Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Lene T. I got this from Donatella's Head.

Rating: NC-17

This fic has four parts

Warning: rape

This and I Really Dread The Morning Light are probably my two favorite Dolenzmith imagines ever tbh. This is also what inspired Framed.

***

{part 1}

       The first time Mike saw Micky walk into the dusty prison yard, he almost came in his pants. Five new recruits had arrived that day, late, and now that they'd been processed they were turned loose into the open market.

Four men and a boy. Nineteen years old, as Mike later found out, and in the house on a drug rap that he probably didn't deserve - but then, who in this prison ever got what they deserved? Mike hadn't; and he knew that if the truth ever came out he'd be doing a lot more than the ten years he was in for. Five down, five to go, and with a boy like that under him the time would go a whole lot faster.

Nineteen years old and the sweetest thing anyone had seen in a long time. When the yard door clanged shut behind him, leaving him alone in the hot Texas sun, Micky shrank back against the cinderblock wall, his eyes searching frantically for some safe harbor. The other newbies had melted into the crowd, greeting friends and finding their places. Only Micky remained alone, tall and slender and curly-haired, like a cherub all grown up. One hundred pairs of eyes turned to gaze hungrily at him, and one hundred cocks jumped when he turned to edge by a table, revealing his tight little ass. Most everyone thought: oh Christ, I wish I had some of that. Only a few thought: I'm going to get some of that.

Micky continued to walk slowly around the edge of the yard, still trying to find a place to hide. He moved gracefully, like a dancer, and avoided eye contact with anyone: at least he had some brains. As he got closer Mike could see his face better - open, soft, a wide generous mouth, high cheekbones, and a slightly flattened nose and up tilted eyes that suggested some vague ethnic background. His brows were drawn together as he seemed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Mike thought he was lovely.

From his vantage point in the rickety bleachers - all of ten rows of seats - Mike could see three men making their way over to Micky, moving smoothly and purposefully. The welcoming committee. In a few minutes Micky would belong to either Manny or Stick or Asa, and that night they would all hear his screams when he was raped, maybe once, maybe a lot of times. In a few months they'd get bored and the new boy would be rented out, until he made an alliance with someone else or got sprung. It always happened the same way. New prisoners came through often enough, and the rest were satisfied with the leftovers.

It had been a while since Mike had gotten himself a new boy. He'd been there long enough to establish himself as someone who shouldn't be fucked with; he'd found he was much more intimidating if he stayed silent, so he left the talking to his right hand men, Davy, a tough little Brit, and Peter, a rich kid who hand his hands in the prison drug supply. They were good men, and they were content to let Mike be the leader - and the target. Everyone knew he was in for killing his wife's lover, in self-defense, of course, so he'd gotten ten years for manslaughter instead of a trip to the chair for first-degree murder. You gotta love America sometimes.

And so he picked his battles carefully here, aiming for second place, which at least kept you alive. Then sometimes it came to it, and Mike had lost track of the number of bones he'd had to break over the years to stay second. That was his specialty. He was six foot three but built lean, and his strength was in his back and his hands and in knowing just where to aim. When he'd first arrived he had to fight off one of the same goons - Rayboy - who was now stalking that boy to show that he wasn't going to be anyone's bitch; they'd taken the man away howling and clutching at his arm, which hung at an odd angle, and Mike didn't have much trouble after that.

Getting Davy and Peter on his side meant cutting them in on the action, which was only fair. A few years ago there had been a whole shipment of new inmates, among them several young tasty bites, just the way Mike liked them, and he had gotten himself one and then the three of them had shared until their boy was suddenly paroled. There had been a long dry stretch with no new pussy, just the same old worn-out asses.

Until today. Micky was quite close now and Mike could see the fear in his face when he realized he was being hunted. Micky knew: knew what he was worth, knew that he was a virgin ass in a country of horny men, and knew that he was about to be claimed. And then he did something that astonished Mike, and in some small way, won his heart, or what there was of it. Most newbies, faced with this situation, would cry or run or slump down in defeat, but this boy straightened up, threw his shoulders back, and managed to force a little smile while he waited calmly for the winner to take him.

It was the smile that did it. Mike, who hadn't moved or said a word until this point, nudged Peter with the toe of his prison-issue work boot: "Go." Instantly Peter was on his feet, getting to Micky just ahead of the others, then standing casually in front of him with his arms crossed. One hunter shrugged his shoulders and ambled back to his corner of the yard; the remaining two engaged in some non-verbal communication, staring hard at each other until one gave up. Now it was just Rayboy and Peter. Micky, meanwhile, wiped his hands nervously on his jeans, sneaking an occasional look in Mike's direction.

"Sorry. First come, first served," Peter said amiably.

His opponent raised his arm to swing, but Mike cleared his throat noisily and began to rise from his place on the bleachers. The wood creaked, the sound amplified in the sudden silence that accompanied this unusual event. Mike stood tall and put his hands on his hips.

The arm was lowered. The contender withdrew. Mike sat down again, stretching out his long legs, and prepared to take possession of his new bitch.

Peter pushed Micky ahead of him to the bleachers and indicated a spot by Davy. He pointed at Mike and said "That's Mike Bones," as if he were pointing out someone very rich and famous to someone very poor and stupid.

"Smoke?" Davy asked, holding out a cig.

Micky swallowed and shook his head. "I d-d-don't smoke," he got out.

Mike was instantly furious: his little slice of heaven was flawed. How could such a perfect mouth mangle a simple word? He frowned fiercely. Maybe he should throw this one back. Then he looked again at the opening of Micky's blue cotton shirt and saw his graceful throat end in a little tuft of curly hair, and decided to give him another chance.

"Somethin' wrong with you, boy?" Mike barked. Startled at being spoken to, Micky met his gaze but then quickly lowered his eyes, twisting his hands in his lap and bouncing his leg. He couldn't seem to sit still.

"It's j-j-j-just when I get n-n-nervous, that's all. Thank you," he added, uncertainly.

Everyone broke up laughing.

**

Later that day Mike closed his eyes and let the hot water hit him full in the face. Here comes the shower scene, he thought. During dinner Peter had gotten Micky's basic information out of him with a minimum of stuttering. His name ("My friends call me Micky," he said). His bust (he had been unlucky enough to be asleep in the back of the van when the cops pulled them over, and his former friends had instantly laid all of the blame on him. And all their hash had been in his backpack, too, so he was fucked from the start. Now he was in for a year of hard time, to set an example for the misguided youth of America). Why his hair was so long ("I play in a band. Well, I used to, I guess. I can sing and play drums and guitar." Mike looked up sharply at that and Micky dropped his fork with a crash).

He turned off the water and once again appraised his new whore, finding him delectable in every way; he'd chosen well. Long arms, long legs, skinny in the tantalizing way that boys are before they fill out, and yet soft around the belly, like a woman. Hung average, nicely shaped, cut. And that beautiful little ass, white, round, just begging to be slapped and then pried open by a big cock.

Mike's own sizable prick was halfway to full staff just watching his boy. Peter and Davy stood protectively on either side of Micky, making no effort to hide their own arousal at being this close to new tender flesh. Mike had to hand it to him: Micky was once again showing grace under pressure by toweling off as casually as he could, surrounded by all these hard-ons aimed directly at him and the rest of the inmates waiting to see what Mike would do with him.

Nodding his seconds aside, Mike approached slowly, throwing his towel on the wet floor. He pointed down. Micky fell to his knees and stared at a puddle of water. Once again, he *knew*.

"You ever suck cock before?"

Micky kept his eyes on the floor.

"Yes," he answered softly. Mike was surprised but didn't let it show; it would make Micky that much easier to break.

"Do it now." Mike stepped forward until his cock, fully erect, was directly in front of Micky's face. Then those lips opened up and he touched his tongue to the slit, already leaking precum, and Mike was hypnotized by the pink wetness of his mouth which now took him in, warm, pliable, the mouth of his bitch; Micky was nervous, and inexperienced, but he tried, licking where he couldn't suck, moving slowly, then faster, and Mike just let himself go with it, knowing that a boy like this could learn a lot in a year.

His lieutenants watched with casual interest, having seen this particular scene played out many times before, secure in the knowledge that their turns were next.

Mike could feel himself getting close. He grabbed Micky's head by the hair and set his own pace, moving faster and deeper now into that sweet mouth, and just then the unexpected happened: Micky raised his eyes to his new master, looked up at him through long brown lashes, equal parts seduction and panic.

When any other bitch was on his knees like that, he would never dare to look up at Mike, much less look him in the eye, because he knew that Mike would beat him bloody. But this boy, oh, this boy, with his soft mouth stretched around the head of Mike's stiff cock, his big brown eyes full of fear and hope, desperate for some sign of approval. It was enough to send him over the edge: Mike twisted his fingers more tightly into Micky's curly hair as he came, ramming his cock deep, forcing Micky to swallow.

Mike released him and Micky fell forward, gasping for air. The sight of him on his hands and knees was almost enough to make Mike fuck him then and there, but he decided that there would be a better time and place for that. Now it was just business.

"Don't get up yet, bitch. You ain't done yet." Mike nodded at Davy and he took his place in front of the boy. "You got a ways to go but I reckon you can learn. Startin' now."

He watched Micky suck off Davy and Peter in turn, and by the time Micky was done there were tears rolling down his cheeks. Mike was hot all over again, thinking how sweet and beautiful the boy looked with his mouth full of dick and his eyes shut tight. Definitely the right choice. And now everyone knew it.

A little business in the evening, cartons of cigarettes exchanged, and everything was squared away: Micky was now with Mike, and Peter and Davy were temporarily paired up. Good all around. Mike liked having things work out the way he planned them. It felt like control.

Micky stood in the middle of the cell and looked around at the narrow bunk beds, the little desk below a square window to the outside, and the three grey walls that made up his new home. There was a bible and a couple of paperbacks on the table and that was it. No pictures. No nothing. From his seat on the lower bed Mike watched as Micky walked around the room, trailing his fingers over the walls, the desk, the outline of the window: he seemed to need to touch everything to make it real. When he got to the bible he flipped it open and peered at the writing inside the front cover.

Mike jumped up and slammed the book closed. "Don't touch my stuff, boy," he said, his voice low and menacing. Micky backed away from him, holding his hands up helplessly.

"I'm s-s-sorry, I d-d-didn't know - "

"And quit that damn stutterin'. You sound like a goddamn moron. If you ain't able to talk right, you don't talk at all, you hear me?" Micky nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor.

Mike grabbed him by the arms and pulled him close. God, he smelled good, and up close he was even more fresh and unspoiled. Mike wondered briefly if he even had to shave every day. He could feel the tension in Micky's biceps and he thought: You damn well better be afraid of me.

"Get this straight. You belong to me now, me and my boys. You do what I say and that year will go by right quick. You got one job now, bitch, and that is to be a piece of ass for me, whenever I want it."

Mike's voice softened as he thought of much time he could spend in that butt. "I aim to fuck you every day," he growled.

At that Micky's head jerked up and he stared into Mike's cold flat eyes, trying to pull away, his baby face full of horror; Mike backhanded him casually, business-like. They always fought; they always lost.

