Archive of Our Own ^beta

They hadn’t paid for that time alone, and because there’s no such thing as a miracle in Oz, they don’t get it for free, either.

Still, it’s a little odd that a hack had actually bothered to barge in.

Once Miguel and Chico are fully clothed, they’re frog-marched into the unit manager’s office to get the full special;

“The only reason I’m not sending your asses to the Hole right this very second is because A—you two might actually enjoy that, and B—Officer Armstrong tells me you weren’t actually fuckin’ each other up the ass!” McManus rants, rocking angrily in his spinning chair while they sit slumped on the other side of the desk.

Still too fucking high for this shit, Miguel just watches the flare of McManus’s nose, and when he says something to the effect of I’m gonna give you one chance to explain, he just rolls his head to the left, looking toward Chico.

Chico is looking right back at him, hair still damp from the showers, wet patches on his shirt, too. Sexy, that dip of his collarbone damp and gleaming, just asking to be licked.

Miguel gives a grunt of laughter and smiles, which Chico returns briefly before refocusing his attention.

“If you got the info from Armstrong, the fuck more explanation do you need?” he asks McManus, that pissed-off vein in his neck starting to bulge as he speaks.

That’s nice, too.

Miguel flutters his tongue between his teeth, wanting to lick the warm skin at Chico’s throat. It seems he’s the only one thinking that very natural thought, though, because when he looks back, McManus is scowling like Chico’s words are the high-pitched hum of a mosquito.

A second later, he unexpectedly turns his eyes on Miguel. “Miguel—this incident, was it against your will?” McManus asks point blank, guidance counselor style and all, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and coming around his desk to lean against the front.

Hah!

“The incident,” Miguel repeats vaguely, like he’s never heard of any incident before, much less been involved in one.

“Yeah, yeah, the incident! Guerra holding you against the wall!” McManus says, voice climbing.

“Oh, that incident.” Had been doing a helluva lot more than just holding him there. Miguel scratches his cheek, glancing sideways to where Chico gives a big shrug of his shoulders.

“Yo,” he says, irritated and sitting forward to ask McManus, “How come you don’t ask if his ass was forcing me to do anything?”

“Wasn’t forced,” Miguel says shortly, and can’t be assed to explain much more than that.

Once he realises he can’t get any more out of either of them, McManus doesn’t send them to the Hole or the Cage, either, but tells them to fucking cool it—they’re not at swim camp… which seems like code for Don’t get caught and make me have to deal with it—

And also has Chico muttering as they leave, “The fuck kind of swim camp did he go to?”

Naturally, when they get called into McManus’s office again within the week—wasn’t even carelessness, just seemingly bad luck—the guy is fuming.

This time, Miguel is very much sober to hear McManus threaten, “I will split you up.”

Chico’s about to bust out swearing, Miguel can tell, but he’s also got his wits more about him this time, it being morning at all, his mind still sharp. He cuts in with his saddest, most pathetic plea; “He makes me better, McManus.”

Tonto.

It gets them off with more consternation but only another warning, and the second they’re down the stairs, Miguel grabs Chico’s wrist and drags him across the hall to the laundry room, where neither of them are waiting for any clothes, but Chico still closes and hops up onto one of the washers, legs parting.

Miguel grins, stepping into the V, palms riding up over Chico’s thighs.

“I make you better,” Chico says mockingly, swatting away Miguel’s hands and poking him in the sternum. “Yo, you’re a fucking menace, compadre.” His gaze goes up over Miguel’s shoulders, though, scanning the windows behind him before he gives a little jerk of his chin.

The solid front of the washing machine presses against Miguel’s stomach as he leans up—tilts his head back, the inside of Chico’s legs brushing his sides as Chico’s hands cradles his jaw, lips soft are on his, just that small slip of tongue before Miguel feels himself getting shoved back.

He takes that retreating step, but his hands stay glued to Chico’s knees.

“Think McManus is serious this time,” Chico warns, lower lip curling in over his teeth. He bites down, chewing in contemplation as he leans back on his hands, utterly lacking in resistance when Miguel knocks his legs together, opening and closing them. “Someone must’ve snitched about last night… Yo, you think whoever did also tipped off Armstrong the other day? I told you that shit didn’t seem right!”

Miguel scowls at the possibility. “Fuck ‘em.” Even if a guy saw something, he wasn’t supposed to say something—not unless there was something to gain, and in their case, there really fucking wasn’t. Had to be a real slimy rat, who was running to McManus about Miguel and Chico’s business when no one else was. Miguel snorts. “What should we do?” he asks, mostly to see how Chico responds, predictable in the way he presses his lips together in thought, eyes roving pensively.

Not getting caught would be as simple as keeping their hands to themselves indefinitely, but that’s no option. Hasn’t been, no, not since they started this whole thing, silent agreement between them to cling to what’s good for all they got.

Movement over Miguel’s shoulder seems to draw Chico’s attention and Miguel automatically takes another step back, sliding his hands into his back pockets as he glances over his shoulder—sees Lopresti hovering beyond the window, staring hard like he wants to make sure they know he’s watching them. Waiting for something to happen.

Perv.

Miguel nods pleasantly, groaning internally when Lopresti strides over and opens the laundry room door.

“If you’re not doing anything in here, come on out,” he says, poking his head in.

There’s no rule against hanging out in the laundry room, but it’s not worth the fight, either. Miguel hears Chico hop off the washing machine behind him.

“Say we find out who it is,” he prompts as he and Chico stroll back onto the main floor of Em City. He’s surveying the faces for any suspiciously tense shoulders, talking to Chico who walks in step with him as they make their way to the computer lab instead. “What do you want to do?”

“Kill ‘em,” Chico answers.

“Okay, baby,” Miguel says mildly, pulling open the door of the computer lab and waving Chico in. He smacks his ass as he passes, confident no one’s eyes are trained on them at that moment at least. “Something less noticeable.”

“Get them transferred to Gen-Pop?” Chico tries as the door closes.

The computer lab is empty as they choose adjacent seats, sitting down and booting up. In the quiet wait, Miguel balances on the back legs of his chair as Chico sits firm, arms crossed loose over his stomach.

