Chapter Text
What ravages of spirit conjured this tempestuous rage -
Created you a monster broken by the rule of love?
- Sarah McLachlan
Everything and nothing had changed.
Same grey walls, same grey lighting, same grey lives, same grey faces enduring a curious non-existence on a road to nowhere. Or did it all look more drab, more plain, in the light of the fire burning in Beecher's gut - embers that had lain banked but smouldering from the minute he'd been hauled into the infirmary three months ago?
The slumbering blaze had kept him warm during long nights spent shivering in the depths of a cold rage and a hatred that can only be born from the bleeding wreckage of love. It had comforted him as he lay helpless, claustrophobically encased in plaster, unable to wipe his ass or scratch his nose. It had driven him as he'd forced withered limbs through the agonies of physical therapy as the casts came off, one by one.
They had kept him on the ward as his bones knit and his mind unraveled, spooling down to the bare essentials. They had been afraid he'd be too much of a target, an easy mark, at least until the casts came off. They were thinking of his safety. So said Tim McManus, the embodiment of They, who sat beside the bed, face contorted as if he could possibly share in the agony Beecher was enduring.
Beecher had shut out the sound of McManus' voice, the wasted pleas for any information about who had done this horrible, terrible thing. What were They going to do, throw him in the Hole? He was already in a hell of his own making. Locked in his broken body, his mind had crawled through torturous paths of shame, ripped itself open on the memories of soft words spoken in the darkness of a pod and hard caresses shared on the wrestling mat of a gym. He had asked for it, asked for it all. Too stupid to learn the lesson that Vern had tried to teach him, he'd run stumbling for the haven of an outstretched hand. Blind and gullible, he'd placed his faith and his trust - and his heart - in a grip that squeezed until his life shattered with his bones.
His eyes were open now. As he hobbled back into Em City, the flames were there, flaring to life, warming his belly and creeping down his thighs, through his torso and groin in a curiously sexual anticipation.
The desire for revenge burned in him.
Jesus Christ, this had to be a joke. Beecher stopped behind the CO who led him to his pod. His old familiar pod, with its old familiar inhabitant. He giggled madly, and the sound jerked Chris Keller's head around as if it had reached out tangible hands and grabbed him by the chin. The tall, dark man stood there as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Is there a problem?" the CO asked in a bored voice. He was a new one, a short squat man Beecher had never seen before, and that change, too, was part of the sameness of Oz. Cellblock Five ate up hacks like a kid with candy. Most considered it a plum assignment until they actually walked that beat, and then they decided they would rather put up with the seething, roiling hordes in Gen Pop than the weird shit that always seemed to go down in Em City. In their opinion, Tim McManus belonged in the psych ward with the other nutjobs for trying whatever stupid experiment this was supposed to be.
"No problem at all," Beecher responded with a smirk.
And then he was alone with Keller. Alone with the man who had seduced him and stomped on his heart. Alone with a man whose body he knew intimately, even across the gulf of betrayal and pain that separated them as they stood three feet apart.
Alone as you could ever be in Em City, with its glass walls and its patrolling hacks. Which was, in fact, utterly alone.
"Toby ..."
"Don't call me that," Beecher said. "Don't you fucking dare."
Keller dropped his eyes and took a step back.
Beecher hadn't said anything to McManus, Keller already knew that. His naked ass would still be freezing on the damp floor of Ad Seg, even three months later. But he'd never thought that particular fact through to its logical conclusion. When the new guy had been hauled out, Keller had chalked it up to McManus' supposed obsession with shaking things up. It had been a relief to see Terrance's back, anyway. A junkie who'd finally waved his gun around too many times and shot a security guard, Terrance had found it even easier to feed his habit in prison than on the street. He'd spent most of his time bouncing off the walls, and Keller had threatened to shove the tits up Terrance's ass if he didn't shut up long enough to allow for three unbroken hours of sleep. With the way the guy was killing off brain cells, Terrance would be bunking with Peter Schibetta any day now.
