Archive of Our Own

The year is 1993. It’s one of the few things you know for certain; everyone always makes noise on new years, noise loud enough to reach up here.  The calendar got boring to follow after year 2. You think it might be the start of June now, on account of the air getting even harder to bear than usual. The smell of oil is thick, and the sorry excuses for foliage next to the spotlight outside are too dead to cover any of it.

You’re here for a reason, why you’re on the third floor instead of with the others below. You’ve come to terms with it, really. The only other person who shared the burden left four months ago. They were Brigade. It’s just you now. Some in the other blocks are jealous. Others think you’re marked for death.

The guards sure do act like it, usually forgetting you until the one on the afternoon shift -a more stiff, by the books kind of guy- lets you out in time for at least dinner. So is life in the prison located in Petria’s…well, you don’t know where, and don’t frankly care all that much. What would be the point in it?

As it happens, the morning crew actually remembers your existence today, and takes you down to watch the news on the lower floors. All you can focus on is how they made the archaic, steel handcuffs attached to your waist belt and wrists two tiers too tight.

Everything is bright as always—in a way that’s sun bleached and dry. Cracks along the cinder blocks of the walls crumble into sand instead of clean breaks. Driest summers on record already; one of the guards mutters to the other. Maybe it was to you, too. You say nothing.

A few rays of the sun manage to get through the haphazardly cardboard covered ‘windows’ of the room with the TV, making the screen have an annoying kind of glint to it, bouncing off onto the line of Tyrak posters near the back of the rectangle shaped room. You try not to grimace too much as you’re let ‘loose’ to open floor space near the small television–the carpet feels like scratchy loose velcro, it’s actually kind of nice. 

...It has been 3 weeks and 4 days since the perpetrator of the First Petria National heist was taken into custody. The manufactured, grainy voice of a reporter comes into earshot among the barrage of muddled over static and the voices of other prisoners speaking over each other loudly. Your eyebrows slightly raise.

Sonya Sanchez always says the same things in different ways. Sometimes, there’s a few reports of two highway criminals causing chaos on the highway. There’s never any pictures to go along with those. The show is always met with staunch support or loud booing by the others. More often than not, it leads to a fight—ones with words rather than fists—as is everything in the prison located in Petria’s…oh right, you don’t know where you are. Can't be helped. 

Today, Sonya’s report is unanimously met with a barrage of jeering and exasperated groans by the prisoners at large. That’s the third time this week. Even with your limited experience being in the room, you know the show usually has more to talk about. Though, it does catch your attention more than the usual spiel about Tuesdays and some city named after an eight year old (or was it the other way around?)

Today, there’s something off about the reporter. If you were a little more familiar with her habits, you might even say she’s off pace.

It’s still unknown which prison the criminal was taken to, but rest assured we’re working hard to find out where they were taken.

There it is again.

It’s always good to know where the infamous are being held…for everyone’s safety, of course!

A woman you can’t remember the name of nudges your arm, loudly teasing that you might get a cellmate, yet— if that poor sod ever gets out of processing. Surely he’d be sent here, with how deserted things are getting on 3F. Naturally, all eyes snap to you. You say nothing.

That night, when sleep and consciousness bleed together among the noise of the floors below, your cell’s bars begin to be unceremoniously slammed open.

You have the good sense to stay in place, only allowing yourself to slowly wipe the half sleep from your eyelids. You don’t move, not even as a thrashing, angry figure is roughly wrestled into the cell by two of the night guards. For minutes you quietly watch as they struggle to trap him, like he’s repelled to the cell door itself. Finally, someone sweeps his legs, and he’s roughly shoved in with a thud.

He jumps up, latching onto the bars and shouting expletives until one of the guards whacks his fingers back into the cell, a barrage of loud curses and insults spill from his lips and never quite stops. It’s yelling that’s heard on deaf ears. 

It’s the most noise you’ve heard in months, every single string of broken remarks and empty threats feel almost foreign in the confines of your cell. The side of your open hand sits frozen on the edge of your eyelids as he continues to desperately shout, only to be met with nothing in return. For the first few hours that’s all he does, only ceasing to take his anger out on the flat caseless pillows left over from the previous occupant.

The bunk below shakes with every reckless punch, making your head spin like a tilt a whirl, at least it’s something new. You presume he would’ve done it all night or until the guards finally got tired of it, if it weren’t for him accidentally hitting something hard with a yelp. He only quietly whimpers to himself after that. You say nothing. 

The next morning is eventful once again: the guards remember to let the both of you out. It’s hard to forget someone they just booked, you guess.

For all the cursing and spitting the new guy had been doing last night, he barely makes a sound when the guards secure the handcuffs around his waist, though the fresh gash on his hand goes ignored. As you’re taken out of the cell, you catch a glance of dark circles under his eyes right before his head dips downward, and is obscured by a mess of black hair. He looks familiar somehow, in a way you can’t place. His gaze doesn't leave the handcuffs as you descend to the cafeteria. 

Once there, he offers no more than a distasteful glance when the guards finally put the two of you into another pair of looser handcuffs, one to his wrist, the other to yours. The 4 chain links between the two of you are just barely too close for comfort. You haven’t worn these since your last cellmate; it’s something they only did to people on the 3rd floor. 

New guy keeps up his vow of silence once you get a table, but the piercing glares at anyone who happens to make eye contact with him or dares to ask him anything is enough. It’s either cautious or conniving, but you’re too busy eating what looks like mashed potatoes to investigate further. He hasn’t touched his. Soon, one of the others calls him on it, either out of offense or warning. There’s a rough tug on your wrist as he tries to lift his, then a terse pause. The glaring gets worse.

The day after that, they take the two of you out on time again. Maybe whoever bosses around the bosses are breathing down their necks, maybe they just want to spite the new guy for making so much noise. The routine is much of the sun bleached dry same –right up to the crumbling cinder block on the second floor– but instead of going straight to the cafeteria, you’re taken back to the room with the too-crowded benches and scratchy velcro carpet.

The TV’s glint is still there, blocking up half of the screen with white and sending an unforgiving death beam a few inches in front of where you sit. You stare at it for a while, hoping that the sun picks up on your contempt. The others do their usual routine as the static of the screen is replaced with the news logo. Loud overlapped voices and arguments blend together with the peppy journalistic music of the Sonya show. You wonder if a fight’ll break out today. 

New guy’s crouched over himself, arm awkwardly twisted backward in order to hold the position while handcuffed. He studies the half covered screen intensely with furrowed eyebrows, like nothing else is there, like the big glare in the middle of the screen doesn’t bother him at all. Every once in a while –notably after a truly demeaning remark toward the reporter is made– they fully knit together, and he opens his mouth to speak, only to snap it shut again with a huff. 

Once he does it a third time, your eyes wander over to him, sticking. He must be a fan of hers.

His closed jaw moves back and forth in a rhythmic motion, fingers roughly tapping and jabbing the weak rubber soles of the laceless shoes everyone has. Grinding teeth is a bad habit, or so you’ve heard. His eyes catch your gaze, they’re an endless dark brown, and narrow almost immediately. You blink, but don’t look away. The tapping stops.  

-

-

A week of cold stares and grumbling later, you’re put back into the job roster. Kitchen duty. You don’t really get it, the new guy looks like he’s just about ready to poison someone, or at least spit in the food. Oh well. 

The place is old anyway, you wouldn’t be surprised if there was a fair amount of accidental asbestos in the food from the cracking ceiling. There’s archaic open vents there, ones that hang down like stalactites, what you think they’d look like. New guy mutters something about them under his breath that bounces off your shoulder right into your ear. You don’t really pick up on the words. 

They put the cuffs around both of your ankles that day, to make it easier to do the task. The chain is 10 feet long, but it doesn’t change that you’re stuck to him. New guy still refuses to work, only doing the bare minimum when the guards force him to. Normally, it’d be enough for them, but you’d wager a guess that his eyes aren’t as blank as they’d like them to be. 

The guards were right to be so cautious, given that as soon as they leave the room, he pushes off the food counters, just nearly pausing under the vents before the chain can catch yours. He looks up at them, a foreign grin appearing on his face. Looking around, he frowns for a moment, then turns to you, pointing wildly. Does he ever get tired?

You. It’s your lucky day. We’re getting outta here.

When you question what he means, he’s clear in his answers.

Out. Gone. Egress. Got it?

No, you don’t. 

Boost me!

Come again?

You dumb or somethin’? Boost me, then I’ll pull you up.

Oh. It’s your only response. One he doesn’t seem to appreciate. 

Fine, I’ll get a chair. You still have to come with me though, unless you have a way to take those off— 

Why would you want to do that? 

The only thing he affords you is a strange and almost pitiful kind of look, then attempts to walk away, soon to take you with him as when the chain finally runs out. So you decide to plant your foot down onto it. It goes taut, and the cuffs brace against your laceless shoes. He falls on his face. 

He lolls there for a few moments in a daze, almost to the point where you think he might’ve passed out. Momentary fears are quickly dispelled once he pushes himself up, he swings his attention toward you once more, a fierce redness creeping up his face when he finds out what you did.

He seethes, breathing in and out violently. You’re sure you're about to be punched. But you come to find out he thinks words hurt more.

I hate you.  

You don’t care. 

-

-

Actually, maybe you do. For someone who doesn’t do a lot on a ‘good’ day, pettiness seems to be a big motivator for him. By motivation, you mean determination in making your assigned jobs as hard as possible.  

