"Put some effort in, Jones," Steve snapped his left fist in Death's Triangle: gut, shoulder, head— thwack, thwack, thwack —and connected every hit. The flurry of south-side jabs put Tommy Jones to the ropes.

"You're hand's still broken, man," Tommy barely got the words out. His lips were set in a rigid grimace that only tightened with each hit. He kept his guard up despite the shots, but his arms lagged under the weight of his bruised, sweaty shoulders.

"And I'm still wearing you out," Steve said. Beads of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and his right hand ached from holding itself up and feigning protection. But seeing the great Tommy Jones run ragged spurred the Leopard into a frenzy. "Come on! I thought your dad owned this fuckin' ring?"

Milton Jones, Tommy's father, opened Left Hook Boxing Gym six years ago after his stock in Weatherford doubled in the late '90s. The home-grown family gym blossomed on the corner of St. Albany street in the midst of Angel Station foot traffic. A mere ten-minute walk from the station, Left Hook was the go-to gym for high-stress businessmen and travelers. That one-room building with drab concrete walls, no AC, and ritual knifings at the pub across the way sprawled into an open gymnasium where the likes of Ricky 'Hitman' Hatton and other greats made their glorious rounds. Even now as Steve and Tommy practiced novice pot-shots in one of the smaller rings, trained professionals and up-and-coming boxers duked it out center stage. Light cheers erupted around the prime stage every time a hit landed only for the weighted thud of leather beating a meaty shoulder to echo back.

Steve heard the clamor and bustle when they first walked in. He got a glimpse of a newbie known well in the circuit, Luke Campbell, laying deft cross-ups to an invisible opponent. The power, the showmanship — the admiration. He played it up for the crowd; over-extending his jabs to play up those cut forearms and his flawless technique. On-lookers and fanboys creamed their pants just standing in the splash zone.

Beautiful sight, really.

And it was all because of Milt's fanaticism.

Steve had never met anyone more impassioned and enthralled by a sport than Tommy's father. He remembered getting roped into all sorts of sparring matches and lessons whenever Tommy invited them to the gym on the occasional weekend or holiday. At first, it was fun—lots of fuckin' fun. Punching his friends as hard as he could with a boxing glove, cataloging his bruises like war trophies, practicing his jabs on the older kids who skipped out of their bets.

But Milt was all about 'form' and 'technique' and 'sportsmanship'—bunch of nonsense that is —and, naturally, cared the least for Steve out of his son's friends. The Leopard's wild childhood, single-parent status, brushes with youth courts, and his painfully obvious German-Jewish roots ruffled the stocky man's Welsh morals. He didn't visibly bristle when the blond showed up, but it was damn close Steve recalled.

"I'm not clocking a cripple, Leonard," Tommy said only to give the taller teen's shoulder a love tap.

Eh, but at least Milt's son was a nicer guy.

Too nice.

"Really now?" A chuckle seeped past Steve's sneer in childish cackles. Again, Tommy's a nice guy. And that's why it's so much fun breaking him. "And here I thought Tom Rutherford Jones was all about equality—!" A deadly hook snapped at Tommy's nose in reply, bending the cartilage before laying the siege on his left ear.

Tommy crouched back, two-stepping to Steve's right in staggered lurches. He kept his hands up now. Attempts to guard came too late in the wake of his swollen cheek and bruised nose.

"Not so grand and proper out the goalie pen, are we?" Steve landed hit after hit in cackling arrogance. He took potshots at Tommy's midsection and relished the onslaught in near-religious zeal. Guttural groans with every hit, the strain of his tendons, molding muscles and bones to his fist, the acrid scent of sweat mixing with fresh blood, the haze of war. Steve wondered why he didn't just enlist now; Give'em an assault weapon and let the beast loose!

But Jones was a stout and hardy man. He took each shot in stride and countered what he could. Steve might've been faster, but Tommy was efficient. He made every single punch and block count; while Steve became fervent and lost sight of the outcome, winning, for the effects, beating someone down bloody, Jones was a devout sportsman. He laid every hit with the intent of ending the match.

Steve's bloodlust made him lose sight of that very goal. He got cocky; he overreached himself and underestimated his opponent. Steve went in with an overhand punch, aiming straight for the right side of Jones' skull.

But Jones went low. He ducked the strike like nothing and slammed right into Steve's core with a solid hit. Jones sent Steve sliding on his heels into the ropes.

Friction from the ropes burned up the blond's naked spine in a tight line of fire, and his stomach nearly split under spasming abdominals. Steve didn't have time to contemplate an aching gut as Jones swung again in a tight, focused arc. Jerking to the right, he missed Tommy's killshot by a mere inch.

Jones gave his all in that swing. It left him prone, his body bent vulnerably, and his hands in the offensive.

Steve took it. He went to lay the kill heavy on an overhand punch while Tommy's head hung low. It should've been clean; a swift, dead-on hit to the side of the head would have put the football star out of commission.

But Steve just couldn't shut the hell up. "Tommy Jones: Maniac on the field, bitch in the ring," he said right before he could make contact.

And wasn't that the damn rub.

Like the hand of God, a deafening clap rang through the gym. In a resounding snap, Jones laid a brutal cross-up to Steve's chin.

Guarding was futile. His left hand knocked with a solid thump into his nose, leaving him dazed and his right hand hanging just below his face.

Jones took the chance and struck again. An uppercut popped Steve's chin once more, catching his fractured knuckles in the crossfire. Smashing straight into the underside of Steve's jaw, his hand wilted in the glove on impact.

The burning ache sent yelps of pain hot out of Steve's throat. His wraps screamed around the searing flesh and throbbed with each twitch of his swollen knuckles.

Tommy dropped his guard and his face crumbled in guilty cracks. "Shit! Steve," Tommy rushed to his friend's side. "God, did it break again? Can you feel your fingers—"

The sound of leather clipping a cheekbone bounced through the gym; the small echo trailed like aftershocks of a divine strike.

Jones' head snapped to the right. A red, shining bruise bloomed fresh and angry over his face.

Crisp, near manic laughter followed.

"Really, Steve?!" An incredulous look on Tommy's face still held the ghost of concern, and Steve laughed all the louder and nearly fell to the ground.

"That was fuckin' classic, Jones!"

"It really ain't funny man, I thought you were hurt," Tommy's cheeks took on a rouge coloring more related to injured pride than body.

"Oh, I am ," he threw off his boxing gloves. The swelling already split the wraps apart. "But it was worth it." Fresh cackles rolled through Steve's gut at the absolutely horrified look in Tommy's eyes. "Oh, fuck," Steve wheezed out with dying laughter. "Fix your face, mate, it'll heal! Danny, get all that?"

A bobbing yarmulke seizured on Steve's peripheral in a bluish haze. His little brother, Danny, had begun shadowing his elder brother from the sidelines in the splash zone. His Talmud homework and transcriptions had been forgotten on the bench. A crumpled bit of paper and a pencil had fallen to the ground, precarious in position to a study version of the Talmud. That ancient monstrosity, the family copy from what Steve could tell, sat spine up on the floor. It was no better than a misplaced sweat rag at this rude conjunction of its long life.

Rebecca will love that.

"What's that move called?! Is it even legal?" Danny tried mimicking Steve's punches in amateur's zeal, but he was worlds of wrong. His form was too stiff, he reached too far, he left his vitals exposed, and every other sin imaginable in boxing. But eagerness was a shot of codeine to pain and inexperience.

Steve knew for certain Danny wouldn't make it a single round in the ring, let alone a real fight. But he still smirked at his brother's wide-eyed prattling and ruffled his locks fondly over the ropes. Hard to believe he used to hate the kid.

