Graffixation Stories and Artwork #11
Artist: cellophanebox
Scars by cmk418
“How’d you get this?” Toby asked, touching the scar just below Ryan’s lower lip.
“Got into a knife fight when I was a kid.”
He can hear Cyril’s voice laughing in his head, plain as day, a familiar echo of their days on Bridget Street. “You cut yourself shaving.”
When they were growing up, Cyril was always the one who could be relied upon to call Ryan on his bullshit. Now, Cyril’s was the predominant voice inside his head, the one he could never silence.
“Ryan?” Toby whispered, bringing him back to the present.
Ryan blinks away the memory, regaining the here and now, where his scars are mostly hidden and self-inflicted.
Shaving With A Knife by Gonattsaga
Title: Shaving With A Knife
Author: gonattsaga
Pairing/Characters: Ryan/Toby, implied Ryan/Dino
Rating: PG-13
Wiping his tears off on the pillow, he feels the bed dip as Vern puts his foot on the edge and heaves himself up to the top bunk. The whole bed shakes as he settles in, the hinges creak and whine, then there’s stillness, and a sigh so content and peaceful it feels like a slap in Toby’s face.
He pushes his entire face into the pillow, thinking for a moment that he could choke himself like this, and that would be okay.
“Nighty-night, sweet cheeks”, Vern says in his sing-song voice.
No, Toby thinks dully. I’d never follow through with it. I’d fail at that as well.
He turns his head sideways, dried-up tear stains scratching his cheek, or at least he imagines so, and he breathes out again. Pushing his hands in-under the pillow, making himself as comfortable as is possible, he resigns himself to another night of restless sleep
The first note he finds in a pocket of one of his pants as he’s doing the laundry. His stomach does a little flip, just from the fact, from the sense of secrecy; and from the words that are scrawled across the paper -- just two of them, “Surrender Dorothy” -- even though they mean nothing to him personally and are probably meant as a taunt, Toby’s pulse stutters at the sight, not because of the words themselves, but because of the handwriting.
A handwriting that he doesn’t recognise. Which means dear old Vern didn’t write it, nor any of his Aryan brothers, and that alone sends a jolt through him. He doesn’t know what it means, but it’s kind of like receiving a love note in school
“Do you like me Check YES NO MAYBE”
Except he only ever got one note and it turned out the girl hadn’t written it at all, but a couple of other guys, playing a prank on him. Actually, this is a lot like that, he thinks. But he folds up the piece of paper again anyway, and tucks in away, saves it.
Later, after lights out, and after Vern has climbed up into his own bunk, Toby carefully reaches in-under the mattress where he’s hidden the note. He doesn’t dare pull it out, but his fingers brush paper, and that’s all he needs.
The Aryan leader, Skillinger Shillinger something, his so-called sponsor, dutifully walks him to his new home, Dino’s old pod, and Ryan wants to get rid of him as soon as possible so that he can be alone with this moment, soak it up; he wants to fix it in his memory so that he can revisit it over and over again, so that five or ten or twelve years from now he can still recall what this feels like, so that every single day he has to spend in this Hell hole, he’ll carry this with him, as a reminder.
He looks at the two bunk beds, holds back from reaching out, wonders which one Dino slept on and if he’ll smell him on it if he lets himself get close enough and inhale, or if it’ll just be the tangy odour of sweat and dust collected over the years, Dino’s sweat, his smell, lost in the mix, just the last in a long line of nameless fucks who rested their heads on it at one point before fading into the wood work, just like Dino.
Scillinger lingers in the doorway, eyeing him keenly as he pulls his prison blues off. Ryan barely refrains from bristling. Not even in your dreams, big boy, he thinks to himself.
“You got friends”, Scillinger comments, that little smile of his twisting for a moment, then he’s back to being sincere, offering his hand. “You got another one, if you want…”
Yeah right, Ryan thinks, even as he reaches out and shakes it.
The new guy -- O’Reily -- finds him in the library. At first Toby thinks he’s looking for Vern and half-expects him to pretend not to have seen Toby at all. That’s what they do, those few inmates who don’t have the heart or the interest to make his Hell worse by poking fun at it.
But O’Reily’s eyes don’t flicker away, and he doesn’t brush by Toby’s table. Instead he slides into the seat opposite him, even leans over the table top a little, leans closer, and pins Toby down with an unmistakably direct gaze. And it’s all friendly too, like he wasn’t watching Toby get fucked into the mattress by a burly white supremist only the night before, watching along with a hundred or so other men, some of which were getting themselves off, and for all Toby knows, O’Reily was one of them.
But as he meets that gaze, that overly sincere gaze, he likes to think he wasn’t. He likes to think he actually turned his back and didn’t watch at all, but he’s not stupid enough to let himself believe that. Still, he appreciates the polite conversation, soaks it up, the normalcy of it, like they’re equals.
Of course he knows O’Reily must have some sort of motive for being here, but beggars can’t be choosers as they say, and when it turns out the other man just wants his legal advice, he almost chokes on the relief, feeling a little part of his old self slip back and gathers it up gratefully.
He tosses the prison shirt on the floor, gives it a kick, just because, and pulls on a t-shirt, his t-shirt, and the difference is immediate, to wear your clothes, fuck, he’ll never take it for granted again.
He moves into the doorway and scans the common area, Em City, registering the different constellations, filing away info, working out the possible angles, trying to figure out where he’ll fit in once he’s deducted that he’s a minority based on the colour of his skin.
Glancing over at the Aryans, he knows they’re the only group that would welcome him straight away no questions asked, but fuck if he’ll partner up with those seig heiling Neanderthals unless he absolutely has to. There must be a way to compromise, he thinks. Some sort of middle ground, safer. He looks over at the bikers, starts assessing, wondering if there’s anyone in their crew he could easily sweet talk
But he’s interrupted in his thoughts Another white skin, neither bald nor tattooed, scurries across the floor, heads for the Aryans, for Scillinger, and plops down in the empty chair next to him, head bowed, shoulders slumped. A prag. Ryan is just about to dismiss him, when
He wasn’t even crying. His eyes welled up and tears spilled over, yes, but that was from the retching as he tried to scrub his tongue clean without throwing up. He didn’t cry, not over that, he’d been subjected to far worse punishments, more painful, more humiliating, in fact as far as he was concerned old Vern was getting soft, and he definitely hadn’t cried over it, he didn’t cry at all anymore, he’d reached the conclusion that all it did was give him a headache on top of everything else, besides he’d run out of tears anyway.
O’Reily inches closer still, and Toby wishes he wouldn’t come so close, wishes he’d come even closer, feeling the corners of his eyes burn and reproaching himself, then O’Reily puts a hand on his shoulder, and it’s warm, and Toby forgets what he was reproaching himself about.
Ryan’s hand lingers, gets a little warmer even, moves a little, calm circular motion, massaging, comforting, and his eyes are imploring but soft, sympathetic, but, Toby is shaken to the core as he realises, there’s no pity there. He sniffs a little. Has time to register Ryan’s sudden smile before it blurs. He quickly blinks, and gratefully latches onto this new mood, follows Ryan, like an eager duckling as curiosity and excitement starts to stir inside him, pushing the other stuff away.