He doesn’t do anything at all when the guards aren’t looking, leaving you to do all the work. He knows you’ll do it, even if you try to pretend you won’t. Sometimes he scuffs up something you're cleaning, others he throws out his leg or stamps and tugs on the links chaining you together to trip you. It’s to the point where you full heartedly believe the last thing he said to you. You can live with it. 

One day, the two of you are put on cleaning duty in some nearly bare corridor-like room. Faded sepia hued telephones hang off of strange segmented cubbies, all lined with their very own windows. 

New guy is strangely compliant, taking the mop handed to him with trembling hands that make the cuff links shake. Maybe he’ll help this time.

Wishful thinking. 

As soon as the guard leaves, his worried expression pauses all too suddenly. It slowly turns into a half smirk. You try to ignore it while still being cautious for any mischief. He doesn’t try anything for a long time. When you carelessly walk past him to clean off your mop, he throws his leg in front of you. You fail to dodge it, and your attempt to avoid it only disrupts your balance on the wet floor. You fall back instead.

Your eyes snap shut and you brace for your head to thunk the concrete beneath you. Your heels kick at the freshly cleaned floor searching for any kind of balance, but your back never meets the ground. Hesitantly, you open your eyes. New guy is in front of you, a firm grasp on the mop still in between your hands, keeping you upright while maintaining his own balance.

You’re almost under the impression he’s trying to help you up. Then he smirks once again, tugging at the handle roughly and making you slip some more

Not so good now, are you?

You narrow your eyes, that doesn’t even make any sense. 

Your hands wrap tightly around the mop, not letting it go as he tugs for it. There’s a surprised grunt, he looks down to you, eyes wild and confused. 

Give it.

You press your mouth into a firm protesting line in response, keeping your palms firmly glued to the splintered wood. Not this time. The two of you stay like that for a while, suspended in a battle of ‘who lets go of the nearly broken cleaning tool first’. It’s doomed to be a forever stalemate, because you won’t let go of the mop, and he can’t properly wrestle it away from you without losing his shaky balance. Mutually assured destruction you suppose, until the guard will inevitably come back after your shift to screw over the both of you. Maybe that's what he wants.

You’re not giving him the satisfaction.

So you let yourself go limp. The added weight takes him with you, both falling to the floor with a thud. Neither of you let go even then, now in a harsh game of tug of war. You both shift to the side, then your leg clips something heavy that becomes light all too quickly. There’s a clang. Dirty mop water gets all over your shoes and the once clean floor.

His whole body jolts at the sound, and he gets away roughly, mop forgotten in your hands. You stand up triumphantly, unsteadily dusting yourself off to claim your victory with a grin. Even if new guy was trying to ruin your day, it’s the most fun you’ve had in ages.

Where is he, anyway?

You look around the room and spot him. He’s in one of the far corners, crouched down with his head in his hands, tearing at his hair . You can hear his breathing from all the way across the room. Frowning, you decide to approach, nearly slipping at the halfway point. You bend down to meet his level, picking up on the nearly healed bruise over his left watering eye, partly obscured by the darkened–had it always been there? 

When you ask him what’s wrong, he stares up at you, dark eyes meeting yours. 

They’re gonna come for me, ain’t they? Lock me in that damn hole in the wall forever.

Lock in that hole in the…Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.

Curtly, you shake your head no. You quickly clean the mess. It’s an easy fix, just push all the water to the drain in the center of the corridor. It still takes time, but luckily the guards don’t come back.

New guy’s still on the floor when you’re done, breathing more steady than before and with color reintroduced to his face. He flinches as you tug him up, fingers lingering on his wrists just long enough to get him upright. They’re clammy, but still warm. 

When you let go, he turns away immediately, nearly tripping over himself as he puts distance in between the two of you. He doesn’t bother you for the rest of the work shift. You refrain from telling him what he asked you was a valid fear, and that you’re just really good at damage control when you need to be. Ignorance is bliss. 

You assure the fact to yourself later while in bed, gazing up at the cracks dressing the ceiling like they’re something special. Who’s to say they’re not?

Sometimes, when you’re up here, it almost feels like you’re something. Like the breaks on the ceiling mean more than what they are, more than poorly constructed infrastructure that might as well cave in one day and take you with it. It’d be poetic that way. With how they twist and turn, dropping crumbling dust on you like dried snow, you wouldn’t be surprised if it fell down right now. You hope it rains soon–

"Hey.” His voice cuts cleanly through your mind. You blink, staring up from your usual bedtime haze; just cracks. Then silence once more. Did you imagine it?

“I know you only did it to save your own skin but…” There it is again from beneath your bunk. The halfway composed tone is foreign to you. Like a new person entirely. You know better, because if you don’t, that means ghosts exist, and you’re not emotionally ready for something like that.

“-ah hell, just, you helped me. I owe you. Okay?!” The voice raises, sounding like sand-paper from shouting and disuse.

You don’t say a word, instead glancing down at the frayed buttons of your jumpsuit blankly. 

“Back there. You better not tell anyone I was scurred– because I wasn’t! ” A pause, followed by more of nothing. “You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you?” He asks again, despite your lack of response.

“...I won’t–" Your hands shoot up to your mouth at the sound of your voice. Was it always that loud?

“Good.” 

For the rest of the night, he goes on and on about well, everything and nothing at the same time. He sure knows how to talk even if you don’t do much answering in return. You stay up to listen to his aimless voice for a while all the same. 

He stops messing with you altogether after that, even going so far as to partially help with the jobs you’re given sometimes. It’s so good that the two of you manage to go through three agonizingly dry months with some sense of peace, maybe even acquaintanceship.

Then the guards forget to let you out. You’re surprised they lasted for as long as they did without a slip up. You don’t really mind, it’ll be nice to have a day –more like a week– off. Stan doesn’t share your opinion.

“God, I’m freaking starving!” He whines from the floor where he’s been laying for the past hour , after he was over and through with pacing for half the day. You stare down from your space on the upper bunk, tilting your head at him. His dark eyes catch yours, he quickly obscures them with his sleeve. “This place sucks,” He groans, “and you starin’ at me with that dumb look ain’t helping, so quit it!” 

You suppress a grin, not taking it too seriously. He’s the opposite of fiberglass insulation that you wish lined the walls. Looks like he would probably stab you, but is all cotton candy underneath. Huh, speaking of lack of insulation…you shift around in the bed, slightly lifting the thin mattress. After retrieving what you need, you hop off from the bunk, landing right next to Stan’s head.

He jolts, eyes snapping open as he pulls his arm from them. “Jesus freakin’--” He stares up at you, looking more shocked than anything else. “Don’t do that!” Weird, you thought he’d be used to you jumping recklessly by now.

“My bunk, my rules.” You say defiantly, silently counting the contents of your pockets as you plop down next to him. 

“Your bunk your–” He pushes off the ground and a few steps away from you, wiping his hair back to properly glare at you. “you almost crushed me!” 

“I didn’t, though.” You retrieve the things you pulled from your stash in the wall–two candy bars and an old canteen. Stan’s complaints halt.

“Hey! Where’d you get all that?!”

“Kitchen duty. They let me do my own thing there.” Used to, anyway. It was nice to be alone with your own thoughts in a different setting rather than your cell.

He guffaws, staring at the bars in your hand like they’re gold. “No kiddin?” 

“Yeah, it’s really easy to sneak stuff in the uniform.”

“And they don’t catch you?”

“Not if you’re smart and stay where you’re supposed to.” They don’t like people going into the freezers. You imagine they’re keeping a frozen head, or a caveman or something in there with how locked up it is. “You still have to make sure they don’t come up short, or they’ll know.” 

“And here I was,” He laughs, blowing at the loose bangs that keep flowing back into his eyes. “thinkin’ you were all goodie goodie.”

“It’s easier to get away with it when they think you are.” At least, that’s what you tell yourself on nights where you feel more machine than person…

“They’re gonna melt.” 

“Huh?” You blink, when you open your eyes again you’re met with Stan looking at you, mildly agitated.

“If ya keep holding them like that, they’re gonna melt.” He says again, sounding more impatient. 

You glance down at your hands, frowning when you see that they somehow closed into fists around the plastic wrapping. Whoops. Wordlessly, you loosen your grip, then thrust the partially crushed candy out to him. 

He flinches, but when he finally sees the candy, his eyes grow wide, and the chocolate is gone from your hands. “Wait…Is this some kinda pity?” He drops the thing just as quickly as he nabbed it, snapping his hand back tightly around his labeled jumpsuit. “I don’t need pity.” 

“More for me.” 

“I change my mind!!” He snatches the bar from where it fell swiftly, opening and devouring it in two quick chomps. You’re not sure he even took the time to taste it. From the look on his face, he’s probably feeling the same. 

Silently, you pull a third one from your pocket, holding it out to him. He looks away in a huff, but takes it.

“Giving away stuff like this to just anyone…”  He shakes his head, actually indulging in eating this time around. “Surprised someone like you doesn’t have more…” He coughs, face wrinkling up. “Fuh…frr…”

“Friends?” You ask, unwrapping your own partially ruined candy bar. 

“Yeah.” He swallows around the words in disgust. “Those.”  

“You try making them when you’re up here all day.” 

“I don’t need to.” Despite the sad framing of the statement, he seems proud of it. “I’m not a ‘friends’ guy, and– Let’s just say you’re not gonna see much of me for long —no offense.” 

Ouch. “None taken.” You eventually reply with a hint of incredulousness. Nobody leaves this place, and the people who do…well, he doesn’t look Brigade. You shake your head, dashing the somewhat violent thoughts of that night away. Replacing them instead with grabbing your canteen and holding it out to him. He still flinches. “Here, take some.”

