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  Staking A Claim by levitatethis  

 (Prompt: Having to explain away hickeys)

 "I loved you for a long, long time// I know this love is real// It don't
matter how it all went wrong// That don't change the way I feel// And I
can't believe that time's// Gonna heal this wound I'm speaking of// There
ain't no cure// There ain't no cure// There ain't no cure for love."
-Leonard Cohen, Ain't No Cure For Love

 Chris likes to mark Toby's body.

 He has transformed the pale skin into a legend that maps out the wild
terrain of their relationship. The blood vessels burst deep purple can be
construed as love bites as much as sacred scars tantamount to a
warning--to others and to themselves--reminders of what they are capable
of reveling in and inflicting together.

 Each flesh and blood design carries a meaning although some are more
innocent than others. Speckled strips of blood from his skin scraped free
tell their own story of urgent desire roughly doled out and demanded in
return. To the unknowing and undiscerning eyes of Em City's rag-tag
population the myriad affectation of wounds (some obvious, others barely
perceptible) up Toby's thighs and across his back speak of Chris'
domination, unapologetic and crude. But it is the mirror image that winks
the flipside.

 For all of Chris' swagger and deliberate over-confidence, he is
surprisingly the more gentle of the two when they fuck or make love,
whichever term they willingly subscribe to on any given day. He is still
incredibly powerful and demanding to a point, but it is Toby who initiates
the all or nothing touches when the want to meld together their bodies
proves too much for him to ignore or play nice about. In those
circumstances Chris gives as good as he gets and Toby can see the half
hazy surprised lust in his eyes at the intensity of their matched arousal,
something that Chris surely never expected when they first began this
precarious course. 

 Toby's heightened lust is stroked by the all-consuming want he feels
beneath Chris' searching fingertips and breath-stealing kisses. And when
Chris' fingernails literally dig beneath the surface, Toby feels as bound
to the nexus of forever as humanly possible. The sharp sting of his skin
pulled apart rushes him to the present, with no past or future to distract
him. All that exists is the now.

 The scratches are a tableau that changes meaning based on the point of
view of the person looking. The truth that Chris and Toby knows all too
well is not the same one that the men around them hold as fact. Between
Chris and Toby are other declarations with far more salacious motives.
Only in Oz do physical renderings of love raise questioning eyebrows and
judgmental red flags more than acts of violent bloodshed. It is the
conundrum of an upside down world.

 Chris flicks his tongue against Toby's neck then sucks the salty skin
between his lips, smiling when he scrapes his teeth across the wet expanse
of puckering flesh while Toby sighs, whimpers and moans his undying
fervor. Toby is sure it is one of the many ways that Chris chooses to
remind him, I was here. It is soothing--the pursued journey remembered;
the peak reached together. It is comforting--a shared space made for two.

 It is possessive.

 The lustfully created bruises on Toby's arms flash a warning at everyone
else to stay away. Toby's initial reaction is to be pissed off. He
despises being made to feel indebted to another person out of a need for
protection. He has been there before, at the repulsive bottom of a
poisoned well. But he scratched and crawled his way out, claiming a piece
of untouchable space all for himself. Insolated and impenetrable, it
remained, until he decided to open the door. 

 It was the worst mistake and the best discovery.

 He appreciates the significance of Chris' blatant and (almost) uncensored
interest in him. With anyone else it would have been `in and out'--wham
bam, thank you ma'am--and a toss to the ferocious animals, but when it
comes to Chris all the expectations are twisted in on themselves. Chris
wants him, and only him, even more as each day passes. It is suffocating
and deliriously brilliant and Toby is an exposed raw nerve at the way that
knowledge is kindling to his own mess of dangerous emotions.

 Chris' lips against his skin are communion; the layered kisses a
sacrament. The undulation he makes of Toby's body makes Toby thrum. Where
others only seek to take pleasure, Chris grants it. The more Toby
responds, the harder Chris gets. Wrapping his limbs around Toby, they
thrust against each other in unison, stretching their bodies and
contorting themselves into a perfect fit. With their eyes locked together
they gasp into each other's mouths and know that what they have is theirs.
It cannot exist anywhere else. It is separate from everything and
everyone. They hold onto it with a death grip.

 Unconsciously Toby touches his fingers to the painless bruise on his neck
while watching Miss Sally. In his mind's eye he sees the defined edges
that distinguish purple from white and traces them as if the topography of
his skin recognizes two different landscapes. The two versions of
himself--one part unscathed and untouchable, the other part forever
altered and recreated--coexist and grant him a chaotic serenity.

 On occasion Toby gets lost in a hypnotic daydream of them and his glossy
gaze suddenly meets Chris'--from across the quad while Toby talks with
Rebeadow and Chris shoots the shit with O'Reily; in the mirror of their
pod while Chris leans against the bunks and watches Toby at the sink; in
the cafeteria as they sit across from each other, their feet pushed
together under the table while Busmalis and Rebeadow talk about the good
hacks versus the bad ones. Chris levels him with a smoldering smile and
Toby is flushed with a desperate craving he never thought possible in his
life, let alone prison. It sates and panics in one full swoop and he
struggles with the ricochet between turning himself inside out to be
devoured whole and building up another wall.