"Cheating," Tommy cut into Steve's utter delight. "And don't take notes on' at, you'd get tossed outta the ring like this bastard should." He climbed over the ropes, footsteps heavy enough on the mat and concrete to mix with missed hits, jeers, and callouts in a drum-like rhythm.

"Calm down Jones," Steve pulled himself through the ropes to trail behind the shorter teen. "And I didn't cheat, I faked you out—big difference."

"Yeah, legality is a big bloody difference."

Steve rolled his eyes at Jones' uppity nature. He then flashed a devilish smile Danny's way; the mirrored glint of mischief in his little brother's eye was worth the scolding. "If that Donahue fucker comes at you, catch him off guard then go for that overhand punch I decked Tommy with. No rules outside the ring."

"Steve, come on," Tommy dispatched his boxing gloves and tucked them lovingly under his arm to massage his swollen jaw. "You'll get'em sent to the borstal with that advice. Listen," he took a seat on the bench and ushered Danny over.

The tween barely squeezed next to Jones; his broad frame engulfed the bench in its entirety and only an edge was left for Danny. "If you learn to fight good an'proper, you don't need dirty tricks or nothing."

Steve was ready to cackle again, but it died when he saw Danny's full attention turn to Jones. The zeal that Steve thought was only for him, the way admiration just wafted off the kid like radiation, was fully set on Tommy Jones.

Traitor.

"Could you show me how to do that cross-up? It looked like Steve really had you, but then you flew that beauty outta nowhere! You a big Calzaghe fan? You'd have to be, how else can you go up against a Southpaw at that wingspan and height disadvantage! What about Finnegan? Dad has old tapes of his match with Foster from the 70's, before the detached retina, and those solid hooks you landed that popped'em right in the nose—"

Bright eyes went wide, skipping a scratch on his record-speed babbling, and Danny slipped from the bench onto his feet in a pivot towards his big brother. "Did you break your hand on Tommy's face?!"

The excitement lacing through Danny's voice felt too familiar, but a pride of sorts wormed up Steve's fallen state.

"No, that was—" Tommy began, then his lip quirked as his brainpower stuttered. "Actually, how'd you do that again? Speed bag?"

"You said you sparred and broke it on some bloke's face," Danny's words dulled in a pout.

"Spar?" Worry lines stretched across Jones' forehead in a sheet of scrunched skin. "You broke your hand sparring?"

Steve felt his knuckles twitch. His eyes shifted with the silence growing and pressing down on his shoulders.

He couldn't remember what he told Tommy, honestly. It was a throw-away lie; something he was only supposed to remember for a day, maybe, then dump because Tommy Jones is Tommy fucking Jones.

Alan's mind is a metal death-trap for trivia, his mum constantly pesters him, his therapist can sniff out his bullshit, and Darren… well, Darren's partly to blame for this. In other words, Tommy Jones was not someone he should keep his lies in check for.

"Christ, Steve," Tommy rolled a squared-off thumb and stubby pointer finger along his nose bridge.

The blond shifted at his tone, readying a royal bluff when he damn well knew he only had a pair.

"This is why you gotta keep form an 'all! Proper technique an'form keeps you safe and your hands—"

An internal sigh blocked out the rest of Jones' tirade. He didn't have to explain shit, meaning that Jones' could just—

"Shove it, mate. Danny," he got on his brother's eye level and tapped a flat palm on his acne-crested cheek. "Fight 'good an'proper' like Jones here and you'll get beat up by a cripple. Any chance you get, play dirty. Spit, kick, even go for the balls—and even when they're down, don't stop."

"Solid advice, Steve," called a painfully familiar voice over the gym. The frequency of that single voice cut through all other noise. It sliced through cloth-deafened strikes and gut-turned groans just to seep into Steve's blood. He felt it froth in his veins.

Fuckin' Eric.

That ginger, fuck-faced knob strolled over in casual steps. His hands were wrapped but he sported no gloves. A loose-fit muscle shirt showed off his freckled guns and the dropped arm-holes revealed moderately cut obliques.

Who the fuck was he showing off for, gym rats?

"Oi, Steve," Eric said after some small talk with the boys. "Thought I'd find you here; Darren said this is part of your anger management or something. Never pegged you for a violent bloke, seem pretty chill and all to me."

Tommy went tight-lipped and Danny snickered under his breath.

A quick pop to the shoulder from Steve killed that little twerp's sense of humor real quick.

"Got someone I'd like you to meet," Eric made a side step and produced a centerfold right out of his shadow.

A solid 9 with dark russet hued skin, thick coal-black hair in a french braid, and a gorgeous face stared him down with smoky amber eyes. Her lips were heart-shaped and full; a lot like her tits. Those perfect D-cups busted out of her sports bra before tapering down into a trimmed waist. Not much of an ass, though. She had gorgeously thick thighs and long legs, but her tail bone just dipped off into no-shag land.

Fuck it; Steve was sprung already.

"This is my friend, Nadeen," Eric quipped in, ruining Steve's mental undressing.

She flashed them all a polite smile but lingered on Steve. "You the Leopard?" she asked.

Steve heard Jones stifle a laugh, and he was pretty certain Danny short-circuited with his tit-glazed sight. The nickname was equal parts an ego-trip and a well of deep, overwhelming shame from his childhood.

"Only on the field and in rude company," Steve stretched his arms over his head, flexing his glamour muscles for all their damn worth. "So, you can just call me 'Steve'."

Nadeen's eyes rolled up his chest, stalling just a bit on his well-defined pecs and shoulders. "No," she gave a sly grin, "I think 'Leopard' works just fine for me." Nadeen slid right past the boys, leaving Steve gaping and delightfully revved up.

Eric followed Nadeen with both their bags looped over his shoulders and mouthed 'Brillant, am I right!' to the boys.

Aside from that ginger prat, he got such a delicious view of Nadeen's thighs and legs in reverse. Steve trailed the curve of her thigh up to her hip, and settled on the tight, black-leather gloves she donned. He saw her square up a speed bag like a trained MMA fighter, arse tight and shoulders flexed, and he nearly creamed. If she could land a right hook bare-knuckled, Steve would use his own sweat rag as a chuppah.

Tommy rose up from the bench, sending it up and level again like a see-saw, and tapped Steve's shoulder with his sweaty, wrapped sausage-fingers. "Oi, isn't that Darren's guy?" he asked.

"Wish he wasn't, but yeah," Steve tightened the bandages on his swollen hand, the ache only worsening with time.

"Kinda jacked for a poof, gotta say," Jones' mused, though his eyes trailed Nadeen's speed punching.

"Why you lookin' at the bangers, Jones? I'm gettin' an order of that Ruby Murray."

Jones gagged at Steve's lack of class, but the blond was already zeroed in. Oh, fuckin' beauty she was.

Eric trotted back over to them after a few of Nadeen's sets, a wide grin plastered across his freckled face."Old uni friend I use to sneak drinks for. She's been havin' rows with her bloke," Eric said, "figured you could show her a good time at the freak show. She quite fancies you, so good shot there."

"Freak show…?" Danny came too and his eyes went alight as Steve cursed under his breath.

"You're not going," he killed that thought before it could even crawl out of Danny's puberty-cracked vocal cords.

"I never said I wanted to go, " he settled back on the bench and reached for his Talmud. "I just didn't know there was a Freak Show around, s'all."

Steve heard the downward tilt to his voice, saw his head buried in the Talmud, and knew that he crushed his brother's ego just a bit.

"You gonna keep cheating, or are you gonna do some real moves?"