“That better not be from the toilet”

“Tap water.” Arguably worse, but it hasn’t killed you yet. 

“Ugh,” He turns, taking another bite of the dwindling bar in his hands, talking with a full mouth. “you’re trying to poison me, then, ‘that right?” 

You glare, loosening the cap to take a big mouthful of the water –egh, tastes like iron. Still, you offer it out to him again. 

“You’re either crazy and have a death wish,” He grimaces, taking the canteen in his hands slowly, “Or yer actually being nice.” He drinks the liquid, nose scrunching up before coughing, but nothing else happens. Not then, and not an hour later—the designated time for all poisons to kill, according to him. After coming to that conclusion, he just stares at you strangely. All you can do is shrug in response.  

For the rest of the day until the evening shift comes around, Stan rambles on about a convoluted robbery of a candy store–one of his many ‘heists’ he’s apparently been part of. You’ve long since given up trying to warn him about giving out confessions. It’s not like anyone comes up here to patrol, anyway.

The next time you’re put on kitchen duty, you find four candy bars on your bed.

Showoff. 

-

-

“Favorite food?”  He asks one night when the power shuts off way earlier than it ought to. You’re both laying with your backs to the floor, it’s far too dark to see anything. 21 questions, because Stan got tired of talking to himself. Too bad there’s no quality control.

“Aren’t these supposed to be more specific?”

“C’monnn, just answer!” 

You make a face in his general direction. So impatient. “Answer, answer, bleh!”

“Wh–?!” He trips over his words. “I don’t sound like that!” 

“Yeah huh.” Messing with him is fun. He’s so serious to the point where it wraps back around. Petty revenge for the whole tripping you thing. Not that it bothered you, noooo.

“I don’t!” His voice cracks when he raises it, you can hear his hands snap to his throat. His voice never really recovered from all that yelling on the first night.

“I think I like Ice cream.” You answer just before he can start a rant about his voice. Heh. “Sad they don’t give us any.” 

“There’s–there’s none?!” 

“What, you think they give out quality dessert, here?” You shake your head, suppressing a laugh. Then again…it reminds you of your reaction when you finally caught onto that ugly truth. “One of the guys up here used to say that they used to hand out cups of it, but now the guards are hiding it all to themselves.” You narrow your eyes, that guy who told you isn’t around anymore. “They can keep it, it’s probably gross anyway.”

“Ugh, okay, here’s a question–why does everyone listen to those guys? They’re stupid! ‘Can’t even figure out who I am!” 

Your smile fades, you took the boring questions for granted. “It’s…easier that way.” You’ve made peace with it, some didn’t, but just gave up in the long run. There’s no way out of here except…yeah.

“How many people are locked up here?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This place is huge as all hell but,” He shifts in the dark. “There’s barely anyone in it.”

Oh, you’re really missing the boring questions, now. “102.” The give or take falls loosely out of your lips to the point of being incomprehensible. “There used to be 250.” You say plainly.

“That’s still…” Stan trails off, leg accidentally bumping yours in the darkness, then reels back quickly along with his hitching breath.

“You…all could still revolt,” He sounds like he’s smiling, more like a smirk, maybe. “Seems to be popular, as of late, seen those Brigade guys on the news?” He scoffs bitterly, “Maybe that’s why they keep trying to say I’m one of ‘em.” He growls like it’s the worst insult that can be given to someone, you can’t blame him.

So that’s why…that’s —you blink, staring back up at the cracks in the ceiling above. Bad thoughts. “I don’t watch it.”

“What do you mean you ‘don’t watch it’?” He mocks your tone. “They force us to!” 

“Doesn’t mean I have to pay attention. It’s boring.” 

There’s an offended gasp. You hear him open his mouth like he usually does, but the voice isn’t cut off this time. “It’s not! You’re not one of those losers who hate the Sonya show, are you?” 

“Dunno, never thought about it.” You answer honestly once more. The indifference you feel is impeccable. It’s not like you have a point of reference, you’re unsure if you ever watched the show when you were…not here. 

“Good enough for me.” Stan says, voice raising ever so slightly. “All those smart asses watching in that damn room, thinking they can just say anything bad about the show, someone oughta give them what they have coming.” He’s definitely a fan, then. Glad to have cleared that up. ‘Can’t do anything about it, though, can I? Not that I can’t! I just don’t wanna end up in–” There’s a pause, then a hitched breath. “…uh, yeah.”

He’s worried, maybe that’s why he’s always holding back. “You know,” You start, unsure if continuing is the best option. “I know all the rules around here. I can help you stay out of trouble, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t need your help with anyth– Wait. You’d make sure I won’t end up in there ?” He sounds incredulous, it’s followed by a scoff. “What’s the catch? ”

“Nothing?” It’ll save you the trouble of being solely with your thoughts, again. Besides, you know what it’s like in there. You have a feeling he does, too.

“That would be…” You hear his hands move in the darkness, he doesn’t say much for a solid minute after. “Anyway,” He grunts, “You should start watching the show more. There’s some really cool famous guys on there. Like those two awesome masterminds who robbed First Petria national!” 

You roll your eyes, halting halfway through as you pick up on his weird tone. What that inmate told you months ago comes back. Out of all the places he could have been put in… “You’re the guy from that report that keeps playing?”

“Uh, yeah, duh! I thought I made the implications pretty obvious!” Most people would keep something like that hidden. Not Stan. “It was great! We didn’t even have to scurr anybody, the whole place was empty…til we tripped the alarm.” 

“Then you got caught. ” 

“Hey! It ain’t my fault that puddle made me slip! Who the hell doesn’t put out a wet floor sign?!”

You think on it, then remember something funny. “Us.” You start to chuckle, one that soon turns into a full on endless, sleep deprived laugh. 

“Okay, okay! Laugh it up!” He doesn’t catch on. “I bet the reason you got in here is just as embarrassing!” 

Your giggling fit halts, smile fading out until it’s nothing but your lips pressed together. Even you aren’t entirely sure why.

Picking up on the change in tone, he halts his playful jeering in exchange for a quick disturbed hum, “What…did you do?”

“I defaced a statue.” You mutter softly, more to yourself than him, though he lets out a drawn out sigh right after your answer. “It was fun.” Some guy named Rob or something 'commissioned’ you to do it, wanted to show his boyfriend that he could do something ‘peaceful’ for a change. You still have no idea how peaceful and sledgehammer could coincide, but it was none of your business. Besides, a quick 50 dollars and a side of rocky road and fries for the trip was all you needed to be convinced to go through with it, so it’s not like you were any better. 

“Embarrassing crime to get in for,” He snorts, crossing his arms in superiority. “Sucks for you. ‘Sure they’ll let you out soon though, huh? Vandalism ain’t nothing special.”

You nod numbly. Yeah, something like that. “My turn.”

“What? That was only my 11th!”

“And those two were worth 5 each, ‘last one was a freebie” You make up the rule on the spot. You don’t feel like talking anymore.

“Fine, fine! I got nothin to hide anyway! Throw them at me.” 

Oh, you didn’t know you were gonna get that far. You take your brain for a sufficient question, eventually finding one.

“How do you know someone’s coming to get you?” 

“I..” He pauses, you can hear him tapping the ground with his fingers, then he turns to face you in the darkness. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’, and you can’t go tellin’ anyone else—but it’ll cost all yer questions, alright?!” He whispers quickly, as if there’s others who can hear. “Deal or not!?” 

“Okay…” 

“That awesome gal on the news, Sonya?” 

Well, you never really heard that word to describe her. “Yeah?” 

Stan chuckles, like he’s in a game of cards and knows he’s about to win. “I know her, and she’s gonna bail me out–’s’done it before, honest.” He says with fondness, maybe even a bit of leftover pride.

“You’re lying.”

“Nuh uh!” 

“Prove it.” 

“What, you want me to pull out some kinda cordless phone to call her?”

“It would be more realistic than what you just told me.”  If he really was friends with someone like that, he wouldn’t be put in a place like this…wouldn’t be robbing a bank in the first place.

“Whatever!” His voice cracks again, this time the seriousness doesn’t quite wrap around. “I don’t care what you think!” No, it doesn’t even sound serious. Not in the patented angry new guy way, either.

Maybe it’s just something he says to…comfort himself. Best not mess with it.  “So, when’s she gonna bail you out?” You ask, mildly apprehensive that you agitated him into silence. 

There’s shifting, then a drawn out sigh. “I know you don’t really believe me, but I’m gonna be out of this place any day, ‘soon as she finds me. Just watch.”

You nod along in the darkness. You don’t believe him at all.

-

-

A month goes by.

Then another. 

Three more after that—no dice. 

As expected (despite your wary optimism), there’s  nothing in the form of some kind of rescue, not even as the cold of early February starts to make the cell nearly unbearable to stand in without your hands and feet going numb.

Stan doesn’t talk to you anymore. Not nearly as much. He snaps at anyone who dares get in his way of doing anything, really. When allowed to watch the news, every snide remark and jeering toward the Sonya Show is met with harsher glares than before. You’re not entirely sure why, he hasn’t been nearly as excited for it as he used to be.

You’ve averted more than a few attempted fights with others by keeping your arm firmly planted on the ground whenever he tries to lift his, and thank your lucky stars that his balance is thrown off by the cuffs. There’s only so much someone can take, you guess, even if it's just about someone he might know. You have a promise to keep, even if it’s a self imposed one.

