Chapter Text
“You’re good with children.”
Ruben dragged one heel along the wet pavement, making an ugly scrape every few steps. He had one hand buried in the pocket of his leather jacket, the other looped through the strap of the canvas bag they had carried out of the centre, heavy with old jumpers, children’s coats, odd socks, and the soft, damp smell of other people’s houses.
The afternoon sat low over Glasgow. They passed a row of lock-up garages with peeling green doors and numbers painted over rust. One had been kicked in at the bottom.
Ruben glanced back without turning properly.
“I’m good with every wee cunt, Bambi.”
“No, I mean it.”
Ruben's stride shortened, he looked at Niall over his shoulder, still walking.
Niall looked back. The box in his arms was pressed to his chest. The stupid fragile things had ended up with Niall: blunt crayons, picture books with torn corners, plastic cups, a rubber dinosaur with half its tail bitten off, and a one-eyed teddy bear wearing a red scarf.
His cheeks pink from the cold, and when he smiled like that the dimples came out and made him look younger than Ruben could stand.
“I mean it,” Niall said again.
“You were good with them.”
Ruben’s mouth twitched.
“I’m glad you see something in me besides a monster.”
“You are a monster.”
“Aye,” Ruben said, turning forward.
“And I’ve also got a massive cock. Blessed fucking twice.”
“Ruben!”
Niall laughed and shoved him in the shoulder.
Ruben laughed too, loud and rough. It came easily enough, but his fingers had tightened around the bag strap, knuckles pale under the wet leather.
“What? Truth is truth.”
“You’re fucking impossible.”
“I’m gifted, Bambers.”
They carried on down the broken pavement, past weeds pushing through concrete, past an abandoned pram frame tipped near a drain, past a burned-out bin with its lid melted into a black grin.
Behind the garages, a dog barked. Ruben’s boots kept scraping.
Scuff. Step. Scuff. Step.
“I’m glad you’re thinking about the future, Bambi. Honest.”
Niall looked at him.
Ruben faced ahead now, jaw set, unlit cigarette forgotten between his fingers. The bag knocked against his thigh with every step. His thumb kept worrying the seam of the canvas strap, rubbing the same place over and over until the skin beside his nail went red.
“All that Oxford shite’ll suit you,” Ruben said. “Clever wee cunt.”
Niall’s smile came slowly. The dimples again.
“Thanks,” he said, quieter than the street deserved.
“Aye. You’re important now.”
“In what sense?”
“You graduated and all that.”
“That doesn’t make me much more important than you.”
Ruben looked back, grin sharp under the bruise-coloured afternoon.
“Course not, Bambi. Respect isn’t earned on exams.”
“Good. Because you’d be absolutely fucked.”
Ruben barked a laugh and pointed at him with the dead cigarette.
“See? Oxford’s made you vicious already. I always knew education was dangerous.”
“You taught me vicious.”
“I taught you taste.”
Niall huffed a laugh and came up beside him properly, shoulder almost brushing shoulder.
Ruben started scuffing his boots again, exaggerated now.
“Sad I missed your graduation,” he said.
Niall glanced at him.
Ruben kept his eyes forward.
“Hope Lori didn’t ruin your reputation too badly.”
“She tried to set me up with Joanna.”
Ruben stopped dead.
“The ugly blonde?”
“She’s not ugly.”
“She looks like a boiled potato.”
Niall snorted.
Ruben shook his head, personally offended.
“Amazing how Lori picked my mother. Woman’s got no taste.”
“You say that like your mother picked you.”
“She got lucky.”
“She got punished.”
“Bit of both.”
Niall laughed again and kept walking, letting Ruben catch up.
The garages gave way to damp brick terraces, boarded shopfronts, a laundrette with half the letters missing from the sign. A couple of lads in tracksuits stood smoking under an awning, watching with the flat curiosity of people who had nowhere to go and no money to spend when they got there.
Ruben did not lower his voice.
“We still had a decent night after, though.”
He slowed and swung an arm around Niall’s shoulders, pulling him close with that careless force that always felt like half-affection, half-arrest.
“Not as good as a finger up the arse, mind, but decent.”
Niall choked on a laugh.
