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  Stages by CatHeights	

 

 I
 ________________________

 Wanting Keller is easy, almost instinctual. Beecher thinks it's a bit
like breathing in that hours can go by where he's completely unaware that
he's even doing it. Then suddenly awareness breaks to the surface, and
he's fighting for control, like someone drowning and struggling for that
last gasp of air before relaxing into oblivion.

 He stares at Keller's reflection in the mirror, a slight smile tugging at
his lips. It's so much easier not to fight the want, to let it be as
natural as breathing. "Happy New Year."

 "Happy New Year," Keller says.

 Keller wants this bad. Beecher can tell, and that's good because he'd
hate to be alone in all this wanting. He's done the alone and self-denial
route. It sucked, and in the end it led him back to Keller. And he's fine
with that, of course he is -- this is what he wants. 

 He waits for a hack to pass by their pod before jumping down from the
bunk and approaching Keller. Desire pricks his fingers. He wants to touch
Keller, to feel the connection his traitor mind has tormented him with for
so long. Beecher thinks he's ready to move forward and let himself have
what happiness he can find in here. It's a New Year, and he wants a
change. So why is there this strange nervousness fluttering in his
stomach? 

 The hand he places against Keller's chest lands awkwardly, a thump rather
than a caress. Keller reaches for him and strangely his movements are just
as awkward. As fingers touch his side, Beecher winces, memory slicing
through his mind.

 One of Keller's hands rests against his stomach, the other on his wrist,
and quickly he's flipped. Warmth gathers in his body, and there's a
strange fluttering in his stomach. He doesn't want to stop wrestling.

 He tries to push aside the memory. That's the past. He's not being played
this time. This moment is natural and of his choosing. Beecher puts a hand
on Keller's neck, and they kiss. Their lips are far too tentative; there's
no passion. This is nothing like that first time.

 Beneath his hands, Keller's shoulders feel solid and warm -- so right. "I
love you." Even drunk, Keller looks so earnest as he returns the
sentiment, "I love you, Toby." Then, they're kissing, the taste of alcohol
slipping into his mouth along with Keller's tongue. It burns, but Christ,
it all feels so good, the warmth of touch, the burn of desire. This is
love.

 Keller's mouth opens beneath his. At the first hint of tongue, Beecher's
cock hardens. Laughter echoes in his mind. No passion? Right. Why is he
trying to lie to himself? Desire grafts with his skin, sensitizing every
bit of his body. How can anyone survive wanting this much? It can't be
right to feel like this. He slides an arm behind Keller, pulling him
closer. Now would be a good time for his mind to shut down. All that
matters is he and Keller and this moment. But when has his mind ever
listened to him? Never. 

 While his fingers can't get enough of Keller, clutching him closer, his
arms tingle with the phantom ache of bones once broken. He doesn't want
that memory, but it, as well as the memories of rejection, are determined
to dance their way out of his skull to duel with desire for the right to
scar his skin. 

 His heart pounds, and he can't stop rubbing against Keller, hardness
against hardness. He wants more. He wants it fucking all. Beecher knows
he's shaking, bone-deep shudders twisting his body, but he's not sure if
he's shaking from desire or from remembered rage.

 Keller breaks the kiss and rubs the back of Beecher's neck. "It's all
right. There ain't no hurry. I just wanted to kiss you." He follows the
word with a gentle kiss.

 It's too damn gentle, as if Beecher is some crazed bird that he has to
soothe before it stupidly flies itself into a mirror. 

 "Night," Keller says. He steps backward, undressing and then sprawling
across the bottom bunk, wearing just his boxers. One hand rests lazily on
his stomach.

 How dare he? How fucking dare he? Who the hell is Keller to decide what
he's ready for and what he's not, to decide what he wants? Beecher takes a
breath, trying to control the shaking. Part of him wants to crawl into
Keller's bunk and show him just how ready he is, and his cock is urging
him to do just that, but he's not going to do it. He's not ready, and he
hates that Keller knows that. How does Keller know that? He thought he'd
learned not to be so goddamned transparent.

 The glare he gives Keller is met with a twist of lips and that
ever-intense gaze. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to press
against Keller's chest and trace a fingertip path down to his stomach, all
the while using his lips to wipe away that smirk. He denies desire and
climbs up into his bunk. So much for a New Year. This has to set a record
for returning to the status quo.

 "Beecher. You still hard?"

 His hand stops inches from touching his cock. "What?"

 "I know you are. Touch yourself."

 He yanks his hand back, fingers clenching into a fist as his head begins
to pound, an echo to the loud stuttering of his heart. How can he be so
fucking stupid? Any minute now Keller is going to start laughing. He's
been played again, walked into another round of "let's see how gullible
Beecher is." Everything has just been an elaborate plot to regain his
trust so that Keller can reject him all over again.