“Hug the wall”, Ryan says, and Toby doesn’t know what that means, but takes a step closer to him, and when that doesn’t get him any weird looks, he eagerly takes another step, this close he can feel the warmth radiate off of Ryan’s body, imagines he can smell the prison soap on him, refrains from breathing it in.
Ryan’s eyes twinkle as they lock with his. Twinkle, twinkle, Toby wants to giggle, but he’s not high enough yet, and he doesn’t want Ryan to think he’s a lightweight, doesn’t want him to think he’s had enough and take it away, he hasn’t had nearly enough and he doesn’t want Ryan to go away, ever, wait, that doesn’t make sense, he thinks, and then he thinks maybe he is rather high after all, so he giggles, because he can.
He’s delighted when Ryan joins in, Ryans’ giggles are perfect, when Ryan doesn’t take himself away at all, but leans even closer to him, so close, foreheads brushing, this is the closest we’ve been, Toby knows, and it’s significant somehow, and it makes his skin tingle, especially his fingertips, and his belly button, he tells Ryan this, and Ryan giggles some more and snakes an arm around him, “Oh my”, Toby thinks, or maybe he said it out loud, he’s not sure.
And then he can’t speak at all, because there’s something blocking his mouth and it’s warm and soft and tingly
“COUNT!”
Toby groans, or he’s about to, but Ryan beats him to it and he seems genuinely disappointed, and gives Toby a look of regret that makes Toby not want to groan at all anymore.
“Back to reality”, Toby says and smiles.
Ryan keeps his arm around him, even as they steer their way to the door, the glass door, and then head out, back into the real world, with people who can see them, he keeps his arm around him, and he leans in and whispers, like it’s a secret, that he’s going to tell him something his mother would always say to him and his brother when they were little, and part of Toby thinks he should be offended or something that Ryan seems to think he needs to mother him, when Toby’s fairly sure he’s a couple of years older than Ryan, but the arm is still around his shoulders, and it’s just heavy enough, just warm enough, and that’s all that matters.
“May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face and rain fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again…”
Toby giggles once more, wants the rest, wants it all, wants anything Ryan has to give him.
“May God hold you in the hollow… of his hand.”
He tells Vern this, and as he says it, he almost believes it. Later when he’s dozing off, still fuzzy from the dull high, from the warm arm around his shoulders, from the stage-whispered Irish blessing, in that voice so deep, so passionate, that he’d believe anything it spun into words, even these words, but as he shuts his eyes, feeling all this warmth and fuzziness, like he’s actually curled up snug and safe in the hollow of a hand, there’s a slight confusion as to whom the hand belongs.
And even though he tries to focus on the almighty love, just like he would during evening prayers as a kid, his mind keeps tossing him back into the arms of a grinning devil that smells like weed and soap and something else… freedom, he decides. Whatever that smells like.
He smiles to himself and drifts off to sleep.
He looks over at Ryan, and for just a second, their eyes lock. Ryan feels a jolt pass through him, as though the eye contact itself was charged. Then the prag looks down again, eyes going dull, sad even, and he hangs his head even more than before.
He’s pure puppy, and for some reason Ryan feels his skin prickle.
Before he’s thought about it and had a chance to remind himself of what a bad idea it is, he’s strolling out into the common area, heading straight for the Aryans, catching Scillinger’s look as he notices him, sees him all but perk up when Ryan sidles up to him and drags himself to a stop. Soon enough he’s introduced him to all the Aryans of Em City, and the few bikers who happens to be hanging around. Not to the prag, but Ryan wasn’t really expecting him to, either. He knows how these things work. Even if he himself hasn’t been inside since his days at juvy, he’s heard stories.
Each prison has their own pet name for it, prag, bitch, herm, but they all mean the same thing. Someone owns you. It makes Ryan’s skin crawl just thinking about it. And it’s not about the fucking, not really, except for the part where it’s not consensual and more about power play and humiliation than it is about sex.
Glancing again at the prag, the guy, he corrects himself, and vows to find out his name as soon as possible without it looking suspect, the guy sits huddled over like a kicked puppy, miserable but resigned to the fact that he’s not his own person anymore. Hell, he’s not even a person at all. He’s a play thing. Ryan imagines seeing the guy tense up as his gaze lingers, so he looks away again, scans the common area again instead, forces his muscles to relax in his well-practised slouch, too cool for school, knowing these fuckers can smell fear.
But that’s when it starts. He can’t explain it, not even to himself, not completely, but from that moment on he makes sure to stick around, stay close, he endures the company of the Aryans and the bikers, just to keep a close eye on this guy -- Beecher -- just to keep close to him, period.
One of these days, he tells himself, I’ll get him away from them, even if it’s just for a moment, I’ll get him away, I’ll have him all to myself and won’t have to deal with them anymore, it will just be Beecher and me.
He can’t explain it. Couldn’t begin to explain where this need, these feelings are coming from, what they mean.
He thinks it probably has something to do with always getting what he wants, and with always wanting what he can’t have. But for all he knows this could be his subconscious acting out because of some deep-seated disappointment he still has after his old man took away the puppy dog aunt Brenda brought him and his brother once when they were kids.
He only got to hold it for a minute.
And now he can’t seem to shake this impulsive need to reach out and hold this man, Tobias, hold him close, close enough to feel his heartbeat, close enough to smell, to comfort and protect him.
Yeah, Ryan thinks. It’s definitely related.
Although the flicker in his belly whenever Beecher looks up and accidentally meets his gaze before he blushes and goes back to staring at his own hands, or the floor, or the wall, or the warmth that spreads in his chest when Beecher stumbles a little too close to him when they happen to be walking close, when Ryan is talking to Scillinger and Beecher is just there like he always is and Ryan can imagine he feels his body heat even at this distance, the warmth that pools in his belly and slowly starts to trickle down, feels nothing like holding that puppy made him feel, as far as he remembers.
He knows immediately just skimming through the transcripts of the trial that Ryan’s got no chance at appealing. He toys with the idea of dragging that discovery out, just for a little while, just so Ryan will keep looking at him like he does now. Ryan is the only one who looks at him like that nowadays, like he’s an actual person, like he matters.
But it wouldn’t be fair to him to keep his hopes up, Toby knows. So he resigns himself to evaporate again and goes to tell him.
He should have known he wouldn’t be capable of surprising the other man, should have known that instead he’d end up being surprised.
Even though he hasn’t known Ryan that long, he knows enough that he should have seen that coming; he knows the man lead a quite organised gang on the outside, at least in his youth, judging by the court’s reference to his prior convictions and time spent in juvenal detention, and then judging by his lithe frame and the silvery way he talks, Toby knows he never had to enforce that leadership by physical force, if he even had to enforce it at all. He also knows that Ryan is smart, he might not be an intellectual, and he’s definitely not an academic, but his street smarts are frighteningly sharp, and he keeps at least two steps ahead of everyone else, Toby also knows enough to never fool himself into thinking he actually knows Ryan O’Reily.
And yet, he’s surprised at his lack of surprise, and at the way he keeps sharing the joint with him, and at how nothing changes about the way he’s looking at him, at how nothing changes at all.
Until it does.
O’Reily is on him before he’s had a chance to register the change in him, and the change is that of night and day; his eyes are flashing, hard, his entire face goes hard somehow, as does his body, all tense and vibrating with barely restrained rage.