“Jesus Christ.”
Ruben patted his shoulder, solemn as a priest.
“Important distinction.”
“You and your arse.”
“You jealous, Bambi?”
“No.”
“Of the finger or the arse?”
“Shut up.”
“Finger,” Ruben decided, laughing.
Niall shoved at him, but Ruben’s arm only tightened behind his neck, hand sliding up to ruffle the hair at his nape. His fingers were cold and rough, nails scraping lightly. Niall ducked his head with a laugh, twisting away.
“You like pawing me there, don’t you?”
“Want me to go lower?”
Ruben’s hand dropped and smacked him sharply on the backside.
Niall jolted.
“Oi, fuck!”
“What?” Ruben grinned and jumped back before Niall could get a swing in.
“You bastard.”
“Didn’t hear you complain.”
“I’ll get your arse.”
Ruben’s grin went wide and filthy.
“Don’t get lost in there with your tongue, Bambers!”
Then he bolted. He moved fast when he wanted to, laughing over his shoulder as he cut across the pavement and nearly slipped on wet leaves.
Niall dropped the box onto a low wall and tore after him.
“You’re dead!”
“Promises, promises!”
Ruben dodged around a lamppost, cigarette still between two fingers, coat flaring behind him. Niall caught up near the laundrette and smacked him hard across the back of the head.
Ruben staggered half a step and clapped a hand over his skull.
“Fuck! That hurt!”
“You asked for it.”
“I asked for your arse, not a concussion.”
“You fucking asked for discipline, Ruben.”
Ruben turned, rubbing the back of his head, laughing despite himself. His cheeks were flushed from the run, hair fallen over his forehead, eyes bright in the wet light.
“Is that all this beauty does? Fight? Can I get the full price list for Niall Brandon Kennedy’s services?”
Niall folded his arms.
“A finger in your arse is free. Could even do two if you behave.”
Ruben’s eyebrows lifted.
“Renting for a month.”
“Not surprised.”
“Do I get a loyalty discount?”
“You get a gag.”
Ruben’s grin turned wicked.
“For me or for you?”
Niall stared at him for half a second, then broke and laughed.
Ruben laughed with him, head tipped back, hand still rubbing where Niall had hit him. The sound filled the narrow street.
One of the lads under the awning shouted,
“Get a room!”
Ruben turned at once.
“Get a fucking job, you faggot!”
Niall grabbed his sleeve and dragged him on before it became a fight. He had to double back for the box. Ruben watched him do it with a grin still loose on his mouth, rain in his hair, one hand rubbing the back of his head.
“Christ, Bambi. You adopting the fucking thing?”
“It’s from the centre.”
Ruben let himself be dragged, still laughing, still scuffing his boots, still warm from the chase.
“See?” Niall said. “Good with children.”
Ruben looked at him, grin softening at the edges before he could stop it.
“Aye,” he said. “And every other wee cunt.”
They turned off the louder road and slipped into a quieter street along the park.
Niall had the box back under one arm now, damp cardboard softening against his coat.
The city dropped behind them by degrees. First the buses, then the shopfronts, then the voices outside the off-licence, until all that remained was the hush of summer leaves, the distant chirp of birds somewhere in the green, and the lazy scrape of Ruben’s boots over the pavement.
Heel dragged. Step. Heel dragged. Step.
Niall walked half a pace behind him, shoulders still loose from laughing.
Ruben had the bag from the centre slung over one shoulder. It knocked against his side as he walked. For a while he looked ahead, jaw working on something he had not yet decided to spit out. The laughter had left his body unevenly; it still sat around his mouth, but his throat had tightened, and every swallow looked like it had to pass a hook.
Then, without turning, he said,
“You thought about it yet?”
Niall lifted his eyes.
“About what?”
“The statement.”
Niall’s grip tightened on the box until the cardboard bowed under his fingers. His face went smaller first, the smile leaving the corners of his mouth before the rest of him caught up.
“No, Ruben.”
Ruben’s stride shortened. He looked over his shoulder while still walking. His eyes had gone darker under the soft afternoon light. A muscle ticked once in his cheek. The cigarette shifted between his fingers, unlit and slightly bent where he had been pinching it too hard.