 I don't wanna fuck you, Beecher. I don't even wanna be in the same room
with you.

 Beecher puts his head in his hands. Why can't he stop remembering?

 "Toby? All right, how 'bout you tell me to touch myself. Come on,
something to pass the time. You'll enjoy it. I know you will."

 The pounding in his head lessens. There's no taunt in that voice, just
concern and the hint of seduction that wraps around everything Keller
says. Beecher raises his head, swallowing the hysterical laughter trying
to bubble up his throat. He really is stupid. Keller's not playing him,
but he does want to play -- a sex game. And that is just typical Keller,
and, well, he can do this. He wants to play. Yes, he does. Beecher takes a
breath and says, "Touch yourself."

 "How?"

 Beecher can't help the snort of laughter that slips out. "You need
instructions."

 "Yeah, I do. Give 'em to me."

 Keller's smirking. He knows it. It's in the sound of his voice. "Okay,
you want instructions. Wrap your hand around your dick. No, strike that.
Take off your boxers."

 "Ahead of you, Toby. They're already off."

 A laugh slips out, easy and relaxed. "Of course they are. Give me a
second." Beecher takes off his shirt, and then his pants, fingers
lingering on the waistband of his boxers. What the hell? It's nothing
anyone hasn't seen before, and besides he gave up the indulgence of being
self-conscious a long time ago. Still it's a bit unsettling -- this is
weird, new. Once he removes his boxers, he can't help draping the sheet
partially across one hip. 

 He runs a thumb over the tip of his cock and closes his eyes. "Put your
hand on your chest." Beecher's fingers twitch as he imagines Keller's skin
pressed beneath them. "Move your fingers down toward your stomach." He
pauses. "Then along the inside of your thighs, but don't touch your dick,
don't even brush against it."

 Keller moans, and Beecher strokes himself. His lips curve in a hint of a
smile. He's allowed to touch whenever he wants. Keller has to wait for
that instruction. This can work.

 "Brush your fingers lightly against the side of your cock." He can hear
Keller's intake of breath. "Cup your balls, and then stroke underneath
them, toward your ass."

 "Yeah, that's good," Keller says, his voice a throaty growl.

 God, he can picture Keller lying there, legs spread, and touching
himself. Beecher arches into the roughness of his palm. "Press harder. You
like that, don't you? But you'd like it better if I fucked you."

 "Oh shit, yes, Toby. I want you to do that, whenever you want. Fuck,
yeah."

 He can't help responding to the want in Keller's voice. A moan tries to
slip past his lips, and he clenches his jaw to restrain it. It takes a few
seconds before he can talk. "Stroke yourself, as hard as you want, as fast
as you want."

 Beecher's movements grow quicker, rocking into his fist, as he listens to
the sounds Keller is making below. For a while time narrows to the touch
of his hand and Keller's moans, and then he says, "Call my name."

 "Toby. Oh God, Toby."

 This time he can't stop the moan. There's an ache in his chest at the way
Keller says his name, shaking with need and with love. And Christ, he
believes it. Beecher takes a breath, his cock heavy in his hand. This game
isn't going to last very long. He can't stand for it to last.

 His tongue slides over his top lip, and then he orders, "Come," his voice
a rasp of sandpaper.

 "Fuck, Toby." 

 As Keller's words fade into a moan, Beecher knows Keller is coming --
because he was told to, because Beecher ordered him to. His mind barely
has time to register how much he likes that idea before his cock is
pulsing in his hand, orgasm rolling through his body.

 Keller's heavy breathing is a match to his own. It's a comforting sound. 

 "Told ya, you'd like it." Keller's voice sounds smug, and Beecher huffs
out a laugh, but he doesn't give a response. 

 He closes his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. He really needs to clean
up, but that can wait a few minutes more. His body is relaxed, free of
tension for once. It's a novel feeling, one he's not eager to have fade.
His fingers wrap lazily in the sheet. Despite the languor, faint but
constant need strums beneath each fingertip. He still wants to touch
Keller and drown himself in the feel of skin. This little game was a
pleasant release, but tomorrow he's going to want more. Tomorrow he'll be
ready for more.




 II
 ________________________

 No one has ever kissed him like Keller does. It's as if Keller wants
every part of him, and is determined to take it all with his mouth. It's
possession of the best sort, the kind that tries to convince you to give
over everything and allow yourself the bliss of being a blank slate,
written anew with that mouth. Escape is something Beecher's looked for so
many times, but he's never been able to find it, not in alcohol, not in
drugs, not even in Genevieve. He wonders if eventually he'll find it in
Keller, if one day the doubts won't resurface the moment those lips leave
his body.

