With typical Oz non-logic, the first thing that getting stabbed in the copy room cost Chris Keller--aside from a fresh scar, and what sometimes felt like a permanent stitch in the side--was his cushy library job. McManus transferred him over to the dress factory, where the lingering fallout from Biker rep/factory foreman Jazz Hoyt's ongoing feud with Vern Schillinger seemed most likely to keep the Aryan contingent off Chris's ass, "for now"...and eight months into the twenty-first century, here he still is: Laying patterns, then cutting to 'em, as Augustus Hill's sewing machine rattles busily on nearby. Fabric ranges from mostly-synthetic to mostly-non, but the result--packed in plastic garment-bags and bound for chain-stores from Delaware to Dallas--is ALL ugly.
     Afternoon break brings mail, as distributed by Vern Schillinger's new geek/freak post office Boy Wonder. Egon Kobold, moping by at quarter-speed in a Ministry concert sweatshirt too faded to read: Just the thing to set off that moon-rock skin, shy metal grimace and floppy little quiff of cyber-Aryan white-blond white-boy dreads. Kid's the only person Keller can ever remember seeing who actually seems *less* comfortable in his own hide than even Keller's own podmate/multiple-time betrayee/publicly acknowledged lover, Tobias Beecher. Which is almost enough to set him firmly apart from every other Em City newbie currently running in the all-Oz Strangeoid Sweepstakes...though also having let slip--TO Beech--how he apparently *aspires* to one day take it up the ass from the A.B.'s resident Daddy Dearest is the thing that really puts him over the top, in Keller's own (un-)educated opinion.
     Upstairs, meanwhile, Beech himself is probably just closing off the last of no-longer-Sister Peter Marie's daily file updates; back-combing his own blond mop, rubbing his tired eyes, ruefully dreaming of phantom martinis. Thinking of Keller, maybe--
     (HOPEfully)
     --and giving himself a quick little...shake.
     The former lawyer's response, and his own response *to* it: Keller's come to depend on this daily back-and-forth, like an invigorating current, without which he finds simple forward motion an exhausting--not to mention depressing--chore. He feels constantly driven to test it just to see if it's still there, the way you poke a half-healed sore with your tongue...
     (or stroke a matching scar on a matching perforated side, where the pulse beats and flutters beneath your light, exploratory fingers like a bird caught in a--*rib*-cage)
     ...just to feel it still hurt.
     Lately, though--lately, Keller has to ask himself if he can call his "normal" level of paranoia ENTIRELY unjustified, anymore. Take last night, for example:
     "Hey, Tobe--"
     "'M tired, Chris."
     "Bullshit, you are. C'mon, babe, I know what *you* need--"
     "What I NEED is a good night's fucking sleep, for once. Okay?"
     Keller frowns, replaying it in his mind. Granted, he'd kept on--and half an hour later, he'd found himself once more buried deep in Beecher's tight, welcoming heat, twisting a nipple with his lips to draw that increasingly familiar growl and squeal. Folding the smaller man's legs up over his shoulders and thrusting his sharp face headlong into the crook of that sweaty, sturdy throat, even as he thrust the *rest* of himself even harder, elsewhere...
     ...but why'd it taken so long to get there? And why, exactly--
     --had he even had to ASK first?
     Licking, sucking, twisting, teasing. Rearing to nip at Beech's earlobe, just to hear him gasp, feel him clench--only to find himself rewarded, a mere moment later, with a slightly muffled:
     "Don't..."
     (Yeah, *right*.)
     Keller just chuckled. But Beecher repeated, firmer--
     "Seriously, I mean it, *don't*."
     Annoyed: "Why the fuck NOT?"
     "Because--"
     (--Vern used to do that.)
     The unspoken comparison, raw enough to raise every sleek hair on the back of Keller's neck; from somewhere far away, he could practically hear the man in question himself, chuckling paternally. Purring, low and amused--
     *Guess the honeymoon really is over, huh, cupcake? Prag on prag; these unmixed marriages never DO work out. I mean...*somebody* has to wear the pants, right?*
     (Fuck off, Vernon.)