“I need you, Bambers.”
“I know.”
Niall looked down at the pavement. A small stone rolled under his shoe. Somewhere in the park, a bird gave three bright notes and fell silent.
Ruben turned more fully and walked backwards for two steps, bag swinging against his hip.
“I don’t know what happened between you and that faggot, or why you’re protecting him.”
Niall’s eyes snapped up.
Ruben held the look.
The cruelty sat on his mouth, but fear sat underneath it, darker and harder to name. It had changed his breathing already: shallow through the nose, jaw clenched against it, chest barely moving as if he were trying to keep something trapped below the ribs.
“But I’m asking you to help me,” Ruben said.
His face softened after the words. The lines around his mouth loosened. His eyes stayed heavy, almost pleading.
Niall’s gaze dropped again.
“I’ll think about it, Ruben.”
It came out nearly whispered.
Ruben stopped.
The scrape of his boots ended so abruptly the silence widened around them.
He stood for a second with the bag on his shoulder and the park wind moving the hair off his forehead. Then he reached into his jacket and took out a cigarette. His fingers were clumsy with the match; the first flame died before it reached the paper. The second caught, flared orange under his hand, and made his face look older for a moment.
Niall walked a few steps ahead, then stopped.
“Come on.”
“Need a minute.”
Ruben drew too hard on the cigarette and coughed at once, bending slightly, one hand on his thigh, smoke bursting out of him in a rough bark. It was too sudden, too violent for the size of the drag. He cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, then took another drag because losing to a cigarette was beneath him.
Niall came back a little.
“Sorry, I—”
Ruben exhaled smoke straight into his face.
“Need a piss.”
The apology died in Niall’s mouth.
Ruben held his stare while he unzipped himself, expression unreadable except for the flicker of challenge at the edge of it. Then he turned away from the road and stepped towards the bushes by the park wall.
Niall looked aside too late.
The sound started sharp against leaves and dirt, indecently ordinary in the quiet street.
“Stop fucking staring.”
Niall’s eyes jumped up.
Ruben was looking over his shoulder, brows slightly raised, mouth flat around the cigarette.
Niall looked down at the pavement.
The sound tapered off. The zipper rasped back up.
Ruben turned, cigarette between his fingers, and came back as if nothing had happened.
“Faggot,” he said.
Niall’s mouth opened.
“Ruben, I—”
Ruben leaned closer, cutting the sentence off with his body.
“Faggot.”
Niall flinched.
Ruben’s eyes caught it. Satisfaction and regret moved behind them, too quick to separate. His throat bobbed once, as if something bitter had come up and he had swallowed it back down.
“Walk.”
He shoved Niall by the back of the neck towards the road.
The hand stayed there after the shove, heavy across his shoulder, fingers hooked too close to the nape.
They walked.
Heel scrape. Step. Heel scrape. Step.
The street curved with the park. Green grass on one side, grey garages on the other, dandelions growing from cracks by the kerb. Somewhere far off, children shouted, then dissolved into leaves. The whole afternoon seemed to hold its breath around them.
“Take your time,” Ruben said quietly.
His hand moved from Niall’s neck into his hair, fingers raking once through the curls at the back, rough enough to tug, careful enough to be something else. The contact lingered one second too long, then tightened.
Niall’s shoulders twitched.
“You could’ve washed your hands.”
Ruben’s jaw tightened.
“If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll put them down your throat.”
The words came through his teeth, low and flat.
Niall turned his face away, but Ruben’s hand remained on him.
The street bent again. The city beyond the trees stayed grey, blurred by distance and heat, old tenements rising behind the green like damp stone teeth.
“Ruben.”
“What?”
“I really don’t like when you hold me by the neck.”
Ruben’s fingers stopped in his hair, then tightened.
“And I don’t fucking like the thought of prison, okay?”
“No, seriously.”
“Doesn’t get more serious, does it?”
“Let go!”
Niall lowered the box onto the nearest low wall without taking his eyes off Ruben. One plastic cup tipped inside it with a hollow clack. Then he twisted hard under Ruben’s arm. His shoulder ducked, heel slipping a little on loose grit, both hands shoving at Ruben’s wrist. Ruben’s fingers scraped through his hair as he broke free.
