

"Brendan!"

It rang out into the road, loud enough to make Brendan turn sharply. He still didn't let the man go.

"Don't. I'm fine, okay? It wasn't his fault," he said, even though it was. "It doesn't even hurt." Another lie. "I can get back on again." That he could do - he had enough confidence on the bike to easily continue the journey.

Still there was that fist, ready and impatient.

Brendan brushed the man's clothes down, but Ste could tell that he was angrier than ever.

"Get lost."

He'd never seen anyone cycle away faster.

Ste got to his feet, relieved to see that his bike wasn't in pieces.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Brendan asked, by his side again in seconds.

"I'm fine. Except... can you just help me over to my bike?"

He didn't need help. It made him feel ashamed, the depths he was willing to sink to in order to get Brendan close.

They made their way over there together.

"I should have killed him," Brendan said, looking across the road like he could bring the man back if he just wished for it hard enough.

"No, you shouldn't." He didn't entirely believe that Brendan was exaggerating. "I don't want you getting into trouble."

"He didn't even apologise."

"To be fair, I don't think you gave him a chance." He got back on his bike. "Terry would have probably given him a medal."

"Sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I'm glad. Not that I wanted you to punch him and have him press charges, but... I'm glad you defended my honour," Ste said, smiling.

"So you're not scared?"

Ste didn't understand. "Why would I be scared?"

"I just thought you might be. Of me."

Amy had always told him that he had long eyelashes. But when he was standing this close to Brendan, he wondered why she hadn't said the same thing about him.

"I've never been scared of you, Brendan."

Brendan looked at him, hopeful. Scared to hope.

"Really?"

He risked a moment of complete transparency.

"You're the only person in my house who I don't feel scared of."

He wanted things to be normal between them. He hated the thought that Brendan was uncertain about them now. "Shall we get going?"

All the time they were cycling, he thought about what Brendan had been willing to do on his behalf. No one had ever defended him like that before.

He risked taking his hands off the bars of the bike. Out there, with Brendan, he felt that nothing could hurt him. He raised his arms in the air, feeling like he was celebrating something.

::::::

He went to see Justin a few days later.

Born in London, Justin had lived in Crema for most of his life. His parents had moved back home for work, but he'd decided to stay out here.

He wasn't like the lads back in Manchester. Ste could talk to him. Justin wasn't interested in the usual ad nauseam tales of girls and football. They shared horror stories of the restaurants they'd worked at. They recommended music to each other. They watched films together.

Ste liked him, but there was a clear difference in the way he felt about Justin and the way he felt about Brendan. The reality of it was growing stronger. He'd believed in the power of pushing those feelings out, but he was increasingly realising that it wasn't working.

There was no discernible reason why anything should separate them. Justin was closer in age to him. He'd known him longer. He was attractive; he had no problem when it came to dating. They arguably had more in common. Justin had no air of mystery surrounding his family life.

But whenever Justin was close to him he felt nothing. He was always glad to see him, but that's all it was. He didn't care if Justin was in a relationship. When they said goodbye at the end of every summer, he missed him but he knew he could survive without him. The amount of miles between them wasn't something he dwelled on.

There was no formula that made you gravitate towards one person and not another. Ste felt like a horrible friend; when he was with Justin that day, he wished he was with someone else.

::::::

Maybe if he kissed him, he could get it out of his system.

Just one kiss. That would be it. He might never think about him again in that way if he did that.

He imagined how he'd do it. He didn't know whether it was better to do it off guard, in such an ordinary way that Brendan wouldn't think he meant anything by it.

Or was it better to plan it? To ask Brendan, to pass it off as an experiment. A curiosity.

But there was no way in which he could present it as natural. He could lose Brendan's friendship. The threat of that was enough to deter him.

::::::

Brendan checked on the marks that remained along his elbow. He asked for updates on a daily basis, holding up his arm to the light and surveying the skin.

"It looks better today. It's healing."

"It'll be gone soon enough," Ste said. Brendan's fussing was unnecessary, but still he liked it.

He could do it now. Lean over and kiss him. He was close enough.

No, he reminded himself. I don't want that. He's just a friend.

But he did. And he wasn't.

::::::

He could no longer convince himself that he didn't want to kiss him.

But he tried harder to believe that he didn't want to have sex with him.

He knew the mechanics of it. He wasn't naive. He knew of men who lived together, and he assumed they must have slept together too. It had been over a year since he'd been to bed with a girl. He supposed he should have missed it. Longed for it. And he did miss some of it. The initial rush of pleasure. The chase of it all. But he'd never given much thought to it. It was another reason for him to feel different. When everyone else was boasting about their conquests, he was on the sidelines, determined to keep out of the spotlight.

He knew that sleeping with Brendan couldn't simply be a way to get him out of his system. It wasn't like a kiss. If he made that decision - in a fantasy world, where Brendan could want him in return - then there was no coming back from it.

::::::

"What's that?"

He made an attempt to grab the wallet from him, excited. The sudden movement disarmed him; Brendan didn't have time to pull away.

He studied the photograph, tucked into the side of the wallet. There he was, younger, must have been only a teenager. He was wearing a school uniform. He wasn't alone. Ste's smile faded when he took in the image of the blonde girl next to him, an arm slung over Brendan's shoulder.

"Who's this?"

"My sister." He didn't try to shield the photograph. He must have thought that the damage had already been done.

Ste was excited again.

"How old are you here?"

"Fourteen. It's a terrible photo."

"No it's not." He didn't even blink; just kept taking in all the details, afraid that soon he'd lose it again. "You look..."

He felt a loss of something. If he'd known Brendan back then - if they'd grown up together - then he was sure life would have been a lot less lonely.

"You look good," he finished, leaving the photo in its place, not wanting to risk creasing it. "You should have seen my hair back then. You escaped lightly. And your sister looks nice."

"Don't tell me you'd be after her like all the boys?"

"I don't think so," Ste said, not wanting to return the wallet to him, but not wanting to go down this path either. "I just mean she looks friendly, that's all."

"You got all that from a photograph?"

Ste shrugged awkwardly. He felt the need to compliment Brendan's sister; he wanted to be kind to anyone he cared about.

"What were you like as a teenager?" He wanted to know everything. Who Brendan spent his time with. If he was popular. If he did all his work, or if he got into trouble.

Brendan tucked his wallet back into his pocket, safely out of sight.

"You wouldn't have liked me much."

Ste shook his head, immediately rejecting the idea.

"I find that impossible to believe."

"Why?" He wasn't fishing for compliments; he looked like he really didn't know.

"Because I'd never not like you."

He might not have felt less lonely back then, but he felt it now.

::::::

His notebook was covered in writing. This page he wouldn't keep. It didn't need to be decoded. There would be no struggle to understand his meaning if it was found.

I think about him all the time. Sometimes he seems like the most confident person in the world. And other times it's like something broke him a long time ago, and he doesn't know how to fix himself. It's not that I want to fix him. I just want to be with him, that's all. When I'm with him it all feels like it's going to be okay. Everything in the past, it's less important. It feels distant from me. And all there is, is him.

He tore the page out, ripping it apart until no one would be able to decipher what he'd written.

::::::

Ste hadn't been to a church in years.

Pauline had taken him a couple of times when he was younger. She'd dress him in his smartest clothes, so they'd both blend into the crowd. She liked to steal from the collection pot.

He was always in awe of the grandeur and beauty of them. The main church in Crema wasn't any different. He gazed around once inside, marvelling at the architecture.

The confession box was occupied. He watched as a boy came out after a few minutes. He was young, must have only been the age that Brendan was in the photograph he'd seen. He looked anxious, shifty. Whatever the priest had said, he didn't look like it had relieved him of anything.

Ste imagined saying it. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I want to kiss another man. I want to go to bed with him. I want to let myself fall in love with him.

But he'd never believed in the act of confession. And he didn't want to be run out of town by a priest, or told to repent, or that he was past the point of forgiveness.

He sat in a pew and lowered his head. He did something he hadn't done in years. He prayed.

I know it's meant to be a sin. But I don't think you'd mind. If you actually existed, I think you'd want me to be happy. All of us. So give me a sign. Let me know that's it's okay.

Ste looked up. Of course there was no sign.

He resumed the feeble attempts at prayer.

Then I'm asking you this. Let him want me back.

He left the church. The boy was stood outside, still looking miserable. Ste tried to guess at what was bothering him. Tormented daydreams of another girl. Or another boy. Maybe everyone was struggling with something, in their own way.

"Don't worry," Ste said in Italian. "Who really cares what he thinks anyway?"

He left, knowing that the prayer wouldn't be answered. It had all been a formality. A glimpse at what it must be like to believe in something bigger than yourself. Something that could either punish or help you.

It would be up to him to make it happen.

::::::

The house was quiet. He knew Pauline would be in her room, the blinds closed, the covers drawn over her. She wouldn't come to find him. Neither would Terry. He liked him best like this; out of the way, invisible. Brendan must have gone out. Ste had looked for him everywhere.

If he was invisible then no one would be able to see him going to Brendan's room.

He wasn't snooping. It was his room. He was just looking around, is all. Seeing what Brendan had done with the place.

It smelled of him. Whatever it was that Brendan used on his skin - Ste had noticed it on his first day here - lingered in the room. There was a sweetness to it that was addictive, that made you want to be around it.

There was a shirt of his hanging on the back of his chair. It looked looser than the kind that Brendan usually wore. It wouldn't show the definition in his shoulders as much, wouldn't cling to every muscle and curve.

He took his hand away, moved on.

The bed was made, a pair of shorts on top of the cover. Ste recongised them as the ones that Brendan had worn when he'd first arrived.

He looked towards the door, listened out for any noise. He was sure he'd be able to hear if someone climbed the stairs and made their way onto the landing.

He leaned on the bed, touched the fabric of the shorts. They were too tight, too low-riding, just like all the pairs that Brendan had brought with him. It wasn't difficult to conjure up the image of Brendan in them. The way they clung to him, the gentle folds of fabric as he walked or stretched or leaned in that way of his.

He stroked them. Once. Twice. Again until it stopped feeling strange and started feeling normal. He had the sudden urge - bizarre, didn't know where it came from - to take his own shorts off and put these ones on. Feel the material, knowing that Brendan had felt it too.

He ran when he heard the front door.

He made it back to the other room in time. He went straight for the bed, stomach against the sheets. His breaths sounded more like gasps before he controlled them.

There was a knock, low. Terry never knocked like that. Pauline never knocked like that.

"Come in."

Brendan had discarded his shirt. His once immaculate trainers were speckled with mud. He did it again, leaned, arms against the bed frame, I-don't-give-a-fuck.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing," Ste said.

Brendan looked around the room, trying to locate the paper and pen, then settled back on him.

"I was." He cleared his throat. "I was writing."

Brendan seemed to accept the answer.

"I was thinking about taking the bike out. You coming?"

"Now?"

He couldn't come. Not now.

"Now."

He wasn't like the American who had stayed last summer. His chest had been bare, unless you looked hard enough - according to Amy - and you could see light, wispy hairs dotting it.

Ste had never looked hard enough.

The hair covering Brendan's chest was as dark as his beard. Ste didn't look directly at it; was aware of it even when he was looking at Brendan's face. But then he did look. His eyes flickered down, brief, took it all in because he knew he couldn't do it again. Once was an accident. Twice would be deliberate.

His chest was even more sculptured that he'd anticipated, and there was a sheen to it that he hadn't bothered to wipe away with his discarded shirt. He glowed.

Even his nipples had caught the sun.

"I'll come in a bit."

He still couldn't move.

He thought for one agonising second that Brendan would stay until he stood up.

"I'll wait downstairs."

Ste listened until the sound of his footsteps on the stairs had faded. He buried his face into the pillow, let it muffle the shout that was released from him like it was torn from his gut.

"You idiot."

He waited until his erection was gone.

::::::

They didn't say anything as they cycled. Ste took him down a different path, secluded, a stretch of endless green, and it made him realise how very alone they were. They didn't pass anyone for miles.

They were near his favourite spot. It wouldn't take long to reach it, to swim in the lake, to see if Brendan would take his glasses off in the water. Ste slowed down when they approached the turning. Stop. Wait. He moved his feet faster on the pedals, cycled on.

Brendan had put his shirt back on. Blue. Too many buttons. Too many of them done up. The cross necklace was covered now.

They stopped, drank from their water bottles and sat side by side on the grass.

"What do you write?" Brendan said. It wasn't strange to hear him speak anymore; he found the accent comforting, even though it was so unlike Ste's own. Ste must have looked confused. "You said you were writing before."

He tried not to colour at the easy lie he'd told.

"Stuff."

"Impressive."

It reminded him of Amy and her gentle teasing. Only he wasn't sure this was gentle, and he knew that he couldn't tell him to shut up like he would with her. Couldn't nudge him for it. Couldn't touch him at all.

"It's nothing important. It's just..."

It was just something he needed to get out. Something he needed to tell someone, and a piece of paper would have to do, because there was no one else. Not with this.

"Stories?"

"No. Not stories." He wished they were stories, details of someone else's life. Wished it didn't belong to him.

Brendan didn't press it.

"How are you finding the locals?" Ste said. He didn't know what Brendan did with his evenings; didn't know if he explored the town on his own, or if he had company.

"I wouldn't know. I can't speak to them."

Ste frowned. "You don't know any Italian?"

"Do you?"

Brendan looked like he was having a difficult time believing that anyone from Manchester could speak the language.

"Bits and pieces. I've been coming here for years, so. You pick it up, don't you. We just don't speak it at the house."

"At home you mean?" Brendan said.

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Brendan was playing with a stray strand of grass, twisting it into a knot around his finger.

"Do you mind?" Ste said. "Not being able to speak to them, I mean. Doesn't it make you feel... I don't know..."

Lonely.

"It's how I like it."

Ste wouldn't have been able to hear him if they were in town, surrounded by the flow of cars and scooters again. His voice sounded private. His words, private. Just for him.

"How long has he been in the picture? Terry."

Ste was disarmed by the question. The other guests had never asked him that. He kept his voice light.

"Years now." He didn't want to count how many years. "Why? What do you think of him?"

They'd been polite, the others. Ste knew they'd been lying, but they'd done it anyway. It went the same way every time - hand shakes when they left, and copious amounts of praise for them being so hospitable, and a smile that stretched the corners of their mouths unnaturally until Ste imagined them cracking, their lips disintegrating like shards of glass.

He took a sip of water.

"I hate him."

Ste spluttered. The water trickled from his mouth, landed in splotches on his t-shirt.

"You -"

"Hate him," Brendan said again, louder this time, matter of fact.

He'd never heard anyone talk about Terry like that before. Ste didn't know whether he should defend him; he knew it was impossible but he was afraid for a moment that Terry was with them on the grass, listening, watching.

Me too. It was snapping at him to be released, a flame inside him. Me too.

"He hits her, doesn't he." It didn't sound like a question.

"What makes you think that?" Ste said. He didn't want to say yes. He didn't want to say no.

The knot of grass was getting tighter. Brendan's finger was turning white from the pressure.

"Her bruises. I know you didn't make them."

"She bruises easily." Truth. "She's always banging into things." Truth. "Just because she's clumsy. That's all." Lie.

"Steven."

He flinched.

"Ste. I told you, it's Ste."

"Why? Because you want it to be?" He'd shifted his body, was propped up on his side, his head leaning against his elbow.

Ste wet his lips. He could smell the mint of Brendan's gum.

"We should get back. I've got to get ready for the party."

They brushed the grass off their shorts, off their legs. Ste had to adjust to being back on the bike again. His muscles felt used up, as though they were longing for him to be back on the grass again. More time has passed than he'd realised.

"Brendan?" He needed to say this before they started riding again. "What makes you know that I'm not the one giving her the bruises?"

He expected the same answer as Brendan had given him before, when he'd told him that he thought he was younger. The dismissal. The way he'd been closed off, had left him on his own. Ste knew what his body looked like, knew that he didn't amount to much. Brendan must have wondered why Terry hired someone each summer instead of getting him to do all the work. Even the younger lads were stronger than him.

"Because you wouldn't do that." He nodded to himself, looked final. Looked like he knew he was right.

Ste smiled.

"Race you back?"

::::::

It was the night of Amy's party.

He put a shirt on and a pair of jeans. The humidity had died down, and briefly he wondered if Brendan would dress accordingly, if he'd change from his shorts.

But he'd done a disappearing act.

He wasn't in the house. He wasn't in the garden. His bike was gone.

That was that. He wasn't coming with him.

He walked the short distance to Amy's house. He'd been foolish to think that Brendan would change his mind, would want to show his face tonight. Foolish to think that he'd continue to want to spend time with him.

He was a guest. He was there for the money, and then he'd be gone like the rest of them. It would all go back to how it had been before. Ste would be in Manchester, and Brendan would be in Ireland, or somewhere new, and the memory of him getting out of the car and looking up at the house would fade. Their late night meetings, and the trip out on the boat. One day Brendan would forget it all.

The party was in full swing already, drinks being passed around, packs of cigarettes moving from hand to hand. Justin was in charge of the music; he gave Ste a brief wave as the next song played.

He made his way through the crowd. He'd found her. She hugged him; he twirled her, her feet leaving the floor.

"Fashionably late as always," she said.

"Sorry."

"I'll get you a drink."

She came back with a cup of something sweet and fruity.

"No Brendan then?"

"No. Doing something more important."

"That's a shame. I told everyone about him."

"Everyone?"

She looked sheepish. "People were curious."

"Why? He's just Brendan." He noticed her looking at him; couldn't read the expression on her face. "What?"

"Nothing."

He looked around. They stood out with their stillness. The garden had been transformed into a dance floor, was full of couples or girls dancing together.

"Anne's here then," Ste said. She was difficult to miss.

"You know her. Never turns down an invitation."

She was dancing on her own. She did that; didn't care who was watching, didn't care that she had no one to hold on to. She wasn't short on offers - even from here Ste could see men eyeing her over their girlfriend's shoulders - but she wasn't interested.

He saw Amy's sister bringing out food from the kitchen. She noticed him, smiled at him. He was glad Amy's parents had gone out for the night. It wasn't that they didn't make him feel welcome. That was the problem. They made him feel too welcome. They had this way of speaking to him like they were genuinely pleased to see him. No pretense. They always asked him if he wanted to stay for dinner, and they asked him about his life. How everything was back in Manchester. How his summer was going.

And they hugged him when they said goodbye.

He didn't know if Amy had ever realised how lucky she was.

He knew she wanted to ask him to dance. It was a pattern repeated at every party. She'd get quiet, and he knew she was building up to it. She'd try to make it sound casual, would try so hard that it ended up having the opposite effect.

It was okay when the music was fast. He could jump around a little, avoid touching her because it wasn't the kind of music you swayed to. It wasn't the kind of music you kissed to.

But then Justin would always change the song. Something slower. Something about love, and she'd look at him with big eyes, and to walk away would be heartless. Needing to get another drink was his excuse, mid-dance. Or going to the toilet. Or feeling odd, like he was about to be ill.

That last one wasn't a lie.

When she tapped him on the shoulder, he was expecting it. Was forming his excuse. But she wasn't looking at him.

"He's here."

He turned around, followed her gaze. He knew. Knew who he was, because he was the first, last, only person that came into his mind.

His eyes matched his shirt. He was still wearing the blue one from before, only he'd undone the top button now. His shorts had been switched for a longer pair, and he must have cleaned his shoes because the evidence of the day's work was gone now.

"He looks..." Amy said, but she didn't finish, and he knew it was because no words were enough.

"Yeah." It was little more than a breath. Still he worried that the it would be carried through the air to Brendan. That he'd hear it, sharp, laced with the kind of awe that a person feels when looking at a painting or listening to a song for the first time.

It wasn't just them who had seen him.

He could have sworn that the crowds parted. Could have sworn that everyone was fixed on that face, that body, those eyes. Could have sworn that the beat of the music was made just for him. The words, too.

Ste felt like the music was getting louder with every step Brendan took.

"I wonder if he's seen us?" Amy said, her voice cutting through.

He saw them. Didn't smile. Didn't come over. Just looked. Tracked the movement of Amy's arm as she linked it through Ste's. Ste didn't know if she was holding on to steady herself. He understood if she was. He needed that; needed something to hold on to.

He suggested they take a seat. Underneath the table he jiggled his legs around, did it to disguise the fact he was shaking. He nearly reached out and took a cigarette from the packet in front of him, but the smell reminded him of Terry. He drank instead. He didn't like to think what that reminded him of.

The song played on. He could see Brendan moving to it, slow at first, like he was testing it out. He hadn't introduced himself to anyone, and the furtive looks and the whispering were growing. He was older than all of them. But Ste knew it wasn't just that. It was something about him, something different. It wasn't like with Anne, where it was clear that she was aware of the attention of those around her. She'd show she noticed. The way she danced commanded attention. She moved in the way that she thought she should, not how she wanted to.

Brendan didn't seem to notice that anyone else was alive.

He gave himself up to it. The song, the lyrics, the beat, the way the music was growing louder as everyone had more to drink. Ste didn't know if Brendan had already been drinking, but he didn't slip or slide. He pounded, the muscles of his legs straining, his arms in the air. His necklace moved with him before landing back against his chest and then up again. The repetition of the movement was mesmerising.

It came back to Ste again: Brendan's words when he'd asked him what he thought of Crema.

It's beautiful.

Anne was spinning, her long brown hair flowing. She'd seen Brendan, was inching her way closer.

Ste sat up straighter.

He saw her saying something to Brendan, wished he could hear from this far away. His response was fleeting, whatever it was. He seemed reluctant to leave the music, to leave the world he'd carved out for himself.

"She wants him," Amy said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Ste laughed. Scoffed.

"Anne never wants anyone."

"Exactly. She never dances with anyone."

He couldn't go against that. Couldn't say that she wasn't dancing with Brendan, because she was. She was even closer now, and she was looking at him the whole time, and Ste knew what that look was.

One of Amy's friends came over.

"Have you seen this?" He nodded over to Brendan and Anne. "Lucky him."

"Lucky her. Don't you think, Ste?"

"Lucky him, yeah," Ste said.

They were within touching distance. It was Anne that reached out first, put her hands round him. She was drunk, her eyes glazed, but she looked determined. Her lipstick was red. Ste imagined the hue of it on Brendan's mouth.

"Do you want to dance?"

Amy looked surprised.

"Now?"

He offered her his hand.

He should have known the song would change at that moment. He was sure Justin did it on purpose.

He put his hands on her hips. He didn't know how to dance to these kind of songs, settled for a slow movement of his feet and was patently aware that there were couples kissing around them.

He glanced over. Now that he could see Brendan up close he could see the slight lines around his eyes. They looked like the kind that would grow deeper if he smiled. Ste didn't know if he was happy or not that he wasn't smiling.

Anne was angling for a kiss. There would be the brush of Brendan's beard against her soft skin. A hand - Brendan's - in her hair, and then he'd walk her home. He might just do that, just say goodnight, leave her to find her own way to her bed.

Or he might not.

"Ste?"

She was pulling him back to her. She was here, was dancing with him, was real, and she'd never looked prettier.

He kissed her. Her hand was on the back of his neck, and he knew she'd be closing her eyes because that's what people did, so he did the same.

It was quick. He didn't have time to breathe her in, to taste her.

There was a completely different couple dancing in front of him when he opened his eyes again.

Ste looked around, saw them leaving together. Anne was being led by him, unsteady in her high heels as they went into the house. They didn't look back. Brendan's sunglasses were on again.

::::::

He opened a fresh page of the notebook. He scribbled hurriedly, not feeling the tiredness that he knew he should. He didn't stop to sit down; just hovered above his desk, needing to get this out.

I was wrong. I was all wrong.

He wouldn't be able to see Brendan coming home from his balcony. That might be a good thing; he knew there would be endless checking, moving between his room and the balcony until he saw him emerge from the darkness.

Brendan's shirt had been tucked into his shorts at the party. He'd know now if it was untucked when he came back. He'd know for certain.

He stripped down to his underwear, got into bed. He'd made plans with Amy to meet by the lake the following night. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss when he'd left her house.

He waited for sleep to come. For Brendan to come back.

::::::

Brendan didn't close the bathroom door this time.

Ste gripped the bedcover, balled it into his fists, was sure that his hands would move involuntarily if he didn't. He didn't trust them. Didn't trust his mouth either; he bit down on his lip, hard.

He should have closed his eyes. He felt perverse for a second, looking at him like this. But Brendan must have known that there was a chance that he was awake, that he could be watching.

But then why would he be watching?

He closed his eyes. He wasn't going to look. Sleep. Sleep was good.

He opened his eyes again. Saw the outline of Brendan's dick before he zipped up his shorts again.

A few steps closer and he'd be inside Ste's room.

He flushed the chain, went back to his own room. Ste listened out, but he couldn't hear anything. He must be getting undressed.

His shirt had been tucked in.

::::::

He was washing up after breakfast when he saw her leaning her bike against the wall and adjusting her hair. She got out a pocket mirror and made sure that there wasn't any lipstick on her teeth.

"Morning," he said, thought he should make his presence known before she started blowing kisses at her reflection.

"Ste!"

She smiled, and there was a touch of coyness there that he hadn't seen before. They both knew why she had come. Four summers, Anne had spent in Crema with her family, and she'd never once come over without someone with her.

"Last night." His tone was conspiratorial, and it surprised him how easily he could play the role of the gossiping confidant.

"Nothing happened."

His heart sped up. Nothing. Happened.

"That dance though..."

She laughed, seemed pleased that he'd noticed. That there was something to notice.

"He's definitely an improvement on the other guests you've had. No offense to them, but... they weren't like him, were they?"

No. They weren't.

She looked away from him, eyes tracking the house and the garden.

"Is he here?"

"In his room."

He wanted to tell her that he'd bring him down; make sure that she didn't go up.

She steadied her bike, got back on.

"You're going?" Ste said.

"My friend's waiting. Tell him I came by. Or..." She debated. "Don't."

Girls were confusing.

He watched her retreating figure. He could still remember the first time he'd met her. He wondered if Brendan would be the same. If he'd remember his life as before Anne and after Anne.

He was being stupid. They'd had one dance.

He had to get away. He planned to go to his favourite spot, swim in the lake. He could already visualise the way the water would ripple around him as he waded through it. Could see the light filter its way through the trees, bathing him in it. Could feel the way he'd shudder at first at how cold it was, before his body adjusted and all he felt was warmth. He liked dipping his head under; liked to imagine that there was a world underneath that he'd be carried to if he wished hard enough.

He wasn't the only one who had plans. Brendan had the day off. Ste was tying his shoelaces on the foot of the stairs when he saw him. Long legs sauntering down. The hair covering them looked darker that day. His shoes squeaked lightly, announcing his presence even if Ste hadn't been acutely aware. His shirt was a dark purple today, looser than the other ones. It showed more of his chest.

His mouth was dry. He'd already seen him at breakfast, watched as he'd got the yellow of the egg yolk around his lips. Every time shouldn't feel like the first time. Every time shouldn't make him feel less and less like he knew what to say.

"I'm off out," Ste said. He liked how it sounded. Off. Out. Away from you. Distance.

"Me too."

"Anne came over." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He wondered if he should feel guilty - Anne's don't came back to him - but he needed to see. Needed to watch what his words would do.

"Oh yeah?"

Was there curiosity there? Desire?

"You just missed her." He half expected Brendan to push him aside, run after her. "I saw her naked once." He immediately regretted it, sounded stupid and desperate, but now he'd gone there it was inevitable now. "A few summers ago." It had been a midnight swim, a dare of sorts between them all. Amy had made sure she'd been covered by the water, but Anne hadn't cared. He'd admired her. Felt envious of her freedom.

Brendan wasn't reacting. It was unnerving. Irritating.

"Great body," Ste said, and he laughed a little. Looked at Brendan, wanted to see if he was hard at the thought of that body, of what he might have done to it last night. Wondered if he could make it sound normal, the suggestion of helping him out. Practiced it in his head, let it form, let him hear the sound of his hand unzipping Brendan's shorts, getting his dick out and curling his palm around it.

Brendan reached into his pocket, took out a stick of gum. Chewed it as lazily as he was leaning against the bannister. Cocked his head to the side, and even through the camouflage of his sunglasses Ste could feel his eyes boring into him.

He straightened, let out a final exaggerated, elongated chew and moved. Brushed past him. Brushed into him, their shoulders knocking even though Ste had left him plenty of space to get through without them touching.

He was too shocked to say anything. And then everything he would have said - stop, don't - was too late. Brendan's bike was gone, and so was he.

::::::

He took his notebook to the lake. He made sure not to get it wet, but it might have been better if it had. Some pages he ended up keeping, but others he threw into the water, watched as the ink ran down the page until the words were nothing but black stains.

He switched between swimming and writing. There was a charged kind of energy to his movements, a compulsion that was against the usual peace of the place. His arms struck the water furiously, and he only stopped to write something else. Nothing resembled finished sentences. Everything was in clipped words, but it seemed safer that way. No one would ever know what he was talking about if they were to find it.

He looked at the page, at his latest scribblings.

Hate. Great body. Cross.

He was sure he was going mad.

::::::

Amy's parents were home this time.

He tried not to watch them but he came back to them every time, magnets pulling him in.

Her mum had one drink with dinner. She only sipped at it like an afterthought, like it was easy to forget it was there. She made sure to serve him twice but there was no pressure, no little remarks. Skinny was never mentioned.

Whenever Amy or her sister Sarah talked there was this look her dad got. His eyes would light up, and there would be no distraction. No telephone calls - they'd go ignored through meal times - and the daily papers would lie discarded on the table. It was too much to look at; Ste would wander off after he'd emptied his plate, going deeper and deeper into the garden until he was hidden from view. They never told him he was being rude. They just let him go.

Amy found him. He was sitting on the bench they had out there, the foliage of the trees around him making it appear darker than it was.

He had the strange feeling that she was building up to something. She drummed her fingers along the bench. If it was anyone else he would have told them to cut it out.

"Anne phoned me earlier."

He waited. Started tapping his fingers on the bench too, because it didn't seem so bad when he was the one doing it.

"She asked me about Brendan."

It was serious then. She wasn't giving up. Ste wondered how long she had waited after she'd visited the house to call Amy.

He looked behind him. He knew the garden extended back even further, but he'd never tested it out. Never wanted to until now. He could have walked. He could have walked and walked, didn't care where he ended up, just wanted to start already.

"I think she really likes him."

The wood of the bench against his hands. Tap tap tap. Was it possible to get a splinter this way? He hadn't had one since he was a kid. He'd gone to Pauline, "Look, mum", holding his finger up to her, registering the blank look. "What do you expect me to do, Steven?" He'd squeezed his finger until it felt like he was doing more damage, not less, but it was addictive. Pain was addictive.

"I don't think he likes her though."

He stopped tapping.

"Why?"

"Just a feeling."

He wanted to shake her, had the sudden impulse and it frightened him. She was breakable - everyone was breakable - but he didn't care, wanted to shake her until she told him.

Maybe she knew, because she kept going.

"He didn't do anything last night. Anne told me. He just walked her home. She invited him in, but..."

"So? That doesn't mean anything." No point in telling her the truth, that it meant everything.

"How many men would turn her down?"

"Loads," Ste said.

"Would you?"

"Yeah."

She turned to him. He didn't look at her, but he could feel her wanting him to.

"Why?"

"Maybe I like someone else." He looked deliberately at her lips. He thought about then it; thought how easy it would be to lean over and kiss her again. No one would be able to see them from here - not her sister, not her parents - and she would let him. He knew she would let him.

"You shouldn't say things you don't mean."

He frowned at her.

"I do mean it. I do." He was determined to mean it, now that she had said that. Determined to kiss her too, but she evaded him. Stood up to get away from him.

He looked at the floor, felt embarrassment flooding him, wished he was back at the lake and could put his face into the water that little bit longer.

"You know how I feel," she said.

"So..." He went to her again, tried to kiss her again, but again she backed away, shook her head.

"You know that's why I can't."

She wasn't making any sense.

"But we can talk." She was speaking slowly, softly, and the look she gave him was even softer. He couldn't stand it. "Whenever you want."

"I don't want to talk." He was on his feet, moving further away from her. "I don't want to talk."

He cycled hard back to the house, felt the strain in his thighs, felt the burn in his body. He stripped off in his room, rinsed the stale sweat off him in the shower and put his hands everywhere. A scrap of his nail across his stomach. Half-moon marks on his buttocks. The pad of his fingertip gliding over his hole, testing, before he withdrew it. A hand on his cock, firm, and a gasp of breath before his teeth met his knuckle, hard, as he touched himself in time with the water falling over him.

It left no room for anything else.

::::::

She looked different when she was asleep.

He checked up on her every few hours, made sure that she was breathing. It didn't escape him that it would only take a few minutes, that hours wasn't good enough, but he'd never be able to leave if he thought about it for too long.

So hours it was.

She looked peaceful like this, and kinder somehow, even though she wasn't saying anything, even though she didn't even have her eyes open. Or maybe that was the whole point.

He liked to get rid of the evidence. It didn't matter when they were in Manchester, when no one was around to see it. But it wasn't just the three of them, not in Crema, and it felt up to him to be the one to do it.

He took a bin liner with him, started filling it. The sound of the cans of empty beer - always, always empty - rattled as he walked, so he held the bottom of the bag to make sure he didn't wake her.

Something was wrong though. There was a bottle of wine on the table but there wasn't a glass. Pauline always used a glass, must have thought it seemed more casual that way, more like something anyone else would do.

Terry wouldn't have put it away. He never did that.

The door opened. Ste spun around, bag in hand, face hot. Caught out.

"What are you doing?" His voice would have been loud enough to wake most people, but Pauline was flat out. He looked from Brendan to the bag to the sofa, and back again. "You..."

It must have been him.

But presuming wasn't enough, and he couldn't ask him outright. The beer cans were hidden in the bag; there was a chance that Brendan wouldn't know what was in them.

"Just cleaning up," Ste said, wondered how long he could ignore the fact that his mother was lying asleep on the sofa in the middle of the afternoon, wondered if Brendan could smell her from where he was standing. Composing herself always came after. The perfume, the mints, the reorganisation of her clothes from where they'd been pressed and creased against the sofa or the bed.

Brendan reached out a hand.

"Want some help?"

It felt like a trick. A trap. If he spiralled into it then he didn't know where it would lead.

"No," Ste said, could hear the anger in his voice. It felt like Brendan was shaming him somehow, drawing attention to everything that was wrong here. And maybe that was it; maybe that was Brendan's intention, to spell out the abnormality like it was some sort of sport for him. Some kind of fun.

He was scared that Pauline would wake up, would see them looking at each other, would pick up on the silence in the room that spread before them. It had to be broken at some point, but it wouldn't be by Ste.

"It's hot." That was what broke it. It's hot.

"What?"

"The weather."

Ste didn't know where this was going.

"It must have made her tired," Brendan said, speaking slowly. "I know I could do with a sleep."

Now Ste knew. It came like a punch, the reality of what Brendan was doing.

He was making this easier on him.

"Yeah," Ste said, felt rehearsed, unnatural, but if Brendan was going to play this game then so would he. "She always gets like in the heat."

Brendan was good at staring him down. Ste could feel himself getting red.

Please go. Please. Don't be nice to me. Just go.

"I'm going for a cycle. You could come."

"Are you going alone, or..." Ste said, needed to know before he got ready and found out that Anne was joining them.

"No," Brendan said. "I'm going with you."

Ste couldn't help but laugh at how presumptuous he was being.

"I thought you felt like a sleep?" He challenged, arms crossed.

"That can come after."

Ste swallowed the lump in his throat. He had two options. Stay here and continue to clean up Pauline's mess, or be on the open road with Brendan, watching as the heat of the day spread through him.

"Okay." As he said it he knew that there had only ever really been one choice. "Let's go."

::::::

There was enough of a breeze that it made his beard blow lightly.

Brendan was ahead of him, feet peddling fast, looking back from time to time to make sure that Ste was within sight.

Ste wanted to be next to him.

He took a breath, pedalled faster, didn't stop until they were level with each other. He smiled, couldn't help it, felt good to be like this. Felt free.

He could almost forget everything that had happened. Could almost forget Brendan and Anne at the party. Could almost forget Amy turning him down. Could almost forget Brendan seeing Pauline passed out.

Almost.

They didn't have to talk when they were like this. The movement was enough, the need to keep going forward, the need to go faster. But Ste knew they had to stop sooner or later. He made sure it wasn't sooner.

When they stopped it was because Brendan chose to. They pulled up at a cafe, sat outside. Brendan didn't ask for his order this time; just went inside, presumed what Ste wanted.

He presumed right.

"Thank you."

They drank to fill the silence. Iced coffee, the coldness of it exactly what he needed against the warmth from outside. He watched as Brendan sucked the straw. The quick glimpse of the pink of his tongue.

"You and Amy."

The words cut through, sounded like an accusation.

But that couldn't be right.

Ste focused on the condensation on his glass.

You and Anne. He wanted to fire it back at him, but he remembered that he wasn't supposed to care.

"She's a pretty girl," Brendan said, and for a horrible second Ste feared he'd got it wrong. That it was Amy all along that Brendan had wanted.

Then he saw it again: the image that felt burned into his mind of Brendan and Anne dancing at the party. The closeness that he'd been sure would turn into a kiss.

He hadn't got that wrong. Couldn't have simply imagined what had lingered there between them, inevitable, boy meets girl and the rest all falls into place. Normal. Predictable. A classic tale of summer love, or lust, or anything else in between.

"Very pretty," he corrected, because she was, and he wanted to press the point a little, see where it would lead.

Another drink of coffee. Eyes on the table, avoiding him. For the first time Ste noticed that they weren't alone. There was a group of men sitting close to them, drinking, and a couple of women on a separate table doing the same. He wondered how they appeared. Did people think they were friends? Did they look the same as everyone else, not worth another thought?

Did anyone know what Ste was thinking? Did they know how hard his heart was beating? Did they know that every conversation felt charged with something, some kind of electricity that he'd never felt before, terrifying, exhilarating.

They might run him out of town if they knew. They might kill him.

"It was a good party," Brendan said.

"Amy knows how to throw one."

"They always end like that?" Brendan ran a finger over his glass, touching, pressing. "You and Amy..."

"Kissing?"

It took a certain amount of bravery for him to say it. The word sounded different somehow. Dirty all of a sudden.

Ste took for granted that that was what Brendan had meant.

"We don't usually..." He tried to use his hands where words failed him. Moved them to try to explain. We don't usually kiss. We don't usually dance like that.

He cleared his throat.

"I thought you'd gone by then. You and Anne, you..."

He knew from Amy that nothing had happened, but he needed to hear it from Brendan.

Brendan leaned forward.

"It's like you said. Great body."

Ste frowned. It didn't take long for him to correct his expression, smooth it into being blank, but he'd made the mistake already, given too much away.

Why was Brendan lying?

Unless Anne had been the one lying to Amy, preserving her dignity by pretending that she'd chosen to take things slow with Brendan instead.

"She likes you," Ste said. "And she doesn't just like anyone."

Brendan laughed a little.

"Does that make me... special?" He sounded it out, elongating the word.

"Maybe."

Ste drank more coffee. Focused more on pretending he didn't care.

"Maybe we should go on a double date," Brendan said.

Ste looked at him sharply. He wasn't serious. He couldn't be. The mere idea of it made Ste want to die.

No.

"Maybe," Ste said.

No.

He'd find an excuse if it came down to it. A way out. He was already drafting them in his head. He'd suddenly feel ill that day, or Terry would need him to tidy up around the house. He didn't care that there was an upside to being able to see Anne and Brendan together - that if they were in front of him then they wouldn't be alone behind closed doors, which felt infinitely more dangerous. The logic behind that didn't change the fact that he just couldn't do it.

"Just let me know when," Brendan said.

Never.

::::::

Ste let him ride ahead of him on the way back. He watched him. His body looked strong, his thighs solid and already well equipped to ride whatever distance was needed. Brendan looked back at him once, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, and it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Ste deviated from their journey home, told Brendan that he was going to visit Amy. Pretended that it was disappointment that he saw on Brendan's face, instead of the realty of it: the shrug of ambivalence and the hurried goodbye.

It rang in Ste's ears, the way he had said it. Great body. Double date.

He pedalled harder as a punishment.

::::::

They liked to read stories aloud during the long, hot days.

Ste had watched from afar, knowing that they wouldn't mind him joining but still afraid to break the peace. He felt on the outside despite their attempts to include him. He hovered by the doorway, aware that Amy's mother had her arm around Amy, and that Amy's father must have been the one to prepare freshly squeezed orange juice for them all that morning, as was his way.

Amy's mother was translating the story from Italian. She hesitated over some of the words, but most of it still flowed naturally. Ste knew that he ought to find the story overly sentimental, but there was something beautiful about it.

It read like a fairytale, almost impossible in its happiness and make-believe lyricism. Perhaps that's why he liked it. He liked knowing that something had a happy ending.

"A handsome young knight is madly in love with a princess, and she too is in love with him. Although she seems to be not entirely aware of it. Despite the friendship that blossoms between them, or perhaps because of that very friendship, the young knight finds himself so humbled and speechless that he's completely unable to bring up the subject of his love. So one day he asks the princess, point blank, is it better to speak or to die?"

He saw Amy smile softly.

Brave knight, Ste thought. Brave, brave knight.

It's surely better to die. Safer.

"That's obvious," Amy said. "It's better to speak."

"You think so?" Amy's father said.

"Always."

Ste hesitated, then slipped away and back home.

::::::

He scribbled roughly in his notebook.

To speak or to die.

He didn't care what Amy said. It wasn't obvious. It wasn't easy.

He hadn't closed his bedroom door on purpose.

When Brendan came in Ste glanced upwards from his bed, watching as Brendan kept the bathroom door open again. It seemed to last forever this time: the sight of his shorts lowering, and the almost teasing reveal of his dick.

He must have known that Ste was in his bedroom. He must have known that there was a chance that he was looking.

Ste looked down at the page again when Brendan had gone.

He crossed it out with a renewed sense of purpose. With a desperate attempt at confidence when he felt anything but.

To speak.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the day.

::::::

He hadn't slept. His eyes betrayed that, but it didn't matter. He used those hours to plan it out, to anticipate what would happen.

In every version, both good and bad, there was the difficulty in the reveal. He muddled the words up no matter how many times he practiced them. It either felt too dramatic or not dramatic enough. Too important or not important enough.

And Brendan's reaction differed. In some versions - the better ones - he ended up in Ste's arms, pliant and soft-lipped and warm-bodied. In the other versions - the torturous ones - he struck out at him, his words cruel and twisted. Ste knew that if it went badly then he risked having an uncomfortable couple of weeks to follow. Pauline and Terry might even notice a change of atmosphere; he risked arousing their suspicions too.

But it was the possibility, however unlikely it seemed, that Brendan might respond favourably that kept Ste going.

And he needed to get it out for himself. It was time. Any longer and it might all come out of him at the wrong moment; when Anne was there or at another one of Amy's parties.

It needed to be just the two of them.

After breakfast he suggested it: a ride into town to collect the papers. It surprised him how casual he sounded, especially when his heart was beating as fast as it was.

Brendan put on his sunglasses. To not look in his eyes felt easier. Together they got on their bikes, and they were largely silent as they cycled.

It occurred to him that he still had time to change his mind. The image of Brendan and Anne dancing flashed was still there, and he felt nauseous at the prospect of what he was about to do. The tale of the knight and the princess was a story for a reason.

It reminded him of the most important thing of all: that it wasn't a tale of a knight and a knight.

The weather was beautiful. It mocked him, forced Brendan to only wear a vest instead of his usual shirt. Showed Ste what he could have in an alternate world, one where Brendan and his body could be his.

He lost his nerve the more they cycled. Excuses came into his mind. He'd only known Brendan a short time. It seemed illogical that he was about to risk it all. He didn't know him. He didn't know his life back home, or his family, or if there was someone else in Brendan's life who was waiting for him. Who had stopped him from going further with Anne. Brendan could have lied when he said he didn't have a girlfriend.

It was a relief almost. He wasn't going to do this. He was just going to collect the papers and come back home, and it would all be a distant memory. Madness. He didn't know what he'd been thinking. Everything would go back to normal, and at the end of the summer Brendan would go back to Ireland, and Ste would return to Manchester.

Something made him come off his bicycle. The road was uneven, gravel making their ride fraught and unsteady, and he must not have been looking at the path ahead clearly enough. He yelped a little as he landed on the ground, and Brendan noticed, stopped straight away and rushed over to him.

"You okay?"

He reached a hand out to Ste, did it without hesitation. He took it without hesitation too - he ought to be able to do this - but he let go as soon as their skin came into contact.

No. He couldn't do this.

What made him feel like that? He could list all the possible reasons why he shouldn't feel anything the moment they touched, but it didn't matter how much his mind wanted to believe that it was all nothing, nothing, nothing. His body wasn't connected to what his mind wanted to feel. It overrode it, fiercely, ferociously, and told him to act. Now. Do anything - lean over and touch him. Kiss him. Tell him.

"What's wrong?" Brendan said, because it was impossible not to notice how Ste had pulled away like he'd been hit.

"Nothing. Just hurts, that's all." He brushed his body down like he ached. He was lying; it hadn't hurt, but everything else did. It felt like his skin was quivering, was alert to what could happen next.

The road stretched before them, empty. He considered telling him now, but he feared Brendan leaving him here alone.

He got back on his bike, cleared his throat and tried to clear the fear from within him as he did so. Brendan took his cue: got back on his own bike and started moving again.

As they rode Ste realised that it didn't matter about logic or what he ought to feel. It didn't matter that there were still a million questions that he could ask Brendan - about himself, about his life. None of that mattered. He felt what he felt, and no amount of wishing it away could change that.

Today. Today would be the day. He knew that Brendan could leave him or hate him or kill him for it, but if Ste didn't tell him then he'd die anyway, just like the knight in the story.

::::::

It was easy to forget that Brendan was still a tourist. He circled the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, looking swallowed up by its magnificence.

"You don't give yourself enough credit."