"Oi, it wasn't cheating! And you won't be saying that shit when you land that move on Donahue's fuckin' fat head," said Steve with a blazing look to Tommy. "See what you do, mate? He goes in with your 'good an'proper' shit an' he's gonna get fucked."

"Don't pin this on me," Tommy quipped back and sat right on the bench again, sending Danny up a good six inches, "it ain't my fault you can't win a clean fight."

Steve rolled his eyes but caught his baby brother's forlorn expression. He was still moping into his homework and rubbing at his bruised shoulder.

Bloody moody kid.

With a click of his tongue and a few throw away Yiddish curses, Steve folded. "Alright," he said, "come help the cripple do a 'clean' row, then."

"M'good here, man," Tommy pointed to his swollen cheek, now a purplish-red and quite angry.

"I can spar," Eric cut in, gym bag on the ground and gloves magically over his wraps. "What are ya? 6'0", 6'1"? Around 12 stone? Bet we're a better matchup than you and Tommy here."

Steve gave only a single nod to acknowledge the sentiment, and one more because, damn it, he wasn't wrong.

Tommy was considerably shorter than Steve and a whole weight class below him. But, again, Jones was a damn machine. He could outbox his division and keep Steve's middleweight arse on his toes.

"I'll even go South to even it up a bit," added Eric with an arm already under the ropes.

"Even it up ," Steve masked a seething bite with a chuckle. "I'll fuck you up the same I did Jones here."

"Alright," with a knock of his gloves on the ropes, Eric back stepped into the center of the ring, "gonna prove that, mate?"

Steve watched the way he pranced inside the ring. He might as well be walking down King Street on a pub crawl, he was that relaxed. No amateur's shifty steps, no deep breaths, no itch to scratch with a few bruising cracks to the ribs. Eric was just there, like he'd spent his whole life undisturbed or unworried.

And Steve would fucking change that.

He hopped back in the ring, Jones' words of concerns and Danny's silent gaze of admiration shelling him.

Eric smiled; it seemed friendly, though Steve couldn't think of the last time an opponent truly smiled at him.

They knocked gloves together at the center line and went off.

Eric stayed with the Southpaw stance, and Steve cursed the guy for trying to make it 'fair.' The advantage to Southpaw, Steve learned right after he broke his hand, is that a good number of boxers at Left Hook can't counter that shit.

Unfortunately, Steve was one of them.

A deft right hook nearly caught him. He sidestepped out of the way, but Eric mirrored the retreat.

"Go for the kill shot and no follow-through?" Steve said, "You always go Orthodox? Looks like you've been practicing the Southpaw a bit, could've fucked me up right proper there."

"Only a bit, and only for the past few weeks. Plus," said Eric, "thought that'd be a nice chance to talk. Get to know each other over a little warm-up, yeah?"

Steve replied with a forward charge to close the gap and a low jab to knock the wind out of him.

"So," Eric said at Steve's side in an instant, like he knew Steve's foundation of footwork before he even laid it down, "Nadeen's really fit, don't ya think?"

Steve was left with his jab incomplete, and a leather glove smashed into his cheek. He staggered away from the impact, more dazed than pained. "Not much in the back," he said with a glance her way.

Nadeen was waylaying into a heavy-duty sandbag now, each hit a clap of thunder mixing with the other trainees' personal storm. He saw a wet shine crown her head and eek down her spine. Her tits bounced with each hit, despite how hard her sports bra worked to keep them down. Still bloody banging, though.

Eric planted a foot back, ready for another hit at Steve's side. "Hmm," he mused with his glove reared back, "sorry 'bout that. Not much for blokes like us—"

A fast, heavy punch smashed the words back into Eric's mouth. The blow glanced at his side, and Steve sneered in the twist that convulsed his form.

But the fucker laughed. Not a laugh to cover up the pain or power through tightening muscles, but a fucking chuckle. "Almost ended me, mate," he said, "woulda been beautiful if it got me dead-center like you did Jones there." A mocking tilt to the words danced in Steve's ears.

Steve could hear his own breathing now. It came in slow, deliberate breaths as he brought himself down.

But full impact caught the side of his ear with a heavy glove and a burning aside: "Heard you and Darren had a spat."

Steve's head snapped with the force and he could hear his hair and blood whoosh with it. "Oi, 'at right," Steve wound up his hook as the rush of his blood settled, "what's it to ya?"

Eric shrugged, jumping back to clear Steve's deadly uppercut. "Kinda fond of him, wanna make sure him and his best mate are on good terms," he said, "'specially with the circus coming up."

Steve went in again, stance wide and his punches quick and erratic. He landed some, and a few even knocked some shine off that fucker's smile.

Eric guarded, playing the defensive for some time. He took the hits as they came and dodged what he could, but Steve's speed and mounting anger seemed to chip away his energy.

"You're still going," Eric asked between breaths, "right?"

"What's with you an' that fuckin' circus?"

"It's gonna be a special night," a feigned grin, all teeth and skin, rolled up the corners of his mouth. "Want Darren there for it, get me?"

Eric's head snapped to the right at the force of Steve's fist. He fell heavily to his side with a muffled groan.

Steve loomed over him, hands at his side, chattering voices in the distance mixing with the burning heat taking over his senses.

There was a stutter in the thunderous sandbags and fits. He heard Tommy get up; he felt a wave of reprimands bubble behind that blockhead's teeth.

Then Eric got up. He planted his right foot on the mat, pushed off it with his elbow, then looked Steve straight in the eye with a gleam. An edge played on his iris, a shift Steve couldn't catch. "Solid hit, mate," he said.

Steve wondered if he knocked something loose in that brain of his. But he couldn't waste energy on thoughts with Eric winding up another hit.

Eric dived back in, doubling up on his jabs like his opponent did moments ago. Steve was to the ropes again just trying to guard. His footwork was matched by Eric at every turn, and every step he tried to make was interrupted by the ginger's own.

"Hope you come," Eric said in the midst of their boxer's tango. "Darren's really excited, but don't think he'll go if you don't. Still a bit jumpy about the whole thing, isn't he?"

Steve landed a hit to his side with a sloppy cross-up. His left hand carried his body forward and knocked Eric a good foot back and out of Steve's zone. "Bit pushy there, aren't ya?" Steve said. "That why you go for the cradle, yeah? Easy to push around and get them in your lap?"

Eric chuckled off the obvious venom in Steve's accusation."Not much for the guys who can't buy their own drinks. But Darren's an exception," he said and retreated further into the back of the ring, "saw him at the library, tutoring some real degenerates, and I knew I just had to get his number. So, I really didn't think about the age difference."

"Real keen on him now and in public, apparently," Steve said with another cross-up.

Eric deflected, stepping to Steve's side deftly before going in for a cruel jab.

Steve jumped out of the way, feeling the air roll over his abs in the aftershocks of what would have been a brutal hit. But his mouth kept going.

"Can snog him in broad daylight and in front of God and Jesus and the whole school, then get cold feet when you're all alone?" A clap and a groan sent shivers up Steve's spine. That was a clean, devastating hit to Eric's stomach.

"Like I said, he's an exception," Eric groaned, face towards the ground and an arm wrapped around his middle. His face and neck were left open.

Steve couldn't keep his excitement contained. He felt his mouth split open in silent cackles, envisioning his knuckles going clear through the side of Eric's face. It would send him reeling on the ground, hacking up blood, belly up in the emergency room drinking blended meat from a damn straw, put him in the ground with a hole in his skull—"

"But you know all about that, right?"

A crack enveloped the gym and canceled out everything else. The room went silent for only a second after that solid punch. Wheather everyone stopped and paused to witness the onslaught or Steve could no longer hear past his thrumming blood, he wasn't sure.

