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Written for the Oz Kiss-a-Thon.
His world explodes into a brilliant spectrum of technicolour. A contented giggle dances off his tongue and he sucks in his bottom lip to rub numbness against the fuzzy taste of something more chemical. In a haze, it tastes delicious.
Unable--not even caring enough--to try and keep his head up, he lets it loll to the side and back, to the side and back, eventually resting on the shoulder of the warm body to his right. Somewhere in the distance nice words are murmured against the side of his head. It makes him smile, something he rarely gets to do nowadays without a little pharmaceutical assistance.
He could shake his head clear--but he doesn't want to. He'll take a drug induced state of glee over the living nightmare of sobriety. He would rather trip along in a delusional slumber, rendered weightless and fancy-free than have to feel those Aryan shitheads squeezing his balls in a vice.
This is fucking poetic.
Fuck you, Vern, you Nazi piece of shit. Suck on this tit.
He figures if he can just maintain this current state until his sentence is finally up, he can survive prison with few long lasting consequences.
Shifting in his seat, he tilts his head up and focuses his sight on a set of very near, sweet, encouraging lips. Everything else is a blur but those curves and that hint of pink--smiling at him, telling him it's all going to be okay. It's exactly what he needs to hear.
He presses his lips over top--
Not supposed to do that. It's only been Gen for him lately, but he can't help himself. The touch races warmth through his body (as good as alcohol); calms the last of frayed nerves (as good as snorting xyz) and seals the deal of sending his mind into blissed out oblivion. It's the best of all the bad things.
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
Then the touch is gone. Not so fast that the rebuke is felt deeply. No, there's enough of a hesitation that if he weren't flying high as a kite he'd make a mental note and pack it away only to pull it out on another occasion.
"What the fuck, Beecher?" The question isn't uttered with a nasty tone, but with an incredulous--curious?--laugh. The kind that suggests the questioner isn't as opposed as he might seem.
Toby laughs in response, feeling nothing serious in his gesture beyond absolute appreciation for the little things that make this hellhole survivable. Closing his eyes, a smile in place, he rests his head on Ryan's shoulder.
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