"Do what I say and you'll live. Understand?"

Micky nodded, biting his lower lip. It wasn't fair for him to look so appetizing at this particular moment, when he needed to pay attention and learn his place. Mike hit him again, hard, hard enough to knock him to the floor.

"Answer me, boy," Mike said. Micky slowly sat up, holding his head.

"I understand," he whispered.

Later, after lights out, Mike lay in his top bunk, thinking about how good the day had turned out. He'd gambled and been rewarded with his very own cherry bitch for a whole year. So soft and pretty. So young. And he belonged to Mike.

His thoughts were interrupted by a muffled sob from the lower bunk. Not an uncommon sound in these halls, but Mike didn't want anything to ruin his good mood.

"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep," he ordered. The sounds stopped.

Mike smiled to himself as he drifted off, thinking what a lucky man he was.

{part 2}

The clock was ticking.

Micky became Mike's obsession. It gave him something to do. For a man like him there was nothing in prison but fighting and fucking, and listening to other inmates talk about places he would never go, things he would never do. He was monumentally bored, but then he'd been bored most of his life. Even marrying that no-good whore of a woman had just been an attempt to escape boredom.

But now he had something new and shiny and lovely that no one else had, and he could hold the idea of Micky in his mind for hours, turning it over and over like his grandma's worry-stone, studying all its facets and flaws. He watched everything Micky did, silently, and after a few days Micky seemed to get used to Mike's constant gaze and stopped stuttering, except when he had to talk directly to Mike.

Which wasn't often. Micky never needed to be told anything twice. Mike's fists taught him very quickly what he was allowed to do, where he could go, and who he could talk to - keeping such a beautiful boy on a short leash was the smart thing to do. But Mike made sure Micky saw how the other bitches were treated, so he'd know just how good he had it.

Davy headed up a group of prisoners that were allowed to work on a local farm, working on machinery and tending the horses. A few more cartons of smokes ensured that Micky went with them, safe under Davy's watchful eye. Another good thing, Mike thought, since it was too distracting to have Micky around all day: thinking about him all the time was bad enough, but to have his body so close, his long-fingered hands jumping around in his lap, his brown curls brushing delicately against his ears - it was just too much. There was business to attend to.

Also, it was the perfect opportunity for Micky to work on his cocksucking skills. Mike had charged Davy with that too, not really caring how it got done. The first day at the farm Micky came back sunburned and looking very surprised, and Davy had just smirked in his annoying way and said "The best way to learn is by example", and when Mike imagined Davy sucking off Micky he got very hot and made Micky do it twice that night. And, true to his word, Davy had taught Micky a lot in a day.

But Mike hadn't fucked him yet. He wanted to, god knows he wanted to, but something told Mike that if he had to rape him the first time, it would be like that every time. And he didn't want that. He kept having visions of Micky on his back naked, arms and legs open wide, begging to be fucked hard, please Mike, I want your big cock up my ass all night long. Like that was ever going to happen. Well, a man could dream.

And after three weeks Micky still cried himself to sleep at night. It was always just as Mike was starting to fall asleep and it bugged the hell out of him. Every night he had to tell Micky to shut up; a few times he'd even gotten out of bed and rapped him around, but it never made a difference. This night he was fed up. Mike jumped off the top bunk as soon as he heard the first catch in Micky's breathing.

"What is your fuckin' problem, boy?" he demanded, sitting on Micky's bed and grabbing his t-shirt.

"I'm sorry," Micky said, shutting his eyes on his tears. Mike waited but he didn't move or speak.

"I am real tired of listenin' to you bawl every night. You don't quit it, I'm a have to let you go. Understand me?" Micky nodded. But as Mike started to get up, Micky caught his hand.

"Don't go. Please," he whispered.

"Christ, now I gotta babysit you at night too. I never seen one like you, boy," he muttered. But he was secretly pleased that Micky wanted him close. They lay on their sides on the narrow bed, Mike's body curled protectively around Micky's. After a few moments of silence Micky spoke again.

"I want to go home." Mike could feel his body shake with a sob as he said it. He laughed scornfully.

"Home to your momma and papa? You ain't a little boy no more. This here bed is the only home you got." Then, more kindly: "Just don't think on it. Now please shut the hell up and go to sleep."

**

When the challenge came he was ready for it. Another hot day in the yard, like all the rest that made up the long summer, but today with a buzz of tension just below the surface. Mike occupied his usual place in the bleachers, watching the rest of the action, while Micky was wedged between Davy and Peter, who were speaking softly to Mike about their latest drug run. Business. Mike didn't particularly like the fact that he was helping supply the prison population with speed and weed, but it was profitable, and Peter's connections on the outside made it too hard to resist. The guards were perfectly willing to let Mike and company do their deals as long as they were cut in on a little of the action.

Peter stopped in the middle of whatever he was saying and locked his gaze on the figure approaching them. Short, stocky, tattooed, and covered with scars: Manny, who was the boss of the Mexican contingent. He bought from Mike, along with everyone else, but they'd never gotten along, polar opposites. Mike respected Manny's position but didn't like how he treated his gang or his bitches. It was none of his affair, anyway.

Mike rose as Manny approached, to recognize his status, but he did it slowly, to show that he wasn't real impressed. Behind him, Davy whispered, "He's alone. You're covered."

"Que pasa, Bones," Manny greeted him. He smiled broadly and spread his arms wide: no weapons, or none that could be seen, anyway.

"What can I do for you, man?" Mike said, equally as pleasant, as if they were old friends meeting at the general store.

"For me? No, not for me, amigo. I don't ask for nothing for me. I come to tell you how it is on the streets." He looked very serious. What the fuck is this all about? Mike thought.

"There are starving men out there. Men who have gone without for weeks, waiting for a scrap to be thrown to them. And you, my friend, are the rich man who doesn't share." His gaze shifted to just behind Mike. Of course. Fucking bastard.

"And what's worse is that you don't even want what you have. What a waste. You been here five years, don't you know that nothing goes to waste in this place?" He took a step closer to Mike and looked him right in the eyes.

"Cut the bullshit, Mon-well," Mike said with as much of a lazy drawl as he could muster. "What I got, I got. I take care of mine. The rest of you can all go to hell."

"I can send you there now. But then you wouldn't get to see your wife again. She's gonna take you back after she finishes fucking the rest of Texas, 'ey?" This got a huge laugh from the circle that had now formed around them. It was clear there was going to be a fight, probably the best fight in months.

Mike knew Manny was baiting him, hoping he'd get mad enough to make a mistake. He shook his head and moved a few yards away from the bleachers, both to give him more room to maneuver and to draw attention away from Micky. He felt alert but relaxed, his senses finely tuned: that strange sense of anticipation he always went through before getting in a fight, before getting laid, before getting arrested.

"I ain't interested."

"What he needs is some training. You loan him to me and I'll make it worth your while. I won't hurt him. When I give him back he'll be wide open and begging for it." Out of the corner of his eye Mike could see Davy and Peter staring down some of the crowd who were beginning to leer and whoop. This was getting ugly.

"No." Mike shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and bent his knees a little. He had the height, and the reach, but Manny had the muscles. He'd have to do this fast.

"You make a bad decision. I guess you are just a dumb white trash hillbilly." Manny hitched up his jeans. "Time's up, puta," he snarled, and swung wildly at Mike with his big scarred right hand. Mike side-stepped him easily enough, kicking at his ankle as he went past.

"You dumb fuckers never learn, do ya?" Mike growled. Manny only smiled at him.

Mike lunged at him, grabbing at Manny's hand while aiming a forearm to the throat - but suddenly intense pain shot through his own left hand and he had to spin away, never taking his eyes off his opponent. The shank in Manny's fist flashed red in the sun; he could feel the blood running down his fingers.

"Goddamn no-good lying sack of shit," Mike said through clenched teeth. The fistfight had turned deadly and he was already one down. He barely had time to get his balance back when Manny charged him, the knife slicing through the air as he stepped back again, just in time. He could hear individual drops of blood hitting the ground as they eyed each other, the crowd now quiet as they waited for the next move.

Manny feinted to the left but Mike didn't fall for it. You had to watch the weapon, not the arm attached to it, and when he saw the knife reappear he sprang, hoping to even the odds. Mike got in one desperate punch to the eye that probably saved him - it knocked Manny's aim off enough so that the blade missed his chest and landed in the top of his thigh. He was going to get cut to ribbons like this: time to take it to the mat. All or nothing. He gathered his strength and jumped on Manny's chest.

They went down in a cloud of dust, rolling over and over as Manny fought to get his wrist out of Mike's iron grip. They came to a skidding stop at the edge of the ring of cheering inmates; Mike landed on top and saw his chance. He braced his feet and let go of the hand holding the bloody knife and as it came towards him everything slowed down and he could hear only the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. Shooting forward like a racer out of the blocks he landed hard on Manny's arm, dug his left elbow into the flesh, grabbed the hand and twisted it as hard and as long as he could. The bones crunched and snapped; the knife fell from Manny's now-useless fingers as he howled in pain.

"Motherfucker," Mike said with contempt. He got up and limped back over to the bleachers, away from the guards who were finally moving into the yard to clean up the mess. The blood was still pouring out of his leg, and his hand didn't look too good either. He raised his head to check on Micky, who was white with shock; then he looked back at the man screaming on the ground, and passed out.

**

Mike flexed his left hand experimentally: the stitches hurt, but he could still use it. He might have to, now. Manny wasn't the only one with the guts to take him on. His leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he knew it would hurt like a son of a bitch when the painkillers wore off. He lay down on Micky's bed and waited for his return.

Peter came by first to make sure he was all right. Everyone in the house knew what had happened and why; most of them thought Mike was a little crazy for fighting like that over a bitch but if it made them more afraid of him, that was no bad thing. Things had pretty much gone back to normal. Manny would be in the infirmary for a few more days while they figured out how to set his mangled wrist.

"You want to see Mick?" Peter asked, his eyes calm and amused. "He's getting really nervous."

"More than usual? I don't believe that's possible," Mike sighed.

"I don't think he's the street-fighting type. It freaked him out pretty bad." He leaned a little closer. "You took a big chance. Was it worth it?"

"It will be tonight," Mike replied, rubbing his good hand along the bulge in the front of his faded prison jeans. Peter gave him a wry smile.

"Leave some for the rest of us, boss," he said quietly, and got up to find Micky.

Mike was gratified to see the relief pour over Micky's worried baby face.

"Takes more than that to keep me down," Mike said casually, trying not to think about how much he hurt.

"Jesus, Mike, he had a goddamn knife! Why didn't you call the guards?" Micky's voice rose even higher as he paced around the cell.

"Didn't need to. They were probably too busy makin' bets to pay us any mind, anyways. All that matters is I won." He got up and moved to where Micky was standing, intending to reap his reward in a properly grateful kiss from the boy he'd saved once more. But Micky was too wrapped up in the drama of the day to notice.

"But now what? Is he going to send somebody else after you, or me? What if he just decides to grab me when you're not around? What if somebody else gets the same idea?" Micky was almost hysterical, looking around frantically as if assassins might pop out of the walls. Mike reached out to touch him but he yanked his arm back.