 Even though they're toward the back of the pod, way into the shadows, a
sliver of harsh light from below flickers through. It slashes across
Keller's cheek as he drops to his knees, pulling Beecher's boxers down
along the way. 

 Keller's hands press against his thighs, and Beecher clenches his
muscles, feeling the heat build. He can't look away from Keller's mouth as
it circles his cock, tongue teasing across the slit. Something in his
chest tightens at the sight and feel of Keller touching him like this.
Beecher knows he's never felt anything this powerful before. He places his
hand on the back of Keller's neck, fingers softly touching, almost
awestruck.

 As Keller takes more of him, Beecher rocks slightly, awash in wet heat.
He moves his hand to Keller's shoulder, grabbing tightly, trying to anchor
them to each other. Whatever this is between he and Keller, he's not
letting go of it.

 His other hand grips the frame of the bunks, the roughness cutting into
his palm. "Chris," he whispers, and Keller suddenly sucks harder, making
his knees almost buckle. "Oh yes. Chris."

 Keller's hands are pressing against his ass, pushing him faster, deeper.
He forgets how to breathe. 

 When he finally comes, the strength of it makes him feel like he's been
ripped free of his body. He's finally free. He's escaped.

 There's barely time for him to remember how to breathe before Keller
stands and kisses him, tongue wiping out the barest beginnings of doubt.
Beecher knows he'd be willing to forgive that mouth anything. And yet, it
really isn't about forgiveness, is it? Forgiving Keller should have been
impossible, but it wasn't. It was inevitable. Some things wrap their way
into your soul, and no matter how much they hurt, you still let them in,
again and again. 

 No, forgiveness isn't hard. It's the forgetting that always trips you up.
Eventually Keller's mouth will leave his body, and he'll remember that he
doesn't know how to forget.




 III
 ________________________

 Keller's beautiful. It seems an odd thing to think about another man, but
it's nonetheless true. Of course he doesn't possess that safe, commercial
beauty. No, it's more the beauty of a predator, the kind that frightens as
much as it tantalizes.

 He runs his hand down Keller's naked back, warm skin pressed beneath his
palm. The feeling is addictive. He can't get enough of it, so when he
reaches the base of Keller's spine, he changes direction, moving upward in
a return journey. This time his body follows, cock sliding over Keller's
ass. Beecher leans in, presses a wet kiss on Keller's neck and whispers,
"I want to fuck you."

 The sharp buck Keller makes is unexpected, and it almost causes Beecher
to fall off the small bunk, but he hangs on, regains his balance.

 "Do it," Keller says and reaches back to grab one of Beecher's hands,
guiding it beneath the pillow.

 An amused huff of laughter slips out when Beecher realizes what he's
feeling -- lube and condoms. Keller's prepared. He wonders how the hell
Keller managed to get a hold of those items. Who was it he asked?
Schillinger had never had such niceties. No lube to ease the way, and
Christ that had hurt. Fuck. Why is he thinking about Schillinger? This
situation isn't even remotely similar. It's not like that bastard was ever
the one to take it up the ass. Goddamnit, he needs to stop thinking. 

 Beecher takes a deep breath and slips the items out from beneath the
pillow, leaving them beside Keller on the bunk. Then he moves downward,
his hand stroking skin, the motion calming and arousing. It's funny, he
thought that being able to touch Keller would take the edge off the want,
but it hasn't. The want just keeps increasing exponentially, bringing him
to this moment where he needs to get as close to Keller as he physically
can. 

 He reaches for the lube and spreads it across his fingers. The touch to
Keller's opening is oh so gentle with one finger circling while his thumb
adds pressure below. The tip of his finger slides in. He waits a second
and pushes in a bit further, but then Keller's bearing down and the
finger's sliding all the way in. It feels so warm and smooth -- and tight.
He bends his finger slightly. Keller moans.

 Want fills his senses as he rests a hand on Keller's ass, massaging the
rounded curve. So perfect. No swastikas to mar the skin. His hand presses
down hard as the breath exits his mouth in sharp, hitching sounds that
can't be as loud as they seem. It's hard to hear Keller above the noise.

 "Add another finger. Please, Toby, please."

 His breathing quiets some at the sound of his name, and he does as
requested, amazed at how easily Keller takes that second finger. He
strokes Keller from above and from within, desire quickening the rhythm of
his fingers.

 "Yeah, fuuuuck. Do it. Need you. Toby." Keller pants out each word.

 As Beecher slowly pulls his fingers out, other hand reaching for a
condom, his mind throws a sucker punch. It's possible he's become just as
dangerous as Keller, in his own way.