It came so out of the blue that Ste didn't know what to say.

Brendan took his sunglasses off, looked at him.

"You don't give yourself enough credit," he repeated again, emphatic. Final.

Ste swallowed. Steadied himself.

"For what?"

"For everything. If you think you're nothing, you're going to be treated like nothing."

Ste shrugged, although he felt anything but casual.

"I'm used to it." It wasn't self pity. It was just the truth.

"Then don't be used to it. Change it."

"How?" Ste said, and he meant it. It seemed something fantastical, this idea of change. He was trapped, didn't see a way out. He never had.

"Fuck them, Steven. Fuck them."

For the first time, Ste didn't mind being called Steven.

"Who?" Ste asked, but he knew who. Brendan didn't bother to fill in the blanks.

"They're not good for you."

Ste felt tearful all of a sudden. It humiliated him, exposed him. He looked away, blinked hard to try to clear it. He couldn't be caught crying, not in front of Brendan. If he stood a chance of making Brendan his - and he knew he didn't, but he wanted to live that lie a little longer - then he couldn't be weak like this.

No one had ever talked like this to him. He knew Amy hated Terry and Pauline, but she'd never told him to get away from them. He knew it was down to fear; she didn't want to make him upset, didn't want to draw even more attention to the reality of his life with them.

Now that someone had finally told him the truth, he didn't know what to do with it.

"I can handle myself, Brendan." He said it with more bravado than he felt. The tears were gone now.

"I never said you couldn't."

He felt better after that. Brendan sounded sincere, and he couldn't help but feel buoyed by the idea of him having some belief in him, however minuscule.

"Then what are you saying?" He'd imagined them making small talk before he finally summoned up the courage to tell him. But this - this heaviness, this tension - he hadn't predicted.

Brendan leaned his bike against the rail and walked over to him. Even with his pale, delicate skin he'd managed to catch the sun over the last few days. It suited him.

"Find someone who makes it all worth it, you know?"

Ste almost believed that he was trying to be deliberately evasive. He waited.

"This," Brendan continued. "All of this."

It all seemed to fall into place at once. The ripple of a breeze that made the hair on Brendan's chest move with it. The way his lower lip looked impossibly plump, and wet, and pink. The way he was looking at him, an openness and honesty there that Ste hadn't seen from him before. And his words, which demanded attention, and consideration, and that seemed to echo back at him long after they'd been spoken.

Ste's voice was quiet when it was released from him.

"I already have."

He looked up at Brendan, blinking against the sunlight that bathed them. He had spoken softly, and there was an intimacy there that he knew Brendan would pick up on. His intent was clear. It had to be, surely; the only thing that would make it more obvious would be if he reached out a hand and placed it squarely on Brendan's chest, next to his heart.

There were scooters around them, and the rest of the traffic, and the sound of the Italian natives. It all buzzed, these reminders of the normality of the world that continued undisturbed. But it didn't matter. None of it did. This mattered, and it made everything else devoid of colour. His surroundings were in black and white now. The music, the sound, the life - it was all centred around this.

No one had ever looked at him like Brendan did now. There was nowhere to hide. It was terrifying. It was liberating.

Brendan was quieter than he'd ever been when he spoke.

"You mean..."

It hung in the air, that unanswered part of the question.

Ste licked his lips, watched as Brendan traced the movement. Asked himself again: was it better to speak or to die?

He nodded. No room for misunderstandings.

"Yes."

He couldn't go back now. There was no space in which to laugh it off. People didn't make jokes, not about this. This was something you said when you were sure; and he was sure. Had always been sure, from the day that Brendan first walked out of that car. Before he could think about it, before he could question it. When it was all an instinct.

And he knew that he'd been sure years ago, before there even was a Brendan.

He waited. And waited.

Brendan looked away from him, off into the distance. Ste felt like the cold air was coming in all at once, breaking the heat of the afternoon.

"We can't talk about that," Brendan said.

Suddenly he felt lonelier than if he'd been alone.

"Not ever," Brendan continued, but he still wasn't looking at him.

"Why?" Ste said, and he felt something like anger start to build in him. He'd been dismissed, he knew - rejected - and he had to know the reason. Was it because he wasn't wanted? Or because he wasn't supposed to be wanted? Not in that way, not by this man.

Not by any man.

It had been easy, so easy, for Amy to touch his hand or dance with him or smile at him. He felt like a petulant child all of sudden, but he couldn't help it. Why could that be so easy, but this was so hard?

He knew that everyone would look if he leaned in and tried to kiss Brendan now. They'd look, and they'd judge, and they'd react. Running him out of town might seem an overreaction, but it was a possibility. And yet he knew that if he were to kiss Amy in the middle of town, all he'd get would be glances of approval and wolf whistles.

He must be crazy to be considering it, knowing what he knew.

His words still rang in the air. His why.

"We just can't," Brendan said, and he sounded final, but it didn't feel over. Ste didn't want it to be over.

"Brendan..." His voice sounded different, imploring.

"We can't," Brendan said again, and something crossed his face then, something that looked desperate and uncontrolled and so unlike anything Ste had ever seen before. It made Ste take a step closer just so he could see it more clearly.

He'd never kissed a man before, but it occurred to him that the thought of it didn't feel strange or foreign. Now that he was here, and now that he was close, it would only take a step and their lips would be touching, and he knew that he'd know exactly what to do, and how it would be.

"Let's get back."

Ste wanted to protest, but he became aware of the reality of it all. He'd told Brendan how he felt, and he hadn't told him he felt the same way. This was it. This was the end. If he was lucky then all that would face them would be weeks of silence and unease.

If he was unlucky then he could lose everything.

He nodded and climbed back onto his bike. His legs felt unstable, and he pretended he was adjusting his bag to bide him time and give him the strength to ride home again.

He realised then that they'd forgotten about the papers.

Brendan went inside the shop. It felt like an eternity that Ste was waiting for him, and for a few minutes he had the horrible thought that Brendan might have escaped through another exit just to be away from him.

He emerged. Ste breathed a sigh of relief before he then felt like he couldn't breathe at all. It was that body, the power of it, the sheer strength of it all. He'd never thought of a body in those terms before; never imagined a body beside him and on him and in him like this. Telling Brendan the truth hadn't freed him. He was even more of a prisoner now. It was taunting him, all of it. Brendan knew now, knew what effect he had on him, and it was in his control as to what to do with that knowledge.

"Brendan. About before -"

"What did I say?" Brendan said, not unkindly. "We can't."

That was it then. It was over.

He almost laughed at himself. To be over it had to have started. And it never had; not for Brendan.

Ste started pedalling, trying to forget those words. We can't talk about that. Not ever.

"I'll see you later," Ste said. He didn't know if Brendan was heading back to the house, but he couldn't be there. He had to go to his favourite lake, had to wash off the sweat that had gathered underneath his arms. Had to drown it all out.

He didn't wait to see if Brendan tried to follow him. He was fast enough to lose him even if he did. It made his muscles ache, and there was a relief in it. He felt like he deserved to hurt after what he'd just done.

He reached the spot quicker than he'd expected. He made sure it was empty; there was little point in being there if it wasn't. He didn't need the magnificence of the place being interrupted by the noise of anyone else. It was more important than ever that it was just him.

He stripped down to his underwear. He needed to feel the water against his skin, not against fabric. As always there was the initial shock of the water, but it soon gave way to the relief of it. He felt at home. He counted to three and then went under, no part of him not feeling the increasing warmth of the water.

He swam as deeply as he could. It emptied his head, starved off the thoughts of what had happened less than half an hour ago. It all felt far away when he was like this, and he allowed himself to momentarily believe that it had all been a dream.

It felt the cruelest of tricks, the world sending him someone he could never have. All the men who had come before, who had been insignificant, who he hadn't spared a thought for. He'd assumed that this summer would be the same. Even as he tried to work it out he couldn't; couldn't see why he couldn't shake this off.

He irritated him. The leaning, the gum chewing, the refusal to remove his sunglasses. The mystery of him. Ste had found out snippets of the others' lives - details about their families and relationships - but Brendan seemed to deliberately hold it all back. What annoyed Ste the most was that he could relate to it. He didn't know Brendan's situation, didn't know if there was something shameful there, but he knew what it was like to want to hide your life.

He floated on his back, looking up at the sky. He knew he'd have to accept the real possibility that Brendan and Anne would be together. It had been bad enough before, but worse now that Brendan knew how he felt. He couldn't face weeks of watching them as they flirted and spent the rest of the summer as a couple.

He closed his eyes.

The story had lied. There was no grand romantic finale, and there weren't only two options. To speak wasn't the end of it. Sometimes you did speak, and sometimes you still died.

::::::

They had dinner together that evening.

Brendan had been absent throughout the day. Ste had only heard the sound of his bicycle coming back when he'd been laying the table.

He'd made dinner. Suddenly he felt self-conscious of his creation, and wondered if he could pretend that Pauline had made it if Brendan didn't like it. He poured Brendan some wine - a tipsy Brendan seemed easier to handle than a sober, potentially angry one - and he didn't look at him the entire time he was plating up their meal.

He began to feel unbearably flushed, and made an attempt to hide his face. He knew it was impossible that Terry and Pauline could know about his encounter with Brendan, but his feelings felt so loud, so unrelenting that he was sure they'd soon find out.

They ate in silence. He was sure that Brendan didn't glance in his direction. Was it disgust? It wasn't difficult to imagine that that's what it was. Maybe he'd even leave Crema early, making his excuses to get away from him.

Ste couldn't bear any of it.

The meal felt like it was stuck in his throat. No amount of wine stopped that feeling, and the more he had the more the thought kept twisting round and round, attacking him: You're just like your mother.

He watched Pauline as she poured herself another glass.

This was what the rest of the summer would be like. Brendan ignoring him. Brendan knowing what he was now, and being able to use it against him if he wanted to.

What if he told Anne? What if he told Amy?

He felt sick with the thought of it.

He scraped back his chair. The noise of it was an assault on his senses, and he knew they were all looking at him now.

"I just need to..." He was afraid that if he continued to speak then he wouldn't make it to the bathroom in time. "I'll be..." He could feel the shine of perspiration beginning to build on his forehead. "Back in a minute."

He walked then he ran. Something came up from his stomach, and then he couldn't disguise the retching. It felt worse than if he'd been properly sick. He wanted to be, couldn't stand what was coming from him instead: nothing, just gasps of air in between his body reacting violently against him.

He leaned against the toilet. He briefly considered putting his fingers down his throat - it would be a relief, a release - but he didn't have it in him. It was hitting him now, what he'd done this afternoon and what it meant. What it could have meant, if Brendan felt anything like he did.

But he didn't.

They'd be strangers for the rest of Brendan's time here. Ste realised with a jolt that they'd never been anything like friends. He'd felt it from the start, this intensity, this pull towards him that was beyond his own control. Was this what it felt like, to not be able to get rid of these feelings that had coiled their way inside him, making him someone new?

He stayed like that for a while, staring at the bathroom tiles to try to have something else to concentrate on. It was only after a few minutes that he noticed the soft knocking. Too soft to be Terry. Too soft to be Pauline.

He heaved himself up, glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a ghost, his eyes black, his skin pale.

He'd have to do.

"Come in."

He sat back down as he said it, didn't trust his legs not to fall.

Brendan's head appeared from behind the door, and then the rest of him. He was in stark contrast to Ste. He looked alive, as alive as anyone Ste had ever seen. It wasn't just the heat that had browned his limbs; it was everything. In that moment Ste didn't care that he looked awful. He didn't care about anything much.

Brendan came over to him, and after a second he lowered himself and sat beside him. Ste was surprised that the bathroom was big enough to take both of them here like this. He raised his legs a little; if he didn't then they'd be touching. He wanted that, but he wasn't sure that Brendan did.

"You okay?" Brendan said. There was concern there.

He nodded, closed his eyes because the room was still spinning.

"Just felt a bit... you know..."

"I hope it's not food poisoning."

Brendan raised his eyebrows, and Ste couldn't help but laugh.

"It's not. Don't worry."

He could see the hair on Brendan's legs up close from here.

"They're not pissed at me, are they?"

"You really care what they think?" Brendan said.

Ste thought for a moment. Really thought.

"Sometimes." A pause, and then, quieter: "More than I'd like."

The silence stretched on. It surprised Ste that he didn't mind it. There was something good about it, something right about just sitting here. Just them.

It was then that Ste noticed that Brendan was idly playing with his cross.

"I like that." Brendan looked at him, curious. "Your necklace."

"Are you religious?"

"No," Ste said. "You?" He wondered if that was why Brendan had said that they could never talk about everything before; a fear that God was about to inflict pain on him.

"No. Not really."

"Then why the cross?"

"I just like it." He cleared his throat. "My sister gave it to me."

"You haven't really told me much about her."

"Cheryl. She's back home in Ireland." Brendan was looking at the same tiles that Ste had focused on earlier.

Ste had to be casual about this. If he let on how important this felt, then he was sure that Brendan wouldn't keep going.

"I always wanted a sister. Or just... someone, you know?" Someone to carry the load. Someone to talk to. Someone who would make everything else seem just a little bit okay. "Have you spoken to her since you've been here?"

"I sent her a letter."

Ste couldn't help but wonder if Brendan had mentioned him in it. Brendan continued to play with his necklace.

"You must miss her," Ste said. All he had to compare it to was how he felt about Amy. He missed her every time he went back to Manchester. It was unbearable. He knew that if she had given him something - a memento, some kind of present - then he'd carry it with him every day like Brendan did.

"I had to come."

There was something to his words. Or maybe it was the way he said it. Had to. The way there was an almost imperceptible distancing of his body even though he hardly moved it at all. It felt like he was dismissing him already, warning him that this was over.

"I'm glad you did." He said it before he could think about it. He coloured, looked away when Brendan's gaze was too much. And then he went further: "Why did you follow me here?"

"You ran away. You seemed upset."

"Why do you care?" He knew he was being deliberately provocative. He deserved to be knocked back, the way that he was pushing against Brendan's earlier rejection.

"We should get back." He got to his feet. His vest clung to him, a second skin. He held out his hand, but this time Ste didn't take it. He knew his resolve would crumble if he did.

They went back outside. Neither Terry or Pauline said anything, but Ste had the unshakable sense that he and Brendan were hiding a secret.

::::::

Brendan went out that night.

He'd put on some kind of aftershave. Ste could smell it from his room, the scent of it lingering even after he'd gone.

He wondered if he'd put on especially for Anne.

He wanted to visit Amy, wanted to see if she knew anything. But he didn't like how they'd left things the last time he'd seen her. He knew he should clear the air, but he couldn't stand the look he might get from her: like she knew exactly who he was.

Better to stay in.

He tried to write in his notebook, but the words wouldn't come. His head was too full, and nothing would settle.

He knew that he would go there eventually. He was merely wasting time, but it was inevitable. He made sure no one was around, and then he creeped through to Brendan's room.

His attention was caught by the bed. He didn't know how he'd ever go back to sleeping in it. Even after he changed the sheets it wouldn't be the same. He'd always know that Brendan had slept there. He touched the pillow. Strange to think that every night Brendan lay on it, not knowing that Ste was always still awake on the other side of the wall, dreams about him already waiting to form.

One of his shirts was draped over the chair.

He didn't wait to consider that what he was doing might not be normal. Nothing about this felt normal - it was so far from his prior life that it couldn't be compared - and it meant that this didn't feel so bad.

He put it on over his own t-shirt. It was too big, as he'd known it would be, but he liked that. It reminded him of the sheer size of Brendan. It felt oddly comforting.

He studied himself in the mirror. He couldn't deny that Brendan was right; he did look younger than twenty. He could pass as a teenager, and he felt like one right now. Stumbling, unsure. Lost.

The shirt smelled of Brendan. Ste wished he could somehow keep it, a reminder of this summer. He needed to have something like this. A memory that would stay.

They might not be able to talk about this - not ever - but it didn't mean that he couldn't think about it.

Thinking about it was all he ever seemed to do now.

::::::

He was still awake when Brendan came back. He'd never entertained the idea that he might have managed to fall asleep while the room next to him was empty.

Ste tried to check for signs that he might have gone out with Anne, but he couldn't see anything. If Brendan bore the trace of lipstick or the scent of perfume then he'd hidden it well.

He didn't close the bathroom door again.

Ste kept his eyes open. It was hot enough that he'd gone to bed with only pyjama shorts on. It felt intimate, the fact that he only had the thin layer of material covering him while Brendan unzipped and unbuckled.

And then he turned.

It was silent enough that Ste could only hear the sound of his own breathing.

His room was dark, but the light from the bathroom showed him the outline of Brendan's dick. There was a smattering of hair covering it, and it hung softly. It was large; larger than Ste's, and it didn't matter that Brendan was wearing clothes. He might as well have been naked.

Brendan was looking right at him.

Did he see Ste looking back? He must have. There was enough light to make it possible. Then why was he doing this - making it even more impossible for Ste to look away and try to go to sleep?

Only a few steps. That's all it would have taken for them to cross over to each other. His arms felt heavy against the mattress. They wanted to reach out, wanted to beckon Brendan towards him. Come here. He hadn't thought through what he'd do if Brendan got here, but that didn't seem to matter. Somehow Ste knew that that would take care of itself.

Brendan placed a hand on his dick. Slow. Tantalising. Teasing. It had to be teasing, because if it wasn't then why did Ste feel like he was being given his own private show?

He tucked it back inside his boxer shorts. Zipped up. Buckled up. Switched off the bathroom light and closed the door. Ste heard the bed creak lightly as he got into it.

He couldn't sleep for hours.

::::::

He'd been unaware that he'd been dreaming. But he guessed that he must have done. He woke up with an erection, and he knew why it was there.

He was still half asleep. His hand was clumsy in its journey underneath the covers, and he was leisurely in his strokes. He allowed his mind to drift, and it was only when it settled on an image that he began to concentrate and pick up the pace.

Last night. Brendan. The expression he'd worn when he'd looked at him. The very opposite of not being able to talk about it. The very opposite of disgust.

Ste clung to it.

He didn't know what it meant, but even as he touched himself he let the truth begin to seep through. Whatever it meant, it had to mean something.

There was only one image in his mind when he came, spilling over his palm and biting down on his lip to stop the noise: Brendan, his hands on him, and even if it was all an impossible fantasy, he'd take it.

::::::

He'd picked fresh peaches from the trees. He diced his own into quarters, but Brendan's he left whole. There was something captivating about it: the richness of the juice trickling from the fruit onto his fingers. The way it made his beard damp before he'd lick it away. The sound he made as he ate it, as though he considered every mouthful carefully. Ste watched and waited, and wished that he'd eat peach after peach just so this would never end.

Some of the juice went onto his chest. Ste had the obscene thought of licking it off for him.

He tore his eyes away.

"I'm going to go for a ride. Want to come?"

It was Brendan's day off. Ste knew that he could spend it however he wanted to - going out drinking to one of the bars, or getting coffee at a cafe, or seeing Anne - but he had to ask.

He made Ste wait - seemed purposeful, like he knew exactly what it was doing to him - and then he shrugged, answered.

"Might as well."

Ste had dressed in a fresh pair of shorts, already anticipating the occasion. His t-shirt was ironed, and the white colour of it against his sun-browned skin made him look even more golden.

He was so distracted by the idea of a bike ride with Brendan that he didn't even check up on Pauline, still flat-out in bed. Terry had been full of under the breath remarks that morning - he didn't like it when the hired help had days off. Seemed to believe that they should be at his beck and call, but Brendan wasn't playing nice. He wasn't like the others; he didn't even pretend to be sorry.

They got on their bikes, took it in turns to try to out-race each other. They laughed as they did so, the sun beating down on them. They passed few people on their journey. The open road felt built just for them, all theirs to enjoy, and for the first time Ste felt free. Completely, wonderfully, free.

He found himself slowing down. Brendan noticed, looked back at him from where he'd gone on ahead.

"What are you stopping for?"

Ste hesitated, didn't know whether to keep going again. He felt exposed. It was almost the same as if Brendan had read his notebook. Vulnerable. That's what he was.

But his desire to show him overrode it all.

"Come here."

Brendan got off his bike, followed Ste to where he beckoned him. They walked past the trees, through the path that seemed like a maze at first, before the overgrowth cleared and the lake appeared.

"Wow." The word felt elongated. Ste had never seen Brendan like this; truly lost for words. He always seemed to have a comeback. This was new.

They walked in silence after that, appreciating it all. Ste saw it through his eyes. Saw him take in the greenery and the peace and the beauty. It felt a million miles away from the centre of town with the traffic and the locals and the noise. It was an oasis.

Slowly Ste peeled off his t-shirt.

"What are you doing?" Brendan looked alarmed for a second.

"Swimming."

He left his shorts on. He dipped his foot into the water, let it swirl, and his look to Brendan was a challenge. Swim with me.

He got in, could hear Brendan begin to unclothe behind him. Looking back would be a step too far. It shouldn't be, after seeing Brendan without his underwear last night, but in the light of day this felt more daring.

It felt strange to not be alone in the lake. Brendan got in bit by bit, as though afraid that it would be too much all at once. The warmth of the water must have reassured him; he put his head under long enough to wet it before emerging again.

There was unfiltered joy on Brendan's face as he continued to take in his surroundings. Ste felt like he could breathe again. It was important that he like this place. It felt like it somehow meant that he liked him.

They swam around each other, and it made Ste wonder how he hadn't thought that the lake was too big for just him before. Two was ideal; two felt right.

"I've never taken anyone here before." It hung in the air, what was unsaid: Not even Amy.

"I'm honoured," Brendan said, sounded like he was taking the piss. Ste splashed him. Brendan smiled, but then it broke; and then he looked serious.

They carried on circling each other. Ste could see the water against his eyelashes. He knew that Brendan was wearing his shorts, but still he wanted to look beneath the water just to check. His vest was lying on the ground, discarded, and his chest was broad, his underarms covered in the same dark hair as his beard.

He'd swam in water like this before with Amy. It had made her nipples erect; they'd shown through her bra when they'd climbed out of the lake. He remembers her standing, shivering, and looking at him like she wanted him to be her warmth.

He wished Brendan could need him like that.

He wanted to kiss him. Being in the water like this made it seem easier somehow. He felt weightless; he knew he was keeping himself up, but he also felt like he could simply float and float and he'd be carried away somewhere, down into the ocean, and that Brendan would be right there next to him.

He made his intentions known as much as he could. Parted his lips Swam closer. Smiled at him, coy, and splashed him again like they were a couple of kids with a crush.

Brendan looked younger like this. Unable to see his body clearly, Ste could only focus on his face. The quick breaths he took. His eyes, blue, and softer now, and his damp hair. He saw now why Amy had had that reaction when she first laid eyes on him. The absence of words. The desire to look closer. There was something unmistakably, startlingly beautiful about him.

Ste wondered if he could be happy like this. Exactly like this. Just looking at him, and not expecting anything more, because anything more was impossible. Brendan belonged in the same world as Anne; the world of those who dazzled, and Ste belonged somewhere outside of it in the shadows. It didn't mean that he couldn't look though. And it didn't mean that he couldn't want.

He tried to hold onto this image, tried not to let anything distort it. He wanted to remember him as he was, none of the flaws removed. Wanted it to stay with him long after the summer was replaced by the cold and by dark evenings and the flight back to Manchester. He'd need it to get through; felt like he needed for it to last a lifetime.

"You and Amy..."

It brought Ste back to the here and now, stopped him from solely focusing on Brendan's features and trying to commit them to memory.

"What about us?"

"You ever..."

There was something about the gaps he took. Something deliberate; like he knew exactly what he wanted to say, but was trying to pretend he didn't.

Ste didn't know why, but he was sure that he knew exactly what Brendan wanted to ask him.

You ever had sex with her?

Maybe it was the suggestion of his tone. Maybe it was the way his eyebrows raised a little, a move that could easily be missed if you weren't looking as closely as Ste was. Maybe it was the way he swam nearer to him, as though making this purposefully more intimate, and that much more complicated for it.

Ste risked it, taking for granted that he knew where this was going.

"We nearly did." It was true. He nearly had, in his head, and that was what counted. Because it had nearly made him go through with it, these thoughts, these imaginings about what it would be like and what he would say and what she would say, and where it would all lead.

He couldn't read Brendan's expression.

"And you and..." Another pause, another circle of him in the water, and Ste began to feel like his prey.

This pause needed filling in.

"You and men," Brendan said, sounded good against his lips, and it was the first time that anybody had ever put Ste together with them like that: You and men. Not an accusation. Not a taunt. A sentence, simple, ought to be, and yet Ste could feel his heart speed up. Wondered if Brendan could sense it even in the water, the way he was making him react.

"Never." He didn't mean for it to come out in a whisper but it did. He wasn't ready to take full ownership of it yet.

"But you want to," Brendan said, a statement not a question. Matter of fact. But there was a betrayal of his body; a light ripple that he sent through the water, as though he'd forgotten for a second that he had to hold himself up. Distracted. And then a hurried licking of his lips, and out of nowhere Ste remembered the way the peach juice had looked against them. The way it had made his lips glisten, and the slow roll of it down his chin.

He needed the water to cool him.

"Yes," Ste said, and he wondered who had ever said that the truth would set you free, and how they'd ever thought it was true. He wasn't free; he felt bound over, trapped wanting something that couldn't ever happen. But this honesty, it was addictive. It reignited him. He felt tired by the lies, and he knew they were alone here, and he knew that Brendan would be leaving in a few weeks.

"For how long?"

He didn't know if it was curiosity making Brendan ask. It seemed strange to him, but he could understand it if he tried - he was different, and maybe that made Brendan want to push and press and get answers out of him.

"Always," he said, only realised how true it was when it was out of him. Always, ever since he could remember, before he even knew what it was, before he knew that other people could think the same as him, even if they were people he never knew in his own life. Labels didn't interest him - gay, bisexual, anything else. It washed over him, was language that other people used. All he knew was who he wanted, and what he wanted done to him, and he knew that it wasn't going away.

Brendan swam closer still.

"You know what gay people do."

Ste swallowed. He could hear the birds out here, could hear them because everything else was so quiet.

"Yes."

"You want that?"

He nodded. Didn't think about it, didn't give it time to settle and scare him. Just nodded.

Brendan was whispering too now.

"You ever... on yourself..." Again those gaps, but he wasn't tentative. There was nothing gentle or unsure about him.

Ste blushed a little; tried to get rid of it by dipping under the water again.

"You mean... like..." His pauses were gentle. His pauses were unsure.

Brendan stared him down. One small move forward and they'd be touching.

"Like... fingering... or..."

He'd never talked about sex like this before. He'd never thought he'd be talking about it like this with Brendan Brady.

Brendan's only reply was a blink of his lashes.

"Sometimes." Most of the time. His noises muffled against the pillow, his cock rubbing against the sheets to create enough friction to get him off. His fingertips padding along his hole, just testing at first, before sliding in and going up to the knuckle. Imagining different fingers, a different hand, a different man.

He was glad the water covered him. He wouldn't have been able to get out of the lake. An erection from talking dirty with a straight man. He didn't know whether to laugh or be humiliated.

He settled for swimming back and forth. Excuses formed in his mind, jumbled, all bravado, tales of past encounters with girls, but he didn't have it in him.

Maybe he hadn't been wrong. Maybe the truth had set him free.

::::::

They dried themselves off, using the heat where they would have used towels. They were still a little wet when they put their clothes back on, but it was relief against the scorching sun that beat down on them.

They were in no rush to get back. Ste wanted the day to last, for seconds and minutes and hours to be meaningless. They settled in a spot of grass that was far enough away from the open road, and for a while they just lay back against it, eyes closed and content not to say anything.

Ste sighed. There was something about it, something that felt so entirely happy, unlike any other sigh that he'd ever made before.

"I know you said we can't talk about it," he said, his eyes still closed. "But..." But I'm going to talk about it anyway. It was a warning, and he was sure that Brendan must be able to hear it. Now was his time to cut in if he didn't like it. Now was his time to stop him, and walk away, and never come back. "You and me, it's..."

It's everything.

He felt it then. Felt a finger on his lips, stroking, and instinctively he parted them. It felt like this was the hundredth time he was doing this, not the first, and when the finger came closer he darted out his tongue and licked it. It grew wet with his saliva. He had the obscene thought of Brendan unbuckling here and angling his cock into Ste's throat.

He wouldn't stop him if he did.

He opened his eyes when the finger withdrew. He looked into a sea of blue. Eyes searching his, waiting, and Ste must have communicated what Brendan wanted because the gap between them closed, and Brendan's cross necklace brushed lightly against Ste's chest.

He could have stopped him, asked him what it had all meant, what it had all been for - Anne, and telling him they couldn't talk about it, not ever, and everything in between - but he knew where this was going, and he knew he would never forgive himself if he was the one who made it all stop.

The first thing he noticed was the feel of his beard, a new sensation. It tickled, and he had to hold back from laughing.

Then he didn't want to laugh any more.

His lips were warm. He chased after that warmth, melded his chest against Brendan's and tried to get him to part his lips. Brendan held back; went back where Ste went forward, and it was him who broke away.

"Satisfied?" Brendan laughed a little; rough, delicious.

Ste pressed his own fingers against his mouth. He felt shaky, was glad that he was lying down. Dazed. He was out of this world and in a new one that had been created especially for him, for them.

He had to do that all over again. Now.

He launched himself at Brendan. Took him by surprise, and the shock element allowed him to get the upper hand. Ste climbed on top of him, and there was nowhere that they weren't touching now. He kissed him, fast, hard, not caring that the speed of it all was making him clumsy. He bit at Brendan's lip, didn't stop to apologise.

He gradually became aware of a hand being forced between their bodies, and a breaking of their kiss.

"Hold on. Hold on."

He didn't want to hold on. He didn't want to return to the way things had been before, and he didn't want reality to filter through, infecting everything. He wanted this. He wanted more than this.

Brendan's strength was more than his own. He separated them.

"We can't," he said. Ste was pleased to see that he was panting.

"Why not?" Did he sound sulky? He felt it; he was sure his bottom lip was sticking out in defiance.

"We haven't done anything wrong, okay? We haven't... We've been good, Steven."

Ste laughed, but it sounded bitter. He didn't want to be good.

"I told you. We can't."

Ste leaned forward. He was going to kiss him again. He knew it. Brendan knew it. He shook his head, a resolute refusal.

He was hard. Ste noticed when he was looking down at him, because he couldn't not look there, not now that they were doing this.

"Steven." Begging, low, breathless. "Steven."

Time to be brave.

He reached out a hand, cupped Brendan's dick in his palm. Smiled so as to not give away how much this meant to him. How much fear lurked underneath, waiting to come out.

He squeezed. Felt Brendan react accordingly, felt him get harder. He'd done that. There was something powerful about it.

"We can't?" He asked, knew that what he was asking was how can we not?

Brendan lay a hand on top of Ste's own. For a moment it seemed like he would play along, give in to it and guide his hand the way he wanted it, but then there was a distancing. He took Ste's hand away.

"Just stop."

It felt desperate. There was a struggle there, something than ran deeper than Ste had realised, and it gave him courage. Made him feel even stronger. For the first time in his life, he was someone who was hard to walk away from.

He didn't want that to be it. Even before Brendan had finished Ste was moving closer again, was looking at those lips, and he would have had him here. It didn't matter that anyone could discover them, as private as this place was. It didn't matter that he'd most likely be picking out strands of grass from his underwear for the next week. None of it mattered.

Brendan stood up. Ste stayed where he was, didn't want to break the fantasy. Brendan brushed down his knees, stretched his arms. Ste heard the joints crack.

He lifted his bicycle up. Ste saw the strength in his legs as he climbed onto it. Imagined those same legs on top of his own, and his arms holding him down.

Go, he wanted to say. He wanted to be alone now that the possibility of kissing him was fading. He had to recalibrate, work out how to go on from here.

"Come on, Hay," Brendan said, and he couldn't stay there after that, couldn't ignore the way that Brendan said Hay. It was a mystery, how he did it. How everything could sound so right, when all he'd ever associated it with was Terry and how he was permanently attached to him by that name. He didn't even mind Brendan calling him Steven now. It was pushing it out, all of it - Terry and Pauline, and everything they'd ever done to him.

He would have left his bike here. Would have left it abandoned in the grass if Brendan had let him, and would have gone on his one instead. The breeze would make his hair blow lightly, and he'd cling closer to him, his arms around Brendan's waist. And that's where he'd stay.

Brendan cycled on and on, until Ste felt an ache in his muscles in his attempt to keep up. They were fast enough to be mere flashes to the traffic and pedestrians that they passed. No one would ever know what they'd just done.

::::::

Ste made dinner again that night.

He set three places. He'd found Pauline crashed out on the sofa when he got home. Again Brendan said it was understandable, given the heat. Kind, he was being, and it made Ste smile into the contents of the saucepan he was stirring.

He still hadn't talked to Amy. He almost picked up the phone, had the urge to tell someone about what had happened between him and Brendan. Not someone - her. It was her he wanted to tell, and in another world he might have been able to, and she might have been pleased for him.

Instead he had to save it. Had to work out what it had meant on his own, and had to revel in it on his own too.

He could feel it on his lips. They felt different. It might have been that he wanted them to, but either way he felt a change, and he touched them as he was cooking. He had tasted the sweetness of the peaches when he'd kissed Brendan, lingering from breakfast that morning.

"What's the hold up?" Terry's voice cut through, making Ste jump. He almost dropped the spoon he was holding.

"Sorry." He didn't usually like to apologise, not to him, but the shock of it had disarmed him.

"Better be."

He stayed in the kitchen, deliberately keeping close to him so he could never forget his presence. He laughed when Ste shakily collected together the cutlery they'd need. He could feel Terry's breath against his skin; could smell it too, the stench of cigarettes that had always acted as a deterrent whenever he was tempted to start smoking himself.

He had the horrible, sinking sensation that it could just be the two of them at the table. That Brendan had already left the house.

Then he strolled into the room, casual as anything, fresh clothes adorning that body of his. They covered him more, and even in the uneasiness of the situation Ste couldn't help but think that it was a shame.

He pulled back his chair, filled it with more confidence and command than anyone Ste had ever seen. It didn't bother him that Terry was next to him. It only made him stretch out more, and he made a grab for the bottle of wine in the centre of the table before Terry could reach for it.

Ste smiled as he saw the look of anger on Terry's face.

He found that he needed the drink. It didn't matter if it was wine or water or the peach juice that they so often made fresh. He just needed to be doing something with his hands as the room grew more and more silent.

He thought of his mother in the other room. She might sleep through the night, or she might wake up. He hoped that this was the only bottle of wine in the house - there was a good chance that they would finish it between them. But he knew from past experience that she had a stash, private, hidden, and there whenever she wanted it.

He'd stopped feeling hungry.

He played with his food, did it until it no longer resembled the finished dish it had been before. He'd been proud of this one - it was a new recipe, something he'd made from his own rough estimations and recent shopping he'd stored in the cupboard - and even Terry didn't have it in him to complain. Now it would either go in the bin or be saved for another day. His gut hurt; he balled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his stomach, wondered if this was his punishment.

The afternoon seemed like a dream. He couldn't believe that it had only been hours ago that he'd had the bravery to touch Brendan like that. Here, now, he wouldn't even be able to reach for him across the table. Brendan was looking resolutely down at his plate, and when their feet touched under the table - an accident on Brendan's part, deliberate on Ste's - Brendan quickly took his away, didn't draw attention to it.

Terry took Brendan through the work they'd be doing the next day. Ste stayed quiet, looked at Brendan's lips and eyes and hands and there was a cruelty to it all. There must be. A cruelty to how Brendan had told him they couldn't talk about it, making him believe that he didn't want to, only to let him kiss him when they'd been alone. A cruelty to the way he'd talked about sex with him so frankly, coaxing truths and half-truths out of him. Flirting with him.

If it was all a game then Ste didn't want it to stop.

::::::

Brendan in his black underwear, the fabric taut against his cock.

His head leaning to the side, his eyes light in the dark room.

Invite me in. Invite me into your room.

If Terry were to climb the stairs then he'd see them now, Ste standing in his bedroom, Brendan in the bathroom that separated them. The stillness of their bodies. The proximity of them. The gaze that they held. Their faces flushed the slightest amount, reddened by the wine they'd consumed.

The way the wine made them bolder.

He could drop to his knees. It seemed so easy, all of it, as though he'd been doing it for years. He'd drop to his knees and suck. Keep sucking until he came, and then it would be Brendan's turn. It sent a thrill through him, a spark, imagining what Brendan could do to him.

Ste tried to convey it in one look, all that he wanted. I'm all yours. He hoped that Brendan could see it.

Brendan's voice was quiet when he spoke. Ste didn't even know if he heard it at all. He was staring at Brendan's lips and could see the words form. The way they landed instead of any noise they made.

"Goodnight, Steven."

He closed the door. Ste stood there, didn't move at first. He was waiting for it to open again. To feel those lips against his.

The noises began to build up. He pressed his ear against the door to make sure that they were real, until there wasn't any doubt left. A noise like a groan, panting, deep, and the door didn't feel like a solid thing any more. It wasn't there; he was over on the other side, felt close like he was watching him the whole time.

He got into bed. He removed his underwear, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He didn't sleep naked in bed often, not unless the heat was stifling, and even then he still usually wore his boxers.

His fears fell away, and all there was was Brendan.

He forced his body to relax. He had to be loose to do this, had to feel the tension leave him and let go of everything else. He could still hear Brendan next door. He was being smart with this. He was loud enough for Ste to hear him, to know with certainty that this wasn't an accident, but quiet enough to not alert the rest of the house. Ste wanted to match him. He knew that Pauline was still asleep, and Terry was most likely parked in front of the television with cans of beer gathered on his lap.

He started to stroke his dick, but he quickly stopped. There was something about it. Anyone could do this to him - any girl. He knew that any girl could finger him too, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't what was expected, wasn't what people talked about. The lads he was friends with back home talked about blowjobs and handjobs; none of them had ever mentioned this. A few of them had bragged about anal, but it had been them fucking their girlfriends.

Ste had always known that he wanted to be fucked. For as long as he knew that was a possibility, he'd imagined it. Played it out in his head at night, with a hand around his cock and his eyes closed: a man - any man, didn't much matter who - fucking him, on and on in a perfect rhythm, sensation after sensation running through him. He didn't know if it would hurt. He didn't know if it was wrong. He just knew that everyone had instincts, and that was his. He wouldn't have known how to change it.

He shifted a little to make himself comfortable. Brendan was quieter now; Ste had to strain to hear him. He knew that Brendan might be listening harder to see if he was touching himself.

He wet his fingers, taking his time to coat them all equally. Sometimes he used only spit; other times he used body cream if he had it lying around. He settled for spit now, not allowing the doubts he was having to come to the surface. If he thought about it too much then he'd never go through with it, and he'd go on with life like it had always been.

His hole felt tight when he pressed the tip of his finger against it. He was nervous, took a breath, and tried again. Lifted his legs up, spread them, and went in with just his index finger.

It felt uncomfortable. He took it out, stuck his tongue out to wet it more but then stopped. Thought about where it had been. Dirty. He couldn't shake the thought from his head, but then he fought to override it. Sex was dirty. Sex was messy. Sex was unpredictable. It should be.

Or at least he wanted it to be.

He wet his finger again. This time when he put it inside him his body seemed to adjust, and he slowly moved it until more of it was swallowed up. His arm flailed out, landing on the pillow. He grabbed the headboard of the bed, used it to steady him.

He wasn't being loud, but still he knew that Brendan would be able to hear him.

Two fingers now. It was the most he'd ever used, and this with a hand on his dick had always been enough to make him come. There was no faceless man in his head; Brendan was all there was, his eyes begging him to keep going, looking at him like no one else ever had.

He had always wondered if it made him weak, wanting to be the one who was fucked. Now he knew it made him strong.

He didn't need to fantasise about what a kiss would be like. He knew the taste of him, used it for his own gain as he moved his fingers inside, his other hand working his cock.

He'd had sex with girls before. He'd had good sex, the kind that clears your head so all there is is pure sensation, your body taking over. But he knew, knew, that it would be nothing like this. He wanted to tear down the wall that stood between them, wanted to climb into Brendan's bed, wanted him to show him.

That he knew too, as much as he'd thought he'd known before that Brendan was straight. He knew that Brendan had done it before.

It tipped him over the edge, hearing Brendan's eager breaths on the other side. Ste spilled over his fist, gasped before he could cover his mouth to muffle the sounds. He stayed where he was until he trusted himself to be able to walk again, and then he got out of bed.

He cleaned himself up. He'd come hard; he had to use several tissues and he knew that he'd have to have a shower in the morning. He listened, and then he heard it: Brendan came too, and it sounded like he was too late in concealing the noises he made.

Just a couple of steps. That's all it would take to be with him.

He got back into bed, pulling the covers up even though he was still hot from what he'd just done. He didn't know if sleep would come, but then it did, all at once, his body exhausted from him doing what he wanted to it.

::::::

He wanted to have fun with it.

He tested it out a little. Tested how far he could go.

He walked around the house in just his shorts. knowing that his body might finally be something to someone. He tracked the way that Brendan's eyes followed him. Tracked how easily he distracted him, having to ask Terry to repeat himself.

Ste picked peaches from the tree. Squeezed them to make juice, tensing the muscles of his arms as he did so. Ate them without care, as Brendan had done, and let the juice make a trail down his arm so he'd have to mop it up with his tongue.

All the while Brendan was looking, and what had happened yesterday lingered in the air, unspoken but making its mark.

He watched as Brendan and Terry worked in the garden, clearing away the weeds. Brendan was in another vest today, a black one that clung to him the same way that everything else did, like it was made especially for him. Ste lay on his front with his notebook. He was taking a risk. If anyone was to see inside they'd uncover the truth about him. The way that his mind worked: fucked up, peculiar, different. But it was in his head again, these thoughts, and he had to get it out.

I never knew a man could be beautiful. It's how he started it, and everything else seemed to lead off from there. Scattered words, incoherent sentences. Lake. Grass. Kiss. Underlined. A line drawn through some words. Pages torn from the book and discarded in the pocket of his shorts. He'd never much thought about what this notebook was. He'd started making these scribblings years ago, but never had they been this urgent, this necessary. If he didn't write it down then he was sure he would say it all instead. Shout it.

He liked watching him at work. Liked seeing his obvious dislike towards Terry when he would bark instructions at him and tell him he was doing something wrong. It felt comforting, both of them allies against him. Ste needed to know that this wasn't all in his head. That the setup that he had with Terry and Pauline wasn't normal.

There was an anger below the surface as Brendan grew increasingly tired of the close proximity of him. He could handle Terry in small doses, usually at meal times, but when they were together like this for hours on end it was difficult for him to keep up the act. Ste knew the feeling.

He stopped writing when he saw the wheels of the bicycle coming closer. He closed the notebook hurriedly, squinting up into the sunlight. She was wearing shorts smaller than his own that emphasised those legs of hers, and a top that he knew she'd borrowed from her sister. It was a shock to see her, even though it had only been days.

He hugged her, seemed the thing to do, but he felt a unease there that never usually existed.

"Alright Ames?" He was aware that Brendan was close enough to watch them. And he was watching; Ste saw him put down the cutter he was using to chop the dead flowers.

"I thought I'd come and see you. It's been a while."

Was that irritation he could hear? He wasn't sure. Either way he felt like he should apologise.

"I've been busy." He was aware that his excuse didn't hold much weight. Not when she'd caught him lying languidly in the garden, whiling away the hours by feeling the heat penetrating his bones.

She looked behind them. Saw Brendan and waved. He looked away.

"I see he's as friendly as ever."

Ste shrugged, pretended it didn't matter. "He's okay."

She shifted her head to the side, regarding him.

"Since when? I thought you didn't like him."

Ste feigned indifference. "I've never minded him. He's decent." He added a hasty, "Like the others."

He wasn't sure if his words were fooling her. It felt unlikely that they could; it seemed to Ste that everyone would know that Brendan wasn't like anyone else.

Ste wasn't looking at him, and yet he felt sure that Brendan was still watching them. He considered it then - considered taking Amy's hand just to see what reaction it would cause. As quickly as he thought it, he felt ashamed. She wasn't his to use. She wasn't anyone's to use.

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

She looked surprised. Pleased. It made him feel worse, the idea that she might have thought he was done with her forever.

"Sure. I'll wait for you outside the house."

She left with her bike. He ran inside to put his notebook away. He waited to be interrupted,

for Brendan to come and join him, to show that he cared in some way. But he was alone.

He took his bike from where it leaned against the wall.

Terry noticed him. His face was set in a sneer.

"Be back for dinner. Your mother isn't making it. She's under the weather. Again." There was something in the way he said it. Ste looked back at the house, considered going back and checking on her. He thought she was sleeping in after drinking yesterday, but he wondered now if something had happened in the night. He hadn't heard any arguing, but he knew that didn't indicate anything. Sometimes she was too scared to fight back.

Inside was everything he didn't want. Outside was Brendan - the size of him, the space which he took up, like it was his world and everything else just existed around him - and Amy waiting for him.

He cycled as fast as his body would let him.

::::::

They went past the lake. It felt even more impossible to take Amy to it now. It wasn't his secret any more. it was his and Brendan's.

They went into town, went to a cafe. He knew Amy's order by heart, always a cup of tea, always black, no sugar. A coffee for him.

They stirred their drinks. He'd never not known what to say to her before.

"I thought you might never see me again," she started, her voice small.

"Don't be daft. Of course I was always going to see you." He understood what she meant though. It would have been easier not to.

She shuffled in her seat, blew at her tea.

"I did see you." He looked down at his coffee cup. People were sitting at the other tables surrounding them, but it didn't help in making this feel casual. "I came to your house a few days ago."

"My parents never said anything."

"It's because you were there." He'd never intended to tell her this, but now it was too late. "They were reading to you."

She frowned like she was trying to remember.

"Reading...?"

"Yeah." He recalled it like it was insignificant, like he hadn't remembered every word. "The story of the knight and the princess."