"Calm down, Micky. No one's gonna take you away."

That only seemed to make him worse. "If it wasn't for you none of this would have happened! I'll never make it out of here, never, never - "

"Shut up and stop cryin'." Mike slapped him to emphasize his words. "Don't give me no more of that 'I wanna go home' shit." He pushed Micky down on the lower bunk.

"It's time you started showin' some gratitude to me, boy. You know what woulda happened to you if I didn't take you? You'd a been fucked unconscious, passed around like a collection plate, and bought and sold a hundred times by now! That what you want, bitch?" he shouted.

"N-n-n-no," Micky stuttered, wrapping his arms around his body.

"Manny was right. Long past time for you to get broken in."

Micky's eyes went wide. "Oh god, no, please, no -" and Mike had to slap him again to shut him up, and he slid off the bed to the floor. Micky tried to crawl away but Mike hauled him back by the waistband of his jeans and pinned him to the cold concrete floor with a knee in his chest. Mike spoke calmly.

"Don't."

One word, stark and menacing. He let it hang in the air for a while. The only sound was Micky's ragged breathing. Suddenly the lights-out call rang through the block and everything went to black and white.

Mike removed his knee and sat back on his heels. This was so much fun.

"You got no choice." He waited, and just like he hoped, Micky didn't curl up and die; instead, he took a deep breath and folded his hands over his chest, as if he were relaxing in bed. This boy was something else.

"I know," Micky said, and now his voice was steady. Mike thought he might die of happiness. He leaned down and spoke in Micky's ear.

"It can be good. I can make it good," he whispered. "Now get undressed."

A weak shaft of moonlight came through the little window. Micky lay trembling, his pale skin glowing white in the darkness.

"Look at me, bitch," Mike hissed, grabbing his chin. All he wanted to do was to kiss those lips so hard they would be crushed like berries. How had he resisted this long? He took a deep breath.

"I'm gonna fuck you. I can't wait no more. But no one is ever gonna fuck you but me."

Then Micky did a curious thing: he reached out and let his hand touch Mike's face, his chest, the bandage on his leg. "Why?" he asked.

"I reckon I'm just a selfish bastard." He smiled as he said it, a hard, cold smile.

Mike gave himself a moment to savor the anticipation. The first time with his sweet young thing: he would never have this chance again and he didn't want to fuck it up. Micky was looking at him fearfully, his hands crossed over his crotch, as if that would change the fact that he was naked. Mike pulled his hands away and his legs apart.

"I know what you like, boy. Davy told me you're a regular old whore when it comes to gettin' your dick sucked. I want to see for myself." Micky's cock was soft when he took it into his mouth; but Mike was an old hand at this, and it didn't stay soft for long. A juicy hard-on that begged to be licked and sucked and lingered over, and it got even harder when Mike slid one wet finger up Micky's virginal ass: he jerked and gasped like a fish on a line as Mike twisted his finger around and made contact with the sweet spot deep inside. Two fingers and that tight hole started to stretch, just enough, and when Mike pushed them in all the way Micky moaned softly, half in pain and half in pleasure, and Mike thought it was the best sound he'd ever heard. He wanted no one to hear it but himself.

But now it was time for business. Mike drew his hand back, leaving Micky flushed and panting. He scooped some Vaseline out of a jar; it felt like a glove on his pulsing cock. He pushed Micky's legs up, so his knees were by his shoulders, but it wasn't enough. What he wanted was ass, and he wanted it where he could grab it.

"Turn over," he said, and there it was, that gorgeous little butt he'd been dreaming about since day one. He ran his finger into the dark cleft, so boyishly smooth, then pressed some more lube against the puckered skin. He'd never been first in, not back home, not in prison; he felt strong and all-powerful, knowing that he was about to transform this boy from virgin into lover, all by the simple act of fucking.

He centered his cock on the target and leaned forward, letting his weight drive him in, slowly at the entrance but then fast and smooth as he sank down, in, in, all the way in. It was heaven; warm flesh all around him, so tight and wet, and under him Micky crying out, twisting and bucking, announcing to the world that Mike had finally claimed his bitch.

Slow and easy. He looked down to see himself moving in and out of Micky's sweet ass and felt more turned on than he'd ever been before. He loved the way his cock looked when it was working, big and stiff, and he loved the way his balls got ever so slightly squeezed between their bodies with every stroke. Micky's hands clutched the mattress as he sobbed "no" into his pillow over and over. But Mike had heard that song before; sure enough, when he reached around he found that Micky was still hard, and that made him even more excited, and he wanted Micky to be hard always so that he could look at it, touch it, hold it close and make Micky come whether he wanted to or not.

Micky was still struggling to pull away, so Mike wrapped his arms around his waist, trapping Micky's body, whip-thin and tough as a willow; then he pushed hard, and deep, till there was nowhere left to go. He was close, real close, when suddenly Micky stiffened under him and jerked his hips back once, pressing against him, and that was enough to get Mike off fast and furious. He hadn't come like that since forever and it lit him up like a Christmas tree. From somewhere down the cellblock he thought he heard faint applause.

"You did real good, babe. Took it like a man."

Micky turned his head away and spoke to the wall. "It hurt," he said sullenly.

"First time always does. But at least it don't leave no scars," Mike said, fingering the bandage on his thigh. It was spotted with fresh blood; he hoped he hadn't ripped out the stitches.

"Why did you do that to Manuel? Why not just let him have me? He could've killed you," Micky said.

"Let him have you? And you're worried about *me* gettin' killed?" He remembered some of the other boys who had passed through Manny's hands: when they were sprung they weren't pretty anymore. He didn't care much about dying himself, but would Davy and Peter be able to keep Micky safe? He pulled him close even though Micky shrank away from his touch.

"I got responsibilities. If it wasn't him it woulda been some other fucker."

Silence for a while, and then:

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Micky asked, his voice raw with misery.

"You ask why a lot, boy. It don't pay to be so curious in this place." Micky didn't move. Anger rose in Mike's throat, but now it was different: he was angry because he was hurt, and that was a feeling long-forgotten, so old and so unexpected that he didn't know what to do about it. And that made him even madder.

"Because right now, you're all I got," Mike said curtly, then vaulted up to his own cold, lonely bed. The morphine was wearing off and he couldn't get comfortable; he tossed and turned, finally giving up to stare at the dirty, flaking ceiling. What a fool he'd been, to think that a boy like that would want anything to do with him. Micky wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when he got out he'd go back to California and his friends and his family and he would never make the same mistake again. And Mike would still be in the same fucking cell, his life a highway to nowhere. Stupid to think it would ever be different. Stupid to want what you could never have.

Then, in the gray darkness, Micky's head popped up at the edge of his bunk.

"So," he asked brightly, "When do I get to fuck you?" 

{part 3}

        Micky talked more than any human being Mike had ever met. Prison meant sitting still a lot: for Mike, being naturally lazy, it was easy to lean back and wait. But for Micky, who seemed to generate electricity, not moving his body meant he had to move his lips. He talked about anything that came into his mind, all the time, from morning till night. The only time he stopped was when Mike was fucking him, and when he was asleep, for which Mike was most grateful.

Davy and Peter were entertained, if not actually interested, by his nonstop chatter, and asked him questions to keep him going when they were in the yard or on work details together. Micky didn't seem to expect Mike to contribute to the conversation when they were alone, which was fine because Mike never listened to what he was saying, and after a while it was almost pleasant, like having the radio on to keep you company.

Except that you couldn't fuck your radio. It wasn't every day, despite what he'd said, because sometimes Mike was just too tired or too pissed off or too miserable to do it, and as much as he wanted in that ass he wanted to make it good. He was surprised at the kind of desires Micky inspired in his jaded soul. Thinking about Micky's smooth young body and what he could do to it - in great and vivid detail - took up most of his spare time, with the result that fucking him was much more than just coming hard like a rocket every time; and once Micky got used to having a big dick up his ass he stopped fighting, and even started to like it a little, maybe. It was hard to tell. Micky came when Mike blew him (only once - Mike just couldn't resist temptation any longer, even though he knew it was bad form, and at least managed to make it a reward for when Micky had been especially good), but never when Mike fucked him, though he stayed hard right through it. It was the one thing he never talked about.

Hard work keeping a bitch like this one. Hard to keep him safe; hard to keep him in line without spoiling his good looks or his tender nature. Too many bloody noses or black eyes and he'd start to look old, to get hard and bitter and mean. Which was not what Mike wanted. Sometimes, though, he thought it would be easier to go ahead and give Micky what for, mess up his face so that no one else would want him. Then he wouldn't have to watch him all the time, or have him watched, just so nobody else could get a little of that stuff. Too fucking hard to do that forever. But he reminded himself it was only for a year, and at the end of the day it was damn well worth it to have Micky's fresh tangy smell, his warm velvet taste: Mike sniffed and licked Micky's body greedily, under his arms, behind his knees, just below his navel where the dark curly hair began.

Mike wondered if the other bitches got treated so nice. He doubted it.

On bad days none of that mattered. Those days were when he woke up with a ball of barbed wire where his stomach should be, when his thoughts raced mechanically around and around Micky, like a cranked up rat on a wheel. He hadn't felt that way in years, since before he'd killed that miserable wife-stealing bastard in the kitchen and then everything inside him turned cold. He'd thought that part of him was dead and buried, paved over with concrete - until Micky showed up. And since it was Micky who made him feel that way, Micky would pay the price, and after Mike gave him a taste of the concrete wall, he got it through his pretty head to sit still, shut up, and stay where Mike could see him. In the yard he sat in the dirt at Mike's feet, where Mike could rest his hand on Micky's shoulder, or in his curly hair, and stare down anyone who dared come close.

Those were the bad days. On good days Mike tried to be nice to Micky, which mainly consisted of not hitting him when he was angry, and giving him things. Books. Mike never understood why people liked to read; it took too long, because he had to sound out words to make sense of anything, which made him feel like more of a hillbilly than he already did. He watched Micky reading book after book and couldn't decide whether to kiss him or slap him for being so smart.

And not just smart, but clever too. Micky could build things, and he could fix things that other people built. Soon the little desk was covered with junk, makeshift tools and useful bits and pieces that weren't banned: Mike did a nice side business in watches and radios and once even a little airplane that Micky made fly. In the long afternoons Micky would sit bent over some pile of junk, his baby face totally absorbed and serious as he coaxed life back into it, but still rattling on a mile a minute about cars or girls or some damn thing, and Mike would lie on his bed and watch. Without knowing it, he was almost happy.

Then there was the guitar. An old one that had belonged to a guy that died the year before, that had sat getting dusty in a storeroom till Mike remembered it and gave it to Micky, who was genuinely pleased. He even grinned, and that impish grin suited him so well it was heartbreaking. On the outside he probably smiled like that all the time. Seeing it made Mike feel a rush of warmth and rage at the same time.