Eric laid on the ground, face up with a bloody nose. But Steve's breathing grew only more rapid and labored at the words hanging over his limp form.

"What the fuck are you talking about," Steve said with a step closer to the man.

"Come on, Steve," Eric coughed and rolled to his side. He extended a hand up to the blond.

When Steve only stared at him, Eric helped himself up with a wheeze.

"Darren's bloody fit," he continued, "he's got the face, the body. He's smart and just a little bit of a weirdo; whole package right there…"

"Seriously," Steve went toe to toe with him, face an inch away from that sickeningly casual visage, "what the fuck are you going on about?"

"You know what I mean," Eric chuckled and clapped Steve on the shoulder, "you gotta know what I mean, you had a go at him, yeah?"

Steve threw Eric's hand off his shoulder in spitting disgust. His mind started spinning in cloying waves and vertebrate splitting heat. "The fuck gave you that brilliant idea, freak?"

It was becoming exponentially harder to remember what Mrs. Fairfield said. If she were here, and considering her mangled hag fingers Steve was surprised she didn't live at Left Hook, she would have chewed his ear off with passive-aggressive reminders and mantras.

But one of her techniques held true: Always remove yourself from triggering situations.

"Fuck this," Steve turned away from Eric and ripped off his gloves, "I'm done with this shit."

"Ah, come on, Steve," Eric said two steps behind, "it's not a big deal. Darren's hot as hell, and whatever you two did was before me and him got together-"

"We didn't do shit, you fuckin' bastard," Steve said at the ropes without looking back at that infuriating face. "Don't know what you heard or what you thought me and Darren did, but we fuckin' didn't, got it?"

Tommy and Danny now stood at the sidelines, strange looks covering their faces. Danny seemed to shrink into himself at his brother's mounting anger.

Tommy shifted on his feet, like a soldier that's been through enough land mines to know when one's about to go off.

"I don't mean to get you riled up before you see'em tomorrow," Eric called, though his swollen face made it sound much more distant and far off, almost like he wasn't there. "You're supposed to have a nice talk; hash things out, right?"

Steve stilled. He seethed a mere step away from the threshold of the ring; one more footfall and he would have been with Tommy and Danny, out of the gym, and back home to help with dinner and spoon brisket into his mouth. The boxing gloves were already tucked under his arm; the wraps were half off; Steve made all the preparations to get the fuck out of there and be a responsible man in control of his damn self.

But that fucking cradle-robber just couldn't shut up.

Steve felt the grin to Eric's words before he even took a breath. He imagined how his mouth stretched over his face, wide and unnervingly happy at whatever fucked up thoughts ran through his head before uttering: "Hope it's a real nice talk, Stephen."

Screaming was all he heard. Animalistic, guttural, and wholly inhuman cries filled Steve's ears for what felt like hours. Pain radiated through his very bones. He couldn't tell which hand was broken anymore; the right and left crumpled in chaotic rhythms like a frantic drum set.

But Steve drove through. The screams pushed him on, goading him deeper and deeper into his own fantasy. He broke himself into Eric—no gloves and no wraps, just a flesh covering over cracked bone. His knuckles became a dyed scarlet, and he even felt them slice on exposed teeth.

But the smell

It was so strong. Steve could taste iron on the back of his tongue and salt thick in his throat from acrid sweat.

Stiff fingers ripped at his shoulders. Another pair, noticeably softer and trembling, dug into his stomach with slim nails from behind.

"The fuck do you know, huh?" Steve heard himself grit back a building shout, "What the fuck did he tell you, what the fuck did he tell you?!" He kept reaching for Eric's throat, only for the hands of usurpers to wrench them away.

Tommy was at his back, biceps hooked under Steve's armpits attempting to hoist the taller up and out of a public battery charge. "You're gonna kill him, man! You're gonna fuckin' kill'em!"

"Good, let him bleed out on the Goddamn floor!" Steve knocked an elbow into Tommy's side, sending the teen back on his arse. He raised his fist again, unrestrained, and went for the misshapen, swollen mass that was now Eric's face.

"Oh my God," cried a voice at his back, "stop, just stop! What's wrong with you?!" It was shrill, panicked, terrified. It reached for Steve's balled fist, and the blond turned, ready to beat down anything else that kept his hands unbloodied.

Then he saw red-rimmed, amber eyes. Blown apart by fear, the wide iris reflected himself in negative: Steve's fist stayed in the air like a paused nuke, spotted flecks over his chest and face, and a look that sent cold blood to his heart.

Just under Nadeen's left eye, nearly smudged out of sight with eyeliner ruined by rolling sweat, Steve stared at three barely-there cuts. They were like shadows, evidence of something left behind that Steve couldn't track down. They even stared back at him; daring, almost mocking him to touch what was once there.

In that second, when a surprising calm rolled over Steve's body, Nadeen crawled to Eric's crumpled form on the floor of the ring.

Tommy took Steve by the arm and pulled him past the ropes, mumbling to Danny to grab their bags.

The boys dashed out of Left Hook into the frigid, blitzing wind of London autumn.

Tommy barked into Steve's ear the entire way to Angel Station, but Danny said nothing.

His yarmulke, gripped in his hands, flapped in the wind in a staccato beat against his yeshiva uniform.

Steve felt his younger brother's eyes on his knuckles. But the admiration was gone. What he felt curl around his form was something Steve knew his whole life. It wrung through Tommy's voice, gleamed off Nadeen's wide eyes, flashed across Darren's young face, froze the passing strangers on St. Albany street, and marred Steve's entire life.

Fear.

Even now, he felt Nadeen's nails at his abs and lower back. Trickles of dried blood stuck to his open jacket. The cold wasn't so bad. Icy wind and tiny drops of freezing mist rolled steam off his hands in a calming haze. It felt nice pretending the anger could dissipate with his dropping body temperature.

And as they left the platform on the 7:00 pm train to Bristol, Tommy looking through the glass from the other side and Danny gripping his bag tight to his chest, Steve remembered.

Of all the faces he'd seen today, of all the looks of utter fear and terror his presence dragged out of everyone in his life, both familiar and not, Steve recalled Eric's smile.

It never faltered, not once. Not when he hocked insults and loaded punches his way. Not even when he tried killing him on the floor. He smiled all the way through. Body bloodied, face destroyed beyond recognition, but yet Steve could still see it.

And that haunted him. Images rolled over the glass in the passing scenery on their unusually quiet ride to Bristol. Pubs crowded with bodies, run-down flats, thin cuts on young faces, bruised knuckles, cement-paced traffic, lights so bright they buzzed in his ears, wide irises wrung with fear, and a smile that cut through the heart of London.

Steve stood outside the Shan residence with hideous Tupperware in hand. It was a cool Friday afternoon, and the last of the daylight hours were quickly dissipating.

Tacky, imitation-blue plastic housed piping hot babka straight from his mum's oven. Steve would have been proud to say that he helped this time, but he was still a disaster in the kitchen. All he really did was the dishes and transport the bread from his mum's to his mate's mum.

The babka kept his hands warm in the autumn chill and his senses alert. A rich and full chocolate aroma mixed with Mrs. Shan's dying lilacs. They'd come back mid-spring, but now only wilted, dull flowers clung to the branches. If their scent was in full, that cloying, sugar-drenched smell on the cusp of his consciousness, Steve didn't know what he'd do.

His hands ached at the memories edging on his mind. If Tommy hadn't talked his father down, Steve would be locked up in a borstal right now.

Whether Eric had told Darren of what transpired yesterday night, he had no idea. And the thought of standing in front of the Shan home, peace offering in hand, only to be denied and turned away sent Steve's heart into his throat.