If he were a cartoon, he would have been shooting sparks, Toby reflects later, as he sits in shock and stares at the empty space where O’Reily was lounging like newly-fed cat only seconds before, playing with that toy of his that his brother sent him in the mail, before, out of nowhere, his claws came out and he was hissing and spitting in Toby’s face, a real stray all of the sudden.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why O’Reily would get upset. Obviously he must have an invested interest in Keane’s demise. But Toby tries not to think about that. His moments with O’Reily, no with Ryan, his stolen moments alone with him, getting high together, shooting the shit or sharing the silence, those are what’s been keeping him sane lately, and he doesn’t want to lose them.
But this is more important. This is a man’s life. This is his own life, what little trace is left of it, and if he betrays his vocation and his principles, his belief in justice, then even the last trace residue of the man he was will be smudged out of existence.
When Ryan approaches him in the laundry room, it’s already different between them, something’s shifted, it’s palpable, and looking into Ryan’s face, Toby can tell he’s aware of it as well. He can also tell that Ryan wants to talk, would talk if it weren’t for Rebadow, that he has something that he wants to say and it’s got nothing to do with getting high, but he can’t risk it, not like this, not when they aren’t alone, not with Rebadow standing right there, not with all of Em City spread out gloriously around them, with nothing but a useless pane of glass separating them from their view.
Toby imagines that he can also catch a flash of insecurity in Ryan’s eyes, regret, fear, but he dismisses it, telling himself he’s merely projecting. This is Ryan O’Reily. And he doesn’t really care about Toby and their moments together, if he’s worried it’s because Toby could implicate him in a crime, that’s if he’s worried at all, which Toby seriously doubts.
That night, though, as he’s lying on his back in an unfamiliar cot, enjoying his vacation in protective custody, after his talk with Keane turned out to be a dead end, he’s staring at the ceiling and determinedly not thinking about that look in Ryan’s eyes, the feeling of his arm slung around his neck and how familiar the gesture had become, how familiar he and Ryan had become, except today it didn’t feel familiar, it felt like they were trying to re-enact a familiarity they’d gambled away, like they were two ex lovers meeting each other again for the first time after breaking up and awkwardly embracing, like they were already strangers again.
Toby tries to will the thoughts away, tries not to smother himself in self-deprecating regret, tries not to listen to himself as words like ’pathetic’ and ’failure’ sear through his mind. He turns his thoughts to Ryan, like he’s become so used to doing whenever these moods engulf him, and for a split second he feels better, until he remembers that all that’s changed now too, and when an irrational burst of panic hits him at the thought, another more drawn-out, gradual fear also starts to seep into his consciousness, realising for the first time the dangerous ground he’s treading.
Because he knows, knows, that if he allows himself to feel, or rather acknowledge to himself what he’s already feeling for the other man, if he allows himself to see Ryan O’Reily as his saviour, as his haven, as someone dependable, lovable, loving… if he allows himself to even toy with the idea of Ryan O’Reily caring about him, for him, then he’s gone and ruined everything.
He knows this, and yet here he is, doing exactly that.
His life was a pathetic slope into depression and drunkenness before he got into that car, before he went blazing around that corner, before Kathy Rockwell hit his windscreen in a flash of broken glass and bones, and in that moment he went tumbling down that slope so fast it was like he was being catapulted, and if he thought he‘d hit bottom when he stood before the judge, he had no idea, because at the bottom of the slope lay Oz, and Oz has turned out to be a Hell far more painful and humiliating than he could have ever imagined. And O’Reily was the one good thing that he had left, the one thing that kept him going, his constant, his anchor.
Until now.
Even if O’Reily manages put the event of today behind him and acts like nothing’s changed between them when Toby gets out of protective custody, it’s still ruined, because it has changed, Toby has changed, he’s gone and taken his anchor and transformed it into something else.
He slings an arm over his face and groans. So much for not thinking about it.
Ryan is watching from a safe distance as Beecher forgets his place and makes a comment, and whatever the comment was, it has a ripple effect of quiet outrage amongst the Aryans around him, and for a moment Ryan feels a surge of pride and has to concentrate hard not to let an insistent smile break out.
That doesn’t stay a problem for long. Instead, his skin crawls as Scillinger orders Beecher to his knees, right there, in front of everyone, and Beecher gets out a rag from his pocket, almost eagerly, and goes to start polish the bastard’s boots, except the Nazi fuck adds something that gives him pause.
Ryan grits his teeth when it becomes clear what Beecher’s been asked to do, but he hangs back, knows there’s next to nothing he can do at this point, and definitely nothing that would help Beecher, or himself, in the long run, so he hangs back, and he waits. As Beecher’s tongue touches the tip of Scillinger’s boot, Ryan has to look away. Wait, he tells himself. Don’t lose control.
When Beecher is finally allowed to go wash his mouth, Ryan follows. He gives him a moment, then enters the room. He hesitates for a second inside the door, then decides to slip on his façade and pushes into the room like he would any other day, he asks Beecher about his appeal, pretends to know nothing of what happened out there earlier, then feigns surprise at the sight of Beecher’s red-rimmed eyes, hoping Beecher will buy it and start them off by telling Ryan what‘s happened.
Only Beecher apparently doesn’t feel like talking, so Ryan is on his own.
How the fuck does this comforting business work anyway, he thinks briefly, mildly annoyed with himself as he shuffles closer to the other man, feeling helpless and ridiculous all at once.
He offers up some lame line meant to soothe and puts an awkward hand on Beecher’s shoulder. He feels royally stupid until Beecher looks up at him, surprise and gratitude sparking in his eyes, and he even smiles a little, so Ryan lets his hand stay where it is and smiles back.
Standing this close, he imagines he can breathe in all those subtle little smells that make up the smell of Beecher, it’s intoxicating, and Ryan has to consciously hold back from leaning in closer to inhale, or just breathe in too deeply standing where he is. He doesn’t want to freak Beecher out, and he doesn’t want to feed his own feelings either, they’re getting out of hand as it is; he can barely stand being in the same room as the Aryans anymore, and see Scillinger and Beecher together, even when he’s not being subjected to some disgusting act of humiliation or punishment, even when he’s just sitting next to him, it makes the blood in Ryan’s veins start pushing at his skin, like a storm inside; one of these days he’ll lose control and he can’t afford to, not again.
Beecher is looking at him and there’s a tense moment when neither come up with anything to say, and Ryan starts to feel helpless again.
But then a thought strikes him and he smiles. There is something he can do for Beecher, something small, and temporary, but at least it will let him escape for a moment. That will have to do, for now.
Ryan takes the first hit, just to get the joint going. Then offers it to Beecher. Leaning back against the wall, he watches Beecher inhale, then exhale, notices some of the tension drain out of him with the burst of smoke, he nods at him to say ‘have another’ and lets Beecher take a few more hits before he takes his next one, he’s content just relaxing against the wall like this, just admiring the view. As Beecher’s body loosens up, and the tension around his eyes and mouth gradually lose its hold as well, it’s like you can see him, see Beecher, Toby, for the first time, like he’s come out from behind this screen. Beautiful, Ryan thinks.
His fingers jerk a little at his sides, the impulse to reach out and touch welling up inside of him, he takes another hit. Fucking beautiful.