“It’s gotta be Alonzo,” he says.

“It’s not Alonzo.”

“Miguel!” The scowl on Chico’s face can’t be ignored, Chico twisting bodily to face Miguel. “Yo, you always fuckin’ make excuses for that asshole.”

“It’s not Alonzo,” Miguel repeats, rolling his eyes. “He thinks you and me are—what’d he say? Irresistibly revolting? You think he’s gonna snitch? Nah, baby, he likes to watch.”

Chico grimaces at the idea of Alonzo sneaking peeks at their late night activity from across the unit, but he clearly recognises the truth in that logic, and only presses his lips together.

The screens before them finally blink past the startup logos, Miguel’s first and then Chico’s, and they lean forward to open their respective programs—Chico stealing the Tomb Raider disc from the computer next to his, and Miguel clicking open the Internet, heading over to his prison writing account to see if he’s gotten any letters from people on the outside.

His escape all those years ago had made enough of a ruckus—splashed his face across enough televisions—that he still gets the occasional obscene e-mail, or a couple dollars inexplicably donated to his commissary account by total strangers.

“Okay, then one a’ the Muslims. Yo, Afsana’s always giving me the stink eye, and his pod’s got a view in ours,” Chico says.

“Afsana gives yo ass the stink eye because you stepped on his prayer mat that time.”

Chico curses under his breath. “Wasn’t on purpose.”

They fall quiet, mulling it over in between their distracted clicking.

Miguel has two emails—one from the nympho chick who’s always sending him her panties (he’s making a fucking killing selling those off to the other inmates), and one from a Jehovah’s Witness pioneer looking to spread the Word… because nowhere’s safe, Miguel supposes, staring at the giant cross embedded in the body of the email.

Huh.

“We were in the back, by the toilet,” he says slowly, “which means whoever ratted woulda had to see me get down from my bunk, or woulda been able to see into the back.”

“Afsana,” Chico insists. “Him and Yusef got the pod right next to Alonzo. Even better view than that fucker, probably.”

“You can see the bottom corner of my bunk from the main floor,” Miguel points out. He frowns, binning the JW email and sitting up straighter, glancing out through the clear walls of the computer lab where the hack’s station actually impedes his view of the couple of pods he knows might be able to catch a glimpse of his movement—if one of the occupants was standing at the door. “Person who tipped off nightwatch wouldn’t have had to know what we were actually doing. Coulda guessed.”

“They saw you get down from your bunk and guessed I was sucking your cock?” Chico questions. He pauses his game with a clack of his keyboard and turns, elbow on the back of his seat to lean toward Miguel and give him an assessing look, intrigue written there. “You have your suspicions,” he prompts, nodding his chin forward—Let’s hear it, man.

“Sam,” Miguel says. “Samuel Gougeon. Pod Five’s got a good view up. He used to rant about sodomites sometimes.” He shrugs. Frowns. He’d been podmates with Gougeon for a couple of months coming up on that first disastrous parole hearing and yeah, he was an okay cellie, but the story of Sodom and Gomorrah had come up at least a couple of times when buzzers had blared, hacks running to break up something happening in the showers or the like.

It’s a lead, isn’t it?

Chico purses his mouth, thinking it over with a sensible nod. When he challenges Miguel, in that moment, it’s only to press his logic—make him follow it to the very end. “Why not Darby? He shares the pod with Gougeon, and his ass is a Bible-thumper, too. You know how holier than thou fuckin’ Protestants are, man.”

“D’Arbouze was one of Adebisi’s prags,” Miguel says, shaking his head. “And he still takes it up the ass sometimes for Commissary, I hear. Bet that pisses off Gougeon, only he ain’t going to rat on a fellow Christian, so maybe he figures he uses us dirty… uses us as example. Show D’Arbouze how it’s punishable.”

“Then Gougeon’s a fucking idiot,” Chico sneers, but he’s convinced, that hard glint in his eyes not directed toward Miguel, but reserved for someone he can’t see at the moment. A thousand plans for vengeance are no doubt running through that pretty head of his, each bloodier than the last, because Chico’s chilled his ass down since El Norte fell apart and left him blowing in the breeze, no one to back him up except Miguel, but he’s got that jealously protective instinct about their thing—their security, their reputation, their fucking relationship—as a result.

When all this had started between them, they’d still been away from Oz after the chemical attack. Lost in the sea of new faces, the compulsion to hold onto each other and what they knew had been practically innate, but then helping Chico continue to recover in a foreign hospital ward had maybe healed something in Miguel, too. Chico has a self-contained calm that allows him to weather the storms blasted his way with greater ease, Miguel had found. Thing was, it seemed to wrap around whoever got close, too. Had given Miguel a moment to rest—had gifted him back some of his own drive again, knowing what was once rotten could be redeemed—become something so good, so fucking comforting.

I love you.

He’d said it when he was high back then, blurting out the words as the realisation came to him, allowing no pause to examine the veracity of the statement.

Maybe it shouldn’t have counted as a result—who in their right mind realised they loved a man while watching him clip his toenails before bed? But he hadn’t been in his right mind, and after the incriminating words had come out, Chico had only stared at him for a long fucking while before rolling his eyes and calling him a dumbass, a pendejo—and tossing aside his damn nail clippers to crawl onto Miguel’s bunk and kiss him. Kiss him rough, stealing his breath—vowing they were all in, then, just the two of them—partners with each other’s backs. Fuck everyone else.

It’s stayed true, so far, even as both of them have stabilised, and the fearful unknown has returned to the dulled terror of a familiarly antagonistic landscape. Current situation aside, neither of them really giving a fuck anymore has worked out well for them. Of course, it helps that they can hold their own in a fight.

Miguel bites his lip, holding back a smirk.

It cools Chico off some, his irritation slipping away. “What?”

“Nothin’. Kinda turns me on, seeing you all defensive of us and shit,” Miguel says, reaching over, under the table, and smoothing a hand over Chico’s thigh, fingers stroking the inside curve and wrist coming up just far enough to brush the heat of his groin before he pulls away.