     *So, wedded bliss aside, havin' Beecher's not quite the bundle'a joy you though it was gonna be: Awwww, who'd'a thunk. But hey, buddy--y'ever want me to take the li'l woman off your hands for a while...like, say, permanently...*
     (Fuck YOU, ya Nazi fuck.)
     *...well. The offer stands.*
     But there was no point going THERE, unless Keller was prepared to suffer through one more version of the same old internal "debate": You think you're special, Toby? Think he didn't do the exact same shit to me? Think he didn't hurt me just as bad?
     Oh, wait, though: That's right. You don't think I *can* be hurt.
     The same old wheedling complaint, so weak it made even Keller wince--you lock yourself away from me, more so every fuckin' day we spend stuck together at the hip, the pod, the crotch. I give you everything I can, no matter what it costs, and you give me...
     ...as little as you can get away with.
     You being the nice one here, the normal one, the one who AIN'T a walking piece of shit with real nice ab definition. The person who can say "love", and mean it. 'Cause--
     --you said it, remember? 'Member, Beech?
     (*'Member*?)
     But Chris can't say it himself, anymore--not aloud, at least--for lingering fear "his" pretty blond kitty won't answer with anything beyond a raised eyebrow or a sidelong, skeptical squint. Beyond an absent pat, an equally absent kiss, intoxicating but hollow; that physical passion strong as ever, SHARED as ever, even with Beecher's slippery shyster brain finding itself increasingly elsewhere. Off with his kids, planning out their next contact visit (assuming dear, dead wifey's 'rents consent to let their ex-cellblock 'ho son-in-law anywhere *near* the little angels); off helping that foxy lady lawyer Ryan O'Reilly just hired--same one Keller's told himself he's NOT gonna get jealous over, no matter *how* nice her ass looks in those tight little silk suit slacks--to draft a "cruel and unusual" motion aimed at getting Cyril the retard outta Oz with what's left of his brain intact. Off and away towards his all-too-near first chance of parole, itching to hit the ground running and never, *ever* look back...
     (not at CHRIS, anyway)
     And: Then again, as Keller's brain hastens to remind him, silkily--you never had as much to lose as Beech still does, one way or another. DID you, Chris-to-pher?
     (Not...'till now.)

And at almost the same moment, a few scant floors away--
     --Beecher really *does* glance up from his work, just in time to catch his very own personal albatross wheeling backwards through the office doors, mail-cart in hand; Vern Schillinger, righting himself with a neat little twist, sure and silent and altogether far too sleek for comfort, these days. Internalized mourning for the son he "had" to kill has finally boiled away every last trace of his former jovial heft, leaving his bulked-down face a deflated, dead-eyed mask: Mouth bracketted with grim lines, no-brows drawn permanently into a contemptuous knot. Even the sneer he automatically conjures to counter Beecher's equally automatic snarl of "welcome" isn't enough to make him look like he's *enjoying* himself.
     "Nothin' for you, bitch." A deliberate pause, then: "...er."
     "My lucky day."
     Vern grabs a handful of legal-sized envelopes emblazoned with Sister Pete's new/old name--MARIA P. REIMONDO, PSYCHIATRIC COUNSELLOR, OSWALD CORRECTIONAL--and slings them onto the desk between them. "Yeah, well; not if the niggers get their way."
     Beecher snorts. "Which is why 'we white folks' have to stick together--yeah, right, got that the first time, thanks a big ol' bunch. Yadda yadda yadda."
     "Try sayin' that again, when Adebisi's finally got his donkey-dick where he always wanted it."
     Perfect cue for a twist of his own, chair angled *just so* to put Vern within eye-fuck range--and Beecher's latest cane, handily stowed next to the hard-drive's tower, to just within striking reach. Chiming back, sweetly:
     "Why, Vernon; didn't know you still cared."
     Vern huffs. "Kiss my ass, Beech-ball."
     "Just because you keep asking? I think not."
     And: Man, we could go on like this all DAY, couldn't we?
     (Still.)