Somehow they end up even closer. Ryan wouldn’t have thought that was possible. And now he wonders if he can get closer still. His arm has found its way back to Beecher’s shoulder, and is now resting comfortably around him, enveloping him, keeping him close, I wonder if I can get closer, and Beecher head is resting against him as well, face pressed gently against his neck, breaths puffing out and hitting his Adam’s apple, the occasional giggle vibrating through Ryan’s entire body, tickles, he’d forgotten how good it feels to be happy, to be loose, to be close.
And then there are lips against his, he’s bowed his head he realises then, and turned his body slightly, Beecher pocketed between him and the wall, maybe I should have asked him if he wanted me to kiss him, and Beecher is kissing back, and giggling, and kissing him again, could get closer, and Ryan thinks he must have forgotten how good it feels to kiss as well, but at the same time he’s fairly sure kissing never felt this good before.
“COUNT!”
Ryan groans and thumps his head against the wall.
“Back to reality”, Toby says and smiles at him.
They both giggle again. Ryan can’t remember the last time he giggled at all, now he’s lost track of the number of giggles that’s escaped him in the last hour. He steps back a little, lets some air come between them, but keeps his arm around Beecher as they walk out together.
Later, tomorrow, he’ll kick himself for a number of reasons but ultimately blame it all on the high. But now, as he snuggles into his bed, his body still warm from where Beecher was pressed against him and his lips still tingling from the kiss, eyes drifting close, he dreams
“Nighty-night, sweet cheeks”, Vern says in his sing-song voice.
No, Toby thinks dully. I’d never follow through with it. I’d fail at that as well.
He turns his head sideways, dried-up tear stains scratching his cheek, or at least he imagines so, and he breathes out again. Pushing his hands in-under the pillow, making himself as comfortable as is possible, he resigns himself to another night of restless sleep, but freezes as his fingers connect with paper. A folded up piece of paper. He closes his fist around it, just holds it, and he remember the other note that he found in his pant pocket, the note still hidden away under his mattress, the note he forgot about after he started hanging out with O’Reily.
Carefully, he pulls his hand out from under the pillow now, and unfolds the piece of paper
“Surrender Dorothy”
He feels his stomach sink slightly as he reads the words, the same words, the same scrawl, as on the first note, and this one was placed under his pillow while he was in protective custody, which means the person who wrote it came into the pod.
The sinking feeling increases, as Beecher thinks it’s looking more and more likely that Vern wrote the damn thing after all. Just another one of his games. Toby crumbles the note up and shoves it under the mattress.
Ryan finds him moping the next day and hovers behind him on the bunk bed, he shifts a little closer to him, but not nearly close enough, he’s keeping his distance, but then there’s an arm resting lightly on his shoulder and Toby thinks, dares to hope, for a moment that Ryan is trying to comfort him again, and then he spots the white powder
He’s soaring
Ryan is there with him, holding him, making sure he’s safe, in case he loses his Happy Thought and starts to plummet, but actually it’s more of a preventive than a precaution, because Ryan is his happy thought. Somewhere, far, far away, Toby has a family that still loves him and that he loves more than anything, but that’s a different world and he’s lost access to it and everything inside of it. Now, all he’s got left is Oz, and maybe by some miracle he’ll find his way home again, some day, but it won’t be today, because today there’s only this
“Surrender”
That deep, velvety voice, Toby shivers, it hums the word right into his skull, lips grazing his hairline, he can hear the smile in the air around it, feel it in the spaces between the syllables, and he shivers. The arms wrapped around him come a little closer, the lips at his neck brush along his hairline
“Surrender”, again.
Then, “I got you”
Toby smiles to himself, wondering how far down the ground will be if he opens his eyes, but can’t be bothered, not just yet
“You got me”, he mumbles
“That’s right”, the voice murmurs, a hand stroking idly, up and down his arm
“…in the hollow of your hand”
There’s a chuckle behind and around him, then inside as well as he joins in, although it’s more of a giggle.
The room goes crazy, screams and catcalls and taunts, Ryan can’t look, can’t even relax himself enough to sit, can’t deal with this, he feels his skin prickle, feels eyes on him, Toby’s eyes, he grits his teeth
“I’ve got it bad…”
He can’t do it
Finally, finally, that brittle voice fades into empty space, rudely filled with even more screams and taunts, and Ryan waits until Hill grabs the microphone, even he is laughing as he presents the next act, and only then Ryan can bring himself to look over at the stage again, Toby’s gone, Ryan wants to punch something, fuck this mandatory bullshit, he thinks, contemplating sneaking off to the gym, but knows there’s no chance in Hell he’ll get away with it.
He watches Sister Pete make her way backstage, he waits, then she’s making her way back again, she’s upset, and he knows why, he supplied the poison. He swallows the lump in his throat, swallows the howl that is scratching at the inside of it, itching to break free, pushes it all down, all the rage and the hate and the hurt and the bitterness and the bile, I’ve got it bad, he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
When he opens them again, Sister Pete is looking straight at him. Fuck off. He glares back at her. But then he’s pushing away from the wall and stalking to the space behind the stage anyway, feeling his pulse quicken and tells himself he needs to calm down or he’s going to end up punching Beecher in the face and he really doesn’t want to.
Beecher is slumped against the wall, he’s tried to wipe the makeup off, but all that’s done is smudge it all over the place.
Ryan huffs and pushes Beecher in the chest, probably harder than necessary, pushing at him to straighten up, then he licks his own fingers and starts cleaning the goo off the man’s cheeks, mascara and what the hell other shit those bastards smeared on him, he feels Beecher’s eyes on him, but refuses to meet them, not yet, he concentrates on getting him clean, heh, yeah isn’t that ironic, and then he takes a step back from him, only then can he look Beecher in the eye.
The look in Beecher’s eyes shifts, from heartbroken, to helpless, to sad, and when it settles on resigned, Ryan feels what must be some sort of heartbreak himself.
I can’t do this anymore, I can’t watch them do this to you, I can’t deal with this.
He shrugs a little. None of the words gets passed the lump in his throat.
There’s a sheen of understanding in Toby’s eyes, though. I know. And then he smiles a little. It’s sad and bitter, but technically still a smile. I know.
“I’m sorry”, Ryan croaks out.
“I know”, Beecher murmurs, voice dead, hollow.
Ryan steps forward then, grabs Beecher’s head, probably grabs him a lot harder than he should, and he kisses him. The hands that come up to rest on his chest are gentle, warm, they push a little, rub soothingly, saying it’s okay, it’s okay, and Ryan relaxes a little, lets Beecher soften the kiss, take charge of it and make it gentle, delicate, and Ryan swallows what it says, feeling his heart definitely break now, good bye, Ryan.
“That was you, right”, Toby asks a couple of years later, a couple of lifetimes later, and Ryan -- O’Reily -- looks at him like he’s just recited a rhyme, only he hasn’t, but for a minute he smiles like he has, savouring the unfamiliar impulse to giggle as it surges, even though he pushes it down. “The notes”, he clarifies then. “’Surrender Dorothy‘…”
Spark of recognition in his eyes, Toby notices, then he gets that bemused look again.
“Who else did you think it was, Beecher?”
Toby shrugs. “The wicked witch of the West…”
O’Reily snorts and shakes his head, but there is a ghost of a smile lurking there somewhere, nowadays that’s all you’ll get from him, if that, and I got it, Beecher thinks.