It got cold, too cold to stay outside in the yard much anymore, so the four of them would retreat to the prison chapel and talk. That is, Micky would talk and the others would listen, except sometimes when Davy could be coaxed into telling a story about England, and then Micky was all ears, listening wide-eyed and asking a million questions when he was done. Sometimes they had visitors, and business was taken care of, and the time seemed to pass a little more quickly.

One day Micky brought his guitar with him to the chapel; he'd been practicing in their cell and Mike knew he wanted to show off. Micky flexed his fingers, grinning, and strummed a few chords, then launched into something with a driving beat that Mike instantly recognized even though he hadn't heard it in a lot of years.

"I know that song," Davy said, and started to sing: "If you knew / Peggy Sue / then you'd know why I feel blue..." Mike was surprised that he could sing, and that he knew Buddy Holly. Micky joined him and they finished the song together, their voices blending in harmony on the last "Peggy Sue".

"Oh, man, I love that song! I can play a few more - can you sing 'em?" Micky asked Davy, his face glowing with excitement. They quickly made a list of all the songs they both knew; Peter, watching over Davy's shoulder, pointed to the paper.

"I can play those last four on the piano. The rest I can probably figure out, too," he said.

"You can play piano? Oh, wow! It's almost like we have a band!" Micky was way too amped to sit down any more and did a little Elvis dance with the guitar. "I haven't played these songs in a long time. Man, I love Buddy Holly - what a freaking genius. He wrote the best songs, the *best* songs, so simple, so groovy. I remember when that plane went down, it was like the end of the world. I wish he hadn't gotten killed...I wish I could have seen him play..." he trailed off sadly. Peter nodded his head in agreement.

"I seen him," Mike said. All three heads snapped around to face him.

"You did? When?"

"Where?"

"What was it like?"

"I was just a kid. Musta been about 1957. It was him and them Crickets."

"What was it like?" Micky asked again, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

What was it like? A hot day, hotter than hell, and when it was night it was only a little cooler; he was drinking beer with his buddies at the state fair and hoping they didn't get caught with the beer or the truck, which they'd borrowed (without permission) from somebody's uncle. All day messing around, looking for some action, and then into the big tent to hear some fine gospel music, which he loved, followed by Buddy Holly and the Crickets. His mama told him it was nigger music and he shouldn't listen to it, so of course he had to hear what all the fuss was about. At fifteen he was already six feet tall, so he could see everything real clear, even from the back. Three guys in string ties on that tiny stage, Buddy introducing them in his funny, twangy, nasal voice, but when they started to play, Lord, the place went up like a tinderbox and Mike stood there with his mouth open. They played ten songs, each more joyful than the last, till they finished up with "That'll Be the Day" and when they were done everyone screamed. Mike thought he'd seen the promised land. Something in that music told him that there was more than being poor and dumb and dirty, because Buddy Holly came from a town just like his and now he was up on a stage, thin like a scarecrow with those big dumb glasses and when he was done playing everyone screamed for more.

Mike had gotten the music teacher at his school to show him some chords on the beat-up guitar they used for church picnics and he practiced every chance he got till he could play "That'll Be the Day" straight through. He liked that more than anything he'd ever learned how to do. Then he'd had to quit school to go to work and he'd never stopped till he got thrown in this shithole, and that was that. He had forgotten that day, and that once he'd had something to look forward to. Until now. Until Micky.

What was it like? Like fireworks in your living room. Like the edge of the sun coming through after an eclipse. Like the meanest thunderstorm you could imagine.

"It was loud," he said, and turned away from them.

**

This was how the business worked: Once a month or so Peter and Mike took orders from the inmates. Peter's connection on the outside, Ashley (a prep school buddy, last in a long line of good old law-breaking Southern boys) was responsible for putting the goods together from the list that Peter gave him, in an elaborate code, by phone. On a certain Sunday he and Emil (Mike's uncle, last in a long line of moonshiners since Texas was part of Mexico) would collect the money from the visitors, make sure all the orders were paid for, and the next day send it in with the mess supplies. The guard who supervised the kitchen shipments was Mike's cousin's brother-in-law and was very comfortable with his extra income.

So the money stayed on the outside and the drugs stayed inside. The riskiest part of the whole business was retrieving the stash and then getting it safely to the hidey-hole in Peter's cell: everyone knew about the drugs, but a prisoner getting caught with that much would look bad. Davy was good for that run, since he was quick and reliable and no one wanted to mess with him - he liked fighting, and he was good at it, and he didn't care much about the consequences. Dangerous work, but the three of them had agreed it was worth it for the favors racked up, the special extras that Ashley would slip in just for them, and, most of all, the money that would be there when they got out. It was a system based on trust, and it worked because if they didn't trust each other, somebody would end up dead. And no one wanted that to happen.

Today Mike thought it was a big pain in the ass, because Davy had missed something when he'd gone to collect the stuff the day before and Peter had nearly had a heart attack over it, so now Mike had to go back personally and find it, whatever it was. Peter was minding the store and Davy and Micky were off on some goddamn work detail; what was the point of being the boss when you had to do everything yourself anyway? Goddamn the pusher man, Mike thought sourly as he headed down the stairs.

It was hot in the kitchens, even when nothing was cooking: the big refrigerators hummed and coughed stale air, and the pilot lights in the iron stoves burned all night, and anyway there was nowhere for the heat to go. Mike hated having to go down there, even when it was business. It always reminded him that he had wanted to shoot that lying motherfucker outside, where the blood would just soak into the dirt, but the timing was wrong and he'd had to do it in the kitchen and wasn't that the biggest goddamn mess he'd ever seen. Even the curtains were ruined.

So he moved fast, found the little packet of tinfoil right where Peter said it would be, stuffed it down his pants, and started to go - but a familiar sound stopped him. Back there, back, behind the sacks of flour that would be tomorrow's biscuits, in a corner: Mike walked as quietly as he could, and stood hidden in the shadows, but it wasn't too damn likely that the two figures lying head-to-toe on the floor were going to notice anything. Micky's eyes were closed and his mouth open wide as he sucked the small but perfectly shaped cock in front of him; Davy's head was buried between Micky's legs and moving busily back and forth.

Well, this was interesting. Mike had made it clear to his seconds that although Micky's ass was off-limits, they could use him for anything else, and they had continued the round-robin in the shower every week for their growing audience. To be fair, Mike had made arrangements for them to have their pick of the other bitches to fuck - and of course they had chosen the best, which ended up costing a lot, but he'd have paid twice that to keep Micky all to himself. He'd sensed something going on between Micky and Davy ever since those weeks out on the farm. They did look good together, he had to admit.

As he watched, Micky stopped what he was doing; Davy was pulling him deep into his mouth, till he'd swallowed all there was to take, and Mike could tell that Micky was close to coming. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was open, and Mike knew that wherever he was, it sure as hell wasn't lying on the dirty floor of a kitchen prison. Micky moaned very softly, arching his back for a long moment and then settling back on the floor, panting. He had never looked quite so...satisfied, that was it, when he was with Mike. That could be changed.

"I can do you," Davy offered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Micky's eyes flew open as he struggled to sit up.

"What? Are you crazy? Don't even think about it, man!" He yanked up his pants.

"All right, all right, mate, don't get excited. It was just a passing fancy. 'ere, you need to finish something," he said, playing with himself. Micky sighed and shrugged his shoulders and went to work, efficiently, professionally. He obviously knew his man.

Satisfied, Mike melted back into the main room and retraced his steps to the door. On the way out he boosted a bottle of oil that looked like it needed a new home.

**

He had to know. That night, as they lay together like spoons in Micky's bunk, Mike decided to try the direct approach, and put the fear of god into him. He let his right hand wander down the body in front of him to cup Micky's balls.

"I seen you today in the kitchen. You and Davy."

Micky instantly stiffened in his arms. Mike could feel the fear-sweat starting on him.

"You n-n-never said I shouldn't - that I c-c-c-couldn't - " Micky started, but Mike cut him off with a hard squeeze.

"You let him fuck you, boy?"

"No!" Micky yelped, as Mike increased the pressure. "God, no, no!"

"Good." That should do it, he thought. Too bad Micky wasn't into games; this was fun. He relaxed his grip but didn't let go of the prize. "But did you want him to?"

"Jesus Christ, Mike, do you think I have a death wish? I remember what you said," Micky snapped, as if Mike was questioning his intelligence, not his loyalty. He pouted when he was mad, Mike noticed, soft lips pressed together, chin thrust out, all of him just begging for attention. And what else did Mike have to give him? He wanted to see Micky's face lost in passion, like it had been that afternoon, wanted to send him to the moon and back just so he could watch it and know he'd made it happen.

Mike found the bottle he'd stolen earlier and oiled himself up and then, with no fussing or fooling around, eased himself into Micky's wonderfully tight asshole, one smooth, slow slide into heaven. The oil was a big improvement; he's have to arrange for a steady supply. They lay curled together, Mike pressed tight up against Micky' back, close enough to feel his racing heartbeat. What could be better?

"Time to give it up, boy," he growled. His hand, still slick with oil, found Micky's hard-on and began to work it, long purposeful strokes that ended with a delicate flick of the thumb.

Micky's eyes were shut tight, and his hands were locked together in front of him, as if he were praying violently. "No..." he groaned. That made Mike smile. It was the phoniest "no" he'd ever heard, and he had heard plenty. He picked up the pace a little.

"Nobody is ever gonna fuck you but me. Nobody but me," he said into Micky's ear, threatening, promising. "Say it."

"Nobody but you," Micky gasped.

"You're mine, bitch, all mine." Mike loved the way the words sounded. Micky's only answer was a wordless moan. His cock swelled even more in Mike's strong hand; Mike knew he was close. "Only me. Say it. Only me."

Micky was thrusting into his hand now, back and forth, back and forth, and for every push forward he had to push back, driving Mike's shaft further into him, and giving Mike the best free ride he'd ever had. He wanted it to last forever. Micky was so warm, his slim young body pulsing with life and excitement, every part of him so perfect, so irresistible.

"Oh...only...only you...you..." Micky panted, and then his whole body shook and his hips jerked and he came all over Mike's hand and Mike felt his cock squeezed in a sharp rhythm that lasted many seconds until it slowed to a stop. It was strangely exhilarating, to make someone else come like that. Micky's face was relaxed now, sweat dotting his forehead, a few curls sticking to his cheeks. He smelled like sex.

It occurred to Mike that he'd just had the most perfect moment he would ever have with Micky; and even while he was glorying in its afterglow he thought: I should just kill him now, before anything ruins it. Then Micky, unpredictable boy, sighed and pressed himself back against Mike, whose cock was still buried deep inside him. "Thank you," he murmured, and Mike was glad he'd let him live. Maybe it wasn't so stupid after all.

He flipped Micky on his back and stared down into his amazing Chinese eyes, half-closed and looking dreamily up at him. "Do you understand why I did that?"

"No," Micky said. It was no lie: he could see plain and simple that Micky didn't understand, would never understand, could not ever know how much he meant to Mike. Without another word Mike slammed into him again and fucked him mercilessly, harder than he ever had before, and he wasn't satisfied till he saw the tears in Micky's eyes and heard him say "please" in a voice full of pain and sadness.

"Do you understand now?" Mike asked harshly.