     But--looking at Vern now, looking straight *into* those pale blue pits where he used to be able to read oh, so much in just a single glance--Beecher suddenly finds he isn't exactly sure that's really true. Because back behind the same entirely mutual spark of hatred and latent whatEVER as always, in that undefined area where he can usually spot a revelatory twinge of hot anger, cold strategy, reflexive alpha-male posturing over surprisingly sardonic self-awareness, Beecher suddenly realizes he can't actually see...anything.
     Nothing.
     At all.
     In the gym, before Christmas, when Beecher limped his way hesitantly over to TRY and apologize for his "part in Andy's death"--knowing it in advance for the most useless of all useless gestures, a stupid move times infinity (though never guessing it'd guarantee he'd be spending his Silent Night on the infirmary's critical ward)--the Vern he'd met then had been nothing but a walking, ill-bandaged wound: Pain patently aboil in every part of him even as he sat slumped, outwardly lumpen and inert, over that scarily familiar weight-lifting bench. And now...
     ...now, all that's gone. For--
     (good?)
     Yeah, right.
     (Like anything about Vern could ever BE good.)
     "You know," Beecher finds himself saying, idly, "*I* know you don't believe even half of that shit you shovel. I mean, you're not STUPID..."
     --fierce eyes narrowing, like: *Thanks*, cupcake--
     "...but let's face it: If you ever stopped shovelling, where would that leave you? Who'd want to listen to you about..."
     (...*anything*?)
     He pauses, sounding his way. "Way it strikes me is, this is probably the only place in your life you've ever had any power, Vern-o; well, this, and being a postman. Oh, excuse me--post-*master*."
     "Know what your problem is, Bitcher? You think too fuckin' much."
     A murmur: "Somebody has to."
     Ghost-brows lowering over that blank blue gaze, like a sword coming just an inch or two from its scabbard. And the grim mouth, continuing:  "I do what I do 'cause I know who I AM. And you can't stand it, 'cause you don't. Know who *you* are."
     Never did. Never will.
     (Ooh.)
     Little close to home, with that one.
     (But that's what makes it fun--right?)
     ...right.
     Vern's turn to pause, now; a flicker of his old, sly self sparking abruptly up through the ash, reptile-cool and quick. "'Course...I could'a HELPED you with that, you'd been smart enough to *let* me..."
     Beecher feels himself flush, which make him flush deeper. Snapping back--
     "Oh yeah, your 'expert tutelage'. The manly-man crash course--how could I forget?"
     (Not that I DID.)
     Continuing, more than a bit too bitter, before he has time to think better of it: "Know the only thing I ever learned from you, Vern? That I could hate somebody else just as much as..."
     (or *more* than)
     "...I hate myself."
     A beat.  Then, with an almost imperceptible shrug--
     "'S a good start."
     Beecher blinks: 'Scuse *me*?
     (Or don't.)
     "Hate's a weapon, TO-by," Vern explains patiently, voice slipping into a rumbling parody of rationality. "And the first lesson is, don't ever point your gun at anybody you don't wanna shoot."
     "Mmm." Sly: "Like..."
     (you?)
     "...Andy?"
     Vern considers him. "Think I forgot? Think again. You'll get yours--"
     (Oh, like I've never heard *that* before)
     "--soon's I get 'round to it."
     Melodramatic words. But the tone? It's like he's ordering dinner.
     *Two scoops mashed, cutlet, some of that red shit. And by the way--I'm gonna cut your balls off.*
     (Sweetpea.)
     Beecher fights a gulp. Forcing himself to retort--
     "Awww. Why the wait?"
     First rule--or second, maybe, given the conversation: In Oz, nobody walks away from a stare-off 'till a bell rings, or the hacks have to step in. But Vern just lets go, attention dropping back to the cart: Resort, shuffle, alphabetize, still-beefy butcher's hands fast as a Vegas croupier's. Returning, almost idly:
     "'Cause I'm busy. Got other stuff on my plate...and you are *not* top of my list."
     (Anymore.)