McManus must have assumed Beecher could sure use the support of his best friend, Keller. Barely 48 hours later, Keller was wondering how to disabuse him of that notion without setting off any warning bells. Because Beecher was driving Keller nuts. Dancing just out of reach, the blond man remained a palpable presence over Keller's shoulder. In the cafeteria, in the gym, in the general recreation area, Keller would feel the itch between his shoulder blades and turn his head to find Beecher studying him like a bug on a pin. He'd woken the night before to find that basilisk gaze trained on him from across the tiny room, and he'd rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling and avoid Beecher's eyes.
"You know," Beecher had said conversationally, the first words he'd spoken to Keller in two days, "I really, really hate you."
"That's not surprising."
"Isn't it, Chris?" Beecher made Keller's name sound like an epithet. "Because if I knew someone hated me that much, I'd be a little bit afraid to fall asleep, locked in the same room with them."
"Should I worry?" The bravado in Keller's voice masked the sick chills that ran down his spine. He recognized this man. This was the man who'd lived in the pod when Keller had first moved in.
Beecher didn't respond as he crawled into the bottom bunk, his by default since Keller had claimed the top bed. It wasn't like he could climb into the top bunk, anyway.
"You know, I don't really think I oughta lose sleep over it, Beech," Keller said, answering his own question and hoping the man on the bed underneath him heard what he was trying to say. "I mean, ask yourself: Just why do you hate me so much? Don't tell me nobody has kicked your ass before. And you didn't try to kill them. You didn't even try to kill Schillinger."
Silence greeted him again, and he spoke into the darkness.
"I'm sorry about what happened."
"Shut up, Keller, or I'll come up there right now and kick your ass."
Neither man had spoken again. And now, Keller found himself in the gym, still under the watchful eye of Beecher as Vern sidled up and whispered in Keller's ear, hot breath sour on Chris' cheek. Keller didn't squirm, didn't flinch. He didn't meet Beecher's eye.
"I think the little prag really has a thing for you, Chris," Vern whispered, barely concealed laughter in his voice. "You really turned him, didn't you? Guess I must have taught you a few tricks."
"Yeah, I guess you did, Vern," Keller muttered.
"So, how bad has he got it? Think he'd be willing to have a little fun?"
"Don't, Vern. He's already on self-destruct," Keller said with exasperation, gauging Schillinger's reaction and wondering how much leeway the older man was willing to grant to keep his resident expert on Tobias Beecher happy and performing well.
"Ooo, feeling a little protective, are we? How sweet."
"I mean it. I'm the one who's putting up with his crazy shit, now." Keller got up, leaving Schillinger to his own memories, and stalked across the room. Passing Beecher, he barely heard the blond man whisper.
"Reeeeal sorry, huh, Chris?"
Keller stalked to the pod, back straight, a swagger in his step. But once inside, he slumped against the wall, the sick headache pounding behind his eyes making him nauseous and dizzy. Beecher wasn't on self-destruct, he was. Every time, every single fucking time, he wondered how long it would be before he pushed too far. He couldn't let Schillinger scent fear on him. The older man would be on it like a dog, eager for blood, eager to shift the tentative new boundaries an adult Keller had laid on their relationship, to turn back the clock.
Too many balls in the air. If he dropped one, both he and Beecher could pay the price. And Keller was too open, too raw, to deal with all the games with his customary dexterity.
Bury it, Chris, bury it.
He doubled over, digging his fingers into the tender flesh of his eyelids, trying to press hard enough to squeeze out the pain hammering there. No one outside of Chris Keller's head would have guessed the turmoil that had wracked him since he had turned to find Beecher standing at the door of the pod two days ago. Beecher's omnipresence had only made it worse. There was no time, no quiet corner where Keller could center himself. Watching the man shuffle on legs still weak from his ordeal brought sick flutters to Keller's stomach. He had woken from dark dreams he barely remembered, his arm over his mouth to keep himself from screaming as he fell down a black hole that ended too soon, to land broken and bleeding on icy spikes that ripped open his body.
Through it all, Keller had remained outwardly impassive. But he could feel the cracks spreading, like the thin, fine roots of weeds that eventually rip up sidewalk pavement. Now, he had a few precious minutes alone, and he could do what he needed to do to kill the sickness lurking beneath the surface, to silence the pounding in his head. It would take Beecher a while to hobble back from the gym. Chris had the time he needed.