"Oh, that." She laughed, and he thought how wonderful it must be to be able to laugh about something like that. "My sister loves that story. Even at her age."

"And you don't?"

"No, it's just... well, it's a fairy story isn't it? There are a thousand other stories like it."

He felt deflated. It must have shown; she sounded like she was trying to backtrack.

"It's well written, but... it's a bit too perfect, isn't it. Did you hear the ending?"

"He speaks," Ste said softly. "The knight speaks. And they live happily ever after."

Amy laughed again. "If only life was like that." He said nothing, so she kept going. "Why didn't you tell me you were there though?"

He took a breath, readied himself.

"Because of what happened the last time." His coffee was still too hot, but he drank from it anyway. Wished it was something stronger. "The things you said to me. The things I said."

Or didn't say.

"I shouldn't have kissed you." He registered the way her smile vanished. "Not because... there's nothing wrong with you, okay? I don't want you to think that. Not ever. But I shouldn't have done it."

"Because you don't like me?" She said it like she already knew.

"Because I do." He explained when she only looked confused. "You're one of the best people I've ever met. I know that might not mean much, because... I haven't exactly met a lot of good people. But that's why it means... what it means. It's why I never want to leave you at the end of the summer. When you go back home, and I go back to Manchester. I know we phone each other, but it's not the same. Not even close. I miss you, you know? I miss you so much I can hardly stand it. It's why it's not fair that I tried to kiss you. I tried to fool you. I've never said it, but you're my best friend."

Her eyes sparkled with tears.

"You're my best friend too."

"But you wanted more?" He could hardly believe that it was true, but he knew that her actions must mean that she did.

She nodded, staring as intently down at her drink as he had at his.

"I did. If things were different. I've always felt that way about you." She made sure to look at him this time. "But I know you don't feel the same. And that's okay. I'm not going to run away, alright? If you tell me the truth, I'm not going to shout or cry or... reject you. I promise. I meant what I said. You can talk to me. About anything."

Relief flooded through him. It was so tangible that he felt overwhelmed by it. She might not cry, but he could.

"You know already, don't you." As he said it he felt the truth of it.

"I know some of it. You and Brendan."

"Nothing's happened. Nothing much."

"Nothing much?"

He repeated her promise back in his head: I'm not going to reject you.

"We've kissed. It was only yesterday. I kissed him, and he kissed me back. But I think it was mostly me." He looked up at her, looked for judgement or disgust or some sign that she was about to run away from him. There was nothing.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes." He didn't have to think about it. "It felt right. Completely right." He hoped she wasn't thinking about how he'd also kissed her. Hoped that she didn't think this was easy for him, that it was all a game.

She didn't seem surprised by any of this.

"When did you know?" He asked. "About me."

"I think I always knew." She was careful with her words. Took her time, considered them. "It wasn't because you weren't interested in me. It's because you didn't seem interested in anyone. It was like there was always this part of you that you didn't let me see. I always knew that things were difficult with your family. Are difficult. But it was more than that."

He couldn't disagree with any of it. He thought that he'd been good at hiding it all. He'd underestimated her.

"And then Brendan came," she continued. "And I saw the way you looked at him. I saw the way he looked at you."

Ste couldn't help but feel pleased.

"He looks at me?"

She rolled her eyes playfully, gave him an obviously look.

"Poor Anne."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Ste said.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know how he feels." He felt faintly ridiculous for saying it, and waited for her to make fun of him. Again he underestimated her. "He said we can't do anything. But then he... he sends me all these mixed signals, and..." He trailed off, couldn't say what he wanted to: that last night they'd masturbated to the sound of each other. That he was sure that wasn't normal friendly behaviour.

"I'd say a kiss is pretty definitive." She seemed to remember it then; remembered their kiss, because she didn't stop there. "What else has he done?"

He told half of the story.

"He's talked to me about sex." This was still new ground. He was blushing. "About... you know..."

"Gay sex?"

"Yeah." He looked around him, making sure that no one had heard them. "I guess I know he's not straight. I just don't know what he is."

"Does it really matter? What are you?"

"I don't..." He struggled with the words, felt them trembling on his lips. "I don't know."

"No. And it doesn't matter. I mean, if you want to define it then fine, that's great - but you don't have to, Ste. Maybe you're gay. Maybe he is too. Or maybe you're bisexual. Maybe he's never done anything like this before."

"I think he has."

"How do you know?"

"I don't. It's just something about him. I can't explain. It's just like he knows. He knows the things to say, and even when he was kissing me, it just..." It was only now that he realised how the idea of Brendan being with other men bothered him. He'd never been jealous before. Had never felt it pool in the pit of his stomach, felt like it was going to choke him.

"All I'm saying is, maybe it doesn't matter. He kissed you. He's talked about sex with you. He likes you, Ste. Nothing should stop you."

He drained the last dregs of coffee.

"You know that story? The knight and the princess. It's not real life, is it? That's what you said."

"That doesn't mean people can't be happy together," Amy said. "Look at my parents. They're still together all these years later." Her parents. Not his. "And other people make it work."

"Exactly. Other people. Not me."

"Who says?" She leaned forward, didn't break eye contact. "Do you think you don't deserve to be happy? Ste, you deserve it more than anyone I know. If you're listening to Terry - or your mum, or anyone else - then don't. Look, maybe this is just some summer fling. Maybe Brendan will just go back to Ireland and you'll go back to Manchester and that'll be it. You'll never see each other again. But maybe not. Maybe it could be something more."

He wanted to hold onto that something more. Wanted to keep it somewhere safe.

She still wasn't letting him get away that easily. She took hold of his hand on the table, grasped it firmly.

"Don't let your parents fuck up your life. Fuck them, Ste." He'd never heard her talk like this before. She was animated, alive. "Fuck them."

He grabbed her face and kissed her forehead. Did it on impulse.

"I love you. You know that?"

"I know," she said. "Because I love you too."

::::::

Something was free between them after that. He felt it as they ordered another round of drinks. He felt it as they wandered round the local shops, aimlessly browsing. Felt it as they cycled the long way back home. Felt it as they went back to her place and listened to records on her gramophone. Felt it as they said goodbye, held each other tightly and smiled till they could no longer see each other.

::::::

They met in the kitchen. Brendan's skin was gleaming with perspiration. He was only inside to get a drink of water, and then he'd be back in the garden with Terry again.

"You and Amy." Said without looking at him, his mouth a hard line.

"It was nice." Perhaps he wanted to provoke. Perhaps he still wanted to play. "You should have come."

He almost laughed at the unfiltered horror on Brendan's face.

Ste looked outside, could see Terry in the distance working. If he knew what was going on then he'd kill him. Kill the both of them.

"How's it been?"

"He's nothing I can't handle," Brendan said. "I've had worse."

"Like what?"

Brendan was focused on filling his glass under the tap now.

"Just worse."

Ste didn't press it.

"You look like you've caught the sun again." He nearly had the same colour complexion as Ste now.

Brendan smiled.

"Who's looking?"

He came close enough to be able to count Ste's eyelashes.

Ste took a chance.

"Me." He looked down at Brendan's lips. It was impossible not to. "I'm looking." Ste moved a little, and he trusted Brendan to move with him. He did, and it forced them away from where Terry could see them.

He was going to do this. He was going to kiss him.

He let Brendan know what he wanted. He stood as close as he could, kept staring at those lips. Parted his own. His hands wanted to be everywhere: in Brendan's hair, pressed against his arms, wrapped around his waist. He felt desperate with the need for it.

Brendan wasn't responding. Wasn't giving him what he wanted.

Ste angled himself even closer.

"We can't," Brendan breathed, was mirroring Ste and looking at his lips. "I told you."

"Last night." Ste said simply, didn't feel that it required any more of an explanation.

"Was last night."

"What are you so scared of, Brendan?" It had slipped out without him being able to stop it. He knew what he was scared of. People presuming that they knew what he was, what he wanted. Being thrown out, left with nothing.

He didn't know what was holding Brendan back. It wasn't religion, that much he'd told him. It had to be something else.

"I'm not scared of anything." His voice was sharp, had an edge of defiance and aggression to it that Ste had never heard from him before. It only served to let Ste know that he'd been wrong. This man wasn't scared. He was terrified.

Brendan gathered control again, seemed to be internally telling himself to calm down. Ste recognised the feeling. He'd had to do the exact same thing more times than he could count.

"I'm sorry. Okay. I'm sorry if you thought something else," Brendan said, and Ste thought he would have broken if he really believed that Brendan meant it. He didn't though; there was no conviction behind his words, and Ste felt drunk off it. Drunk off the knowledge that all of this, all of what they were doing, was only a matter of time. They could dance around it and run away and deny it, but he knew it was a ticking clock now, counting down to when they would give in to it.

Ste nodded, poured himself some juice. Made sure to pause to give Brendan a long enough look at the flash of underwear that showed under his vest as he stretched up to get a glass.

::::::

Pauline rubbed her eyes. There were dark shadows under them, a permanent fixture these days.

She was rooting through the cupboards. Ste knew what she was looking for, but when she got out the bottle of wine it still felt like a punch. She'd at least waited until the early hours when the other guests had stayed. Brendan was in the kitchen but she paid him no attention.

"Mum." Ste made an attempt to take the bottle. She shot him a look, a warning, and shook him off. She moved past him into the living room, closing the door.

Ste checked on the contents of the saucepan that he had simmering. He focused on breathing in and out evenly. He wanted to scream, wanted to kick something.

He felt a hand on his back, gentle at first, then solid. Stroking lightly and then rubbing against the skin there.

He didn't turn to look. Just murmured thank you, and they stood like that for a while.

::::::

Terry's fist bore a bruise. He wore it like a prize, displaying it with every mouthful that he took. Ste had to resist spitting onto the portion that he'd given him. He knew it was childish, but it seemed as good an idea as any.

"I'm going out tonight," Brendan said, matter of fact. "Don't lock up."

Terry didn't say anything. Didn't hide that he couldn't care less. Ste prodded his food with his fork, mashing it until it no longer resembled the original creation. He was almost grateful for Terry's presence. If he hadn't been there then he would have asked Brendan where he'd been going, and who with. He'd be one of those people. Insecure. Needy.

But it festered in his mind. Where. Who. He couldn't let go of it until he saw her approach the house, hair naturally curled from a day spent swimming in the lakes, a dress that was bought for the occasion.

They went off together, Brendan and Anne, and everything that he'd talked to Amy about seemed meaningless. Destroyed.

People like him didn't get happy endings.

::::::

He drank until it blacked everything out. He drank until he blacked out, falling asleep on the sofa that Pauline had only recently vacated.

He saw the appeal. Saw why she needed it, why it got her through the day.

Suddenly Brendan kissing Anne, wanting Anne, didn't seem so bad. And then he came back.

He let himself in, was quiet with it. He used the spare key that Terry had got especially for the guests that came every summer. It was after midnight when he creeped in, waking Ste. He was still drunk, liked the way it blurred the edges and made him laugh at nothing in particular.

He met him in the hallway. Brendan's aftershave had faded away, and there was only the smell of him now. It was better than anything from a bottle could be, and unconsciously Ste breathed him in.

"You're back," he said, and he regretted not drinking more, because certain things were getting through. He cared. He cared more than he should, and he hadn't managed to block that out.

It was dark but Brendan must have got a good enough look at his face.

"You're drunk."

Did he smell of it? He hadn't used his mother's technique of disguising it with sprays and mints.

"Only a little bit." He laughed, was trying to decide whether Brendan looked like someone who had just had sex. He worried that his judgement was off, that he was missing something.

"Jesus. How much have you had?"

Ste tutted.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters." Brendan held onto his arm, and Ste didn't know if he was only doing it to steady him. "How much, Steven?"

He wrangled his arm free even though it had felt good to be touched.

"What's got into you? Or who?" He laughed again at his own joke, but then he realised that it wasn't funny. Not even close.

"What?" Brendan said, looked genuinely confused like he didn't know what Ste had spent all evening thinking about.

"You and her." Without Brendan holding him he swayed. He couldn't take his drink; never had been been able to. Turns out it didn't run in the family. "What a lovely couple."

"Are you jealous?"

Ste spluttered, repeated it back. "Jealous." Tested out the word, pretended that it didn't fit. "That's likely."

"Then what's this? Why have you been drinking? Drinking alone."

"I haven't," Ste said. He knew how it looked, knew what Brendan could be thinking. You're just like your mother. He hated it, hated that he could be. "I was with Amy." The story spun from him easily. He was good with a lie. Had enough practice of it. "We went out again. Went to a bar. Just us." He left the rest of it empty, left it for Brendan to fill in the gaps. And Ste knew that he was, could see his mind working frantically with all the possibilities. Again he told a joke. Again he pretended he found it funny. "We could double date, just like you said."

He couldn't see Brendan's expression in the darkness.

"Is that what you really want?"

Ste couldn't tell him that he'd never wanted anything less. That the mere idea of it made him feel sick.

"It's what you want, isn't it?"

Brendan didn't correct him.

"Go to sleep, Steven."

"Steven. Steven. You're always calling me Steven." He knew that there was an empty wine bottle near the sofa. He hoped that Brendan didn't find it, that it didn't make it even more obvious that the tale of him and Amy and the bar was a complete fabrication. "You know I always used to hate that?" His eyes were unfocused. The room felt distorted. It was shaking. "You made me like my name." He laughed again. But it was the truth this time.

He pushed past Brendan, climbed the stairs slowly and didn't bother to get dressed into his pyjamas. He just crashed out on the bed and waited.

This time Brendan didn't make any noise through the walls. He didn't keep the bathroom door open as he went to the toilet. He didn't turn around and show himself to Ste, knowing what it would do to him.

There was only darkness.

::::::

The wine that he'd been drinking must have been the good stuff. He barely felt it the next morning. Pauline never bought anything expensive herself, and it was then that he remembered how it had been a present from the American guest they'd had. A parting gift, back in the days when his mother had been better - or more willing - to hide what she did. A bottle of wine in a gift bag hadn't seemed bad back then. Not to someone who didn't know.

He was surprised that she'd managed to keep it in the house unopened for as long as she had.

The longer he was awake, the more the memories of the night before came flooding back to him. Brendan. Anne and Brendan. Accusations. Envy, although that didn't sound strong enough for what Ste had felt. There was something detached about envy. Jealousy. Jealousy was it, gnawing away at him, twisting everything.

Amy had been right. He didn't know what Brendan was, and that left plenty of room for him to be attracted to anything and everything. Anne, or the lads that went to Amy's parties - it could be anyone. He wanted to know if Brendan had a type. At least that way he could know who he had to compete with.

He burrowed further underneath the covers, reluctant to come out.

::::::

Brendan had made him a strong coffee. Perhaps he'd anticipated that he might need it.

"Grazie," Ste said, and Brendan smiled at his choice of words.

"You Italian now?"

"It sounds better than "ta", doesn't it?"

He got a laugh for that. It eased some of the tension, made him feel better about facing him.

"Fair point." He didn't say anything for a second, and then: "I like how you say things. I like how you speak."

No one had ever said that to him before. It was the opposite - he'd often been teased for his thick accent when he travelled.

"I like how you speak too." It wasn't a meaningless compliment. He didn't think he'd ever get it out of his head now, that Irish lilt of his. He could listen to him speak forever. "I wish I could hear your sister too. I just imagine her like you, without the beard."

Another laugh.

"She doesn't speak like me. She's from the North. Belfast."

"How does that work? Her being from there, and you being from..." He tried to remember where Terry had said Brendan was from in one of his rants against him. "You're from Dublin, aren't you?"

"Same father. Different mother."

Ste knew what it was like to have a complicated family set up. He didn't want to pry, but he wanted to know more. This felt like his way in.

"What are they like? Your family." He wondered if they were like Amy's family; supportive, loving.

"They are what they are."

Ste didn't point out that that didn't really mean anything. He was patient, knew that if he asked too many questions then Brendan would most likely go cold on him.

"My mother's dead, so."

The so said everything he couldn't say. There was so much pain behind it. He tried to imagine it happening to him. He knew he'd cry, and he knew he would never forget Pauline, but a part of him also knew that he'd feel relieved. Not for him - not just for him - but for her. She'd finally be at peace.

"Brendan... I'm so sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault."

"That's not why I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you."

"I don't need you to pity me."

Steven looked shocked at the suggestion.

"I don't pity you. I feel for you."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes," Steven said.

He could tell that Steven wanted to ask more. He must have been curious about the details - when she died, how she died. But he was being careful now, trying to sense how far he could go. Brendan wanted to tell him that he'd already gone far enough. Further than most.

"How old were you?"

"Young," Brendan said. It seemed too heavy a conversation to be having this early, but Ste was captivated. He felt like he finally had some access to this life of Brendan's that he knew nothing about.

"And your dad brought you up?"

Brendan scratched at his beard. He'd trimmed it; it looked less wild than before.

"Amy have a good night?"

Ste blinked, disarmed by the question. It took him a moment to follow the new train of conversation.

"She... yeah. I think so."

Brendan looked at him, and Ste hoped that it had been Terry and not him who had thrown away the empty wine bottle.

"You really ought to know, Steven. If a woman has a good time."

"She had a good time," he said, confident this time, because he was sure she had - wherever she had been last night. He went on, bold, brave. "Did Anne?"

Brendan stared him down, and Ste could feel the heat coming off him. The buttons were straining against his shirt more than they ever had. Ste imagined ripping them off.

"She did."

Ste was sure of it now: nothing had happened. Brendan was trying too hard. He didn't believe it.

"I'm happy for you," Ste said, and he patted Brendan's chest, and he kept his hand there longer than he needed to.

::::::

Anne didn't phone in advance to see if she could come over. She arrived unannounced, flowers in her hair that had been freshly picked that day. Her legs were toned from hours spent swimming in the lakes and riding her bike. She moved in that way of hers that demanded attention and approval.

Years ago he had been shy of it, of all of it, but now he took it in his stride.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he said.

"Funny. Is he in?"

"He's with Terry."

She used the opportunity to dig out her well loved pocket mirror from her handbag. She checked her teeth, making sure that there was no lipstick there. Applied a new layer, scarlet red. Bright enough to be transferred onto Brendan's lips if she kissed him. He hadn't been able to see if there was lipstick on him last night; it had been too dark. It was probably for the best.

"How do I look?"

"Amazing," he said honestly. She always looked amazing.

"Thank you." She did a little sashay which he couldn't help but find endearing. "At least someone thinks I do."

It was the perfect bait. He couldn't not ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Mr Brady." Ste snorted at the title. "Apparently I'm not good enough for him."

"He said that?" He didn't know if she could tell what this meant to him. How he was hanging off every word.

"He didn't have to." She seemed to pull herself together, decide that she didn't want to reveal too much. "Obviously he likes me. But he didn't, you know. Do anything. He hasn't said anything, has he?"

Ste shook his head. "We don't really talk about stuff like that."

"Honestly, you men are useless."

He had to hide his smile at the fact that he nothing had happened between them.

"Just call him for me, will you? See if that step-dad of yours will let him have the day off."

"Unlikely," he said, grateful for the first time that Terry was so unaccommodating. "But I'll give it a go."

He ran back to her a little while later.

"Sorry, no can do. He's got to work for the rest of the day."

He'd never been so pleased to deliver news.

::::::

His shorts were drying in the bathroom. They were his blue pair, the ones that matched the colour of his eyes. Ste thumbed the material.

He'd watched the disappointment that Anne had experienced as she left the house. He could relate to it, and it struck Ste that they had something in common now.

Terry seemed to be punishing Brendan for coming home late last night. They worked later than usual - or Brendan did, while Terry opened another can of beer - and the atmosphere between them was worse than before.

Still the bruise lingered on Terry's fist. It was slowly changing colour, had more of a yellow tinge to it now. Ste just wanted it to be gone; wanted the reminder to fade.

Terry went out drinking that night. He had a few mates that would join him. A few were Italian and could only speak broken English, but that didn't seem to matter. It wasn't about what they said, it was about what they did. And what they did was drink.

Pauline was watching something mindless on the television. She'd told Ste earlier to turn the volume of the record he was playing down, and it was just background music now, gentle, matching the low lighting.

It was an old record. He knew the lyrics well, as well as he knew his own name. They seemed different to him now though.

He knew that Brendan liked it too by the way he was listening to it, silent, appreciative.

It was the kind of song you would slow dance to. The kind of song you would love someone to. One that would have been picked out at a party by Justin, just as he and Amy were dancing.

He could stay sitting like this, exactly like this with him. Just passing the time, not saying anything.

"Terry won't be back until late," Ste said. It was always the way when he went out with these particular men; he'd stumble back in the early hours, later than when Brendan had come home.

If Brendan wanted to know why he was telling him this, he didn't ask.

"You want a drink?"

"I think you had enough last night," Brendan said. "You don't need to do that, Steven."

"I know I don't need to," Ste said, a little irritated now. "It's just fun, isn't it?"

"Didn't seem like you were having fun to me."

Brendan played with a thread that had come loose on his vest.

"Don't tell me that you and Anne didn't have a drink?" He wasn't being subtle. He wouldn't have blamed Brendan for telling him so.

"We had one glass," Brendan conceded.

The music went on and on.

"You could have gone with her earlier. Told Terry to stuff his work."

"He's paying me. I don't want to be fired, do I," Brendan said, although Ste didn't buy it. He didn't seem like he would care enough.

Something about the situation made Ste want to be brave. Maybe it was the fact that it felt like it was only them in the house, even though he knew Pauline was only a couple of rooms away. Maybe it was the backdrop of the music that cut through any discomfort that might exist.

He just knew that the days were creeping away, getting lost, and one day soon Brendan would be gone. He had one chance. One chance to get this right.

"Anne's nice. She's not like you might think. Some of the guys here, they think she's stupid. They look at her and they see that she's pretty, and they see all the makeup and the clothes and the high heels, and they think they can mess around with her. I've heard them. But she's not like that. She's kind, Brendan. She saw my mum drunk once, passed out on the road outside the house, and she took care of her. Took her inside with me and never said another word about it except asking if she was alright the next day. Asking if I was alright."

"Why are you telling me this?" Brendan said, quiet.

"She likes you. You must know it. She doesn't get like this a lot. So you taking her out -"

"I didn't take her out," Brendan interrupted.

"You went out with her. Went to a bar, sounds like. Maybe it meant nothing to you." He hoped it did - hoped it did mean nothing. "But it probably meant something to her. And that isn't fair if you don't mean it."

"You're one to talk."

Ste was almost too shocked to speak.

"Meaning?"

"You and Amy." It was the way he said her name. Like he hated her.

Ste felt defensive; defensive of her.

"Amy's my best friend." Even though these stolen summers were all they got, it was enough to leave an imprint even when she wasn't with him.

"You kiss all your best friends?" Brendan said, and his lips were curled, distorted.

It took Ste a second to remember. The party. The dancing. What Brendan must have seen before he'd made a swift exit with Anne.

"That was a mistake." He felt disloyal to her by admitting it, but there it was: his feelings, out in the open. It was up to Brendan to decide how to take it.

"I don't think she'd see it that way." His voice was raised enough so that Pauline could hear. Ste listened closely, tried to work out if there was a chance she was listening to them, ear pressed to the door, but he heard the television play on.

"I set her straight."

"Straight?"

It felt like Brendan was deliberately trying to spark a reaction out of him. Pressing. Pushing. Testing. It wasn't necessary. Ste was sure that everything he'd done so far already told Brendan everything he needed to know.

"She knows." Ste cleared his throat, tried again. "She knows about me."

Brendan leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"And what does she know?"

It was in his head again, that stupid tale, to speak or to die, and he had thought it would be simple, thought that he could just say it once and have it over with, but it seemed like he was saying it again and again. Getting rejected, again and again. Only it wasn't the kind of rejection where he could move on. Ste felt like that thread on Brendan's vest, being tugged at repeatedly, never cut entirely loose.

If Pauline could hear this then he wouldn't have a home to go back to.

But if he didn't say it then he knew there would always be that question. What if he had? What if it changed everything?

"That I want you." He said it as though it was easy, as though there was no other conclusion he could come to, when it was the least easy thing he had ever done. He became aware of the other sounds in the room as the silence stretched on. The ticking of the clock. The sound of Brendan's breath that made it seem like he'd been holding it. The tapping of Ste's fingers against his leg, nervous, waiting for an answer. For the answer.

"Steven..." There was something desperate about it. It sounded an awful lot like don't do this to me, and an apology built up in Ste's throat. Sorry. I didn't mean it. I can take it back.

Except he couldn't. And nothing he could do from now on would get rid of it.

"I know. We can't," he said, repeating back what he'd been told. "I still don't get why."

"It's complicated." Brendan was staring at the floor. Ste was used to him taking up so much space. Now he looked like he wanted to shrink even further down.

"It's really not." It was though; he got why it was. But there was this other possibility opening up to him, distant but beautiful, that presented a different world. A world where it wasn't so complicated. "I like you. You either like me back or you don't." He didn't know where this bravery was coming from. It was a mask for the terror he felt. If Brendan left right now and told him that he didn't like him, that he never had, then Ste knew he would crumble.

Brendan smoothed a hand over his face. He looked drained, and Ste wondered if he'd been the one to do that to him. His fingers felt along his beard; Ste imagined stroking him there.

"How can you be like this?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Like what?" Ste felt vulnerable asking it. He wasn't sure if he was ready to know what he was like.

"So okay."

Ste wanted to laugh. He must be better at hiding all this than he thought.

"You're not disgusted, are you?" He spitted the word a little, didn't seem to want it on his tongue.

"Disgusted by what?"

"By this. By all of this. You and me."

It thrilled Ste: you and me. He couldn't help but cling onto it, no matter what the context. He could build dreams around those words.

He forced himself to focus.

"I can't be," he said. He'd tried to be, and a few times he'd almost felt it. Almost got into the mindset of someone who would be against them. Thought like Terry would. That it really was disgusting, what he wanted to do. But he hadn't been able to hold onto it. He knew that there were people out there who would hate him if he walked down the street holding Brendan's hand. There were people who might even hurt him - them - if they saw them kissing. But he could never convince himself why. It seemed like it was the rest of the world that was wrong.

But Brendan didn't seem to think the same.

"You ever think about when you were a little kid, Brendan?"

It flashed in Brendan's eyes then: fear. Fear so close to the surface that Ste wanted to make it all better.

"Why?" He said it like it was a trap. His pupils were huge; a startled animal.

"Sometimes I think about it." He pulled the subject back to him, hoped it would distill some of the panic. "When you're young like that, you're free. Completely free. You don't care about what anyone else thinks. You don't think about what you are or who you're meant to be. You're just you. And I guess I miss that. I lost that." He made himself keep going. "I could have been with Amy. She wanted it. I wanted to want it. But where does that all end? I don't think you can live your life based around what everyone else wants."

He stood up. The light filtering through the windows was in his eyes.

"I'm just going to say it one more time, and then I'll never mention it again if you don't want me to." He could sense his hands shaking. "I want you. I think I wanted you since the first time I saw you. I don't know why. I don't know why I've never acted on all these thoughts before, and why you were the one that I couldn't not act on them with. But there it is." He took a steadying breath. "I don't want to be with any other girls. Not again. I'm done with all that." He shrugged his shoulders like it meant nothing, even though it meant everything. "It's up to you now."

And he left.

::::::

He went to his favourite spot alone this time. He missed the sight of him. Missed his long limbs making waves in the water. Missed the depth of his laugh. Missed how his beard grew damp.

He made the visit quick. It wasn't the same without him.

::::::

A note had been left in his bedroom, propped up on his desk.

Tonight. Midnight. Don't be late.

He stared at it for a long time. Smoothed his hand along the paper and folded it in half. Unfolded it. Looked at it again.

The note hadn't said where he should be, but he knew already that it was here, in this room. They weren't about to go out drinking together or to another party. It felt like they were beyond that now. Looking back it all felt like a game - childish, wasting time - and the promise of tonight loomed over him now, and he couldn't decide if his anxiety outweighed his excitement or his excitement outweighed his anxiety.

Nothing could happen. He reminded himself of that, reminded himself of how many times Brendan had walked away from him. How he'd said disgusted earlier. But still Ste looked at the clock repeatedly, willing for the hours to pass. Still he brushed his teeth. Still he washed under his arms and put more deodorant on. Still he scrutinised himself naked in the bathroom mirror - door closed - with the kind of scrutiny that he'd never applied to himself before.

He changed into different clothes; a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms and a shirt. He combed his hair back, started styling it and then gave up. He grew tired of his own reflection, of worrying about it.

There was still too much time left.

He went downstairs. Terry had returned; he was drunk, but it was the kind that Ste could handle. He was sprawled out on the sofa, was dozing, and it wasn't long before the sound of snoring filtered through to the kitchen. Pauline was flat out in her bedroom.

They wouldn't be interrupted.

There was no sign of Brendan. He could be a no-show; could have decided to sneak out with Anne instead. Ste considered doing the long walk to her house just to check. Instead he wasted time. Cut up a bowl of fruit. Drank enough water to stop his mouth from being dry. Then stopped. He didn't want to be going to the toilet the whole night.

Ten minutes to go.

Five minutes.

Two.

The front door opened. It was so gentle that Ste would have missed it if it hadn't been for the telltale creaks. He made sure that Terry was definitely asleep, and then he slowly walked into the hallway.

Brendan hadn't put the light on. They could barely see each other, but Ste could still make out the way that Brendan nodded once.

Ste led the way upstairs. He resisted the urge to look behind him. He could hear Brendan following him, but still it feel too unreal to be true. Seeing him would reassure him, but he couldn't trust his expression not to give away everything he was feeling.

Ste headed for his room.

"Stop," Brendan said, and he redirected them into his room instead. Ste wondered if he was thinking of the comfier bed. The thought made him shiver.

They still didn't turn on any lights.

They stood outside on the balcony, felt the cool air on their skin and didn't say anything. They couldn't see the garden below, but it didn't matter. It felt like they both needed to just breathe.

There was space between them. Too much space. Ste wanted to close it but it would seem too obvious, and he still wasn't sure what this was. For all he knew Brendan could have spent the day kissing Anne before coming back to him.

He reached out a hand instead, waiting for Brendan to flinch away, recoil, but it didn't come. So he tested it a little more, moving it closer until his hand was over Brendan's. He smoothed a finger over his knuckle, soft at first, and then making his intent clear. He wanted to do more - wanted to weave their fingers together, palms pressed, solid. He settled for resting his hand there again.

"I missed you," Ste said, wasn't entirely sure that it made sense when Brendan hadn't been away for long, but he seemed to miss him all the time, whether it defied logic or not. Every moment was spent waiting for him to come back.

There was a gentle hum in return, not quite an agreement but not a denial either. And then the hand underneath his was sliding away, and it was placed on top of his instead.

Ste wanted to kiss him. Right there on the balcony, the fresh night air a relief after the heat of the day. He wanted to kiss him harder than he'd ever kissed anyone.

"Come inside, Steven."

He motioned for Ste to lead the way again. He moved slowly, knew that he was trembling. The room looked different to him now; unfamiliar. There seemed to be nowhere else to go but the bed. He sat on it. He felt underdressed. More underdressed than when he'd been swimming in the lake.

Brendan sat next to him, but he still felt too far away.

Ste could back out, go back to his room. It was the safer option, continuing with how his life had always been. His world would be unchanged by the time he went back to Manchester. No one but Amy would ever know how close he'd come. Except Brendan; Brendan would know, but Ste never had to see him again.

Ste stood up, headed to the door. Put the chair against it in the unlikely event that Terry or Pauline came inside. Sat back on the bed, next to Brendan. Close enough this time for their arms to brush together.

"I'm scared," Ste said, felt like he had to admit it, that anything else would be a lie.

"Because you don't want this?" Brendan asked, and Ste had the feeling that a lot of weight rested on his answer.

"No. Because I do want this."

He had a hand through his hair for that, trailing to his cheek and stroking against it. It was the first time Brendan had touched him like that, prolonged, taking his time, and Ste knew that the possibility of him losing his nerve was getting smaller and smaller.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Ste said.

Brendan hesitated then nodded.

Ste wrestled between feeling jealous and pleased. He wanted to know everything about the man - or men - that Brendan had been with before. Wanted their names, wanted to know what they looked like, wanted to know what they'd meant to him. But a part of him was relieved; Brendan would know what to do.

He knew how to kiss though.

He turned towards him, and something shifted then. It was different to their long, lazy afternoon spent at the lake and lying on the grass. There wasn't any light now, and there hadn't been a bed then, and there was an intimacy that had never existed before.

"Can I kiss you?" Ste said, because there was still a voice in his head that said he was the one driving this and wanting this, and that it could all go up in flames. He had to be sure that he was going to be kissed back.

He got a laugh for that, and a breathless "Yes."

He wondered if the first kiss had been deceptive, and maybe they didn't work together. Maybe he'd feel nothing. But the fear dissolved rapidly. His lips were warm, inviting, and Ste could feel his tongue, and they both gave into it like everything that was going to happen was inevitable. They were clumsy in their desperation, and they didn't care. Their teeth clashed once or twice, but it just made them pull each other closer. For a while it seemed like all they would do was kiss, and kiss, but soon skin was being grappled at and Ste was hard inside his tracksuit bottoms, and he was swearing in between their lips touching, fuck, and his voice didn't sound like his own anymore.

He moved his body until he was straddling Brendan. His mouth had moved too; he was kissing his neck, his cheek, his nose - anywhere he could get access to. When he could feel Brendan pulling his top off over his head, it was Ste who got impatient and helped him, and then it was Brendan's lips trailing down his chest and ghosting over his nipples and making them erect.

He could feel that Brendan was hard. He shifted his pelvis a little, did it again until he was grinding on top of his cock through his trousers, and there was a kind of power to it that he'd never felt before. He knew he was wanted. He could see it too; could see it in the way Brendan was looking at him even in the darkness. There was no filter there. His pupils were blown. He was making noises as his teeth scraped across Ste's chest. Growling. He was squeezing Ste's flesh firmly enough to leave marks.

Ste wanted to see him. Wanted to see everything.

He tugged at Brendan's shirt, struggling with the buttons that acted as a barrier. His fingers were working quickly but he was all over the place and he couldn't get them undone properly. Brendan helped him, pulling at the shirt until it came off. Ste was sure that he'd heard the pop of a button or two.

He ran his hands over his chest, over the dark hair that covered it. He could feel the muscles there tensing at his touch, waiting to see what he would do.

He kissed him there, lifting up his cross necklace, holding it tightly in his palm as his lips pressed against his skin. No matter what they were doing, they kept finding each other's mouths again. Ste never realised that it could be like this, touching someone like this, not waiting to feel what he knew he should be feeling. Now that he could stop pretending, he could just be.

"I'm just going to get..." Brendan untangled himself from him and stood up. Ste came with him, went into his arms until he was almost crawling on him. Brendan held on tight, kissed him back and felt around in his bedside drawer until he found what he was looking for. Ste registered it: the foil wrapper that was being pealed back. And then they were on the bed again, and Brendan was wrestling with Ste's tracksuit bottoms until they were off. His underwear was next, the material stretching tight around his cock. He was aware of the imbalance between them, Brendan still in his trousers while Ste was completely naked now.

He fought against the instinct to cover himself with the mattress or his hand or anything he could find. He wasn't used to this, wasn't used to being looked at like this. He knew what he thought about his narrow hips and his concave waist and the slightness of his arms and legs, but he didn't know what anyone else thought about them. But then he didn't have to ask, because there was unconcealed desire in Brendan's eyes, and he was cupping Ste's dick in his palm, and Ste almost shouted out with the shock of it. He nearly came from that alone, had to calm himself down and hold on to Brendan's shoulders to steady himself. Counted in his head, one, two, three, and looked down in amazement at what Brendan was doing to him. He was making noises now, and he would have been embarrassed about them if he'd had time to think, but he didn't. He just gave himself into it all.

Ste wanted to make him feel like he was feeling.

He unzipped his trousers. Brendan stopped touching him - just shy of making him come - and he helped him until he was in only his black underwear. Their clothes were a heap on the floor, and Ste knew that even if he ran to his own bedroom it would still be evidence of what they'd just done. A trail left behind.

But he wasn't going to run.

Brendan dropped his boxer shorts. There was the same dark smattering of hair around his cock that covered him everywhere else. Ste looked up into his eyes and down again, and it seemed obvious what he was going to do next.

He took hold of his cock. He'd imagined this until he'd almost believed that it had already happened. The darkness made it seem like it could be a dream, and it gave him the courage he needed to do this.

He secured his lips around the tip and started to suck. He'd never known what it was to have someone melt into him before, but he felt it now, felt as though every part of Brendan wanted every part of him. He didn't try to tell him what to do, and he didn't laugh at him, and he didn't treat him like he was inferior for not knowing any of this. He waited, and he stroked the back of Ste's hair, and he made all the right sounds of encouragement, and he was a vision above him with that beard and those eyes and the way he could smile in that way of his that made Ste sure that only he'd ever seen it.

His dick was hitting the back of Ste's throat now, and they were getting a rhythm going. Brendan was rocking in time to Ste's movements, and if he gagged it didn't seem to matter because they kept going, the night stretching long in front of them, all theirs.

He felt determined. Brendan must have understood what it all meant - Ste's hands on his bum to drag him closer, and his tongue moving faster over him - because he pulled away until his dick wasn't in Ste's mouth anymore, and Ste got it: Brendan didn't want to come like this. He wanted to come inside of him.

"Roll over."

Ste did what he said, but it made him unsure, not being able to see what he was going to do to him next.

Hands smoothed down his back, stroking, scratching. He knew that Brendan might be taking him from behind, but he hadn't put on the condom yet.

He felt hands parting the cheeks of his arse. He wriggled on impulse - fear still chased him because he didn't see how this couldn't not hurt - and it made Brendan stop.

"Do you still want this?"

"Yes," Ste said. "I'm just... I don't know what..." Again he could say it, because again it would be true: I'm scared.

Brendan must have known already. He lay a kiss on his spine and rubbed him there.

"You'll be okay. I promise."

Ste nodded. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of something being opened, and could just about make out something in the dark.

"What's that?" He watched as Brendan emptied something into his hand - liquid, it looked like, but thicker.

"It'll make it easier on you."

Easier but not easy. He didn't miss that.

Brendan coated a finger then reached out to him, and Ste turned back round and leaned his head against the pillow. He felt it then, that single finger sliding along his hole. He felt it react, felt it tense and then relax, and waited for more.

More was that same finger sliding into him. More was a kiss at the back of his neck. More was moving the finger inside him. More was putting his other hand on top of Ste's on the mattress and holding it hard enough to drain the colour from it until all there was was the white skin stretched tight.

The finger withdrew and he watched as Brendan coated it again, and his middle finger too this time. Again there was the gentle sensation as he trailed it down Ste's hole, and he held his breath when the two fingers entered him.

"You okay?" Brendan said. Ste answered him the best way he knew how; parted his lips and waited for Brendan to kiss them. He didn't have to wait long.

Brendan didn't ask him to move over. He moved him himself; flipped him so that he was on his back and wrangled his legs until they were on Brendan's shoulders. He stroked along Ste's mouth, and like that day when they'd been together on the grass he opened his lips, let the finger press against his tongue.

He handed the bottle in his hands to Ste.

"Put it on me."

Ste palmed it from his hands onto Brendan's cock and squeezed. Kept on squeezing until he was covered in the liquid and then kissed him there. Kissed him until he could no longer taste the liquid and could only taste Brendan.

It should have been uncomfortable, being positioned around him like this. But they seemed to meld together, seemed to accommodate each other's bodies until it would have felt stranger to be apart.

It hurt as Brendan eased inside him. They were both breathing hard, and Ste had to kiss him to keep himself quiet, and there was the very real possibility that they would wake Terry and Pauline, and it kept hurting, and he considered saying stop because all he could feel was pain where there ought to be pleasure, and he was about to when it switched in his head and in his body, and they were going a little faster now, and fucking hell, he was starting to get what this was all about.

He could see his toes clenching above him. He held onto the headboard, used it for leverage. Brendan was close enough now for his teeth to come in contact with Ste's neck, and he was using it to his advantage, sucking at the skin and being hard enough to leave marks. Ste hoped he did.

It all went away. Where he was, who he was, what would happen next - it all stopped mattering. This was all there was: Brendan on top of him, kissing him, touching every inch of him, more real than any fantasy he'd ever had. If Ste had thought about it too much then he'd be embarrassed by his keenness and the frantic, desperate way in which he grabbed and pulled and bit and needed, but he didn't think. He did exactly what he wanted, and he knew it was probably the first time in his life that he had.

He felt a shudder above him. Brendan groaned low into his shoulder, his warm breath making Ste's skin damp. He'd collapsed onto him, spent, and Ste relished the way he could hold Brendan when he was like this. His fingertips glided down his back, and it felt just as intimate as when Brendan had been moving inside of him.

He still hadn't come yet. Brendan seemed to notice after a minute or two, propped up on one elbow and staring down at him. Ste felt exposed. There was nowhere to hide. He squirmed from the attention, then forgot all about it when Brendan cupped a hand around his dick and started stroking him hard. Brendan had to tell him to be quiet when he stopped trying to be. Ste tried to kiss him but Brendan evaded his lips, preferring to watch him come undone instead.

"Say it again."

"Say what?" Ste felt disorientated; Brendan's hand was still working quickly.

"My name. Like that."

Ste didn't know what like that was, but he said it again: "Brendan." It seemed to satisfy him. He picked up the pace, didn't stop till Ste had come all over his fist.

He cleaned himself with a tissue, and Ste could hear him laughing.

"Hold me," he said, and even in the dark he could see Brendan hesitate. He wondered if he'd gone too far, but then Brendan was rolling towards him and bringing the cover up over them both. They settled back together, and Ste knew they'd both be asleep in seconds. He craned his head towards him. He wanted one last kiss, and he got it; long, slow, different than all the others.

Then they slept.

::::::

His body felt different when he woke up.

He didn't know whether it felt different because he thought that it ought to. When he thought about what he'd done and what had been done to him, he felt strange. Strange because it hadn't felt strange. He accepted it now, lying in the early morning light in another man's arms. He accepted that this was the way things would always be.

He crept away from the bed and went to the bathroom. It was a shock when he turned on the light. His hair was sticking up and the area around his mouth was faintly pink, the effect of Brendan's beard against his skin. He wore an expression that he didn't recognise at first. Then it came to him all at once. Happiness. He was happy.

He smiled at his reflection.

He was half expecting to find blood when he went to the toilet - some sign, any, of what he'd done tonight - but there was nothing.

You'll be okay. I promise.

Then he heard his name being called. Softly at first, then with an edge of panic that made him come out from the bathroom straight away.

"Steven." Brendan was sitting up in bed. He would have seen the light from the bathroom if he'd looked carefully. It made Ste think that he'd been acting on impulse and fear.

"I'm here." He met him in the middle of the bed. Their noses bumped as their lips found each other. "I'm here," he said again when they came up for air. "I wouldn't be anywhere else, would I?"

Ste kissed him again. It was easy - easier than not kissing him - and he could feel the comfort they both got from it. The release. He'd never kissed anyone like this. Lying in bed, not with the intent of it leading anywhere. Just kissing, and kissing, and their bodies being in contact right down to their feet tangled together.

Brendan drew back and looked at him for a long time. He stroked Ste's hair, then rubbed his thumb across his lips.

They kissed long into the night.

::::::

He was alone.

The bed felt horribly bare. |f it wasn't for the soreness of his muscles then he would have been scared that he'd imagined the whole thing. He could hear the distant hum of voices downstairs - his voice - and all the time he was getting ready he was hoping he would come upstairs and find him.

He steadied himself with a hand on the bannister as he made his way to the kitchen. He almost shouted out in shock when Terry appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looming large over him.

"You slept half the day away."

He could hear the malice there - that was nothing new - but Ste tried to decipher if there was anything else. Disgust, or shame, or anything that would alert him to the fact that Terry knew what he had done.

He decided that Terry couldn't know. He wouldn't still be breathing if he did.

"I'm on holiday."

He tried to get past him, but Terry was blocking his way.

"Holiday? You're lucky that that Irish bastard is here. Maybe next summer I'll get you to do everything instead." He looked down at Ste's body, laughed. "If you could."

"He's not."

"What?"

"He's not..." He's not a bastard. He's the best person I've ever known. He stopped himself. "Let me go." He was aware that Terry wasn't actually touching him, but he still felt trapped. The idea of having another summer here with him, without Brendan, was worse than any punch could be.

A voice cut through them, making Terry jump.

"Everything okay here?"

Ste looked at him, focused on his face. Brendan. His eyes full of concern, the kind that Ste had only ever experienced from Amy before, and something else. Anger.

"Private matter," Terry said, but he must have seen the fire within Brendan too, because he didn't pursue it: he backtracked. "All fine now, isn't it Steven?" Ste realised that he sounded afraid.

"Yeah". It was for Brendan's sake. He wasn't sure what he would do if he told him what Terry had said. "All fine."

Brendan looked like he knew it was a lie.

"Breakfast?"

At that moment the idea of sitting next to Brendan in the early morning heat and watching him eat the sweet, ripe fruit they'd picked fresh seemed like the most appealing thing in the world. He nodded, pushing past Terry and watching Brendan lead the way. He noticed things he'd never noticed before. The way his hair looked from the back. The strength of his legs. How even the way he walked looked self-assured, like he knew exactly who he was. Like he knew his place in the world.

Ste didn't know what was stronger; the way he envied him or the way he wanted him.

The latter, he decided as he watched him eat breakfast. As he watched him drink his coffee and then pour himself another. Definitely the latter, he decided as Brendan yawned and glanced at him across the table, his eyes revealing everything they'd done last night. Ste was glad that he was the only one who was looking closely enough.

it didn't matter that Terry was with them, in a worse mood than before. It didn't matter that Pauline had her head down, typically suggesting a difficult morning spent arguing and having to cover her face with make up. Ste was aware of it - cared about it if he thought about it in any great detail - but it only touched the edges. What was real was last night. What filtered through was the smile that played on his lips, impossible to kill, and the way that his hand brushed against Brendan's as they both reached for a fork at the same time, and the feel of Brendan's foot touching his underneath the table. That's what mattered.