"Because you hate me," Micky said. "Why do you hate me so much?"

Mike wanted to throttle him. For Christ's sake, could he be that stupid? Had he really gotten it so completely and totally wrong? With a huge effort Mike put a lid on his anger and uncurled his fists. He looked down at Micky's face, angry, hurt, beautiful: there was a fading bruise on his cheek, barely visible in the dim light. He'd have to draw a goddamn map.

"It ain't like that," Mike said, reaching out awkwardly to touch the bruise he'd put there. "It ain't like that at all."

"Then why are you so mean to me?" Micky cried. Mike said nothing, just ran his fingers around the edge of one delicate ear. A smile twitched his lips. Then he dipped his head down just enough to lay a kiss on Micky's surprised mouth, as nice a kiss as he'd ever given, all lip and no tongue, with a little extra press at the end to make the parting all that much harder.

When they broke apart Micky snapped his head up from the pillow, and Mike could see understanding wash over him. "Oh my god," Micky said. He didn't sound mad anymore, or afraid, just surprised. He fell back on the bed and pressed his hands to his eyes. "You should have told me before."

Mike began to wonder why he had said anything - after all, what did it matter what Micky thought? And yet it did matter, and it annoyed him that it mattered. Mike pushed it all out of his mind and enjoyed the feeling of Micky pulling him down into an embrace that ended with Micky resting his head on Mike's shoulder.

"Mike," he said sadly, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Mike replied, accepting the apology. It was good that Micky was sorry, even if Mike did not know exactly what for. Maybe he was sorry that they weren't spending their days fucking in a penthouse suite in Las Vegas, or that he wouldn't be Mike's bitch forever, or maybe he was just sorry that both or either of them had ever been born; whatever it was, Mike didn't really care. There wasn't much in his life that he wasn't already sorry for.

**

The prison was old. It had been built in the 1930s from inferior materials and always seemed to be crumbling around the edges. In the forties another building had been quickly raised, and the inmates put to work for the war effort, doing low-level mechanical production, putting D-rings on canteens, things like that. That building had since been unused, except for storage, and the government had now decided it was time to take it down, to make more room for guests of state. The current inmates were given the unpleasant job of cleaning it out, picking through decades worth of crap to find anything worth salvaging.

It was winter, and the building was unheated, and Mike thought they might get passed over for this particular hellish job; but they needed men to do it, and that was that. Word had begun to spread about the dangers: rotten flooring, rats, sharp metal all over, and evil stuff that floated down out of the ceiling when doors slammed. It wasn't like they had a choice.

At least he managed to keep the four of them together. The room they were assigned to was a machine shop on the sixth floor that was full of rusted junk and big tables bolted to the floor. The wind blew through the broken windows, swirling the scraps of yellowed paper on the floor and blowing some of them into the open elevator shaft at the end of the room. The service elevator, long broken, had been removed, and now there was a big dumpster on the ground floor to catch all the garbage they were supposed to throw down there. Well, going up and down the stairs would keep them warm.

They got to work, as per prison routine, as slowly as possible. Micky seemed more interested in examining the tools and telling them what each object was used for, so the sorting crept along through the long cold morning. Mike reserved for himself the pleasure of pitching the trash into the open shaft and hearing the satisfying crash when it hit bottom. They watched other stuff sail down, too, as their comrades in arms on the floors above them went through the same exercise.

After lunch they trudged up the stairs and started again. Some of the machines were still leaking oil, and the floor was slippery in places where it wasn't actually disintegrating; Mike made sure Micky was in the safer areas, where he wouldn't get hurt. As Peter was helping Mike shift some heavy rusted thing out of the way a voice greeted them from the doorway. Mike squinted at the figure and thought: Trouble, and that's no lie.

Rayboy walked the length of the room slowly, staring first at Davy, then Micky, and finally stopping in front of where Mike leaned casually against a workbench. He wasn't alone. Lurking by the door was Mitchell, a new recruit who Davy had mixed it up with just the other day. He was big, and strong, but not too bright; typical, Mike thought, Ray chooses a buddy who's just like him so they can be stupid together.

"Nice of you to drop by, asshole," Mike drawled. Ray just glared at him. This felt all wrong; the hairs on the back of Mike's neck started to rise. Ray was an independent now, since he was too dumb and unpredictable to be a good gang member, so nobody wanted him around for long. Maybe he was here to join Mike's team - or more likely, he and Mitchell were going to try to start their own gig and this was the opening shot. Well, he could take Ray, and Davy could handle Mitchell again, as long as Micky stayed the hell out of the way. Let's get this over with, he thought.

"Well?" Mike snapped.

"I don't forget what you did to me, you fucking white trash cocksucker," Ray snarled, holding up his left arm. "Now I want somethin' back." Mike could see Davy swaggering over to Mitchell, who stood his ground.

"We want in," Rayboy continued, when Mike didn't respond. "You been running your business alone for too long. We want part of it."

"So? I want a weekend in New Orleans, but it ain't gonna happen," Mike sneered.

"We get you new customers, and Mitchell will make a better delivery boy than your little limey pal."

Peter stepped forward, arms folded across his chest. "We have all the business we can handle, thanks. And we're quite happy with the current staff, so we're not accepting any applications for employment at the moment." Mike thought he heard Micky stifle a laugh, while Ray just looked even more angry.

"Listen," he said to Peter, "I know how this bastard treats you. You're supposed to be his partner and he don't even let you take a turn with his bitch. Tell you what, I take care of him and you get his bitch, plus we split the profits 60/40 your way."

Mike was impressed. Ray had obviously given this a lot of thought. Too bad it wasn't going to get him anywhere.

Peter smiled. "No."

Rayboy's face was going red. Now he turned to Mike. "You think you got it all nailed down, don't you? Maybe you see things different when you don't have your troops around to protect you." His hand slid down his side and, with a terrible sinking feeling, Mike knew what was coming next.

"Look, fuck you, Ray. We don't want no part of your little plan, so why don't you take your dog and git? I got work to do."

"You asked for it, Bones! Get him!" Ray yelled, and Mitchell and Davy started to beat the crap out of each other. That was when Ray pulled out the knife - a real one, god knows where he'd gotten it, with a three inch blade that looked freshly honed.

"Oh, Christ, not again," Mike said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Manny had wanted to hurt him, but Ray wanted to kill him, and he'd probably kill anyone who got in his way. Peter didn't have much fighting experience, and Micky was useless. Damn, but it's lonely at the top, Mike thought.

He and Peter spread out so Ray couldn't cut them at the same time, but with all the junk in the room, there wasn't going to be much room to maneuver. Most of the stuff that was left was too big to use as weapons. A bad set-up, but they'd have to make the best of it and hope the Moron Brothers fucked up.

Ray looked at Peter for a long moment; Mike watched intently, coiled to spring, and at the same time felt around on the table behind him for something sharp. He got hold of something but when he looked down for a split second to see what he'd found all hell broke loose, and the next thing he knew Ray was on top of him and Peter was on top of Ray and the knife was nowhere to be seen.

Everything was a blur until Mike's head connected with the metal table, and then he saw stars as he fell to the ground; when he could look up again Peter was bleeding from his nose and Ray was coming at him again. All Mike could do was raise his right hand in a weak defense and right there in front of his eyes the knife went into his palm and back out the other side, like a needle through leather, and he hoped he wouldn't get sick from the pain just then; Peter pulled Ray off of him (and the blade came out just as easy as it went in) and managed to dump him over another table, buying them a few minutes of breathing space. Peter sat Mike up and shook his head.

"We can't do this alone," he said, glancing toward the door.

"Go," Mike hissed, and Peter was through the room and gone. Mike cradled his bloody hand in his lap and tried not to look at it.

Out of the corner of his eye Mike saw Mitchell slam Davy against the wall; he slid down and didn't get up. Then Mitchell grabbed Micky, who had been edging toward the door, and shoved him across the room into Ray's arms.

Mike pulled himself to his feet, head throbbing and ears ringing, and tried to focus. Ray had Micky in front of him, holding the point of the knife just under his left ear.

"What you gonna do now, boss man? You want to see him die?" He twisted Micky's arm up behind him, making him wince, but Micky's face was perfectly calm.

"Ain't no matter to me," Mike said. "Just another bitch, is all." It hurt to talk but that was nothing compared to the storm inside him as Micky's life hung in the balance, riding on the fine edge of Rayboy's knife. Part of him was wild with rage that Ray would dare touch his boy - but he knew he couldn't show it or everything would be over. Another piece of him said I Told You So: this is what always happened when he cared about something, anything: somebody took it away from him. But when he looked into Micky's eyes he thought that at least they would die together, and that was some small comfort to his battered soul.

Ray pressed the blade to Micky's throat, moving it just a little: a bloody line followed it. Micky didn't make a sound. His eyes were locked with Mike's. Suddenly there was a flurry of movement behind them - Davy had gotten up one more time and cold-cocked Mitchell, who had been enjoying Rayboy's show. Ray was alone now, and even with a knife he knew he was in deep shit. Mike could see the panic rise in his face. Davy started to make his way over, grinning evilly.

"You lose, Ray," Mike said.

"Fucking hell," Ray said angrily, and punched Micky hard in the gut, sending him to the ground doubled over and retching, then kicked him in the leg just to make sure he wasn't getting up. Davy rushed him, but Ray was too quick, and in one swift move he sidestepped the tackle and sank the knife deep in Davy's back as he went past. Davy crumpled to the dirty floor and lay unmoving except for his heaving chest. Blood started to puddle under him. Ray pulled out the knife and wiped it on his shirt.

Mike wondered if he could stall Ray until the guards got there, or at least keep him away from Micky, who was now crawling over to where Davy lay.

"Ray, man, you are dumber than a sack of hammers. You kill me, you still don't get in the business, and even if you kill me and Davy and Peter, you still don't get Micky. I promised him to Manny," he laughed. That did it: Ray faced him full on, rage coming off him in waves as he shook his fist at Mike and screamed in frustration.

Mike watched as Rayboy came at him, knife held high, and wondered if he'd be able to dodge this one and if would be better to take it in the arm or the leg, not that it really mattered since it looked as if he was going to get his throat slit this time for sure, but he readied himself anyway, ducking down into a crouch to make it harder for the knife to hit something vital - and then as he looked up to follow the trajectory of the blade he saw Rayboy's eyes snap wide open, and he sailed over Mike's head, landing on his chin in a pool of blood and oil and goddamn if he didn't keep right on going, right into that open shaft and then he was gone and it was real quiet.

Mike stared at the edge of the shaft, then turned his head slowly and painfully to see Micky limping over to him - Micky, who had done the one right thing in this whole fucking disaster by pushing Rayboy as he was about to jump on Mike.

"Oh, shit," Micky said, and his eyes were like saucers. Mike left him staring at the empty space and went to check on Davy, who was not only conscious but able to lift his head a little.

"I'm all right, man," he whispered. He'd stopped bleeding, at least, and his color looked good, but Mike didn't want to move him in case it made it worse.

Just then the cavalry arrived, too late to do anything but clean up the mess, which was all cops were ever good for, Mike thought. Sheridan, head of security, led the charge, stopping short when he saw all the blood.