But it’s not like you can stop everything.

The day it happens, you chirp a quick joke to him on the way to the TV room, one that manages to make his blank, subdued expression momentarily warp upward into a small grin. It’s contagious, and you decide you wouldn’t be all that bothered if you got to see it again. 

So, even amidst the threatening looks from both the annoyed prisoners and guards on duty in the small crumbling room bathed in sunlight, you continue to joke around with him in hushed barely obscured whispers. You make one about a guard, one you can’t even remember with how mundane and low hanging it was. Not funny at all, but in some turn of events his grin breaks open, and he laughs. It’s not sarcastic or crass like they usually are, it’s the lightest thing you’ve ever heard. It feels real.

For a moment, just a moment, the sun isn’t in your eyes and you can barely feel the scratchiness of the carpet. You snap out of your trance, laughing with him.  

In a moment of recess from the funny jabs, he looks over your shoulder. All at once, his face pales one strained breath, eyes frozen on whatever he saw. You blink hard once you notice, following his gaze over to the TV, noticing the GNN’s multicolored logo. You can barely hear the long beeping tone over the subsequent boos and cheers from the others. The guards are already going through their routine of dragging everyone back to their cells. 

Your brow furrows–that’s way too early. Something’s missing. The show is nearly an hour, with at least 20 minutes tacked on at the end for the segment about–

Oh. Your stomach sinks, and starts to feel like the static overtaking the sign off screen. 

The rehearsed, overplayed message of Stan’s supposed bank heist and searching for prisons– it didn’t play today.

Pursing your lips, you glance over to him once more. The dark circles beneath his eyes are more prominent than they were before. They’re watering again. You contemplate whether to snap him out of it, free hand lifting to jolt him. Someone beats you to it.

An inmate you never bothered to remember claps their hand around his shoulder. 

“Glad that’s over, guess she finally got tired of repeating the same shit every day. Must be hard being GNN’s favorite mouthpiece. ”

Stan darkly mutters something to himself, the fresh scar on the side of his hand bends as they curl into a tight fist. Par for the course in a normal situation, but now…?  

“You don’t want to do that.” You whisper back sincerely, hand slowly wrapping around his trembling one in a cautious death grip.  

In one swift motion, he snatches it away from yours. “Bite me.” He hisses, it’s watery. The unsuspecting inmate continues to run their mouth about her. 

“Say it again!” He yells before they can make another comment. All eyes remaining in the sun drenched room go to him. 

The inmate pauses, turning to the source of the shout with confusion. When they notice it’s Stan, their eyebrows raise. “So you can speak. ” They chuckle, half impressed and half mocking. “Got a problem with what I’m saying, new guy? ”

“Say it again.” He says clearly this time, rising from the ground. The once quiet audience starts to talk in hushed, excited voices. Fights never happen here. “I dare you.”

The prisoner scoffs–oh god, they still think it’s some kind of game. “And what if I do?” 

“Stan…” you warn, backing up as far as you can before the cuff around your wrist goes taut. His eyes snap back to you, the look is as piercing as it was when you first met. Despite this, it distracts him enough for you to slowly tug on his arm.

“Fine.”  He finally whispers through clenched teeth, allowing you to guide him further from the inmate. 

But of course, they just had to get the last word in. “Listen close, if there’s one truth in the world, it’s that Sonya Sanchez is some rich asshole who’s never had–”

Your arm unexpectedly twists, the motion followed by a cracking thunk. A few gasps and choked laughter is the first thing that comes after, mainly because you’ve screwed your eyes shut. Choking on air, you force your neck to crane back just in time to see the heckler fall to the ground, grasping at their nose. You bite your tongue, harshly breathing out through your teeth once you get a clear look at the damage. Months of pent up anger can’t feel good. 

Without another beat, you snap your attention over to Stan. His face is obscured by his hair, but you can clearly see his once clenched fists are now open wide, trembling as he silently stares down at them. 

“Fight…?” Someone from the remaining crowd questions breathlessly, and you can’t blame him. Physical fights don’t happen here. And for good reason. 

As the guards start to approach, he spins to face you, the chain on your cuffs twist painfully, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he stares at you so helplessly. Past all the fear, his expression conveys a clear question.

What do I do?

You don’t know.

The guards have him now, wrestling him out of the handcuffs as onlookers watch in silence. “Wait! No no no! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—“ 

You stare helplessly in place as he’s dragged away by the guards kicking and shouting to you know where, the cuff he was once attached to dangling against your own. You think you’re gonna be sick. 

And you were. 

It’s dark when they finally escort you –and only you– back to the cell. You’d gotten used to the stale air and silent halls before, but it feels different now. An irritating itch you can’t scratch. The already boxed in cell almost seems to close in on itself, despite not changing at all. You avoid the bottom bunk like the plague, forcing your attention away from the bed that remains unmade as you scale up to your own.

A day goes by.

Then another.

And two weeks after that. 

Though it smells like it might rain soon, the silence of the floor creeps on you like a hazy fog. Despite the frigid air, the sun still manages to breach the barred cell. One still night, when you swear you can hear your blood running in your ears, you busy yourself with finally straightening out Stan’s bed. You tear the tangled cover off like a bandage. The bed is barren, with the exception of dark red stains near a sharp looking bed spring poking up from the mattress. There’s still blood on it. Swallowing sharply, you push it back into place with minimal success. 

Stepping back, you turn your attention to the caseless pillow on the edge of the bed. A quick fix to the sharp gash in the mattress. He can have yours as a replacement–you don’t need it to sleep anyhow. Wrinkled papers are kicked up and scattered as the pillow is lifted, you quickly snatch them from the air before they can fall to the ground. You recognize them as some he stole from an office you were cleaning a month back. He must have nabbed a pen at some point, because all of them are written on with what looks to be the remains of plans–if the poorly scribbled out title ‘Stan’s awesome escape plans’ is anything to go off of. All except for two. They’re different from the others, written with care instead of blotched out escape attempts. It takes you a good long while to pin them down for what they are—letters; one is addressed to Sonya, and the other to someone named ‘Mitch’. You quickly look away before your mind can register the words, slipping the now neatly stacked papers under his new pillow.

That night, when consciousness battles with your attempts at sleeping amongst the suffocating silence, the cell bars are unceremoniously slammed open. 

It feels like someone ran a live wire through your spine, you hear a soft boom of thunder in the distance. You force yourself to stay pressed onto your bed, you have the good sense to stay in place, even when you start to pick up on trickling coming from your cell window. You quickly scrub your closed fist over your eyes, trying not to move as a silent figure is roughly shoved in with a thud by one of the night guards.

He stays there on his hands and knees, not moving an inch until the cell bars are slammed shut and the guards are halfway down the hall. He shifts, slowly crawling over to the side of the bunk, cradling his head in his hands.

It’s the quietest he’s been in months. You sit back, listening intently for the distant footfalls of the guards. As soon as they’re down the first set of stairs, you quickly rummage through the gap between your mattress, hopping off the bunk next to his curled up form. 

He doesn’t acknowledge you, a grown out mess of black hair obscures his face. You count the contents of your pockets, biting the inside of your cheek until your teeth leave an indent. After what feels like a lifetime, you reach out to tap his shoulder. He jolts roughly, staring through you in the dimness afforded by a spotlight outside. Silently, you pull out a candy bar.

You quietly hold it to him, knowing all too well that they don’t give a lot to eat in... there .

It’s only taken after you practically place it in his hands, closing his fingers around it with your own. He stares down at it blankly, finally making a face. It’s sour and constricted, teeth firmly clamped down on his tongue, eyes watering. You choke down the sigh of relief hitched in the back of your throat.

In the time it takes to blink, he turns away from you, retreating underneath the paper thin sheets of his bunk.

It’s raining now. You stare at the ceiling blankly, studying how droplets of water seep from the cracks onto the floor below. They don’t feel special, and you know they’ll never cave in until you're long gone. He’s still crying. Surely he thinks you can’t hear him on account of the storm. You can. You always can. 

This is how people break. 

You say nothing. 

…

You hop off the bed once more, the cheap laceless shoes you never bothered to remove squeak against the dampened floors as you land. He’s curled up on the mattress facing the wall, not noticing you in the slightest. You reach out all the same, clasping your hand around his shoulder tightly.

His breath hitches, and he roughly tugs away from your grasp, spinning around and shrinking to the far side of the narrow bed. “The hell do you want?” He snaps through involuntary hiccups, pushing away further. You stand your ground, watching him carefully. “Stop…stop lookin’ at—“ He stares down, only now noticing your open arms. 

Stan grabs onto your wrist, tugging you in ‘til his face is buried in the rough fabric of your jumpsuit. You squeeze back, sinking into the mattress below once his sobs begin to take their toll. Without a word, you hold onto him, nodding your head rhythmically in time with the hand gently patting his back.

He cries himself to exhaustion in what feels like a blink and full sleep cycle simultaneously; the only way to tell he’s still awake is the rhythmic stuttering breaths he expels into your shoulder every once in a while. His arms are still tightly secure around you, yours around him. 

Neither of you move, not even when the cracks stop dripping water from up above.

What happened won’t be brought up again. You’re under no delusion that it will. Why would it? You’ve known Stan for 7 months now, he’s never been the ‘hugging’ type to put it lightly, and certainly not to the extent of last night. In fact, he was always averse to it. Harsh, subdued looks to the guards that held his arms in place, low pitched hissing through his teeth every time another inmate would brush against him in the cafeteria, the sudden pauses when he would absentmindedly press his hand onto your shoulder followed by the quick disgusted removal of said hand.

