What's worse than being in Oz? It wasn't a question Tobias Beecher asked himself much, these days: *Far* too many potential answers, none of which he wanted to consider any longer than he possibly had to. Being in Oz, because you ran over somebody else's kid; being in Oz, and being Vern Schillinger's prag; being in Oz and having your wife lie to your face about how she'll never abandon you in your hour of trial, then turn around, serve you with divorce papers and convince your in-laws--not to mention your parents--that it'd be all for the best if you never saw your kids again; being in Oz, and realizing you've traded being a "social" drunk for being a "social" heroin addict.
     Being in Oz, and having Sister Peter Marie, McManus, any fucking hack within eyeshot constantly breathing down your neck, judging your actions with a cold, authoritarian eye while offering help that plays more like trading your final shred of dignity for a dose of oh-so-insincere sympathy: There, there, Toby--did the big, bad Nazi make you lick his boots, ridicule your family, burn a swastika on your butt and then fuck you *up* it? Better come to a couple of counselling sessions...and have a cookie, while you're at it.
     Hard to think there could even BE worse, at this particular point.
     And yet--

The day began with a sniffle and a scratchy throat, worth a visit to the infirmary for three Advil Cold and Sinus and a dose of cough syrup--then progressed steadily to a streaming nose, a blinding sinus headache and a racking, ripsaw cough. Bad enough for Sister Pete to eventually *order* him up to the infirmary again, where Dr Nathan confirmed Beecher's heartsick suspicions with depressing speed: "It's a cold."
     "Thad's...all?" He husked, disbelievingly, speech already gone nasal and deformed. Only to have her shrug, and slip him some extra sample packets.
     "We've got a full house up here, right now," she told him. "Can't take you unless there's fluid in your lungs, which there isn't--"
     "--*yed*."
     Nathan sighed. "Go home, Beecher. I'll give you a Percodan on top--*one*--to make you sleep, and a three-day pass that'll get you off work; show it to Whittlesey, and she'll let you do count lying down. Get some rest."
     "Home": Vern's pod. Beecher's bed, Vern's bottom bunk; his prospects of uninterrupted slumber available only at Vern's--HIGHLY occasional--suffrance. Not exactly the best place for *rest*, all told.
      But no point bringing THAT little detail up, especially to the woman who'd barely blanched...let alone commented...back when she'd had to suture Beecher's post-anal cherry-busting rectal tear.
     The Percodan went down easy, dulling his pain--so much so that, within minutes, he felt able to skulk back down to Em City behind some Gen Pop guard, snuffling liquidly all the way. Spent as long as he could in the shower, using it like a glorified humidifier; dried himself slowly but thoroughly, already starting to ache.
     Note from Nathan duly displayed, Beecher climbed the stairs to the second tier, popped three more pills, washed them down with sink-water, stowed his glasses carefully away and curled up tight under his issue blanket, willing himself invisible.
     But: Vern's heavy tread approaching, inevitable as Beecher's own labored breath and quickening heartbeat--followed by the squeal of bunk springs, a familiar bulky warmth against his tense hip and a "fatherly" cuff to the back of his head. That VOICE, malignly benign. Asking, mockingly--
     "Miss me, sweetpea?"
     Beecher blew long and loud into a handful of dirty toilet paper, spitting mucus. "Yezzir."
     He could almost hear Vern's frown. "Fuck's wrong with you, Bitch-er? You sound like some Goddamn terminal AIDS case."
     "I'be god a code. Dr Nathan tode be."
     Unimpressed: "Yeah, well; you better've done that laundry I left--and if I find one spot of your snot on my undies, you're gonna wish that halfbreed slut cut your screwed-up little nose right *off*."
     "I did dat laudry yezderday."
     "Huh, good boy. Guess we can cut right to the chase, then. I mean...ain't like your ASS has a cold, is it?"
     Beecher turned on his side and stared up at the older man myopically, in mute misery. And Vern stared back, hands on hips, non-brows knitting slightly at the sight of him. Almost as though struck by a sudden stab of--well, not *sympathy*, exactly--but a flash of insight, perhaps, warning him that exerting his due conjugal rights over Beecher now might prove to be a bit more trouble than it was really worth.