 You sure are, sweetpea.

 Beecher shudders, the memory of Vern's voice moving through his spine
like ice water. Numb fingers grasp at the condoms, grabbing three instead
of one and clenching them in his fist. Keller's raised his ass, has his
legs spread. He's eager, and Beecher wants this bad, wants to feel himself
pressed into Keller, but he can't do this. He doesn't want to hurt Chris.
He can't hurt Chris. Not now.

 In an extremely awkward movement, he stumbles off the bunk. The condoms
fall from his hand, and he bends down reclaiming one.

 "Toby, what the fuck?" Keller turns onto his side, one hand reaching out.

 There are no words he can offer in explanation, so he just slides back
into the bunk, wrapping their bodies together and silencing Keller with
his mouth. He matches Keller kiss for kiss, rough and possessive, until
once again the memories are temporarily silenced.

 With his knee, Beecher nudges Keller onto his back. "I need to see you,"
he says. Keller nods, and Beecher swears he understands. Another kiss and
then his shaking hands rip open the condom and roll it on. He's about to
reach for the lube, but Keller is a step ahead, already beginning to
smooth it over Beecher's cock.

 Keller raises his legs, bringing up his knees, and Beecher aims for where
he's sure Keller's opening is and misses. He tries again, and again, and
again. This is unbelievable. How many lawyers does it take to get a dick
into a hole? He can feel the manic laughter building in his throat.

 "Relax," Keller says, as he uses his body to guide Beecher to the right
spot. He hooks one ankle over Beecher's shoulder, and the other leg around
his back, pressing.

 Beecher gasps as he feels the tip of his cock slide in. He keeps pushing
slowly until he's firmly inside. "Holy shit."

 "Good, huh?" Keller says.

 "God yes." Beecher gazes up worriedly. "You okay?"

 "Shit yeah." Keller presses down and Beecher thrusts a bit to meet him.
"Oh yeah, fucking fantastic."

 That makes him laugh. "Glad to hear it." He carefully rocks into Keller,
and once he's more confident, he leans down for a kiss.

 "Harder," Keller whispers. "You won't hurt me."

 He keeps kissing Keller as he relinquishes a little of his control,
letting the building need guide his movements. It's not long before their
bodies begin to feel slick with sweat. Beecher feels like he's balancing
on the razor edge of want, so damn close to satisfaction that every inch
of his body is reaching for it. The feeling is incredible. Insanely, he
thinks he wants to stay forever on that ledge with Keller, want shuddering
between them.

 Far too soon, his muscles tense and his body finds release. Floating, he
hears himself making sounds he's never made before. His body feels shaky
when he pulls out. He moves off the bunk to remove and discard the condom.


 Beecher quickly turns back toward the bunk but pauses at the sight of
Keller thrusting roughly into his own hand. Somehow it's like he's never
seen Keller this naked before, so open. He's back on the bunk in a second,
wrapping a hand over Keller's, joining the rhythm. It only takes a moment
before Keller is shuddering beneath their hands.

 "I love you," Beecher whispers as their mouths meet. The words are lost
in the kiss, sacrificed bits of smothered air.




 IV
 ________________________

 He's always loved the law. There's a stability to it that still manages
to allow for some creative interpretation. Nothing in Oz is stable,
nothing concrete, except for the walls that cage you. 

 The lights flicker on and Beecher jumps down from the bunk, eyes still
adjusting to the change. Maybe today they'll end this fucking lockdown. He
swears if it lasts another day, he'll go out of his mind. It won't be the
first time. Yet there's a part of him that also fears the lockdown ending.
The last two weeks have been as stable as things get in Oz. He's safe.
Chris is safe. But that safety will flee the moment those doors release.

 You can't win.

 He wishes there was some way he could atone for all the pain he's caused,
for all of the things he's done. Then maybe love wouldn't be bliss one
moment and torment the next. Maybe then he'd be able to forget.

 Beecher rubs at his eyes, feeling Keller's arm pressing against his
shoulder. That constant want bubbles to the surface. It's a pleasurable
feeling, a feeling of being connected to someone he cares about. 

 As Officer Murphy begins to call out prisoner numbers, Beecher wonders if
maybe tonight he'll let Keller take him, another step to draw them even
closer. He wants to know what it's like to feel Keller inside him. Yes,
maybe tonight. And maybe when this lockdown ends, he'll figure out a way
to keep them both safe. 

 Beecher reaches backward and grasps Keller's hand, thumb rubbing against
the palm -- want circling through the touch. 
 


  Disclaimer: HBO and Fontana own them. I'm just playing around in the
sandbox. No profit being made. 


  Please send feedback to CatHeights.