The days in solitary pass slowly, but aside from the food it isn't a terrible experience. A change of scenery would be nice, but they manage to ping pong games back and forth through the connecting vent between their rooms to stave off the worst of the boredom. He learns more about Steve in the five days he doesn't see Steve's face than he's managed to learn in the few weeks he's been here already. They hash out their apartments growing up, they touch on music, food, would you rather. At one point he almost pisses himself laughing, which he figures is a first for SHU (insanity aside).
It's fine. Good, actually.
They let Steve out about an hour before they do Barnes, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't fret over whether or not Alex had him jumped again the second they were clear. Word travels, though, apparently, and not only do their attackers give them a wide birth but they earn a few terrified looks from some other unsavory characters as well. Alex has done probably the opposite of what he ever intended, and the sour look on his face is a clear indicator.
When he does finally get to scope Steve out from across the lunch room, he feels something abruptly lurch in his chest, a sharp hook, a pang, an ache. Something's shifted since this whole thing went down, something major, something uncomfortably intense that has him reeling back and struggling to contain it before he makes a god damn fool of himself. He hopes, seriously hopes, that after a few days out of solitary it'll pass. Hopes he can chalk it up to having no other form of contact for so long, for feeling fond about having someone back him up, hopes he doesn't have to be one of those sad god damn tragedies that people laugh at in the halls.
Poor Eric had it bad for Jesse, dumb son of a bitch thought they'd work out, except Jesse got out a year before Eric and stopped visiting after two months. Eric doesn't talk about it anymore.
Poor Anibal wanted to fuck T so bad T ended up beating his ass in the shower.
Poor Oz, poor Rick, poor Jaime. This is prison.
He's not gonna be that, he knows better than that, and he's determined to get a handle on himself — so when he fills his tray and searches for a seat, he heads deliberately in the opposite direction of Steve.
no subject
It's fine. Good, actually.
They let Steve out about an hour before they do Barnes, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't fret over whether or not Alex had him jumped again the second they were clear. Word travels, though, apparently, and not only do their attackers give them a wide birth but they earn a few terrified looks from some other unsavory characters as well. Alex has done probably the opposite of what he ever intended, and the sour look on his face is a clear indicator.
When he does finally get to scope Steve out from across the lunch room, he feels something abruptly lurch in his chest, a sharp hook, a pang, an ache. Something's shifted since this whole thing went down, something major, something uncomfortably intense that has him reeling back and struggling to contain it before he makes a god damn fool of himself. He hopes, seriously hopes, that after a few days out of solitary it'll pass. Hopes he can chalk it up to having no other form of contact for so long, for feeling fond about having someone back him up, hopes he doesn't have to be one of those sad god damn tragedies that people laugh at in the halls.
Poor Eric had it bad for Jesse, dumb son of a bitch thought they'd work out, except Jesse got out a year before Eric and stopped visiting after two months. Eric doesn't talk about it anymore.
Poor Anibal wanted to fuck T so bad T ended up beating his ass in the shower.
Poor Oz, poor Rick, poor Jaime. This is prison.
He's not gonna be that, he knows better than that, and he's determined to get a handle on himself — so when he fills his tray and searches for a seat, he heads deliberately in the opposite direction of Steve.