     Hopeless: "Zir..."
     Vern huffed, then snorted. Projecting, clearly: *Screw it.*
     (Or rather, not.)
     "Just go to sleep, Beecher, and stop your whinin'," he rumbled, at last. "I'm not gonna bother you--"
     (TONIGHT, anyway.)
     Beecher wheezed, spasming. Gasping out: "Thag you, zir."
     (You fugging Nadzi AZhole.)
     "Whatever. Now *shush*."
     Permission to flee the scene, without even the usual lecture on using drugs to prop up his personal White Man's Burden: Freakishly atypical behavior on Vern's part, yet so welcome Beecher didn't feel like questioning it. Instead, he simply closed his eyes and slipped straight down into a dark well of blessed unconsciousness. Thinking, as he did:
     I'm probably gonna pay for this, tomorrow...but, you know? Right now--
     (--I could frigging well care less.)

Around four, Vern's bladder woke him; just one more of the many mounting joys of middle age. He swung himself down, cursing his body's betrayal, and took a single not-so-long stride to the toilet. Then hauled his shorts out of the way and let fly, looking reflexively towards the bed--
     --and found himself abruptly transfixed by the unexpected spectacle of Beecher, his limbs outflung across the bottom bunk: Relaxed, for once, so deep asleep he seemed comatose. His hacking and coughing had given way to a steady, wheezing rattle, not disgusting in and of itself--just kind of *alien*.
     (Much like the REST of the little bastard.)
     Finishing up, Vern flushed, deliberately, watching Beecher for any signs of reaction while he did it. Nothing. And this from a guy who'd spent each and every night he'd had so far here in Oz either knotted into a ball, waiting breathlessly for Vern's next move, or twitching and shrieking his way through yet another nightmare. He was...oblivious.
     With equal care, as though drawn by submerged and unfathomable currents, Vern found himself sitting down on the side of Beecher's bunk, studying his prag's shrouded face. Wondering, as he had so many times before--in and between fairly long periods of not giving much of a fuck--
     --what is it goes ON in there, anywhere, ToBIas? In that little junkie Yuppie...*head* of yours?
     Self-pity, scorn, sarcasm; cringing self-interest, leavened with the occasional sly, sidelong moment of surprisingly sharp wit. Postcards from the edge. Dispatches from some truly undiscovered country, written in indiscipherable doctor/lawyer/upitty Upper East Side asshole scrawl. Scattered shards of a mentality Vern barely acknowledged, let alone...
     (understood)
     ...condoned.
     And sure, the wires still catch and spark: Cause and effect, fear and force and fragmentation, beautifully predictable as ever. Plain fact is, though, TOby--
     (-baby)
     --you ain't all *there*, are ya? Anymore.
     So, damn...ALIEN.
     Nothing new to the observation, really. Right from the start, screwing Beecher had always had more than a seductive touch of the perverse to it: A truly *unnatural* act, like some cartoon parody of interspecies crossbreeding. Outsized and out-of-control; a bison humpin' away on a cringing baby bunny rabbit, or a scarred old grizzly bear bedding down with some meek, sleek little pedigreed house-cat...
     Not that Vern didn't *enjoy* it anymore, exactly--the addictive spectacle of Beecher's fear, his pain, his ambivalent obedience. 'Cause there was something almost unspeakably SATISFYING about seeing a hoity, high-class lawyer on his knees, squirming: Spine hollowed, ass in air and waiting for Vern's first thrust, knowing damn well that it was gonna hurt all over again, same as their very first time together.
     (Mmmm.)
     Aside from all that clicketty-clack typing and filing he did for Spic Sister Pete, Beecher had no responsibilities, no Cause. Just duties--ones he carried out only reluctantly, and without even the slightest attempt at *pretending* he enjoyed them. Not even when doing so made him come.
     Which, weirdly...hadn't turned out to be half as hard a task as Vern'd intially assumed it'd be.