A tortured groan follows, trailing out of Chico from somewhere deep. “Miguel.”

Miguel turns back to his email, smacking his lips loudly and acting oblivious to the frustration he’s just left in his wake. Lately, he’s found that it’s rather fun to just let that tension fester and then collect his reward when they’ve got a bit more privacy. Privacy being the issue at hand right now, he supposes. “Way I see it, if we threaten Gougeon direct, there’s a chance he squeals and McManus has enough of it—goes scorched earth on all our asses.”

The threat of I will split you up rings in Miguel’s mind, and he guesses it must ring in Chico’s, too, because he puts aside his sexual frustration—no small feat—and thinks with his bigger head.

“We don’t needa get the fucker transferred nowhere—we just need to shut his ass up.” There’s a disgruntled edge in Chico’s voice, like he’s realised a way forward, but doesn’t want to take it. Still turned toward Miguel, he pokes his shoulder with that hand that’s hanging off his own seat back. “Alonzo still owes you for saving his stupid ass from the Aryan Vanguard in Lardner.”

Miguel winces, knowing where this is going.

Cashing in a different favor with Alonzo, he can probably say tooda-fucking-loo to his current trickle of free Destiny. “You trying to mess with my high, baby?” he says, hearing for himself the annoyance that bleeds into his voice.

Maybe it’s for that reason that Chico simply doesn’t answer, not wanting to push that particular angle today and rock the boat.

Guilt coils in Miguel’s gut a second later, followed by the prickle of shame.

Fucking fiendish behavior, putting his fucking high over all else. He’s not even that dependent on the shit, just—just likes the option. And Chico likes him when he’s off his rocker too, right? Because he’s touchier when he’s high—relaxes more when he’s high; demands Chico fuck him when he’s high. This whole thing between them started when he was high.

Miguel lets out a rough breath.

Sober now.

And it’s not so bad, is it?

It’s not like he’s addicted. Would just be a fucking bummer to have to give up the free tits. That’s currency, too—well, it could be, anyway.

Miguel’s never exactly used it as anything but his own supply.

He glances sideways and finds Chico’s still watching him, waiting for him to say something that isn’t pissed off, maybe, though his jaw is kind of set in a way like he’s expecting Miguel to fight him on this.

“What’s Alonzo gonna be able to do?” Miguel says at last, hoping, in a small way, that the scoffing doubt in his voice will deter Chico from this idea—encourage him to come up with a different one, which doesn’t interfere with Miguel’s ability to numb himself to the years stretching out before him without seriously hurting his pocket.

“We can’t threaten Gougeon, then we force his fucking silence.”

“By force, you mean…?” Miguel raises his eyebrows, searching Chico’s determined expression.

“Alonzo can—I don’t know, seduce him,” Chico insists. “Shame him into shutting the fuck up. He’ll be too busy self-flagellating to bother us anymore.”

“Self-flagellating,” Miguel repeats, shaking his head.

The shit Chico comes up with sometimes.

There’s plenty of holes to poke in this one, too—what if Gougeon doesn’t take the bait? But it’s Alonzo, so chances are that even if Gougeon didn’t think he wanted it, he’d find himself doing so at some point.

The once King of the Night has a way of getting in a guy’s head, and he’s left no short trail of confused bodies in his wake already, if rumors at Lardner are anything to go by.

So it’s worth a fucking shot, if only to try non-violence first.

Miguel frowns, tilting his head as he contemplates the idea of tossing Gougeon into Alonzo’s path like a ribeye steak. Would the fucker even go for the guy? “Guess I can… ask,” Miguel says with a grimace.

Up in his pod (Step into my private office, he’d purred from the clear pod door), Alonzo laughs for a full minute, sitting down on his bunk in the process, like the absurdity of Miguel’s words is just that great.

“Hey.” Miguel frowns, leaning over and snapping his fingers in front of Alonzo’s good eyes a couple of times. “Yo. Simple yes or no.”

The laughter trails off, Alonzo wiping his dry cheek with the side of his index finger. His nails this week are a toxic yellow-green color, like he’s a poisonous tree frog from one of the nature documentaries on the TVs or some shit; he’s been particularly aposematic since returning to Oz, blue spot in his bleach blonde hair, much to the hacks’ ire—Where the fuck is he getting the dye?

“Let me get this straight, sugar,” Alonzo rumbles, sitting back on his hands and crossing his legs. Doing so reveals the light tan of one of his waxed legs, the side slit of his flowy black pants revealing everything up to mid thigh. “I act the honeypot for Samuel Gougeon—publicly expose and shame him, what have you—” He lifts a hand, giving a dismissive flutter of his fingers, lips twitching—“and you’ll forget my life debt to you?”

Miguel straightens up, standing back a good half foot away from Alonzo’s platform ankle boots. “Yeah.”

Alonzo gives another titter. “The Holy Joe, Samuel Gougeon?”

“We got another fucking Gougeon in this unit?” he snaps. He’s getting impatient, seeing how Alonzo’s milking out this whole interaction.

By the smirk on the guy’s face, Miguel can tell that Alonzo is just relishing in the fact that his help is being asked at all. His empire of green tabs never did shape up the way he’d envisioned, and although he’s safe in the small kingdom that he has created with his supply, the utter lack of respect that he’s been shown no doubt rankles him. The Italians who he’d once tried to control managed to turn shit around and now have him under their thumb—guaranteed safety in return for a healthy cut of his profits.

“No offense, precious,” Alonzo says sweetly, leaning back on both hands again, “but I don’t owe you not a single, little bitty thing, much less my life.” His eyes narrow, sharkish grin widening. “So, what else do I get for my troubles?”

Miguel frowns. If Alonzo doesn’t figure he owes him anything, than what the fuck is he handing out free pills for?

The hell of it?!

“What do you want?” he says cautiously.

“Fuck no,” Chico says, the immediate pinch in his expression emphasising his revulsion at the idea.

“Listen, Chico. It’s not that different from what we can’t stop anyway, right? And it was let him watch a couple times or—” Miguel abruptly reconsiders revealing the other option, which he’s just now realising Alonzo probably threw in as a joke, delighting in the knowledge that it would piss them both off, Chico worst of all, his grudge against Alonzo coming from a memory of laced Destiny, scars left on his neck.