So, he focused on his mother's baking, heavenly scent and all, and the pattering click of modest heels past the Shans' front door.

"Hello, love," Angela Shan answered with a full embrace around his neck and shoulders.

Steve had to bend his knees inward just so she could accomplish the feat. But he hugged her all the same and practically melted into her touch.

She pulled back, laying a finger on the purple welt along his cheekbone. "Lord," she said, "how hard do you tackle those lads in rugby?"

Steve shrugged away a wince at the contact. "Therapy, actually," Steve said, "an' it looks worse than it is."

"It still looks bloody terrible," Mrs. Shan took him by the arm and lead him to the door, "let's get you outta the cold, at least. And you're not even wearing a jumper or anything, Steve—"

His soft chuckles mixed with Mrs. Shan's fretting. She wasn't as bad as his own mum, but a motherly fear cloaked the teen whenever he visited the Shans'. It felt nice knowing she cared, even if was only for the moment.

Darren and Annie took after their mother, mainly, in both looks and demeanor. All three had soft, rounded features and enthusiastic smiles. And though Darren was cutting up to be a handsome young man, you could always see a bit of Angela in his cheeks and nose.

But that's not to say they got nothing from their father. Both children had Dermot's shockingly green eyes complete with their mum's kindness, and Annie had his strawberry-blond locks and volume.

And, as always, Mrs. Shan looked wonderful. Steve would dare say Mrs. Shan was a proper milf, but that treaded far too close on Oedipal lines for his comfort.

She wore a long-sleeved merlot colored dress fitted around the elbows. It gathered at her shoulders before giving way at the breast and flowing down, a modest silhouette fit for Friday mass. But it nipped in just enough at the waist to give the alter boys a few dozen Hail Marys later.

"Darren mentioned you'd be over, but I thought it be after mass?"

"He said I should just come beforehand," he said, stepping right past the Irish beauty into her modest home. Mr. Shan's IT job kept the family comfortable and Mrs. Shan a crafty homemaker. "Apparently, Father Stalworth likes to hear himself talk, " Steve said with the memory of that one instance he went to mass with the Shans on his mind; dry Jesus-crackers, pensioners, and Father Stalworth's monotone Latin for five hours. Oy fuckin' vey.

"Hmmm, that he does," she said, "Dermot thought we could have a nice dinner afterward, but I'm not too keen on driving into town at ten just for a steak. Think he does it on purpose?"

"Can't see why," said Steve, "I'd rather take you to dinner then go to Temple any day of the week."

"Ah, you make me feel so young, love," she patted his cheek tenderly before going after her real prize—the babka. "Darren," She called, slightly muffled by a mouthful of baked goods with a few quick steps to the kitchen, "Steve's here!"

Steve knew Darren was coming down not by his gait or rapid steps, but by Annie's incessant nagging. They bickered all the way down in hushed tones and heavy footsteps.

"You didn't say Steve was coming!" Annie whined, "I look like a freakin' nun!"

" God, Annie, he doesn't care, and he's not gonna date you anyway."

"I never said I wanted to date him…" The phrase might've seemed cruel, but just how she said it revealed that she had very different thoughts in mind.

Steve heard Darren retch at the statement, though Steve was in an aroused state of disgust—like when you stumble upon your dad's kinky porno.

The brother and sister landed at the foot of the stairs in radically different attire. Darren leaned on the banister in joggers and a faded Dundalk jumper. Annie fussed with the waistline of her dress, a very similar fit to her mum's, but the fabric appeared fraught from constant re-adjustment to lay just right.

What a shame that was. Steve hated to think it, but Annie Shan was damn fine for his best mate's sister. She filled out considerably since entering secondary school, and Steve couldn't stop himself from noticing. Annie didn't wear little training bras that pinched at her sides anymore, but full-cupped ones with lace trim that poked through her t-shirts. Her rail-thin, knobby legs once marred by tromps through the woods on spider hunts thickened up into a pair of shapely legs sporting a round, taut arse. All the beauty puberty brought her, milky cleavage and full hips, undone by a single unflattering frock.

Even Darren covered up the bang-up job mother nature had on him. He tried to hide his toned shoulders and thick legs with a baggy sports jumper and shapeless joggers. But, unlike his sister, Darren couldn't hide. Arms crossed and hips cocked like he was pouting with his whole body, the way he leaned on the banister put those hormones' good work on display. That devilishly thick arse suffocated the wooden railing; his lean-cut biceps pressed under the jumper; sun-drenched stomach winked at the hem's edge.

Steve's throat dried up at the sight. His heart stuttered like the hand of God wrung the organ of sinner's blood. He thought he heard that mighty foot step down in thunderous peril.

His wandering gaze snapped away—as far away from the Shan siblings as anatomy allowed—when that heavy gait broke through his thoughts. Mounting footfalls clad in church oxfords sent prying eyes to the imposing crucifix on the mantel.

It indeed was not God but Dermot Shan, the closest thing Steve knew to a living, breathing Old Testament iteration. That old-school Catholic Irishman could make even the ultra-orthodox Jews cross themselves in Christly terror.

Mr. Shan had gone silver over the years. His once reddish-blond hair of his temples lost their luster and went ashen with muted tones. His face even had been muted by a loss of vitality the world seems to beat down into a hard-working man. Lines creased his forehead and the sides of his mouth, and the infant jowls began to hang from his neck.

But age didn't soften Dermot Shan. Rather, he looked weathered and imposing; the face of a rough mountainside unmoved by crashing ships.

He entered the living room to a wholly feminine welcome. His wife brushed a piece of lint away from his lapel, and his daughter stepped forward with her fingers steadied on her hips and a question on her lips. But his firstborn and only son did nothing. Well, nothing apparent.

Steve was certain no one but himself noticed the rigidity to Darren's stance, the shift of his eyes, or how his jaw pulsed witch each gnaw at his inner cheek.

"Steve," Dermot said, "how are you, son? Break any better?" He gave Steve a firm handshake at the wrist, servicing the damage on the third shake before pausing on his bruised face. "The injuries just keep multiplying on you."

"All nearly healed," replied Steve with a glance to Darren, "break just needs another week or two, a few days for my face, an' I'll be good."

Dermot smiled at his watch, peeking at its face just below his suit cuff. He nodded at Steve's words with each passing second. "Good, good to hear," he turned to his wife and daughter and gave the ritual platitudes.

Angela, you look wonderful, and Annie, that's too much mascara for God's house , and the like.

The comments were taken with a modest blush and poignantly ignored in that order.

Annie was already at the door, clacking at her phone keys —no doubt texting sad poetry rants to her friends in broken shorthand.

"Sure you don't wanna come with, love?" Mrs. Shan asked her son still rooted to the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm fine mam," Darren said with a little hand wave, as if to Houdini them out of sight. "Once a week is plenty for me."

"Apparently not," said Mr. Shan under his breath.

Mrs. Shan gave him a truly wicked side-eye. "Bite your tongue, Dermot," she failed to hide the anger and words behind her hand.

But the father of two didn't back down. "It would do you some good to spend time with your family, catch up with some of the youths, maybe even chat up some of the young ladies."

His voice tipped up at the end, and Steve felt ice slide down his back at the glare radiating off Darren.

"The Evergreens are supposed to attend service tonight, and their little Julia is quite the catch."

"Dermot, this really isn't the time," Angela slung her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand. "Darren doesn't have to go if he doesn't want too, and we're going to be late and hit the rush if we keep pestering him."

"I wouldn't call parenting 'pestering,' Angela," Mr. Shan quipped, " and I know Father Stalworth would love to speak with you about some of these feelings you've been having."

"Right, cause more church and closed-minded sermons is the answer to everything, " Darren said from the bannister.