     Intrusive pain and bruised dignity aside, there was some part of the ex-lawyer that seemed to crave touch, ANY touch. Even--
     (mine)
     More than just a bit of slut lurkin' under that nun-stiff pose, one way or another: Could set him sobbing and gasping in the midst of outright assault, if you only took the time to turn him the right way--puppet him half-upright, slip in from a certain angle and hit some certain spot, squeezing his caught wrists *tight* and staring hotly down into his hate-dulled eyes. That slanted blue gaze, rimmed and lashed in gilt; those crimped librarian's lips, white with disapproval.
     That too-smart mouth--kitten-teeth hidden now, with just a slice of pink velvet tongue showing through as he snored--nursing on Vern, like an infant's: Wet, then tight, then wet again...
     (AhRRrr.)
     Remembering some minor altercation last week, one that'd ended with him fed up to the gills with his chosen plaything's unenthusiastic attitude--made him whip Beecher around in mid-protest, and snarl, right in his face: *This is a FAVOR I'm doin' you here, shit-for-brains. Wanna go back on the market, see how far you get before some spear-chuckin' baby-raper like Adebisi takes you for a whole lot more than your fuckin' *watch*?*
     (I mean, Christ--how dumb you gotta be, Harvard boy, you can't figure THAT one  out?)
     And Beecher, dropping his eyes resentfully, yet somehow managing to make the answer he was avoiding voicing more than plain: Yeah? Then don't *do* me any favors.
     SIR.
     (It's your *job*, counsellor. You unruly little brat.)
     Then again, if Beecher had had any common sense to begin with--any ability to recognize the rules of the game, let alone abide by them--then he wouldn't've ended up  anywhere within Vern's reach in the first place.
     Vern leant in, frowning; dipped close enough to see how sweaty the younger man's forehead was getting, how bright that deep red flush spreading across his cheekbones had already become. To taste his labored breath, fruit-scented and rank with cough syrup, toothpaste, germs.
     (NOT exactly kissin' sweet.)
     But then...you wouldn't actually want to *kiss* another MAN--would you, Vernon?
    'Course not.
    Never.
    Not that Beecher was much of a "man", anyway: Soft-gut, soft-ass, *educated*, prissy little...pussy.
    (But still.)
    Leaning in further, hypnotized, to lay his lips as close to Beecher's as he possibly could, without risking taking that final step into incipient fagginess. And then, at the very last moment--
     --veering to sleek his forehead roughly along Beecher's cheek, his jaw, his exposed and heaving neck. His gold-dusted Adam's apple. Like sharkskin, or Beecher himself, the feel of it was deceptive--woman-smooth one way, sandpaper-abrasive with fine blond stubble the other. But before Vern could pursue this line of thought much further...
     With a throaty coo of appreciation, Beecher pressed up into the movement, rubbing his sleep-slack body against Vern's like a petted cat. His mouth connected with Vern's clavicle, tongue darting out for a single quick lick, laving gently against the pulse.
     And Vern, beyond startled, felt himself pull up short, hot, HARD: Atten-*shun*!
     Beecher's arms twined around Vern's, boneless and insistent. He snuggled up, reflexively butting his wet forehead into the hollow of Vern's broad shoulder like he expected it to crack open wide and fold him away from Em City's harsh lights and loud noises. Give him refuge. Keep him--safe.
     Purring, now, instead of pouting, with none of that "normal" look of long-suffering disgust. This was...NOT Beecher. Not the Beecher--
     (--*Vern* knew, at least.)
     He poked this new Beecher in the chest, roughly. Rumbling:
     "Bitch-er. You 'wake, or what?"
     "...ssslughhh."
     (Oh, uh huh.)
     Not awake, exactly, but responsive. Very much so. Which was kind of...
     (Different. Interesting. *Arousing.*)
     ...FREAKISH.
     Twining his sturdy legs around the hard-muscled bulk of Vern's thigh; hauling them near enough for Vern to feel the rub and spring of Beecher's heated erection against the slightly over-padded curve of his hip, matching his own even through the double weight of their respective underwear. At this contact, the wheezes of effort Beecher was giving took on an almost agressive edge, shocking Vern further: Jesus! Just what the fuck was *wrong* with the little bastard?
     (Who in the hell do you think I AM, Beecher? Some hooker you picked up on a drunk? Your big-hair whore of a *wife*?)