He'd expected to feel uncomfortable. He even wondered if he'd feel differently seeing him like this, back in reality, away from the darkness and the dream-like quality of last night. What he hadn't expected was a desire to push the boundaries a little - and then a lot - and see how far he could go.

Ste looked at him as he drank his coffee. He watched him as he put his lips around a peach and sucked carelessly. He watched as he licked his fork clean of the egg he'd just had. He watched as he got up from the table and stretched, letting his t-shirt ride up to expose the bare skin of his stomach. He watched as he announced - even though he was aware that Terry and Pauline didn't care - that he was going for a bike ride - and he watched him as he walked away, glancing over his shoulder to see if he was watching him back. He was.

He'd dressed in as few clothes as possible. Clothes felt like an annoyance now; too many layers to take off, too much time spent undressing when it could have been spent in other ways. Now that he'd done it once, it seemed to be all that was on his mind: getting Brendan alone.

They were still finishing their breakfast when he brought his bike out.

"I'm just going to do the usual route into town," Ste said, making sure he was loud enough to be heard. "Then I might get a drink at one of the cafes." He had a favourite one: Brendan would know where it was.

Terry gave him a look: Why are you telling us this?

He worried he was being too obvious. He didn't know how it couldn't be clear that he was completely, hopelessly obsessed. He was sure it must be in his every look. His every movement. The way he said his name as he left. Bye, Brendan. So casual, so ordinary - but it felt loaded now, too much behind it, too much expectation and need and fear that he could be crushed.

He had to swerve to avoid a car. He wasn't concentrating. He mumbled an awkward apology to the driver as he swore at him, and then he made sure to focus. He kept imagining that he could hear the sound of another bicycle behind him, and a couple of times he looked and began to smile before he realised there was nothing there.

He had to get a grip.

He ordered a coffee at his favourite cafe. The amount of caffeine he'd already had was starting to make him jittery, but it gave him the energy he needed to get through this. He was sure that he'd struggle for words otherwise; that he'd end up getting it all wrong if Brendan followed him here.

He had to. He had to follow him here, because Ste didn't know what he'd do if he didn't.

He just wanted to be with him. That was the simple truth of it when everything else was stripped away. He just wanted to be with him, next to him, even if they weren't touching. Even if they could never kiss again, he just wanted to be close to him.

It didn't take Ste long to spot him. He didn't blend into a crowd. He'd become even more confident on the bike. Ste remembered certain instances of past guests falling off theirs, but there was no risk of that with Brendan. Ste already anticipated feeling the rough hairs of his beard against his skin.

He looked away and carried on drinking his coffee as though he hadn't seen him.

"Steven."

He propped his bike up against the wall and nodded towards the cafe.

"I'll just get a coffee."

It can't have just been him who watched Brendan go into the cafe. It can't have just been him who noticed how incredible he looked.

He tried to make his coffee last. He needed something to do while Brendan was beside him, otherwise he was sure that he'd give in to his instinct to reach across and run his fingers through his hair.

Brendan joined him. Ste was right: he wasn't the only one who was looking. He saw a couple of girls glance in his direction.

They were quiet at first. Ste didn't know what the perfect starting sentence was. So, about last night seemed too predictable, too clunky.

He settled for something easy.

"How are you?"

Brendan looked surprised. Ste wondered if he wasn't asked that question a lot.

"Me? I'm..." He searched for the word. "Good."

It wasn't the amazing or better than ever that Ste had been hoping for. But at least it wasn't regretful.

"How are you?" Brendan looked like he really wanted to know.

"Honestly?" He asked, because he didn't know if a lie would be easier to handle. Brendan nodded. "I'm happier than I've been in a long time."

Ever. But he couldn't admit that.

He leaned forward, breaking the distance between them.

"I know you might want last night to be a one off," Ste began.

"You think that?"

"I just thought... with everything you've said before..."

"That was before we..."

Say it, Ste thought. Say it. Before we had sex. It would make it more real.

"Do you?" Ste said. He had to be sure.

"Do I what?"

"Want it to be a one off?"

"Do you?"

It wasn't fair. Brendan was making him the vulnerable one.

He took a breath, took a leap.

"No." He made sure he was looking at him. "But you already knew that."

"You know we have to keep it a secret."

"I know. I'm not an idiot. If Terry found out..." He didn't want to think about what would happen. "I'm not about to kiss you on the street or hold your hand. Don't worry." Even though he wanted to do those things, badly. "I'm just talking about you and me, behind closed doors. Like last night."

Brendan took a sip of coffee.

"Are you hurt? After... I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"I'm a bit sore," Ste said with a smile. The memory of what they'd done was vivid. "Just a bit. That's all."

"You sure?"

They couldn't kiss, and they couldn't hold hands, but Ste could quickly stroke his thumb down Brendan's thigh as he reached for his coffee.

"I'm sure."

They smiled at each other behind their coffee cups.

"So you and Amy." The way he said it meant that he didn't need to keep going.

"We're just friends. That's all." He stopped, deciding that now was as good a time as any to ask what had been on his mind. "You and Anne?"

"Just friends. If that."

"Give her a chance." Ste couldn't believe he was saying this when he'd spent so many hours tormenting himself as to what could happen between them. "I told you. She's more than what people see."

Brendan didn't argue against it. Maybe he understood.

"But," Ste added hastily. "Just as friends."

Brendan laughed at that.

"Okay, Steven."

"I like that," Ste said. He wondered if he was doing that thing that people sometimes did, when they seemed to smile with their eyes as well as their mouths.

"Me and Anne being friends?"

"You saying my name. Steven."

"I thought you hated it?" Brendan said, and the way he looked at him, it was like there was nothing he couldn't see. Nothing he didn't want to see.

"I did at first." He considered that, then corrected himself. "Or I hate it when he says it." He didn't need to fill in who he was; they both knew. "But I don't think I ever really hated it when you did."

"Good," Brendan said, and he was doing it now, was smiling with his eyes. They shone.

"I'm sorry that you have to work with him."

"It's not your fault."

He knew he had no real responsibility for Terry, and yet still he felt that he had to carry some blame. "I'm still sorry."

He'd never apologised for him before. All the other summers with all the other guests - he'd felt the same shame but he'd never acknowledged it. It had seemed that doing so would only draw more attention to it, and make Terry's behaviour more real. But now that he'd said it he found himself wanting to talk about it. It was a relief.

"You know what you said that time, about you hating him?" Ste said.

"Yes."

"I hate him too." He felt like he'd had the breath knocked out of him. He looked around, expecting for something to have changed. It seemed impossible that the world should still be the same when he'd finally said exactly what he wanted to. What had been inside him for years.

"Do you ever dream about killing him?"

Ste laughed, shocked, but Brendan didn't return it. He looked completely serious.

"That's not exactly a possibility, so -"

"I'm not talking about possibilities. I'm not talking about what's going to happen. I'm talking about what you want."

Ste tried to think of an answer while he took another sip of coffee. Brendan's question was valid. He could lie, pretend that it had never crossed his mind, that he had always been a good little boy who would never entertain such ideas, but what was the point? Who would actually judge him? Who would punish him for it?

"Yes." He went round the rim of the coffee cup with his fingers. Round and round again. "A lot."

His fantasies weren't hazy and faded. They were bright, intense, fully-realised. He'd run him over with a car, or he'd keep hitting him over and over again until he didn't get up. Or he'd do what Terry had once done to him: run the bath and hold his head under the water until he was gasping for air, only he wouldn't ever let him come up again.

If that qualified as a lot, then it was a lot.

He was about to ask if that made him a bad person - worse, evil - but he found that he didn't have to. The way Brendan was looking at him, he looked admiring.

"He won't ever hurt you again," Brendan said, quiet, strangely certain. "I promise."

Ste desperately wanted to ask him what this meant. If it meant what he wanted it to: that Brendan would somehow be around to protect him.

"What was that?" Brendan said.

"What?"

"That sigh. Was that..."

Ste couldn't even begin to describe what it was. The safety that came with it. The release.

"It was good," was all he managed. "It was good."

::::::

It was their secret.

Mornings were spent trying and failing not to look at each other over the breakfast table. Smiles escaped. Glances were exchanged when Terry said something particularly offensive. Feet were pressed against each other. Excuses were made to engineer time alone together in the kitchen. Brendan would help Ste to carry the plates for washing, or one of them would pretend to need to use the bathroom while the other was drying up. Nothing substantial enough that anyone would notice, but enough for them to get by when Brendan had a long day ahead of him helping Terry, and stolen moments were all they had.

Ste had come to resent Brendan's working hours. He didn't know what he hated more - that Brendan was away from him, or that it was Terry that he was with. He knew it could have been worse. that if things had been different It could have been another girl that he spent his days with, in her house, in her bed. But it was difficult to think about that when he heard Terry barking orders and throwing Brendan the kind of looks that he usually reserved for Ste. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief when Brendan finished for the day and they could go for a leisurely bike ride along the little-used paths that Ste had come to know.

But it was the nights that he came to favour above all else. They'd pay the price in the morning, a hint of a dark circle under each eye and endless yawning, but they'd repeat it again the night after, a beautiful routine that they never wanted to break.

The second time had been in the dead of night.

Ste wasn't sure if he was meant to go to him or if Brendan would come. He'd almost fallen asleep when he heard the soft pad of feet across the room. A hesitation. A breath. An opening of his eyes and an expectation of seeing Brendan standing before him naked, as perfect as a sculpture in a gallery that no one could touch. Except Ste could touch him. He could touch him forever, and no one would stop him.

He wasn't naked. He must have come from a late night swim, because his shorts were wet and so was his hair. The rest of his body was dry though; when he climbed into bed he filled in with warmth.

Ste must have looked nervous, because the first thing Brendan said to him was: "Are you okay?"

And after that he was.

He ran a hand down Brendan's arm, going against the hairs that matted his skin, making them stand on end.

"I wish you could stay here tonight," Ste said, the darkness making him brave. "All night."

"You know I can't."

"I know." It was highly doubtful that Terry or Pauline would come upstairs to check on them. They had no reason to, but still the thought of them knowing about this part of his life made him strong enough to be able to be alone in the bed again, Brendan in his own.

It made him more determined to make the most of now.

He rubbed himself against Brendan, down to the tips of their toes. He knew he had to be careful about kisses. He was sure that the area around his mouth had appeared pinker in recent days, but he liked the way Brendan's beard felt. A couple of times Brendan mentioned that he'd had a moustache years back. Ste would trace the outline of where it must have been, imagining.

"I like these," Ste said, brushing his fingers lightly over Brendan's lips.

Brendan laughed.

"I'm serious."

"You're daft."

Ste gave him a mock-irritated pout.

Brendan decided to play along. Or maybe he was being serious too. A single finger pressed against Ste's lower lip, then travelled to the upper one.

"I like these."

"Show me," Ste said.

Brendan kissed him. Ste felt himself relax into it, and he felt both calmer than he'd ever been, and more excited all at once. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to explain it to anyone; the feeling of letting go of something for the first time - the fear of the present, the fear of the past, the fear of the future - but also feeling charged. Everything inside him alert.

He was trying hard to be quiet. He wanted the kisses, but he also needed them; they were the only thing that muffled the noises he was making now that Brendan's hand had migrated south and was down the front of his pants. It felt like the room was spinning.

They stayed like that, frantic kisses in between gasped breaths.

"Brendan..." He didn't look at him; he was sure that if he did then he would come. "I'm going to... you know..."

"Then come."

Brendan knew when to kiss him. When to swallow his words so that no one but him got to hear them. When to hold onto him and when to let go. When to strip them both naked and climb on top of him again. When to ease inside him and apply the pressure where they needed it. When to start moving. When to go faster. When to make Ste come again, a hand wrapped around his cock to bring him off. When to let go and feel his orgasm shudder through him.

They lay together, sticky, satisfied.

That was the second time.

The third and fourth times, and all the times after that, weren't as clear in Ste's memory. It became normal for them, something they needed. It just was.

He moved over to the spot in the bed where Brendan had been when he went to his own room, and he slept soundly after that.

::::::

They no longer met in the kitchen at midnight.

They snuck into each other's rooms. Ste didn't even care about the lumpy mattress any more. He forgot all that when he was with him.

But they did still read. Ste climbed into Brendan's bed and reached for the book that was on the side table.

"We never finished it."

They made room for each other. Ste casually moved his leg until it was over Brendan's. But it wasn't like before; Brendan was a distraction now.

He kissed the side of Ste's head when he was reading. He rested his hand on his thigh, gradually moving it higher. When it was his turn with the book he flung it aside and clambered on top of him, making Ste laugh.

"How am I ever meant to know what happens at the end?" Ste said, enjoying how Brendan was kissing his way down his body.

"Spoiler alert: they all live happily ever after."

"Is that true?" Ste asked, failing to believe that it could possibly suit the tone of the book.

"No," Brendan said, dodging out of the way when Ste attempted to throw a pillow at him.

"You just ruined all my dreams."

Brendan laughed, the sound muffled when he leaned in for a kiss.

::::::

They went to a bar. Ste suggested a particular one that he'd been to before, but Brendan refused to go there. Said he didn't like the look of it.

He bought him a drink, insisting that he pay.

"I can afford it," Ste said, his money in his still outstretched hand.

"I know you can." He carried their drinks over to the table, choosing the one that was most out of the way. "But you don't have to."

"Thanks," Ste said, still feeling slightly disgruntled.

They toasted to the rest of the summer, and - unknown to Brendan - Ste internally toasted to them.

"It's funny," Ste said, his voice low even though where they were felt private. The evening crowd hadn't all arrived yet. "I used to be able to be with you and not need to touch you. I thought about it. All the time, before we... But I could still do it. Now it's all I want to do."

He couldn't work out if Brendan looked pleased or afraid.

"We can't."

"I know. I'm just saying." He looked around, seeing if anyone was watching them. "But we can do this, can't we?" He huddled closer so their legs collided under the table.

"Yes," Brendan said after a moment. "We can do this."

A bit of dust from the road had attached itself to Brendan's cheek. Ste wanted to brush it away for him. Instead he pointed it out, watching as Brendan removed it.

"You look nice," Brendan said, out of nowhere, and Ste basked under the praise.

"Thanks."

"That shirt, it's..."

"It's new. I found it in town a couple of days ago." It was a dark navy, smart. He'd buttoned it up to the collar. He knew Brendan would undo the buttons later. He took a sip of his drink, going slow. He wanted this night to last. "You always look nice." It was him who blushed, not Brendan.

"Thank you, Steven."

Ste lowered his voice even more.

"I wish I could kiss you."

"I know," Brendan said. "But you will. We will."

He quickly tapped Ste's hand with his own. A promise.

::::::

They walked back through the streets together, keeping close. Passers-by would have assumed they were friends going their separate ways for the night. It gave Ste a feeling of satisfaction, knowing that they were wrong.

They didn't kiss - that would have to save itself for when they were inside just in case - but they could talk, and move through Crema like it belonged solely to them.

"I was thinking about Amy's party," Ste said. He didn't mention all the parts of it that hadn't been good - Brendan leaving with Anne, and his kiss with Amy. But there was something there that had stuck in his memory. "The way you danced. By yourself," he clarified, not wanting to bring up Anne joining him.

"Don't remind me." He looked embarrassed in a way that he rarely did.

"I was jealous of you."

"Jealous?" Brendan sounded uncomprehending. "I've been told I can move, Steven, but jealous - really?"

"Who told you that you can move?" Ste asked, laughing.

"My sister," Brendan admitted. "Why - she couldn't possibly be biased, could she?"

"Of course not. But she's not wrong. That's why I was jealous - you just didn't care."

"Neither did you."

"But I'd never seen you like that before. Just... letting go. Completely."

They were closer to the house now. He'd been leading up to this, without entirely knowing he was doing it.

"Will you dance with me now?"

Brendan laughed at him.

"You're not serious?"

Ste nodded. "I am."

Brendan looked around at the dark road. They still weren't alone.

"Here?"

There it was again, that fear that entered his body and took him over.

"Not here. Just - wait."

They kept walking until they were away from the main roads and onto a deserted path. Ste knew this area well; knew that no one ever came here at night.

"Here," he said, reassured now that they wouldn't come across anyone.

Brendan still looked unsure.

"Someone could walk past. If they saw us -"

"They won't. Trust me." But he wondered if he did; if Brendan would let himself.

"We don't even have any music." It was a weak excuse.

"I'm not asking you to throw your arms in the air like you did at the party," he said, smiling at the memory of it. "It doesn't have to be that kind of dance."

Maybe he shouldn't push it. It wouldn't feel right if he had to force him into it.

"So... slow then?"

"Yes," Ste said, only realising how much he wanted it now that he was talking about it. "Slow."

He didn't care about the music, or lack of it. He didn't care that it was dark out. A few seconds, that's all. A few seconds of being in Brendan's arms and them moving together, and that would be enough. He'd seen couples at Amy's party. At so many parties. He wanted to be just like them.

"Okay," Brendan said, much to Ste's surprise. "Come here then."

He did it before he could change his mind. There was a panicked glance left and right as they both made sure that the coast was clear. Then Brendan held out his hand and Ste placed his inside it. Let Brendan lead so he didn't think that Ste was trying to take charge. He was happy just to let him do it.

He turned him, making Ste laugh. There were no big moves like they'd made at the party. It was quiet. Gradual.

"Can I -" Ste began, but he didn't need to finish because Brendan was kissing him, right out there in the open, holding on to him like they were still dancing.

::::::

He wrote it in his notebook that night.

I don't think I'll ever be able to say goodbye to him.

::::::

Little things reminded him of Brendan.

A packet of chewing gum in the corner shop. The same kind of razors that Brendan used to shave. The stacks of jam jars that lined the market shelves. The symbol of the cross that covered the churches in Crema.

He borrowed his necklace with a regularity that made it feel like his own. He felt guilty, wondering if Brendan would mind. He could get his own - he knew there would be near identical necklaces that he could buy - but it wouldn't be the same. It was this one that he wanted to feel against his skin. He always made sure he kept it safe, never going in the water with it. He'd remember where Brendan had left it and put it back in the same place.

It felt slightly blasphemous, wearing it when he didn't believe in everything that it stood for. But he reasoned that this wasn't about religion or God. It had been one of the first things he'd noticed about Brendan, and he felt closer to him when he wore it.

He just wasn't sure if Brendan would lend it to him willingly.

::::::

"Is that Brendan's necklace?" Amy peered at it closely before Ste could tuck it back into his t-shirt.

"No."

"It looks like it."

"Well it isn't." He felt bad for snapping. "Sorry, I just -"

"You just want to cover your tracks. You don't need to bother." She patted the spare seat on her sofa, beckoning for him to join her. Her parents and sister were out of the house. "I know you're together."

"You do?"

"It's not exactly hard to work out. You can barely stop smiling. Every time I visit the house there you are, together. You've stopped coming here every day. And now here you are, wearing his jewellery."

"Don't tell him that, will you? He doesn't exactly know," Ste said.

"So now you're stealing from him? Sounds normal."

"Amy." He gave her a look. He still wasn't open to being teased. Not when it came to this.

"Sorry. I'm pleased for you. Really. I know this is what you wanted."

He looked at her carefully, trying to figure out if she meant it. He felt better now that she knew that they could only ever be friends, but he still worried that she hadn't let go.

"It is." He chanced putting his head on her shoulder, leaning in close. He wanted them to be able to do this again without any discomfort getting in the way. She reacted to it, putting an arm around him.

"And you're happy?"

"Yes," Ste said, without hesitation. "He makes me happy."

"Good." He didn't know why, but he sensed a but coming. And there it was: "But Ste - he's still going home after this, isn't he?"

"Yes," Ste said reluctantly. "That was always the plan."

"So where does that leave you?"

He wondered if it had been a mistake to confide in her.

"I thought you told me to go for it. That Brendan could come to Manchester one day."

"I did, but..." She was tiptoeing around him now. He wasn't used to it. They weren't often careful with each other. "You also have to be realistic. It would be a big thing, for him to move his whole life over there. We don't know exactly what he's left back in Ireland. What if he doesn't want to come? Have you talked about it yet?"

"No," he said, annoyed now. Annoyed with her. Annoyed that he and Brendan had never had this conversation. "Do you want it not to work? Is that it? Are you still jealous?"

It was a low blow. She looked at him, hurt. She moved away from him on the sofa, until enough distance had been created.

"You don't have to speak to me like that."

He felt instantly regretful. "I'm sorry."

"I'm saying this because I care. I don't want you to get hurt. Is this just some sort of holiday romance?"

He touched the necklace, stroking his fingers along it.

"No. Not for me."

"Then maybe you should talk to him. I know you. I know you don't get attached to people."

"Except for you," he said, wanting to put it right between them. And it was the truth.

"And Brendan." She was quiet, watchful. "What are you going to do if you never see him again?"

"I can't think about that. I can't." He didn't let go of the necklace. "I have to have him in my life."

::::::

He waited for the familiar knock on his door at midnight. Brendan crept in, neither of them speaking before they'd made sure the house was silent around them.

Ste meant to get straight to the point. Ask him if this could ever go anywhere.

But his mouth was there, and his lips were soft, and their bodies careened towards the bed.

He didn't want to waste time if this was all they could ever have.

They got out of their clothes. He'd become accustomed to being naked in front of Brendan. What had once felt mildly terrifying - the harsh reality of Brendan seeing his body laid bare - no longer held him back. He'd started to think of his body as something that someone wanted. It wasn't just there to carry him from place to place, to exist and to be insulted. It was held. Caressed. Desired.

He rested his head on the pillow as Brendan arched his dick into his mouth. His hand settled in Brendan's hair, stroking to begin with. Gently tugging by the end.

He bit down on his fist, stopping any noise from being released.

He kneeled on the bed when he was finished, taking Brendan's cock in his hand. Listening to his reactions to see how hard to suck. When to keep going and when to stop.

They stayed curled up in the bed until their breathing returned to normal.

"See you tomorrow," Brendan said, leaving to go to his own bed. He kissed him; Ste could still taste himself in Brendan's mouth.

::::::

"Brendan?"

It was late. They were lying in bed. Ste knew that Brendan would have to go to his own room eventually, but he was putting it off.

Brendan had his eyes closed, but Ste could tell he was awake.

"You've never told me about anyone else." This was important, but he tried to pretend it wasn't. "Other men, I mean."

He had Brendan's full attention now, hie eyes snapping open.

"Other men? How do you mean?"

"You," Ste said, sure that Brendan understood perfectly. "And other men."

"Do you really want to talk about this?"

He'd edged closer to the subject over the past few days, but his attempts had proved too subtle.

"I was just wondering," he said. "It's not like I want all the details."

How many there had been, and what they did together - that he definitely didn't want to know.

Brendan's hand had stilled from where it had been stroking against his thigh. He resumed the touch again.

"There were a few." He found this difficult to talk about; Ste could tell. "On and off."

"On. So - as in a relationship?"

"No, Steven. I didn't have relationships."

Ste noted the past tense. Didn't. Did that mean that he now did?

"But you liked them?"

"Me sleeping with them implies that I did."

He hated that. Hated to think of Brendan in a bed that wasn't his. But he reminded himself that everyone had a past, including him.

"What were they like?" He didn't know if he meant physically, or their personality, or both.

"They were like... nothing. They meant nothing."

He sounded heartless. Ste hadn't seen him like this before.

"So you didn't..." He worked up the nerve to say it. "Love them, or anything?"

He put his hand over Brendan's. He wasn't trying to stop him from touching him. He just wanted to feel him.

"I've never loved anyone."

They turned on their sides to look at each other. Ste waited for it. For him to say it.

Until now.

But he broke away, in that way he did sometimes. Unexpectedly. Hurtfully.

"I've got to -"

"Go to bed," Ste finished for him. "I know."

::::::

There was still so much that they hadn't talked about.

Brendan still didn't like to tell him about his life back in Ireland. When Ste mentioned his father, he changed the subject. He became visibly uncomfortable, like Ste was forcing him to do something that he didn't want to do.

He knew he should drop it. If Brendan didn't want to talk about it, then he understood.

But he hated the thought that he had been carrying it around with him this whole time. He wanted to help him. He was almost certain that Brendan had been hurt by someone, and his father seemed the logical fit. They'd talked about Terry enough for Ste to hope that he could be someone that Brendan could open up to.

It made him think that it was something worse. Something more serious than physical violence or years of making sure that he felt afraid.

But there was only one thing he could think of that was worse. And if it had happened, it was Brendan's information to tell. It was his story, and no one else's.

The idea that it could have happened to him was more painful than anything he could imagine. If Brendan wasn't ready to let him know, then he wasn't about to push him. He had the horrible thought that it would be Brendan comforting him, instead of the other way round. Brendan who would dry his tears. Brendan who would hold him and tell him that it would all be okay.

But sometimes Ste still wanted to reassure him, even though he didn't know anything for certain.

I'm not going anywhere, he would say. I never will.

::::::

"Do you ever think about what would have happened if you'd never come here?"

They were at the lake, sitting on the grass. Their legs stretched into the water, gently enough not to leave a mark.

He expected Brendan to have not given it any thought.

"Yes," he said. "A lot."

"Really?" He tried to hide his surprise. "And?"

"No. You go first." Brendan smiled, challenging him.

"I think I would have just been the same person." It stretched out in front of him, this summer that could have been. More arguments with Pauline and Terry. More time spent with his friends - pleasant, but familiar. The days all blending together, indistinct. "I wouldn't have changed at all."

"And you think that's a good thing? Changing?"

"I think it is if you hate where you are. And isn't that what it's all about? It would be bad, wouldn't it, if we always stayed the same people that we were when we were younger. I know I don't want to be him. That boy. I didn't like him."

Brendan put an arm around him. A wordless way of protecting that boy who no longer existed.

"You never know. You still could have changed, even without me here. You and Amy, you could have finally got together. That would have changed everything forever..."

"Shut up," Ste said, splashing him with water. Brendan was too late in ducking out of the way of it. "I'm serious. You and me. This summer. We've changed each other."

"You're including me in this?" Brendan asked.

"Yes." But he was less confident now. "Should I not?"

Brendan smoothed a hand down Ste's wet leg.

"No," he finally said. "You're right. The truth is, I don't really like to think about it. What would have happened if I hadn't come here. If I hadn't seen that Terry needed work. If I'd gone to a different family. I guess I wouldn't have known any differently, but... now that I do know, I can't stand it."

"The possibility."

"Exactly. The possibility. I guess we'll never know. Maybe we would have been happier, in the long term. Maybe we wouldn't."

Ste had just put his head on Brendan's shoulder. He didn't take it away, but he felt bruised.

"You really think that? That we could have been happier?"

"I told you. We'll never know. But no," he said. "I don't really think that. We'd just be different. That's all. Maybe you really would have ended up with some pretty blonde back home."

"Maybe. And maybe you would have ended up with another man."

"I told you," Brendan said. "There was no 'ending up'. They never meant anything."

"You don't know what would have happened though." But he hoped Brendan was right. That he never would have felt anything for them.

No matter what happened next, it was hard to imagine that they'd ever have been happier than this.

::::::

Sometimes Ste wondered if there was another version of them somewhere, in another life, in another time. Maybe they lived in the same place, instead of coming together just for the summer. He hoped their chances could be better. That these other versions could make a go of it. That they could kiss in public. That they wouldn't have to worry about anything ever ending.

::::::

Brendan Brady

Before

The heat was stifling. He'd never experienced anything like it, the way that even if you took a shower you never quite felt clean. The moment you stepped away from the coolness of the water you were back in it again. Sweat gathering on your upper lip. Your clothes always slightly damp, so that it was easier not to wear clothes at all.

So he didn't. He didn't wear them much in those first few days.

He had some time to kill until work began. He rented a room in town. It was basic but the bed was comfortable enough, and that's all he really needed. He tended to sleep in the day and go out at night. He liked how the world came alive after dark, streetlights leading him from bar to bar. He hadn't expected anything but a few old men huddled around a table and getting progressively more drunk - and he'd been right on that one - but he'd also been counting on something else. Something more. And he found it.

There was a man there on the third night. The next day Brendan would be moving into the house that he'd be working in for the next few months, and he was beginning to doubt that the opportunity would present itself. He'd just finished another drink and he was getting ready to leave.

But then the man was offered to him like a gift.

He came in on his own. He looked around a little, craning his neck left and right, and Brendan guessed that he was meant to be meeting someone. A friend, perhaps.

His friend could wait.

The more he looked at him the more he thought it was likely that he couldn't go there. The lad looked young, and Brendan was anticipating the moment he'd be refused a drink at the bar. The idea of sleeping with a teenager repulsed him, and he began to feel guilty for looking.

But it wouldn't hurt to make sure.

The lad wasn't being served right away. The bartender was busy with the regulars who were eager to get in their last orders before the place closed. Brendan couldn't understand a word of what they were saying; his Italian was limited to the greetings and the goodbyes.

He took a chance that his potential new companion could speak English.

"Good luck getting served."

The lad startled a little. He must not have seen Brendan at his side. He'd been told he had that effect on people; that he creeped.

To Brendan's surprise he replied in perfect English, without any hint of an accent.

"Sorry?"

"What was the plan? Get someone else to buy it for you?"

The man frowned. He looked a little scared.

"Sorry, I don't understand."

"Too young, aren't you?" He kept his voice low in case the bartender heard. He didn't want the man getting thrown out on his account.

"I'm twenty two." He looked embarrassed to be admitting this. His cheeks flushed in a way that made Brendan want to lean in closer.

"You don't have to lie to me. I'm not the one serving you."

"I'm not lying. I swear. People tell me that I look younger all the time. It's just a curse I have to bear." The man let out an exaggerated, theatrical sigh that made Brendan laugh.

"It's a hard life."

"Tell me about it."

That seemed as good an invitation as any. Brendan settled down on the stool beside him.

"How about I get you that drink?"

He looked surprised - suspicious, even - but Brendan could see him relenting, the idea of a free drink winning him over.

"Alright then."

He managed to catch the attention of the bartender. He ordered the man a beer, something with a relatively low alcohol content. He wanted him alert for this. For all of this.

"Thank you," he said, and there it was again, that flush of his cheeks.

"You here on your own?" Brendan said, trying to not show how much this mattered.

"I'm meant to be meeting my friend, but she's always late."

She. His heart sank a little at that. But he wouldn't be the first person with a she, and he wouldn't be the last.

"Mind if I keep you company then?" He knew he was being forward, laying on the charm thickly, but he had a limited amount of time and he couldn't spend the rest of it working out if the man wanted this.

That suspicion that was there moments before was waning. Maybe it was loneliness, or being let down by this she, or maybe it was the fact that every other person in this bar was above the age of fifty. But the man actually smiled at him.

"Okay."

Brendan beckoned to a table that was more private. They needed to be more alone for him to do this.

He introduced himself properly.

"Peter." A name of a childhood friend back home, one he used often. He held out his hand, waited for the man to shake it. His hands were satisfyingly cold in contrast to the humidity of the night. Turns out this place didn't even turn off the temperature in the early hours of the morning.

The man told him his name. Brendan wondered if that was a lie too. If he already knew what was going to happen between them, and wanted to invent an identity so nothing could be tracked back to him. If that was true, then the man clearly didn't know how Brendan operated. He wouldn't tell anyone about this. He wouldn't ever see him again.

"So. Vinnie. Vincent. Tell me how a lad who talks like you ended up here."

::::::

Turns out he was from England. It would take Brendan an hour, two hours to reach him by plane. He would have preferred him to be Italian with basic English skills - they didn't need to talk, after all - and the idea that Vincent wasn't all that far away began to make him feel uneasy about the whole thing.

Brendan gave him the barest details about his life. He couldn't hide the fact he was Irish - he'd never been any good at accents or he would have tried - but he didn't give the exact location he was from. His sister changed into a brother. His parents sounded doting. A happy marriage. All sorts of dreams for him. Pretending could be fun. Pretending could make him want to die.

For tonight's purposes he had a girlfriend back home. He'd found from experience that adding that little fact tended to relax people. When he fell into bed with someone - and he did, he always did - they could both use that as their fallback. It's just tonight. Neither of us is like that. We've both got our girls back home.

He'd found it difficult in the beginning to make sure. There was always the danger that what he perceived as signs was just the other person being friendly. He'd forgot that people could do that. That they could have friends.

Over time you got used to it. You learned to differentiate the two, and you worked out when a smile was just a smile and when it was more. You worked out when a touch - on the shoulder, say, or a hand on his knee - was nothing to them and something to you, or when they knew what it was. When they knew what it meant.

Vincent had been on holiday with a few friends. All of them were crashed out back at their apartment - too much to drink earlier in the evening, apparently - and he'd decided to meet up with a girl he'd got talking to a few days ago. It was patently obvious to Brendan that he'd been planning on sleeping with her. He couldn't imagine someone just wanting to chat at two o'clock in the morning. He didn't let that deter him. There was something about Vincent that quickly let him know that he would be open to this. He seemed flattered by the attention that Brendan gave him, and he did that thing that some lads didn't even seem to notice they were doing, where they looked at your lips when they were meant to be looking at your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, so quick that most people might not have noticed if they weren't looking for it. But Brendan was looking.

When the bar closed Brendan invited him back to his place. Vincent looked dubious. Accepting a drink from him might have been acceptable, but going into a near-stranger's home didn't seem to carry the same appeal.

"One for the road?" Brendan held up Vincent's empty beer bottle. "I've got some back at mine."

He regarded him for a second, looked like he was trying to decide how much of a threat Brendan posed. He must have passed the test.

A couple of drinks followed, after which Brendan made sure to discern that Vincent was still very much sober. Turns out he wasn't much of a drinker like his friends. He made sure to talk about the girlfriend he had back home - Lynsey, another name borrowed for storytelling purposes - as he scooted closer to Vincent on the sofa. It's getting serious, he made sure to add as he was inches away from the boy's face. We're thinking about marriage he breathed as he waited, and waited, and then he didn't have to wait any more because he was being kissed now, and the boy was so eager that Brendan had to peel himself away from him.

"What's wrong?" Vincent was breathing hard.

Brendan had to make sure he wanted this. Had to make sure that he was as old as he said he was, had to make sure that he wouldn't be running to his friends the next day to tell them all about the bad man who'd taken advantage of him.

Brendan thought back to when he'd been a teenager. Even now his instinct was to recoil from it, the memories chasing him like an assault. He had a few photos lying around in his luggage to appease Cheryl; photos of them that she liked him to hang on to. He knew the physical features were different - Vincent was blond where he was dark, and the boy looked like he barely filled his clothes - but as he looked closer he was sure that Vincent had been telling him the truth. He wasn't a child.

"You want this, don't you?" Brendan said. There was little doubt in the way that Vincent was looking at him. In the way he was clinging onto him. Brendan could feel his hard dick through his pants. But he had to ask.

"Yes."

Not enough.

"I want this."

He kept kissing him and waited for that feeling to take over; that feeling that he was forgetting everything else that crowded his mind, dismantling it until it turned to dust.

::::::

He got rid of the lad the next morning. He'd let him stay the night. He couldn't just throw him out, not in the early hours in the dark. But he made sure that he woke him early to get him up and dressed and out of the door. He made sure that no one saw Vincent leave. There was a strict no guests policy, and he didn't need the questions.

Vincent looked dazed by the whole experience. He mumbled something about meeting up again - for a drink was his reasoning - but Brendan made sure that his intention was clear. A lie was simpler, and kinder, although he didn't much care about that. He told him he was headed back to Ireland in a few hours. Vincent gave him his phone number. Brendan didn't give his own in return. He threw the piece of paper with Vincent's details away before he checked out of his room.

His time for fun was over. Now was the time to work.

::::::

After

It was hard to tiptoe his way out of bed and down the stairs when the floorboards creaked. He was used to planning his escape route - he made them before he'd even taken someone to bed - but he'd never known a place to be so noisy.

Something else was different too. He couldn't think what it was at first, but he couldn't shake it either; that troubling sense that something wasn't right.

And then it came to him all at once. He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to leave this time.

::::::

Steven had carried on sleeping. He looked beautiful, serene, but without hearing his voice and seeing those eyes it was easier to close the door and not look back. He never wanted to become one of those people who stood at a doorway and watched. It was mawkish. Ridiculous.

It wasn't him.

It seemed like the entire house was still in slumber. He loved the world like this, when everything was yet to awake and he felt like he had it all to himself. He dreaded when the streets would become crowded and there was the buzz of sound and energy that was always a distant hum no matter how much he tried to escape from it.

He cycled down to the lake. He intended to strip down to his underwear like he always did, but he found himself removing everything until he was naked and shivering despite the warmth outside. He'd had a mild curiosity since discovering the lakes here, wondering what it would be like to only feel the water against his skin in place of fabric. He waited to be told off although he knew no one was around to see him. He grew still when he thought he heard footsteps, and waited as the water washed away his panic.

He knew Steven would have wanted to come with him. It was the same in the water as it was on the bicycles. He'd never known two things to exist alongside each other like that: the ability to come alive and yet settle. There was a calmness about him when they were together like this. He almost would have thought that Steven was at peace if it didn't remind him of death.

Brendan could imagine Steven treading water and stopping long enough to splash him. There would be that honking laugh of his, the kind of laugh that sounded like it should only come out at night. And then Brendan wouldn't be able to think of anything else at all.

He knew this had to end. For logistical reasons - Brendan lived in Ireland, Steven lived in Manchester - but for everything else too. He'd let it go too far already, further than he ever could have imagined, but there was still time for him to put things right.

He submerged himself underneath the water and held his breath. Seconds went by. He could feel himself needing to take in air, but he pushed his body to stay for longer. When he thought about drowning, he imagined a vast ocean and a current that was out of his control. He didn't think of here, of a small lake in Italy where no one might discover him floating on the surface for days.

But Steven would. Steven would come here, as he did nearly every day.

The thought of him being the one to discover him made Brendan gasp and break for the surface. All he could hear was his own desperate breath, and then came the startling realisation that someone might care.

He drifted onto his back, his breathing slowly getting back to its normal rhythm. He felt for his necklace, moving his thumb back and forth along the edges of the cross. He had the thought - half comical, half alarming - that God might try to punish him what he'd almost done. For what he'd almost wanted to do. But he dismissed this; he was already going to hell. He'd made sure of that a long time ago, and any hope to the contrary was akin to a childlike naivety. He'd carved his own path a long time ago. It was done.

He got dressed hurriedly and tried to remember that the rustle of the trees wasn't the world and its creatures laughing at him.

::::::

He was working with Terry when he saw her.

She was pretty, all long legs and a curtain of blonde hair that she'd put in plaits or leave down to blow in the light breeze. She didn't seem to bother with make up, and the lack of product covering her face only served to highlight how young she looked.

There was a short space of time that passed when she'd seen Steven but he hadn't seen her. Brendan watched as she smoothed down the front of her dress and seemed to try to rearrange her facial expression into something that looked less like pure unfiltered joy at seeing him. She was in love with him, but Brendan had known that since the start.

He wasn't a difficult person to be in love with.

That wasn't to say that he wasn't difficult. Brendan would know when he was angry; he'd stomp around the house and scowl and whistle just a little too loudly, a little too erratically until it began to sound less like a tune and more like a protest. You'd know if you had done something to offend him - he'd give you the cold shoulder that would last for hours, days. His pettiness would extend to overcooking your eggs for breakfast so that the yolks were no longer glossy and capable of running down the plate in a yellow stream.

But to love him - to love how he made sure that Amy got home from a party safely, and to love how he'd pour his mother's wine down the sink even though he knew she'd hate him for it and would only replace it - to love him for that and for everything he did and everything he was - he didn't imagine it was hard.

He knew that there was a very real possibility that if he'd left the two of them together - just them, as it had been every summer previously - they'd have found their way to each other. It seemed inevitable, as natural to them as taking a breath or stepping across the gravel that lined the outside of the house. It could follow the perfect pattern. The holiday romance that was innocent, full of sneaky sideways glances when they thought no one was looking, followed by long nights when finally they'd sleep together. The sex would be over too soon - a pity for her, embarrassing for him - but they'd practice in that way that people in relationships do, and one day it would get better. Whatever better meant for them. Brendan didn't much like to think about it, but his mind had to travel there, to that foreign country that was felt alien and punishing to him. His thoughts demanded it of him: that vengeful, hateful, twisted voice that screamed that he deserved to be miserable.

Marriage would follow. Children, with hair as light as their mother's and their eyelashes as dark as their father's. When Brendan thought about the passing years, he wondered where he'd be. Which country, which city, which bed. It was only when he thought about this future, something that he tried to do as little as possible, that he realised that he didn't want it at all.

He watched as Steven and Amy went inside. He could still leave him alone, still make sure that they got that future. The longer he stayed with Steven, the longer he was keeping them apart.

But he knew he wouldn't do that.

::::::

Steven had kept the note.

Brendan had found it buried away in the back of a drawer in his bedroom. Steven had asked him one morning to get him a clean t-shirt, and Brendan had seen the familiar scrawl of his own handwriting. He hadn't remarked on it; he was sure that Steven would grow defensive and even try to throw it away to show that it wasn't anything important. But later when Steven was in the garden he'd opened the drawer again, made sure that he wasn't imagining it. He wasn't. There it was, no creases or folds in it. No smudge of ink.

Tonight. Midnight. Don't be late.

He might have forgotten to throw it away. But something about the placement in the drawer and how new it appeared made him think that he had wanted to keep hold of it. The memory of the encounter that the note had led to made Brendan close him eyes. He could recapture it in perfect detail. The sounds. The smells. The taste of Steven's lips and the inside of his mouth. The feel of his body and how much it had wanted his own. It took him out of himself. Took him away from here, from now, and he wished that his life was something that he could rewind. He wanted to experience it all again for the first time.

He bit down on his fist to stop it from hitting the wall. Bit it so hard that he began to taste blood, and still he didn't stop. Only the thought of what Steven would say if he did any more damage was enough to deter him.

He looked down at the damage he'd caused. He knew what Cheryl would think if she could see him; she'd believe that the other person had come out worse.

Next time he'd make sure to hide it better.

::::::

The questions still came.

They were sitting down for breakfast. It was often the only meal that they all had together. Pauline tended to drag herself out of bed for it, and the drinking would begin after. Brendan was aware of the irony of it, but he often preferred it when Pauline was drinking. She'd be alone, locked away in her bedroom, and Steven would rarely see her. It was when she was like this - out in the open, more aware of her surroundings - that she tended to talk more. She wasn't as obvious about it as Terry. Some of the ways she put down Steven could even be missed if you didn't know what to look for. But Brendan knew. They might have thought he wasn't paying attention, but he listened for every criticism, every word designed to hurt. He watched for every sneer, every expression of hate.

He recognised them. They were like going home. Not the home that everyone else knew, where you stepped through the door and heard a familiar greeting, a call of your namelike they'd been missing you, like they were waiting for you to come back. Not the kind of home where little things were done for you that showed that someone cared. He often thought that that's what love must be. The little things. Buying someone's favourite food, or making a cup of tea the way you knew that they'd like it, or picking out a book that you thought they'd enjoy.

No. Not that kind of home.

He looked at this man, this man in front of him, and he thought about how they couldn't be more different, and how they couldn't be more the same.

Steven was looking at him too. Down at his hand on the table holding his knife, about to cut his toast. Brendan stopped, put it down. He hid his hand under the table, but it was too late. He'd seen and Brendan registered the alarm in his eyes and tried to work out what the chances were of Steven letting this go.

He would have left if Pauline hadn't cut through the silence.

"Have you heard about Ste's plans for the future?" She had an ability to make certain words turn into something else entirely. Suddenly the future sounded abstract and made out of smoke. She was laughing at him without laughing.

He looked at Terry, noticed how his eyes lit up and he became alert, engaged. It seemed desperately sad to Brendan that the only thing that could unite two people was their hatred for another.

"Go on, tell him. He'll like this," Terry said. Something existed between them that Brendan didn't know how to stop; this belief of Terry's that Brendan was somehow onside with this treatment of Steven. He wondered what world Terry must be existing in to ever believe that he'd like this.

"He wants to try his hand at cooking."

Steven had never explicitly said this to Brendan, but nothing was surprising about it. It seemed a natural step to take. He never became flustered in the kitchen like some people did; he was calm, always seeming to know that it would all turn out okay. He could imagine Steven working in a restaurant or a cafe, the heat from the kitchen making his skin glisten and retain its warmth even after he'd left.

"Sounds good to me," Brendan said. It had the desired effect. Their laughter dimmed a little. They looked disappointed in him. It made him feel triumphant. He wanted them to hate him, wanted them to hate him so much that it was all they could think about. If he thought that they liked him, even for a second, then he'd never forgive himself.

"He can barely even write," Terry said. "How's he going to do the menu?"

"There are plenty of other people to take care of that. You do know what a chef does, don't you Terry?" He turned to Steven, making sure that he looked genuinely puzzled. "Steven, are we going to have to explain to Terry here what a chef does? Seems like he thinks it's all writing on chalkboards. Needs educating. Am I right?"

Steven hid his smile behind his glass of orange juice. Terry's ears turned pink.

"Good breakfast." He stood up, finishing the last mouthful of egg from his fork. "Best eggs I've ever had."

"Thanks, Brendan," Steven said, and they locked eyes, and he said it again. "Thank you."

He smiled. It still felt odd to do so - he hadn't realised until he'd come here that he didn't often smile properly. It had felt like an effort at first, and mechanical: that deliberate attempt

to stretch the corners of his mouth in the way that everyone else seemed to do naturally. Until now. Now it would have been an effort not to do so.

"See you later," he said, and he hoped Steven would hear the rest in his voice.

Follow me. Find me. Come with me.

::::::

"Terry's fuming."

He hadn't heard him approach, but he was waiting. They continued the conversation as if there hadn't ever been a break.

"I bet he is."

Steven shook his head, but he was smiling as he sat down on the grass next to him.

"You know you shouldn't push him like that."

"I know." He knew he didn't sound convincing.

There was a pause, and then a laugh.