He tucks that away, saves it.
The end.
Scars by cmk418
“How’d you get this?” Toby asked, touching the scar just below Ryan’s lower lip.
“Got into a knife fight when I was a kid.”
He can hear Cyril’s voice laughing in his head, plain as day, a familiar echo of their days on Bridget Street. “You cut yourself shaving.”
When they were growing up, Cyril was always the one who could be relied upon to call Ryan on his bullshit. Now, Cyril’s was the predominant voice inside his head, the one he could never silence.
“Ryan?” Toby whispered, bringing him back to the present.
Ryan blinks away the memory, regaining the here and now, where his scars are mostly hidden and self-inflicted.
Shaving With A Knife by Gonattsaga
Title: Shaving With A Knife
Author: gonattsaga
Pairing/Characters: Ryan/Toby, implied Ryan/Dino
Rating: PG-13
Wiping his tears off on the pillow, he feels the bed dip as Vern puts his foot on the edge and heaves himself up to the top bunk. The whole bed shakes as he settles in, the hinges creak and whine, then there’s stillness, and a sigh so content and peaceful it feels like a slap in Toby’s face.
He pushes his entire face into the pillow, thinking for a moment that he could choke himself like this, and that would be okay.
“Nighty-night, sweet cheeks”, Vern says in his sing-song voice.
No, Toby thinks dully. I’d never follow through with it. I’d fail at that as well.
He turns his head sideways, dried-up tear stains scratching his cheek, or at least he imagines so, and he breathes out again. Pushing his hands in-under the pillow, making himself as comfortable as is possible, he resigns himself to another night of restless sleep
The first note he finds in a pocket of one of his pants as he’s doing the laundry. His stomach does a little flip, just from the fact, from the sense of secrecy; and from the words that are scrawled across the paper -- just two of them, “Surrender Dorothy” -- even though they mean nothing to him personally and are probably meant as a taunt, Toby’s pulse stutters at the sight, not because of the words themselves, but because of the handwriting.
A handwriting that he doesn’t recognise. Which means dear old Vern didn’t write it, nor any of his Aryan brothers, and that alone sends a jolt through him. He doesn’t know what it means, but it’s kind of like receiving a love note in school
“Do you like me Check YES NO MAYBE”
Except he only ever got one note and it turned out the girl hadn’t written it at all, but a couple of other guys, playing a prank on him. Actually, this is a lot like that, he thinks. But he folds up the piece of paper again anyway, and tucks in away, saves it.
Later, after lights out, and after Vern has climbed up into his own bunk, Toby carefully reaches in-under the mattress where he’s hidden the note. He doesn’t dare pull it out, but his fingers brush paper, and that’s all he needs.
The Aryan leader, Skillinger Shillinger something, his so-called sponsor, dutifully walks him to his new home, Dino’s old pod, and Ryan wants to get rid of him as soon as possible so that he can be alone with this moment, soak it up; he wants to fix it in his memory so that he can revisit it over and over again, so that five or ten or twelve years from now he can still recall what this feels like, so that every single day he has to spend in this Hell hole, he’ll carry this with him, as a reminder.
He looks at the two bunk beds, holds back from reaching out, wonders which one Dino slept on and if he’ll smell him on it if he lets himself get close enough and inhale, or if it’ll just be the tangy odour of sweat and dust collected over the years, Dino’s sweat, his smell, lost in the mix, just the last in a long line of nameless fucks who rested their heads on it at one point before fading into the wood work, just like Dino.
Scillinger lingers in the doorway, eyeing him keenly as he pulls his prison blues off. Ryan barely refrains from bristling. Not even in your dreams, big boy, he thinks to himself.
“You got friends”, Scillinger comments, that little smile of his twisting for a moment, then he’s back to being sincere, offering his hand. “You got another one, if you want…”
Yeah right, Ryan thinks, even as he reaches out and shakes it.
The new guy -- O’Reily -- finds him in the library. At first Toby thinks he’s looking for Vern and half-expects him to pretend not to have seen Toby at all. That’s what they do, those few inmates who don’t have the heart or the interest to make his Hell worse by poking fun at it.
But O’Reily’s eyes don’t flicker away, and he doesn’t brush by Toby’s table. Instead he slides into the seat opposite him, even leans over the table top a little, leans closer, and pins Toby down with an unmistakably direct gaze. And it’s all friendly too, like he wasn’t watching Toby get fucked into the mattress by a burly white supremist only the night before, watching along with a hundred or so other men, some of which were getting themselves off, and for all Toby knows, O’Reily was one of them.
But as he meets that gaze, that overly sincere gaze, he likes to think he wasn’t. He likes to think he actually turned his back and didn’t watch at all, but he’s not stupid enough to let himself believe that. Still, he appreciates the polite conversation, soaks it up, the normalcy of it, like they’re equals.
Of course he knows O’Reily must have some sort of motive for being here, but beggars can’t be choosers as they say, and when it turns out the other man just wants his legal advice, he almost chokes on the relief, feeling a little part of his old self slip back and gathers it up gratefully.
He tosses the prison shirt on the floor, gives it a kick, just because, and pulls on a t-shirt, his t-shirt, and the difference is immediate, to wear your clothes, fuck, he’ll never take it for granted again.
He moves into the doorway and scans the common area, Em City, registering the different constellations, filing away info, working out the possible angles, trying to figure out where he’ll fit in once he’s deducted that he’s a minority based on the colour of his skin.
Glancing over at the Aryans, he knows they’re the only group that would welcome him straight away no questions asked, but fuck if he’ll partner up with those seig heiling Neanderthals unless he absolutely has to. There must be a way to compromise, he thinks. Some sort of middle ground, safer. He looks over at the bikers, starts assessing, wondering if there’s anyone in their crew he could easily sweet talk
But he’s interrupted in his thoughts Another white skin, neither bald nor tattooed, scurries across the floor, heads for the Aryans, for Scillinger, and plops down in the empty chair next to him, head bowed, shoulders slumped. A prag. Ryan is just about to dismiss him, when
He wasn’t even crying. His eyes welled up and tears spilled over, yes, but that was from the retching as he tried to scrub his tongue clean without throwing up. He didn’t cry, not over that, he’d been subjected to far worse punishments, more painful, more humiliating, in fact as far as he was concerned old Vern was getting soft, and he definitely hadn’t cried over it, he didn’t cry at all anymore, he’d reached the conclusion that all it did was give him a headache on top of everything else, besides he’d run out of tears anyway.
O’Reily inches closer still, and Toby wishes he wouldn’t come so close, wishes he’d come even closer, feeling the corners of his eyes burn and reproaching himself, then O’Reily puts a hand on his shoulder, and it’s warm, and Toby forgets what he was reproaching himself about.
Ryan’s hand lingers, gets a little warmer even, moves a little, calm circular motion, massaging, comforting, and his eyes are imploring but soft, sympathetic, but, Toby is shaken to the core as he realises, there’s no pity there. He sniffs a little. Has time to register Ryan’s sudden smile before it blurs. He quickly blinks, and gratefully latches onto this new mood, follows Ryan, like an eager duckling as curiosity and excitement starts to stir inside him, pushing the other stuff away.