Niall’s hand slid along Ruben’s wrist in the struggle.
Just a brush.
Skin.
Ink.
Something raised under the black.
Ruben pulled his hand back as if burned.
For a second they only looked at each other.
Niall’s eyes had dropped to the tattoo.
Ruben’s stayed on Niall.
The tattoo sat on the inside of his wrist like a block of night.
A hard black rectangle, thickly packed, edges blunt and brutal. But under the ink, where the light caught the lower edge, the surface was not flat. Pale ridges pushed through the darkness. Old lines, buried badly, too deep for black to make smooth.
Ruben’s thumb twitched once towards the tattoo, then stopped. The skin around his mouth tightened. A faint sheen appeared above his upper lip. His body had gone quiet: breath held, shoulders fixed, eyes too still.
“I never noticed there was something under it,” Niall murmured.
Ruben’s gaze slid past Niall towards the park. He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets, forcing the wrist out of sight.
“It’s a patch, Bambi.”
“A patch?”
“Like on trousers when you’ve torn them.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it fucking means.”
“You mean there’s a cut?”
Ruben looked back at him.
“Sort of.”
“You never told me.”
“Must’ve mentioned it.”
“I’d remember.”
“What, you keeping a fucking diary of my wounds now?”
“I remember when you were stabbed.”
Ruben’s mouth pulled tight.
“Not from that.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t stick your nose in, Bambi.”
“No, really. What happened?”
Ruben stopped. All the looseness drained from him. The scuffing, the swagger, the dirty half-smile. Gone. His throat worked once, dryly, and the swallow did not seem to go down. His voice dropped into something hard enough to strike sparks.
“I said. Don’t stick. Your fucking nose. In.”
Niall lowered his eyes.
The birds in the park kept singing.
“Is it private?” Niall asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He walked on.
Ruben fell into step beside him. His hands left his pockets, returned, left again. His jaw moved as if he were chewing through a word he refused to say.
A few steps passed.
Then Niall, too softly, asked,
“You won’t tell me?”
Ruben gave a short laugh.
“You’re not part of my private.”
Niall looked at him, and the hurt was too plain on his face.
“You said we were family.”
“Fuck family.”
It came out as a snarl.
Niall looked down at once.
They kept walking.
The street turned again, narrowing between a brick wall and a row of garages. The light changed there, flatter, colder. A piece of newspaper blew against the kerb and stuck to a puddle.
Niall’s voice came under the wind.
“If it wasn’t someone else, then you did it.”
Ruben stopped. The canvas bag slid off his shoulder and hit the pavement with a soft, heavy thud. Something inside it settled slowly, cloth against cloth. Ruben did not seem to notice.
Niall had time to take one more step before Ruben caught him.
Both fists in the front of his jacket.
A violent pull.
Chest to chest.
Ruben’s face close enough for Niall to smell smoke, saliva, and the bitter edge of panic under it.
“Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth.”
The words hit Niall’s face wetly.
He flinched from the spit before he could hide it.
For half a second disgust crossed Ruben’s face, then he shoved him away.
Niall stumbled back, one shoe sliding off the kerb before he caught himself against the wall. He wiped his face with his sleeve. The smallness of the gesture lit something in Ruben like petrol.
Niall’s voice rose, cracked at the edge.
“Why?”
Ruben had already turned away.
“Why did you do it, Ruben?”
Ruben stopped again. His head lowered. His whole body went tight from the shoulders down, as if a wire had been pulled through him. The hand inside his pocket closed hard over his own wrist. His breath stayed trapped so long that when it finally left him, it sounded scraped.
He raised his head and looked forward. For a moment he did not turn.
When he did, the look pinned Niall where he stood. Not rage alone. Rage Niall knew. This was heavier, colder, sharpened by something that had spent years waiting for a face to land on.
Ruben started back towards him slowly.
The street seemed to shrink with every step.
“I spent a long time thinking you were wee,” Ruben said.
His voice was almost quiet.
“My little brother. My Bambi.”
He spat into the gutter without looking away.
“But look at you now.”
His eyes moved over Niall’s face, down his chest, lower.