 He is put on display but only to be touched by one. Lying alone on his
bunk, finally on the verge of falling asleep, Toby's body erupts in
goosebumps at the memory of Chris' body curved against his, pressing a wet
heat to a patch of skin on his neck just below his ear, nuzzling him,
trying to burrow into his soul. He dreams with a smile on his face.

 Those marks, to an extent, speak for themselves. The inference is not
always right but it is rarely completely wrong. There is still an element
of truth in the misunderstanding. Toby learns to ignore the stares,
murmurs and comments made about him under the collective breath of the
other prisoners and guards. He is unfazed by the silent condemnations that
track his movements (whispering, `you two are so fucked up') and wouldn't
be surprised if half of those are actually wishful contemplations
(sighing, `I want a piece of whatever it is they've got going'). Oz is as
mad as they are.

 It is the more intimate scars that he cannot hide when he is showering
that prove a bigger challenge. In those moments, having to explain away
hickeys becomes far more problematic a personal, silent conversation than
he is willing to have. The lasting kisses detail Chris' trek up and down
his body with special attention paid to the spots that they both discover,
cunningly and surprisingly, make Toby squirm with anticipation and
encourage him to hook one leg around Chris' torso or over his shoulder to
bring them closer together.

 Hill raises an eyebrow and barely suppresses a smirk at the hickey on the
inside of Toby's thigh. Being in a wheelchair gives him a ringside seat to
the story that Toby's body tells when they are in the shower. Toby bites
back a remark that Hill should keep his eyes above board, but he knows the
smirk isn't meant as an insult. Not in Hill's case. Instead, Toby blushes
as his imagination recalls Chris between his legs, licking slowly along
his inner thigh and ignoring the twitch of his hardening cock while
running his hands up the sides of Toby's legs, past his waist to his
chest, and thumbing his nipples. 

 When he whimpered his consent, Chris bit down lightly, then licked and
sucked the pressure point until Toby was writhing. Chris pushed his hands
firmly against Toby's chest to keep him in one spot controlled his
movements. Then Chris was sliding up his body and capturing Toby's mouth
with his at the same time that he thrust his own lengthening erection
against Toby's arching body.

 A marked back with a sporadic pattern, very lightly bruised upper arms
and shoulder blades, a small patch of discoloured skin at the back of his
knees and around his ankles are the equivalent of every breathless whisper
and shared chuckle as they twist and turn about each other in the confined
space of the bottom bunk or the hidden area at the back of the pod. They
are the physical reminder of the fortuitous opportunities they seize in
tasting each other while Chris is working in the storage room or Toby is
doing laundry. Everyone sees the show but few know the story.

 In front of others, Chris leans into Toby in the cafeteria line. Toby
breathes in sharply, holding still, as Chris' breath cascades against his
neck and his chest fits against back, slightly propelling Toby forward.
The master and his prag, say all the watchful eyes, but then that's never
been the full truth and nothing but. And they all know it. Toby has stood
his ground many times before when he was sick of playing the bitch in the
other prisoners fucked up (and fucking wrong as far as he is concerned)
fantasies. 

 He halts in place and turns around, going face-to-face with Chris who
grins all too sure of himself. Toby rolls his eyes and forcefully presses
his hand to Chris' shoulder, pushing him back slightly and eliciting a
condescending scoff. But when Toby turns around again to get the rest of
his food Chris stays back and gives him more room. Where others see a
sketchy play that may cost Toby later (then again who knows since Chris
seems to have more than a soft spot for the over-educated, sweet and crazy
as a loon, Toby) they both know that an insistent demand for distance is
to be respected, especially if they plan to partake in each other later.

 Eyeing the hickeys on his neck in the mirror before count or the ones on
his stomach and legs as he lies on his bunk (while Chris reads a tattered
copy of Juggs below), he touches his fingers lightly along the distorted
edges and examines the range of colours. Though he knows with time they
will fade away (unless Chris decides to get flirtatiously calculated with
his future intentions) they seem permanent enough. 

 He has never felt this kind of overwhelming want and need for another
person before, let alone been on the receiving end. It is surreal and
strangely miraculous. Out of the most excruciating pain has risen the most
complicated and ultimately rewarding love. It has made Toby see his own
strength--of mind and body. It forces him to recognize his own worth, once
exorcised and thought to be lost. Chris may flirt with any and everyone as
a second language, but he only has eyes for Toby. And when Toby is fixed
in that gaze--trapped almost--the rest of the world starts to fall away
and he has to work twice as hard to stay in it, conscious of its movements
and their place within.

 Toby knows that one day he will leave this all behind. His skin will shed
old layers and melt away the physical rendering of their love. There will
come a time when it will be a strong memory, but a memory no longer
grounded in a tangible reality nonetheless. There will be no more
penetrating gazes that quicken his breath or teasing touches that send
goosebumps up all over his body. The remembrance of them wrapped up in
each other will take a nostalgic turn never to be repeated.

 One day, Chris will slip away. 

 But the marks he leaves on Toby's soul are forever.

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