"More family time and strong community values is always a good thing, young man," his voice went hard, though he didn't yell. Mr. Shan wasn't the yelling type; he was much worse. "Especially in this Godless town with all the crime lately." Mr. Shan, eyes alit and on pause from his crusade, turned to Steve. "Sorry to hear about the boy from Bristol, by the by. Did your da know him?"

"No, but he got a vigil and everything. Even gave the campus a day off in light of everything for mourning."

"Saw the vigil on the telly; beautiful, really. Excellent reading from Romans and Psalms. Hate that it takes such a tragedy to turn us to the Lord, but we do often need Him most in trying times," Mr. Shan's eyes pointed to Darren more than Steve. "Silver lining, one could say."

Steve didn't have to look at Darren to know he was staring right back with fire.

In a flurry, Angela Shan ushered her daughter out of the door. The heavy frame, somehow tiny and delicate in Mrs. Shan's iron grip, laid ajar expectantly for her husband.

"Dermot, " she said from the threshold, "we're going to be late."

Mr. Shan conceded to his wife. He bid his son a wave, shouted an 'I love you' from the door, and car tires crackled over the pavement not a minute later.

Darren's shoulders fell when the thrumming of the car engine stuttered to a whisper. "God," he walked down the steps and passed Steve to make a mad bee-line for the kitchen, "he's such a bloody prat."

Steve, gaze still fixated on the door, asked: "He always like that?"

"You didn't even get the full of it," Darren's voice bounced around the kitchen along with the clanking of mayonnaise jars, milk cartons, and that familiar chiming of wine bottles. "Come here after Sunday Mass, that's when he throws Leviticus and Genesis at me."

"Damn," said Steve, "I take it they don't know about Eric then?"

"God no," Darren said with a hearty slam of the fridge door, "he'd kick me out if he found out I had an actual boyfriend, then crack out grandpa's rifle and shoot him down."

Steve savored the visual for a moment: Dermot Shan, that relic poised in his hands and the trigger set, filling Eric up with lead in a scarlet flurry. Beautiful model, it was; an authentic 1871 Mauser made in 1914 and anointed with British blood in the Easter Rising.

Seemed fitting, watching Dermot Shan take up arms and defend his son from a tommy bastard much like his father's father did in Dublin. It'd be a bloody affair, really. Brains splattered over the driveway, bits of skull embedded in the brick of the house, face muscles and pulpy flesh like fertilizer for Mrs. Shan's new batch of lilacs. Steve had to crush the thought of 'slipping' Darren's relationship status to the good and reasonable Dermot Shan.

Darren, while Steve contemplated, stepped out of the kitchen.

Steve, expecting a bottle or two of Guinness, was reminded of his mate's love affair with Famous Grouse scotch.

Two glasses and a nearly full bottle of liquid amber were perched in Darren's hands. One glass already shined wetly in the light of the living room.

"How fucked are you gettin', mate?"

"I'm just having one to relax, calm down."

"Then why do you have the whole bottle by the neck there?"

Darren glared at Steve, took a stiff swig, and then walked back in the kitchen. He came back a solemn minute later after trading the scotch for a jar of pickled onions. "Since when are you the voice of reason, Leopard?"

Darren settled onto his mattress with the jar already open. He plucked one onion, crushed it between his teeth, licked the vinegar from his fingers, and asked: "So, what's going on?"

Steve shuffled about the room, fiddling with the most recent of Darren's journals. It had only been a little over a week since Steve was last in Darren's room, but it felt longer. The journal, maybe only a fourth filled at that time, was now marred by torn out pages, finished sketches of spiders, and forgotten short stories.

Steve thumbed at the gray pages, making a mental note of a half-empty entry with scribbles and crossed out sentences in censoring ink. "Just wanted to clear up some things," Steve said, "make sure we're okay."

Darren popped another pearl onion, and the soft cracks grated at Steve's ears with each chew. "Really?" he asked. Darren leaned back on his hands and wrists, eyeing Steve expectantly.

A long sigh rolled out of Steve. He sat on the bed next to Darren. His fingers folded in on each other, covering up the new cuts and bruises from yesterday.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for what happened on the field an'all. I just went mad and lost it for a bit."

"Oh, yeah, when you were your old self and we were having a great time before going full Jeykll and Hyde? Last week we literally fell asleep in the same bed, and now you can't even be around me?"

"Look, I was high—"

"Yeah," Darren tossed his head to the side with a snipped laugh, "faded, sloshed, hammered... That's the only way we can be around each other anymore."

"Come on, Dare," Steve said and reached a hand out for Darren's shoulder, "that's not true."

An eye-roll and a jerked shoulder were all Steve got in response.

"What the fuck you actin' so pissy for," Steve said, "you lied to me, so don't act fuckin' above this like I'm the bad guy."

His face went rigid and his eyes crossed. "Above this? " Darren's voice went deep into his Irish roots, something that Steve only got to hear when the brunet was especially pissed. "What're you even going on about, mate?"

"Yeah, yeah," he rose up from the bed and began pacing, "avoid the fuckin' point like you've been fuckin' avoiding me."

"You're the one that left," his voice grew and nearly silenced the jar slamming down on his nightstand. "I came out to you, bared my damn soul, and you popped off and lost your shit, Steve."

Steve went silent. He tried to keep the memories of that night out of his mind then as Darren grew bolder.

"You avoided me for months, wouldn't talk to me or even look at me, but I'm the pissy one!?" Red flared over Darren's cheeks, matching the boiling anger Steve tried to control in his gut. "And just when I think we're all better, fucking Hot Shot Shan and The Leopard again, you flip out, don't speak to me for a week, then waltz into my house battered to hell? And I'm being pissy?!"

"And I'm sorry for that, Dare," Steve said, "I was an arsehole, wanker, stupid, idiot bastard, and I'm really fuckin' sorry for that." He stopped in front of Darren, staring down at his defiant frame atop the bed. "But you haven't apologized for the shit you pulled. Fuck, you can't even admit that you did anything wrong."

"The only 'wrong' thing I did was play along with this," Darren stood, face turned upward to stare him down. "Is that why you came here? Just to scream at me, throw a fit, then drink my beer and act like nothing happened a week from now? Why'd you come here, Steve? Just to act like a bloody knob?" Darren asked with his eyes stern and mouth set. "What's the real reason you're here?"

Fresh aches rolled up Steve's wrists. He'd been clenching down on himself in an iron grip at his palms. He'd forgotten nearly everything he rehearsed early into the morning when he couldn't sleep.

Steve recalled headlights and hollers of drunken businessmen leech through his window; he recalled his space heater's rattling cries and sputtered warmth; he recalled their searing kiss in front of Mrs. Shan's lilacs. But he couldn't remember what the fuck he was supposed to say now.

So, Steve said the only thing he knew, "I remember what happened that night."

Darren stilled. His cheeks grew hotter, and Steve knew full well that Darren couldn't ignore this.

"At first," Steve began and leaned on Darren's desk chair, "I really just thought it was cause you got a boyfriend and all. My therapist said it was because I might be jealous of you two being so close, and because of how angry I got 'round him…"

The memories threatened to flood back into his vision, compounded by their realization into the real world by yesterday's match. Steve gritted them back with another searing clench at his hands fisted around one another.

"Started seeing things, too, even when I wasn't high or sloshed. Thought they were dreams, that I was getting so in my head that I started having wet-fucking dreams about my best mate. The same dream just kept coming back, again and again, even when I wasn't sleeping, and I really started worrying about it all. What it meant about me, about us," Steve's eyes shifted to Darren.

He sat stalk still on his bed, eyes down on the ground and as far away from Steve's sharp gaze as possible.