     *You don't mean enough to me. You're not WORTH it.*
     And: Oh, Beecher thinks, with an outsized spurt of--*what*?--turning his vision abruptly red all over, that is just SO much fucking bullshit--
     (--isn't it?)

So: That night, back in the pod, lights just out. Getting ready for bed--teeth, rinse, spit, pee, flush. And Keller there waiting as he turns around, arms already open; a warm brick shithouse wall for Beecher to lay himself against, let (second) nature take its course, wash away the strain of each day's freakery in willing flesh.
     Routine on routine, reflex and release. Easy as breathing, and--
     (nowadays)
     --twice as inevitable.
     And: Man. That really does sound *bad*, doesn't it?
     The horrid truth being that all this, nice as it had started out (and stayed, really--'cause Chris was GOOD at that), was now reminding Beecher more and more of those ways in which his similarly-spent "leisure" hours with Vern had seemed somehow...easier. Because, much as he might have been up Beecher's ass all the time--he hadn't actually been up Beecher's *ass* all the time. Even when he wasn't.
     Whatcha doin', Tobe?
     Oh yeah? Why?
     Well, where ya goin'?
     Can I come?
     Why NOT?
     *'Cause I fucking well *say* so, motherFUCKER. 'Cause...I *get* to do that. NOW.*
     (Don't I?)
     Keller pressed, and Beecher countered with sex; Keller accepted, but seemed to sense it wasn't exactly...sincere. Not as sincere as he'd been hoping for, at any rate. Which led to more sex, and *less* sincerity, because the passion Beecher had always felt was becoming so inextricably admixed with annoyance, resentment...
     Like he was TRYING to destroy what little peace they'd been able to carve out together.
     And: *Good* insights there, Tobias. Just the kind of stuff Sister Pete would've wet her no-longer-nun-ly panties to hear him voice, once upon a time; probably still would, had Beecher cared enough to voice it to her.
     But he had trouble trusting her now, and didn't think that was going to improve anytime soon. Even IF she'd shown any signs, thus far, of particularly wanting to discuss his "marital" arrangements with the same omnisexual smooth operator who'd hyp-MO-tized her into shucking her habit, in the first place.
     *I mean, I let you fuck me up the *ass*, Chris. I let you stick your dick in my mouth, and I don't bite it off. What MORE do you want? What more COULD you?*
     More than I can give, obviously.
     Keller, evidently sensing the moment's hesitation, goes crablike, turning away -- moving past him to the sink to brush his own teeth.  Tossing out the absent remark in what's clearly meant to be a distraction:  "Hey, Tobe -- you hear about Robson?"
     (Speaking of bitten-off dicks....)
     "No.  What about him?"
     And it's a warning signal that it's an actual effort to limit his words just to that, swallowing the half-a-dozen infinitely more sarcastic responses that come to mind.  Things like:  *Oh yes, how IS my second-favourite person in the world?*  Or:  *Geez, haven't you heard?  In my position as Ex-Sister Pete's limping typist slave, I automatically learn *everything* that happens in Oz.  By os-MO-sis.*
     (Big word, huh, Chris?  Betcha THAT one's not on the three-time-losers GED exam.)
     Oh, God, I've gotta stop this....
     "He's dead."
     (Well.  That IS a surprise.)
     "They know who killed him yet?"
     Because in Oz, nothing is an accident.  And Robson is -- *was* -- definitely the kind of person who got killed, inside *or* out.
     Keller shrugs.  "Had Gorman yank my chain, tryin' to make out it was you -- prob'ly 'cause he saw Howell goin' by behind me, was hopin' to see her beat my brains out on the way to the Hole."
     "But she didn't take him up on it."
     Sly grin, backed up with a practiced grope:  "And don't it make you feel like dancin'?"
     Beecher has to laugh, though it's tougher than he expects not to groan. "You know, Glynn probably *is* gonna pull me in for questioning on that tomorrow."  He folds his arms.  "What happened, exactly?"
     "Dunno.  *Exactly*."  Keller leans close, breathing into his ear, obviously impatient to cut to the "good part":  "Don't care, either."