“Hug the wall”, Ryan says, and Toby doesn’t know what that means, but takes a step closer to him, and when that doesn’t get him any weird looks, he eagerly takes another step, this close he can feel the warmth radiate off of Ryan’s body, imagines he can smell the prison soap on him, refrains from breathing it in.
Ryan’s eyes twinkle as they lock with his. Twinkle, twinkle, Toby wants to giggle, but he’s not high enough yet, and he doesn’t want Ryan to think he’s a lightweight, doesn’t want him to think he’s had enough and take it away, he hasn’t had nearly enough and he doesn’t want Ryan to go away, ever, wait, that doesn’t make sense, he thinks, and then he thinks maybe he is rather high after all, so he giggles, because he can.
He’s delighted when Ryan joins in, Ryans’ giggles are perfect, when Ryan doesn’t take himself away at all, but leans even closer to him, so close, foreheads brushing, this is the closest we’ve been, Toby knows, and it’s significant somehow, and it makes his skin tingle, especially his fingertips, and his belly button, he tells Ryan this, and Ryan giggles some more and snakes an arm around him, “Oh my”, Toby thinks, or maybe he said it out loud, he’s not sure.
And then he can’t speak at all, because there’s something blocking his mouth and it’s warm and soft and tingly
“COUNT!”
Toby groans, or he’s about to, but Ryan beats him to it and he seems genuinely disappointed, and gives Toby a look of regret that makes Toby not want to groan at all anymore.
“Back to reality”, Toby says and smiles.
Ryan keeps his arm around him, even as they steer their way to the door, the glass door, and then head out, back into the real world, with people who can see them, he keeps his arm around him, and he leans in and whispers, like it’s a secret, that he’s going to tell him something his mother would always say to him and his brother when they were little, and part of Toby thinks he should be offended or something that Ryan seems to think he needs to mother him, when Toby’s fairly sure he’s a couple of years older than Ryan, but the arm is still around his shoulders, and it’s just heavy enough, just warm enough, and that’s all that matters.
“May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face and rain fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again…”
Toby giggles once more, wants the rest, wants it all, wants anything Ryan has to give him.
“May God hold you in the hollow… of his hand.”
He tells Vern this, and as he says it, he almost believes it. Later when he’s dozing off, still fuzzy from the dull high, from the warm arm around his shoulders, from the stage-whispered Irish blessing, in that voice so deep, so passionate, that he’d believe anything it spun into words, even these words, but as he shuts his eyes, feeling all this warmth and fuzziness, like he’s actually curled up snug and safe in the hollow of a hand, there’s a slight confusion as to whom the hand belongs.
And even though he tries to focus on the almighty love, just like he would during evening prayers as a kid, his mind keeps tossing him back into the arms of a grinning devil that smells like weed and soap and something else… freedom, he decides. Whatever that smells like.
He smiles to himself and drifts off to sleep.
He looks over at Ryan, and for just a second, their eyes lock. Ryan feels a jolt pass through him, as though the eye contact itself was charged. Then the prag looks down again, eyes going dull, sad even, and he hangs his head even more than before.
He’s pure puppy, and for some reason Ryan feels his skin prickle.
Before he’s thought about it and had a chance to remind himself of what a bad idea it is, he’s strolling out into the common area, heading straight for the Aryans, catching Scillinger’s look as he notices him, sees him all but perk up when Ryan sidles up to him and drags himself to a stop. Soon enough he’s introduced him to all the Aryans of Em City, and the few bikers who happens to be hanging around. Not to the prag, but Ryan wasn’t really expecting him to, either. He knows how these things work. Even if he himself hasn’t been inside since his days at juvy, he’s heard stories.
Each prison has their own pet name for it, prag, bitch, herm, but they all mean the same thing. Someone owns you. It makes Ryan’s skin crawl just thinking about it. And it’s not about the fucking, not really, except for the part where it’s not consensual and more about power play and humiliation than it is about sex.
Glancing again at the prag, the guy, he corrects himself, and vows to find out his name as soon as possible without it looking suspect, the guy sits huddled over like a kicked puppy, miserable but resigned to the fact that he’s not his own person anymore. Hell, he’s not even a person at all. He’s a play thing. Ryan imagines seeing the guy tense up as his gaze lingers, so he looks away again, scans the common area again instead, forces his muscles to relax in his well-practised slouch, too cool for school, knowing these fuckers can smell fear.
But that’s when it starts. He can’t explain it, not even to himself, not completely, but from that moment on he makes sure to stick around, stay close, he endures the company of the Aryans and the bikers, just to keep a close eye on this guy -- Beecher -- just to keep close to him, period.
One of these days, he tells himself, I’ll get him away from them, even if it’s just for a moment, I’ll get him away, I’ll have him all to myself and won’t have to deal with them anymore, it will just be Beecher and me.
He can’t explain it. Couldn’t begin to explain where this need, these feelings are coming from, what they mean.
He thinks it probably has something to do with always getting what he wants, and with always wanting what he can’t have. But for all he knows this could be his subconscious acting out because of some deep-seated disappointment he still has after his old man took away the puppy dog aunt Brenda brought him and his brother once when they were kids.
He only got to hold it for a minute.
And now he can’t seem to shake this impulsive need to reach out and hold this man, Tobias, hold him close, close enough to feel his heartbeat, close enough to smell, to comfort and protect him.
Yeah, Ryan thinks. It’s definitely related.
Although the flicker in his belly whenever Beecher looks up and accidentally meets his gaze before he blushes and goes back to staring at his own hands, or the floor, or the wall, or the warmth that spreads in his chest when Beecher stumbles a little too close to him when they happen to be walking close, when Ryan is talking to Scillinger and Beecher is just there like he always is and Ryan can imagine he feels his body heat even at this distance, the warmth that pools in his belly and slowly starts to trickle down, feels nothing like holding that puppy made him feel, as far as he remembers.
He knows immediately just skimming through the transcripts of the trial that Ryan’s got no chance at appealing. He toys with the idea of dragging that discovery out, just for a little while, just so Ryan will keep looking at him like he does now. Ryan is the only one who looks at him like that nowadays, like he’s an actual person, like he matters.
But it wouldn’t be fair to him to keep his hopes up, Toby knows. So he resigns himself to evaporate again and goes to tell him.
He should have known he wouldn’t be capable of surprising the other man, should have known that instead he’d end up being surprised.
Even though he hasn’t known Ryan that long, he knows enough that he should have seen that coming; he knows the man lead a quite organised gang on the outside, at least in his youth, judging by the court’s reference to his prior convictions and time spent in juvenal detention, and then judging by his lithe frame and the silvery way he talks, Toby knows he never had to enforce that leadership by physical force, if he even had to enforce it at all. He also knows that Ryan is smart, he might not be an intellectual, and he’s definitely not an academic, but his street smarts are frighteningly sharp, and he keeps at least two steps ahead of everyone else, Toby also knows enough to never fool himself into thinking he actually knows Ryan O’Reily.
And yet, he’s surprised at his lack of surprise, and at the way he keeps sharing the joint with him, and at how nothing changes about the way he’s looking at him, at how nothing changes at all.
Until it does.
O’Reily is on him before he’s had a chance to register the change in him, and the change is that of night and day; his eyes are flashing, hard, his entire face goes hard somehow, as does his body, all tense and vibrating with barely restrained rage.