"What the fuck is going on here? Jesus, was this a fight or a massacre?"

Peter was already cuffed and in the grip of a guard. He nodded at Mitchell, still unconscious on the floor. "That's one. Rayboy had the knife."

Sheridan's eyes swept the room and it was pretty damn obvious Ray wasn't there.

"Where is the other prisoner?" he asked, very formal. Mike and Micky looked to the shaft; Sheridan walked over and glanced down. His expression didn't change.

"Well, he didn't fucking jump down there, did he? One of you boys gave him a helping hand, I reckon." He came back to the middle of the room and stopped directly in front of Mike. "Care to fill me in, or do I have to start making it up now?"

Mike straightened up. Over Sheridan's shoulder he saw Micky turn very pale as he took a step forward, guilt written all over his face. Six months in this place and he still hadn't learned how to lie. Mike had a brief vision of a puppy prancing into the middle of rush hour traffic, oblivious to the danger and to the cars crashing into each other to avoid running it over. Oh, what the hell.

"That fucker - excuse me, inmate, tried to off me. He wanted my bitch. I said no. It was either him or me down that fucking hole and I didn't even have no knife like he did. Probably still in his goddamn hand." Mike stared hard at Peter, then at Davy; each nodded ever so slightly. Then he looked at Micky, whose mouth was hanging open. Mike winked at him.

"No! It wasn't Mike, it was me! I did it!" Micky cried. Roars of laughter echoed through the room. Sheridan shook his head and smiled good-naturedly at Mike, and his smile said, What your bitch wouldn't do for you, hey? Mike rolled his eyes: Ain't it the truth.

The medics came in and made sure Davy wasn't dead, then started to bundle him up for transport. Micky passed his cursory medical inspection and kept on protesting, until Sheridan told him to shut the hell up. The doc who looked at Mike's hand frowned as he packed wads of cotton on both sides. "Don't worry, you get to keep it," he said brusquely.

Now Micky and Peter stood silently, hands cuffed behind them, as Davy was carried out on a stretcher, giving them the thumbs-up sign as he disappeared through the door. Mike looked around: there was blood on the floor, blood on Micky's shirt, on Peter's face, blood on his own shoes. At least they weren't in the kitchens. All he felt was relief that they were all alive, and that Micky was still his very own. Ray was dead, and once that would have filled him with dark satisfaction, but now he was just tired of this, of fighting and waiting for the next fight. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit.

"Take care of him," Mike barked as the guards led him away.

Davy was all right and got to spend some time in the hospital where he fucked one of the nurses, Mike found out later. Micky and Peter both pulled the worst shit details for a while, when they weren't confined to their cells. As for Mike, they stitched up his hand (although the fingers never did work quite right afterwards) and he got a month in solitary and a year added on to his sentence. No relatives or wives or lawyers showed up to complain about what had happened. Rayboy had been nothing but trouble and everyone - the inmates, the guards, the judge - was relieved that he was dead, but they had to keep up appearances.

{part 4}

        The dream was always the same. The days blurred into one another and sometimes he couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep, but it didn't matter, because he had the dream, and the dream was so much better than reality, which was now four dark dirty walls and a mattress on the floor. It got so that he didn't even need to close his eyes to be in the dream: it was always there for him, dancing at the corner of his vision, so that all he had to do was turn to face it and it began again, like the endless loop of film in a nickelodeon.

In the dream he lay waiting on a bed in a room: he didn't know and didn't care where. He was alone, but the moment he closed his eyes there was someone with him. Warm hands caressed him, strong but soft, holding him, touching him, sliding up his chest and down his legs; and then where the hands had been there were lips, kissing, tasting. A wet mouth over his nipples. Delicate fingertips tickling his balls. A hard cock pressed against his own. Then finally a tongue, parting his lips, and he was pulled into a long, deep kiss that tied knots in his toes and when he opened his eyes there was Micky looking down at him.

"I know what you want," dream-Micky said, and kissed him again, and again, bruising his lips; then he took Mike's face in his hands and smiled at him, brown eyes glowing, his hair a curly halo.

"I want you," Mike said. Micky laughed.

"I'm yours," he replied, leaning down to kiss him once more. "And you're mine."

Then it was just pure pleasure as Micky's kisses fell on him like summer rain, his gentle hands everywhere, his smooth white skin rubbing against Mike's like the Japanese silk that he had once touched, giving him pleasure in a thousand different ways.

And then Micky was inside him, magically, moving with the grace of an angel, each thrust an intimate caress; they moved together, and it was different, so different than it had ever been before: no pain, no fear, no anger. All that had been empty was filled, overflowing, and it was Micky that filled the empty spaces inside him, more than joined with him: completed him. He dreamed and slept and dreamed again and the dream was always the same.

The guards passed along the news on what had happened to the others, which allowed him to stop worrying and forget them properly for the time being and go back to the dream world. Solitary was in a different wing of the prison, away from the regular cells; from time to time he thought he heard Micky's high voice, but he could never be sure.

Now he would pay for the year with his bitch. Another year inside; a year for a year. It was only fair. It was probably the only fair thing that had ever happened to him in prison.

One day they came to let him out; he was surprised, since it sure hadn't felt like a month, if he could remember what a month was supposed to feel like. He was escorted out of his cell, the guards making small talk with him, opening doors for him and acting almost apologetic. Mike felt like he was floating. Now that he was out of the dark little room everything seemed too bright, too loud, and the walk from one building to another exhausted him. They let him shower and shave, a month's worth of dirt and stink going down the drain. Once he was back in the cell block he was greeted with whoops and whistles, like the return of the prodigal son.

Up the stairs, along the hall, four, five, six, seven, and cell number eight, his home, with the door standing open. Micky stood silently by the bunks. God , he looked good. The cell, the desk, the bible: it all seemed to belong to someone else, or maybe it was his, only the world had shifted everything over an inch to the left. He took a few steps into the room and suddenly he was transfixed by the square of blue sky he could see through the window, the clear hard Texas blue of the first warm day in spring, and he knew that outside the ground was still hard but that there would be the delicate smell of green growing things in the air. Right then all he wanted was to be free, to be standing in the parking lot of a diner with a cup of hot black coffee in his hand, ready to jump back in his car and hit the road again and just keep on driving till he reached the horizon. In five years he hadn't thought about the outside much, hadn't really missed it until this moment. Micky's fault. Micky was talking to him, he realized, asking him a question.

"...listening to me? Mike?" A tentative hand on his shoulder.

"What?" Mike reluctantly tore his gaze away from the window.

"Are you all right?" Micky was just inches away now, and Mike could see the thin red scar on his neck, still healing, and the circles under his eyes, and the ragged inside edges of his lips where he must have been chewing them. Just a boy from California who was going to get out on time. Mike heard his dream-Micky whisper faintly to him - "And you're mine" - and then the dream was gone for good and all that he had was in this rotten dirty goddamn cell.

"What do you care, boy?" he snarled, and shoved him away. He looked out at the sky again and wanted to cry. He hadn't cried since he was nine and his dog died. It was so much easier when you didn't feel anything. He had to find a way to kill these fucking emotions before they killed him.

Arms wrapped around him and he felt Micky's breath on his neck. "I missed you," Micky whispered.

Mike closed his eyes. Damn this boy.

"I was so lonely. Davy's been in the infirmary and Peter's too busy all the time and no one else will even come near me, like they're scared of even looking at me. I didn't have anyone to talk to and at night I was all alone." Mike didn't respond. "Why'd you do it, Mike?"

"Why not?"

"He was going to kill you. I had to do something. I didn't think..." Micky hugged him tighter. "It wasn't fair."

"Ain't nothin' fair in this life. The sooner you learn it the better. Ain't no justice, neither, but what you make yourself."

"Is that why you killed the guy who stole your wife?" So he'd found that out. Curiosity was going to kill this cat one day.

"Somethin' like that." Oh sweet Jesus, it is too early in the morning to be talking about this, Mike thought. It looked like Micky had saved up a month's worth of questions and wouldn't shut up till Mike answered them all, or got fed up and hit him. Too bad that might be the only way to get a little peace and quiet.

Mike pulled away from Micky, needing space and air. It was too intense, all of it - talking, touching, thinking. The wall he had so carefully constructed over the years was down and it was getting all mixed up: memories, feelings, things he wanted and things he was afraid of. The barbed wire in his stomach knotted up again.

"It's OK. I understand what you did." Micky was smiling, a sad, pitying smile. "We both killed someone. Now I know how you feel," he said, as if he'd just joined some secret brotherhood. Mike thought it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

He grabbed Micky with his good left hand and stared directly into his frightened brown eyes. "Listen to me, boy. You ain't like me and you never will be. What you did, that was an accident, plain and simple. You didn't mean to kill nobody."

"But it was self-defense! The same for you - Peter told me he tried to kill you - " Micky insisted, taking a step closer, even as Mike backed away.

"You really don't get it, do ya, Mick? Self defense is what my goddamn lawyer told me to say. You want to know what really happened? I got a gun and I went to his fuckin' ranch and waited for him to show up and then I shot the bastard. His money couldn't save him from that. Lucky for me he had a gun too, and there was no one around to see." He edged around the cell as he spoke, but Micky was with him at every step, like a magnet.

"Oh," Micky said weakly, color draining from his face. Now Micky knew; the only other person he'd ever told was his mother, and she'd take that to her grave. What the fuck was happening to him? Why couldn't he make the wall come back? Wanting to run, wanting to cry, and now this - telling his bitch the truth about that awful day: maybe something in his head was broken. "You must have really hated him," Micky added in a whisper.

Hated him? Mike couldn't remember. He'd taken Mike's woman, and everything else that was important, so Mike had settled the score in the only way possible. None of that mattered now. "I wanted him dead. And I'd do it again."

Mike could feel himself starting to come apart at the edges and wished desperately he was back in solitary, where he wouldn't have to think, or feel, or remember the past, or face the future. He felt like a snow globe that had been shaken up too hard: everything swirling, blinding him, dizzying. He backed up slowly, till he felt the hard edge of the bed hit him in the back of the knees, and sat down unsteadily. Micky sat down next to him, pressed up against his leg. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"How's your hand?" Micky asked, taking it and examining the scar. Touching him without permission. Again. Mike didn't know where Micky's sudden bravery had come from, but he'd have to deal with it later; it was all he could do to maintain, right now. He pulled back impatiently. The gash in his palm had healed, but as it healed it had drawn his fingers down and in, like a claw. Useless.

To his surprise Micky took his hand back, gently but firmly. "C'mon, let me see. Can you move your fingers?"

Mike tapped them against his palm, wincing.

"Still hurts?"

"Course it fuckin' hurts, I had a goddamn knife through my hand! You reckon you're my doctor now, boy?"

Micky ignored that and began to rub the palm of Mike's hand with his thumb. "My dad broke his hand once. I helped him get it back to normal after the cast came off. You have to exercise it or it'll always be stiff, like it is now. It hurts but it gets better a lot faster."

He lifted Mike's fingers very slowly, experimentally. The pain was excruciating. Mike snatched his hand away, cursing.