You assume that last night was one of said scenarios. Too engrossed in his emotions to forget that he hated touch. You’re fine with that. Everyone had a limit here once, and you’re more than glad to have extended his, even if by a minimal amount. 

He affirms your theory by being absent from the bunk in the morning. He ignores you for most of the day, restlessly pacing the cell muttering under his breath quietly, his words drowned out by the pattering rain from the barred window. You’re glad he’s back to his normal self.

As the day closes, you turn to climb up onto the bunk. Stan catches your arm before you can attempt to. You turn to him in both alarm and curiosity, though he stares back with an equally unsure look on his face. He quickly wraps his arms around you once more, pulling you in for another hug, one that you’re more than ready to reciprocate.

A great, unfamiliar pressure in your chest builds by the second. You find yourself sighing happily, allowing him to pull you down further down into the bunk with him. You both hold on like before, he still trembles but you’d wager it’s for a different reason, this time.

“I…last night.” He starts, then halts for a good long while. In the dark, you’re almost certain he accidentally fell asleep, that is until he grunts with agitation. “Look, they shouldn’t have locked me in there. I punched that guy for a reason, okay?! Anyone would go crazy after being away from home for so long–” 

“I don’t blame you.” You hum, parting slightly to get a good look at him. Stan averts his eyes, lip twitching ever so slightly upward. Slowly, he reaches his hand up to cradle your head, pushing it back to his chest gently with a shaky sigh. You pick up on the light nearly foreign smell of laundry detergent on his jumpsuit.

“You didn’t hear this, alright? This stays here.” He says with overblown serious aggression neither of you are believing. Still, you silently nod into his suit. “Right, just, look: It’s been harder than I thought, not that I can’t handle it, I’m the greatest at handling things!” He sighs, voice becoming considerably softer, it doesn’t feel real, but you live to hear it. “This is the longest I’ve been away from Mi...my brother.”

You nod once, not daring to lift your head. “Were you close?” 

"Duh. Of course we were!” He snorts, the laugh that builds in his chest softly rumbles in your ears. “Ya can’t be the best robbin’ duo in Petria if you’re solo now, can you,” He abruptly pauses, snapping the fingers on his free hand as if to recall something. “Uh, what’s  your name? –nevermind, that don’t matter right now.” 

The sting of his indifference is lessened by your mild relief. It would have taken you an embarrassingly long time to answer. 

“We were great back then—still are. Better than great – we’re freakin’ amazing, best robbin’ duo in Petria–Stan and Mitch!” He says passionately. You smile, it’s nice to see his eyes light up like that. “You should’ve seen us…Mitch, he, he’d like you, I think. Always liked people who could get me outta my head and calm me down. ‘Thinks it’s some kinda special talent.” 

You breathe in through your teeth, finally forcing yourself to look up and meet his eyes. This time, they’re not piercing through you, instead they’re dazed but intense, newly formed dark circles under them just barely fading out. “I calm you down?” You question, unsure of what else to say. If that’s the case, you’ve been doing a crappy job at it.

With the intense but not so aggressive look, Stan stares at you for what feels like hours in a matter of minutes. You’re sensing a pattern here. After an endless awkward staring contest, he finally blinks, looking away from you with a strained breath. “...They must be having trouble finding this place.” He changes the subject, something you’re grateful for.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” You affirm, as if to convince him yourself. “There’s a lot of places they could’ve put you in, they’ll get it right soon.” 

“Mhm…”

“Does he have anyone to stay with until then?” You hesitantly ask, damn, are houses even a thing anymore? Does he have a house? Was that something rude to ask? 

“He’ll be fine. He’s got my sister and uh… Yeah.” 

“Does he know about the Sonya thing too?”

“Psh, why wouldn’t he? We’re her b..” His arms stiffen, he breathes in deeply. “Oh, uh, yeah. something like that… totally. ” He quiets down, completely after that, the only fleeting sense that he’s awake being his fingers lightly drumming on your back as you blink away the sleep until you can’t anymore.

-

-

Things are different. Different in a good way. In a way you forgot you could feel. The sickeningly sweet pressure in your chest still builds, but it feels more like something that was missing nowadays. The almost electric feeling that tingles in your nerves only happens when Stan talks to you, so at least that mystery is solved, nothing to see there. 

It’s…nice. You don’t think you’d change it, even if someone offered to make things go back to how they used to. Not with how his grasp always lingers on your shoulder, how he holds your forearm tightly under tables, thumb gliding absently over your skin and…

It’s good to have a friend. 

Somehow, the two of you manage to get tightly tangled around one another less than a half hour after getting back to the cell. Stan’s face is buried between the crook of your neck. Your fingers are splayed out and intertwined with his hair...you know, as friends often do. 

What? It’s practical, and helps preserve body heat. Speaking of body heat and being practical…

“Psst…”

“...”

“Staaaan.”

“I don’t hear you.” He mumbles halfway into the pillow, halfway into your neck. “I’m asleep. You know, that thing people do at night after watching the Sonya show?” 

You scrunch your nose at his comment. “But it’s raining again.” You flatten away from his grip to turn on your stomach and get a better look. 

“And it was yesterday, too.” He hums in discontent, finally relenting and flipping over as well, propping his chin on the heels of his hands. “Is that rare or somethin’?”

“Stop being an ass.” You roll your eyes, now attempting to roll off of the narrow mattress onto the floor.

Stan grabs onto your torso before you can fall, reeling you back in as you make a very halfhearted attempt to get away. “I’m serious!” He rests his head on your shoulder once more, uneven stubble scratching against your skin slightly–he hates it with a passion, but there’s only so much he can do with one dull stolen razor. “I’m always serious, you know…” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”  You shake your head, yawning slightly before mimicking his movements onto his shoulder. “Goodnight…” Stan nudges your arm indignantly, you smile into his suit to make a point. 

“Woke me up just to go back to sleep.” He chides in annoyed fondness. “Not a lot of rain. We must be more central.”  

You lift your head an inch, straining your eyes to get the slightest glance at the window, even if fact checking a claim like that is impossible even on a bright day, let alone on a stormy night. It’s just miles and miles of nothing. “How would you know that?”

“It rains way more in the ‘plenty, you know, where all the trees are?” He asks without looking up, inadvertently sending a shiver down your spine. “Me and Mitch, we jump hideouts a lot to keep the cops off our trail.” He lists out a few, and you try your best to imagine them with the descriptions he gives. Some warehouse in Argandia city, a long forgotten shack on one of the beaches in New cliff, a once abandoned RV in the ‘Plenty. It’s impossible for you to put a place to the words; a place that isn’t drenched in dry bricks and the unforgiving sun, but his descriptions, they’re enough to get by on.

“You really have those things all over the place?” You ask, though it comes out as barely a whisper further muffled by the fabric of his suit.

“Course we do! It would be dumb to only have one .” He snickers, as if it’s common sense. “We gotta lot of stuff to hide.”

“Like what?” 

“Like…like–all the loot we’re gonna have once we make it big, well, bigger. It’s hard to get better once you reach the top, but we’ll do it.” You’re sure he will, first step, getting the hell out of prison. “See, right now we rob the good places–you know, banks, laundromats, burger joints, you name it–once we get our helicopter, we’ll be unstoppable, just you watch!”

“Helicopter.” You deadpan, finally looking up to face him better. 

“Yeah, what about it?” He lifts his head fiercely. “I ain’t lying, we’re gonna get one. We’re already…uh, 15 dollars and 93 cents saved up. That ain’t chump change and you know it.”

No, you really wouldn’t. You’re not sure the last time you touched a dollar. Still, as outlandish as it sounds, it’s the most tantalizing thing you’ve heard in years. “You sound like you got everything figured out good. Out there I mean.”

“I do, why wouldn’t I?” He tries to sound tough, but it uncharacteristically falls flat.  “You know…I could get you out if you want, hell, it’ll be easier to crack this place with you helping me out.” 

“…”

“Are you…”

“Asleep now.” You say it more curtly than you mean to, but it’s better than talking about that.

“Hey, no fair!” He whines. “Why do you like staying in this place, anyway?”

“I’ve been in here since—” You pause, mulling on it.  “A really long time. I wouldn’t even know how things work out there, not anymore.”

“If something to do’s what you want, I’m sure we won’t mind a third robbin’ partner.” 

“You’re not even out yet.” You deflect once more, pulling away (even though you really don’t want to). Maybe it’ll distract him enough to change the subject. 

“Wait—come back, it's cold!” Stan flails dramatically, eventually finding you once more. He grumbles, then breathes as if to speak. Nothing comes from it other than a half hurt pout. Clearly your diversion didn’t work.

Your face “It’s better if I don’t.” You reaffirm, squirming in his arms to face him. “But I’m here now.”

In the dark, you can still see him bite his lip, then he takes a breath. “At least think about it for a while?”

“I will.” You lie, no matter how tempting it might sound to your sleep addled mind. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

There’s another exhale, this time shaky. “Yeah.” 

-

-

When they first care to remember that the two of you exist, the first job they assign is kitchen duty. You see it as a steal. Despite being March, it’s colder than an icebox in the entirety of the facility, and it’s not like you can use your trick to warm up with the guards around. 

The trip down to the kitchens is as monotonous as always. The descending steps are drenched with condensation from the high dripping ceilings above, once bone dry cinder blocks now sport a darker color from the moist air. Stan nearly slips–so really, nothing new.