Obscene, contempt wearing desire’s clothes.
“All grown. Brave. Big balls.”
Niall’s throat moved.
“Ruben—”
“Big fucking balls.”
Ruben stepped into him.
His hand shot down and seized him over the front of his trousers.
Niall folded around the shock, breath punching out of him.
“When your elders tell you to shut your mouth,”
Ruben said, face close, voice low and shaking,
“you shut your fucking mouth.”
Niall made a strangled sound.
Ruben’s eyes flickered. He released him with a hard twist of the wrist, not lingering, not looking down.
Niall bent forward, both hands braced on his thighs, breathing through his open mouth. His eyes had watered from the shock. He looked young in that position, horribly young, and Ruben’s face flickered again before he buried it.
“You bastard,” Niall got out.
Ruben stepped back, pacing in two useless little arcs, shoulders rising, hands flexing, violence still in them with nowhere decent to go.
“It’s a patch, you understand?” he snapped. “Got it done in an alley off that fucking bald poof’s place. Black over ugly. Done. Nothing to do with you, you nosy little prick.”
Niall stayed bent, catching air.
Ruben looked at the curve of his back, the tremor in his hands, the red smear on his cheek where he had wiped the spit away. Something in his face buckled.
He turned and kicked the nearest bin.
The sound split the quiet street.
Metal screamed against pavement.
The bin toppled, lid flying loose, rubbish spilling across the kerb: wet paper, cigarette ends, a burst carton leaking sour milk, orange peels gone grey at the edges. Birds exploded from the park railings, scattering into the summer air.
“FUCK!”
He kicked it again though it was already down.
His boot hit hollow metal with a dead boom that bounced off the garage doors.
“FUCK!”
The second kick sent the bin skidding into the road. A bottle rolled free, clinking, and spun in a slow circle near the gutter.
The box tipped.
For a second it only leaned there, ridiculous and doomed, then slid off the stone and hit the pavement. Crayons scattered first, bright little sticks rolling into the gutter. The rubber dinosaur bounced once and landed on its side. The one-eyed teddy fell last, red scarf dragging through the sour milk.
Ruben stood over the mess, chest heaving, hands opening and closing at his sides like they were still looking for a throat, a wall, a face.
Niall straightened slowly.
Ruben looked at the spilled rubbish.
Then at Niall.
Orange peel lay crushed dark under Ruben’s boot. Behind the railings, the park kept breathing green and gold, grass bright after rain, summer carrying on with obscene patience.
Niall stood with one hand half-raised from wiping his face, body held wrong after the shock, shoulders tight, knees not quite straight.
Ruben stared at him. At the damp hair, at the reddened cheek, at the frightened set of his mouth, Niall, hurt by him. Ruben’s stomach turned visibly. His mouth filled with something; he swallowed, failed, swallowed again. The bin rocked once in the gutter and settled.
Ruben looked away first.
“Come on.”
Niall looked at the box on the pavement. At the teddy in the gutter. At the crayons already taking dirt into their paper wrappers. Niall did not move.
Ruben took two steps, heard no footsteps, and stopped.
“Come on, Bambi.”
The nickname came out scraped thin.
“I’m not going until you tell me.”
Ruben turned back slowly. The look he gave him had closed mouths in pubs, moved men across rooms, sent boys over roads without Ruben needing to lift a hand. On Niall it landed and stayed there, visible and useless.
“What, suddenly you give a fuck?”
Niall flinched.
Ruben stepped closer.
“Suddenly you’re not scared?”
“I am scared, Ruben.”
The truth came out before he could dress it.
“Like dead scared.”
Ruben stopped, his face sharpened, then dulled, then bent into something almost like amusement and nothing like it at all. He rubbed his thumb hard against the inside of his wrist through the pocket, as though the tattoo had begun to itch under cloth and skin.
“I was thirteen.”
He said it lightly, and kicked the fallen bin again. This time the sound was dull, useless. The bin shifted an inch and stopped, already emptied of drama.
“Remember my dear old da?”
Niall’s face changed.
He nodded once.
Ruben gave a breath of a laugh.
“Course you do. Everybody remembers him. Had that big fucking smile when he wasn’t drinking, aye?”