“Or what?” Chico’s eyes flash and he strides up to the glass of the pod, throwing up his middle finger for Alonzo to see across the way.

Alonzo waves cheerily as Chico pumps his fist in the universal Get fucked gesture next.

“Or… it don’t matter,” Miguel says, not about to set Chico off any further with Or let him join in once, even if, logistics in Oz aside, he’s pretty sure a couple of D-Tabs and he’d be completely fine with it. Worse things have happened to him than a threesome.

Couple of D-Tabs in Chico, though, and Miguel’s pretty sure he’d go destructive rather than complacent—would be just that more likely to douse Alonzo in gasoline and flambé him rather than spit roast him.

“Carmen, come here,” Miguel says in that indulgent but commanding way that gets Chico turning around and wiping the irritation off his expression. He stands in the spot where Alonzo had told him would be a better view at night, gesturing. “Just have to be right here instead,” he tells Chico. “Wants to watch me suck you off, you suck me off, and you fuck me up against the bunk here.”

Chico’s expression turns into a sneer again. “What, is that cocksucker placing his order at Burger Queen?” He starts to turn his head to glare across the unit again but Miguel grabs his face between his hands to distract him. “Y-you want to let him watch?” he says, seething at the idea.

“No,” Miguel says steadily, letting his own calm douse some of that anger that pushes up against him. “M’telling you his terms. We say no, then we’re gonna need to get Gougeon outta Em City a different way.”

“Fine,” Chico says harshly. He’s still vibrating a little underhand, filled with a restive energy that is admittedly kind of hot but—no, Miguel’s got to focus. “Let’s kill the fucker. S’what I said from the very start.”

Miguel frowns, letting go of Chico’s face, and glancing past him to where he can see Vincent D’Arbouze striding up the tier to their pod, clear as day.

Another couple of seconds, and he’s knocking on the glass.

Chico’s eyebrows shoot up as he peers over and then twists around, nodding his head at D’Arbouze (Darby, Adebisi used to call him; the name’s still kind of stuck, years after the guy’s death) to come in.

The pod door opens with a hiss of air.

Miguel’s never actually heard D’Arbouze speak before, he realises, but it’s with a soft, smooth voice that he says, “Guerra, can we talk?”

Miguel hasn’t talked to Mario Seggio in, shit—well, he’s never talked to the Italian ever, he doesn’t think. Maybe a word in passing over the years, at the bench press or something, but even when he’d led El Norte himself, dealing with the shitstain Schibetta, he’d never really chatted with the man.

Seggio is forty something, broad shouldered, brownish hair stippled with gray, but decent enough looking.

Beecher sighs, folding his hand of cards. “You want me to what?” he says.

Miguel kicks Chico under the table—his explanation had been fucking terrible.

“Ow,” Arif grits out with a glare.

Shit.

Meanwhile, unbruised, Chico gives Miguel a mystified look that’s always struck him as oddly pure in its unsuspecting blankness. Of the many expressions of his that Miguel has mentally catalogued, this one is one of the more fascinating; confusion has a way of sending everyone back to a state of total innocence, he supposes…

“Look,” Miguel says, lowering his voice—no time to fall into contemplation over Chico, much as he enjoys doing so. “You and him share Pod Six, right? Well… I have it on good intelligence that, you know… he wants to bone. You.”

Beecher gives a dry laugh, glancing over as Arif deals them all new hands. “I’m afraid you couldn’t be less convincing if you tried,” he says sympathetically.

“Maybe if you were more honest about your motives…” Arif butts in, because of course he does. Since returning from Altona after the evacuation, the kufi on his head once again sits as firm as ever, even as he’s forced to do his daytime prayers in a separate corner from the other Muslims, joined sometimes—probably out of sympathy (he’s full of that, apparently) by Beecher. “You could better obtain assistance.”

“Yo,” Chico begins, clearly not liking Arif’s tone.

Miguel had anticipated Arif’s interjections when they sat down, though. He keeps his focus on Beecher, waiting for his follow up.

“You think Seggio’s the one who’s been running to McManus about what the two of you get up to?” Beecher surmises, glancing pointedly from Chico to Miguel and raising his eyebrows.

There’s a part of Miguel that doesn’t like that underlying smugness of Beecher’s knowing stare, but he guesses it’s just an instinctive, defensive clench against criticism. Really isn’t a bad thing for someone to look at what he and Chico have and not automatically think it’s a fucking abomination or else some power tripping thing, or a transactional You scratch my back, I scratch yours type deal.

To get that it’s more than that.

Miguel chews the inside of his cheek and nods.

“And,” Beecher’s tone remains patiently wry, like a teacher trying to work a particularly slow student through an easy problem. “Me having sex with him accomplishes what, exactly?”

“Distracts him, man!” Chico bursts out, characteristically blunt. He’s barely giving his cards the light of day, gaze fixed across the table. “Ain’t gonna signal the hacks if he’s busy blowing out your back!”

Beecher purses his lips, throwing Chico a mildly withering look while Arif pins him with an extremely withering one.

“Sorry.” Beecher shakes his head, turning his attention to his cards now and sorting them around. “And for what it’s worth,” he adds, “Mario stays in his bunk all night. Trust me, those snores can’t be faked. I don’t think he’s your rat, guys.”

Chico swears.

Back to Darby.

Miguel pins him to concrete by the chest while Chico holds the shank to his neck. “What’s your angle, asshole?”

D’Arbouze shakes to find himself at the other end of a sharp blade. “Please!” His eyes are bugging, darting from Chico to Miguel—mostly pleading in Miguel’s direction, because even though it’d been Chico who he’d nervously directed most of his lies about Seggio to earlier, he’d seemed prepared to follow Miguel’s lie into the closet earlier, not realising until it was too late that they wouldn’t be chatting alone.

Scowling, Miguel crushes his forearm down hard. “Answer the fucking question. You giving us the runaround?”

“You’re the one jabbering, ain’t you?” Chico accuses.