     But: Man, Vern thought--hugging his usually unwilling, suddenly seductive prag back, with automatic ferocity. He's so far fuckin' gone I could be ANYone, really--
     Hmmm.
     (Don't like *that*.)

In the fever-hot dark behind Beecher's tight-clenched eyes, meanwhile...
     ...he felt the comforting embrace of *someone* close around him, and met their apparent affection with an extra-large helping of the same. Fuck logic, fuck likelihood--it was simply so NICE to be held at all, especially in this cold and ugly place: Stroked, teased, *pleasured* in ways he could barely remember as once being routine. Just like back in his wild bachelor days, when he used to work like a dog all week and party like a demon all weekend--fall into bed giggling and inebriated, then wake up the morning after so hungover he could barely move, sprawled out next to strange flesh of every possible description. Or those langorous liquid lunches before the kids came along, the ones that usually ended up turning into afternoon-long sessions of slow-made love--lying twined around Gen for hours, caressing, being caressed...
     Fingers spanned his stomach, hauled insistently at his waistband; Beecher helped them along without a murmur, slipping off his shorts and rolling onto his back as a blanket of flesh almost as hot as his own pressed him down into the mattress, while his freed cock slapped up hard and wet against the sweat-soaked fur of his belly. Humped up, hunched up, faster and faster, against that phantom mirror-image penis; felt teeth graze his nipples as he did, making him moan in appreciation.
     And those oh-so-authoritative hands, yet again: Circling his shaft, milking the head with brisk jerks before ducking down to cup his velvet bag--gathering moisture, natural lube, then scooting further back to play around his sensitized, rudely reshaped anus--
     Feeling lightheaded, as though all of this were only vaguely real, he drew his legs accomodatingly up and cracked his pelvis open, wishbone-style. Kept his eyes firmly closed and gave himself over to pure sensation, unwilling to think about the consequences.
     A voice in his ear: "Beecher..."
     "Uhhhh."
     "You *want* this."
     It wasn't a question, which should have tipped him off. But the voice phrased it so hesitantly--almost as though it were, almost--
     (--pleading?)
     And: "Um," Beecher managed, in vague reply. Wanting to set the voice at ease--not to promise anything, exactly. But to make sure those warm, wonderful feelings wouldn't suddenly stop, as more fingers gained entry one by one by one--stroked ever deeper, ever easier, *just about* touching some trigger deep inside him. Evoking a shivery, silver premonition of pleasure, an unspoken promise of actual FULFILLMENT...
     (For once.)
     So like that terrible man--Schillinger?--'s nightly catechism, extracted by either physical threat or mental browbeating, or both: *You want this, right, ToBIas? Toby?*
     (Baby?)
     Yes, sir.
     *You want ME.*
     Yes. Sir.
     *Huh. 'Cause--you *love* me.*
     YES.
     Well...
     *...I don't believe you.*
     (So--*make* me believe you.)
     Or else.
     But: The voice, prompting. "Yeah, Beecher?"
     "Yuhhhhhhhh..."
     Twisting, stroking, widening. Then slipping away before he has time to moan in disappointment, and replacing themselves with something blunter, bigger, steely-soft and searing--something he feels himself clench on, pursing and re-pursing, pulsing in desperate welcome.
      (God, oh *God*, just DO it, already)
      Into the side of his gulping mouth, the barest whisper: A breath of a phrase, half-lost in his own gasp--
     "*Beecher*. Tell me YEAH."
     "...hhhhssss..."
      (yes, *Christ*, YES)
     A bruising grip on his hips, then, yanking him firmly down. That sharp thrust spreading him, filling him, *impaling* him, familiar burning ache up so far it feels like his colon's caught fire: A brutal stab, flesh on flesh--IN flesh--running him through from stunned gut to jolting gorge. At which point--

--Beecher jerked awake, all at once, eyes wide and wild. "Yaaah!"
     Staring at Vern, pupils gone huge. Like he just couldn't *believe* this was happening.
     (AGAIN.)
     And: Well, who the hell'd you *think* it was? Vern wondered. But not TOO hard.
     Being...otherwise engaged, pretty much.
     "Shush," he ordered again, into the straining cord of Beecher's jugular. And went right back to what he'd been doing.