If he were a cartoon, he would have been shooting sparks, Toby reflects later, as he sits in shock and stares at the empty space where O’Reily was lounging like newly-fed cat only seconds before, playing with that toy of his that his brother sent him in the mail, before, out of nowhere, his claws came out and he was hissing and spitting in Toby’s face, a real stray all of the sudden.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why O’Reily would get upset. Obviously he must have an invested interest in Keane’s demise. But Toby tries not to think about that. His moments with O’Reily, no with Ryan, his stolen moments alone with him, getting high together, shooting the shit or sharing the silence, those are what’s been keeping him sane lately, and he doesn’t want to lose them.
But this is more important. This is a man’s life. This is his own life, what little trace is left of it, and if he betrays his vocation and his principles, his belief in justice, then even the last trace residue of the man he was will be smudged out of existence.
When Ryan approaches him in the laundry room, it’s already different between them, something’s shifted, it’s palpable, and looking into Ryan’s face, Toby can tell he’s aware of it as well. He can also tell that Ryan wants to talk, would talk if it weren’t for Rebadow, that he has something that he wants to say and it’s got nothing to do with getting high, but he can’t risk it, not like this, not when they aren’t alone, not with Rebadow standing right there, not with all of Em City spread out gloriously around them, with nothing but a useless pane of glass separating them from their view.
Toby imagines that he can also catch a flash of insecurity in Ryan’s eyes, regret, fear, but he dismisses it, telling himself he’s merely projecting. This is Ryan O’Reily. And he doesn’t really care about Toby and their moments together, if he’s worried it’s because Toby could implicate him in a crime, that’s if he’s worried at all, which Toby seriously doubts.
That night, though, as he’s lying on his back in an unfamiliar cot, enjoying his vacation in protective custody, after his talk with Keane turned out to be a dead end, he’s staring at the ceiling and determinedly not thinking about that look in Ryan’s eyes, the feeling of his arm slung around his neck and how familiar the gesture had become, how familiar he and Ryan had become, except today it didn’t feel familiar, it felt like they were trying to re-enact a familiarity they’d gambled away, like they were two ex lovers meeting each other again for the first time after breaking up and awkwardly embracing, like they were already strangers again.
Toby tries to will the thoughts away, tries not to smother himself in self-deprecating regret, tries not to listen to himself as words like ’pathetic’ and ’failure’ sear through his mind. He turns his thoughts to Ryan, like he’s become so used to doing whenever these moods engulf him, and for a split second he feels better, until he remembers that all that’s changed now too, and when an irrational burst of panic hits him at the thought, another more drawn-out, gradual fear also starts to seep into his consciousness, realising for the first time the dangerous ground he’s treading.
Because he knows, knows, that if he allows himself to feel, or rather acknowledge to himself what he’s already feeling for the other man, if he allows himself to see Ryan O’Reily as his saviour, as his haven, as someone dependable, lovable, loving… if he allows himself to even toy with the idea of Ryan O’Reily caring about him, for him, then he’s gone and ruined everything.
He knows this, and yet here he is, doing exactly that.
His life was a pathetic slope into depression and drunkenness before he got into that car, before he went blazing around that corner, before Kathy Rockwell hit his windscreen in a flash of broken glass and bones, and in that moment he went tumbling down that slope so fast it was like he was being catapulted, and if he thought he‘d hit bottom when he stood before the judge, he had no idea, because at the bottom of the slope lay Oz, and Oz has turned out to be a Hell far more painful and humiliating than he could have ever imagined. And O’Reily was the one good thing that he had left, the one thing that kept him going, his constant, his anchor.
Until now.
Even if O’Reily manages put the event of today behind him and acts like nothing’s changed between them when Toby gets out of protective custody, it’s still ruined, because it has changed, Toby has changed, he’s gone and taken his anchor and transformed it into something else.
He slings an arm over his face and groans. So much for not thinking about it.
Ryan is watching from a safe distance as Beecher forgets his place and makes a comment, and whatever the comment was, it has a ripple effect of quiet outrage amongst the Aryans around him, and for a moment Ryan feels a surge of pride and has to concentrate hard not to let an insistent smile break out.
That doesn’t stay a problem for long. Instead, his skin crawls as Scillinger orders Beecher to his knees, right there, in front of everyone, and Beecher gets out a rag from his pocket, almost eagerly, and goes to start polish the bastard’s boots, except the Nazi fuck adds something that gives him pause.
Ryan grits his teeth when it becomes clear what Beecher’s been asked to do, but he hangs back, knows there’s next to nothing he can do at this point, and definitely nothing that would help Beecher, or himself, in the long run, so he hangs back, and he waits. As Beecher’s tongue touches the tip of Scillinger’s boot, Ryan has to look away. Wait, he tells himself. Don’t lose control.
When Beecher is finally allowed to go wash his mouth, Ryan follows. He gives him a moment, then enters the room. He hesitates for a second inside the door, then decides to slip on his façade and pushes into the room like he would any other day, he asks Beecher about his appeal, pretends to know nothing of what happened out there earlier, then feigns surprise at the sight of Beecher’s red-rimmed eyes, hoping Beecher will buy it and start them off by telling Ryan what‘s happened.
Only Beecher apparently doesn’t feel like talking, so Ryan is on his own.
How the fuck does this comforting business work anyway, he thinks briefly, mildly annoyed with himself as he shuffles closer to the other man, feeling helpless and ridiculous all at once.
He offers up some lame line meant to soothe and puts an awkward hand on Beecher’s shoulder. He feels royally stupid until Beecher looks up at him, surprise and gratitude sparking in his eyes, and he even smiles a little, so Ryan lets his hand stay where it is and smiles back.
Standing this close, he imagines he can breathe in all those subtle little smells that make up the smell of Beecher, it’s intoxicating, and Ryan has to consciously hold back from leaning in closer to inhale, or just breathe in too deeply standing where he is. He doesn’t want to freak Beecher out, and he doesn’t want to feed his own feelings either, they’re getting out of hand as it is; he can barely stand being in the same room as the Aryans anymore, and see Scillinger and Beecher together, even when he’s not being subjected to some disgusting act of humiliation or punishment, even when he’s just sitting next to him, it makes the blood in Ryan’s veins start pushing at his skin, like a storm inside; one of these days he’ll lose control and he can’t afford to, not again.
Beecher is looking at him and there’s a tense moment when neither come up with anything to say, and Ryan starts to feel helpless again.
But then a thought strikes him and he smiles. There is something he can do for Beecher, something small, and temporary, but at least it will let him escape for a moment. That will have to do, for now.
Ryan takes the first hit, just to get the joint going. Then offers it to Beecher. Leaning back against the wall, he watches Beecher inhale, then exhale, notices some of the tension drain out of him with the burst of smoke, he nods at him to say ‘have another’ and lets Beecher take a few more hits before he takes his next one, he’s content just relaxing against the wall like this, just admiring the view. As Beecher’s body loosens up, and the tension around his eyes and mouth gradually lose its hold as well, it’s like you can see him, see Beecher, Toby, for the first time, like he’s come out from behind this screen. Beautiful, Ryan thinks.
His fingers jerk a little at his sides, the impulse to reach out and touch welling up inside of him, he takes another hit. Fucking beautiful.