You knew it would be warm, but the heat still hits you like a fist to the face, and pretty much every other part of your near freezing body–one of the perks of the kitchen in Petria’s colder months, even if the heat from the ovens gradually turned from comforting to unbearable once actual work had to be done. Luck of the draw, there’s no way the guards put you here voluntarily. 

They remove the cuffs then step away, not bothering with the ones that usually go around your ankle. You stare down at your shoes, mostly in relief for your balance. Despite always having it on, Stan always forgot about it, resulting in him inevitably falling ov–wait.

Your glance trails over to Stan, who’s also free of them. The guards watch passively, not doing much of anything. Oh. They think they broke him. You look up to him, unable to resist the urge to covertly shoot a half repressed shit eating grin to Stan when the guards aren’t looking, but all he does is stare down at his open palms with wide eyes. He doesn’t move an inch until one of the guards roughly nudges him forward 

For the first few hours, Stan does nothing, simply going about the tasks in his usual way, albeit a bit more attentive. He’s really committed to this whole stalling thing. When the guards leave for the third time around, he abruptly stops what he’s doing to focus on you, eyes brightening with admirable lucidity. You smile at him, even though you know he’s staring at the open vent above. 

With a newfound energy, he pushes off the edge of the stove he’d been blankly cleaning, facing you. Despite the sweltering artificial heat, he’s frozen in front of you. Right. This is the end of your friendship, isn’t it?

You’re not envious of him, but if he was ever being honest about being able to escape, it would be stupid not to take the opportunity.  You wonder if you should shake his hand? No, that’s much too formal. Give him a high-five? A hug..? You’re sure he’d accept it…no, it would only make things harder. 

After offering an encouraging nod, you turn your attention back to your task. It would be better to feign ignorance if you didn’t see his means of escape to begin with. You suck at goodbyes, allowed or otherwise. There’s a hesitant exhale, then shuffling over the whirring ovens. Once you hear the distant sound of a door opening and shutting, you completely tune it out. You two had a good run, all things considered, it was nice while it lasted. 

Even so, you can’t help but wonder how he’ll do it, and when the guard eventually comes back, scrutinizing you with one of the nastiest piercing looks you’ve ever seen while scanning the spacious area for your now former cellmate, you’re glad that you’ll never know. You continue to work quietly, even as the guard begins to ask you for his whereabouts with a voice that grows in intensity by the second. As the guard comes closer, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you brace yourself for what you know is coming. Hey, at least Stan got out.

“I got that mop you wanted.” Stan’s voice interjects from the far side of the room. You involuntarily jolt as a range of reactions bombard your chest at once; your eventual response ends up coming out as a blank expression accented with mild incredulousness. Why is he still here? The scrutinizing guard doesn’t let up his glare, but his shoulders (as well as the baton tightly held in his white knuckled fist) loosen, and he firmly tells the both of you to get the hell back to work.

Stan flashes an all too innocent look before cleaning up a conveniently toppled over carton of milk you’re sure wasn’t there before…

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.” Is the first thing he says to you once you’re both returned to your icebox of a cell with the guards a safe distance away. 

“ What did you do? ” Is the only thing you can begin to ask him, watching as he stands proudly in the center of the suffocating space. Your confusion over the whole chain of events is palpable, and you’re not sure whether you want to hug or tell him off for putting his escape attempt aside in exchange for…well, it’s clear he did something!

Stan ignores your alarm, instead sauntering over to the beds like he owns the damn place. “I figured out a lot about this place.” He leans over the bottom bunk, retrieving something from beneath the messy covers.

“Is that–” You stare at the cylindrical container with wide eyes. It…it’s ice cream. “How did you–”

“An escapist never reveals his secrets.” He sits, placing the pint down, stretching his arms out before wrapping them around himself. “Probably won’t try that way again, there’s a lot more guards on the second floor–this place is nuts!” He continues on about whatever the hell , but all you can do is focus on the container. It’s slightly dented, and frosted over to the highest degree, but still–

“You got this, for me?”

Stan’s rant stops faster than a record scratch. He grabs back onto the pint, muttering something about missing his gloves as he does so. He stares at it, then back to you, then away from both. “I…I just saw an opportunity and–” He groans, scratching the back of his neck, holding it out to you. “Do ya want it, or not?”

You take it from him without another word, slightly hissing at the coolness of the container. You still haven’t gotten used to the sudden temperature shift from the kitchen, but you pop the top off anyway. Much like the exterior, the ice cream itself is frosted over more than the last circle of hell. You don’t care. 

“Call it returning the favor.” He says with a shrug, turning his attention away quickly. It doesn’t stop you from spotting the small grin on his face. “Here.” He hands you a bent metal spork from his pocket, you’re pretty sure you saw him trying to impatiently dig through the walls with it once. “Eat it before it melts.”

Considering how cold the room has been, you doubt it. It might pose an issue if you keep it in your hands though, you’re overheating more than the janky kitchen ovens. 

You jab into the dessert, the little spork that could nearly breaks in two, but you eventually manage to scoop out a good amount, shoveling it into your mouth. Despite the formed ice crystals and overall dry taste, it is by far the most flavorful thing you’ve had in years. Probably not good for someone like Stan, though.

“Is it good?” He asks, studying your face intently, brushing back his grown out bangs. 

You nod, taking another generous scoop out of the hard ice cream to hold out for him. Instead of taking it, he leans forward, biting down on it. He swiftly reels back from the utensil, scrunching up his nose in mild disgust. You laugh, even as he catches on and sends you a mild pointed look before it devolves into a mildly amused look.

Your laughs die down. The quiet suffocating feeling of the cell comes back once more, along with your over encompassing confusion. You steel yourself, taking another bite of the mediocre ice cream for bravery. “You could have left.”

“Yeah, I could’ve, what about it?” 

“You should have.” You say, firmer this time. “Why didn’t you?”

He tsks in mild annoyance. “I can do whatever the hell I want–I’m Stan S–” He halts, swallowing roughly. “Look, I just need to case out this place to perfect my plan. Seriously, you can’t rush an escape attempt like that. Do you think I want to get stuck in that damn hole again?”  

Oh, oh right. “Sorry.” 

“No, don’t worry about that. I ain’t a baby…” He grabs your arm casually, then runs his thumb over your slightly exposed forearm.“‘sides, I wasn’t just gonna leave you like that–Stan and Mitch rules.” He pauses for a moment, looking down at your arm. “I leave then what? You’re stuck thrown to the wolves. ‘Think I don’t care about you? You’re the only one I got in here.” 

You let the words sink in. He…he cares about you? Why would he? 

“What? Do I got somethin’ on my face?” He asks. You blink, when you open your eyes again, you’re met with Stan looking at you, your noses are nearly touching. His tongue grazes over his teeth beneath his lips. Has he always been this nice to look at?

“No.” You finally manage to choke out an answer through your nervous thoughts, watching his lips intently. Your chest feels like it might cave in on itself.

He chuckles nervously. “Y-yeah…figured–”

You lean in further, he does too–a little too quickly. Your foreheads clunk together. You reel back, grasping at the sudden burst of pain with a loud exhale. 

Ow. 

Ow ow ow owww!

Well that’s one way to get the mind spinning. Though, you would have preferred whatever the two of you were planning to do. Huh, what were you guys trying to do? You take a quick glance from your hands, Stan has his hand splayed out on his forehead, staring at you through the spaces in between his fingers.

“Uhm. Question.” He gasps through the mild pain, sitting up from the place he fell back on. 

“Yea?” You ask, removing your hand from your forehead, inching ever so closer to narrow the space left between you. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” 

“I don’t remember. You?”

“Never saw the point in it. Things like kissin won't make ya any better at robbin’ places, I know that much.”

“Do you want to?” 

As soon as you blurt it out, Stan’s breath gets caught in his throat, and he recoils slightly. A wave of shame hits as you back up quickly,  of course he wouldn’t want to—why would he? Great, you really messed things up, now. Damn you, rusty social skills. Thoroughly embarrassed, you push off the floor, resolving to bang your head against the nearest blunt object when he’s not looking. He wordlessly grabs onto your arm, pulling you back down. The two of you are dangerously close once again, his eyes are piercing, but they’re staring at your lips. 

In an instant, you feel all too warm for the room’s frigidness. The technicality of who kissed first is shaky at best, but you don’t care enough to dwell on it. Not with how every single worry you’ve ever had in the last you don’t even know how long goes out the window with a simple gesture. He raises his arm, pressing it down on your upper back until your pressed up firmly against his chest, the dull taste of the freezer burned ice cream still lingers on his lips. 

You don’t care. 

Friends don’t usually meet in prison, they don’t usually melt into an intimate cuddle pile every chance they get, and they definitely don’t lock lips at any and all convenient times for nearly a month straight. By this reasoning, you can safely assume that Stan isn’t your friend. But it’s not like he’s your enemy either, not with the way he can’t seem to get his eyes or hands off of you. Not that you’re complaining in the slightest.

For someone who hasn’t kissed before, he sure takes great care in learning how to ‘do it right’, in his words. Some are wholly confident in familiar places, slightly parted lips making your skin tingle. He always sheepishly asks you for permission in new areas, brushing his lips against you as he gently maps out your upper body. It’s a good way to pass the time, but that’s not even half of it.

Receiving them is a whole other story. A small peck on the cheek is enough to put him in a flustered lovesick stupor for hours. Hours that you’re all too interested in making the most of for him. 