     With Beecher snarling and hacking, cough back in full force, beating ineffectually at Vern with both pinned fists--and Vern just keepin' on keepin' on, same as always. Hoisting his legs higher, grunting as he pushed into him again and again, hitting that sweet spot, that traitorous prostate. And Beecher, feeling his cock drip and his testicles rise; Beecher, turning away into the scratchy acryllic pillow and biting down like a pit-bull, muffling his own moans, but knowing Vern could hear them anyways--could FEEL them rippling up through his pinned body, trapped and crushed and squeezed nearly fucking flat beneath Vern's relentless bulk...
     ...dissolving, finally, into a last full-body spasm that made him clamp down hard--*so* hard, Vern found himself in mid-explosion before he'd even realized the charge building in his balls had actually gone OFF--
     (*Whoah*, Nellie!)
     THIS has...possibilities.
     They fell apart, with a sort of mutual grunt--Vern half-collapsing against one of the bunk-bed's supports and drawing an indignant squeal of stressed-out metal, as Beecher sprang back against the pod wall and blurted out, without thinking--
     "You PROBised be you'd leabe be alode, you hybocridical sod of a--"
     CRACK! That was Vern's palm across his face, hard enough to make his head ring. Snapping:
     "I don't care if I promised you the moon on a stick, law-boy, you do *not* talk back to me. EVER."
     Beecher, chilly-eyed: "*No*zzir."
     (Bitch.)
     "I own you, freak," Vern reminded the younger man, between clenched teeth. "Means I *get* to do this, remember? Any damn time I want." A pause. "'Sides, 's not like you weren't...ENJOYING yourself."
     (Is it, now?)
     "I thoughd you were sobebody elze," Beecher muttered, turning away from him--on his side, like usual. Re-knotted tight and hugging himself, a human puzzle just begging to be cracked by force, torn open, broken...
     "Like *who*?" Vern demanded. Beecher gave a congested snort.
     "Lige a huban BEig," he shot back, wetly, into his tangle of sheets.
     Vern stared back at him, smarting--weirdly insulted, somehow. STUNG.
     (Fuckin' insect!)
     "Said you *wanted* me to, damnit."
     Without even bothering to moderate his tone: "Fug YOU, you fugging liar."
     "So what, I made it up? Contrary fuckin' slut."
     "WANDT to--I neber *wandt* to, you Nadzi boron. What the FUG would mage you thing I'd *wandt* to?"
     Or make you--
     (WANT)
     --to think I'd "want" to?
     Wishful thinking?
     Vern let out a long breath, schooling himself sternly back to composure. And promised Beecher--
     "We'll...talk about this. Tomorrow."
     No answer.
     Caught between two conflicting impulses, both of them impossible to explain without revealing a need--an exploitable *weakness*--at his core: The driving desire for domination over resistance, undercut by an equal yearning for complete capitulation, enthusiastic submission. For Beecher to someday recognize, the way all Vern's other prags had--or SAID they had, at least--that this arrangement he found himself trapped in here was not only fit, but *natural*. RIGHT. Just like Vern was--
     (*is*)
     --and always had been.
     And Beecher, just lying there, mute--his spine's stiff curl a silent, but total, refutation of the idea: *Not fuckin' likely, buddy.*
     (I mean...SIR.)
     Irresistable force, meet immovable object; "born victim" vs. "persecuted hero", two unhealthily large egos leashed to two entirely separate martyr complexes. With no middle ground to even meet on, let alone in.
     So: Up the ladder to his own bed, without a backward glance. While Beecher, left below, told himself--
     (Oh, I'll just BET we will.)

Three days later, however--long enough for incubation--it was Beecher at the toilet and Vern snorting out half his head every five seconds from the bunk above, high as a kite on force-fed Advil and a non-drug abuser's regular full dose of Percodan. Looking up at him, ruminatingly; catching one vein-threaded blue eye, and suddenly *knowing* they were having the exact same thought: Hey, roomie--how 'bout we see how YOU like waking up with some fucker reaming *your* fat ass, for a change?
     Vern glared at him, balefully, as though DARING Beecher to even consider trying it. While Beecher--fever-free, upright, nose blissfully unclogged--
     --just smiled.
THE END