He scrabbled with one of the tiles beside the toilet, yanking the loose stone out of its nest of cement, and felt the comforting coolness of metal. Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder, he huddled in the corner and pulled off his tank. There, just below the waistband of his pants, where no one would see, no one would know. Laying the razor blade against taut flesh, he cut carefully, almost delicately, a single stroke that scored his skin and left a hot trickle of blood.
It was almost accidental, the discovery that the crystal-sharp slice of the blade could bring clarity.
That first night Beecher was in the infirmary, the night Keller had been locked in the pod alone, he had stood in the dark holding Toby's T-shirt, the realization of what happened sinking in. Swept up in the terrifying, exhilarating rush, carried along on the current of Schillinger's and Metzger's sadism, the terrifying chink he'd sensed in his armor during the previous days had split wide open and he'd lost control. Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear Liz, wife number three, the pop-psychology fanatic, nagging him that
he couldn't block off his emotions and not expect them to come spewing out at inappropriate times.
And no matter what emotions they were when he buried them, they always seemed to surface as rage, fueled by the fear of his own vulnerability. He had tried to push Beecher away, tried to follow the plan, tried to maintain after his moment of weakness in the laundry room. But Beecher just kept pushing back, the stupid shit. And Keller had struck out in blind terror, a berserker rage riding him as he fought to reestablish his control. He had smashed and kicked and beaten the thing that threatened his defenses.
He ran a hand over his face. Bury it. He turned away and found himself face to face with a haggard man in the mirror. He studied the image for a minute. He should look different, somehow. But it was the same Chris Keller looking back at him.
"Fuck," he muttered. What did he expect, some seal of fire set on his forehead? A tattooed 666? A memory floated in the back of his mind the sharp scent of incense and a smudge of ashes like a bruise on his forehead, to put his penitence on display.
It was just a job, damn it. Just a favor he owed to a man who had taken his sorry ass in when he'd been too young and stupid to understand the dangers he faced in prison. Just a debt paid off, one more entry marked in black. He tried to push the thoughts away and crawled into bed, unthinkingly hoisting himself into the top bunk, where the blankets and pillow held the scent of another man's body. Pain stabbed behind his eyes, nausea curled in his belly, and he rolled into a fetal position, gasping.
In the laundry room, Toby so close - so close Keller could smell the other man: the clean smell of harsh prison shampoo and shaving cream; a faint whiff of milk and the wholesomeness of children still clinging; the tang of his sweat. For an instant, the blond man smelled like home, a home Chris never really had. Keller's mind cleared for the first time in years: no thoughts, no schemes, no subterfuge, just a clear, strong pulse of hope and trust, fluttering through him from Beecher's fingertips. "I love you, Toby," he'd said before taking the other man's mouth with his. And Beecher had surged forward just the slightest bit to meet him before Keller drove the smaller body back under the onslaught of passion ...
Keller realized he was shivering, despite the scratchy blankets wrapped around him. Bury it, goddammit. Get a fucking hold of yourself.
He couldn't afford to lose control. If he had kept his shit together months ago, no one should have died in that holdup. If he had kept his shit together the past few days, Beecher wouldn't be lying in that hospital bed right now. He would be pissed, but he would be here, with Keller, where he belonged ...
Keller's hands, white-knuckled, clenched around the side rail of the bed, and he was surprised to feel the flesh of his right palm split against an unexpectedly sharp edge. The cold metal cut through his skin and his confusion, took him out of his head and brought him back to his body. He raised his hand to stare at the slash of crimson - almost black in the gloom - that was laid across his palm. He poked at it and felt small, silvery lances of pain run up his arm to his brain.
Pulling the blankets over his head, he cocooned himself in the scent of his lost pod-mate and lay, unsleeping. Every time the thoughts threatened to crowd in again, he banished them by grinding his left thumb into his palm.
The next day, he bartered his body for a razor blade. And every time he felt a crack open in his armor, he sealed it with a shimmering trickle of blood.