"Then I figured it out," Steve caught Darren's gaze when the teen looked up. He remained utterly silent in their staring contest, and Steve couldn't gauge what his friend of over a decade was thinking.

"You lied to me," Steve said, "when I asked what happened after I apologized, you forgot to mention what we did in your front yard."

Darren blanched. He turned away from Steve's gaze, arms crossed over his body with his frame collapsing down on himself. He opened his mouth, then closed it shut for thought.

"Yeah, the garden..." Darren said after a moment, "you fell on top of me in the garden, then I brought you inside."

"And that's it?"

Darren shifted his gaze, and Steve saw his bottom lip quiver. "Well, we talked a bit too, and uh…" he trailed off again, searching his walls for something to salvage this trainwreck.

"Just tell me you didn't lie," Steve said. It came out as a plea, and he knew it. "Please, just tell me that I'm crazy and that I'm just having fucked up dreams, and nothing fuckin' happened…"

Darren stalled. Steve saw the words form behind his lips, jaw and teeth sliding in thought, tongue probing at the proto-sentence, but it never came.

And that was all Steve needed. He tried holding himself up on his feet, but his legs became so shaky that he had to fold into the bed. Hunched over, Steve let his head hang into his hands. Somehow the confirmation was worse than his own certainty.

He tried to breathe, but all he could manage were shallow inhales. It felt as if a stiff and unforgiving grip took hold of his heart. It squeezed down, stifling his pulse. Steve felt his heart try to pump but the organ became frantic in the grip; his chest began to collapse and is head grew numb while his heart drowned in stagnant blood.

"Hey, hey," Darren slung an arm around Steve's neck and tried to comfort him. His hand smoothed over Steve's wild locks, catching in the tangles and gently easing them out in calming strokes. "It's okay," he said, "we're okay, Steve."

Steve didn't realize that he had begun shaking. Feeling Darren flush at his side, how strong and solid he was, only exacerbated his trembling frame. He had to steady his mouth before speaking, but even then the words shook in the air. "How'd it happen?"

Darren stalled, and Steve could see how he ran the words through his mind first before attempting to speak. "Well, you called," he began, "but you were so sloppy and drunk I couldn't understand you. Guess I just knew you'd be over, or at the very least you'd be out on the street and probably get yourself killed, so I went outside and there you were—stumbling, barely standing up, giant drunk baby that you are, and I went to hold you up. You caught me in a hug, we fell down, and you kept crying stuff in Yiddish and I just didn't know what to do…"

"Did I—fuck," Steve chocked on the mere thought, "did I fuckin' force you—"

Darren's eyes went wide, and a shocked glint to their emerald hue had Steve spinning in his own mind. He shook his head and tried cutting back Steve's mental spiral with rushed words, but he was already frantic.

"I'm just like him, Dare," Steve bit back a sob that burned all the way up his throat. The twisting memories felt too real, too vivid as if he was watching a rerun on the telly.

He saw his dad's hands wrung around his mum's neck, then his own young hands around Darren's with the same words slicing through his teeth: You can't leave me!

"He hurt my mum," Steve choked, "and I hurt you—"

Strong arms folded around Steve's shoulders. "You didn't hurt me," Darren said, "you haven't hurt me since we were kids, and I don't blame you for that or anything."

His face, tucked by Darren's own accord, found comfort in the brunet's tanned neck. The weight of Darren's body pressed him down into the mattress and anchored him to the real world. Pained and trembling fingers took the smaller man into his lap. Steve held Darren around the waist and flush to his chest in a perfect ache.

"It's my fault," Darren breathed into Steve's hair, "you looked so afraid… kinda, like you do now," he chuckled the last bit, his lips brushing on the crown of platinum strands.

Darren was so warm, so firm against Steve, and curled so perfectly around him. He held onto his best mate, ran a hand through his hair and breathed in that damn intoxicating mix of lilacs and sweat and London green.

"But the real messed up part," Darren sighed as he rubbed small circles into the base of Steve's neck. "I was so happy, Steve. Just seeing you, being near you, holding you, knowing you didn't hate me—I was so happy, and I didn't know what to do."

Steve felt the voice-crack temper that Dublin-smooth speech. Somehow it embolded him, hearing the teen break apart like Steve was.

"You were so drunk, and I just kissed you without even thinking—"

"I'm not drunk now," Steve said.

Before Darren could say another word or register Steve's sliding grip on his thighs, the blond surged up.

Scotch and vinegar lingered on Darren's lips, a cocktail that Steve could still taste in faint whispers. Their soft press, Darren's lips caught in Steve's, lasted for a few seconds before it had to end.

Darren pulled away, craning his neck away only for Steve to follow with his hands rooted into the other's back.

"Steve…?" Darren pushed against his friend's shoulders, but that did nothing to stop their rising need.

In a slow dip, Steve stole him again. He locked onto Darren's plush bottom lip, rolling the softness in and out of his mouth in growing hunger.

Darren moaned into the kiss, want and lust vibrating his body.

Steve needed more than a taste. He needed something deeper and real that he could cling onto as his sanity burned away. This wasn't some fogged up memory or a hazy dream, but a real moment. This was Darren's mouth pressed to his own; these were Darren's thighs straddled across his lap; this was Darren, his best friend since their tender years flushed and rosy under his touch.

Though he kissed Steve back with just as much hunger, he cut their coupling short once more. He stared at the wall, his eyes darkened over in glassy pools, unable to meet Steve's relentless gaze. "We-we can't do this, Steve," he started out in a murmur, "I'm with Eric an-"

"We're not doing anything," Steve said, huskier than he intended, "you're just helping me figure this out, yeah?" He dove back in with a harsher bent. He sucked Darren's bottom lip between his own, biting down on the flesh in a soft hold.

The moan that rolled out of Darren's toned chest reverberated down into Steve's bones. The blond slipped his tongue past those parted lips and mapped out the hot interior of Darren's mouth. Wet slips of tongue mixed with intermittent moans, the soft pecks and hungry, rustling grabs at flexed arms and muscles underneath t-shirts bloomed around the pair.

They slid against one another, curled inside the other's mouth, tasted each other for everything they had to offer. For how Darren protested earlier, he pawed at Steve's arms and shoulders with such fervor that it sent the blond spinning.

Before Steve realized it, he pinned Darren underneath his body. With his hands gripping at those built thighs and narrow hips, he savored the warm, pliant feel and how it gave beneath his fingers. He massaged the flesh and savored the rich, needy groans it pulled from Darren.

But his hands weren't the only explorers. After pulling away for breath, Steve trailed sloppy kisses down Darren's burning neck. He dragged his tongue along a vein, pausing to suck a faint bruise on the pulse.

Darren uttered a breathless cry. He canted his hips upwards, rocking Steve's pelvis. The blond barred down and rutted right back, dragging yet another stuttered gasp from the lean football star.

"W-wait, Steve, please," he tried rolling out from underneath him, but only succeeded in flipping onto his stomach. "We're not thinkin', I have a boyfriend and you don't really want this."

In reply, Steve rolled his growing want into Darren's open legs. A deep rumbled groan fell from his lips. "Fuck, please, Darren," Steve breathed into his ear, "just do this for me, please."

That soft plea, far too soft from the likes of Steve Leonard, melted the boy down to his wick.

They fell back into each other, lost in a mass of open arms and tangled legs and adventurous mouths. Somewhere, in their heated mixing, Steve heard the clinking of his belt buckle and shifting leather. His belt was tossed to the floor, dead and useless, as Darren freed himself of his pants, laying in nothing but his boxers and jumper under his friend's heavy body.