He spat into the rubbish.
“That creature used everybody.”
His voice steadied.
“Everybody with ears. Money. Time. Half a drop of pity.”
The garages sat shut along the street, rust at their hinges, paint blistering from old damp. The park railings drew black bars over the pavement. Leaves trembled in a wind too soft to be felt. Somewhere close, a bird sang one bright, idiotic note after another.
Ruben’s face tightened.
“He used my mother when he had nowhere to live. When his own folk had had enough of him. Came in with a bag and a sad fucking story, and she—”
Niall saw the break before Ruben could hide it. A small crack in the voice first. Then the tremor at his mouth. Ruben pressed his lips together until they whitened, jaw locking, eyes turned aside as if the street itself had looked too closely. His nostrils flared once. The next breath did not come right; it snagged high in the chest and stayed there.
Niall moved without thinking. One step.
Ruben’s hand came out of his pocket like a blade.
“Stay where you FUCKING ARE!”
Niall froze.
Ruben’s finger shook in the air between them. He noticed, curled it into a fist, and dragged one breath through his nose. Then another. The second snagged.
“That’s it,” he said.
His voice had gone thin with disbelief, as if even now he could not believe he had brought them here.
“That’s the whole thing. The whole fucking thing.”
A laugh left him with no shape in it.
“He used her. Used the house. Used the kettle. Used the fucking chair he sat in.”
His eyes flicked once to the park.
Then back to the wet pavement.
“Used me.”
The words came out flat.
Niall went white.
Ruben saw the understanding arrive on his face, and whatever thread had held him together snapped.
“No,” he said sharply. “No. Don’t you fucking do that.”
Niall stayed silent.
Ruben’s breath came faster. The skin at his throat jumped with every swallow. One hand drifted towards his wrist again, missed it, closed on air, then dropped.
“There. All of it. Whole story. Done.”
He turned and kicked the bench by the park wall.
It was bolted to the pavement, old green paint scarred with initials and cigarette burns.
His boot struck the leg with a crack that rang up the street.
He kicked it again.
“FUCK!”
The bench held.
Ruben spun away, paced three steps, turned back with his fists lifted near his face, not aimed at Niall, not aimed anywhere. Sweat had broken at his temples though the air was cool. His lips had gone bloodless. His eyes were wet, wild, not quite fixed on the street anymore.
Niall stood where he had been told to stand. He folded before Ruben reached him, shoulders hunching, chin dropping, arms drawing in as though the blow had already landed.
His fists stopped in the air. For one terrible second they hung there above Niall, useless and monstrous. Then Ruben made a sound through his teeth and brought his hands down as grips instead, hard on Niall’s shoulders, dragging him against his chest.
“Sorry,” he said.
Too fast.
“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Niall went rigid.
Ruben’s arms locked around him.
“Sorry, Bambi, sorry, I didn’t— I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—”
The words ran together, frantic and low, almost mouthed into Niall’s hair.
“I didn’t control it. I’m sorry, Bambi. Please. I’m sorry. I didn't fucking want it. I'm sorry, Bambi, I'm sorry.”
He held him too tightly, as if apology were a thing he could force through his arms, as if he could crush the flinch back out of Niall’s body. His hands kept changing pressure on Niall’s back, grip, loosen, grip again, unable to decide whether to hold or let go, protect or restrain. His breath hit Niall’s hair in broken heat.
Niall’s hands hovered at his sides. Then they settled against Ruben’s ribs. Palms on leather, feeling the hard rise and fall beneath. Then his fingers curled, and his arms came around him.
“Ruben.”
“Bambi.”
The name left Ruben on a broken exhale against the back of his head.
“It’s alright.”
Ruben shook his head, chin dragging over Niall’s hair.
“No.”
“It’s alright.”
“No.”
“Ruben—”
“Bambi, please.”
Niall closed his eyes.
“It’s alright.”
Ruben’s grip tightened once more.
“I’m scared.”
Pale summer light sat on the wet grass, the grey garages, the black rectangle of Ruben’s tattoo where his sleeve had ridden up against Niall’s back.
Ruben’s breathing broke against his hair.
“I’m scared,” he said again, smaller now.