“I—no—”

“Not you, then what’s your ass lying for?”

“Don’t kill me,” D'Arbouze says, chest pushing against Miguel’s arm as he begins to hyperventilate, the speed at which he’d lost all cool a little disconcerting. “Oh God, oh Jesus, don’t kill me! I was just trying to—to—”

“You gonna keep running your rat mouth?” Chico demands. His shank is still carefully trained as just enough of an angle to dig into D'Arbouze’s throat without breaking skin. “The fuck you doing, getting in our business? Yo, who the fuck do you think you are, prag?”

D'Arbouze’s eyes flash in alarm but he goes utterly silent then, jaw snapping shut.

“Chico.” With an uneasy suspicion, Miguel lets D'Arbouze go, the guy staying right there against the wall even after he’s no longer pinned in. “Hey.” Miguel smacks the back of his hand to Chico’s chest, telling him to back off, which he does with a confused look from D'Arbouze’s sullen expression and then to Miguel.

“What the fuck is going on?” he says, not yet cognizant of the pathetic turn this has all taken.

Miguel sees it now—the sentiment behind it, and the clumsy, terrified attempt to misdirect.

“You were trying to help, right?” he says after a moment, watching D'Arbouze stare at nothing, still breathing hard. When there’s no answer, he glances at Chico—now pressing his lips together, seeming a little more understanding—and then reaches into his pocket. Fishing out the vial of his remaining pills, he rattles the drugs around in front of D'Arbouze—tries to pick up the guy’s hands and give them over. “Take ‘em, man, you need them more.”

“I’m clean,” D'Arbouze replies firmly, somewhat snapping back to himself with that proud and icy refusal. Snatching his hand away, he meets Miguel’s surprised look and seems to deflate again, remembering the shit he’s in.

“Look,” Miguel says after a beat, collecting himself again. “I don’t fucking need your help. Not that it's any of your ass’s business, but I’m no bitch. Got it?”

D'Arbouze glances blankly between Miguel and Chico.

Shit, Miguel’s no Sister Pete. All he can say now is a gruff, “So take your shit to Group and quit calling the hacks up on us, aight?” He stuffs the Destiny back into his own pocket. “Or we know it’s you now, and you’ll fuckin’ regret it.”

Chico takes that moment to feint with his shank in emphasis, though D'Arbouze hardly flinches, lost in some frowning thought.

Revelations made, the air of the storage closet starts to feel a bit awkward.

Christ, Miguel could really use one of the green pills he just stowed away. He gestures at Chico—wonders if he ought to be offended that Darby thought he was the prag, but—nah, better leave all that shit alone. It’s not what’s going on between him and Chico, no, but it’s a flavor of reality for others.

“C’mon.”

Out in the corridors of Oz, they walk silently for a while, thinking over what just happened.

“You think he’s gonna keep jabbering?” Chico wonders eventually.

“Dunno—he knows what’ll happen now if he does.” Miguel really doesn’t know what to think, other than how fucked up it’s got to be to be D'Arbouze and not even have the numbing wings of Destiny to take him away. Hell, Miguel’s life is good—for being in Oz—and he’s still self-medicating and—

Well, he could stop, though.

He just likes the option, the way he likes Chico’s warmth as an option at night—

Nah. Not like that at all.

As they approach the turn off toward the hospital ward, Miguel takes a sudden right, into the small women’s restroom that’s always empty and smelling like wet paper towels and cheap soap even from the hallway.

“Miguel!” Chico hisses, following.

He crowds into the stall behind Miguel, no thought to the possibility that maybe he just needed to take a shit—though of course he’s not.

He pulls the vial out of his pocket again and moves to upend it into the toilet.

Unexpectedly, Chico catches his wrist. “What’re you doing?” he says quietly. The space between them is cramped, and the tone of his voice is soft.

It’s not disapproval or alarm there, but caution, telling Miguel to think this through. Even if Chico doesn’t search out that high anymore (on principle; he can’t abide the hit to his pride, crawling back for more from the guy who’d facilitated one O.D already), his is a silent, unjudging acceptance that Miguel still likes to use.

Not trying to escape you—this, Miguel has always maintained. Just makes everything easier.

He must be wondering, then, why Miguel’s suddenly giving up that thing that helps him deal with where he is—feel okay with being himself.

“Alonzo’s been giving them to me for who the fuck knows why,” Miguel says. “Maybe to make me… easy or—or maybe just to watch me keep running back to him like an idiot.”

Silence. Chico waits patiently for Miguel to grind his teeth and ponder.

“But if even nobodies like D'Arbouze are working us…” Miguel shakes his head. It’s not exactly that, but yes it is, too. Staring down into the toilet bowl, he imagines the act of finally tipping his hand. Will it make him feel as free as the high itself? “I gotta stay sharp. Can’t protect your ass when I’m blitzed,” he adds, and that simmering shame that’s always crackling under the numbness, waiting for it to fade, suddenly rises up, hitting him harder than he expects.

Chico lets go of his arm, and the pills splash down into the water, all seven of them.

Fuck.

Miguel swallows down against the pang of regret he feels looking at the green in the white bowl, and quickly reaches out, flushing the toilet. “Good riddance, you know?” Tries to play it cool, except it’s sinking in for him now that he just flushed the rest of his stash for the rest of the week, at least—won’t even get to feel that pleasant buzz of not giving a shit.

Fuuuck.

And he hates those panicked thoughts, too—the clawing uncertainty. Makes him feel like a failure. Like a crybaby piece of shit.

Stepping closer, Chico claps a hand to his shoulder, touch landing before Miguel can tremble.

There’s that, Miguel reminds himself with a heavy exhale, the faint sting of Chico’s hand grounding him.

Easy to be with Chico, high or not.

Easy to accept his touch, the kisses he brings to Miguel’s jaw now, and to his neck. A hand slides down Miguel’s front, reaching to press a palm to Miguel’s dick—Chico’s way of trying to be a sweet comfort in this moment.

It pulls up the corner of Miguel’s mouth, and he doesn’t say anything, just living in the moment, sober, yeah, of Chico’s fondling him through his cheap slacks—stroking the outline of his dick until he’s hard and pushing slightly into the touch.

“Ten minutes?” he supposes at last.

Won’t be enough time to do anything but hand stuff, really, but just that’s enough of a reprieve from the quiet suffocation of Oz that they’re both immediately scrambling for their flies at the suggestion.

Chico’s mouth carries an indulgent smile in the second before he steps forward, letting his body crash against Miguel’s like he knows he’ll be caught in a firm embrace. Their tongues tangle, kisses hungry and eager, and Miguel cups the back of Chico’s neck, turning them so that he can lean on the metal wall and Chico can crowd up against him as his fingers drag down Miguel’s underwear—springs his cock free and brings it up to his own arousal.

The first couple of strokes is all warm dryness, Miguel’s dick already throbbing against Chico’s, which takes a couple more seconds—Chico grinding his hips forward—to get with the program.

Then it’s that perfect first layer of building heat, the kind that’s got Miguel’s back feeling paradoxically cool, sweat breaking out across his tingling skin, the sound of their sneakers scuffing the bathroom tile thundering alongside the blood in his ears.

Trading deep, filthy kisses with Chico, he pushes spit into Chico’s mouth, panting into the echoey stall as Chico leans back long enough to transfer that moistness to his palm, using it to slick the fist he uses to stroke them together. With the new slide, he squeezes them tighter—guarantees the groan that rises from Miguel’s chest, that noise, too, ending in Chico’s mouth.

He grins, pace of his hand quickening, grip occasionally slipping but always coming back. He strokes Miguel solo. He leans his hips back a moment and rubs the head of his dick against Miguel’s, encouraging that tremble of his body before pressing back in, claim his mouth and jerking them off with vertical strokes once more

“Fuck, I love you,” Miguel murmurs when they part again.

Heat pools through him and he lets his head roll back against the stall wall. The weight of Chico’s body against his is fucking sublime—an anchor, the way it’s always been, his chuckle wrapping around Miguel’s own spinning head, pleasure shivering through him.

Maybe it’s the contrasting despair of Oz—maybe it’s their history—maybe Chico’s just that fucking good at this, but it has to be said. Miguel always has to say it, in between biting his lip to try and tamp down on other noises.

I love you, Chico. I love you, baby.

Doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way about anyone—

The kisses and licks and fucking bites from Chico against his exposed throat do nothing to help ground that conviction, and when Miguel shifts, focusing back on Chico, his eyes are hopelessly dark, too.

Always are.

Even if there’s a smile there—even when they’re just fucking around, the way they’d been in the showers when Armstrong came storming in, Chico’s desire is real and complete.

Grip firm and stroke steady, his other hand rubs the head of their cocks as he leans forward and, tongue slipping into Miguel’s gasping mouth, as if to taste the lingering truth of his words, even when he doesn’t return them.

“Say it back,” Miguel breathes when he can, their mouths still dragging together. “Say it back, baby.” He bites Chico’s lip, reaching down between them to take over as Chico’s hands go instead, moistly, under his shirt, groping his abdomen and his chest, Chico’s own gratified stutters now catching against Miguel’s mouth.

They’re no longer kissing but leaning against each other, Chico swaying and jerking up into Miguel’s hand, the heat of his arousal scorching terrifically next to Miguel’s.

“Say—”

Chico catches Miguel by the cheek, his mouth cutting off Miguel’s with a desperate stubbornness.

Miguel nips his lip again, hard. “You don’t say, ain’t gonna let you come,” he whispers fiercely, hand freezing. He fucking needs this right now—feeling vulnerable and shit—and he can feel Chico squirm at the abrupt halt—sees the flush in his face as he leans back, a rumble of protest in his chest.

It’s been, what, almost a year? He says it all the time—Chico’s his man, he loves him—how many goddamn times has Chico said it? Can count on one hand, that’s for sure.

“Love you,” Chico says, shifting uncomfortably and bucking into Miguel’s stilled hand. He gropes at Miguel’s unmoving forearm, circling his wrist. “Come on, man, I love you.”

Distantly, Miguel notes that there’s something intriguing here, in the pleading edge of Chico’s voice and the way he’s taken it upon himself to rub against Miguel. He just doesn’t get why Chico’s always so lazy to say it, and says it so…

“Mean it,” he insists.

It’s not that he thinks Chico doesn’t feel the same way. He knows the fucker does—that he’s obsessed with his ass because he’ll say that part all day—how he loves Miguel’s body, loves his mouth, can’t stop thinking about his cock, his perfect fucking ass.

Just three fuckin’ words!

Chico blinks, the agony of his desire making way for a flare of indignation. “Do you?” he rasps, and then shudders, rocking into Miguel’s grip again, finding some friction in that grinding, face tucking into the crook of Miguel’s shoulder. His body is hot and a little humid, too, hands now planting on the wall behind Miguel, bracing there.

Miguel sees the issue abruptly; he’s seeing a lot of things today, clearly.

So he starts jerking them again in earnest—feels Chico trembling savagely against him and chokes down his own lightheaded moan that threatens to rise up.

“Chico, baby,” he whispers, “You think I go around—” He gasps despite himself, a wave of something intensely lustful swelling through him—“jerking off random guys and telling them I love you?”

There’s a sound like a laugh or a cry, and then Chico’s giving a violent jerk, spilling over Miguel’s fingers as his teeth dig into the side of Miguel’s neck to muffle a sound—

That unexpected prick of pain—

Fuck—

Miguel’s release joins Chico’s all over the back of his hand, the tension in his body dropping sharply, ears popping.

“I mean, are you stupid?” Miguel finishes in a mumble as Chico slumps against him.

Stars blink in the corner of his vision, and the sound of their breaths feels dangerously loud in the narrow stall, but—

Should be okay, no one really likely to walk down the hall outside at this time of day.

Miguel swallows hard, feeling Chico’s heartbeat jumping out to meet his in those soft, liquid moments after they’ve both climaxed and Chico is chuckling breathily, like he’s lost his damn mind.

“You good?”

Chico kisses him, slow and dirty, in reply.