"Needs educating," Steven repeated in what Brendan presumed was meant to be an Irish accent. "I can't believe you... actually, no, I can believe you would do that. It's just like you."

It was unfamiliar, this idea of someone knowing exactly what he was like. That someone had an expectation of him, and that they were pleased when they were right.

"What? It's true," Brendan said with a shrug. He leaned his chin against his folded arms. "I thought you'd be fuming."

"Why?" Steven said.

"I thought that maybe because I'd done that he would take it out on you. Or Pauline. Or both of you."

"He will."

Brendan looked at him, startled. There was a kind of acceptance in the way that Steven said it that scared him.

"But it's not your fault."

"It is. I did that."

"If it wasn't you then it would be someone else. Anyone else. Maybe in the past I would have been angry at you for it, but that was then. Now I know that it's nothing to do with whoever said it. It's him. It's them. It's all them. I've been making excuses for my mum my whole life, Brendan. And where's it got me? It's just got worse, or stayed the same, and it's always going to be that way."

"When did you get so wise?" Brendan said. He meant it as a joke, but Steven looked serious.

"Since I met you."

Brendan didn't know what to say to that.

"I'm not saying I am wise. But look at what I was doing when I first met you. Clearing up all my mum's bottles and cans like no one could know. Everyone knows. Amy and her family, and half the neighbours as well. It's not like she thanks me for it. It's not like..." His voice shook. "It's not like she loves me for it."

Brendan was about to offer platitudes: Of course she loves you. Of course she does.

Except they both knew that it wasn't true.

"I'm sorry." He tried to steer the subject away from that slightly; it was too much, too painful. "But how did this big revelation happen because of me?"

Steven seemed to assess him for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether he could be trusted with this. He must have decided that he could.

"I'm happy. I don't think I ever have been before. I thought I was. It's like when you want something so much, you invent it just so you can survive, you know? Because I don't know if I would have been able to survive if I never thought I was happy. Even when he was beating me up, and beating my mum up, I had to find something. I had to tell myself that it could be worse. That was my happiness, that at least there were people out there that hated their lives more than I did. But that's not real, is it? I don't think it's a real feeling if you're trying to convince yourself that you feel it. If you have to compare it to something else. If it can't just exist on its own."

Steven's fingers touched against his where their hands lay on the grass.

"That's how I know that I've got to get out of this place. You showed me."

It felt overwhelming to claim this realisation as his own. Anything he said in reply would either feel like too much or too little. Too much and it would make him seem all-powerful, as though he was indeed admitting that he'd had this impact on Steven's life. Too little and he wouldn't do justice to the scale of what Steven was telling him.

"Steven. I don't... I can't."

He didn't want to be asked to take this role in his life. The role of some kind of saviour, when he'd never intended for any of this to happen in the first place. When he'd first met Steven, at the very least he thought they'd be little more than strangers and would spend the summer at opposite ends of the house. At the very most he spent his nights with the thought of Steven doing for him what Vincent had done. But not this. He'd never imagined this.

He'd also never imagined that it would hurt to see the look on Steven's face right now; the unmistakable expression of disappointment. He'd bruised him.

"It's okay," Steven said, even though they both knew that it wasn't. "I'm just telling you, that's all. I just wanted you to know."

Brendan willed himself to let it go, this knowledge of the mark he'd already left on Steven's life. But he found that he couldn't.

He wished they could just sit here for a bit and not talk.

But it was him who broke the silence. It was him who didn't pull his hand away. It was him who breathed Steven's scent in, and it was him who pictured Steven swimming naked as he had done earlier in the lake. The sun would bathe him in its light. All sounds would cease. There would be no noise of bicycles being used nearby. If anything filtered through at all then it would be the occasional birdsong surrounding them. But even that felt inconceivable; that there could be anything else alive except for them.

"Did you mean it about becoming a chef?"

"Why?" There was that fragility and doubt there again that always seemed to be beneath the surface. "Don't you think I'd be good?"

"Of course I do. You know I do," Brendan said, although they'd never had this conversation before. But he wasn't lying. He found it easy to lie - it was far easier than telling the truth could ever be - but not about something like this. He'd already got Steven into bed, so the means to an end that compliments sometimes provided him with had already happened. Cheryl had told him that he lacked warmth, although she said it in that wry, fond way that she often did. You're an idiot but I love you: that kind of thing. He knew she'd be amazed to see him now.

"Then why?"

"I'm just worried, is all."

He needed to stop. He was saying too much, all of it close to the service, but fuck, it felt good to just be able to say it.

He kept going.

"I'm worried that if you don't then you'll stay here forever."

"In Italy?" Steven frowned. "You know I'm just here for the holidays though. I'm going back once the summer ends."

"That's not what I mean." He was aware that Steven might be offended by what he was about to say, but he hoped that when he explained he'd understand. "I mean here. Stuck with them. The same place you must have been in for your whole life. If you don't get out soon then you'll never get out, Steven." Here came the explanation: "And it's not because you can't do anything else or because you can't go anywhere. It's just life. It's life getting in the way, like it always does for people like us, because of them." He couldn't bring himself to say their names again. "Those people living in that house, that call themselves your family -"

"They don't." His voice sounded strange, as though he hadn't spoken in a long time. It was raw and dry and breaking.

"What?"

"They don't call themselves my family. Or sometimes they do, but it's only to get what they want. It's you have to go to the shop because I'm your mum when she wants me to buy her drinks. Or it's I'm your dad now because your other one didn't want you when he needs me to get him cigarettes. And..." His voice was really breaking now, to the extent that Brendan thought he might cry. "They don't even say that any more. Not for years. It's like they've given it up. They've given up wanting to claim me." He seemed to gather himself together, blinking quickly to try to get the tears to go from his eyes. "So no, Brendan. They don't call themselves my family."

Brendan had to touch him. He reached out slowly, put his hand on top of his. Wanted Steven to feel the warmth that spread between their skin.

"They're not. I know they're not. I used to think it meant something. Genetics, blood, all of that." He looked at Brendan. "But I don't think it does. Not if it's all twisted and distorted, their idea of love. Not if they're never sorry for it. I could forgive them, you know? I think I could, all of it. Not him - not after what he did to my mum - but her. The drinking, everything she's ever said to me. I could forgive it if I thought she was sorry."

"She doesn't deserve your forgiveness."

"That's probably true. But I still never wanted to lose my mum, Brendan."

"I know. No one does."

Neither of them took their hands away.

"But I have to," Steven said. "Because you're right. I will stay here forever if I don't. It doesn't matter if it's Italy or Manchester." He gave a sad little laugh. "It could be New York or China or Paris, or any other place in the world. If I was with them then I'd still never get away, would I?"

"No," Brendan said gently. "You wouldn't."

Steven hadn't completely managed to stop the tears. One fell down his cheek. Brendan followed the path of it, wondering if it would taste salty against his lips. He tested the theory. Steven didn't seem surprised by finding his mouth on him. Brendan suspected that he'd been waiting for it.

He hadn't ever done this before. Hadn't ever kissed someone's cheek or the bridge of their nose. Hadn't ever kissed someone's eyelashes. Hadn't ever kissed their chin until it elicited a laugh of amazement that anyone would kiss someone there.

Then those lips. Always those lips.

There was a hum against them as Steven spoke.

"Brendan?"

Brendan gave a non-committal reply. Now that they'd started doing this, it was all he wanted to do.

"You know before?"

"When before?"

Another kiss. Steven opened his mouth wider for him.

"When you said 'people like us'."

Brendan opened his eyes. Steven's were closed, but Brendan knew he was determined to keep going with this.

"I don't remember." He didn't, not entirely, but something made him feel like he was holding his breath. He didn't think he wanted to remember, and he was sure that he didn't want Steven to either.

"Something about life getting in the way for people like us. Because of them."

He never let anything slip. Never. There was an art to it, a skill of telling people the bare minimum. Fabricating lies when you had to. Making them think that you were telling them everything when you were telling them nothing.

This didn't feel like nothing.

"You've never really told me about your family," Steven said, and there was want in his voice.

Brendan took his hand away. He folded his arms around himself and looked out at the lake.

"There's nothing to tell."

He'd wanted to sound nonchalant, light, but there it was again, Cheryl's warning to him that at the time had seemed like the greatest strength. No warmth.

"Brendan." There was something about the way he said his name. Was this why Steven had hated it when he'd refused to call him Ste like everyone else? Was it because of this, because it had been coated in an intimacy that felt like he was looking into a very bright light? It was dazzling, blinding. He knew it couldn't last.

"Just a regular family. That's all."

Steven laughed. "There's no such thing as a regular family. Well, except if you're Amy. But I reckon even she's got some skeletons waiting to come out. Her dad's ex wife locked in the attic or something."

"Bertha Mason?" Brendan said, and he couldn't help but laugh too.

"Who?"

"Never mind. It'll be next on our reading list."

Ste smiled at the memory. He hoped that would be it. That they'd continue down this road and it would be funny.

"Go on then," Steven said. "What's your dad like?"

Brendan picked a loose thread on his shorts. He'd known it was coming, but it still hit him in a way that made him want to bury himself into the grass, into the earth below until he was covered in dirt. Deep down so that he wouldn't be human anymore, and if they dug him up they wouldn't ever know who he was, who he'd been.

"He's alive." It felt like he was confronting it for the first time in months. He was out there, right where Brendan had left him. He was waiting. Brendan was sure that he'd always be waiting.

"But what's he like?"

He couldn't understand why it was important. Why Steven was asking these questions - not out of curtesy or because he thought he should. He really wanted to know.

"Are you close?

Close. Brendan closed his eyes, but there was nowhere to escape to. When he opened them again he knew it would be the same. This time, this place, this question.

"Not especially."

He'd unraveled the loose strand of material on his shorts. Pulled the thread and left a hole behind.

It didn't matter if his eyes were open or closed. It didn't matter where in the world he was. It was like Steven had said - he could be in New York or China or Paris and there Seamus would be, following him down every street and into every bed when the daylight would give way to night. The shadows would always look like him.

He jumped up from the grass, so fast that Steven shrank away. But he came back again, getting close to him like there was nothing to be scared of. Brendan wanted to scream at him.

"Go," he said, sure that there was enough urgency in his voice now to make Steven see how dangerous this was.

But he still didn't understand. He reached out instead, trying to pull Brendan closer.

"Go."

"I'm not going to go." He shook his head, looked like he thought it was ridiculous, and Brendan understood it. If anyone had told him to leave Steven he would have thought it was impossible too.

He thought for a second that he might kill him. He might lunge forward and get his hand around his neck and squeeze until the blood drained from his fist and the life drained from Steven's body. He thought he might drag him to the ground and force his head under the water, watching as he struggled and spluttered.

"Brendan." He looked terrified. "You're shaking."

"Go," he said, but he was talking to himself now, over and over again, a chant of fear that echoed in the silence. "Go. Go. Go."

"Brendan -"

He ran. He stumbled in his haste to get away, and he was aware with every step that Steven was calling after him and trying to follow him. He ran until his chest hurt and his legs willed him to stop. He ran until he couldn't hear footsteps tracking his own or desperate pleas for him to come back.

He was out into the open road, but he didn't feel safe. The trees surrounding the lake had covered him; covered the sickness in him. He looked behind him, knew that he must have been successful in shaking Steven off, but still he didn't stop running.

He hadn't killed him. He hadn't touched him. But he knew that the only way to make sure he never did was to kill himself instead.

::::::

He was eighteen the first time he tried.

Packets of pills washed down with alcohol. It didn't strike him as the most original way to die, and no one could describe it as going down in a blaze of glory, but it seemed quick, efficient. It was only afterwards that he learnt that he'd have died painfully and slowly in a hospital bed. Even if he'd changed his mind he would have been fucked; there wouldn't have been any way back.

It turned out he wasn't the best at doing his research.

He took enough to wake up a day later attached to a machine. The hospital lights were so bright that it felt like they were blinding him. He remembered blinking until he could focus on the details. The other beds that were in the bay alongside his. The nurse checking someone's blood pressure, the noise of the machine adding to the headache that he'd already developed.

All that was missing were the weeping relatives.

He decided that he must have died after all, and that he'd ended up in the place that he always knew he would. There was no fire and brimstone, and this world looked a lot like the one he remembered, but it must be hell, because Seamus was with him.

"Took you long enough," his father had said, and Brendan hadn't known what he meant: if it had taken him a long time to wake up, or a long time to finally decide to kill himself.

His mouth tasted too strange to say anything.

Seamus crouched down to his level. Somehow it seemed worse than when he was towering over him. The smell of tobacco clung to his clothes. He must have shaved recently; there was a small cut on his chin where the razor must have gone in too deep. He had a flash of an image: taking the razor from his father's hand and making sure the blade was sharp. Cutting him and watching him staggering back. Not stopping until Seamus was crying out for mercy, and all that Brendan could do was laugh.

He was aware of the hospital staff and patients around them. He could imagine what this exchange would look like. Could imagine them thinking how touching it was, a father comforting his son. Welcoming him back.

"You'll never tell your sister about this."

Instinctively Brendan looked for her, half-hoping that she'd suddenly appear from behind a corner or make a grand entrance through the door, but he knew that she wouldn't leave his side. Even if she'd gone to the bathroom she would have left some form of physical evidence that she was here waiting for him - her coat or her bag or a note. After his mother had died she'd stayed with him, and he'd had to remind her that she still needed to function like a normal human being - still had to eat and drink and sleep and live, but she'd taken one look at him and rolled her eyes and tossed her curls behind her shoulders and said in faux exasperation, "Oh Bren. You just don't get it, do you?"

He knew that this would have killed her too.

He shook his head, hoping that it would make Seamus leave.

"Sorry to interrupt." A nurse had approached them, the machine trailing behind her. "Time to do your obs."

Much to his relief, Seamus backed away. He didn't say anything, just kept walking until Brendan felt like all the life and colour had returned to the room.

"Your dad?" The nurse asked as she took his temperature.

He nodded, holding his breath in case this was the moment that someone had seen. He'd practised it in his head, this moment. The phrasing had come out a little differently every time, but in the end he knew it didn't matter how it sounded. Someone just had to ask.

He raped you, didn't he?

"You're so lucky," she said, with a quick glance around the bay. "Some people in here don't have any visitors."

::::::

When he was nineteen he decided that he must have made the whole thing up.

He'd tracked a book down at the library, an autobiography from someone who had described a similar event. He'd had to steal it - there was no way that he'd ever risk anyone seeing what book he was borrowing. He'd stuffed it into his rucksack and walked out, casual as anything, and he'd gone to a park in the pouring rain when no one was around. He'd found a bench under a shelter and read the whole thing until it was done.

But it was all wrong; the descriptions and the aftermath and the neatly tied together epilogue where the writer had made promises of help and support and recovery. The words were meaningless to him, but worse was the section on the writer's relationships after the incident.

He read page after page of the torturous tales of failed attempts at sex and the discomfort and the fear, and Brendan started to wonder what the fuck was wrong with him. Was this how he was supposed to act? Should he feel repelled by sex instead of chasing after it? Should he lie alone at night in his bed and shake in terror like this person did?

Sex was all he thought about. It stopped him from wanting to cut his wrists. Stopped him from wanting to jump off a building. Stopped him from running into traffic. Stopped him from swallowing a mouthful of pills again. It was the one time he could forget everything, and all that existed was the other person's mouth on his, and the heat of their body, and the desperate way in which they wanted him, and the knowledge that he could leave them whenever he wanted to.

The memories were vivid. He could remember the first time Seamus had locked the bedroom door at the holiday home where everything had changed. He could remember the pain that felt like it would never end. He could remember the blood. He could remember the footsteps that would come night after night. He could remember when he'd stopped counting how many times, because it wasn't stopping. It never stopped.

This new realisation that you could distort almost all of your life - twist it into something completely different - was comforting.

He might still be fucked up, might have invented a lie where his father was a monster, but he was free now. He could leave that old life behind.

::::::

His body wouldn't let him forget though.

He tried to let a man fuck him. Got as far as being entered before he scrambled away, and the panic of his own voice surprised him. Get the fuck out. He shouted it until his voice gave way the same way as his body did. The man had scrambled for his clothes and left. Moments ago he'd looked assured, triumphant. Brendan had taken away all that.

::::::

Every moment became exhausting. By the end of the day he'd collapse in bed, feeling like he had nothing left inside of him. It was okay when he was inside on his own; he'd curl up under the covers and he'd experience that thing that he used to feel. It had almost entirely deserted him except in these rare, beautiful moments when he'd feel it surround him again, like an old friend that he never thought he'd see again. Safety. He'd feel safe.

It was everyone else that was the problem.

He started to suspect that he was losing his mind. When he was around other people it felt like he was the focal point of attention. Everyone was looking at him. Everyone was talking about him. Everyone was laughing. He couldn't walk down a street anymore without feeling like he was going to explode with the weight of all the eyes on him. It all confirmed what he'd long suspected: that he was a freak. He had to be. They were telling him he was. He wanted to disappear, wanted to become one with the ground, with the earth until the blackness he felt on the inside would reveal itself on the outside too. Dirty. That's what he was. And nothing would change that.

He considered other ways to disappear. But the possibility that it could be Cheryl who would find him made him stop every time. He pictured her walking in and discovering his lifeless body. He knew he couldn't do that to her. In his weakest moments he'd wonder if she'd even care; but he still had enough clarity to know that she would. If there was anyone in this world - this world that he didn't understand at all - who loved him, who really, properly loved him, then it was her.

That's when he began to think that maybe it wouldn't be him who would die in order to save him.

::::::

He didn't plan it at first. He'd got into a few fights when he was younger - stupid stuff after school with a few of the lads - and it wasn't unusual for him to be seen around town with a black eye and a bruised fist. But he wasn't the only one, and there had always been a justification that made it seem like it was necessary. He'd been defending himself, or he'd had to do something because they'd brought Cheryl into it, or they'd been drunk and antagonising him, or one of the other myriad of excuses he'd used.

He'd never targeted a stranger before.

He quickly forgot the details of the day after the event itself. In the months and years to come, he wouldn't be able to recall the date or the time or if it was raining or if he'd seen Seamus that day, or anything else that other people might have been able to remember if they ever told this story. Not that he imagined they'd want to. It wasn't one for the grandkids.

What he did remember is how he felt.

He remembered that this was the first time he'd been able to leave the house in three days. He remembered how good the air outside felt at first - fresh, new somehow - before everything else took over like it always did, and even the wind sounded like it was whispering at him to run away where no one could ever find him.

The whispering was no competition for the voices though.

They started when he passed the first person in the street. He felt a rising wave of anticipation which soon gave way to nausea. Would they notice how odd he was, how out of place, how he contaminated everything he touched?

He thought he saw them look at him. He thought he saw them reel in disgust at how hideous he was.

The next person was worse. They weren't on their own. There were three of them, a group of girls - teenagers they must have been - and it brought it back to him, the girls he'd tried to kiss and the bodies he'd tried to want when he was at school. He was sure he heard laughter again.

He walked faster. Maybe if he just walked quick enough then he could outpace them all. He could run away from everyone in the world, and even if they chased him it wouldn't matter, because he'd already be gone.

His face didn't feel like his own any more. He wondered if anyone else ever felt like this, as though every muscle was strained and couldn't be relaxed into their correct places. He couldn't smile naturally. He didn't know what his mouth was doing. His cheeks hurt from the tension underneath. His head was pounding. He didn't think it was possible for eyes to feel sad, but somehow that's all he could think - that his were unbearably, uncontrollably sad and that everyone could see it.

For the first time in his life he hated Cheryl. He hated her for existing. He hated her for being a tie that kept him to this world. He hated her for stopping him from walking into the path of the bus that could be his ticket out of here. He hated her for loving him.

That's when he knew he had to stop this somehow. He had to stop this noise.

He heard the impact of the punch. Heard a cry. Heard a shout for help. Heard the crack of bone and the sound of blows that never seemed to end.

He was bleeding, didn't know if it was his blood or if it had got mixed up with the blood he'd drawn. He registered the scene in front of him - the man, must have been five, ten years older than him - lying on the street, his features disfigured by the damage Brendan had done to him.

Brendan made sure the man was breathing. The ambulance could be taken care of by passersby who would arrive soon.

The noise had stopped.

::::::

It was getting dark. He hoped Steven wouldn't be looking for him. Brendan imagined him calling out for him like he'd done hours earlier, and every shout and cry seemed more desperate than the last. He knew what Steven's eyes looked like when he was scared. He hated it. Hated that he was the one who could cause it.

He'd gone to the lake in the end. It didn't matter that he couldn't see the water properly. He didn't know when it had stopped being just a lake and had become his and Steven's place. He knew there was a high chance of Steven guessing his hiding place and coming here. With every sound of a branch moving or every footstep along the road that led to this secluded path, he was scared of it. With every sound he was wishing for it.

He thought about all the things in the world he would miss when he left it.

He'd presumed it would be a short list, and the knowledge that it wasn't startled him.

He'd miss the feeling of warmth on a summer's day, how it would penetrate his skin and make it seem impossible that it would ever be cold again. He'd miss a hot cup of coffee and the smell of it. He'd miss the way Cheryl would kiss him on the cheek and always leave an imprint of her lipstick.

He'd miss Steven.

He'd miss the sound of his laughter. He'd never heard anything like it before, and he knew he never would again. He'd miss the smooth sensation of his lips and the rough edge of his stubble when he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. He'd miss how Steven looked at him like there was no one else. He'd miss the way he talked back to him. He'd miss how he got angry. He'd miss curling the strands of his hair between his fingertips, and he'd miss the strength of his body when he was swimming, and he'd miss how they could sit in a room in silence and not have to say anything, and it would still all be okay.

"I don't want to die." He whispered it, and then he was laughing, and then he was crying, and then he was shouting. "I don't want to die."

He'd never come back to this town. He'd break off all contact with Steven if that's what he had to do to keep him safe. But he couldn't kill himself. He thought he could be happy even if he couldn't be with him. Even if he could just know that Steven was out there somewhere, breathing and living. Even if he was falling in love with someone else. That could be enough. Brendan could live off that.

::::::

The house was silent when he returned. He tried to keep the lights off, which inadvertently led to him bumping into furniture and tripping his way up the stairs. He looked into Pauline's bedroom after listening out for any noise. He could just about see her silhouette. She looked unremarkable when she was sleeping. She could have been anybody. How strange that this woman had given birth to the man who had changed everything.

He could hear Terry snoring as he made his way to his own room.

And then there was Steven.

Brendan pressed an ear against his bedroom door. He didn't know why he expected to be able to hear the sound of breathing from this far away, but the lack of it made him panic. He slowly opened the door and had to strain his eyes until he saw a figure in the bed. He went closer until he could see a slow and steady rise and fall of his chest.

He was about to go to his own room when he heard it.

"I thought you'd gone."

The voice was small and punctuated with tiredness and hurt.

Gone. Brendan wondered if Steven had somehow guessed what he'd been about to do.

Steven sat up, and even in the darkness Brendan could see how big his eyes were, and how he'd been crying.

"I thought you'd left town."

He was glad that Steven couldn't see him clearly. Glad that his face hadn't revealed anything.

"I'm still here."

For now.

"Didn't you hear me calling you? After you ran. Didn't you..."

They both knew he had.

"I just had to go."

"Why though?" Steven sounded angry now. There wouldn't be many people, Brendan knew, who would be angry with him for leaving.

He avoided that question. He would never be ready for it.

"You must have known I wouldn't go without my stuff," Brendan said.

"I don't think I do know, Brendan." He didn't sound like he was saying that though. I don't think I know you. That's what he was saying.

And they both knew it was a lie. Brendan would go if he had to, possessions or no possessions.

"It made me remember."

"What's that?' Brendan asked, although he wasn't sure if he wanted to know. Memories never seemed to be made of anything good.

"What it was like before you."

Brendan laughed a little, although he was painfully aware that there was nothing funny about this.

"I disappear for a couple of hours, and you start to remember that?"

He was being cruel, but it felt good. It felt better than acknowledging that he knew exactly what Steven meant. That there was a before and after, and everything that had come before seemed even worse now because the after was something bright and wonderful and distinct in its ability to make him feel something.

"Could you just..." Steven sounded exhausted, and looked more vulnerable than Brendan had ever seen him. "Could you just come here, please."

A single step towards him felt like too much. The closer Brendan got, the more he knew he would forget why he shouldn't have come back at all.

"Why?" He asked, but he knew why; knew because this felt inevitable, the two of them, and what they would always do to each other. It was a push and pull that could go on for years if they let it.

But they didn't have years.

Instead he took a step back, but it didn't matter in the end because Steven came to him.

"Will you just hold me?"

Except it wasn't a question, because they both knew he would. He'd opened his arms for Steven before he'd taken a breath, and then he was full of him: the smell of his hair and the comforting, steady beat of his heart against Brendan's chest. He was never ready for the way Steven held him. He acutely understood the idea of clinging now: every part of Steven seemed to cling onto him, like he mattered, mattered to him, and Brendan knew he'd never be held like this again.

He felt lips at his neck.

"No, Steven."

No, because if Steven was ever in his bed again then Brendan didn't know if he'd be able to leave him.

His lips were persistent now. Brendan could feel them travelling from his beard to his throat. The hands on his back felt increasingly desperate: like he knew what Brendan had to do.

If he shut his eyes he could be back there in a room with Seamus. It didn't matter which room, because they were all the same with him. They all led to the same place.

Or he could be in that hospital bed.

Or he could be on the street and the man could be beneath him, bloodied and bruised and terrified, and Brendan didn't know if he'd ever be able to stop.

The image switched. The man beneath him wasn't a stranger. It was Steven.

Brendan looked at his hand that had been curled around Steven's body. How easily his knuckles tightened into a fist.

He broke away from him. Steven seemed to get the wrong idea; his lips merely followed Brendan's own like he was trying to chase a kiss out of him.

"You shouldn't touch me like that."

He didn't have to practice this next bit. He'd heard if from Seamus. Fags and queers and all the many reasons why two men shouldn't be together. He knew this. He'd lived it.

But when he tried to say it to this man, he couldn't.

Steven reached out a hand and touched Brendan's own, and for a second Brendan let him. For a second he let himself stay like this, and imagine something better, a summer that would never end. For the first time in his life it didn't feel wrong.

A thought, fleeting, but blinding: I'm gay, and I don't know if I care any more.

It was gone again, and it was dark in the room, and cold.

"This has to end, Steven. It never should have happened." He took a breath, steadied himself because it didn't feel like he was rooted to the floor any more. "We both know it."

"I don't know it." He was closer now, and full of fire. "You're just saying this because you're scared, right, and I get that - I do. But we can't just go back to how things were. Not with you in this house -"

"I'll move out then."

Steven didn't look like he'd expected that.

"I'll find a place in town," Brendan said, warming to his idea. The idea of sleeping in the room next to Steven and not touching him seemed impossible. It was better this way.

"You can't."

"You can tell Terry that I'll still be here every day, like before." But the idea of Steven having to say anything to that man was a horrible thought; he quickly correctly himself. "I'll tell him. I'll make him understand, without letting him know about… you know…" He couldn't say it, that one simple word that carried so much meaning: Us. He could have before, knew he would have loved the way it sounded on his tongue, sweet like nectar. But there was no him and Steven any more, and the idea that there once had been felt like a pain that would never end.

"So what do I do?" Steven seemed to shrink into himself, his voice growing increasingly strained. "Am I just meant to pretend that I never met you? That we don't know each other? That I haven't kissed you, or slept beside you, or thought about a life for us outside of this place?"

Stop. Brendan had to make him stop. He considered what a punch would do; considered how it could ensure that Steven never wanted to be anywhere near him again. And wouldn't it be easy? Wouldn't it be easy to tread that well-worn path that he'd gone down so many times before? Not going down it was surely harder. One punch, and he'd knock the love right out of Steven.

But he couldn't do it. That life that Steven was talking about - he'd dreamed about that life too. Dreamed about it until this life, his real life, seemed like the wrong one, because they hadn't escaped yet, and it wasn't just them.

He didn't want to give Steven a reason to give up on him.

"You'll get over it," he said softly, sadly, because he knew it was true. Steven would move on in time, because that's what most people did. Brendan would be the one to remember. Brendan would be the one stuck in this endless loop of the summer they'd shared together.

He'd made him angry.

"Get over it?" It sounded crueler when he said it. "Maybe I was wrong. You really don't know me at all."

"Steven -"

"Were you always going to do this? Were you just going to make me want you, sleep with me and then leave?"

It wasn't lost on Brendan that he was describing his entire life with other men before him. His instinct - strange, new, unfamiliar - was to tell Steven the truth: that of course that wasn't the plan. He'd had no plan when he'd met him; he didn't like to mix business with pleasure. If Terry or Pauline had found out then Brendan would have been out of a job.

But if he denied it then it would give Steven a reason to hold on. And Brendan needed him to let go.

"Yes." A coldness had returned to his voice. A coldness that hadn't been there in a long time.

Steven turned to face away from him. It was only for a fraction of a second. When he turned back his head was bowed, his expression unreadable.

"Don't move out." He said it with indifference now. "I can control myself, if that's what you're worried about. There's no point in you spending money on a room."

"I don't think it's going to work."

"Why?" Steven looked at him now, daring, challenging. "You said you don't have feelings for me. I'm going to get over it, so. I won't have feelings for you either. That's that then. Done. Finished."

He left the room without looking back. Brendan stayed standing, quiet, still. It felt like all the hope he'd ever allowed himself to feel had been taken away.

::::::

The bed felt too big without him.

He couldn't get comfortable. He moved around until the bedsheets were twisted. He focused on his breaths until he became self-conscious of them. He tried sitting in the empty kitchen downstairs and listening to the sound of the clock. He went to the bathroom more times than he needed to, just to give him something to do, and because it was closer. Closer to Steven's room.

He couldn't hear anything from next door. Steven must be sleeping peacefully.

He considered opening the door that divided their rooms and lying down beside him. I'm sorry, he'd say, and he'd mean it. I take it all back.

Several things stopped him. The knowledge that it would be safer for Steven this way. And a rising frustration in him that Steven had accepted his lie so easily. He hadn't expected that he would believe him; was sure that he must have known how he felt about him and would laugh off the suggestion that he was just using him for sex.

Was Steven that insecure? Or was it that hard to believe that Brendan could care about anything?

He hated the idea of both.

He abandoned the attempt of getting to sleep. He put on a hoodie and his shoes and crept slowly downstairs until he reached the entrance to the garden. His work with Terry had paid off, and the dead flowers and the broken furniture had been cleared until the space looked noticeably better. But Brendan wanted to go further. He kept walking until he'd be out of sight if anyone looked out from the window.

He wanted to get lost. Wanted to disappear.

He settled on an area that managed to get some light on it from one of the nearby street lamps. He pulled his hoodie over his bare knees to stop him from shivering.

In a few weeks the summer would be over. He'd be on the road again, on his own, and he didn't know where to go next. He couldn't go back to Cheryl. He knew she would mention Seamus, knew that she'd want to get them all together, something that Brendan had avoided for years. The vision of their reunion had come to him in the dark sometimes. He was always eight years old again, never older, and he was always in that bed where it had all began, and he was always screaming and no one could hear.

He just had to keep moving. He'd learned by now that as long as he kept doing something - walking or drinking coffee in a cafe or having a drink in a bar or fucking a lad in a hotel room - then at least he'd be concentrated on what he was doing in that current moment. It was moments like this, when his was sitting and letting his mind wander, that were dangerous. He couldn't be alone. He couldn't be still.

He went back inside. He tripped in the dark, falling and grazing his knee. He liked it. Liked the way he could see the blood seeping out of his skin when he was inside the house in the light. Liked the pain of it as he pushed a finger into the wound, applying pressure to it. The feel of it didn't leave room for anything else. Not for what he'd just ended tonight. Not for the thought of the man lying in the room next to him, who he could never touch again.

No one seemed to notice that he had left as he made his way upstairs again. He envied them their rest; envied them that moment in time when they weren't in the conscious world.

There was a vest of Steven's hanging on the banister. It hadn't been washed recently; Brendan could still smell his scent on it. Steven wasn't an early riser - if Brendan took it now then he could put it back before he noticed it was gone.

He put it next to him on the pillow. Smoothed it over till it didn't have a single crease in it. Put a hand on it, discovering that it hadn't retained any of the heat of Steven's body. But when he breathed it in there the scent was again, and Brendan could see the outline of his body in it. Could see the honey skin underneath when he took it off. The golden wisps of hair that were scattered across his chest.

Not sleeping didn't seem so bad any more.

::::::

He was aware of every creak along the floorboards. Every time Steven pulled open the wardrobe.

Had he slept in his pyjamas, or had he slept naked? He knew that Steven got cold easily. He liked to put a t-shirt on after sex, unless Brendan was holding him tight enough to keep him warm.

He'd put the vest back a few hours earlier. He'd tried to recreate its exact position on the banister, before realising that Steven wasn't about to suspect that anyone would be pathetic or strange enough to take it for themselves.

Now he was regretting putting it back. Steven could have believed that he'd lost it somewhere. He never would have known if Brendan had stashed it away in his suitcase.

He went down for breakfast. He could see them all sitting out there, the three of them, with Steven's back to him. His neck looked tanned; he must have caught the sun there. Brendan had kissed him there before.

He cleared his throat, felt Steven's body respond to it. He immediately sat up a little straighter.

"Morning," Brendan said, joining them at the table. He could do this. He had to do this. He knew that if he didn't spend any time with Steven then he'd run the risk of building him up even more in his head until he became impossibly elevated. Exposure to him could make him into what he was: a normal man who had a too-loud laugh and the stubborn nature of a child.

He focused on the way that Steven was eating. He was trying to get away from the table as quickly as possible, and it was making him clumsy. The yolk from the egg was dripping down his arm. He almost made the glass of juice next to him fall. He had crumbs from the toast on his upper lip.

Brendan tried hard to see these things. Kept trying until he realised that he hadn't taken his eyes off him.

Steven hadn't looked at him once.

"I'm going to Amy's."

He scraped back his chair noisily. The hair that covered his legs always surprised Brendan; it didn't look like it should belong to him.

"He's going to get that girl pregnant one day," Terry said.

Brendan felt a dry crust from the toast stick in his throat until it felt like it might choke him.

::::::

He was grateful for the distraction of work. They didn't talk and it suited them both. Terry didn't like to play music as they cleared the garden. It didn't surprise Brendan. He couldn't imagine Terry dancing or singing or imagining anything in the world to be beautiful.

When Brendan thought about Steven, all he could see was colour. Bright, dazzling colour.

He'd been gone for hours now. Brendan wondered if he really had gone to see Amy. He could have changed his mind, looked at her and the life she had and everything she could offer him. Brendan thought they could be happy together, the two of them, and that Steven could make himself love her if he wanted to.

He'd do it if he could. He'd fall in love with some sweet little blonde, and he'd have a family with her, and he'd swallow the darkness inside of him and all those other men in all those other beds.

Terry would ask him about it sometimes. He'd first questioned him over whether he had a girlfriend - a bird, to use Terry's expression - back home. Brendan had quickly considered making up a story, but it felt like all he ever did was lie, and it wasn't necessary here. It was believable that he'd be single at twenty eight, especially choosing to do a job that took him half way across the world. It had only seemed to please Terry. He'd grinned at him - a rare moment of comradery - and said, all-knowing, "It's like that, is it?" He seemed to now believe that Brendan was cruising the bars for women every time he left the house. He'd warned him against marriage: apparently it only caused misery. Given Terry's own marriage and Brendan's parents, he was inclined to agree.

It wasn't the first time it had been assumed that Brendan would have a girlfriend. In all his years he'd never once been asked if he had a boyfriend. Brendan didn't know if it was merely an instinct or whether the people who asked couldn't imagine him being with anyone else. He suspected the former. The world expected everyone to be straight. The idea of coming out seemed ridiculous to him. It would never be the once. Brendan wondered if these people knew that they'd have to come out over and over again, maybe everyday, and they'd never know if someone wanted to kill them for it.

::::::

Steven wasn't home for any meals. He wasn't home to witness Pauline finishing five cans of beer before it had got dark out. He wasn't home to see Terry slumped in front of the television, shouting at her for not having any dinner ready. He wasn't home to see Brendan make something quick and easy for them both, because he knew that Steven would get the blame if Terry went hungry.

Brendan tried hard not to rush for the window every time he thought he heard the sound of a bicycle coming towards the house. Crema felt like the safest place in the world, but still Brendan didn't like the odds of Steven being out on his own at this time of night.

"I'm just going for a walk," Brendan said to Terry and Pauline. Neither of them commented on the fact that Brendan had never just gone for a walk anywhere. Bicycle would be quicker, but Brendan had the irrational fear that he'd miss something if he didn't go by foot.

He was aware as he set off that this didn't constitute as leaving Steven alone. It had only been one day and it already felt like he was failing spectacularly. His excuse - that he was simply looking out for Steven - didn't add up. Steven had stayed out plenty of times. But it had been different then. Brendan had always known that he was coming home to him. The door in the other bedroom would close gently, and he'd hear the soft pad of footsteps into his room, and feel a hand on him over the bedcovers. There would be the whispered, "It's me", as though there was ever going to be anyone else.

He walked on until his feet began to hurt. Around him were people coming back from bars - they showed it with their unsteadiness and their unfiltered laughter that sounded out of place on a night like this. It didn't seem right for anyone to be laughing when Steven was missing, and Brendan felt those old feelings begin to rise. He couldn't understand the words they were saying, and it made it easier to believe that they were all laughing at him. He wondered what he must look like: if there was fear in his eyes, and want, and the knowledge of what he'd lost last night.

He remembered where Amy lived. He could have checked if Pauline or Terry had her phone number, but he didn't know what his cover story would be if she asked why he was checking up on Steven. Anything he thought of sounded too revealing. Too much like he cared.

Her house was surrounded by light. It lit the way for him, no falling, and it reminded him of the stumble he'd taken a night ago. He remembered the way he'd made the wound worse. He hadn't hurt himself like that in a long time. He'd promised himself he'd never do it again, but he was breaking all his promises this summer.

He crouched out of sight. From this distance he could see the front of the house and the living room. The curtains weren't drawn. He strained to see inside. He didn't know what he expected to find - Steven and Amy kissing, or Steven sitting amongst the family like they were his own - but there was no one there.

He jumped when he heard a noise. He moved from his position and stood up straight. If he was going to be seen either way, then it had better not be when he was spying.

It was Anne. She'd cycled here - the noise he'd heard had been the familiar sound of her bike. She squinted at him as though she didn't entirely believe it was him in front of her.

"Brendan?"

"Evening." He was impressed by how natural it sounded. Not like a man who'd just been lurking in the bushes outside someone's property.

She climbed from her bike and adjusted her hair. She was always doing that; making it just-so and putting on a fresh application of lip gloss.

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he said. He was stalling.

"I'm here to see Amy." She waited expectantly. He didn't budge. "Are you here to pick up Ste, or..."

That sounded reasonable enough.

"Yes."

"He's not here. He's gone round to a mate's house."

Brendan wasn't aware that Steven had any other mates.

"Who?' Anne gave him a look; he was sure that had come out a little too urgently. "Steven's step-dad wants him home, so."

"Let me guess - he wants him to iron for him, does he? Or cook? Or put Pauline to bed?"

Brendan had underestimated her. This girl knew Steven and his family better than he thought.

"Something like that."

He suddenly felt guilty for lying. If the message got back to Steven then it could make him panic about what he'd be coming home to. Brendan knew he must have already spent the majority of his life being scared.

"Which mate?" He asked again, expecting to hear one of the girls names. He remembered a few from Amy's party, pretty but unremarkable. He didn't remember Steven being interested in any of them.

"Justin. He's lived here for years. He's a bit older, usually hangs around with Sarah. But he gets on with Ste well enough."

Silence followed.

"Are you okay, Brendan?"

"I'm fine. I'm going to..." He turned to go, but it wouldn't leave him alone, that question that he had to ask now. "Staying the night, is he?"

Anne shrugged. It must be a wonderful thing, to not care at all.

"Don't know. He'll probably roll in in the early hours."

Brendan already knew that he wouldn't sleep.

"Where's your bike?"

Brendan was disarmed by the sudden question. His mind was full of something else: Justin and lived here for years and older and the early hours.

"What?"

"Your bike." She looked around for it. "Did you walk all this way?"

"Yeah, so?"

"It's miles."

"I like walking."

Anne looked unconvinced.

"Why don't you come inside? I'm sure Amy wouldn't mind."

"That's alright. I need to get back."

"Wait. Before you go -" She put a hand on his arm, stilled him, and for the hundredth time in his life he wished he could be in love with a girl like this. "What are you doing this weekend?"

He didn't want to admit to his plans: that they amounted to trying to simultaneously keep a distance and be as close as possible to the person he lived with. He hadn't worked out the logistics of it yet.

"Nothing." Something. Something is what he should have said. Anything but what you have planned for me.

"Excellent!" She clapped excitedly. Brendan was afraid that Amy would hear and invite them in. He had the horrific vision of him squeezed in between her and Anne on the sofa. "You can come on a little trip with me then."

"A trip?"

Another vision came to him: Anne locking him in a hotel room somewhere.

"Don't look so scared." She laughed. "It's a group trip."

He didn't know if that was better or worse.

"Me, Amy, some of the others..."

He had an easy answer for her.

"No thanks. I'm busy."

"Don't give me that one. You just said you were doing nothing. Some extraordinary plan just come into your head, did it?"

"Something like that."

She looked sceptical.

"Come on, Brendan. I promise it won't just be a bunch of girls. Justin will be there."

Brendan was listening now.

"Really?"

"He comes every year. We do this amazing trip. My mum has a house near here - well not near near, but we can easily get there if Justin drives us. It's amazing - right by the lake. We build a campfire, toast marshmallows..."

"Sing songs with a guitar?"

"Don't pretend you're above it. Everyone loves a marshmallow, Brendan."

He laughed despite himself.

"You can't tell me it won't be nice to get away," Anne said. "What do you have to stick around here for? Ste's dysfunctional parents making everyone's life hell?"

Steven.

Brendan desperately wanted him to be there. And he desperately needed him not to be.

"Steven... is he..."

"He's not coming, don't worry." Anne dismissed it readily. "I know you don't like him."

He didn't know what he'd expected people to think about his relationship with Steven, but it hadn't been this.

"You think I don't like him?"

"Or he doesn't like you, or..." Another dismissal. "I don't know."

"No, tell me." He had to know now, could tell that she was keeping something from him. "What's made you think that?"

She looked back at the house as though it could hear her.

"Amy will kill me if she knows I'm telling on her precious Ste." She gave a whatever roll of her eyes. "We kept trying to invite you to things. More parties, days out, that kind of thing. We just thought it would be a break from working with a psychopath. Only it turns out..." She chose her next words carefully. "Look, I'm sure it's nothing personal. Forget I said anything."

"Tell me." He closed the gap between them, smiled at her and lowered his voice, conspiratorial. He knew it would work; it usually did. "Anne."

She whispered it like she wouldn't be betraying Steven's confidence that way.

"He didn't want you there. He told us not to invite you."

He hoped it was too dark for her to see what his face looked like.

"I'm sorry." She sounded like she meant it. "I shouldn't have said anything. I don't want you to think that he..."

That he was ashamed of him? That he didn't want him around? That he'd decided long before last night that he was going to cut him out of his life?

"Ste's a complicated person. His life, it's not like our lives."

Our lives. Was she counting him as one of them now? Amy and her perfect family, and Anne with her own lakeside getaway. She didn't know anything about him, and yet she'd been willing to dance with him. To look at him like she wanted him to kiss her. She'd let him take her home. And here she was now, inviting him away for the weekend.

He imagined what she'd do if she knew the truth. The way she'd look at him.

Would she call him a complicated person to her friends too? He didn't think her description would be as kind as that.

"Please come this weekend."

'I know you think this is some kind of tradition, but..."

"It's not because of that." She was chewing on her lip. It was the first time Brendan had ever seen her look unsure of herself. "I want you there. You. Not just a random guest of Ste's."

Why? He desperately wanted to ask her, but it was just that - desperate.

"Okay," he said, and it surprised him. "I'll come." He didn't say he'd enjoy himself. He didn't say he'd smile or sit round a campfire or listen to a group of intoxicated near-strangers sing. "But there better be good food."

They shook on it.

::::::

Brendan stayed by the window until he could see Steven riding up the path on his bike. He hadn't put his light on; the idea of Steven seeing him waiting and watching was enough to deter him.

He lay in bed and listened out for the sound of the shower. Steven liked to shower after sex. Brendan had the feeling that he was scared Terry and Pauline would be able to smell what they'd just done on his body.

No shower. No noise but the hurried sound of him stripping until it must just be his boxer shorts left. Then nothing. He must have got into bed, too tired for anything else.

Brendan would have two days away from him. Two days in which to figure out who Justin was. Two days to put distance between them and try to remember everything that irritated him about Steven when they first met, because he couldn't think of a single thing.

A lot could change in two days.

::::::

He could see why Anne had chosen that weekend for their trip. He dressed for the weather but the material of his clothes still clung to him uncomfortably. He was sweating before breakfast, and the heat from the frying pan didn't help. He'd been left to do the cooking. Steven had gone out early - to Amy's, going by the note he'd left for his parents - and the eggs Brendan made were a poor replacement. Even the toast wasn't right. Steven knew the exact timings, the exact way they all liked it.

He packed lightly. Just one spare change of clothes and a couple of essentials.

He wasn't surprised when Anne turned up with an entire suitcase. His sister would do the same on every holiday they took as children. It made Brendan smile to remember the various outfits and shoes she'd stored away in her carry-on for a short trip.

"Justin better have room in his boot."

"How big is this car meant to be?"

Anne gave him a warning look. Clearly no one came between her and her luggage.

"Two cars, Brendan. Two. The others are coming in Sarah's car."

He knew which car he was going in.

"Try to look like you're excited for a trip of a lifetime," Anne said, hands on her hips.

"Me? I'm ecstatic." He stretched his lips wide, made her laugh. "You and a bunch of kids. What a dream."