     "Chris.  If Gorman tells Glynn -- "
     "Look, he's not gonna tell him shit about shit, Tobe.  You didn't do it, he knows it, Glynn knows it -- fuck, *I* know it and I wasn't even there."
     (At least, I *hope* I know it.  'Cause I know you didn't stab ME... right, Tobe?)
     Hugging him close, hot and hard:  Passion?  Or possession?
     (Back *off*, buddy!)
     "Robson's just another excuse for those Aryan fucks to try to wind you up over me.  Or me up over you. 'Cause everybody knows you're my -- "
     Your--what? I mean, you weren't REALLY about to say...
     (*prag*)
     ...were you?
    (uhrrrRRRR)
    Beecher wheels around, suddenly feral--that *spurt* again, like an injection of crazy!Beecher, straight to the cerebral cortex. Half-stepping on Keller's foot as he slips his arms up to break the embrace, watching the hawk-faced man recoil from the sudden twist of too-harsh torque.  And snapping, teeth unsheathed:
     "'Your'?" Not even close, Chris. You're you, and I'm me, and I'm not 'your' NOTHING."
     Keller holds up his own hands, fingers spread:  Hey, whoo. Where the fuck did *that* come from, baby?
     "Toby, just listen--"
     "No, *you* listen, 'cause I've let this go on way too long. We, you and me--we have fun, and I--do--feel--"
     (something)
     "--for you..."  Beecher pauses. "But you don't ever say 'my' about me, and you don't ever say 'mine' TO me. Get it? You don't *ever*."
     (Never.)
     And Keller, staring back, projecting mutinously: Oh yeah? Or WHAT?
     A bit too confidently:  "You LOVE me."
     Beecher tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowing, doing a more-than-fair--and not ENTIRELY subconscious--Vern impression.
     "Gee, Chris," he murmurs, poison-sweet. "Is this the part...where you make me kiss you goodnight?"
      And apparently that's just a bit too much honesty for one evening; Keller's eyes flare. Snapping back, just as sharp--
     "*Yeah.*"
     Fastening his mouth to Beecher's upraised palm before the other man can even respond, sucking his thumb deep inside; Beecher feels his balls draw up, his knees weaken. That soft explosion in the gut as Keeller licks each fingertip, hot and wet and slow, *deliberate* as a self-inflicted wound. He can't move, can't protest, can't get free. Can't even start to want to.
     "Cuh...ris," he forces himself to start to say, mouth dry. And--
     "Shut UP," Keller growls in reply, swooping in to muzzle Beecher with his lips--tongue rough as a cat's and damnably agile, making Beecher moan into it,  a babyish wail of hopeless, helpless desire.
     (Oh shit, oh fuck...oh, fuck, no fucking FAIR)
     Falling back together into the bottom bunk, Keller's uncontested realm. And feeling his clothes peel away like pages from a burning book, wondering once more how the hell it was Keller could *do* this to him, night after night. Sleight of hand, of mind, of...well, take your fucking pick. Sexual sorcery. A spell, with no known cure.
     Magic, black as this black-haired man's black heart.
     (Like you're any better. Like you *want* to be.)
     In his ear again, hot and wet, as Beecher hitches for breath: "When I get out..."
     *You're never gonna get out, Chris...*
     "...I'm gonna come to your apartment, and I'm gonna get you on the bed, and I'm gonna make you scream my name so hard, so LOUD that every neighbor you have is gonna hear it, they're all gonna know--"
     *You'll NEVER get out. Gonna die in here, you--*
     "--that *you*--LOVE--*ME*--"
     *--you, fuck, you, you fuck, fuck YOU, oh, *ohhhh*--*
     (So fucking...hopeless.)
     This endless struggle. This impossible--
     (dream?)
     This ache, this desperate, hating tenderness: Keller, and that thing, that *thing* about him--it'll all end in tears, can't end any other way...
     Beecher can take being fucked, he's used to it. But *love*, or the promise of it-- however hollow--
     --well, THAT's what gets him.
     (Every Goddamn time.)

End Part One

Courtship Rites II