"Goddammit! Do that again and I'll put you through that wall! Anyways, you should be glad - at least I can't beat you with this hand no more." He scowled, annoyed with himself for letting Micky see his pain, see his weakness.

"Sorry. Let me try again." Micky reached out, waiting patiently, and Mike amazed himself by letting his hand be taken, and cared for. He felt calmer now, his control coming back. The rubbing felt good, and when Micky was done, he thought it didn't hurt quite so much when he tried to move his fingers.

"Thanks," Mike snapped, and Micky responded with a grin that lit up the grey little room.

So every night Micky rubbed his hand, and stretched his fingers, and helped him work the muscles; and little by little his strength returned, and the pain faded. He would have his hand back: not the way it was, but good enough. He was grateful, and he hated it.

**

Time seemed to slip away. He'd been there eight months. Mike tried not to count the days. But every morning he knew he it was one less day that he would have Micky.

Micky insisted that he do something harder to keep his hand working, and handed him the guitar. "Just try strumming it lightly with your fingers. Then if you can hold it, try a pick - I made these in the wood shop." He held out three perfectly formed little triangles of polished wood. "I can teach you some chords, if you like."

Mike stared at the guitar for a moment, then slowly took it in his arms, held it against his body. It felt good.

They kept on meeting in the chapel (the chapel: a room with a bunch of pews, a little podium, a beat up piano, and a big table in the front; no statues, no candles, no crosses, just ugly fluorescent lights and peeling paint), singing together, playing together. After a while Mike started practicing in secret and he was pleased with how easy it was - his fingers were sore but they remembered the chords, and soon he could play along to the music in his head. One day during "band practice", as Micky called it, he got tired of watching the other three. Micky was stumbling through a harder song and when he messed up the chords for the fourth time Mike lost what little patience he had.

"Gimme that goddamn gitar," he said, grabbing it out of Micky's hands, and he played the whole song through perfectly while Davy sang. When he was done they all clapped and shouted.

"Where'd you learn to pick like that, boss?" Peter asked.

"No offense, Mick, but I think we just found a new guitar player," Davy laughed.

"I pronounce you cured," Micky said. "Thank God we found somebody better than me. Now let's get serious and jam."

They did. Now they were playing for an audience, under the watchful eyes of the guards, who didn't like to see too many inmates in one place at one time. Every day they would run through the ten songs they knew, and sometimes play them twice, if there were enough requests. At first Mike had to watch his fingers the whole time he was playing, but then he could feel where they were supposed to be, and started to watch the joes in the pews. Who were all watching Micky. And when he watched Micky, he was hypnotized.

All his nervousness, all his shyness was gone when he threw his head back and sang, his clear, high voice soaring above the music, balanced by Davy's harder, warmer tone. They sang really well together, trading verses, discovering harmony, leaving big spaces for Peter to improvise. Mike did the best he could to keep up while he concentrated on keeping them all together - for a drummer, Micky didn't have a really good sense of rhythm, and often got carried away while he banged on the table with the drumsticks he'd made out of wood scraps. Davy could at least maintain a beat when he clapped his hands: Davy followed Mike, Peter followed Davy, and Micky was carried along with the flow. Somehow it worked.

And Micky glowed. He danced - and he was a good dancer - and laughed, looking at the audience and beaming. All the boys in the joint wanted to fuck Micky.

Everyone was standing now, clapping and whooping. Micky jumped up on the table. "Let's do 'Oh Boy'!" he shouted.

"We should cool it, Mick," Mike warned, not liking the look of the crowd. All they needed now was a fight, and band practice would be cancelled forever.

"Come on! Just play it! I dare you!" Micky said, pointing down at him from the table. Mike still hesitated, while the audience clapped even louder; then he looked up at Micky, who gave him the sweetest smile imaginable, and said, "Please."

Well, here goes nothing, Mike thought, and counted them down.

"All of my love / All of my kissing / You don't know what you been missing, oh boy..." Micky launched into it like he was possessed, crashing down on the table at the end of every phrase, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. Drawn by the music, more bodies were filling the little room, and now the place was packed, hot and steamy. Micky grinned like a madman.

"All of my life I've been a-waiting / Tonight there'll be no hesitating, oh boy / When you're with me, oh boy / The world can see that you were meant for me..."

They came to the bridge of the song and Mike held his breath, waiting to see what kind of insanity Micky had in mind. The crowd was pressing forward, all eyes on Micky's lithe body as he swayed to Mike's guitar. Pupils were dilated. Lips were wet. Hard ons were everywhere.

"A little bit of loving makes everything right / And I'm gonna see my baby tonight!" Micky sang, and grabbed his crotch with both hands.

That was when all hell broke loose. The two front rows of music lovers moved towards them in a rush, with the rest following close behind: Micky was their target, Mike knew, and if they caught him they would tear him apart. Micky just stood there glowing, radiating wanton lust, his eyes black with excitement. Mike just had time to grab his arm and yank him off the table before Davy pulled him towards the back door, all of them stumbling, scrambling, and finally falling through the doorway, straight into the arms of the guards, who were not at all pleased with them. After a few hard knocks they were hustled away, and Mike could hear their frustrated fans fighting and yelling. It was only a prelude to all the fucking that would happen that night. Foreplay.

Micky laughed all the way back to their cell, and even after they were shoved in, he couldn't stop breaking out in giddy fits. Mike had never seen him so happy.

"...tonight there'll be no hesitating..." Micky sang softly to himself as he spun around the cell.

**

Lockdown meant cold sandwiches tossed into the cell and water from the tap. Mike didn't much care what he ate but he was annoyed that they'd miss dessert, even as bad as prison dessert was. Sweets were about the only thing he actually enjoyed eating, and since Micky had arrived, Mike had gotten two helpings every night - his and Micky's. Mike was spoiled and he knew it, and that annoyed him too.

Micky interrupted his sulk, standing directly in front of him, bouncing a little on his toes. "I got you something."

Mike curled his lip and held out his hand, expecting some little toy, the kind that Micky liked to make. They were cute, but he'd be knee-deep in them if he kept them all. They were worth almost as much as cigarettes in trade.

"Wait. Close your eyes," Micky said, his voice bubbling with excitement. While he was waiting, Mike heard Micky rummaging around in the desk, then the sound of paper tearing. He felt Micky reappear in front of him. This stupid game better be worth it.

"Now, open your mouth." Mike sighed and did it grudgingly. Something was pushed into his mouth, small, soft: chocolate. Real chocolate, the kind he hadn't tasted in years - in fact, this was better than anything he'd ever tasted before, smooth, creamy, with some kind of tangy bittersweet flavor that made him think of wood fires in autumn. He kept his eyes closed, letting it melt on his tongue, till his mouth was full of sweet velvety liquid. He swallowed.

"Was it good?" Micky asked breathlessly.

Mike half-opened his eyes. "More," he ordered, and Micky laughed.

When he was done with the chocolate (which Micky had specially asked his parents to send, and which had cost him a month's worth of cigarettes to make sure it got through the mail room intact) he felt the sugar high rolling through him, making him pleasantly tired and lazy. He stretched out on his bunk to enjoy it and the view: Micky, sitting in the corner with his chair tilted back, reading, his baby face very serious, eyes moving quickly down each page. Not too different from other evenings, if you ignored the tension in the halls and the angry faces of the guards as they passed by every few minutes.

But Micky was up to something. He'd long ago gotten used to Mike watching him all the time; but tonight he didn't ignore it. As he read he glanced up at Mike from time to time, meeting his gaze and flashing a smile, then ducking his head down again where Mike couldn't see him. And, incredibly, several times Mike caught Micky watching *him*.

"Quit starin' at me, boy," Mike growled, and Micky covered his grin with one hand and kept reading.

Micky was *flirting* with him. Mike had seen people behave like this but he had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to do, and it only got worse later on when they got ready for bed: Micky kept casually bumping into him, standing just a little too close while he waited for Mike to finish at the sink (washing his face, brushing his teeth at night, that was new: Micky, always clean, had made him ashamed of his hillbilly habits). When Mike dropped his ragged towel, Micky was there to hand it to him, holding on to it a little too long as he said, "Here."

And then, finally, when it was time to climb up into his bunk at lights-out, he was almost paralyzed by the sight of Micky naked in his bed, the thin sheet doing nothing to hide his body and his hard-on. Mike pulled himself up to his bed fast and lay face-down on the mattress, clenching his fists and praying that this wasn't a dream.

It was almost impossible to wait, but he had to; no use getting caught fucking on a night like this. He heard the guards walking the cell block: once up, once down, and then when the door at the end of the corridor banged shut it was safe, and Mike was out of his bunk in a heartbeat. Micky was already leaning against the desk, waiting for him.

"You are askin' for it, boy," he muttered, pulling Micky hard against him.

"No," Micky replied, squirming out of his arms. "*This* is asking for it." And with that he turned to face the desk, grabbed the edges, spread his legs, and bent over.

"Oh, Lord," Mike breathed. How many times had he fucked this boy? It didn't matter; every time was like the first time, and now that perfect ass was being offered to him like a present. He wanted in, badly, but hell, he might never get this chance again, so he dropped to his knees to get a good view of his property. Micky's swollen cock hung low between his legs, pressed back against his taut, heavy balls by the edge of the table. Mike dug his fingers into the firm flesh of Micky's ass, kneading it, pulling his cheeks apart till he was fully exposed. The scent was enough to make him drunk - sweaty, hot, musky, everything that was Micky, drawing him closer. If Mike could only spend the rest of the night between those legs; but if word ever got out that he'd had his nose up his bitch's ass he'd be a dead man. All he could do was snatch a taste, a flick of his tongue up the back of Micky's balls. He felt goosebumps rise on Micky's thighs.

Standing up again, Mike ran his hands over Micky's smooth back, watching the muscles shift under the skin as Micky shook himself impatiently. Smooth and soft. No hard, knotted muscles from years of useless labor; no scars, nothing to mark his passage through life. Mike poured the last of the oil into his hand (time to put that on the shopping list) and lubed himself up; then he ran his thumb into the dark cleft of Micky's beautiful ass and pressed his thumb in slowly, circling the entrance. Then he was fucking Micky slowly and carefully, pulling Micky's hips back so he could go real deep, to the source of all that heat.

Every boy in the joint wanted to fuck Micky, but they could only imagine what it would be like. When they were fucking or being fucked that night, they would be thinking about doing what Mike was doing right now: sliding in and out of that tight little hole, sound of skin scraping skin, watching Micky's ass get filled up with cock. Mike almost wished they could all watch, so they could see how good he was, and see Micky twitch every time the head of Mike's dick nudged his hot spot. Mike knew exactly where that was, and how to play him.

Micky tried to reach down for his own hard on but Mike stopped him, putting his hand firmly back on the desk.

"No," Mike said.

Micky moaned in frustration. "Please, Mike, touch me, please," he begged.

"No," Mike repeated. He thrust quickly, and Micky gasped; he moved his hips in a tight circle, and Micky moaned; and when he pulled out as far as he could, still staying joined, then slammed in, aiming straight for the target, Micky cried out, loud, loud, so everyone could hear him coming, and Mike heard answering moans from the cells around them, a chain reaction. That was real good.

He fucked Micky for a long time that night, using all his control to hold on till the very last minute till he came explosively, pounding furiously against that tender ass. He came and came, and when he was done his legs were trembling; so were Micky's. After Mike pulled out they fell together on Micky's narrow bed, sweaty skin sticking them together.

"Damn," Micky whispered.

"Damn straight," Mike replied, and fell asleep.

**

Every day was more bitter than sweet. Micky talked a blue streak, and Mike could see that he really was anxious to go home, even though his parents were pissed at him and he'd have a hell of a time getting a job. He listed all the things he wanted to do, the places he wanted to go, and he wondered if any of the girls he used to date would still be available.

"But the first thing I'm going to do when I get home - the very first thing - is to find those sons of bitches who narked on me and kick their asses from LA to San Francisco and back again."

At night things were the same as ever, though Mike didn't sleep much; watching Micky was more important. He had to memorize every detail about the way Micky looked and moved and felt in his arms so that he could remember it for the rest of his life. Whatever happened to him, he would have these stolen moments to think about and hold close.

Nine weeks to go and Mike's mood got worse and worse. It had been raining and that meant everyone had to work, cleaning up the mud that clogged every drain, bailing out the basement that always flooded, tacking up tarps over leaky walls. He came back late to their cell, tired and cold, his arms aching from shoveling mud all day. Micky wasn't there, and he was so exhausted that for a few minutes he didn't notice that Micky's stuff wasn't there either. Then he saw that the desk was clear of books and gadgets, and the lower bunk was stripped to the mattress. He was alone.

It wasn't till the next day that he found out Micky had been released early, along with a bunch of other inmates whose time was almost up: there were more newbies than usual this month and they had to make room for them, and the judge who sent down the order was feeling generous because his term was almost up and he'd get to stay drunk all day instead of just all weekend.

All Mike could think was: God. Fucking. Dammit.

***

A month after he'd gone Mike got a letter from him. It was one page out of a notebook, covered with Micky's smooth handwriting, and there was something else in the envelope too, that the guards hadn't wanted to steal: a set of guitar strings. Mike smiled to himself even as he felt the twist in his stomach.

He went to the chapel and sat alone in the last pew. The letter was spread out on his lap; he put his index finger under the words, concentrating fiercely, and tried to keep his voice to a whisper: "D-Dear Mike....I am sorry the...sorry that I co...co...could...no, couldn't... say good...bye." He closed his eyes; he could feel a headache starting in the back of his skull. At this rate it would take him a month to read this fucking thing. He thought about paying someone to read it to him, but the old possessiveness took hold and he knew he'd never let anyone else touch it, let alone see the words that were meant for him.

He finally did finish reading it two months later. He liked to let the last sentences play over and over in his mind, hearing it in Micky's high-pitched voice: "Come to California when you get out and I'll help you start things over. Write back to me if you can." So he did, hunched over a piece of lined paper in the chapel, printing the rehearsed words painfully slowly, pressing the pencil so hard it sometimes went right through the sheet. It took a long time. Then one day it was done, and he watched the envelope go into the mail bin, and was glad to be done with this letter-writing shit.

After that Micky wrote to him every six months or so, long letters, sometimes three pages or more. Mike didn't bother to try to read them. It was enough to open the envelopes, which he thought smelled of some kind of perfume or spices, and look at the color of the ink, and imagine Micky's hand moving back and forth across the page while he thought of Mike and wrote all those words. At night he kept them in his pillow; during the day he wore them in his shirt.

Peter got out eventually, and so did Davy, and so did fifty other guys whose time was up, and that was the end of the business, and so Mike didn't care so much about being one of the big guys in the house and spent most of his time playing the old guitar. His mother visited him once to tell him that his cunt of a wife had run off with some other fucker, and he was glad to forget about her.

He looked in the front of his Bible one day and realized he was turning thirty on the same day he was supposed to get out. You got twenty-five dollars when they turned you loose: enough to rent a room and stay drunk for a week. Happy fucking birthday.

When the day finally came he felt nothing. He took the guitar, figuring he could sell it somewhere if he needed to. Three other guests of the state were being released that day and there was a bus waiting to take them into town. He walked out of the front door and into the square he'd seen so often from behind bars; it looked smaller, now that he was in it. He resisted the urge to turn around for one last look at the dump that had been his home for eleven years.

He realized with a start that he had absolutely no idea what to do next. Uncle Emil had his money, but how would he get it? He had no car. Did buses still run out to that town? Where did you buy a ticket? He should call to let Emil know he was coming - but how would he get the number, and did he even have a phone? He cursed himself for not thinking of any of this before. On the inside you didn't need to worry about any of this shit, and now it was all he had to go on.

No one talked as they marched single file to the bus; old habits die hard. A sound: Was someone inside calling his name? He didn't want to see who it was and kept walking. All he wanted was to get away as fast as he could and forget everything, everything, every last goddamn thing -

"Mike!" The hand on his shoulder spun him around and he pulled his arm back, ready to level this asshole, then stopped in amazement.

"Holy shit," he muttered. Micky grinned at him. Here. Now. "Holy fucking shit."

"Nice to see you too. Did you think I wasn't coming? Or didn't you get my last letter?" The bus driver started honking the horn while Micky looked at him expectantly, and his brain overloaded. He looked from one to the other, paralyzed, seeing two very different but equally straight roads to hell.

"Go! Just go!" he yelled at the driver, waving him away, and the bus pulled out in a cloud of dust and smoke. Mike pulled the guitar close to him, holding it like a shield.

"Well?" Micky asked. What the fuck was he talking about? Letters?

"I got your letters," Mike said slowly, pulling them out of his pocket. Micky picked the top one, the one that had come just a few weeks ago, off the pile.

"That's it. Look, I told you I'd be here today. Didn't you read it?" Now he sounded a little hurt. Mike struggled for something to say, anything that would keep Micky here in front of him.

"I - I couldn't," he blurted out, then realized what he'd just said and rushed to cover it. "...Hell, I couldn't read your goddamn handwriting. Looks like chicken scratch. I thought you went to school." He steeled himself for the look of pity that was sure to come, but Micky only laughed and slapped him on the back.

"You're right, my handwriting sucks. I'll have to translate them for you. Come on, the guys are waiting."

"Guys?" he asked, lost again. Micky was walking to his car; Mike hurried to keep up.

"Sorry, I forgot. Davy and Peter and I came here together to get you. They're in town waiting for us to come back. Then we're going back to California together. If you want," he added, getting in the front. Mike tossed his stuff in the back seat and sat down next to him, his head spinning. Too fast, all of it - five minutes ago he didn't even know where he was going to stay for the night and now he was supposed to move to California, for Christ's sake? And Micky - oh god, Micky, looking even better than Mike had imagined, had dreamed, not a frightened boy anymore but a confident young man, looking Mike right in the eye when he talked to him, still full of restless energy but now with a purpose. Which was him. Mike was scared shitless.

"Mick, wait," he said, grabbing the keys out of his hand. "Just wait a damn minute. What makes you think I want to do any of this? You make all these plans and I ain't been consulted on anything. I'm a free man now," he said, almost to himself, "and I don't have to listen to nobody."

"Oh." Micky stared at the dashboard. "Well, do you want a ride into town?"

"Yes. That would be helpful."

"Do you want to see Davy and Peter?"

"OK, I guess. Nobody else to see. How did they find you in LA?"

"I wrote to them before they got out and told them to look me up. Mike, you might not believe this, but you guys were better friends to me than anybody I knew on the outside." Mike snorted with laughter. "No, it's true! And I felt like I owed you all something. So now we have this house that's on the beach, and we have a lot of parties. It's a groovy scene. You'd like it."

"Maybe," Mike said brusquely.

"Think of it as a vacation. All expenses paid. You don't like it, you can go back," Micky said, spreading his hands.

"Vacation? I ain't never had a vacation in my life. I wouldn't hardly know what to do." Part of him wanted to kick Micky out of the driver's seat and speed down the highway till he ran out of gas; another part was all ready to say yes to this ridiculous plan. Saying anything seemed like a mistake.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"How's your hand?" Micky asked.

Wordlessly Mike turned it over, palm up, so Micky could see: the scar was still vivid, a dark red line right down the middle. Like Jesus' hands, someone told him once. He opened and closed it, to show that it still worked, even though he'd never be able to make a fist.

"I'm glad you're OK. I'm glad to see you," Micky said. Mike just stared at him, incredulous.

"Oh, Christ, you're not making this any easier, are you? Look, Mike, we want you to come back with us. The three of us, we're having a good time, but something's missing. Peter says you're the driver - you're the one that makes us get off our asses and do stuff. Right now we're just fucking around - sometimes Peter deals, and sometimes we play music together, but mostly we just talk about how great it would be if somebody would take charge. We could be rolling in bread if you were managing the business. We could be a real band if you were playing guitar with us. You're the boss, Mike, you always were. We need you."

"And what about you, boy?" Mike asked sharply, catching Micky's wrist. Right then he *was* a boy again: Micky dropped his gaze and blushed and looked more adorable than ever.

"I don't know," he said softly. "If you want me."

What a thing to say! As if Mike had a choice. As if there was anything else in this world that he wanted more than Micky, to be his, always and forever.

"What about Davy?" Mike still had hold of Micky's arm.

"What about him? His goal in life is to lay every woman in Los Angeles. I think he's up to the letter M by now."

"He get paid for that?"

Micky laughed. "Sometimes. How did you know?"

"I know that little weasel. Smarter than he is tall, that's for damn sure. But what about you?" Mike asked again.

"What about me what...oh," he said, and turned scarlet. "No, that was...He never asked. Peter either. Anyway there's enough women to go twice around the block. If that's what you want," he added quickly.

Of course it wasn't. He'd known that for a while now, even before Micky had shown up and blown him out of the water. Another reason to get out of Texas. Everybody said things were easier in California.

So he could go with them. First they'd get his money - probably have to dig up Emil's cellar floor to find the coffee can it was hidden in, he supposed - and then they could drive till they reached the ocean. A house. A new guitar. A new business to run. New food, new clothes, and Micky in his new bed every night. That sounded like a plan.

But as he looked at Micky he knew he wouldn't be staying with them long.

He wanted Micky with a longing that was pure, refined over the years to its essence: because Micky was a man, and because he was Micky. And Mike knew too that Micky would never feel the same about him, for the same reasons - because he was a man, and because he was Mike. It would hurt like hell to leave, but it would hurt even worse to look into Micky's eyes and see that he was an obligation, not a lover.

So Mike leaned over and kissed him, just the way he had been kissed by the Micky in his dream from long ago, warm and powerful and searching. He put everything into it, everything that he could dredge up from the bottom of the black hole that was his heart, everything that he had never been able to give Micky and now, he realized, never would. The kiss tasted like a sweet golden peach at the point of perfection, just before it became overripe, and started to decay.

He broke away. Micky looked at him in wonder, flushed and breathless, for once at a loss for words.

"Let's go," Mike said.