Steve's pants, though loosed around his hips, grew suffocating at his crotch. He palmed himself through the jeans, hissing into Darren's mouth as the heel of his hand dragged the zipper over his head.

Desperate to ease that burning ache in his stomach, Steve pressed himself down into Darren's open legs.

A high, boner-popping keen wrung up Steve's back in desperate scratches. Darren clung to him as Steve rutted their clothed hard-ons together. But it wasn't enough. Even the pressure, the friction, the burn crawling up his cock and pooling in his stomach just wasn't enough.

"Turn around for me," Steve breathed.

Darren, mouth red and swollen from their harsh snogging, stared up at his friend. He opened his mouth to say something, but Steve sensed protest.

He silenced Darren with a swipe of his tongue and a harsh bite at his bottom lip. "Lemme fuckin' touch you," Steve inhaled Darren's rich scent, making his cock jump and lips stutter, "God, want you to fuckin' touch me." He pulled his cock out and pumped himself beyond rock hard. Steve lowered himself again, catching the flesh of Darren's inner thigh on the head.

They both nearly cried from the contact.

Darren melted again. He fell onto his side, sinking into the mattress and slipping his briefs down to his ankles so Steve could spoon and rut his cock into the softness of his thighs and arse.

Steve slipped behind him and pressed soft gratitudes into the conjunction of his neck. He kneaded at the swell of Darren's body, digging his fingers in and savoring how he bent under his touch.

Steve let the head of his cock, dripping with want, graze at a taut inner thigh.

Darren struggled to fight back a moan, but that only encouraged Steve more.

The cut head of his dick rubbed Darren down. Pre-cum slicked him up and buried them both in a wet heat. With each desperate grind, Darren squirmed and whimpered at the small grazes teasing him.

"God," Darren groaned, and Steve saw him bite down on a knuckle and grip the sheets, "between my thighs, put it between my thighs."

Steve spread his hands over the tops of Darren's legs and pressed down. He snapped his hips forward, and bit back his own moan at the tightness flush around his cock.

Darren squeezed back. Steve had to clutch at his friend's hips to stop from coming undone on the spot. His balls rested just below Darren's arse, his cock nestled between the entirety of those thick thighs. The head poked out, flush with the underside of Darren's wet, throbbing shaft. Steve thrusted his hips forward and grit his teeth at the drag. He did it again, grabbing a handful of Darren's arse and lifting the muscle to watch himself disappear into that pliant body over and over again.

The pace was irregular and fumbling with an inexperienced touch. Steve's brutal thrusts at the beginning dragged him to the edge before he'd lose control and slip. He'd swing his hips out too far before going back in too fast, popping out from between Darren's thighs and leaving his cock untouched for far too long.

It was after the third time and a few dozen fercockts from Steve that Darren reached between their bodies. He gripped Steve around the base and guided him back inside, nestling his cock flush with Steve's.

"S-slowly," Darren sucked in a breath at the new contact, "just go slowly, yeah?"

Steve rolled his hips forward in reply. The motion was gentle, purposeful, and so damn good. They groaned together, Darren's noises still muffled by his knuckle and Steve's by the flesh of Darren's warm neck.

Steve was drowning in the sensation, scent, noises— Darren— molding around their bodies. He wanted to feel every bit of Darren. He glided his hands up and down his back and abs, dipped prying fingers into the fold of his leg and hip, held onto the meat of Darren's thighs, the swell of his arse, even crossed his arms around Darren's front to grope at his filled in pecs as they fucked.

Each touch and grope lit Darren's vocals alight in needy pants. He even pushed back into the unsteady rhythm of their hips, lost with Steve in their coupling.

They became more desperate. Steve's thrust grew harsher and deeper, sliding through Darren's closed thighs with such force that the sounds of joining flesh filled the air. It mixed with their pants and hungry cries. Darren gripped the base of their cocks together, letting Steve thrust into his hand with each pump.

Heat washed over Steve's being; it pulled from his head and gathered in a swirling force at his core. Darren's blistering tight body seared Steve's bare flesh in the best kind of pain. He felt himself breaking down and he loved every fucking second of it. His thrusts became erratic—desperate, selfish, cruel, and utterly depraved. Steve's legs even became stiff from his animalistic fucking, but to hell with the pain. This felt too good, too wrong and bloody dirty to stop for anything. And the noises melting from Darren's lips with each thrust were other-worldly. Every time their cocks brushed together, squelching flesh and a pleasured cry rang back.

Darren's grip around their cocks locked up as he got closer to the peak. His thighs pressed down, his back arched and sent his fat arse into Steve's relentless hips. Wanton moans and heavy breaths of mounting heat flooded Darren's mouth. He was crying now, babbling such nonsense that all Steve could comprehend was good, so good—fuck, Steve...

He burst.

Steve came hot and thick between Darren's pressed thighs. Each shot of cum slicked up their cocks, and Darren spilled almost immediately afterwards in the sodden wet mess his hand became.

Rapid slaps filled the room in the aftershock. The sound of flesh on flesh worked Steve's spent cock in tandem with the body spasming over the head. Each thrust pulled another gasp from Darren's lips. He rode out their orgasms in decelerating thrusts before stilling.

Steve collapsed onto his back, freeing his cock from Darren. A wetness seeped down his shaft and settled under his balls and mixed with his sweat. It would soon turn into a sticky-dry and chafing kind of filth. But he couldn't be bothered.

Steve laid there with his mind blank and his body spent. Though Darren was curled away from him, he couldn't help but stare at the nape of his neck left uncovered by the jumper. The sheets and comforter shifted with Steve's small movements. He went in without a thought, ready to taste the sweat and salt at the base of Darren's neck in a chaste kiss.

Then Darren spoke, "you got it out of your system, yeah?"

He sounded so calm, so casual like he was asking about Steve's latest find at Watkins'.

Steve halted. The rustling, creaking, shifting squeaks and cracks of that old bed ceased with him. He stared into dark brown locks and Darren's spine.

"Yeah," Steve said, "I'm good." Of course he was good. Darren seemed fine, so Steve was fine.

"Good," Darren said with his back turned to Steve still.

This was a quickie. Steve just needed to get rid of some pent up sexual frustration. That's all this was. They let their emotions get away from them all those months ago, and this was just to correct that.

Steve figured it out, now. They were still friends, this just confirmed it. Steve didn't like guys, he just had a passing thing most teens get, the 'phase.' He had his fill; he was good. Really.

A moment of silence passed over the friends. Steve's fingers curled out of the space just at the edge of Darren's body and he settled onto his back again.

Darren tossed a wad of spunk-drenched tissues into the bin under his desk. He shuffled his underwear and joggers back over his now clean thighs.

And, just like that, the evidence of their sin was gone.

Darren slid out of bed. He grabbed the pickled onions, his fingers tapping at the lid before asking "you want anything from the fridge? Beer or something?"

Steve took too long to answer.

"Da's got some Guinness still hanging in the fridge, I'll grab some," and with that Darren stepped out of the room without glancing back.

Steve, alone and lost with himself at the rapid, one-sided exchange, took the opportunity to tuck himself back into his pants. The dried bits of cum still flaked in the thick hair around his navel and cock would wash out. Darren's scent, now entrenched inside Steve's pores, would get scrubbed away by the hours.

And, Steve thought, the burn that lingered on his mouth, the tips of his fingers, the tops of his bare hips, and the interior of his heart in every beat would fade into an awkward memory the pair would only talk about when thrashed and alone on New Years.

Steve thought that this would just stay a little secret between them, a kind of embarrassment you look back on and bound over. And he was very much alright with that.

He felt that he should smile; that he should want to smile. But he couldn't.