Today though, Stan seems to be on a mission, one that doesn’t involve quick shy kisses. His lips move against yours in a rhythm, hands feverishly trailing your sides as you do the same. Regardless of the clear excitement, his hands never move from your abdomen, always roughly pausing and traveling back up when nearing your hips. He always holds that unspoken rule to the highest regard. In your unconcentrated haze, your mind wanders to what would happen if you asked him to go further and oh god you’re just realizing this is gonna become a problem. A big one beyond measurable proportions. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want more of just about everything , but you’re smart enough to realize that this is all gonna have to end eventually. What you want isn’t important. Oh well, that’s for future you to worry about. 

Even so, present you still wants to use some of the time to talk to him, and considering the two of you have been at it for almost half an hour…

Through the intense feeling of his lips firmly pressed up against yours, you manage to plant your hand on his chest, grabbing his attention with a gentle push. The kissing stops almost immediately with a restrained yelp. Stan pulls away, the red dusted on his cheeks and content smile are adorable for the short time it’s there, even if it’s quickly replaced with concern. 

“You doin’ okay?” He murmurs, cupping your cheek gently– and they say chivalry is dead. Those jerks here..?” He asks with a bit more alarm, quickly attempting to fall back off the bed. 

“No.” You latch your arms around his to keep him from going through with it, reeling him back in gently. “Just you.” You hum, touching your nose to his playfully. It takes him a minute to realize what you said, and adorably furrows his brow.

“Well, good, ‘cause they ain’t gonna catch us ever.” He puffs out his chest, awkwardly bumping yours in the process. “This prison stuff, I’m tellin you, it’s easy as pie for Stan!”

“Third person, huh?” You smile, lightly blowing his messy bangs from his face (much to his dismay) “You might think you’re a scheming mastermind, but I know the truth.”

“Heh, what’s that?” 

“You’re a softie.” You deadpan despite the endearing term, lightly pushing him away with your fingers. 

“Nuh uh! Gross!” He sputters, holding his now free hands to his chest in offense. “I’ll have you know that I’m actually a…real dangerous bad guy out there. Some might even say… daring.”

“Daring? Did you get that out of a dictionary?” You tease, a giggle bubbles up in your throat. “Pfft, okay, that’s your new nickname then, ‘daring’ ” 

“Ew, nevermind, you ruined it!” He pouts childishly, looking away. “I thought we were supposed to be…uh,” briefly, he rocks his head back and forth, lightly mouthing words to himself before finally shaking his head in defeat, turning to you once more. “Hey, what are we, anyhow?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, we gotta be somethin’, right? You like me, I like you….ehhh?”

O..oh. You swallow hard, taking in the words. You want nothing more than to be more than just… whatever you are. You stare at Stan closely, the word boyfriend briefly echoes in your mind, tangling in the rails of your train of thought. He could be, he wants to be— then again… 

You turn away, partly out of shyness, and the other out of apprehension of the rejection you really don’t want but need to give him. “Tell me what we have in common.”

“Fine,” He pouts playfully once more, though this time you feel bad for it. “We’re both hot, and in prison, aaaand. That’s it.” He clicks his tongue, averting his eyes. “But, but that’s still a lot when you think about it!” 

“You. Think I’m cute?”

“ Hot .”   He corrects pointedly, “There’s a difference...maybe you’re a little cute too.”

“That’s nice.” You turn back to him, still searching desperately for a way to let him down easy while still keeping your cool. “Still not gonna convince me, though.” 

“‘You ever heard of that phrase ‘opposites attract’? Nothin’ wrong with not having anything in common. But you’re right, someone like you needs to know I’ll be loyal to you on the outside–right? I’ll convince you another way, like…” He stops to think for a moment, the sheer confidence radiating off of him is stupidly endearing. “That’s it, I’ve been goin about this all wrong—I get it now.” 

“You do?”

“Yeah… yeah! I gotta take you on a date first, that’s the ticket!” 

“Uhm–”

“When we get out, I’ll take you out on a date all gentlemen like—the best fine dining establishment this side of Petria:” 

“Is it Super Supper?” You question, because anything off their menu sounds heavenly compared to the vague cardboard tasting paste served every morning or stale candy bars.

“ Close. There’s this diner up in Stolia–best milkshakes ever.”

That…sounds amazing right about now, for more than one reason. The thought of sharing something that doesn’t taste like paper mache with Stan makes you unreasonably giddy, until reality comes crashing back in. You frown, not entirely wanting to let go of the daydream. “That sounds great, but…” But nothing, you want nothing more than to say yes. “I can’t

Much to your guilt, his already relaxed posture deflates. “You…you can say no to me if you want to, y’know that, right? No hard feelings…” He steels himself, even giving you more space (and almost falling off the mattress in the process once again).

“It’s not you, Stan…” You squirm around until your chest fully faces his once more, bringing your fingers up to trail along the sides of his face down to his chin. He melts in your touch, using one of his arms to bring you in closer. “You’re a catch.” The tone is lighthearted, though you full heartedly believe it to be true. It’s just, I don’t want to give you something to be sad about later…you’re going to have to leave me eventually.”

“And miss out on you?” He huffs, voice sounding completely disgusted by the mere notion. “No way.” 

Stan’s content? In here? No, you can’t have any of that. “Come on, you can’t actually mean that. Your brother’s probably worried sick about you.” It’s been nearly a year now, if your time keeping skills aren’t rusty.

“Think I don’t know that?” He sighs with a hint of sadness, making you feel rotten for even bringing it up. “He’ll understand the holdup. ‘Sides, getting bailed out’ll be a lot easier in the long run. Then I’ll be able to get you out.”  

“Stan…you’re talking crazy, again.” he makes it sound so real, and you want it. But you can’t. And it frustrates you. “I don’t know how much political power Sonya has, but it won’t help me.” 

“Not if I have a say...” He murmurs, slowly leaning forward to press kisses up your neck. “I’ll come back for you.”

“If the cops are taking this much time to tell her where you are right now, what makes you think they’ll ever tell you?” 

“I’ll…” He trails off, but doesn’t stop his display of affection. “Why are you so dedicated to sticking around in this dump, anyhow?"

“There’s a reason I’m up here, worse than yours.” You answer candidly, lifting your head as his lips graze a sensitive area on your skin. “They’ll never let me go.”

He scoffs. “Bullshit. You don’t deserve to be here. Less than I do…” You can tell he secretly feels pride in that last fact. “What’s so good about some stupid statue, anyhow?”

“Tyrak statue.” 

His lips halt near your jawline. Yeah, that’s usually when the pieces fit into place for most people. Everyone knew not to mess with Tyrak, you just didn’t get the memo that day. “And you’re up here for that? Guy has some shitty self esteem if this is the punishment.” 

You stifle a laugh and lift your pointer finger up to his lips. “Shh…you don’t want them thinking you’re actually Brigade.” 

“You’re not Brigade either.” He rolls his eyes, grabbing one of your hands with his free one. “…are you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Would it matter?”

“If you were a serial killer I still wouldn’t care.” He jokes, sighing somewhat more contained than before. “This whole country can go pound sand for all I care, there’s only two people in the whole world I care about…three, now.” 

Aw, that’s so sweet and shit, he’s getting too attached, isn’t he? You gotta rip the bandage off now. “Really,” you pull away. He makes an annoyed sound, flopping on his back, but you continue. “When you find a way out, you have to take it. Promise me you will.” 

“Fine, only if you answer my question.”

“Okay…”

“Give it to me straight. Why do you want to stay here so bad?” 

“I…” You pause, sucking in your breath. You know all too well no excuse would be satisfying enough, they barely convince you nowadays. “I just have to.” 

Stan studies you for a few moments with his eyebrows knit together, the long stint of uninterrupted eye contact alone makes you want to retreat from guilt. “Alright, a deal’s a deal.” He grunts, reeling you in once more, planting a lingering kiss on the top of your head.

“Thanks…” You bury your head into his chest further, holding him extra tight. Subconsciously, you take mild comfort in the idea that it wouldn’t work, anyway. Stan knows who he is, You hardly remember your own name half the time. Oh well. That’s something for future you to deal with. Present you wants to be in the moment right now…

-

-

To put it in the most inoffensive way possible, Stan is an idiot. A stupid pretty looking idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. He’s always scheming, listing off harebrained escape routes under his breath as you work together, thumb slowly trailing over your knuckles in his closed hand whenever the guards happen to look away.

He pushes the limits in the best, most frustrating ways imaginable. But you always find an excuse, usually ending in the simple fact that you can’t go. Something bad’s bound to happen if you do. It’s really that simple. Still, you’re starting to find fewer and fewer half assed excuses to blow him off with, and his proposals are getting harder and harder to ignore.

This place is practically falling apart, how has nobody tried to escape yet?

The faculty here can be as careless as they want. That’s not the reason people are ‘compelled’ to stay here.

See that vent there? I can get us out right now, give me the go ahead, pretty please?

He doesn’t get that leaving is just the half of it. Petrian authorities tend to get real pissy when they lose their wards. With experience like his, he can get away with it. But you?

Hey, this supply closet doesn’t have any cameras, and the guards are shit at doing their jobs, wanna suck face for an hour–

OK, that’s enough of that…well, you did say yes to that one.

When we get outta here, I’ll make it worth your while.

That’s the thing, you know he would. That’s the part that bothers you the most. 

Do you even want to leave?

You could always give him a flat no, heck, it would be easier then…but that would just be lying, wouldn’t it? 

