Brother 32008: FKA Danny "Mullz" Mulligan
Swipe. Swipe. Nothin. Swipe.
Weren't that he gave a fuck, really. Just—blonde from last night was proper fit. Said maybe. And his profile? Clean. Tight. Maybe she messaged. Maybe she wanted a drink. Maybe he'd get his dick sucked before midnight.
Taps back to his own profile. One last clock.
First pic: shirt off. Obviously. Left arm cocked, hand behind his head, tatts on full blast. BOOZE across the knuckles. All caps. Gothic. Done at sixteen, Magaluf, lads dare. Dumbest thing he'd ever done. Still rates it.
Caption: "Not lookin for nothin serious. Just someone who can match energy."
Lets the screen fade to black, catches his own reflection. Jaw still sharp. Hazel eyes. Scar on the cheek that birds always ask about. Curls messier than usual, but shaped. Gold chain tucked under a half-zipped grey marl hoodie, flecked with paint from fuck-knows-what. No shirt underneath. Trackies sagged just enough. Creased Air Max 95s. One lace undone.
He still had it. For thirty-four? Could do worse.
Grabs the vape. Tucks it behind his ear. Grinder. Rizla. Rolls up without thinkin. Out the flat before the paper's sealed.
DLR, eastbound. Wind movin like it owes money. Platform full of suits and slack-jawed morning heads. Everyone movin like background noise.
Some little guy, what, five-eight? Boiler suit. Navy. Crisp. White shirt. Black tie. Like he's goin to a funeral for fun.
Moves like he's fucking gliding. No phone. No fidget. Just straight ahead, like he knows exactly where every crack in the fuckin pavement is.
Danny clocks him. Frowns.
Boiler suit hugs him in weird places. Shoulders. Waist. Like it's tellin his body what shape to be. And he’s lettin it.
Looks like a cultist. Or a Mormon. Or one of them Stepford cunts from a sci-fi show.
Some posh twink playin dress-up? Nah. That walk. That stillness.
That’s what fucks Danny off.
He clocks the posture, the calm, and somethin in his chest goes tight. Prick needs to be reminded what world he’s walkin in.
He drops the roach. Grinds it underfoot. Follows.
Crowd thins. Up the steps. Past Morley’s. Side street. Down the alley behind the Tesco Express. Rain-streaked walls. Piss smell. Home turf.
The little guy stops. Like he knew he was bein followed.
Danny adjusts his hoodie. Steps up slow.
“Oi,” he calls. “You got the time, bruv?”
And Danny’s heart stalls.
Same eyes. Bit older, sharper now. But the face?
The little bloke tilts his head.
No smile. No confusion. Just calm.
“Yeah,” he says. “I used to think that was my name.”
Silence. Rain in puddles. A hiss from the street behind.
Danny steps in closer. Tension in the jaw. Breath tight.
“Still got that notebook?” he says. “From school. Bet you do. Bet you still write shit in it.”
Not hard. Testing. The fabric of the boiler suit gives under his palm. But the lad doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just lets it happen.
That stings worse than a shove back would’ve.
Danny huffs. “What, you too fuckin zen now to swing?”
Danny grabs the collar. Quick. Just to see.
“You always was a bitch,” he mutters, low.
Then—closer than he meant to be—
“You want somethin, yeah? You tryna make a point wearin that shit round here?”
And that’s when it happens. Not a word. Not a gesture.
Something inside, long buried, cracks sideways.
And for the first time in his fuckin life, Danny wants someone to tell him what to do.
He lets go of the collar.
Steps back. Hand half-raised like maybe he was gonna swing. Maybe he still might.
Soft. Not smug. Not preachy. Just bored.
Danny blinks. Nods. Once.
Then the guy turns. Walks toward the end of the alley.
It’s colder than it should be.
Not freezer cold. Just... blank. Like even the air gave up on having a flavour.
Door clicks shut behind him.
No lock. It doesn't feel like a room that has ever needed one.
It ain’t a room so much as a box. White. Bare.
Just one table. Two chairs.
A folded navy boiler suit.
Boots beneath it. Laces loose. Toes straight.
The setup isn't complicated, but for some reason, it feels like a fuckin altar.
And Matt, or whatever the fuck he calls himself now.
Standing at the far wall.
Danny doesn't say shit. Not yet.
The air hums. Lights above buzzing soft. Too soft.
City noise’s gone. Can’t even hear his own breath properly.
Just him, and Matt, and that fuckin form.
Danny’s throat clicks. He tries to say something, but there ain’t anything.
Him, fourteen, crouched behind the bins after school, waitin to jump some year seven kid just because he looked at him wrong.
Him, twenty-one, laughin as he pissed on a stolen bike frame behind a club in Ilford.
Him, twenty-eight, gettin kicked out the flat by a girl who said he weren’t cruel, just not real.
Always loud. Always movin.And not one fuckin thing to show for it.
He can't remember when he started crying.
He tries to reassemble, rubs his eyes, growls in frustration - must be the weed, he tells himself.
Another salvo of intrusive recollection -
Him, fifteen, mouthing off in front of older boys just to see if anyone would stop him.
Him, eleven, pretending to hate drama class because he couldn’t stand how much he loved it.
Him, nine years old, deliberately getting himself detention so he wouldn’t have to go home while his uncle was visiting.
It hits him. Danny doesn't exist, has never existed. "Danny" is a lie, a character, a construct. A shield, from judgment, from failure, from pain.
He looks at Matt. He looks at the uniform again. The way it’s folded.
That’s the peace he had been looking for, but never knew the shape of.
Chair’s cold. Doesn’t creak.
He slides it toward him. Doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
Then looks down at his hand.
Tattooed across the bone. Done at sixteen.
Did it to prove he weren’t soft.
Still no idea what he proved.
Printed on the form. Inked on the flesh.
It’s not symbolic. It’s proof.
Like the paper already knew.
Like the ink had always been waiting to be read.
He doesn’t hear movement.
But when he finally lifts his eyes—
Matt's gone. Fuck, he was never really there.
It's 15155 standing there.
And the uniform is still waiting.
The form’s still warm under his hand.
Signed. Marked. Numbered.
He steps toward the table.
Black work boots. Clean. Laces looped loose like they’ve been waiting.
Socks beside them—white. Rolled. Regulation.
He peels off the Air Max.
Then his socks. Ball of fluff between the toes. Doesn’t look at it.
One foot, then the other.
New socks. Tight cotton. No comfort.
The kind you’re meant to sweat into.
Laces pull tight. Not elastic.
White. Plain. Folded like hospital linen.
No ceremony. Just cold air on thighs.
Slides over the ribs like it already knows them.
Stiff. Freshly pressed. White so pure it feels sarcastic.
He buttons from bottom up.
Denim blend. Navy. Stiff seams.
He unzips halfway. Steps in.
The fabric doesn’t yield.
Right sleeve catches at the forearm—tight over the ink.
Quiet. Even. Like it’s the last line of a prayer he’s said a hundred times before.
“You don’t need to be afraid anymore, 32008.”
Like warm water through cracked concrete.
He hadn’t even known how much was hurting.
Didn’t know he’d been holding himself that tight, that long.
and folds himself into the smaller man’s chest.
Arms slack at first. Then holding.
One hand curled against the patch.
UNITY. All caps. Embroidered right over the heart.
Lets the silence wrap him.
Like it was installed, not born.
Eyes still closed, lips barely moving, he whispers:
