Christmas in lockdown, New Year's in lockdown--Millennium Night New Year's, the big two-oh-oh slippin' right on by as he and Beech had their own little celebration under the scratchy issue sheets, partying like it really *was* 1999. Plenty of time to get used to the give-and-take of podbound life, to rediscover forgotten joys: Chess, conversation, that dry scratch of a snort Toby--
     (yeah: TOby)
     *Oh *man*, that's nice.*
     --let loose with when he was genuinely amused, rather than constantly sneering, snarling and thinkin' up new and inventive ways to bust Chris' aching balls. Or perforate his liver with a sly, silent shank through his lowest two left-hand ribs, maybe...harmless little pussy bitch that his newly-shaved lover still claimed to be, if pressed on that particular subject...
     But: Don't think you really wanna go *there*--do ya, Keller? 'Cause that's the kinda shit don't do NOBODY good.
     (Nope.)
     Just keeps everybody on edge, bringin' up the past. Better to let it lie.
     (Much better.)
     Yeah. I mean...you got it pretty good right now, Tobe and you. Which means you don't wanna be haulin' THAT little nugget of information out into the light anytime soon. Not until--not *unless*--you absolutely...
     (...gotta.)
     But anyway:
     Old joys rediscovered, new ones--*thoroughly*--broken in. Lying there in the wee small of the morning, hours left yet 'fore the bell rang for count, with Beech wrapped tight around him from behind--hugging him close, closer, closest. Beecher, grumbling in his sleep against Chris's broad shoulder, all hot grip and sweaty gold fur; Beecher's square hands spanning his waist, carelessly knit just over Chris's pleasantly humming crotch. Beecher's steady breath on the back of Chris's neck, in and out, mimicking the rhythmn of Chris's sated pulse like their hearts were friggin' well "beating as one", or some such Hallmark greeting-card shit...
     Keller feels himself swell anew just casting back to that first night, spark-flash of image jolting straight to his dick: Glancing up from the sink, meeting Beecher's half-lidded eyes in the mirror. And knowing, finally--KNOWING--that the wait was over. All that hard work, that shit he'd had to eat, not to mention crawl through...all that weak-ass, "civilized" back-'n'-forth *bullshit*...
     He spit, cleared his throat. And threw over:
     "So...gonna bring your ass down, or'm I gonna have to make ya?"
     That snort. "Nice. How about a 'please'?"
     "Hey, buddy, you're still gimpin' along on crutches, last I looked--wouldn't take much. Step up, give it one good pull..."
     "Oh, yeah. BIG man, making moves on a cripple--"
     "Yeah, right, whatever." Turning to face him, head-on: "Now fuckin' c'*mere*."
     And then--fast-forward to them pressing up against each other, scar to scar, under the pod's unforgiving single light. Toby dipping his head, giving this uninterpretable kind of lip-twist; going all slack and pliant as he "let" Chris pull him forward into a clinch, "let" the darker, taller man bend him back and take his lips with a single low growl.
     (Oh HO.)
     Thinking, annoyed and aroused: Yeah, just leavin' it all up to me, 'cause that's the way you always like to work it--right, Tobe? Tease 'em 'till they jump on you, so you can walk away afterwards still feelin' like you got nothin' to do with it. Like you got taken *advantage* of.
     (I mean, hell--worked with VERN...)
     Well, fuck *that*.
     Bending him further, then, just to see how far he'd go--hearing the slight hiss of pain as he hit the limits of Beech's endurance, and homing in even harder. Kissing him deeply, thoroughly, like he was rummaging around for something in the dark of Beecher's mouth--something he'd know by its taste, if 'n' when he finally found it.
     And Beecher, reeling back: Glazed over, whisker-burnt, parted lips stubble-abraded, red against pale. Staring up, chest heaving under Keeler's palms; half-reeling, like he was sudden stinkin' drunk all over again. Except--not.
     Blue eyes deepening to hazel, brows ruffled, utterly intent. Holding on Keller's lips as he whispered, gently:
     "Toby..."
     Just "Toby". No "sweetpea", no "cupcake". No Beecher, Bitch-er, Beech-ball...
     "Toby. Baby."
     Watching Beecher shake his head, give a half-amazed sniff at the sound of it, an unexpected liquid rattle. Which only made Chris press on, trying to ram the point through before his sweet prey could even think of objecting--
     "Let me? Toby?"
     (*Please*?)
     Beecher leant back, then forward again, twitching--conjured up some weird little noise in his throat like an electrocuted cat, a deer caught in headlights. Hypnotized. Blind, and deaf, and dumb.
     The answer, written all over him: *Christ, like I could *stop* you...*
     Keller caught him on the recoil, hands settling warm onto either hip and closing hard; felt his own cock jump and tug between them, wet velvet shaft bouncing and sliding, slick with its own leaking juices. Precum oozing hot, like blood.
     Beecher, very quiet: "You can...fuck me. If you want."
     Oh...
     (...WOW.)
     Another throat-clearing rasp, deep enough to hurt. "If, uh--YOU...want..."
     "I want. I want you to."
     This surge of triumph, of terrible tenderness. Keller knows--firsthand--what this has to cost. And finds himself stuttering, in reply:
     "Well. I mean, what about, y'know--*Vern*--"
     Another hiss. Beecher looked him straight in the eye and pulled him up short, by the easiest hand-hold available. Flicking his thumb across the head of Keller's cock, milking it, scarily deft; Keller hissed back at the touch of him, helpless. As Beecher leant in to murmur, in his ear--
     "*You*. Are NOT Vern."
     A minute later, it was just mouth on mouth and limb on limb, crammed up against the back of the lower bunk with a blanket between them and any passing hacks--a half-year's worth of poison leaching from them both in one explosive burst, quick and dirty, almost *painful*. A slow-motion nuclear blast, with both of them ridin' that bomb ALL the way down.
     (Awww, God, SHIT)
     And thinking, even then: Ohhh, Tobe...wanna hold you like this for the next fifty-to-eighty, baby. Hold you, kiss you, stroke you every place I can reach...screw your pretty blond tail, and make you love it; suck your dick, and make you come so hard your eyeballs bubble...
     (*make* you)
     Yeah, right.
     Like he was gonna be able to MAKE Beecher do shit, ever again.
     Back in the here and now, Keller turns over, shifting himself so the ex-lawyer's sleeping face fits neatly into the crook of his collarbone. This freak of nature, infinitely odd and precious--his, he's almost sure. For now.
     But...
     ...for how long, after that?
     The amazing indestructible Beech: Takes a lickin', and keeps on tickin'. Chris played him like a flute, that first time around--got him to open up the way he *never* did for Vern, in all the only ways that really mattered. Got him to show his softness, reached into that untouched territory lurking under the rucked scar tissue of rape and guilt and grief, the shell of madness, the berserker's warm coccoon.
     And to DO that, to give it all up so amazingly fuckin' easily for the first guy touched you like he wanted to make *you* come--ohhh, man. To just throw the game face you'd worked so hard to grow in the nearest toilet, crack yourself open and lay yourself bare, only to find you'd given your heart away to some kinda--*shadow*, some fuckin' meat-puppet, some empty THING. Seeing it go up the umbillical leash, straight into *Vern*'s gloating stomach...
     That'd been the real betrayal. He'd kissed Beech, and then--he'd fucked him.
     (But...not in the good way.)
     *And you didn't give a damn, either, did ya, Chris? You never did. It was just a dare to you--a joke, a scam, payback. A fuckin' JOB.*
     But: Not this, though, Keller tells himself, devoutly. *This*...is for REAL.
     (You *think*.)
     Yeah, well.
     Looking down. Studying those lips, those cheekbones, those flat, flared nostrils. The soft furrow between the eyebrows like an upside-down "V", coming and going as Beech clenches himself against his dreams. Good skin, faded prison-pale. Pink tongue, half-caught between good, clean white teeth. Fierce little skull full of thoughts Chris used to think he could read. Now he's not so sure--and not SO sure he doesn't like it better, not always havin' to be the one...
     (on top)
     Thinking, as Beecher sighs again, and digs his sweaty brow up under Keller's chin--
     *Wanna crawl inside of you, law-boy. Wear you like a fuckin' suit, bust you up. Lick you 'till you crack you wide open, and let me see EVERYTHING you're hiding.*
     This thing they've got--in his calmer moments, Chris knows it's probably nothin' but a draw, a truce...a scam two scam-artists've agreed to pull on each other, to keep the world out and the good stuff--most of it--in. It's back-up times two, goods for services, a click inside every other click. The calm before the shit-storm.
     And: What's that word they use'ta spout every five seconds, back during the Cold War? Stanislofsky'd know, ugly-ass beard-wearin' Russian Beecher-wannabe motherfucker...
     ("Detente.")
     Riiiight.
     Anyhow--him and Beech against the world like they've been against each other; like they'll be again, for all Chris knows. Safety in numbers, *great* fuckin' sex. But--love?
     Who knows. Who cares?
     (Not Chris, *that*'s for sure.)
     It's--just--all he's got. All THEY've got. And..
     (for now)
     ...it's enough.

THE END