"So eight years younger than you qualifies us as kids, does it?"

"How do you know how old I am?"

"I might have asked around," she said, unfazed. "Age, birth date, star sign, bank balance... the usual things, you know? Plus I told you - Justin's not a kid, or whatever you want to call us."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty five. He's nice, you'll like him."

He resisted the urge to ask for his photograph, his sexuality, his preferences in bed - the usual things, you know.

She'd given him an easy way in: "In that case, I'll ride with him."

Anne seemed pleased that he'd suddenly taken an interest in their weekend away.

"Excellent. Speaking of said grown-up - here he is."

Brendan watched as a car drew up. He had to stop himself from straining his neck to get a clear view of the man inside. He was vaguely aware of Anne saying something to him, but he focused his attention in one place.

The car window rolled down. The man - Justin - gave them a smile. He had a hint of stubble. Dirty blond hair. Good looking.

Fuck.

"Alright Anne?"

Perhaps Brendan was imagining the appreciative look Justin gave her. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

"And you must be Brendan. I've heard a lot about you."

From Steven? He resisted asking for details of every conversation they'd ever had.

"I can't say the same," Brendan said. Justin gave a laugh in response. It died away when he realised that Brendan wasn't joking.

"Do you want me to help you with your luggage?"

He was playing nice. Maybe this was what Steven wanted. Someone good.

Wasn't that what everyone wanted?

Brendan ignored him and put his small bag in the back of the car. It fit easily underneath where he'd be sitting. Anne needed the boot. Brendan got into the car - not waiting for an invitation - and watched from the rear-view mirror as Justin helped Anne with her suitcase. He could hear them talking. "Shame Ste couldn't come." Brendan leaned further back in his seat, trying to get closer to the sound of their voices.

He stayed in the car as he waited for the others to arrive. He put his sunglasses on. There was power in hiding his eyes. It felt like a shield against the rest of the world, as though he could see everyone but they couldn't see him.

Sarah and some of her friends were the next to arrive. He'd expected for Amy to come with her, but Sarah said something about her running late. Brendan expected that she was saying goodbye to Steven. He was curious about whether she'd told him that he was coming on the trip.

He knew it would be another reason for Steven to stay away.

Anne leant against the car door.

"Are you going to be in this much of a good mood for the entire weekend?"

"Yes," he shot back.

"Don't think I'm going to give up, Brendan Brady. I'm determined to make you have a good time."

He had a sudden flashback to the two of them on the dance floor at Amy's party, her arms around him and her mouth close to his.

He wasn't sure he liked what Anne thought of as a good time.

"Are we leaving or what?"

The idea of campfire food was keeping him going.

"I'm sure Amy will be here in a minute."

"We can't just go without her, no...? Everyone forgets something on holiday."

Anne hit his arm through the window.

"Behave," she said.

"I always do."

She turned around, her attention caught on something.

"Here she is. Oh. Oh dear..."

"What?" Brendan asked idly, imagining that Anne was angry at Amy for bringing a bigger suitcase than her.

"Don't go mad, okay? I swear I never knew anything about this."

Brendan followed her gaze. Amy was standing opposite them carrying her - appropriately sized - bag. And there, standing next to her, was Steven carrying his.

Brendan's heart accelerated. He couldn't speak.

Steven looked as shocked as he was. He'd turned pale and Brendan could see him frantically whispering something to Amy. Brendan wasn't an expert at lip reading, but it looked a lot like "What is he doing here?"

He had to leave. He had to get out of the car right now and tell them all that he had made a mistake and had to go home.

Not back to the house in Crema. Home. On the first flight that he could get.

But it was all happening so fast. Justin climbed into the driver's seat and Anne was in the front next to him, and Amy displayed a surprising amount of force in the way she appeared to be dragging Steven across the driveway and into the back seat.

"Hi Brendan," she said, all big eyes and innocent smile, and Brendan wondered if she knew what the fuck she was getting them all in to. "Move up, won't you?"

No. No, he wouldn't move up. He couldn't. If he did then they would all be there together, and he'd forgot to ask how long the journey would take. It could be hours in a car with Steven, and it would be days away with him, sharing another house with him. He hadn't asked about sleeping arrangements. What if they didn't have enough spare rooms? He wasn't sure if Anne's mother was rich enough to have single beds for them all.

What if they had to share? Would Steven agree? Or would he decide he'd rather go with Justin instead?

Of course he would. And Brendan would be lying awake with the knowledge that they were sharing a bed.

"Brendan?" Amy looked at him uncertainly now.

A split second. That's all he had left to decide what to do. He glanced at Steven, saw the panic in his eyes.

He moved up. His body felt unsteady, like it didn't belong to him.

Amy got in next, Steven beside her. Anne looked back at them all. She gave a tentative thumbs up that she appeared to mostly direct towards Brendan. He narrowed his eyes at her and she faced forward.

"Let's have some music, Justin," she said, a little too cheerfully.

Justin blasted the cassette he'd chosen - some asinine collection that didn't surprise Brendan in the least - and shouted "Road trip" at the top of his lungs as they set off.

When Brendan leaned back in his seat he could see Steven's side profile. His hair looked soft and fluffy, the way it did when it was freshly washed. Brendan liked it best like that, when he hadn't yet styled it. It reminded him of when he first got out of bed.

He closed his eyes and tried to count down how many hours it would be until he was away from him again.

::::::

It turned out that Anne's earlier comment about the house not being near near was accurate. It felt like they were in the car for hours.

Brendan learned several things during the journey.

One, that Justin and Steven had known each other for a lot longer than Brendan had presumed. Since Steven had been coming to Italy, to be exact.

Two, that Amy liked to wear a lot of perfume.

Three, that Anne danced to everything. Even songs that you couldn't imagine anyone dancing to.

And four, that no matter what Steven did Brendan couldn't not want him.

It didn't matter when he yawned in an exaggerated way. It didn't matter when he got chocolate smeared across his lips from the snacks they all passed around. It didn't matter when he laughed in that stupid way of his.

All of it only made Brendan like him more.

He hid his mouth with his fist to stop his smile from showing when Steven said something funny. He kept his sunglasses on. He turned resolutely away from him, even though he was sure that Steven didn't look his way. He didn't comment on anything he said. He didn't so much as acknowledge Steven's presence until he was forced to.

They were halfway through their journey when Justin tried to make an effort with him again.

"So Brendan, how's it been working at Ste's place?"

He could practically hear Steven holding his breath.

"Fine. Keeps me busy."

They all seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate. Justin tried again when he didn't.

"Ste's a good cook, isn't he? I'm always telling him to do something with it."

Brendan noted the always. Always as in they'd always known each other. Always as in they'd always be in each other's lives. Always.

"You know what they say. One man's genius is another man's..."

He had to say it. He had to otherwise he would say the truth, the opposite: that no, Steven wasn't a good cook. He was better than that. He had the ability to use the most basic of ingredients and turn them into something special. He didn't bother himself with presentation, and it didn't matter. Because once you tasted what he'd made you didn't care what it looked like.

If he said all of that the way he wanted to, then no one would ever think that he hated Steven again.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the car, despite the music that played on. He could see Justin looking at him in the mirror, trying to figure him out.

"Remember Doug who helped Terry out last year, Ste?" Justin asked. Steven didn't say anything. No one did. "I liked him."

:::::

He had good hands. Strong hands that looked practical. Hands that looked like they knew how to hold on to you.

Brendan spent a good portion of the journey looking at Steven's hands, because they were all he could see of him with Amy between them. Steven didn't lean forward in his seat. He didn't twist his body round to face Brendan, or direct the conversation towards him once.

Anne and Justin sang along to Justin's cassette, and took it in turns to beep at Sarah's car behind them. The roads were clear out here; it felt like they had them to themselves. Brendan rolled down the window and leaned his head out. He'd never been invited on a trip like this before. There had been a group of boys he'd spent time with in Dublin growing up. They'd got into trouble together - kids stuff really - but they'd gone their separate ways as they got older. Or he had: he'd gone his separate way, and they'd stayed together. There hadn't been the opportunity for weekends away or holidays abroad. It was disarming, being in a car with this many people. He didn't know what to do with himself.

They stopped at a cafe to use the restroom. He briefly entertained the idea of stealing the car keys from Justin and driving off. He imagined the dirt and the dust from the road that would collect behind him. The way it would fade and there would be Steven's face, getting smaller and smaller but Brendan would see the disappointment there. The disgust.

It stopped him. It kept him moving to the bathroom and away from the temptation to run.

He put his sunglasses on top of his head as he washed his hands in the sink. The mirror could do with a clean, but he was glad for any distortion that it might show. He didn't want to see the full extent of what he looked like.

You don't belong here. You're twenty eight years old and you've never been more lost. Did you come on this trip for Justin, or did you come because you knew that this would happen? You knew that there was a chance that Steven would be here. You're chasing him even though you were meant to give him up. Even though you still have to.

The bathroom door opened. Steven came out, startled by Brendan staring back at him in the reflection of the glass. It was the first time that morning that he'd seen him without his glasses.

"Hi," Steven said. It was clearly instinct; he looked angry at himself for saying anything.

"Hi," Brendan said, also instinct.

There was only one sink. He moved to the side as Steven started washing his hands. There was no one in the other lavatory. Justin must have already gone back to the car.

"Amy didn't tell me you were coming," Steven said, scrubbing his hands a little too vigorously.

"Oh. Right."

"Just in case you get any ideas. I didn't know you'd be here. I thought I was just going away with my friends."

Ouch. He almost laughed at what he'd implied - that he wasn't one of those friends - but it was fair. He was right. They'd never been friends.

"Anne told me you weren't coming," Brendan said.

"She must have not told Amy about inviting you."

Brendan wasn't sure this added up; not when he'd left Anne last night to go to Amy's house. It wasn't like her. He couldn't imagine her withholding information from anyone, however insignificant it might seem.

"Must not have," he said, because it was simple, and he wanted to leave as quickly as he could. The longer he talked to Steven, the harder his resolve to stay away from him would be.

But he could do this. Exactly what they were doing now, this back and forth, this act of almost imperceptibly standing as close as possible to Steven without touching him. He could do this forever.

Steven switched off the tap. He made sure to get water on Brendan's shoes before grabbing a paper towel.

"I want a nice, quiet weekend. You can stay with Anne if you want. Do whatever it is you do with her. But no drama, okay? The summer's nearly over. You'll nearly be gone." Steven looked away. "And everything can go back to the way it was before."

Brendan didn't even know what that felt like.

"Deal?" Steven said.

"Deal."

::::::

It was one of the most beautiful places he'd ever seen.

They all got out of the car and stood for a moment, looking out across the lake. The water looked clear enough to drink from. The sun hit it from all angles until everything seemed like it was sparkling. Everyone immediately wanted to swim. He saw some of Sarah's friends having to be pulled back from jumping in.

They all reluctantly went up to the house, but it was no less spectacular. It was more than big enough to contain them all. Large open windows provided the perfect spot to look out at the view, and Anne must have come up earlier in the week because there was plenty of food and alcohol in the cupboards. This clearly meant something to her, all of them together here. He still didn't understand why he'd factored into her plans.

"Make yourselves at home as usual," she said, and then she seemed to remember that for Brendan this wasn't usual, and this wasn't home. "I'll show you were you can put your stuff."

"You sure I'll be able to fit it in next to your suitcase?"

"You're hilarious, really."

She led him to one of the bedrooms.

"You'll be sharing with Justin and Ste, obviously."

There was a double bed and a single.

"Where's the other one?" He looked around.

"The other what?"

"Bed."

"Oh, this is plenty," she said.

Brendan shot her a look. It didn't have the desired effect; it made her laugh.

"Are you trying to tell me you're scared of sleeping in a single bed? I know you probably like to tell yourself you're all big and muscular, but you're not that big. I think you and your ego will survive." She patted his chest.

He didn't know what was worse: sleeping in a bed alone while Steven shared with Justin, or sleeping with Steven and not being able to kiss him.

Of course there was a third possibility, but he didn't think Justin would be comfortable with sharing a bed with a man who'd spent the entire car ride not-so-subtly making digs at him.

This is why he needed to learn to play nice.

"Unless..." Anne said quietly, glancing at the double bed and then back again.

"What?" He had a bad feeling about this.

"Unless you want to share with me..." She didn't break eye contact, and then she was laughing freely. "Your face! Oh, God."

He tried to laugh with her.

"Honestly, you should have seen yourself. Don't worry, Brendan. I'd keep my hands to myself. But that's not going to happen, anyway. Us girls will stay on our side. I'll leave you to deal with your sleeping arrangements." She paused at the door, all attempts at faux seduction gone. "And when you're done come out for a swim."

::::::

Brendan couldn't see the bottom of the lake. It seemed endless. Deep enough to be able to drown in.

He kept his clothes on when he swam. His shorts, his t-shirt. He knew they'd dry quickly in the heat later. Some of the others had brought their costumes with them. Steven sat on the side, only his legs in the water, keeping his distance.

Brendan floated on his back. It was so bright that he had to close his eyes. He tried to block out the noise around him; the endless chatter and laughter which seemed to accompany Anne and her friends wherever they went. He hadn't noticed up till now how much of his life he spent in silence and solitude. It made him feel safe.

When he opened his eyes again he saw that Justin had come out of the water and joined Steven on the small pier. He watched as Justin make a move as if he was going to push him into the lake. Steven shouted in protest and smiled more than Brendan had seen in a long time.

They looked at ease with each other. It was easy to believe that they'd been coming here for years. They fit, all of them. He could imagine it would become one of the stories they'd tell their kids about in the future. Those long, hot summers we would spend in Italy.

Would Brendan become one of those stories? Would Steven ever tell anyone about them, or would he bury it along with all the other memories he didn't want to think about?

He saw the water ripple around him. Amy had been so quiet that he hadn't heard her approaching. She'd tied her hair up in a ponytail and it made her look younger than she was. She was a strong swimmer; she barely needed to catch her breath.

"I'm glad you came," she said. He knew she was lying, but he liked her for it. "Everyone is."

"Seems like it." He looked back towards Sarah's friends, who hadn't paid any attention to him. He half suspected that Justin had already warned them what he was like.

"No," Amy said calmly but firmly. "They are."

He frowned at her, wanting to press it but knowing that she had more she wanted to say.

"Everyone just finds it difficult to show it. But everyone's not as strong as you think."

"Okay..." He said, but he was listening, not wanting to make any kind of sudden movement in the water to deflect from her.

"Be careful."

He ordinarily would have laughed at receiving anything like a warning from Amy, but something about it made him not want to.

"They're not toys. You can't just pick them up and drop them again if you get bored. Remember that. And remember that you mean something to... everyone."

She swam a circle around him and then kicked away, swimming back to her sister.

"Okay." He looked around himself, at a loss for what to do, and wondering if anyone else had just heard that. "Okay."

::::::

They started drinking in the late afternoon. They had enough to dull their senses and make Brendan start to feel ambivalent rather than annoyed with his present company. The general consensus seemed to be that if they could stand upright then they could still swim. They all put this to the test, taking turns at going in the lake again.

On Steven's turn, Brendan didn't look away until he came out again. He was triumphant, turning to Amy. "See, I'm not that drunk."

They passed around a bottle of wine. When it went straight from Steven to Brendan, he realised that it was the most physical contact they'd had in days. The press of Steven's lips from the bottle onto Brendan's mouth. The thought alarmed him; not the thought itself, but the fact that he'd had it. He was analysing details he'd never cared about before. Scrutinising them like they meant something.

Steven had a way of stopping himself before he had too much. Brendan didn't know if it was because of Pauline, but he could see Steven consciously making the choice to say no. Even when he was already pink the face and was talking more than usual, he still knew his limits. As Anne and Justin went on to another bottle, Steven shook his head and took a swig of water.

He knew that Steven could have done everything to be like his mother and step-father. He could have made the same decisions as them. Followed them because what else was there, really, when your whole life had been like that from when you were just a kid, and no one was there to tell you it was wrong.

Instead he'd done everything he could to be different.

"Justin, put some music on," Anne said. He complied, and she quickly got up and started dancing to a song she recognised. She offered Justin her hand and they started moving round the room, him spinning her, her then taking the lead.

"Ste?" Amy said, getting to her feet.

"No way," he said, but it was half-hearted; for all his protests, they all knew that Steven liked a dance. He admitted defeat after some bickering and clambered over to the newly founded makeshift dance floor.

Brendan took a gulp of water from the bottle he'd just left.

He still thought the same thing as the first time he'd seen them dancing. They looked good together. Neither particularly had any sense of coordination or rhythm, but it didn't matter much when they were smiling and looking like the rest of the room had faded away from them.

He didn't know what Steven wanted. This life with Amy which was expected and easy, or someone like Justin. He couldn't separate the two in his mind; they both lead to the same place. They both didn't include him.

Anne gave a little cheer when he climbed to his feet, thinking that he was going to join them.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," he said, side stepping the fact that they'd spent the majority of the day outside. "Won't be long," he added, because Anne was looking at him like she didn't think he'd come back.

He made sure he didn't give anyone the chance to stop him. He was out on the open road and away from the house before they were able to call him back. Not that they would.

He'd seen a couple of places to eat when they'd been driving over. He wasn't hungry yet - Anne and her copious supplies had seen to that - but where there was food there were people. Men.

It would do him good. An anonymous encounter. He'd get it out of his system and he'd get him out of his system. It would kill some time and stop the noise inside his head.

But he had to be careful. He always had to be careful. He couldn't simply walk up to whoever he wanted. He'd lost track of how long it had taken him in the past to test the waters and work out who would and who wouldn't. If they would - that was it. They'd go back to his place - always a different his every time - or rent a room or find an empty bathroom.

If they wouldn't - he was aware that there was always the possibility that it could be dangerous.

Sometimes he just wanted to lie down in the road and say that he didn't want to be alone tonight, and not have to go through the entire act all over again.

Tonight was one of those nights. He didn't want to be alone, but he kept walking past the bars and the cafes until he reached a phone box.

He still knew the number off by heart.

He waited as it dialled. He was about to give up when she finally answered. He'd expected her to sound different somehow, but she was just like he remembered.

"It's me," he said. The reception was bad but she still knew.

Silence, and then: "Brendan?"

"The one and only."

"I can't believe... after all this time..." At first she sounded elated, but it didn't last. "It's been years, Brendan. Years."

"I know. I'm sorry." It was exactly what he'd wanted to say, but now it seemed woefully inadequate.

"I was so worried."

"I'm sorry, Chez."

He heard her exhale over the line.

"No one's called me that in a long time," she said.

He had. In his head, he'd called her that every day.

"I can't believe it's really you."

"You don't recognise the accent, no?" He was trying to keep this light, but it was the wrong tact. It was painfully forced and he couldn't keep it up. He held the phone tightly to him, expecting for someone to take it away.

"You know what I mean," she said.

He did.

She was so quiet that he thought she might have put the phone down.

"Cheryl?"

"I'm here."

"Okay."

He waited. He knew she needed time, but he was eager to do what he usually did and present a barrage of excuses as to why he'd once again let her down.

"Are you alright?" She finally said.

It was a loaded question. Complicated.

"I'm well, yes," he said, because it was true. He wasn't ill. He wasn't hurt. He had a roof over his head and enough to eat. "How are you?"

He wanted to know everything all at once. He wanted to know where she was working and where she was living. He wanted to know what her hair was like - she was forever changing it - and if she was still in love with Malachy Fisher, one of the boys from school who had been one of the first people to call him a freak.

But she was guarded.

"Like I said. Worried."

"You knew I was okay."

"How on earth would I know? You never called me back."

"I moved around a lot. I didn't have a phone all the time." he said. "I sent you that letter."

"You barely told me anything. And you never replied to any of mine."

"Again - I moved." He imagined the mail that must have piled up at the original address he'd sent to Cheryl.

"Why didn't you tell me? You just disappeared."

Because that's exactly what he'd wanted to do.

"I'm calling you now, aren't I?"

"Thanks a lot for that. Really, how kind of you."

Sarcasm didn't suit her.

"I'm trying," he whispered, but he knew it wasn't enough when you failed again and again. It made every new attempt that much more hollow.

"I didn't even know why you left. I tried to ask everyone at your old job, but they didn't know either. You could have run off and got married for all I know."

He huffed a laugh. "Trust me, I didn't."

"You better not have. I'd kill you if I missed a wedding."

He was sure she was smiling now despite her best attempts not to.

"I'll keep that in mind." He kept going, hoping she was softening. "I'm in Italy. I'm doing some work here for the summer. Just odd jobs, you know? Gardening mostly."

"Italy? But you don't even speak Italian. Unless... you didn't learn it, did you? I suppose there was enough time in the years away." The bitterness was back again.

"No, I didn't learn it. I get by. The people I'm staying with speak English." He almost wished they didn't. If Steven didn't speak a word of English he'd probably never be in this mess.

"When are you coming back?"

He knew she'd ask him. She'd cut to it sooner than he'd thought though. He hadn't prepared an answer, or anticipated exactly what her reaction would be.

He could be back in less than a month. He had enough money to afford a ticket, and it wouldn't take long to find a place to live or a job. He always got by.

That was the practical side.

"I'm not ever coming back."

He closed his eyes. He'd never said that before. Not to someone else. Not to himself.

"You have to."

She was in shock. That was understandable.

"We'll still see each other. I promise." He already anticipated meeting up somewhere neutral. Somewhere far enough away from Seamus.

"We can spend Christmas together," he said, confident now, seeing this future ahead for the two of them. They'd come together for all the big occasions - all the things that Cheryl cared about - and he'd be there for her from now on. It was all going to be different.

"Bren."

It gave him hope, hearing her calling him that.

"You have to come home now. Tomorrow, or the day after. As soon as you can. That's what I've kept calling you about. Not that you'd know. I knew it was pointless phoning you - it never even connected most of the time - but I had to. It's dad. He's in hospital."

His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white. He looked out into the street. Life was going on as normal. People were drinking. Driving. Cycling. A couple were holding hands.

Nothing else had changed. It seemed impossible.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He has cancer."

Brendan had imagined a thousand different scenarios over the years. Seamus would be shot, or he'd have a knife through his gut, or he'd be run over some many times by a car that he'd be unrecognisable when Brendan would be called to identify him.

He'd never imagined cancer. It wasn't violent enough.

"Is it slow?"

"What?"

He cleared his throat. "Is it slow, or is it one of those that get you quickly?"

It had got his mum quickly. Within a few months she was gone. It had been too fast for him to process. Too fast for him to be able to forget what she looked like when she was well. He was grateful for that.

"What kind of question is that?"

A valid one. He needed it to be slow.

"I know you must be in shock," she said slowly, as if speaking to a confused child now. "I am too. But we need you there. Both of us. But especially him. He's been asking for you."

"Trying to atone for his sins on his deathbed, is he?"

"Don't joke about this. I know you two haven't always had the best relationship, but he's our dad. Please. Please come home."

"I'll think about it," he said, knowing it would be an easy way out.

"When will you let me know?"

"Soon. I've got to get back. There are people waiting for me."

He wished it was true. He wished that he was back in the lake again. He'd even take Amy swimming around him, her talk of everyone.

You mean something. To everyone.

"Love you," he said, relieved that sometimes he didn't have to lie to her.

"Love you too."

He put the phone down. Stayed where he was. Let it sink in, repeated it again in his head: Seamus has cancer. He might die.

Had he made this happen? He'd never believed that anyone had been listening to him. No one had stopped Seamus from beating him. No one had stopped him from touching him. No one had stopped him from raping him.

So there was no reason for him to think that any God might have heard him and done this on his behalf.

But still he wondered if Cheryl would hold him responsible for this. If he'd get a knock on the door from the police telling him that they were arresting him. That they knew all the darkest thoughts he'd ever had. That they knew that he'd always wanted to kill Seamus, and therefore must have done something to cause this.

He wasn't guilty, but he wasn't innocent either.

He needed a drink. He located the first bar he could find - one large enough for him to be able to hide in a corner, undetected - and considered spending the rest of the evening here. But he didn't want Steven seeing him like this; another person in his life who had lost control.

He left the drink untouched and headed back.

::::::

He needed to cool off.

He made sure no one was around and he jumped in the lake. He tested how long he could last underneath the water holding his breath. Fifteen seconds. Twenty seconds. There came that signal in your body, somehow always so desperate to cling on to life even when you didn't want it to. It made him push up for air. It stopped him from giving up.

He could see Steven in the house. He was sitting on the sofa, looking ready for bed in a worn looking t-shirt and baggy shorts. Could someone tell when they were being watched?This man could; he looked out of the window and saw Brendan in the lake. He did a double take, seemingly not believing what he was looking at, like it could be an apparition or a dream.

He leaned forward, grabbed the remote that must have been on a table in front of him. He pointed it at the television. Then, with a look of resignation, he put it back down and slowly walked out of the room.

He'd scared Steven away. Perhaps he'd thought that when Brendan had left earlier he'd gone for good. Perhaps he'd wanted that.

He put his head under the water again. Registered the stillness in the air, the complete absence of noise as he went further down.

Until he could hear something. Someone was calling him.

He kicked up to the surface, wiping his eyes. It was his turn now. His turn for the apparition. His turn for the dream.

There Steven was, standing on the pier, looking like he was contemplating whether to jump in.

"Are you okay?" He sounded scared.

"Just taking a swim," Brendan said, still wondering what Steven was doing here instead of upstairs, getting in to bed and shutting the curtains so he wouldn't see him.

"It looked like..." He stared at him again. Brendan had the sense that he was being assessed. Like Steven was determining if he was telling the truth or not. He seemed to shake himself away from this line of questioning. "Where were you before?"

"I had to do something."

Still the assessment.

"And is it done?"

It wasn't done until Seamus was dead.

He neither nodded or shook his head.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said, and then he realised his mistake: Steven didn't worry about him.

Steven went back inside. Brendan saw him call Anne over. He said something to her, and then he sat down again as she moved out of Brendan's eye line.

The door opened again.

"We're going to have some dinner now, Brendan." Her voice carried over, loud, insistent. She didn't go back inside. She made it clear that she was going to wait for him.

He climbed out and dried himself off, and then he joined the others inside.

::::::

Steven had cooked for them. He must have started preparing it when Brendan went out. He'd carefully laid it out on the long table for them, and for a few minutes none of them spoke. They all concentrated on the food in front of them, and Brendan couldn't help but feel something like pride when he registered how impressed the others were. They all gave Steven a collective round of applause for the effort he'd gone to.

"Brendan's lucky, having your culinary skills all summer," Sarah said.

They quickly looked at each other.

"Yes," he said, having never thought of himself as lucky in his life. "I am."

Steven played with his napkin. He looked like he'd caught the sun already. He was more beautiful than Brendan had ever seen him.

"So what's next, Brendan?" Sarah continued. "After this summer, I mean. Are you going back to Ireland?"

He knew she was trying to be friendly, but he wished she wouldn't.

"No," he said. He was still determined to stick to what he'd decided before. He would see Cheryl, but going back to Ireland right away wasn't part of the plan.

"Where then?"

"I don't know," he said, and it didn't take long for him to notice that the table had gone quiet. That everyone was focused on him. Here was a group of people who seemed to all know where they were going. What they were doing. He could imagine most of them going back to their steady jobs - or careers, they'd think of them as - and their parents who would support them.

Except him. And Steven.

But Steven would be okay. He had to be. Brendan couldn't bring himself to think about a world where he wouldn't. He'd make it through, and he'd live until he was old and he'd be happy.

And one day maybe Brendan would bump into him somewhere, because life's funny like that. He'd see him with his own family, and a partner - Brendan couldn't decide whether they'd be a man or a woman - and Steven would frown as he tried to place him, and then there it would be: Didn't we spend a summer together? There would be the stilted conversation and the hurried goodbyes. He'd watch him go. Steven wouldn't look back.

"Maybe you could come back next summer," Amy said. "It would be nice, wouldn't it Ste? No one's ever come back."

"I wonder why," Anne said with raised eyebrows as she took another sip of wine. Amy shushed her.

"I don't think Terry would want me back," Brendan said. Or his step-son.

"At least he hasn't managed to scare you away. You should have seen what he did to some of the rest of them..." Anne trailed off, glancing quickly at Steven.

Brendan could see the tension in his body. He knew it well. Knew what it was like when someone acknowledged that your family was fucked up. Knew that it felt like a secret inside you, and how horribly exposing it was when someone released it.

"What's for pudding?" Brendan said.

The others laughed at him for wanting dessert before they'd even finished dinner. Steven didn't laugh though. He looked relieved. Cooking was something he could do that required almost no thought. The attention was on what he could do, not where he came from or what had been done to him.

He used the question as a reason to get busy in the kitchen again. He ignored the protestations of Amy and Justin to finish his own meal first.

Brendan could have been wrong, but he was sure he got the largest slice of cake when it was served.

::::::

They went to bed in the early hours. Some of them were drunk enough that they fell asleep immediately, not stopping to discard their clothes or brush their teeth. The rest of them took turns in the bathroom. Their ease around each other showed. They weren't self-conscious about their bodies in their bed clothes. They showed no hint of how strange it felt, to see the girls devoid of make up and the men with the remnants of toothpaste around their mouths.

Justin was already lying across the double bed, his breathing heavy now. Brendan waited in the corner of the room to see what Steven would do. He was wearing an over sized t-shirt, his bare legs on display in a pair of boxer shorts. He was more overdressed for bed than Brendan had seen him in months.

He knew what was underneath. Could picture the soft skin of his chest and the hair that covered his groin. The sharp muscles of his back, the curves and lines that exposed the ribs that were always close to the surface. He hadn't forgotten anything.

Amy came in to say goodnight to them all, laughing but looking unsurprised by the state of Justin, and then it had gone silent, the women on their side of the house and the men on theirs. The room was dark, but Brendan still felt exposed. He'd never been with Steven in a room like this, with someone sleeping between them. If it had happened weeks ago he could have devised ways of getting around it - trips to the bathroom when no one was watching, and long walks outside the house together. But he knew that if they were still sleeping together then they wouldn't be here to begin with. To be around everyone else would have felt like a waste. Time stolen from them in which they could have only been with each other.

It still felt like a waste.

He wanted to thank Steven for the cake, but it sounded childish and unimportant no matter how many times he practiced it. The rest of what he wanted to say - that sometimes it was the tiny, seemingly meaningless ways that someone showed they cared about you that meant the most - carried too much weight. He didn't want to give Steven another reason to tell him that he didn't care. That it had all been a coincidence and that he was reading too much into it.

He saw Steven debating what he should do. Brendan was ready to suggest that he take the double bed and Steven could sleep alone. It didn't seem like a dilemma now that Justin was asleep. He'd had enough to drink to sleep through till morning. There would be no arguing, no secret conversations between Justin and Steven about Justin wanting to share with him instead.

But Steven decided for him. He kneeled on the bed, gently pushing Justin over so he had enough room to get in. Once his side was clear he got under the covers.

Brendan had no choice. He got into the single bed, taking off his t-shirt once he was hidden by the sheets. He could feel sweat on his back and the nape of his neck.

He could hear a clock ticking in the room. He should have taken the batteries out. It felt too late now, and the longer it kept going the more it felt like it was counting down to something. The end of the summer. The end of his time with Steven. The end of Seamus's life. The end.

Were they holding hands under the covers? Was Justin really more awake than he thought? They could be using the dark and the quiet as a camouflage to hide what they were doing. Steven's legs could be brushing up against Justin's, an accident but then not an accident. Justin could start to like it. He remembered the way Steven had looked when he'd first kissed him, like he was just waking up to the world. Everything coming in to perfect, precise focus. Sometimes someone just had to show you.

And all the while, that ticking clock.

::::::

He rose early, having never gone to sleep. He helped himself to a cup of coffee from the empty kitchen, being careful to tiptoe around the house. He liked it at this hour, when he was the only one awake.

Steven had gone to sleep a few hours after he'd settled in to bed. Brendan had recognised the signs: the way he'd stopped shifting left and right, and how he'd finally gone on his side. He liked to sleep like that. Never on his front. Never on his back. Always on his side, with the unspoken wish for Brendan to hold him from behind. That had been then.

Justin didn't move either, just mumbled unintelligible snatches of words in his sleep sometimes. If they were touching hands then that's all they did.

Still he watched for a change as the house awoke and everyone started their day. He said little at breakfast, purposefully sitting across from Justin and Steven so he could see them clearly. He watched for furtive glances. Embarrassment or pleasure when their hands touched when they both reached for the jug of orange juice. Excuses made for them to leave the table together. But there was nothing.

Justin held his head in his hands.

"I'm never drinking again."

"Yes you will. Tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day..." Anne said, smug.

"I blame you entirely. You're a bad influence."

"And don't forget it."

"Sorry about the bed situation, Brendan," Justin said.

Brendan's head snapped up, his heart rattling. Was he that transparent?

"I didn't mean to take the double. I only meant to lay my head down for a second and then..." He broke off, looking sheepish. "I tell you what though, it cheered me up to think of you trying to squash into that single."

The others laughed. Steven didn't.

Brendan felt himself start to relax.

"No problem." It was probably the kindest thing he'd said to him so far.

"We can switch around tonight if you want. Fair's fair. You and Ste can take the double."

He could feel Anne and Amy watching him.

"It's fine," Brendan said, at the exact time that Steven cut in with "It's okay."

It felt like everyone on the table had zoned in on them. Steven licked his lips, must have noticed it too.

"I'm sure Brendan doesn't mind," he said.

"But he's bigger than us." Justin quickly corrected himself: "I don't mean big. You know what I mean - you're taller, aren't you, and you obviously work out."

He wondered if Justin had a penchant for looking at men's bodies.

"The single's fine," Steven said.

Brendan couldn't stand to see him list a million more reasons why it couldn't happen.

"I don't share a bed with men," Brendan said. The disgust in his own voice shocked him. Reminded him of someone.

The table went completely quiet, a piece of Sarah's toast hovering in mid-air next to her mouth, uneaten.

Justin was the first to break it.

"What do you mean?" He was laughing, but it wasn't touching his eyes.

"I mean just that." He was tempted to call him stupid, to ask why he couldn't understand this one simple thing. "I'm not like that."

Anyone else would have given up. But Justin didn't.

"Not like what? Not someone who shares a bed during a trip away?"

"Justin," Amy cut in, and everything about it said stop.

"No. I'm trying to understand this. What's so wrong with that?"

He knew all the things that were wrong with it. He knew because Seamus had told him.

"I'm not like that," Brendan said again, but he knew it then: that he was exactly like that. That he'd always been like that, and that he would be until he went to his grave.

Justin stood up and pushed his chair back from the table. The sound of it scraping across the floor was shrill, enough to make you wince.

"Is anyone else going to say it?" He looked around the room expectantly. "Well?"

"Sit down," Anne said.

"Let's just leave it, yeah?" Amy said, desperate now.

"Fine. I'll say it. What are you even doing here, Brendan?"

Brendan almost laughed at the lad's nerve.

"Excuse me?"

"Why did you come away with us? Ever since you got here - while you were still in the car, actually - you've just wanted to get away from us. Insult us. Treat the person who's taken you into their home like they're nothing. And now you're acting like a homophobic prick. Congratulations, Brendan. If you didn't want to be forgotten after this summer then you don't have to worry. We won't forget you."

Brendan looked down at the table. His hand was still gripping on to the knife he'd been using to cut his toast. He had to hold it tighter to stop himself from shaking.

Another voice, rising above Justin.

"You don't know anything."

They all turned to Steven, sitting at the bottom of the table. He looked small down there, but it seemed in that moment that he was raising himself up. His ears had gone pink but his voice was strong and clear.

"You don't know anything about him," he said, and he looked like he'd fight a lion for him. An army. The world. Even his own friend.

"We all just need to calm down," Amy said, but it didn't matter what anyone else said. It was echoing around the room, those words that Brendan clung on to and that seeped their way into his body. You don't know anything about him. As though he was someone worth knowing.

Justin looked between Steven and Brendan helplessly, not quite believing in the truth of what had happened. Waiting for someone to shout out surprise and reveal that it had all been a cruel mistake. That of course his friend hadn't defended someone else instead of him.

Brendan saw his eyes settle on him. He looked ill, turning ashen and his lips parting enough to make it look like he had come across something ghastly. A horrific accident or a dead body.

"What's that?" He said, and Brendan had to follow where his eyes had gone to be sure. He looked down at his chest, saw his cross necklace dangling. He often kept it hidden under his shirt, and he'd kept it safe when he'd been swimming yesterday. But it had come free.

"This?" He held the cross, not wanting to use that word - necklace - unable to stand the female connotations that came along with it.

"Is that yours?" Justin asked, still pale, using the table to steady himself now.

"Yes." Brendan had lost all traces of antagonism now. He was too confused to keep it, too uncomprehending of where this line of questioning was going.

Justin seemed to remember that he had an audience. He straightened up, colour still not returning to his cheeks, and mumbled something about having to go out. They heard the front door shut behind him.

"I'll just..." Anne raced after him, and the others soon discarded, heading either to the lake or to their rooms.

Steven dawdled, cleaning up plates. Brendan noted how he took all the knives away first. He could see the shadow of Amy in the doorway, staying put. Waiting.

"Steven." He had to say something. He wanted to ask if he knew why Justin had left. Why seeing the cross had made him react like that. But most of all he wanted to stand here, just the two of them. No Amy. No outside world. He wanted to tell him that yes, Steven did know him, better than anyone else ever had. And it scared him to death.

"I can't," Steven said simply, although nothing about this was simple.

He left with Amy, the arm she put around him looking secure and unmovable. He knew she wouldn't let go until he wanted her to.

::::::

He could have left.

He could have packed up his things. It wouldn't have taken long. The one bag he'd brought here had most of his belongings still inside it. He wasn't one for making a place feel like home. It didn't mean anything to him. He hadn't unpacked until a few weeks in to his time at Steven's place, when he'd started to feel a familiarity there. A wish to stay. A wish to know what a home was, because he was sure that it was the closest he'd ever come to it.

No one would even notice him slipping away. He could catch a ride back - he'd hitchhiked before - or walk to the nearest train station. He'd make a stop at Terry and Pauline's, getting his stuff together and telling them that he was leaving prematurely. If Terry gave him any trouble then he'd hurt him. He'd wanted to plenty of times. Then he'd make his escape and keep going.

He'd go to Cheryl. He'd turn up at the hospital and see his father lying in a bed, his skin grey and his body weak, and he'd marvel at how this was the same creature that had done all those things to him. He'd laugh. He'd wait until Cheryl went home for the night, and he'd stand over Seamus - his own body strong, his own body powerful - and he'd pull the pillow from behind his head, and he'd hold it against his mouth until he begged him to stop. Until he was crying from it.

He could have done that. He still could, didn't know why he wasn't going in the right direction. Didn't know why he was sitting stock still on his bed, the sun pouring in through the windows and bathing him in it. It didn't feel appropriate, being covered in light. It felt like he was being mocked. Here you are, full of dirt and disease, and there the world is, full of beauty that you'll never get to touch.

He ran to the bathroom, being sick as quietly as he could. It wasn't an easy feat, not when it felt like his insides were straining under the need to be released in one long, violent procession. He knew what had caused it: the thought that Seamus would have been proud of him for what he'd said about two men sharing a bed. The slap of his hand on Brendan's shoulder, a signal, a well done that he'd finally done something right.

Brendan hadn't talked like that in a long time, but it was all creeping back in now. It was an endless pit, unrelenting in the way it forced him in and twisted everything he felt. A small part of him had felt appalled when Steven had wanted to go to bed with him. His skin had crawled under the strength of his eagerness. His lack of fear. The way he'd offered himself to Brendan again and again. He didn't believe that he'd be punished. To Steven, the punishment was not to give in.

He flushed away the evidence and leaned his head against the closed toilet seat. It was satisfyingly cold against his burning forehead. He remembered his mother looking after him when he was ill. She'd stroke his back and then tuck him up in bed. She told him she'd stay with him until he fell asleep. But there was no one here now. No one knocked on the door.

If he closed his eyes, he could see a belt buckle being undone. A man, much older than him, looming large above him and bearing down. The zip of trousers. Cigarette smoke. A warning to be quiet. Then the sensation of coming apart, of pain like nothing he'd ever felt. The wait for it to be over. But it was never over.

He remembered the expectation that followed every time he met another man. It didn't matter who they were - teachers or his friend's parents or his boss at work or his doctor. They all became one. One adult who would lock him in a room and force him onto the floor and pull his underwear down, and he'd be screaming so much that he wondered how no one else could hear and help him. Then he'd realise that he was only screaming inside.

These other men didn't materialise. His teacher who kept him behind after school for detention let him go after he'd finished his work. He'd kept his distance, sitting behind his desk for the entirety of the hour. His friend's parents were wary of him, having heard about his reputation, but they were civil enough. They'd cook dinner for him and tell him how important it was for him to eat all his vegetables. His bosses never tried to find excuses to be alone with him. When he was promoted - it happened rarely, admittedly - he was never expected to give a blowjob in return. His doctor didn't make up a story about having to give him an intimate examination. Didn't say that it was something that they did with everyone, that it was simply a precaution. He shook Brendan's hand when he came into his office, and he was friendly, but he was already looking at his paperwork when Brendan was halfway through the door. On to the next patient.

All these adults, with all these different desires, but none of them seemed to desire him.

No one else appeared to think it was normal to rape a small child. But still Brendan became preoccupied by it. Obsessed. He'd study families when they went to the beach in the summer. He'd look at the children in their swimming costumes, jumping up over the waves when they approached, and try to see if there was anything behind their show of fun and happiness. They could be like him, going home and having the curtains drawn, feeling something entering his body that didn't belong there. But they looked free. They could be pretending, but his life had been normal for long enough to know that what was happening to him wasn't meant to be happening.

Time heals. That's what everyone said. He didn't know if they were being stupid or hopeful or blind but it wasn't true. None of it was. It became worse. When he was sixteen he had sex for the first time. She was a girl who was in his year at school. He'd lost his erection when he was inside her. There was an eight year old boy sitting in the corner watching them, his eyes big and blue and full of tears, and he was asking for help. But just like back then, no one did anything. Brendan couldn't save him.

When he was seventeen he fucked a man for the first time. An eighteen year old, someone he'd met at a bar. Relief had washed through him when he'd enjoyed it. When the memories had faded long enough for him to be taken over by it.

But it lingered. All of it did. He'd see children in the street and he'd ask that question again. The question that was always there, that called out for attention and pushed and pulled at him until he answered it helplessly. Could he do that to them? Was he going to? Was it what he really wanted? Was it all inevitable, that the son would become the father?

He'd look at them again. They were children. Just children. He didn't want to get them away from their parents. He didn't want to befriend them. He didn't want to earn their trust and their love. He wanted to leave them as they were, talking and laughing and being. He wanted them to grow up without knowing that an adult was capable of doing that to a child.

He'd be thirty soon. He'd had twenty two years of trying to bury things that couldn't be buried. All that endless time. Time to think of new ways to die. Time to resolve that he wouldn't, that he couldn't, but time to understand that he didn't know how to be alive.

He pulled the cross off him. Looked up at where the sky would be if he could see it through the ceiling. All he could see was paint. There were cracks in it and the edges were peeling away.

I don't believe in you.

He put the cross in the bin beside his bed. It was time to grow up.

::::::

They all looked at him a little differently now. Sarah. Her friends. They were warier than they'd been before. They sneaked glances at him when they thought he wasn't looking. They kept their distance around the house. When they drank they didn't pass him the bottle, as though they didn't want the press of his lips against theirs through the glass. They regulated what they talked about, becoming careful. The subjects were neutral - how good the weather was, and how the summer was going so fast, and how they hoped their reunion next year would be just as good. He knew they were doing it so there was nothing he could jump in on. Making sure that he couldn't say anything controversial. That's how they saw him now. Someone who was just waiting for the opportunity to spread poison.

All the while there was Steven and Amy in her bedroom, and Anne still out with Justin. Still he was in Italy. Still he wasn't leaving, wasn't on a train or a flight back. The idea felt increasingly distant, until he began to wonder if he'd ever really believed that he would do it.

He sat on the pier outside, his legs dangling over the edge into the lake as Steven had done. When he took them out he curled up, made his body small, and closed his eyes. Focused on everything he could hear. Birdsong. The laughter coming from inside now that he was gone. The gentle beat of his heart, reminding him You're here. You're here. You're here.

He drifted away, no longer wanting to be tethered.

::::::

Someone was shaking him.

It was darker now. He was disorientated, feeling not quite asleep but not quite awake. He contemplated ignoring whoever was trying to get to him. Shrugging them off, waiting until they left. But it could be Steven, and it made him open his eyes.

He reeled back, tried to get away. It wasn't Steven, it was Justin, and it had been a long time since Brendan had been woken by someone who hated him.

He was trying to calm him down. Held his hands up in defense, must have seen something in Brendan's face that amounted to alarm, because he was backing off like he was a wounded animal.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, and the sincerity of it was more shocking than anything.

Brendan turned to look back at the house. The lights were dimmer now. If anyone had looked out then they would have seen him sleeping outside, so close to the lake that they could have pushed him in. His reflexes would have been damaged by sleep. He might not have known that he needed to kick up to the surface. To keep kicking. To climb to safety. They might have been tempted.

"What do you want?" His throat sounded strangled, as though he'd woken from a long nightmare and still didn't know how to get out of it.

"To talk to you."

He would rather he'd pushed him in.

Brendan scrambled to get up, tried to walk across but Justin was blocking him now. Brendan knew he could make him move, but the force it would require wouldn't give him any ability to turn back. If he hurt one of Steven's friends then that was it.

"Sit down," Justin said. He must have realised how demanding it sounded. He added hastily, "Please."

He imagined Justin giving a speech he had prepared. That they'd all come together and decided that he couldn't stay with them any more. That he also had to move out of Steven's house as soon as he'd collected his things. That there was no place for him here.

He sat down because he knew he deserved to hear it.

The pier was small, cramped. Not built for two. They rearranged their bodies until they both fit. It had never looked like this in the bed Steven and Justin had shared.