Niall held him for a long time before he found the next question.
Ruben’s arms stayed locked around him, one hand fisted in the back of his coat, the other spread between his shoulder blades. His breath came hot and ragged against Niall’s head. Every few seconds his chest hitched, and he swallowed hard, like a man fighting sickness.
Niall could smell him: smoke in the leather, sweat under the collar, rain in his hair, the sharp animal stink of fear. His throat hurt worse. He blinked, and the street blurred.
“Is that why you’re scared of prison?” he asked. “What they’ll do…”
Ruben's breath stopped in him so completely that Niall felt the absence of it.
Then Ruben exhaled into his hair. One brutal rush. The sound came from deep in his body, dragged through his chest and throat until it broke against Niall’s neck as a sob so raw Niall tightened his arms before he understood. Ruben folded into him, strength going out at once and returning wrong, shaking, clutching, dragging Niall closer as if the pavement had opened under him.
“Ruben—”
Ruben shook his head against him, but the crying had already taken him. It ruined him. Snot ran from his nose. Saliva wet his lips. His breath snatched, failed, came back in ugly bursts. He tried to bury the sound against Niall’s shoulder and only made it worse, choked and young and furious with itself. His stomach jerked twice as if he might vomit. Nothing came. Only another sob, wetter than the last.
Niall held him.
Ruben nodded against him once. Then again. Violently. As if the answer had to be forced out through the movement of his skull because his mouth could not survive saying it. Ruben nodded again and again and broke harder. His fingers dug into Niall’s coat. His body shook so badly Niall had to brace his feet.
“They’ll know,” Ruben got out.
The words nearly drowned in the wet wreck of his breathing.
“Bambi, they’ll know.”
Niall closed his eyes.
Ruben’s mouth moved against his shoulder, hot and shaking.
“They’ll smell it.”
“No—”
“They will.”
The words came faster now, each one dragged through panic.
“Men know. Men fucking know. They feel it. They look once and they know where to put their hands. They’ll know that he— That I was—”
His voice tore open. The rest vanished. He made a sound that had no language left in it and crushed his face into Niall’s shoulder. His teeth clicked once near Niall’s collar. He tried to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, missed, and only gripped Niall harder, ashamed even in the middle of falling apart.
Niall’s hand moved over his back, slowly at first, then again. Up and down through wet leather, between the shoulder blades, over the hard shuddering line of him. Ruben was all heat, all muscle and panic, all the big terrible body he had built around a wound.
Niall held him and felt useless. Worse than useless. He could feel every failed breath, every trapped sob, every attempt to swallow the fear before it showed. He could keep him upright. He could say his name. He could put one hand in his hair and one across his back. He could not make prison only a building. He could not make the men imaginary. He could not make the fear stupid. Tears spilled before he could blink them back.
“Ruben,” he said, and his own voice cracked.
Ruben heard it and tried to pull away.
Niall held him.
Ruben struggled for half a second, then collapsed back into him, face turned hard into his shoulder like he hated needing the place and needed it anyway.
“You won’t go there,” Niall said.
Ruben shook his head.
“You won’t.”
“He won’t drop the charges.”
His voice came muffled, broken, full of mucus and breath.
“He won’t. That wee bastard won’t. He’ll sit there with his face and his soft voice and they’ll believe him because he looks— Because I fucking did that!.”
Niall’s hand stopped on his back.
Ruben felt it. His crying thinned into a frightened breath.
“Niall.”
“No,” Niall said.
Ruben lifted his head a fraction. His face was wrecked. Eyes swollen, nose running, mouth wet and twisted with pain.
“No what?”
Niall swallowed.
“No, he won’t drop them.”
Ruben stared.
Niall looked at the red mark on his own cheek, then at Ruben’s mouth, wet and wrecked against his collar. Something in him stepped aside and did not come back.
“But I’ll testify.”
For a second Ruben did not understand or did not let himself. His mouth parted.
Niall’s face was pale, cheek marked red, eyes wet and steady in a way that looked almost frightening.
“I’ll give the statement.”
Ruben’s grip loosened.
“Niall…”
Niall did not look away.
“I’ll do it.”
Ruben’s lips moved again. No sound followed.