Throwing Stones
What begins as a new way to pass the time becomes a ritual. It starts with Sex
and the City, but then they discover G-String Divas, and then Real Sex, and by
the time McManus figures out that signing a year-long contract for premium
cable probably wasn’t such a good idea, the inmates are threatening to riot
again if he tries to pull the plug. The Italian faction alone has already made
plans to stage a minor coup if they take “The Sopranos” away, and in a rare
moment of pre-catastrophic insight, McManus tells the warden that the cable
company changed their basic line-up, strategically leaving out the words
“optional upgrade,” and locks himself into his office with a bottle of
Extra-Strength Tylenol.
Beecher sits with the rest of them, but he doesn’t pay much attention to the
TV. Instead, he watches Chris. Watching Chris isn’t optional at all.
Keller shows a marked preference for “Six Feet Under.” This takes Toby by
surprise. At first, he wonders if it’s the gay thing, but then it occurs to him that Keller would watch
anything in which
there’s a chance someone might potentially end up naked, so it isn’t really
that surprising at all. Personally, Beecher thinks the show is macabre, not to
mention unimpressive. A new death every week isn’t entertainment, it’s just
real life, and all of that stylized angst can’t compare to the real thing,
which they’ve honed to a fine craft here in Oz. Besides, it’s the same thing
every week: eerie music, cue creepy opening credits, somebody dies, and
everything fades to white.
Chris saunters in just before it starts, just like always, walking past
Beecher without a sideways glance. Toby can tell exactly how long it’s been
since Chris showered, how many hours since he shaved, and when Chris drops
himself into a cheap plastic chair two rows ahead, Toby knows exactly how many
steps it would take to get to him. He spends the rest of the evening staring
at the back of Chris’s neck, at that slightly flushed spot just above his
collar, where Toby used to rest his hand while Chris sucked him off.
“I’m surprised you don’t like this show, Beecher,” Hoyt calls to him, over one
shoulder.
“Yeah? Why is that?”
Hoyt smirks. “It’s full of fags. Right up your alley.”
“And yet you’re watching,” Toby counters, smiling sweetly. “Thinking of
turning over a new, rainbow-colored leaf? I’ll take you on.”
Hoyt snorts and turns back to the TV. On-screen, somebody dies, in some stupid
way that is equal parts predictable and preventable. Toby glances at Chris
again. He’s slouched in his seat, gazing fixedly at the TV. If he’s heard a
word, it doesn’t show.
When the show is over, Chris gets up and heads into his pod. Toby watches him
go. He watches the sleek roll of Keller’s hips, the sway of his shoulders, the
way his cock demands space as he moves. It’s not much, but it’s enough to save
for later; an image to conjure up the next time Beecher presses Shemin against
the laundry room wall, or when he drops to his knees on the cold floor in
front of Mondo Browne.
Eventually, Ronnie comes, and everything changes.
It’s different right away. While fucking with Shemin and Browne was merely
self-destructive (at least, until they ended up dead), fucking with Ronnie
is impulsive and spiteful and infinitely more dangerous. Beecher tells himself
Ronnie is actually safe -- he and Chris have a history, they share a past,
Chris says he loves him -– but the simple truth is, curling up and playing
dead hasn’t gotten Toby anywhere except sitting in the quad watching Chris
walk away, and anything has to be better than all of this fucking indifference.
But Ronnie, as it turns out, isn’t safe at all.
Beecher learns the grisly details from Hill, after dinner, as they shuffle
back to the quad. Not the who, of course, but the how. Toby refrains from
looking at Chris throughout the conversation, but he doesn’t have to -- every
inmate in Oz knows exactly how Barlog died, and why. There are no secrets in
here, even when there are.
Later, when the show starts and everyone is distracted, Toby finally glances
at Chris. He looks almost the same -- almost. There’s a tautness to his
shoulders, a tensing in his jaw, a change that nobody else would be able to
see who hasn’t spent all these weeks staring at him.
On-screen, a clueless hiker gets jumped by a mountain lion. It happens so
fast, the poor guy dies without ever looking surprised.
Eight steps later, Toby is standing beside Chris’s chair. It’s the closest
they’ve been in weeks.
Chris turns to look at him, finally. He’s smiling.
They’re under
the stairs.
Toby is pushed up against the far wall, in the shadows; Chris’s hand is shoved
halfway down his pants. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t; Chris’s mouth is
rough and desperate against his, and besides, he already knows. He knows,
and if Chris killed him right now he would die without looking surprised, but
Chris isn’t going to kill him. Ever. Toby squeezes his eyes shut and pushes
back at him, kisses him back just as hard, just as desperate, shoving his own
hand deep into Chris’s pants. He comes when Chris comes, warmth spilling over
both of their hands like blood, everything fading to white.
Author's Notes: Written for the "Worst Case Scenario" challenge, September 2005. The challenge scenario appears below. Thanks to slodwick for her fabulous challenge, and to maverick4oz for giving this a title.