Justin was scratching the dry skin of his elbow, back and forth, back and forth.

"I don't like you, Brendan."

It wasn't the start he'd been expecting. He almost laughed at how juvenile it sounded. An insult traded in the playground. I don't like you. You can't be my friend.

"I don't much like you either," he said, wanting to be childish right back.

There was still that birdsong that never seemed to stop. They seemed to have an endless reason to feel joy.

"But I get it," Justin said, and something was gone from him now, bravado or the short years that separated them or all the things that marked them as different.

"Get what?" It made him afraid. More than if Justin had hit him. More than being drowned in the lake. The idea of someone getting something - anything - about him made him want to run away.

"You and Ste." He let that settle for a while, breathing it out in to the open air, becoming part of it. "I get it."

He couldn't possibly get it. Brendan didn't get it himself.

He gave Justin a questioning look, felt like a lie but it was good to feign ignorance. To give it all his energy, that one look that pretended that he didn't understand.

Justin directed everything out into the lake. It could have been him sitting out here on his own, just saying what he needed to say.

"When I saw that cross necklace earlier it all clicked in to place. I saw it on Ste before. Not just once. Enough to make me really notice it. I asked him about it, because if you know Ste then you know he doesn't believe in any of that stuff. God, or the devil, or sins or heaven or hell. That's not him. But he told me he liked it. That it wasn't about that."

Brendan's mouth was dry.

"It must have been a different cross."

Justin shook his head. "Are you telling me there was never a time when you weren't wearing it? When it went missing?"

He thought back, too curious now to try to deny the whole thing. No, he wanted to say. No, there was never a time. But he knew there was. He'd barely given it any attention before. Things went missing, and it never seemed to matter when it would always turn up again. He'd find it in a drawer or on top of a newly washed pile of clothes, or in the kitchen or lying on the sofa. He'd been so exhausted after working with Terry all day that he had been sure he had just forgotten he'd put it there.

"It was yours," Justin said. "He was wearing your necklace."

Tell him he's wrong. It was a default setting, so strong that to not give in to felt like the harder option. Whenever someone would get too close to the truth - guessing and suggesting and asking without really asking - he'd build an argument against them. He'd invent a story about a girlfriend. Make the accusers feel like they'd lost their minds. Of course he couldn't be gay. Look at him. Did he look gay? Did he act gay?

"We're friends, so. Haven't you ever let a friend borrow something?"

This was an easier route to go down that outright denial. The ever reliable, predictable friends route. Just men being men. Mates being mates.

"Since when have you ever acted like just friends? You've barely said two words to each other since we went away."

"We fell out." It was beginning to sound desperate, this attempt to twist and distort.

"Over what? You breaking up with him?"

He was being mocked. The notion of it made him not care if he hurt him. He was going to be leaving Steven forever. What did it matter?

"It all makes sense now. Ste was acting so... different. All that time that he was friends with Amy, and we all always thought they'd be perfect for each other, but he never went there. And the way he's looked at you these last few days."

Brendan couldn't help asking.

"How has he looked at me?"

"Like he doesn't know if he wants to kiss you or kill you."

Brendan pulled his knees up to his chest, goosebumps peppering his skin.

"You're wrong," he said, but he was tired now, so tired of the lies.

"All that stuff you said at dinner. I understand it now."

He couldn't bear to think back to what he'd said. Couldn't bear how it still lived inside of him, that a part of it always would, because Seamus had meant it to.

"It's fucked up, you know," Justin said. Brendan wanted to hurt him more than ever then for presuming that he might not know. That it could have somehow slipped his mind, how messed up it was to hate the very thing you were. "But not everyone can be free, can they?"

Had he ever been free? When he was seven, was he free then, or did he know in his gut what was going to happen? He can't have, not back then, but still it seemed that it only ever could have ended up the way it did. Had he been free when Seamus had stopped? Or when he'd left Ireland and started travelling - what he'd called it at the time, although it felt a lot more like running. Or when he met Steven, or kissed him, or saw some kind of future that wasn't attached to the past.

Yes. Perhaps that was freedom.

"Maybe Ste was right." He was still talking, like this was easy for him. "I really don't know anything about you."

"You don't."

"But am I wrong about this?" It wasn't really a question, and he wasn't really asking.

Brendan said nothing. He just wanted it to exist, to be out there. The truth. Nothing chasing at its heels or casting shadows over it or snapping it in two.

"I know what it's like. To love someone but be scared."

Here it was. He'd expected this, had planned for it all along, but still he stalled for time. He wanted to hold off a little longer, stay in the story of him and Steven instead of Steven with someone else.

It was only after, in the dead of night when he couldn't sleep, that he realised that he'd forgotten to say that he wasn't in love.

"I hope you'll be happy together," Brendan said, wondering if this was what dying was like.

"That's the whole point. We can't be."

After all Justin had done and stood for, Brendan didn't understand. He couldn't imagine him being ashamed of what he was. It could be his family who were against it, but he didn't seem like the type of man who would listen to them in the face of something he wanted.

He knew he was meant to ask him why - that's what people did, they were curious, they acted like they cared - but he couldn't hear anything else. He didn't want any part in this.

He made a move to go.

"She doesn't want me like that," Justin said.

He settled back down again.

"She..." He'd wasn't sure he'd ever known so much happiness from one word.

"Anne."

He hadn't seen that coming.

"Oh, right," he said, like he'd always known. "You and Anne."

"I've liked her since we first met. She's the most beautiful, alive person I've ever known. Does that sound stupid, or over the top, or..."

"No." Brendan felt exactly the same about someone else.

"I guess I never really wanted to give you a chance in the first place."

He was disarmed by the sudden switch in the conversation.

"Why?"

"Because she likes you. When you started being an idiot I felt... I don't know, relieved or something. Because then I didn't have to like you. I didn't have to think you'd be right for her. But now I've found out about you and Ste, and... I've realised that I didn't need to worry about you becoming a couple. I'm guessing that the dance at Amy's party was all for show?"

Brendan could have told him that he hadn't in fact found out anything about him and Steven. That he danced with Anne because he wanted to. It would have been the ideal chance for him to fabricate a night they'd spent together.

He nodded so discreetly that he wasn't sure Justin had even seen.

"But all I kept hearing about was the great, marvellous Brendan Brady. You'd think you'd solved world hunger or invented the bloody sun and stars. And all because your beard is hot, apparently."

"I can't help who falls madly in love with me..." But he didn't want this love. He wanted to give it all back.

"You can help who you lead on though. It's not because I think I have a chance with her if you set her straight. I just don't want her to get hurt."

"I'll speak to her," Brendan said.

"Just don't mention anything about this. About what I told you."

Justin looked exposed. That's what love did. It took out the shell of you, the armour, and left you raw.

It was powerful, knowing that you had the ability to ruin a person by revealing their secret. It wasn't often that people told him things that they didn't want anyone else to know. It had always been him with something to hide.

"I won't," he said, knowing he wouldn't. He hadn't sought out any similarities between them, didn't want there to be any. But he knew that something united them now: wanting someone and being scared that they didn't want you back.

He stood up, all signs of sleep having left him now. He kept going to the house, past the evidence of the other people who inhabited it. Swim wear was strewn across the ground in an attempt to dry them. Empty cups littered the table. Fresh fruit was uncovered, the skin growing darker in splotches.

He looked back at Justin and wondered if he'd looked like that when he was sitting on the pier. Small, and distant, and alone.

::::::

He knocked on the door to the girls bedroom. He'd gone on the pretense of finding Anne, but he was already anticipating who would be there. He'd never been so pleased to see Amy, but his eyes weren't for her. He looked past her, searching until he settled on Steven. He looked startled, like he hadn't expected for Brendan to find him. But wasn't that what his life was now? Him finding Steven, orbiting around the world he inhabited until the separation of their lives became less defined.

"Can I talk to you?"

The idea of Steven being too afraid to be in a room with him was an excruciating possibility. He'd once courted intimidation and his ability to make other people nervous. Now it repelled him.

Steven nodded his agreement to Amy, and a little of the anxiety eased. She squeezed past him in the doorway, careful not to touch him.

He closed the door behind them, waiting for a sign - a jump or a flash of fear or a slow backing away into the corner. But Steven remained sat on the bed, hands in his pockets and his legs clamped together.

He looked determined not to talk. But that was okay. He had always been the one who told him how he felt and what he wanted. He'd been brave enough for the both of them.

Perhaps all these years of fighting and hating and destructing should make Brendan feel brave, but he knew there was a firm distinction between them. Acting like nothing could touch you, like you didn't fear anything, like your mere mortality wasn't important - that wasn't bravery.

"Thank you for standing up for me back there." He leaned against the wall. It was an anchor, propping him up and giving him something solid when it would be so easy to sink to the floor.

"It wasn't for you," he said, still cold, still so unlike the man Brendan had come to know. But they were weaker now, these words. If it wasn't for him, then it couldn't have been for anyone else.

"Thank you," he said again. Even if Steven was trying to take it all back, Brendan needed him to know that he wasn't. "And I owe you an apology."

"Only one?"

Steven was good at this. Even if it went against the core of who he was - against his heart, against the way he gave himself so openly - he knew how to play the game. Knew how to detach himself completely and make a person feel like they he was waiting for them to leave.

"Many."

He'd forgotten that he hadn't hit Steven. He was about to apologise for the violence, for the pain, and it startled him when he remembered that he hadn't hurt him. Not like that. It had once felt like such a natural thing for him to do, to lash out and not give another thought to the damage he caused.

Instead he refocused, not wanting to remember what he had done, but knowing he had to.

"I'm sorry for the way I've treated your friends." It still unsettled him, the idea that Steven had other people in his life. He knew how - to use Justin's expression - fucked up this was. No one could exist on one person alone. But with friends came the ability for them to make Steven see that he was better than him. Stronger, and purer, and worthier.

"Is that all?" Steven said, and Brendan smiled despite himself, because it sounded like Steven didn't really care about that at all. He was waiting for the real apology.

"I'm sorry for everything." He hoped it captured all of it, but Steven didn't want everything. He wanted specifics, and explanations, and reality. "What else do you want me to say?"

He could tell that Steven wanted to remain stoic. It would have felt like a victory, but neither of them were self-restrained enough for victories. It all came out at once, an endless spiral of memories and regrets and hurt.

"That you're sorry for vanishing the other night and not telling anyone where you were going. That you're sorry for taking Anne home after the party when you must have known what it would do to me. That you're sorry for treating what we did like it was disgusting." He took a deep breath, his eyes red, his pupils large under the artificial lights. "That you're sorry for ending it."

Brendan didn't know what to answer first. This shouldn't have felt so hard after what Justin had told him, but the more you cared about someone, the more you had to lose.

"I didn't know you liked me when I took Anne home." This seemed obvious, and therefore the only clear starting point. "I promise. How could I? You were my employer's step-son. You were always with Amy. You kissed her. You didn't give me an indication, or a sign, or anything. I didn't do that to hurt you or make you jealous."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because that's what I do." There was a hint of exasperation there now. "It's what I've always done. I've always thought that I'd end up married, with kids, and... it's just what people do, isn't it? You're not told when you're a boy that all the other boys will be after you, or you'll be a heartbreaker with the lads when you're older. No one says that. No one even considers it as a possibility. Think of the language people use, Steven. Think of the conversations. Do you think people see that as normal?" He scuffed his feat against the floor. "I pretend I like women because I need to. And then I leave them because I want to."

"And all the others?" Steven said, not deterred, determined not to stop.

"I don't think that what we do is disgusting." But he had to fight back against all those voices that told him it was. He didn't know how to ever make Steven understand how loud and ruthless and unshakeable they were. "I didn't mean what I said earlier. You know I didn't."

"You didn't want anyone to find out about us though."

It was too late. Someone already had.

"No," he admitted. "I didn't. The way you think, it's..." He tried to choose his words carefully. "It's not the way I think. Not when it comes to this. You grew up with a family that you never deserved. You were just a baby, and you didn't choose who you were born to, and I don't think they've loved you one day in your life. I'm not saying that to hurt you or make you angry or..."

Steven shook his head, held up a hand, and Brendan knew what he meant. I know. I know you're not.

"I'm saying it because we know each other, you and me. And you still turned out like this, despite everything. That's like some kind of miracle, Steven."

Steven didn't look like he could link the two things together, the idea of him having anything to do with a miracle.

"I had a mother who kept a photograph of me in her purse and made lunch for me to take to school and who used to sing to get me to sleep. She'd let me cry when I fell over and she'd never tell me to stop, never tell me that I was pathetic or weak. I had that, but I still turned into this."

Steven crossed the divide that separated them, taking Brendan's head in both his hands. In one swift movement he'd pressed their foreheads together, swiping both thumbs across Brendan's cheeks.

"No. You're not a bad person."

"I am." He tried to escape from his hold, but he wouldn't let go. And he wasn't really trying.

"Bad people don't think they're bad people, Brendan."

Steven was giving him a way out. He didn't want that. He also didn't want to untangle himself from this. He'd missed it, ached for it, the feel of Steven's hands on him and the sweet smell of his skin and the darkness of his eyelashes as they were coated in tears, thick and heavy.

"When I'm with you I don't think it's disgusting. It's everything else that gets inside it."

He looked like he understood Brendan perfectly, and he knew that if anyone did, then it was this man.

He could have stopped, hoping that Steven wouldn't notice the unanswered questions. But he had questions of his own now.

"What did you mean about me vanishing?"

"You were gone for hours," Steven said, and he was crying harder now, like he was living it all over again.

"I was fine, Steven. I just needed some fresh air." A lie slipping in again, but Steven didn't need to know that he'd intended to spend the night with someone.

"You were so quiet though. So sad. I thought..."

Brendan felt a pulling sensation in his chest.

"You thought what?" It was masochistic; he wanted nothing more than to remain oblivious.

Steven wiped his running nose with his sleeve.

"I thought you were going to do something."

He could hear the priest at church again. Could hear his father. Suicide is a sin. He had always thought that Seamus used it as a reason to keep him tied to this earth, so he could punish him and he wouldn't have a way out.

He couldn't tell Steven that at one point, he'd thought of little else.

"Why would you think that?" He was alarmed at what he might have given away. He thought he was more controlled than that. But first he was sad, and now he was suicidal, and it felt like there was nothing that he'd managed to successfully hide. Almost nothing.

"Because I almost did something too. A lot of times. And when I looked at you, I knew you had done the same. Maybe that's why I like you. I don't have to pretend. Is that sick?"

Yes.

No. Steven had wanted him to come back. Wanted him to apologise for scaring him. This wasn't a suicide mission. This wasn't two people fantasising or encouraging each other. Just do it. Just give in to it.

This was Steven trying to protect him.

"You can't ever do that. You ever do that and I'll..." He couldn't go there in this head though. Couldn't imagine a world that Steven wasn't a part of. "Promise me you won't ever do that again."

"I promise. I don't want to die. I have this." He looked around at the house, at the lake outside. "I have my friends. And I know that for a short time, if that's all it will ever be, I had you. But you have to promise too. I mean it. I'm not saying you can't want to die - you don't have to lie, not to me, not to anyone. If you want that then you tell me. But you have to promise to get help if you do. And before you say anything -" He kept going, knowing that Brendan was about to interrupt. "Before you start going on about bloody therapists or bloody hospitals like I know you will because you're you - don't. I'll drag you along myself if I have to. I'll take you to every appointment. I'll carry you." He glanced down at his body hurriedly. "Okay, so maybe I won't carry you. But I'll find a way. I'm not losing you."

They were holding each other now, Steven stroking Brendan's hair. Brendan pulled him closer, his hands moving underneath Steven's hoodie and feeling the soft whisper of bare skin. Their knees moved onto the floor in one motion, and they sank down lower, not a collapse but an admittance that they were going to sit there, both of them together, and that's the way it would be.

::::::

"You never talked about the last one."

Steven's voice drifted over, sounding like it did when he had only just woken up. Brendan couldn't work out if it was a false attempt at casualness or if he really had fallen asleep for a few minutes.

"What last one?' He asked, but he knew where this was headed. He'd been trying to avoid it.

"Why you ended things."

It was something that someone in a relationship might say.

"We had to end. I'll be gone soon."

"Soon isn't now. I didn't exactly like picturing us saying goodbye, but when I did it was at a train station."

Brendan smiled faintly at Steven's romanticism.

"Let me guess - a last kiss and then you running after the train?"

He didn't mention the fact that they couldn't have kissed in so public a place.

"Something like that. I didn't expect these circumstances. That talk we had about your dad, and then the way you just vanished." He was silent for a moment. "It's him, isn't it? It has something to do with him."

Brendan screwed his eyes shut, so tightly that it began to hurt.

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Okay." He was amazed at how quickly Steven accepted it. No pressing or forcing. Okay. "But if you ever want to tell me, I'm here."

The carpet felt warm against his back where he was lying against it. They'd changed their positions, going from holding each other to lying on the floor. Brendan had said he'd been getting pins and needles, but he didn't trust himself not to kiss Steven when they were that close. Turns out this didn't feel much different; Steven's fingers were still gliding over his.

There had been knocks on the door earlier, Amy asking Steven if he was okay, and he'd kept giving her the same answer: He was fine. They'd just be a few minutes more, that's all.

It had been an hour now. Dinner was being served in the kitchen. Amy must have told the others that this was a no go area, because no one had ventured inside. Brendan couldn't even hold on to the worry of what they might all be thinking was happening. Especially Justin.

But he reminded himself that technically nothing was happening, even though it felt like everything was.

"You accepted it so easily," Brendan said, knew he was being petty and letting go of something that he'd always planned to hide away, but it bothered him more than he'd like.

Steven fidgeted where he was lying. His eyes were still red and puffy from crying.

"What?"

Nothing he could have said. Forget it.

"When I ended things. You just accepted it. You didn't even argue or fight back or tell me you weren't going to allow it."

"Allow it?" Repeated back, the words sounded harsher than he'd intended. Too harsh for a man like Steven. He wasn't someone who would force anyone. "What else could I do? Did you want me to beg?"

"Yes," he said, frustrated that they were back to taking shots at each other. But indignation was rising in him, making him cruel again. "I didn't think you'd just lie down and take it."

The words were a mistake. A flash of a imagined nightmare came back to him: the idea he'd always had of what a policeman would say to him if they found out about Seamus. Did you just lie down and take it?

"You said you just used me for sex," Steven said, spitting the words and trying to make them sting Brendan as much as they had him.

"I never said that. I just agreed to it when you did."

"Thanks for that. I feel so much better now."

"Steven," he said, trying to make this right again, the way Steven had held on to him seeming less like comfort and more like pity now. "How could you think I was using you?"

"When people tell me something, I don't always look for some hidden meaning." The implication was clear: that Brendan did. "You said you used me. So I believed you. You said you wanted to move out. So I believed you."

That was the problem. When Terry and Pauline told Steven that he was nothing - and they must have, plenty of times, because Brendan knew how these people operated - Steven had believed them.

"I just never thought you would," Brendan said. "I thought it would take a million years to get you to agree."

"And what would you do with those million years when you were meant to go back home?"

"I wouldn't go back."

Steven sat up. Brendan couldn't see him - his eyes were still closed - but he could hear the shift in position. Could feel him looking at him.

"You wanted to stay with me?"

"It's like you said. Wanted. It's all over now." He wasn't meaning to be cruel now. It was just the way it was.

They still hadn't talked about the cross. About all those times that Justin had seen him wearing it.

"Besides, I'm not the only one who says one thing and means another."

"What are you talking about?" Steven sounded defensive now; Brendan could picture him desperately running through the past few weeks in his head, trying to determine what he'd done.

"You were ashamed of me too," Brendan said.

Silence, and then: "Open your eyes."

"Why?"

"I need to see you."

Brendan opened his eyes. Steven was lying closer than he thought, but his hand was no longer touching his.

"When was I ever ashamed of you?" This mattered to him. There was no filter.

"Anne told me." He hadn't intended to include her in this, but he reminded himself that she was a bigger gossip than he could ever be. "She said that all your friends tried to invite me out, but you wouldn't let them."

Again he felt like he was back at school. The other kids were getting party invitations and he was the only one who didn't have one.

He didn't seem so keen to look at Brendan now.

"Oh. That."

He didn't add that he definitely didn't want to spend time with Steven's friends and would have only accepted the invitation because he would be there. He didn't need to know the fine print.

"Yes. That," Brendan said.

Steven looked towards the window like he was contemplating jumping out of it.

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"I already think that," Brendan said lightly, smiling.

"Shut up."

"You mean I'll think you're really crazy?"

Steven reached forward and hit Brendan's thigh. Then he patted it, healing the hurt.

"I only wanted this for us. I knew it couldn't stay like that forever. But I didn't want anyone else ruining it. Or stealing time. That's what it would have felt like. I know that every year I can come back and be with them all. But with you I had no idea what would happen. So I just wanted it to be you and me."

Steven looked ashamed, not understanding that Brendan had felt exactly the same.

"And that's not all." His head was lowered, his lips dry from where he'd been chewing on them. "I was worried about you and Anne being together too much."

"Anne?" He choked out a laugh, regretting it when he saw how serious Steven still was.

"I thought maybe the more time you spent with her, the more you'd get to like her. And then you and me would..." He didn't finish; he looked like he didn't want to revisit the place where his thoughts had once gone.

He looked so embarrassed that Brendan wanted to save him.

"Want to hear something funny?" He asked. Steven looked doubtful, struggling to believe that anything that came out of this situation could be that. "I thought you and Justin were together."

It had the desired effect: Steven broke out into reluctant - and then free - laughter, the lines under his eyes creasing.

"We're both idiots," Steven said, and Brendan had to agree.

"We're both idiots."

They laughed until it died down into closed lipped smiles at each other.

"I don't like Anne," Brendan said. "Just so you know."

"I don't like Justin either. I've never liked any other man but you. I've had thoughts, but... I've never actually wanted to be with anyone else."

"That might not always be the case." He'd broken the spell, inviting the future and all of its uncertainties into the room again.

"Maybe. But I don't really want to imagine anything else," Steven said softly, giving him one of those looks that Brendan had come to know as dangerous, because they would make him do anything.

"It was still right that we ended it." This was the path to stay on. It felt like a mantra, repeated until he knew it by heart. "There's no other way."

"I know," Steven said, although he looked like he didn't know at all. "You'll be gone soon. We'll be going back to our normal lives. You don't have to tell me again."

"I really thought you hated me," Brendan said, quieter than Steven now. "These last few days. The way you left early in the morning like you couldn't stand to be around me. The way we made that deal at the cafe."

"I could never hate you. I wanted to, that's all. I was angry at you. So angry."

"Are you still angry?"

"Yes," Steven said straight away, and then smiled again.

Brendan hid his own smile under his hand, where it rested against his chin.

Steven stood up, stretching like he'd been sat in one position for hours. It was only then that Brendan realised how long they'd actually spent in that one room.

"Are you coming? The others will think we've eloped if we don't come out soon."

It should scare him, what Steven had said. Even though he was joking, it should have terrified him. A year ago he would have hurt him for it. Now he let himself imagine it before it vanished into smoke. Steven in a suit, his hair blowing in the breeze, his skin brown from the sun.

"Steven." He had to say this. "I'm not going to kill myself."

Steven went very still and pale, as though the life had drained out of him just from the thought of it.

"If I'm not around to protect you..."

"You don't have to protect me. That's not your job," Brendan said.

"But how do I know? How can I be sure that you'll keep yourself safe?"

"Because it's like what you said. I don't want to die. Not now."

"Because of this summer?"

Steven looked so concerned that Brendan wanted to be the one to hold his face in his hands this time.

"Yes," Brendan said.

He thought Steven would be relieved by this - that it would offer him some solace - but he put his hand to the wall, steadying himself with it like Brendan had done.

"Don't say that. Don't say that I'm part of what's made you want to live. What about when I'm not around again? Do things just go back to before, with you wanting to do something? Don't put that on me, Brendan. I can't be in Manchester thinking that you might not be alive any more, and that it's my fault."

Brendan stood up and did exactly what he'd wanted to do: pulled Steven closer and stroked his lips with his thumb.

"Didn't you listen to me? It wouldn't be your responsibility. Just like it isn't your responsibility to keep Pauline alive. I don't need you around to keep me safe, okay? What I'm trying to say is - this summer, and meeting you - the memory of it and what it's given me - that's enough. That's enough to keep me safe my whole life."

"Kiss me."

Brendan's thumb stilled on his lips.

"What?"

"We never had a last kiss. Kiss me. Just once."

This was more dangerous than any look. It would never be just one kiss, not with them. Brendan was aware that there was a bed behind them, and that no one had knocked on the door for a while now. They had time. Time to be left alone. Time to do whatever they wanted.

But he couldn't.

"We have to go back out." He'd never been this strong before. Never wanted to be so weak.

He moved towards the door, unsteady enough on his feet to brush against Steven on his way there. He'd always underestimated how powerful it was, the smallest touch, the most insignificant detail becoming amplified when it was someone you wanted.

"Come on," he said. If they didn't leave together now then his resolve would be broken, and this would never end.

But even with his eyes open and the voices of the others filtering through, he still saw that suit.

::::::

He'd never had a meal like it.

In front of him was the person who knew he slept with men.

Next to him was the man he'd slept with, presumably having decided to give up on all attempts at distance.

And to his other side was the woman he'd almost kissed at a party once.

Sarah and her friends seemed to be the only people who were relaxed. Brendan could only guess that they'd been informed that no, he wasn't a homophobic prick after all. That it had all been a misunderstanding.

Brendan swallowed a piece of chicken that he'd been chewing for at least three minutes. Not Steven's doing - his food would never be like this. Justin had made the meal. Apparently Steven had taken too long inside the bedroom, so he'd had to step in. Brendan feigned ignorance.

Now that he knew about Justin and Anne, he felt foolish for missing it in the first place. Justin would hang his arm across the back of her chair. He'd make a few too many jokes and aim them straight at her. He asked her more than once if the meal was okay. Brendan hadn't had a friend in so long that he hadn't recognised the difference in how Justin treated Anne and how he was with Steven. He was amazed by how the mind had the ability to bend to your own agenda and insecurities, even when continuously faced with the truth.

Now that Justin was no longer a threat, Brendan was shocked to find that he actually didn't dislike him.

They cleared up after dinner, Amy and Steven offering to do the washing and drying up. Steven got bubbles from the liquid soap on his nose.

Anne was heading off to her room - she'd playfully complained about not having access to it for a hours - but Brendan stopped her with a hand on her arm. He quickly took it away once he'd got her attention. Perhaps a simple call of her name would have been better.

He beckoned outside. He was surprised by the way she willingly followed him. He'd been waiting for her to cut him off after the way he'd acted.

He could see Justin watching them.

Brendan pulled out a chair for her in the garden. He knew it was something that people often did on dates; he hoped that Anne wasn't thinking that too. He sat beside her, making sure to put an appropriate amount of distance between them.

"We need to talk."

He'd had practice in this. When girls had got too attached before he'd ignore their calls or stop going to the bars they'd vacate, or if he had to he'd see them in person. A short conversation that left them in no doubt that it was over. If he was lucky they'd let him go without causing a scene. If he was unlucky then there would be tears and questions of what they'd done wrong. He despised theatrics.

Something told him that Anne wouldn't cry.

She swung her feet in her sandals. She was so casual that it seemed difficult to believe that he was about to have to talk about this. It was then that he knew that this wouldn't be a short conversation. This wouldn't be like all the others.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, was amazed that it was true. "But I don't see you as anything but a friend."

That word again: Friend. Something he hadn't thought he needed in years.

She was still swinging her legs. Her expression hadn't changed. Justin was right: she was beautiful. Maybe in another life, if he hadn't turned out the way he had, then he could have loved her.

"I kind of worked that out for myself," she said, with the air of finding this exchange entirely unnecessary.

"Okay."

She looked like she was expecting him to say more, but when he didn't she kept going.

"You didn't try to sleep with me that night after the party. You didn't even try to kiss me."

He wanted to justify it - that he had been tired, that he hadn't wanted to rush anything - but he stopped himself. He had no reason to invent a story.

"In my experience, if someone wants you enough then they make it happen. And you don't exactly seem to be lacking in confidence."

"But Justin said you always talk about me."

Anne looked back towards the house, where Justin quickly darted away from the window.

"Did he now?"

"Go easy on him," Brendan said. Why? Why did he care?

"He's not wrong, to be fair. I do talk about you."

"So..."

"So," Anne said with a sigh. "It's not what you think. I just like spending time with you. Don't get me wrong - you're a massive annoyance sometimes. Like this weekend. You can be rude, you can be miserable, you can be arrogant as hell -"

"Okay, I think you've made your point."

"Sorry. Anyway - the thing is, I never have to worry with you," Anne said.

He'd never heard that before.

"Elaborate."

She looked behind her like she was waiting for someone to jump out. He didn't rush her. It was the first time he'd ever seen her look like this; like she might cry or scream or run away.

"I know you won't hurt me."

"Why would I hurt you?" He'd never touched a woman like that before.

She clasped her hands together, her nails digging into flesh.

"Because that's what men do."

This wasn't Anne. Anne was her high heels and her lipstick and her dresses and her flirting.

"You have to promise not to ever tell anyone this," she said.

"I promise," he said, no pause for breath, no pause for consideration, because he knew that sharing a secret like that - whatever the particular details - was like a slow death to the person who had experienced it.

She went on like she trusted him, like she believed he was a person capable of good.

"A few years ago someone..."

She couldn't say it. Didn't need to say it. Didn't need to specify, because he didn't want to make her relive it. But this wasn't about him at all; it was about her and what she needed, and she was wordlessly telling him that she couldn't do it.

"It's okay." He placed a hand over hers, and it didn't matter now whether he removed it or not. For a second he was worried that she'd feel his touch and remember that someone, but she threaded her fingers with his and kept them like that.

"I thought I was over it but I'm not."

He'd once thought the same. That it was something that you locked in a box and never opened again. That if you made that choice that you wanted to forget about it, then it really could be that simple.

"You never get over it," he said. He wasn't trying to hurt her, wasn't trying to make this worse. He wanted to be honest with her. Wanted her to stop feeling that she had to suppress and suppress. That the rest of her existence had to be spent fighting against what had happened. Denying it not just to everyone else but to herself, but still not understanding why it never went away. "You just learn to live with it."

"It's weird. That's how people describe grief. When someone dies, that's what they say. That you never move on. But you just... live alongside it."

"It is a death."

"I know," she said.

Their grip on each tightened. He didn't know if it came from her or him.

"I'd forgotten what it felt like. For someone to walk you home and for it to just be that. Maybe that's why I let you. Maybe deep down I knew you weren't interested. It was safe. You made me feel safe."

He'd never heard anyone say that before. He wanted to live in those words, to carve them into his skin.

"Men don't know what it's like. It's not the same, no matter what anyone says. Do you know how many times I've been followed home after work? Before work? I remember once I was doing an early shift. I had to be out of the house before the sun had come up. I was walking to my bus stop. This man was walking in the opposite direction on the same side of the street. I knew he was going to say something. He followed me all the way to my bus stop, told me that he wasn't going to go away until I looked at him. He called me pretty, like I was meant to feel flattered. Like I was meant to be grateful."

"Did he touch you?" Brendan felt bile rising in his throat.

"I managed to get rid of him. My bus came a few minutes after that. All the time I was thinking that I wanted to shout at him, or kick him, or ask him why he thought it was okay to follow me when I told him not to. But I didn't. I did nothing. I was polite, because I was scared about what he'd do to me if I wasn't. Men... you - you don't have to worry about that. We're told to run away. We're told not to wear a short skirt. Not to be a tease. Not to go out when it's dark. But when are men ever taught that it's their fault?"

He'd heard the occasional story - a female teacher targeting a male pupil - but it happened so rarely that it immediately became a scandal if the rumours spread. There was no scandal with a man touching up a girl in a dark corner of the cinema, or sticking his neck out of the window of his car as a girl in a school uniform walked past, or a man constantly making comments to a female colleague.

There didn't seem to be a scandal about a man hurting another man either. A man exposing himself at the urinals to a bewildered, unwilling spectator. A priest taking a boy to a room where they could be alone together. A father putting his son on a bed and keeping him there.

No one seemed to believe it could ever happen.

"Amy, and Justin... they don't... you haven't told them about any of this?" Brendan said.

"No one knows."

"Okay," he said. He was never going to force her. Would stop anyone who tried. There was relief too, that Steven wasn't involved in this. The possibility of him knowing and not supporting her didn't align with the Steven in his head.

He'd been wrong about her. About a lot of things. He'd looked at this life she had, her parents present and this big house and the money and popularity she had. It hadn't occurred to him that something so monstrous could still happen to someone like her.

"I'm sorry."

He didn't know exactly what he was apologising for - what she'd gone through or that he'd written her off as a pampered princess - but it was all mixed together, so many things to apologise for.

"Thank you." Her lipstick was smudged, and the rest of her face was devoid of make up. She would have been humiliated to be seen like this before. "I want to tell my parents." There was strength there, and resolve, like she was picturing the scene unfolding. "But it would destroy them."

"It would destroy them more not to know you." He didn't know where it came from. It went against everything he'd ever lived by, must be a platitude that was for Anne's sake entirely. But there the words landed, heavy, too late for him to take them back, and it made him bite his lip so his face didn't contort into something hideous in its sadness.

No one had ever really known him, because he'd never told.

She must have noticed that something had changed in him, because she stopped talking. He sat there in silence until he trusted himself again. He couldn't remember ever holding a woman's hand for this long. Not even his mother.

Maybe this was what it was like to have a friend.

::::::

It was their last night.

Justin had looked tentatively over at Brendan when he came back inside with Anne, and Brendan swiftly nodded. He'd expected Justin to ask for the details, trying to work out if Brendan had put in a good word for him. But he'd been telling the truth; he only wanted to know if Anne was okay. He went to their bedroom sober, knowing he'd be driving back again to Crema the next morning. They all took turns in the bathroom, and when Steven was inside Justin turned to him, keeping his voice down like they were co-conspirators.

"You take the double bed tonight."

"I know we've made up, but I'm not ready for the kissing part." It was the first time he'd ever joked about his sexuality.

Justin rolled his eyes, but there was no hint of disgust. No judgement.

"I mean you and Ste."

"Oh."

Sharing a bed with Steven seemed the same as setting himself on fire and both loving and hating the way it burned.

"Go on. You only have tonight before you're back with the parents in law," Justin said, looking one step away from winking. "Just no funny business, alright? I'm only in the corner. A kiss, a cuddle, maybe a bit of tongue..."

So this was what someone knowing felt like.

"Do you think they'll notice if I dump your body in the lake?" Brendan looked through the window, arms crossed, contemplating.

"Come on -"

"Maybe they can play one of those songs you're always dancing to at the funeral..."

They heard the pad of footsteps coming down the hallway. Before Brendan knew what was happening, Justin jumped onto the single bed and lay there, sprawled with his eyes closed, suddenly looking like he was deeply asleep.

"Subtle," Brendan muttered under his breath.

He could smell the mint on Steven's breath from his toothpaste. His hair was standing up at all angles; he must not have smoothed it down again when he'd been taking his t-shirt off. If things had been different then Brendan would have done it for him.

"He went to sleep quickly," Steven said, looking at Justin who'd already mastered the heavy breathing and faraway look that wouldn't evoke suspicion.

"Must be all those fascinating thoughts in his head making him tired."

He got some satisfaction out of the knowledge that Justin must be squirming to get him back for that.

"I thought you were going to play nice now?" Steven said, a hint of playfulness there.

"When have I ever been nice?" Brendan asked, half serious, half matching his teasing.

"You have your moments." There was something in his eyes, something so soft that Brendan couldn't look away from him.

"We should go to bed."

He thought he saw Steven's eyes widen.

"Not together," he corrected quickly. "I mean... obviously together, because we only have one bed. But not together. You know?"

He was babbling. He rarely babbled.

"I know," Steven said.

"Unless... I can sleep on the floor if you want." There was no sleeping bag, but he could grab a pillow and use a jumper as a makeshift cover.

"You're not going to sleep on the floor," Steven said, dismissing it as easily as Brendan had suggested it, coupled with a jutted bottom lip and a roll of his eyes. "Just get in."

They switched out the lights. He saw Justin squinting at them, trying not to be seen, then turning to face the wall when he caught Brendan's eye.

He never forgot that there was someone else in the room. But their bed and Justin's bed felt a long way away, and it was easy to believe that this was like before, when it had only been them.

There was enough space for them to not touch each other. They both lay on their backs, very much awake and staring up at the ceiling. Brendan couldn't remember ever sharing a bed with a man and not having sex with them. But now he would have taken a kiss, would have taken the press of his chest against Steven's, would have taken a finger trailing up and down his arm and making him shiver.

"Night, Brendan."

"Night, Steven."

They both turned their backs on each other, but it didn't matter. They fell asleep smiling.

::::::

"You did nothing?"

Brendan resisted throwing the plate he was washing in Justin's face.

"We're not having this conversation."

Justin shook his head. He seemed genuinely disappointed.

"Not even a bit of under the duvet action?"

"Get out of my face before I throw you in the boot of your own car."

Justin reluctantly shrank away into the next room.

Brendan, having finished with the washing from Steven's breakfast, held on to the sink.

"Give me strength."

The others were all packed up and outside now. He made one last check of the house, making sure he hadn't left anything behind, and then he joined them. Steven looked good in his sunglasses, having asked to borrow them earlier. He was looking around the place, capturing it all in the finest detail he could.

"Another year," Amy said, and the others echoed her: Another year.

"We'll be back next year, right?' Anne said, and the others gave their agreement. Brendan wondered how they could possibly know this for sure, when everything could - and did -change so quickly. He rarely planned anything. He knew that life got in the way too much to do that. But they all had this unshakable belief that they'd always come back together. He didn't know if they included him in that scenario. He imagined someone else in his place, the new help that Terry hired, who would fit in amongst them all and find all of this effortless.

They all decided on the seating arrangements: they'd travel with the same group as before. Except this time Brendan got into the back seat first, and instead of Amy following it was Steven who was right beside him. Steven who buckled up his belt, no going back now, offering him a look - hopeful, tentative - like he hadn't decided if Brendan would allow this or not.

Brendan moved his foot over and tapped Steven's shoe with his own. Of all the things he could have done, this felt like the most unexpected, the most childish, and therefore the most natural. Steven looked down for a second, surprised, and then tapped Brendan's shoe back like it was a game they'd both agreed to play.

Amy climbed in, and Justin and Anne returned to their places at the front. Justin's cassette was back. They all complained but found themselves singing along, except for Brendan who settled for humming the tune when a few songs he recognised came on.

The journey felt shorter going back. Too short. The car was small and could only just contain them. It meant that Steven had to squeeze against him so Amy had enough room, their legs pressed together, their arms in contact throughout. Brendan could have done this all day. The open road, the windows rolled down, and Steven's body touching his.

Justin took it in turns to drop them all home. Anne was first, needing help to drag her suitcase up the stairs to her front door. Brendan offered his assistance, using the opportunity to thank her for inviting him.

"Does that mean you had a good time?" Anne said.

"Kind of," Brendan said, not knowing what he could call it.

Before he could say goodbye - dignified, civil - she threw her arms round him and clung to him.

"Thank you," she said, and he held the back of her head and let himself be hugged.

As he went to the car again he could hear the sound of her parents welcoming her home. He knew from the snatches of conversation he heard that if she ever told them, they'd understand.

"What was that about?" Steven said, quietly as though he thought that if no one but them heard, then he couldn't possibly be jealous.

"Just because."

They drove Amy back next, Steven getting out with her even though she could easily carry her bag. Brendan kept the window rolled down, glad that they'd decided to come back in daylight when he could still see clearly.

"Anne seems happier," Justin said from the front. "I don't know what you said to her, but it worked."

"Are you serious about her?" Brendan said, not taking his eyes off Steven and Amy. "Or is it just for fun?"

But Justin's words came back to him, the sincerity of them, the way they'd been full of awe: She's the most beautiful, alive person I've ever known.

"I love her."

"Then give her time."

"You think I've got a chance?" Justin said, as though this had only properly just occurred to him; a dream that had always been out of reach.

"I think Anne wants what everyone else wants." They were hugging now, the two of them on the porch, the kind of hug where she stood up on the tips of her toes to reach all of him.

"What's that?"

"If you can't work it out then you don't deserve her."

Steven switched to Amy's now vacant seat in the car when he returned. There was only a small amount of space between them. He shouldn't feel the loss of it the way he did.

"Home," Justin said to them both, twisting round to look at them.

"Home," they both agreed.

::::::

A couple of days they'd been away.

A couple of days, that's all, but it felt like they were ghosts walking through the house they'd lived in when they'd been alive.

No one came to meet them at the door. No one was there to ask them how their weekend had been. Neither of them were expecting it; Steven headed for the kitchen to get them both some water, making plans to unpack after. His explanation: it's the worst part, and you should just get it over with straight away.

Brendan grabbed a peach from the fruit bowl and headed upstairs. Something felt unnerving about walking through an empty house. There was nearly always someone here or in the garden. He'd wished for this weeks ago - for it to be just him in Steven, the entire place to themselves - but now that it had actually happened, he couldn't displace the feeling that something was wrong.

He finished putting his clothes and toothbrush away and heard a knock at the door. It made him smile that Steven still thought they were at the knocking stage. He was nervous. It took a moment for Brendan to realise the distinction: that he wasn't nervous because he was scared of him, like everyone else back home had been. He was nervous because he still wanted him.

"Hi," he said, awkward, shy, the easy conversation between them in the car gone now.

"Hi." He'd missed a step; he must have, but he didn't know if it was his fault that it was strained again.

Steven had his hands behind his back.

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay," Brendan said, but he didn't mean it at all. If he thought that Steven would listen then he would have told him that whatever this something was, he'd rather not know.

"I was going to tell you yesterday, but so much happened."

He was making it worse, this long, drawn out build up. He should have just said it at the doorway, before the knock, before anything. I'm with Amy now, or It's not just Justin who's in love with Anne, or any of the other scenarios - ridiculous, but real to Brendan - that kept presenting themselves like a flickering roll of film.

"Tell me."

He had the horrible belief that Steven was going to ask him to sit down, like when someone had bad news to tell you.

Steven brought his hands out in front of him and held one up. He saw a glint of something; silver, as bright as the day he'd got it, secured safely in Steven's palm.

"I have your cross."

He chose to sit down all on his own.

"I found it in the bin," Steven said.

"What were you doing rooting around in there for?"

"I wasn't rooting," Steven said, sounding slightly insulted now. "It was just lying on top. If you want to hide something then at least be smart about it. Put it at the bottom or something."

"You're giving me tips now?"

"I'm just saying." Steven got back on track: "I found it, is all."

"I put it there for a reason."

If the priests back home knew what he'd done - if Seamus did - then they'd try to call on God himself to strike him down with lightning.

Steven sat next to him on the bed, not looking entirely sure that Brendan would allow him to. That's the thing that Brendan had quickly learned about him: he took his chances.

"You shouldn't throw it away."

Now was the perfect time to tell Steven that he'd found out that he'd worn it before. He wouldn't use it as ammunition. He had no desire to. He knew - thought he knew - why he had done it. But he needed to hear it.

"I thought you didn't believe in God," Brendan said.

"I don't. But this isn't about me."

"I told you. I'm not sure I believe in him either."

"Does it really matter?" Steven said, and Brendan wanted to kiss him for it. Steven wouldn't strike him down. Steven didn't think that he needed to be punished. "It's a present from your sister."

He hadn't expected Steven to remember that.

"She'll understand," Brendan said, although he wasn't sure she would. It would be something else to add to the list of all the ways he'd disappointed her.

"If I thought you were doing this for the right reasons, then I'd let you."

"So you're not letting me now?" Brendan said, part exasperated, part proud. He liked it when Steven stood up for himself.

"I can't stop you from throwing it away again the minute I leave this room. But just think about it, won't you? It's you, Brendan. This necklace, it's you. You were wearing it when we first met. It has nothing to do with God or the church. I don't understand any of that. As far as I see it, that's all just a reason to make people feel guilty for doing nothing wrong in the first place."

"I think it's best that you never come to Ireland. Ever."

Steven smiled. "Are you saying you were going to invite me?"

"Not now, anyway."

Steven knocked his arm against Brendan's.

"I think I'd like it, as it goes."

"Oh yeah?" He couldn't imagine that Steven knew anything about Ireland.

As though reading his mind, Steven said, "I've been talking to Amy about Dublin. She went a few years back. She was telling me there's this bridge. It's kind of odd - she said they either call it the Liffey or the Ha'penny. I've never heard of a bridge with two different names before."

It felt odd, to hear Steven talking about a place that Brendan had passed every day back when he lived there.

"She's right. There's a bridge."

"She says it's best to see it when it's dark, because it has these lamps that light up. Apparently it's small - she said it only takes a few seconds to cross - but when you're on it you never want to get off." Steven turned to him. "Maybe we could go there together one day."

"Where did all this come from? All these plans, these..."

"They're not plans," Steven said.

"What are they then?"

Steven stopped, considering. "Dreams. You can laugh, right," - because Brendan had started laughing at the naivety of it all - "But they are. They're my dreams. I don't care how that sounds."

"Most people have dreams of being rich and famous. You have a dream of walking across the Ha'penny bridge."

"With you," he said, as though the rest was insignificant and this was the most important part. And Brendan supposed it was.

"That's a nice idea, but..."

"No, don't do that."

"Do what?' Brendan said.

"Act like I'm something that you want to get rid of. I know you care what other people think. I'm not talking about you and me holding hands down O'Connell Street."

"You have been doing your research..."

"But," Steven continued, undeterred. "I'm talking about us being a proper couple. I can control myself, you know. I'm not about to go and shag you in front of a group of tourists. I wouldn't do that with a girl either. We can kiss when it's just us."

Brendan was torn between laughing at the way Steven said shag, and having the words proper couple play like a record in his head.

"Believe it or not, I like you for things other than sex."

"Really?" Brendan said, trying to pretend this was a game, but he felt his heart beating faster. He wanted to know exactly what Steven could possibly like about him.

