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Written for the Hardtime100 Seven Deadly Sins challenge.
In Oz, most things are just a little bit less than they should be.
Take the bunk that Keller is stretched out on. It might look comfortable from where Toby is slumped, waiting, but only Keller can pull that off. Chris Keller could sleep just as well standing on his head or leaning against a wall - hell, he could probably sleep in a nest of vipers. It's not much of a stretch from this place. For mere mortals the narrow beds are too hard, too short, and way too full of bumpy little reminders of where they are. Just in case they were in any danger of forgetting.
The chairs aren't much better. They're the cheapest money can buy; grey, vandal-proof. Comfort-proof. Sometimes Toby eyes Sister Pete's padded chair covetously, and he's fantasised often about sinking into the Warden's plush swivel chair. He can almost feel the swell of leather under his fingers, his head luxuriating in the soft cushion behind it. It's not a patch on the one he'd ordered for his office last time they redecorated, but it would do. Oh yes, it would do.
"You're thinking too hard."
Keller hasn't even looked up from his magazine, his brow still furrowed over some article, or maybe just over Toby.
"I'm not." Toby shifts in his chair, making up for the customary slide down the plastic curve that's made his shorts ride up uncomfortably. If it wasn't only minutes to lights out he'd have to move.
How many minutes to go now? He's sure it's been five minutes for hours.
"I can hear you. Your fuckin' brain's about to blow a fuse." Keller flicks a page over, his hand too casual to be believed.
"I was just thinking about chairs."
But he isn't any more, because Keller's finger is rubbing across his lips, and the erection that Toby's been fighting off since dinner is heading back this way with a vengeance. Watching Keller eat always creates more hunger than food can satisfy.
Think about something else... forget the fingers, think food... yes, the food too, that's never enough. Someone - he can't remember who, he was high at the time - someone told him it's carefully calculated to leave them with a faint gnaw of hunger; a reminder to stay in line if they want to be sure of their next meal. Toby isn't sure that's true, but he certainly can't remember the last time his stomach felt full -- not Thanksgiving or Christmas kind of full, just that secure feeling in his belly that he used to take for granted.
Maybe he's just greedy.
"Nobody thinks about chairs."
"People who make chairs do. And people who sell chairs probably think about them now and again."
But Toby's on a roll now, because he hates wishing these minutes away.
"And the opinion of people who just sit in chairs shouldn't be underestimated. I like to think I can appreciate a decent seat."
The jolt when Keller looks right at him, the sheer near-physical assault of that 'Toby, you're such a fuckin' tease' smile, reminds him why he doesn't touch drugs any more.
Two minutes to go.
Those who still need one last kick are lighting a cigarette before the glow gives them away. If the Powers That Be could, they'd restrict them to fresh-air strength cigarettes, and it goes without saying they'd stop the illegal stuff. It'll never happen; even cut and cut again, drugs are one comfort, one pleasure they can't water down as punishment. Toby can't blame anyone for wanting one thing that's whole and full.
But it's no wonder he still gets dry-mouthed and needy sometimes, wanting something indefinable to fill all those tiny little cracks. It's hard to remind himself that the drugs also push the cracks further apart, both solution and problem in a neat little package.
One minute to go, and Keller's not even pretending to read the magazine any more. He's still, though, so still, and his gaze so focused, so intent that Toby wants to squirm. He's not going to, though. Keller's going to have to work harder for that.
He knows it, too. Thirty seconds to go and he's swaggering up from the bunk; at maybe twenty he's stripped to his underwear and bent over the basin. It could be less, because Toby can't count now, not when Keller's upped the ante and splashed cold water over his face, shaking the drops off like a dog. Grinning like one too, because he knows what he's doing to Toby. He can read every mood in his repertoire, even if he doesn't always acknowledge it.
Five, four, three, two, one... and nothing happens. There's a prickle of cold sweat on the back of Toby's neck as the seconds tick past. Can't they do anything fucking right around here?
The way he feels right now, he could probably come from Keller's look alone. The lights go out before he proves it, and he's covered the two steps between his chair and the bottom bunk before the darkness really hits. His knee is jammed between those muscular thighs, his fingers pressing deep into the shoulders he's been wanting to taste since the doors shut hours ago and he started watching the clock.
Keller's laugh is hot against his ear, because yeah, he loves it when Toby gets like this, but he's not laughing when Toby nips and bites at his lip, just hot and hard, cock slipping out from his shorts to press into Toby's belly. He tries to push up, flip them over, but he's just playing, testing Toby's hunger the way he does sometimes. If Keller really wanted to win, Toby'd be writhing under him in a second, but instead it's him letting his head fall back while Toby fastens his teeth on his throat. He presses that far stronger pair of arms down so hard that he's almost dizzy, and coming hard; so hard he bites down and Keller's coming with him now, muscles straining under Toby's fingers.
"Jesus Christ, Toby."
Keller's rubbing at his neck, and even in the dark Toby can see the outline of his teeth there. He shifts until he can kiss the marks, run the tip of his tongue over the shape he's made, feel Keller shiver next to him, still again now. He wants to bite the same spot, but instead he pushes himself up to straddle Keller's legs, push his shirt up to start on that chest, that endless feast of real, whole, no-holds-barred Keller that'll cover all those cracks, keep him glued together just a little longer.
When he's teased and marked every bit of skin, over and over; when he's made it all his, filled his belly with the solid presence of Keller; when he's come and come again, worn himself out against that hard body: then, for a while, the bunk is a little softer under his spine, the ache of hunger gone for a few more hours.
And Toby thanks whatever god is up there watching him that even in Oz, not everything is less than he needs.
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