Later, they clean up in silence with toilet paper from the nearly empty roll in the stall before exiting out into the cool air of the rest of the bathroom, clothes righted.

Miguel can still spot how rumpled they look in the smudged, water stained mirrors over the sink, but it is what it is. He washes his hands and then sighs, fingering the impression of teeth on his skin and feeling where those sharp incisors in particular have left a deep imprint.

“Damn, baby…”

“Sorry.” Chico comes up behind him, arms snaking around his stomach, body solid against his back. He presses his lips to Miguel’s shoulder, the act doing little to hide his smirk in the mirror. His arms tighten, a hand smoothing up Miguel’s chest. “Make it up to you?” he says, hips tilting forward like he’s at all ready to go again.

Perking up at the words, Miguel nevertheless keeps his cool, raising his eyebrows and asking through the mirror. “Yeah? How’re you planning on doing that?”

Chico hums. “Tonight… M’thinking you could maybe…”

But his words are cut off, his body transported, as if with supernatural ability, to the adjacent sink, water running and Chico looking all innocent and shit as a nurse from the hospital ward walks in. She stops short at the sight of them at the sink and half-turns with a baffled look toward the door.

“Men’s side’s busted,” Chico lies cheerfully, straightening up and shaking his hands dry.

The nurse gives them both a narrow eyed look, but she’s as silent as a movie extra as Chico grabs Miguel by the shoulder and tugs him toward the door.

Back in Emerald City, it’s nearly dinner and Lopresti’s up at the hack station so they skip into the empty laundry room and this time, Miguel sits up on one of the washers, Chico leaning against his knees and looking up with fondness.

“What?”

Chico shrugs. “I love you.” He says it quietly, despite them being alone, and Miguel not being high, and neither of them anywhere close to orgasming. The curve of his lips reaches his eyes, making them curve and crinkle at the corners as he glances over his shoulder and then leans up.

Miguel puts a hand on his shoulder. “Probably shouldn’t,” he reminds, even though his heart is full and he thinks he’s got to be grinning so wide, the scar on his cheek might just have to split open to accommodate his joy.

Chico sucks his teeth, showing his annoyance. His expression softens again a moment later. “Yo, McManus’s just mad he can’t fuckin’ control his own unit,” he says, but he lets Miguel’s hand push him off his tiptoes and he turns around to hang off the edge of the washer beside Miguel’s thigh instead, a gleam in his eye like what he really wants to do is a run a hand over the muscle.

Ultimately, Chico keeps his hands to himself, though Miguel doesn’t, grinning and combing his fingers up from the short hairs at the nape of Chico’s neck.

“What was that about tonight, though? Makin’ shit up to me?”

Chico tilts his head back, looking at Miguel upside down, eyes rolling back as if to check the fading mark on his neck. “Put up a sheet. Let you do whatever you want.” He licks his lips. “But yeah, you’re right. We should probably lay low for a while…”

Miguel lets his fingers fall back down to Chico’s neck, where he gives him a pinching squeeze.

“Miguel!”

“Anything I want?” He shakes Chico, who’s cackling now, trying to lift his shoulders—bend his head sideways—and get Miguel’s grasp to loosen. “Whatever I want, Chico?”

“What, you into some freaky shit you ain’t shared–?”

The door of the laundry room opens, and Miguel’s gaze snaps over, the tension going out of Chico as his attention is drawn over, too.

It’s nobody worth jumping apart for, and anyway, they’re not doing anything super wrong.

Miguel’s hand still cupped around the back of Chico’s neck, they watch as Sam Gougeon—oblivious to how close he was to having Alonzo set upon him—strides into the room with his laundry bag.

“Hey,” he says carefully, seeming aware that his presence is intruding upon them, but also sticking firmly to his own plan to use the room for its intended purpose.

“Hey, man,” Miguel says. Beside him, Chico lets out a huff and ducks out from under his touch.

Gougeon opens the washer at the very end of the row, emptying his clothes into it, an odd tension in the air.

Had he known D’Arbouze was running his mouth?

No one says anything as he minds his damn business and adds his detergent, closes the washer again, and then shuffles for the door as soon as the machine is on.

Not one to dwell, Chico also turns back to Miguel once the door swings shut, giving into his own impulses and groping Miguel’s thighs, hands stroking up and down. “So, what’s your plan?”

“The plan where I make you beg for it?” Miguel jokes, reaching out to brush his knuckles along Chico’s sharp jaw. To his left, Gougeon’s laundry enters its spin cycle, humming loudly and making the row of machines rattle, vibrations traveling faintly to where Miguel is sitting.

Chico cocks his head. “Oh, you think I won’t or something?” he scoffs.

Miguel presses his palm now against Chico’s forehead, knocking him back. “Beg to touch me? Oh, you will be, baby. Problem for you is when I let you.”

Chico gapes from the distance he’s been pushed away to—a mere six or so inches. “What, are we starting now?”

“You fucking bit me where anyone could see, baby,” Miguel says, like that’s some big offense that he gives a shit about. He smirks, seeing the horror dawn over Chico’s expression. “So, you know. Hands off. Better this way, anyway, right? Lay low.”

Of course, the obvious issue with this current course of action is the lack that he’ll be experiencing, too, but Miguel finds that the charming, shocked-stupid expression on Chico’s face is already making up for the frustration he’ll have to endure himself. Anyway, looking forward to…

He blinks.

Looking forward to finally letting Chico near will distract him from other losses, he thinks—the missing highs, the routine of Destiny.

“You know I love you, Miguel?” Chico says with a laugh of disbelief. Mostly, he doesn’t seem mad, though, taking another two paces backwards. “But this is fucking cruel, mi—Miguel.”

Miguel feels his attention narrow in on that word that wasn’t said. Say it, he wants to insist again, but nah, he figures it’s in there, right? He’ll get it out another time. “Be a good boy and maybe I’ll let you suck me off next Thursday,” he retorts, grinning as he sees the words hit Chico fast—he straightens—and then sink in slowly, making his eyelids flutter.

“Miguel,” he says, still aghast—That’s so far away. There’s already a little bit of a pout in his tone, eyes puppy dog wide as he skips past denial and anger and on to a bargaining tone.