Somehow they end up even closer. Ryan wouldn’t have thought that was possible. And now he wonders if he can get closer still. His arm has found its way back to Beecher’s shoulder, and is now resting comfortably around him, enveloping him, keeping him close, I wonder if I can get closer, and Beecher head is resting against him as well, face pressed gently against his neck, breaths puffing out and hitting his Adam’s apple, the occasional giggle vibrating through Ryan’s entire body, tickles, he’d forgotten how good it feels to be happy, to be loose, to be close.
And then there are lips against his, he’s bowed his head he realises then, and turned his body slightly, Beecher pocketed between him and the wall, maybe I should have asked him if he wanted me to kiss him, and Beecher is kissing back, and giggling, and kissing him again, could get closer, and Ryan thinks he must have forgotten how good it feels to kiss as well, but at the same time he’s fairly sure kissing never felt this good before.
“COUNT!”
Ryan groans and thumps his head against the wall.
“Back to reality”, Toby says and smiles at him.
They both giggle again. Ryan can’t remember the last time he giggled at all, now he’s lost track of the number of giggles that’s escaped him in the last hour. He steps back a little, lets some air come between them, but keeps his arm around Beecher as they walk out together.
Later, tomorrow, he’ll kick himself for a number of reasons but ultimately blame it all on the high. But now, as he snuggles into his bed, his body still warm from where Beecher was pressed against him and his lips still tingling from the kiss, eyes drifting close, he dreams
“Nighty-night, sweet cheeks”, Vern says in his sing-song voice.
No, Toby thinks dully. I’d never follow through with it. I’d fail at that as well.
He turns his head sideways, dried-up tear stains scratching his cheek, or at least he imagines so, and he breathes out again. Pushing his hands in-under the pillow, making himself as comfortable as is possible, he resigns himself to another night of restless sleep, but freezes as his fingers connect with paper. A folded up piece of paper. He closes his fist around it, just holds it, and he remember the other note that he found in his pant pocket, the note still hidden away under his mattress, the note he forgot about after he started hanging out with O’Reily.
Carefully, he pulls his hand out from under the pillow now, and unfolds the piece of paper
“Surrender Dorothy”
He feels his stomach sink slightly as he reads the words, the same words, the same scrawl, as on the first note, and this one was placed under his pillow while he was in protective custody, which means the person who wrote it came into the pod.
The sinking feeling increases, as Beecher thinks it’s looking more and more likely that Vern wrote the damn thing after all. Just another one of his games. Toby crumbles the note up and shoves it under the mattress.
Ryan finds him moping the next day and hovers behind him on the bunk bed, he shifts a little closer to him, but not nearly close enough, he’s keeping his distance, but then there’s an arm resting lightly on his shoulder and Toby thinks, dares to hope, for a moment that Ryan is trying to comfort him again, and then he spots the white powder
He’s soaring
Ryan is there with him, holding him, making sure he’s safe, in case he loses his Happy Thought and starts to plummet, but actually it’s more of a preventive than a precaution, because Ryan is his happy thought. Somewhere, far, far away, Toby has a family that still loves him and that he loves more than anything, but that’s a different world and he’s lost access to it and everything inside of it. Now, all he’s got left is Oz, and maybe by some miracle he’ll find his way home again, some day, but it won’t be today, because today there’s only this
“Surrender”
That deep, velvety voice, Toby shivers, it hums the word right into his skull, lips grazing his hairline, he can hear the smile in the air around it, feel it in the spaces between the syllables, and he shivers. The arms wrapped around him come a little closer, the lips at his neck brush along his hairline
“Surrender”, again.
Then, “I got you”
Toby smiles to himself, wondering how far down the ground will be if he opens his eyes, but can’t be bothered, not just yet
“You got me”, he mumbles
“That’s right”, the voice murmurs, a hand stroking idly, up and down his arm
“…in the hollow of your hand”
There’s a chuckle behind and around him, then inside as well as he joins in, although it’s more of a giggle.
The room goes crazy, screams and catcalls and taunts, Ryan can’t look, can’t even relax himself enough to sit, can’t deal with this, he feels his skin prickle, feels eyes on him, Toby’s eyes, he grits his teeth
“I’ve got it bad…”
He can’t do it
Finally, finally, that brittle voice fades into empty space, rudely filled with even more screams and taunts, and Ryan waits until Hill grabs the microphone, even he is laughing as he presents the next act, and only then Ryan can bring himself to look over at the stage again, Toby’s gone, Ryan wants to punch something, fuck this mandatory bullshit, he thinks, contemplating sneaking off to the gym, but knows there’s no chance in Hell he’ll get away with it.
He watches Sister Pete make her way backstage, he waits, then she’s making her way back again, she’s upset, and he knows why, he supplied the poison. He swallows the lump in his throat, swallows the howl that is scratching at the inside of it, itching to break free, pushes it all down, all the rage and the hate and the hurt and the bitterness and the bile, I’ve got it bad, he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
When he opens them again, Sister Pete is looking straight at him. Fuck off. He glares back at her. But then he’s pushing away from the wall and stalking to the space behind the stage anyway, feeling his pulse quicken and tells himself he needs to calm down or he’s going to end up punching Beecher in the face and he really doesn’t want to.
Beecher is slumped against the wall, he’s tried to wipe the makeup off, but all that’s done is smudge it all over the place.
Ryan huffs and pushes Beecher in the chest, probably harder than necessary, pushing at him to straighten up, then he licks his own fingers and starts cleaning the goo off the man’s cheeks, mascara and what the hell other shit those bastards smeared on him, he feels Beecher’s eyes on him, but refuses to meet them, not yet, he concentrates on getting him clean, heh, yeah isn’t that ironic, and then he takes a step back from him, only then can he look Beecher in the eye.
The look in Beecher’s eyes shifts, from heartbroken, to helpless, to sad, and when it settles on resigned, Ryan feels what must be some sort of heartbreak himself.
I can’t do this anymore, I can’t watch them do this to you, I can’t deal with this.
He shrugs a little. None of the words gets passed the lump in his throat.
There’s a sheen of understanding in Toby’s eyes, though. I know. And then he smiles a little. It’s sad and bitter, but technically still a smile. I know.
“I’m sorry”, Ryan croaks out.
“I know”, Beecher murmurs, voice dead, hollow.
Ryan steps forward then, grabs Beecher’s head, probably grabs him a lot harder than he should, and he kisses him. The hands that come up to rest on his chest are gentle, warm, they push a little, rub soothingly, saying it’s okay, it’s okay, and Ryan relaxes a little, lets Beecher soften the kiss, take charge of it and make it gentle, delicate, and Ryan swallows what it says, feeling his heart definitely break now, good bye, Ryan.
“That was you, right”, Toby asks a couple of years later, a couple of lifetimes later, and Ryan -- O’Reily -- looks at him like he’s just recited a rhyme, only he hasn’t, but for a minute he smiles like he has, savouring the unfamiliar impulse to giggle as it surges, even though he pushes it down. “The notes”, he clarifies then. “’Surrender Dorothy‘…”
Spark of recognition in his eyes, Toby notices, then he gets that bemused look again.
“Who else did you think it was, Beecher?”
Toby shrugs. “The wicked witch of the West…”
O’Reily snorts and shakes his head, but there is a ghost of a smile lurking there somewhere, nowadays that’s all you’ll get from him, if that, and I got it, Beecher thinks.
He tucks that away, saves it.
The end.