"Really. I like just being with you. Doing normal things, like having coffee or going out for a drink. I like just talking to you. Who's going to think anything about that? We'll just seem like a couple of mates."

"A couple of mates who live together," Brendan said, late in realising that Steven hadn't actually said anything about them living together. For all he knew Steven could be planning - dreaming - of getting an apartment with a couple of lads his age.

But Steven didn't react. Didn't look surprised.

"Plenty of mates do it."

"Do it?"

"Not that," Steven said. "Share a place. People aren't going to be paying attention, Brendan. They'll think we're a couple of bachelors, waiting until we find our wives." He said it with derision, irritated by the stupidity of these people.

"And what happens when we never find these wives?"

"We'll pretend we're too poor, too ugly, too stupid."

"Too ugly? That won't be believable," Brendan said, stroking his beard.

Again came the knock of Steven's arm against his own. He grinned at him, his teeth white, his lips red.

"How did you get to be so brave?" Brendan said quietly.

"I'm not brave. I'm just not going to be miserable just to make everyone else happy. I told you, I don't believe in God. There is no second chance. We get one life. Are you going to ruin it or are you going to do what you want?"

He offered him his mouth for Brendan to kiss, his eyes closing, his body leaning willingly towards him.

"I can't," Brendan said. "I can't."

Steven opened his eyes and moved over to the window, the draft beginning to settle around the room. He'd left the cross on the bed. Brendan closed a fist over it.

"One day you'll stop being so scared," Steven said. Brendan didn't know if he was trying to convince himself or if he really believed that.

That's a nice idea.

Brendan could hear the familiar sound of wheels against the gravel, and voices coming from outside.

"They're back," Steven said.

Brendan glanced around the room, looking for evidence of some imaginary wrong doing even though they hadn't done anything.

Steven leaned further out of the window.

"What is it?" Brendan said, smoothing out where they'd lightly crinkled the sheets.

"We have to go downstairs."

"Why?"

"We have to go downstairs now."

Steven was faster than him, propelled forward by a fear that Brendan didn't understand. He followed, trying to catch him up, scared that Terry had somehow heard their entire conversation through the walls.

They were at the front door before Terry and Pauline had come inside. Terry had his arm around her - a sight so unnatural that Brendan faltered on the steps, almost falling. In all the time he'd known them, he'd never seen them touch or hug or do so much as kiss on the cheek.

But if Terry hadn't held on to her, then she wouldn't have been able to walk at all.

"Mum." Steven was by her side, trying to take not only the arm that was closest to him, but the whole weight of her. "Mum, come here. It's alright. I've got you."

But he didn't have her. Terry hit against his hand, brushing him off, and Pauline's eyes were focused in front of her, but she didn't look like she was seeing anything. One eye was completely closed, its colour the deepest black. The placement of Terry's hands made her wince, and when Steven again tried to pull her towards him, she cried out in pain. He stopped, stepped away, the dilemma clear: he'd either have to hurt her himself or leave Terry to do that all over again.

Brendan decided for him. For all of his show of intimidation, Terry was neither particularly tall or strong, and all it took was a push for him to stagger backwards and lose his hold on Pauline. He used the opportunity to support her left arm while Steven quickly took her right. They made their way inside and over to the sofa, the sound of Terry swearing behind them increasing their urgency.

Brendan stood over Pauline and Steven, blocking Terry from reaching them. He wasn't making much sense now, expletives stumbling out when he was - you bastard, I'll fucking kill you - and Brendan just stood there, impassive to this man, but breaking for Steven. He could hear the shake in his voice, the pleading coming: "Tell me what he did to you."

Brendan was ready. He'd been ready for this for months, ever since he'd observed how Terry treated Steven. The irony wasn't lost on him. For all the people he'd ever hit, here was the first one who actually deserved it.

But the beauty of the first punch came from waiting. Anticipation. He loved it.

"Are you okay, Steven?" Brendan said, not looking behind him. He knew that would give Terry the advantage. But he could hear the strangled sobs, the attempt at some sort of connection with his mother that had never been created. And the question dissolved. Of course he wasn't okay. He changed it to something he could answer: "Is she breathing?"

"Yes," Steven said, but he sounded uncertain.

"You tell me if she stops, alright? Promise me you'll do that."

"I will," Steven said, more reassured now. "I promise."

Terry tried to slam against his chest. Brendan held him back with a single hand, using all the strength he had. It wasn't an equal match. He knew he'd win. Knew that when it came to Steven, there was nothing he wouldn't do.

He'd been right in why he'd wanted to end things between them. Steven could turn him into a killer. It just wouldn't be him that he'd be killing.

"What happened, Terry?" Brendan said, and he could picture it all. His chest covered in bruises. Blood leaking from his mouth. His legs lying on the floor, useless, never to be moved again. That last breath, the way he'd beg, wanting to cling on to that pathetic life of his. "Did she try to leave you?"

It had the desired effect: Terry charged forward again, hurtling back unsteadily when Brendan pushed him. He knew that it was the worst thought to people like him: the idea that someone might finally be free.

"Tell them, Pauline," Terry said, sounding exhausted like they'd been fighting for hours.

Brendan stared straight ahead, eyes not leaving Terry as he heard her recount the tale. He could have written it himself, such was the predictable nature of her words. She'd tripped down the stairs. Terry - ever loyal, ever dutiful - had been there to help her. He'd taken her to the hospital. They'd discharged her, apparently branding her as good as new give or take a few days. Brendan didn't know who he was more angry with: the coward in front of him or the professionals who weren't doing anything.

"I'm sorry, mum. I should never have gone away," Steven said, so much pain there that if Brendan could have built a wall to keep it out then he would.

"No, Steven," he said, because he knew exactly how men like Terry operated. "This would have happened if you'd been here or not. It would only be time."

Terry feigned ignorance. He ought to have been more convincing at it, the amount of practice he must have had.

"I don't want to hear it," Brendan said, holding up a hand to silence him.

"This isn't your house." He did it again, charging forward, still patently unaware that he would never get where he wanted. Brendan knew that was Steven. Most of all, he wanted to hurt him. Most of all, Brendan needed to stop him.

This time the force of their bodies together pushed Terry to the floor.

"Put a bit of effort into it," Brendan said. "I'm getting bored here."

"You're fired," Terry spat.

Brendan started laughing.

"You mean I don't have to spend another waking minute in your company again? I'm devastated."

He'd already worked out the logistics. Terry paid him weekly, and he'd only missed a few days worth of pay. He could get by on that. With no rent to worry about, he'd barely made a dent in his savings.

But he could feel a hand on his back, and that same voice. That voice that made him forget about everything else and concentrate solely on this. He'd know it anywhere, for the rest of his life.

"You can't leave."

Without turning to Steven - he didn't trust Terry enough to give him a moment of inattention - he put his hand behind his back until it touched his.

"I'll find a place nearby. I promise."

He didn't know if it was their bodies, close and comfortable despite the situation, or their hands pressed together, or the intimacy of their voices and assurances.

But he could see the change in Terry. The way he was looking at them now.

"You..." It came out as little more than a breath.

"We need to go, Steven," Brendan said, knowing now that Steven couldn't stay here ever again.

"What are you..." Terry was still stupefied. "The two of you..."

Shock was better than the disgust that would follow. Brendan knew he only had a limited amount of time before that would start.

"Go upstairs. Get our things together."

Steven was inactive behind him. Brendan was sure that his free hand would still be holding onto Pauline like he must have done when he was just a boy.

"Steven. Now."

"I can't leave her," Steven said, letting go of Brendan, like holding onto them both would be impossible.

He needed to buy time. And make himself feel better. He heard Pauline gasp out when his fist connected with Terry's face, the crunch of broken bone.

"We'll get you arrested for that," she said. She made an attempt to hit him, wincing when she couldn't lift her arm up high enough to succeed.

He ignored her, finally allowing himself to turn to Steven. He looked wrecked, clutching onto Pauline with as much strength as he had, his eyes full of tears.

"We can't stay here. It's not safe."

"I told you. I'm not going."

Pauline wrenched her arm free.

"Let go of me. I know what you are, Steven. You're one of them," she said.

"One of what, mum? One of what? I'm just me." He was crying freely now, and Brendan hated her more than he'd ever hated Terry, who bore no real relation to Steven. This was his mother, and she was making him bleed for her, her wounds becoming his as he'd carried her through the house.

"You're a dirty queer."

It had been years since he'd heard that word, and now here it was, transferred from the lips of Brendan's father to Steven's mother.

He would have hit her too if he thought Steven would forgive him for it.

He pulled Steven towards him, felt like he was pulling him from the room because he seemed to have lost the use of his legs. Only when they were half way up the stairs did he become alert again, attempting to go back downstairs, because he didn't give up on people. He never had.

"Listen to me. Listen." He put his hands lightly on Steven's hips, making sure not to trap him, but making his presence and his permanence known. "They know now."

"I can still stay." He struggled, but barely.

"She's never going to leave. Never. You have to."

"What do you want me to do?" Steven said, desperate like he needed the direction because otherwise he'd crumble right there on the stairs.

"Pack up everything into my suitcase. There's enough room for both of us. Quickly, while Terry's still dead to the world."

Steven hesitated.

"He's... he's not actually dead, is he?"

"It's an expression."

"Brendan -"

"He's not dead. I swear." Brendan looked upstairs, to where the suitcase and freedom lay. "Now go."

He ran. Brendan went down, appeased by the sight of Terry still lying flat on his back. They had a few minutes if they were lucky, and then he'd have to intervene again if necessary.

Pauline was still sitting on the sofa, looking at her husband with a mixture of love and fascination that someone like him could actually be hurt.

Steven didn't look like her. If Brendan hadn't know they were related then he could have passed her in the street and noticed no resemblance. There was nothing in Steven that he could see in Pauline, either. Not his laugh, or his heart, or anything that mattered. The darkness that Brendan had seen in him - his view of himself and his former doubt that he wanted to live in this world - was a product of her but it didn't come from her. She destructed. Steven reconstructed, building something beautiful out of nothing.

"I feel sorry for you," he said. He knew that she had lost Steven forever. She knew it too.

Steven was downstairs again before Terry could wake up. Brendan wondered how many times he'd thought about doing this. He held onto the suitcase even when Brendan offered to take it.

"Last chance, mum."

It never failed to surprise Brendan, all the ways in which a person wanted to forgive. How they could create scenarios in their head which could never come true. The three of them walking out of here, getting their happy ending.

He hadn't wanted this to be the last memory that Steven would have of her. The black eye, the bruised ribs, the way she was afraid of him touching her now, like he was a disease that was catching. The resolute "No" that escaped. No, Steven, I won't come. Not No, Terry, you won't ever hit me again.

Steven looked at Terry. That had been the last memory he'd wanted: him not being able to say anything, rendered immovable and unable to hurt anyone. He knew it couldn't last.

"Bye," Steven said.

It was the last time he'd ever see her.

::::::

"I can get us a room for the night," Brendan said, already mentally preparing a list of the places he'd heard about. All the places he'd researched before his trip, when he thought he'd have to be discreet about the men he'd bring back. "I'm not saying they'll be five star, but..."

"No," Steven said firmly. "No rooms."

"We can't sleep on the streets."

"I know that."

Brendan hoped he wasn't suggesting that they go back. There was still every possibility that he'd choose Pauline instead, and tell him that there was nothing here for him now.

"I just can't face some anonymous room, alright? I know you'll be there, but..."

"But what?" Was he not enough? Was that it?

"What if Terry finds us," Steven said.

"He won't. He's not following us. He's probably still lying on that floor."

"He always said he'd find me if I ran away. And what about my mum? She said she'd ring the police."

"If she does she knows I'll tell them what Terry did to her. She wouldn't chance it."

This only seemed to make Steven more anxious.

"What if she tells them you did it? That you attacked her, that -"

"Steven." Brendan stopped, resting his hands on Steven's shoulders. "Breathe. Okay? Just breathe for me." He waited until he'd calmed down. "She won't tell them anything. She's not capable. All she'll want to do now is have a drink" - He resisted adding "several" - "And go to bed."

"Don't make fun of her," Steven said, shrugging away from his hold and walking further away from him.

"I'm not."

"She's still my mum. She's not just some drunk. I've never even lived away from her. She gave me a roof over my head."

"Are you meant to be grateful? Isn't that the least she could do? What else are you going to thank her for - feeding you? Clothing you?"

He was exaggerating, but Steven looked like Brendan had just ruined his plan.

"No," he said unconvincingly. "But she was there."

"She was there. I take it all back."

Steven dragged the suitcase along the ground, picking up his pace to the extent that Brendan had to run to catch up.

"I'm not going to apologise for hating her," Brendan said. They were making their way into town, and he noticed that they were attracting curious glances from the locals for their display. He lowered his voice. "She gave you nothing."

"I know, okay?" He stopped so abruptly that Brendan had to be careful not to trip over the suitcase. "I know she gave me nothing. But I loved her, and now she's gone, and I can't ever be happy about that. So just leave it."

"Okay. I'll go."

"Brendan!" He shouted it. Brendan didn't know much Italian, but he was sure the man closest to them was hurling expletives at them. "I didn't say leave. I said leave it. If you even think about leaving me again then I'll throw this suitcase at you."

"When did I ever leave you before?"

"Too many times for me to count. And I really don't want to relive them. Ever. So just come on. Come back."

He didn't need to go far. He'd never really believed that leaving was an option.

"We're going to Amy's," Steven said. "I know she'll take us."

"She'll take you."

"We come together." It was the most casual thing in the world; he didn't even need to think about it. "Hurry up, won't you? People will start thinking we're in the middle of a divorce."

"We'd have to be married in the first place," Brendan said quietly.

"I know."

Married. To Steven.

It wouldn't be so bad.

"I'm glad you made me pack," Steven said, out of the blue. "I would have hated to lose all your books."

"You packed my books?" Brendan asked. He hadn't expected that.

"Of course I did. They're important to you. Cheryl gave you one, didn't she. And they're important to us. They brought us together."

When Brendan thought about the beginning of them, it became harder to think that there would have to be an end.

::::::

Steven was right. Amy did take them. Both of them.

Sarah arranged the chairs in the lounge to make sure they all had enough space. He hadn't expected the audience. It was the first time he'd met Amy's parents, and they were like he'd imagined them to be. Kind. Polite. Concerned about what had happened to Steven. Noticing the red mark that had appeared on Brendan's hand, rather than showing any worry for the man that had created it.

They loved Steven. That much was obvious.

They didn't have much space. They offered them the sofa and brought out a sleeping bag that they used for camping. Clearly they didn't know anything. They didn't entertain the idea that they might not want separate sleeping arrangements.

He could tell that Steven wished it was night time already. The hours that stretched before them seemed endless. Brendan filled them with copious cups of tea that the Barnes family had brought with them especially from home. He found that Amy had a knack for making it. She seemed pleased when he told her.

They took it in turns to go out into the garden. It wasn't as vast or as wild as Steven's. Maybe one day it would be easy, to not think of that house as his own any more. Still it gave them some air and space from the proximity of Amy's parents and their questions. Steven had clearly never trusted them this much with his home life before, and they were interested - and appalled - by the details.

"No more for today," Amy said, cutting through when her dad asked them both when they planned to go back. "They're our guests, not interviewees."

Amy hurried her parents into the kitchen, Sarah having already got the message and retreated to her bedroom.

"They're right though," Steven said when they were alone again. "It would make sense to go back. It's what everyone expects."

"Since when has life ever been about doing what's expected? Highly overrated activity if you ask me."

"Just because you ran away, doesn't mean that everyone else can."

"I never said I ran away," Brendan said, but Steven didn't seem to think that required a response. He was right; this had never just been a holiday or a chance to make some money. He'd been running for years.

Steven leaned forward, head in his hands.

"I didn't think this through."

Brendan couldn't help but notice the pictures that were displayed around the room. Amy and Sarah when they were younger, framed on the mantlepiece. Amy with her dad, both with matching tans. The whole family of four, looking like the Waltons.

"They're letting us stay. That's all that matters."

"Yeah, for tonight. Maybe a couple of days if we're lucky. But they'll be going home soon too. What am I going to do, go back with them? Get them to adopt me? And what about you - are you planning on living in their basement for the rest of your life?"

"No," Brendan said, thinking of how dark and cold basements always were. "I do have some respect left."

"I'm not sure I do." His voice was muffled, disappearing under the shield he'd created with his body.

"I have money."

"I don't. Most of what I made at the restaurant was taken from me. I only have a bit saved."

Brendan didn't want to ask where it went. He was sure he already knew; on his mother's drinks supply and Terry's cigarettes.

"I can give you money," Brendan said, seemed a simple solution, but when Steven raised his head up he was looking at him like he must be crazy.

"I'd never be able to pay you back."

"I don't care." He'd squandered the only valid reason he'd have to keep seeing Steven, but he couldn't think of the money as a loan.

"I'm not going to owe you anything." He was infuriatingly stubborn.

"Suit yourself," Brendan said, already imagining how he'd hide enough cash in Steven's suitcase when he wasn't looking. He got to his feet. "Do you want something to eat? I can ask Amy if there's anything we can have."

"I can't stomach it."

"The chef who doesn't like to eat? That doesn't sound right."

He managed to get a smile out of Steven, but it look forced.

"I'm not a chef though, am I? I'm not anything."

Again Brendan looked at the photographs, seeing one he hadn't noticed before: Amy and Steven. They looked considerably younger than they did now. Brendan guessed they must have been fifteen or sixteen at the time. Steven's hair was different, styled so that it looked like he had a fringe. They were smiling for the camera, their arms around each other.

"You're you. That's what you said to Pauline. I'm just me. That doesn't sound like nothing."

He thought that Steven might argue with him. But he smiled.

"I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

"You'd survive," Brendan said. He was sure of it. Steven was a fighter.

"Maybe," Steven acknowledged. "But I wouldn't really want to without you."

He reached out to him, holding out his hand. Brendan knew that it went against everything he'd said - the importance of distance and the slow withdrawing from each other that had to happen - but he touched it, let his hand linger there for a second. To an outsider it would have looked like a mere swipe of his fingers against Steven's, that's all. But Steven had a way of responding, like Brendan had just given him everything he'd ever wanted.

"Can we go in the garden? Just you and me?"

No. That isn't a good idea.

"Yes," Brendan said without a beat.

::::::

He watched with relief as Steven readily ate a sandwich that Amy had made up for him. He'd already finished his. Usually he'd be picking at Steven's plate when he wasn't concentrating, but not this time.

They'd found a secluded spot in the garden, the only place that was hidden from view of the house and the road outside.

"This reminds me of the house," he said, carefully making the distinction: it was no longer Steven's house. "I found a spot just like this once."

"When?" Steven said. "You never told me."

"You weren't exactly talking to me at the time." He was regretting bringing it up. He didn't like to think back to it.

"Oh," Steven said, recognition hitting him now. "It was when you ended things."

"Yes."

Steven took a drink from the glass of water that rested precariously against the grass.

"And it was in the garden?"

"Right down to the bottom," Brendan said. "You'd really never been there?"

Steven shook his head.

"I always liked being outside. The town, the lakes. I didn't want Terry or my mum finding me."

There was that reminder of them again, that would always be there.

"I like it here," Brendan said, trying to divert the subject again.

"I like it too."

It felt like there was no one else around. They could pretend that they hadn't gone to stay with the Barnes's at all. That they were away from Crema entirely, and anyone who could hurt them. They were in a place of their own making, born of their own ideas.

"I'm sorry for getting angry at you before."

He'd given Steven plenty of reasons to be angry at him. He didn't know which specific before he was referring to.

"About what you said about my mum," he clarified.

They were back to that. He'd been naive to think it could disappear. Knew that it couldn't, and shouldn't.

"I'm sorry too."

"You were just looking out for me," Steven said gently.

"I didn't have the right though. What is it that people say? That you can hate your own family, but if anyone else hates them…"

"Something like that," Steven said, a soft smile breaking through. "But I'd feel the same. If it was you I mean. I already do, about your dad."

Brendan felt like all the air had disappeared from the world, like he always did when he had to talk about this.

"He's dying, Steven."

He hadn't meant to say it. Instantly he wished he could take it back. Everything he'd tried to keep quiet and stifled and submissive was coming to the surface, and he couldn't hold it back any more. He'd been so good at it once. It had been effortless, this ability to deny and control and suffocate.

If this made him more human, then he'd rather be a monster again.

"What?" Steven said. Brendan thought about what Amy's parents would do in this situation. All their questions, all their concern that felt like a steady stream of bombardment. Steven was quiet. Waited.

"I called Cheryl. He's in hospital. Cancer. He probably hasn't got long left."

In his head it didn't seem fully formed. He only heard back certain words. One in particular: cancer, and everything it suggested, and how he'd never thought something so ordinary would happen to a person like Seamus. An illness that spread in you slowly, until eventually it could infiltrate your entire body.

Just like what Seamus had done to him.

Someone else might have apologised. Someone else might have tried to hold him, or tried to find some tissues in case he became a weeping relative.

Steven played with the grass between them. Flowers surrounded them, vibrant and alive.

"Are you pleased?"

It could have been a horrifying question. Insulting. Insensitive.

"Yes," Brendan said. "And no."

"Why no?"

"Because I always wanted to be the one to do it."

He waited for the intake of breath. The shock that would turn to revulsion. The move away from him in haste, back to the safety of the family inside. Back to Amy.

Steven nodded.

"I know what you mean." Brendan could see him arranging his thoughts, trying to explain what he meant in a way that satisfied him. "I'm sure Terry will die an old man. He'll probably get cancer too, or something… what's the word?"

"Unremarkable?"

"Yeah. Unremarkable. And I'll always wish that I had been able to do it. My mum would have been long gone by then."

Brendan didn't want to tell him that he was probably right. That it was likely that Pauline would either die at the hands of alcohol or the hands of Terry. He hoped for Steven's sake that it was the first. It seemed a kinder death.

"You know what one of the worst things is?" Steven said. "She was nothing at the end. Back there, when I said goodbye. What she called both of us." He mercifully didn't use the word. "That wasn't half of what she used to do. She used to say that…" He pulled at the grass. "She used to say so much about me. She was worse than Terry. I would have taken a thousand of his punches over what she did."

"She didn't…" He didn't want to imagine that it could be true, but he had to know. "She didn't do anything to you, did she?"

He'd kill her. He didn't care that she was Steven's mother, not if she'd done that. He'd go to prison. He'd take every punishment they'd give him.

"No," Steven said. "She didn't hit me." He hadn't gone anywhere else in his mind. It was enough to convince Brendan that he hadn't contemplated it, and neither had she. "But I loved her." He said it like he had the first time: like he wished that anything else could be true. "That's why it was worse. And that's why it was so bad with your dad, wasn't it? Because you must have loved him too, once."

Something was lodged in his throat, impossible to get out.

"Yes." His hands were sweating, his pulse rattling. "I loved him."

"He'll be like my mum, Brendan. If you went to see him, I bet he'd be nothing in that hospital bed. He'd be all small and thin, and he'd be on one of those drips. Or maybe he'd have lost all his hair."

"You think I should see him?" He searched Steven's eyes, trying to see if there was an answer there, but all he could see was something so strong and unmistakable that he had to look away from it.

"No. I know I don't know what happened with your dad. I hope that will change one day, if you want it to. But whoever said that we should respect our parents just because we're their children - why? Why should we? Did they ever respect us? If you want to see him, then see him. But if you don't - if you want to let him die without you there - then there must be a reason for that."

Brendan reached a hand out, as Steven had done earlier. He swept it through his hair, imagining where the fringe had once been. If they'd grown up with each other - if they'd both been teenagers together - then things could have been different.

But he'd never know.

"Lie down."

Steven did as he said. There was a readiness there that Brendan wasn't sure he deserved. A complete lack of fear, and more trust than he knew what to do with.

He closed his eyes, knowing what was to come, and maybe he'd already known. Maybe he'd known it the night that Brendan had broken things off; that it would all lead back to here in the end.

A few days, that's all. A few days since they'd kissed, but he felt like they were at that train station that Steven had talked about once, kissing like it was the last chance they'd ever have.

He was doing everything he said he wouldn't do any more. He knew there was still time to stop himself. But he was also certain that this was just what they did, the two of them. They couldn't help it.

Steven's hand was on his neck, pulling him closer, fingers stroking along the skin there softly when he was satisfied that Brendan was going to stay. They were warm from the sun, and they transferred the heat between them until it felt like they would never be cold again.

He became aware of the roughness of the grass against his knees as he climbed on top of him. He could feel it on his palms as he pressed his hands flat against it. But he was restless, all those days that they'd wasted weighing heavy on his mind, and his hands couldn't stay still. He moved them to Steven's face, to his arms, to underneath his t-shirt. There was an instant reaction, Steven letting out a sigh that sounded long-held, his hands on Brendan's back gripping him tighter.

It took all the strength he had to untangle himself.

"We can't," Brendan said, the sound of Steven's immediate frustration sending a thrill through him. He'd never known what it was like to be this wanted.

"But you started it," Steven breathed against his neck, a retort so childish that Brendan should laugh, but instead he knew he had to take the blame. He had started all of this, and it had been up to him to put it right, but he'd been weak.

"They could find us."

It was a stark reminder that there was a world outside of this. A world where Amy or Sarah or their parents could find them. Brendan didn't know if their kindness extended to finding out exactly what it was they did together.

Steven looked at him and smiled.

"You've got grass everywhere."

"So have you," Brendan said.

"In your hair too. Come here."

Brendan obliged, leaning forward as Steven brushed the strands away.

"Better?"

"Better," Steven said. "But we should get rid of the rest."

They inspected each other, removing the evidence. Brendan wasn't sure it was entirely necessary; he didn't think Amy or her family would instinctively think that they'd been kissing in the grass, but it was a reason. A reason to touch each other. A reason to stay here a little longer and talk and think about what they'd just done, and how close they'd been to doing something else. It was disappointing when they'd both finished cleaning each other down.

"If you're angry with me..." Brendan began, feeling like he had to say something, but not wanting to apologise. He wasn't sorry for what he'd done. He could never be sorry for kissing him.

"I'm not," Steven said simply.

"Really?"

"It just made me realise something."

Brendan looked at him, this man who suddenly seemed to exude confidence, and it unsettled him. He'd realised something too.

"We're going to be doing that again," Steven continued, matter of fact. "And again. And again."

"I told you, it's over. It has to be." He felt like he was reciting a speech, no conviction where there ought to be, because Steven's realisation was the same as his.

"You say that, but..." Steven brushed a finger over his lips, tracing where Brendan had kissed him.

He started walking in the direction of the house and then turned back, his eyes bright, playful.

"You coming in?"

"Steven." It was easier to say this out here, in the dark. "It will change one day. What happened with my dad. I will tell you." He'd never said this before. Not to anyone. "Just not now."

He looked like he could take it, this man. He looked like he could carry the weight of it all and still have strength to spare.

"I'll need to be here then. For you to tell me."

Brendan caught him up, leading the way inside. If he didn't he thought they could stay there forever, and every secret he'd ever had would work its way out of him and into Steven.

"I know."

::::::

They waited, but no police came.

There was no knock on the door. No furious demand from Terry that Steven had to come back. No sign of Pauline, full of regret and remorse.

It started to sink in that this was it. They were being left alone.

It reminded Brendan of the day he'd finally decided that he would never see Seamus ever again.

He was caught when he was half way out of the door.

"Where are you going?" Steven asked.

"I need to phone my sister." He was surprised by the complete honesty of his answer. He'd been planning on making something up.

"You can use our phone," Amy said, overhearing.

"No, don't worry." He needed to be somewhere else for this.

Steven looked worried - he'd never been much good at filtering how he felt - but he let him go.

Still Brendan turned back before the door closed.

"I'll be back. I promise."

Steven nodded. His words followed Brendan all the way down the street and into town.

Again. And again. And again.

::::::

He went to the same phone box that he'd found before. Dialled the same number, and felt the same tension pool in the pit of his stomach as he waited for her to pick up.

It took her longer this time. He was about to give up, relieved at the excuse to do so, when she was there at the end of the line, and he knew that something was wrong.

"Chez? What's happened?"

She'd been crying. He could tell.

"He's dead. Dad's dead."

The world was spinning and he had nothing to hold on to. No Steven. No warm press of his body against his, his arms holding him there, allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder.

He'd been waiting for this. Years he'd imagined it, how it would feel, how he'd be told and what he'd say. He'd imagined the elation that would come. The sensation of freedom that would hit and ripple through his whole body.

He managed a stoical "When?"

She gave him the facts: it was last night, late. She'd tried to get in touch with him, but of course it was useless. She knew she didn't have the right number. She'd been the only one in the family at his bedside. He'd asked after him before he'd gone; where he was, what his life was like now. He loved you till the end, she said like this would comfort him, and he supposed it would if this was any other situation. If he was any other person.

"I wish you'd been there," she said. "I waited for you."

She'd always be waiting. Waiting for the version of him that she was expecting to show up, the one who would cry with her. A version that didn't exist.

"I'm sorry." He put the phone down. If this was the last conversation he ever had with her, then he wanted it to end with this.

He couldn't see. There was something in his eyes, and no matter how many times he rubbed at them it didn't go away. He wanted to walk but he was sure it was more like staggering. He heard a distant call of a passer-by, but he couldn't understand them. He couldn't remember the way back to Amy's house. All he could remember was the way to the lake. The lake that Steven had shown him all those weeks ago, not yet discovered and ruined by tourists. It was hidden, private, and he had to find it again.

It became harder to move. He narrowly avoided coming into the path of the cars that passed him. He stuck to the very edge of the road, but still he felt in the way of it all. He didn't belong to this place or to these people. All these trips, all this travelling. It didn't matter how beautiful it all was. He could cope with being alone; he'd been alone for years. But the loneliness was killing him. The idea of getting on another train, another plane, and having no one on the other side who would tell him that this was it. He was finally home. He could stop looking.

He identified the road. Identified the same clearing that led to the lake.

Identified the same man standing there, parking his bike to the side and looking round for something - for him - but he must have got that part wrong, because it was like he'd conjured him up from a dream.

"Brendan?"

He was aware this meant nothing. Even dreams could talk, and walk towards him, and touch his hand.

"How did you find me?" He liked the sound of the dream's voice, the way it resembled Steven's perfectly. He wanted to keep it with him a little longer.

"I didn't. You found me," Steven said. His finger trailed down Brendan's cheek. "You're crying."

"Yes," Brendan said, understanding with perfect clarity that it's what he'd been doing all along.

"You never cry."

He couldn't be a dream. If he was, then Brendan wouldn't have given him any reason to be looking at him like this. He was scared. Scared for him.

"What's wrong?"

He sat down on the grass, Steven following him like they were attached by an invisible string.

"He's dead."

He imagined what anyone else would say to him. I'm sorry or I'm sure it was quick in the end or it'll be okay.

Steven said nothing like that.

He just leaned closer to him, not waiting for permission, not hesitating over whether Brendan would let him, and he took his head in his hands. Brendan moved it against Steven's chest and let himself cry harder, until it was all he could hear.

"I wanted this," he said. "But..."

"I know."

He'd never see Seamus in court now. He'd never see him given his sentence. He'd never know that his father would die in prison.

But that's not what mattered most of all.

What mattered was, he knew he'd never have seen any of that, because he'd never have told.

::::::

They both had grass on them again. Brendan wished it wasn't for a different reason this time.

He didn't know how he was going to walk back. He wanted to say as much, but his throat felt sore, his voice hoarse when he tried to speak. He'd been crying, but it felt more like he'd been screaming.

Steven collected his bike from its spot, easing on with the nature of a man who'd been riding it since he'd been a boy.

"Want a ride back?"

Brendan thought he was joking. He huffed a laugh, the most he could manage, but Steven wasn't going anywhere.

"You're serious?"

"We can both fit on."

As if to prove it, Steven moved forward on the saddle.

"Yeah, if we had another one of you," Brendan said pointedly.

Steven pretended to be offended.

"Are you calling me small?"

Brendan was already brushing off the idea, heading for the road and trying to convince himself that he couldn't feel his legs shaking.

He heard the squeak of a wheel as the bike came to a sudden halt in front of him.

"Stop being proud. Are you worried about what people will think?"

"No," Brendan said. He must have lost his touch at lying; Steven narrowed his eyes at him.

"You're Brendan Brady."

"So?" Brendan said, wondering if this was meant to amount to anything.

"So," Steven said, as though it should be obvious. "Why would you care what anyone thinks? You're better than all of them. You can do anything you want."

There was such blind conviction there that Brendan couldn't even argue with him. To Steven, anything was possible.

"Fine," he said, swinging his leg over the bike and settling back on it until he found a comfortable position. Not easy, given how it definitely wasn't built for the two of them. Steven started to find a natural rhythm that allowed them to move.

"We'll be back tomorrow at this rate."

"Shut up," Steven said, but it made him pedal faster, the muscles in his legs tensing under the strain.

Brendan held on to his waist, watching as the people they passed along the road became smaller and smaller. There hadn't been a breeze that day, but somehow it seemed to come out just for them. He could feel Steven's hair against his face before he made himself pull away. He could smell the shampoo that he used, sweet and sharp.

His hold tightened. It had to, after all. He didn't want to fall off, did he?

::::::

Steven cooked for them all that night. Brendan expected him to be nervous, for some sort of expectation to be there, but he seemed at ease even as he set the place for all six of them. Maybe the trips away at Anne's house had left him accustomed to entertaining. He sampled the sauce that was simmering in a pot on the stove, adding seasoning to it where it was needed. His hands were strong, deft. He whistled. Brendan had never heard him do that before.

They never said anything to each other, but they were both waiting for night to come.

It went according to plan, Steven taking the sofa and Brendan the sleeping bag like he'd insisted. They did it with the air of two people who knew it was temporary. These wouldn't be their permanent sleeping arrangements.

There was a clock in the room. Brendan waited until it struck midnight and then he was up, slipping on his shoes and a thin jumper. Steven looked asleep when he checked, eyes closed and no discernible movement noted, but he knew he wasn't.

The others were all asleep upstairs, but even so he was quiet as he made his way outside. He decided that the crunch of the leaves underneath his feet was safe, and he kept going until he reached the spot he'd discovered earlier that day. When he looked behind him he couldn't see anything but the trees and the overgrowth, but he knew he would come.

It must have been five, ten minutes. It felt longer. There was that similar crunch, but Steven's footsteps were lighter than his.

He was still in his shorts and an old t-shirt, its colour faded by time. He was shivering a little; Brendan took off his jumper and gave it to him.

"Thanks," Steven said, but he didn't put it on. He knew there was no point.

When had this become their place? He thought it had been the lake, but here, now, in Amy's garden, it felt like this had always been for them.

It was going to happen. He just didn't know how.

"I might as well leave soon," Brendan said, to the empty air. "Now that I'm not working for Terry, I don't have any reason to stay."

"Right," Steven said, the sound of the rustling leaves growing louder as he shuffled closer. This was it. This was how it was happening.

"Tomorrow maybe."

"Okay."

A hand on his knee, sliding upwards.

"Or now. I could leave right now."

"You could."

They looked at each other, Steven's eyes moving down to stare at Brendan's lips.

"Or..." Brendan began. He didn't think he'd ever been this hopeful in this life.

"Or you could ask me to stay with you."

Brendan ached at the way he said it: like there was nothing difficult about it. Like it had been the answer all this time.

Steven kissed him, quick, soft, reassuring.

"You know that I will."

"Yes," Brendan said, because he did know, but that wasn't the same as being able to let him.

Another kiss, longer this time. He closed his eyes and forgot to pretend that he wanted it to stop.

"Where would we go?" Brendan asked when he remembered to pull back. It was dangerous. He was allowing himself to imagine.

"Anywhere," he said, but he looked at him like he knew exactly where they would go.

"What about all your stuff? It's all back in Manchester." It only seemed to draw attention to the fact that he wasn't asking about Steven's family, because he had no family left. A flash of pain crossed Steven's face, but he shook it away.

"It doesn't matter. It's nothing important."

This he believed. He doubted that Pauline had filled their home with treasured photographs or presents over the years.

"Your friends -"

Steven raised his eyebrows at him: Really? That's the best you can come up with?

"All my friends are here," he said.

"Your job then." He was desperate to find something, aware that this was all becoming real.

"A dead end job that pays me next to nothing? I don't think I'll lose any sleep over it."

Even now, Brendan wanted to laugh at his insolence.

"Steven, this isn't practical." He wasn't sure how convincing he was being; not when he was pulling Steven in for kisses between his words, unable to stop now that they'd started this.

"Don't you get it?" Steven's lips had moved to Brendan's neck. He sucked against the skin there, carving his own mark. "We're free, Brendan. Your dad's gone. My mum's gone. No one can tell us what to do any more."

Brendan was about to argue - to tell him that his dad hadn't told him what to do for years - but he realised that Steven was right. Insufferably, irritatingly and beautifully right.

"We can't," he said, pulling his t-shirt off while Steven did the same. "It's crazy. It'll never work."

"Yeah, because we didn't survive living together for months." Steven kissed along his chest, his hands grasping his back.

"That's months, Steven. Months. That's not years."

Steven hadn't said anything about years. But Brendan knew that's what it would be. Once they did this, he knew it would never end.

The old fear came thick and fast. What if he destroyed this? What if he hurt him?

He got his hand into Steven's boxer shorts, hearing the instant intake of breath as he held his cock. Brendan glanced in the direction of the clearing, of the house, but it was just them.

Steven wrangled Brendan's boxers down and spat into his hand. They were rough with each other, and at first their mouths matched their hands. Their teeth clashed, their noses knocking together before it gave way to something slower. Steven's head was pressed to Brendan's neck, his breathing laboured like he was fighting to get air into his lungs. They could still feel the grass under their feet, and the birdsong that seemed premature for this hour, and the wet smack of lips where Brendan's mouth had found Steven's shoulder. They came into each other's hands.

They lay down together. Steven peeled his shorts off.

"What are you doing?"

They were both sticky and hot all over.

"This," Steven said, climbing astride him. He moved over his dick in an attempt to get it up again.

Something was digging into Brendan's side. He found his jumper lying next to him, his cross necklace inside its pocket. He'd put it there for safe keeping. He hadn't known why he'd kept it, but now he did.

"Come here."

Steven leaned forward, using the opportunity to kiss Brendan's jaw where his beard began.

Brendan secured the clasp of the cross around his neck.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't need it any more. It looks better on you."

They stayed as they were, kissing until they were ready.

He'd remember everything about that night forever. Steven, flushed, riding him. The necklace shining even in the darkness around them, seeming to tell him with every rise and fall on Steven's chest: We're free.

::::::

He watched them from a distance.

He could tell she was crying, although it was impossible for him to see from this far away. But he knew she would be. He held her, and she stood up on her tiptoes again.

He gave them some privacy after that. It was the least he could do, and they weren't the only people who had to say goodbye.

He'd called her last night, getting her number from Amy. She'd sounded shocked when she heard who it was, and then suspicious. She seemed to think it was a prank call, before he reassured her that he was in fact the real Brendan Brady.

"The one and only?"

He didn't humour her. If he did, it might make him miss her more.

"Can you come by tomorrow?"

They'd set a time, and she came a minute early. He heard the wheels of the bicycle first, her hair in loose curls, her skirt as blue as the sky.

He didn't want a scene. He kicked a pebble that was lying on Amy's doorstep. It had a jagged edge that he could feel against his shoe.

"You've heard then?"

"That you and Ste are going on a road trip and forgot to invite us all? Of course I heard. And I'm furious, obviously."

He didn't know what she thought about it all. He had a feeling that Anne had spent most of her life being dismissed as stupid. Maybe she really did think that he and Steven had formed such a close friendship - despite spending most of the time ignoring each other during their weekend trip away - that they were leaving Italy together.

Or maybe she knew exactly what was going on, but she didn't want to ask.

She cut the act.

"I figured you wanted some kind of advice off me, so here I am."

"Advice?"

"About England. Amy told me you're thinking of going to London. So ask away."

He kicked the pebble out of sight.

"I don't want any advice off you, Anne."

"Okay." She looked genuinely confused. "What do you want then?"

He steadied himself. Forced himself to look at her. If he was going to do this - and he was - then he could at least show some courage.

"To say goodbye."

She reminded him of when she'd told him what had happened to her. No layers. No protection. Just her.

"But you're coming back, aren't you? You and Ste. Every year he comes, and I know that he won't be with Terry and his mum next year, but -"

"Every year," he promised, the same way that he'd promised Steven.

"And we can keep in touch? You'll have a phone set up at that place of yours in London, won't you?"

"Yes," he said, although talking on the phone with anyone was enough to make him want a stiff drink.

"Good."

He was about to tell her to give Justin a chance, but he didn't need to. He knew she would if she wanted to. That if she was ready, she'd work it all out on her own.

And he couldn't even if he'd wanted to, because she flung herself into his arms and made him forget about anything else he was going to say.

He knew that if he looked back at Steven and Amy, then they'd still be doing the same thing.

::::::

She found him at the side of the road, looking out at the view. Steven was inside, saying goodbye to a handful of his friends who had come to see them off. He was wearing a bright pair of shorts, a change from his usual black. Brendan had never seen them before.

"This road taken?"

He pretended that he had to make room for her, stepping aside.

He'd been waiting for this. He knew that there must be so much that she wanted to say to him - about how he was taking Steven away from her, or how he didn't deserve him, or that she knew he was terrified that he'd hurt him eventually.

"I used to think I was doing him a favour," Amy said.

She was talking to the view, not to him. He knew he still wasn't the easiest person to be honest with. He didn't know if that would ever change.

He let her speak, sensing that it's what he was supposed to do.

"Introducing him to my family, making him feel like he was part of it. I'd invite him over every night. Tell him about Sarah, about her life. Tell him that he should call my parents by their first names." She smiled, caught up in the memory of it all. "I thought it might make him happy. But I think I was wrong."

He wanted to interrupt, but he still knew that it wasn't the time.

"I think it just made him more sad. Knowing what he'd never had. I'm worried he hated me for it."

Now. Now was the time.

"I don't think he's ever hated you." He looked at her, and was surprised that he didn't hate her either. He never had. She wasn't competition any more. She was just Amy, Steven's friend. The person who had protected him when he couldn't. "Maybe it did make him sad sometimes. But at least you tried. You showed him what a real family was."

He was bigger than her, taller than her, but he didn't feel it. She felt mighty to him, having access to a part of Steven's history that he'd never be able to see.

"I know what's going on with you two." She said it quickly, like she thought he'd run away if she didn't get it out fast enough. "I've known for a while."

What would he have done before? He struggled to remember, but he'd retained some of it, the anger and the violence and the hate. He'd have threatened her, and made her promise to keep it a secret, and he'd have worked on removing her from Steven's life.

Now he simply stared at her, waiting.

"I'm not going to pretend that I'm completely okay with it. I've never felt like I know who you really are. But I think that you need each other. And Ste would never listen to me anyway. Not about this."

"So what you're really saying," Brendan said. "Is that you're putting up with me because you have no other choice?"

"Exactly," Amy said. She tried to look indifferent, but she broke easily. She turned away before he could see her smile. "Bye, Brendan. For what it's worth - I like you more than the American with the jumpers. But not as much as Lee."

He had no idea what she was talking about.

"Amy?" He stopped her, had to know one last thing.

"Yes?"

"The trip away, to Anne's house. Did you know I was coming?"

She nodded slyly.

"And you didn't tell Steven," Brendan said, the pieces slotting into place. "That's why he came in the end."

"I knew you two would find your way back to each other in the end. You just needed a little help, that's all."

::::::

They went to the lake one last time.

They kept their clothes on, wading in until the water was up to their knees. The cross was on the outside of Steven's t-shirt. He'd developed a habit of playing with it, stroking a thumb over its metal.

They cleaned their faces in the water and kissed. Brendan felt like something had been washed away from him.

They looked back at the lake before they left, knowing they'd see it again soon.

::::::

They were at the train station.

Steven was standing in front of the timetable, scrutinising it while making suggestions.

"We could stay somewhere in the centre."

Brendan closed his eyes at the sound of his voice, drinking it in.

"Anne was telling me all about it. Kings Cross, the place was called. I've heard Pauline mention it before." Strange, how the mention of his mother already didn't seem to hurt him. It was like he'd left it all behind. "Said it's full of ponces. It already makes me like it."

Brendan couldn't see him, but he knew he was grinning.

"In London?"

"Yeah, in London," Steven said, but already it sounded like he was abandoning the idea, entertaining it as little more than a fancy.

He looked entirely unsurprised when Brendan stood up and told him that there might be a change of plan.

"Tell me." Full of hope that Brendan would at last say it.

A train stopped. A family got on to it - one child, must have been no older than seven, and a husband and wife. He helped her with their suitcases. He'd never have a family like that. He let go of the train, let go of the family and that other life. Rooted himself firmly in this one.

"I have to go back to Ireland, Steven."

He knew the train was coming. The train he'd have to take. He just didn't know if he'd be alone on it.

"I understand if you don't want to come. But I have to go back. I have to see Cheryl. And I have to stop running."

They couldn't kiss. But it didn't seem to matter, because they knew exactly what they were to each other.

"So ask me," Steven said.

Stop running. You have to stop.

"Stay with me."

Steven got hold of their suitcase as the train began to draw in to the platform.

"Okay."

They got onto the train, finding seats where they could be alone. They were quiet for a moment as the carriages filled up. They both looked out of the window, their eyes landing on the sign that announced: Crema Station.

Someone - a child, perhaps, or a restless teenager struggling to fill the summer holidays - had written in their own scrawl underneath the sign. It would be washed away soon, but for now Steven repeated the words there.

"Ti amo," he said. "That means -"

"I may not be fluent in Italian, but I think I know the translation."

Steven knocked an arm against his, leaving it there for the rest of the journey. Skin against skin.

The train pulled away. In all the rush to secure seats and in all the noise from the engine, no one heard Brendan when he mouthed it, testing out the words.

"Ti amo."

No one but Steven, who saw his lips move, and knew they were moving for him.