He doesn’t get his chance to haggle; a buzzer rings through the unit outside just then, announcing dinner.

And yeah, this is turning out to be distracting fucking fun, Miguel finds. Can’t believe he’s never tried it more than the teasing denial when they’ve already got their dicks out. Chico’s often so adaptable, it’s thrilling to give him something to struggle with, knowing how it involves himself.

“Come on, it’s just for a couple days. You ain’t gonna die.” He makes a shooing gesture, realising he’d almost broken his own game just then in an aborted, subconscious move to grab Chico’s arm and pull him along.

Hadn’t realised how much they touched.

Out in the corridor, they just so happen to emerge at the same time that McManus is coming down from his tower for whatever reason.

Seeing them—seeing the obvious space between them—McManus gives an approving nod and then speeds up toward the hack station to talk to Officer Murphy.

Miguel and Chico follow the crowd to the cafeteria.

“See?”

Chico scoffs. “You think his ass really believes we’re just gonna stop?”

“No, but it’s all about appearances, baby. All about pretend.” Miguel reaches out as if to clap Chico’s shoulder and pulls away again.

“Yeah? I pretend to be a good boy, that’s gonna speed this shit up?” Chico says dryly, seeming to have returned to his tactic of bluffing like it’s no bother to him.

“Won’t hurt. I mean—” Miguel tilts just close enough to rumble at his ear: “I want you to be able to fuck me, too, you know? So just keep your hands to yourself, baby. Help show we can behave.”

Chico makes a noise that’s hard to place, but speaks clearly enough to his titillation over the taunt.

They reach the queue in the cafeteria with its metal guide rails and Miguel leans on one side, Chico leaning on the other, watching as Miguel slouches comfortably on the spot, stroking a hand down his abdomen.

“A couple days, until no one’s watching our asses and then—what you said?” Chico asks, a hopeful note there. His eyes scan Miguel’s figure again, up and down, lingering on Miguel’s hand for a while longer before jumping up to his face.

Miguel smiles slyly.

What had he promised again? Getting sucked and fucked?

“Yeah, baby,” he allows with a low chuckle, nodding his chin forward. “If you ask nicely.”

And, hidden from view behind a sheet that flutters faintly with their movement, Miguel knows that what they’re doing is in no way a fucking mystery to anyone who’s been paying them any fucking attention, but he’d done his due diligence this time. Paid for the extra guarantee they won’t be disturbed and so lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, a grin on his face and a foot against Chico’s chest, keeping him at the end of the bunk, so close yet so far.

“Say it again,” he says, stroking his dick and relishing that Chico can probably hear that soft slide of skin, even if he can’t necessarily see in this darkness—that the impatience is killing him, even if he’s keeping his twitching minimal.

Chico’s been good about not touching—so good Miguel’s about ready to lose his own damn mind, and now when he presses up against the sole of Miguel’s foot, there’s a reassuring strain in his whisper, his own patience obviously paper thin. “I love you, Miguel.”

He shivers—aches. “M’hard as a fucking rock,” he rasps, and lets his foot slide down Chico’s warm body to his crotch, toes meeting a curious mix of soft and stiffness. A careful massage—Miguel’s really not accustomed to feeling shit out with his foot like this—confirms what he’d hoped. Chico’s been sitting there with his own total hard-on. “So it’s up to you, yeah? Can get me off with just your mouth—”

Chico makes a strangled sound as Miguel gently rubs his foot against his dick, tented and slanting up in the confines of his boxers.

“You do that, you can fuck me round two.”

“Or?”

Shit—hadn’t really thought that far, but the defiance underlying the hunger in Chico’s whisper gives Miguel enough of an idea of what he’d like to do—damn, Chico’s always gotta get some word in!—and he manages to string together a couple more sentences, letting go of his throbbing cock before he ruins the whole point of all this.

“Or, you use your hands and I’ll fuckin’ tie you to the bunk tomorrow night—have my way with you,” Miguel throws back. He digs his heel against Chico’s erection and hears that throaty groan before he pulls his legs up and lets the tension in the air settle between them like the jungle heat, practically tangible in its weight. “Your choice, baby.”

A beat.

Then a wicked chuckle comes hissing through the dark, airy, and Miguel hears the mattress creak—sees the barest shadow of Chico shift, and feels the warmth of his body approach, carefully drawing close without jostling him.

The first touch of damp softness comes against Miguel’s inner thigh, Chico’s mouth skimming along his leg in careful navigation—higher, closer. He peppers soft kisses like he’s leaving trail markers behind—one kiss, a drag of tongue, pause, second kiss, and so on.

Miguel bites his lip as Chico’s mouth lifts away, cheek bumping his flesh as he nears.

His breath becomes hot against Miguel’s cock, the sweep of air promising as all hell. “I use my hands, you’re gonna tie me up?” he checks.

“Can fuck me if you use just your mouth,” Miguel reminds him and swallows hard, possibly, he thinks, more impatient with Chico now than Chico had been with him and his teasing all goddamn week.

Revenge is a motherfucker, and all that.

Chico’s head comes lower, tongue darting out and licking Miguel’s abdomen before he moves into position, finding the head of his cock and sucking it gently into his mouth, tongue swirling deftly.

Fucking finally.

Miguel sighs in unfiltered relief, rolling his hips up encouragingly as Chico takes him deeper and deeper into his mouth with every bob of his head.

“But you know—” When Chico’s mouth falls away, Miguel’s dick is back against his stomach, straining and leaking, damp now with Chico’s spit. His voice is smug—mischievous as he muses, “You could always fuck yourself…”

“What?” Miguel says, thoughts sluggish, and then: Oh.

Arousal shocks through him as he understands Chico’s meaning only in that moment right before the asshole rebels, fingers wrapping around Miguel’s cock, a bright cackle filling the air of their curtained-off world.

“When you got me all tied up and shit for your kinky misdeeds, just remember that I love you, mi amor,” Chico teases.

Then his mouth envelopes Miguel once more, and in that glorious, eager heat, he couldn’t have forgotten it if he tried.