Yeah, it would be, and you don’t think you can do that to him so blatantly. Not when his head is cradled in your lap, not when he looks so at ease. It makes your stomach flutter, a feeling you push down self consciously. He smiles up at you peacefully, making the slight sun peeking through the dark clouds from outside seem welcoming instead of bothersome. He stretches his arms upward, attempting to wrap them awkwardly around your waist. “Y’know, I ‘gotta secret.” 

“Yeah?” You question softly, snapping out of your rumination.

He doesn’t move his head from your crossed legs, but his eyes dart from side to side. Then he gestures for you to come closer. Rolling your eyes, you crane your neck downward to meet his, tipping your chin to show you’re listening. 

“I…” he looks around again, then lifts his head a little more, nearly bumping into yours. “I really like you.” 

You snort, reeling back and damn near fall over onto the floor he’s reclined on.

“It’s true!” He faux pouts, squeezing your torso gently. 

Your breath hitches as his fingers attempt to awkwardly rake at your back. “What’s got you so excited?”

He gives a half grin, sticking his tongue out. “I’m always happy, a goddamn ray of sunshine—“

“Rain is better.” 

“ Oh, rain is better”  he mocks you in jest, rolling away from you and near the underside of the bed. 

“Wait, come back,” You giggle, making a grab for him and missing terribly. “I didn’t mean it—“

“Look what iiii found a few weeks ago.” He shifts back from under the bed, some kind of rolled vaguely blue poster in his arms. 

“Construction paper?!” You question as he gets on his knees to match your height. “What, is there a secret crafts room?” 

“Yeah! Wait, no! That’s so stupid!...Okay, it would be a little cool.” He relents, unrolling the ancient looking thing, showing it off–it’s absolutely covered in that distinct scratchy handwriting. “It’s a blueprint of the facility.” He says to you proudly, carefully pressing both corners of the makeshift map to his chest to show the whole picture. 

“It’s…” You look closer, the writing on the blueprint turned map is chaotically scribbled at best, but all the routes you can identify have a big ‘x1’ on them, underlined and emboldened. “...only one person can get through these ways?” You guess, reaching out to trace some of the routes over his paper covered chest with your finger. For one graceful moment, you take satisfaction in how he shudders, but the feeling all but vanishes when the realization sets in. He has a plan, he’s gonna leave.

“You got it.” Stan snaps his fingers toward you in the form of a gun. You smile at him weakly. “Aaaaand that’s the problem.” He hums, pulling at each sides of the rough paper until it starts to tear.

You sit in shock as he rips the makeshift map in two. “What are you…stop!” You lunge for his wrists as he continues to take big chunks off of the faded blueprint. 

He yelps, diving away from you and tearing the map in the process. You reel back, when you finally roll over and regain your balance, you notice him tearing more of the pieces to shreds, even stuffing a few into his mouth to your dismay. 

You rush over to him, scooping up as many torn pieces as you can find. Most of them are too small to make out. “Stan, what the hell?!” 

“It was supposed to be a statement.” 

“What was the statement? How to be stupid? ” 

“I’m not goin’! That’s the statement, happy?” He scrambles up, glaring at you sideways as he chews on the remaining paper slowly. “It ain’t even that bad here, the other one I was in was worse–this is a cakewalk compared to the prison in Black Springs.” 

You feel your face cool. No. Not on your watch. He can’t get used to being here. That’s how–

“There’s a reason nobody knows where this place is.” You bite back. “You have to leave– you promised!”

“What’s got you so pissed off anyhow?!” He bristles, “I told you. They’ll come and get me, eventually–then, then I can come back for y–”

“No they won’t! Nobody gets out of here like that…you can’t hold out on the idea that some celebrity might find you.”

“You…you still don’t believe me?” The hurt in his eyes makes you want to recoil inward. The glare that comes after is worse. “Fine.” He turns on his heel, storming off to one of the cell’s corners. 

Wordlessly, you stumble until your back bumps the bunk’s frame. The coolness bites through your clothes. You can’t begin to feel it.

-

-

Hours later, when it’s dark, you still can’t quite come to terms with it. You stare up at the rungs from the bunk above, back firmly pressed onto the mattress. All your mind can muster is to replay the argument over and over, regret clouding your mind more than the actual clouds dumping all the water they have left. Enough to make the–

“‘Floors wet” Stan speaks up, startling you even if the statement is murmured through innocent sleep-addled speech. His figure is slipping back into the bunk, his slightly damp suit presses up against you in the process. 

You sink inward away from his touch even if you want nothing more than to sink into it. You barely have a point of reference, but you’ve decided you hate arguing with someone you actually care about, that he’s sticking around for you, of all people. You think you hate that part most of all. Either way, it’s not like he’s going to want to be around you, it’s best to leave to the top bunk, no matter how cold it’s inevitably going to be.

Just as you’re about to sit up to leave, his hand latches over your forearm. It’s a light kind of grip, a meek invitation. You take it with open arms, swallowing a weak strangled sound from the back of your throat. 

His arms wrap around you hesitantly, testing the waters, maybe waiting in apprehension for you to push him off, but you don’t. Not even as he slowly lowers his head to press into your shoulder. 

“Listen I’m, I’m sorry for ruinin’ the map.” He mutters softly after what feels like a whole night’s worth of silence, trailing off halfway through.  “Nah, more than that. I shouldn’t’ve jabbed you so hard into leavin’...outside must be frightening for you, it is sometimes. I can’t just make you do something you don’t want. That’d be all wrong.”  

“But it’s your choice to stay.” You whisper as the feeling of pins and needles creep up your chest. “I’m sorry for…” Pausing, you mull over the options.

For tripping him, for not keeping you out of trouble, for…for giving him that candy bar, for going down to comfort him that night, for kissing him, for making him feel comfortable in this awful place when you damn well knew that you’d never find the courage to leave–

“Everything.” You settle on, feeling something familiarly unfamiliar welling from your eyes. You barely remember who you used to be out there, everything before that man in a cowboy hat giving you a Super Supper bag, two twenties, and a ten is a big blotch of gray. You fucking hate it here, you’ve hated it since the day they labeled you Brigade, the day they shoved you up the steps that had less cracks in it then, when they threw you to the eternally cold floor to rot with the indifferent cellmate who died as retribution for some mountian thousands of miles away that nobody lets rest in peace, just like everyone else on the damn floor. You hate waiting for someone higher up to get fed up enough to do the same with you and you hate that you wait for the day with bated breath to finally escape in some meaningful way and, why the hell do you want to stay here—?!

“ Hey— ” Stan’s voice cuts in from somewhere close, pulling you away from the thoughts with steady care. 

You blink, realizing your eyes are blurred to the point where your vision is even worse than it ought be in the dark. That doesn’t stop you from feeling his breath lightly puffing in your face as his rough thumb methodically wipes the tears away from your cheeks. 

““Give me a break with you being sorry, you didn’t do nothin’ to me…” He whispers, voice uncharacteristically careful, his free arm tightening around your back as far as it can reach. “C’mon, tell me what’s goin’ on, I’ll make it better. Anything.” 

You close your eyes once more, taking in his touch. You never wanted to stay here, but it’s not like there was an option. There’s no trials in Petria, not for crimes like the ones you two are saddled with. But now, faced with Stan, a way out— no —he’s much more than just that. He’s your friend who sleeps with you, who kisses you and makes you feel like you’re more than just a number ready to be erased at any time. He’s stupid and vain and warm and still has the spark despite it being beaten out so many times and— you can’t lose him. Not for anything in the world, and certainly not for the Petrian prison located in you don’t fucking care where. Stan said anything, and you’re sure it’s not going to far to ask. 

“Show me—“ You sniffle your tears back roughly, “Show me how things work…and…and get me some ice cream. The actual stuff, not the kind they have in here that tastes like—“ 

“What? ”

“I said,” You shift, tearing your arms away to dry the other side of your face. “Show me how things work out there, and I’ll go with you, we can leave this place right now if you have a p—“ Stan’s arms are around you almost instantly, his nose bumps yours momentarily, but it hardly matters once his lips finally connect with yours. This time, it feels like a relentless strike of lightning trailing down your spine and right through your nerves, only amplified when he swipes his tongue on your bottom lip as an invitation for something more. After a few minutes, you both finally pull away with a sigh, the darkness only filled with the sounds of labored breaths. 

As soon as the breathing ceases, you feel his breath on your face. "Question-” He gasps, holding onto you tightly. “Have you ever...”

"I don't remember." You answer, knowing all too well what the rest of that question entailed. 

"Do you...want t-"

You press your mouth to his without a second thought, clumsily raising your arms up around his neck, pulling yourself as close as possible. It feels like you’re in the kitchen with the running ovens all over again, this time overwhelming in the best way possible.  

Stan hums shakily, his hands trail down continuing to trace along your midriff, pausing swiftly every time they travel too low, more strained than usual. On one of those trips, you slip your hand over his wrist. His breath hitches, you stop but he leans into you further, hand finally–and swiftly–passing the imaginary barrier beneath your hips and dipping further down your leg. The only time either of you part is to breathe. During one, you take the opportunity to make an attempt at shakily unbuttoning his jumpsuit– he already has three of yours undone. Showoff. 

Somewhere between the third breath and one of your arms being hastily vacated from your sleeve, it occurs to you that neither of you will have to let go ever again. It’s thrilling.

-

-

The first thing that comes to your beautifully fuzzied senses is Stan nuzzling against your ear, lowly whispering something you can’t quite pick up on at first. His bare chest is warm on your back to the point where you almost can’t feel the cold, not even through the paper thin blankets. 

Your mind can only make sense of the last few muffled words “—rainin’ again…” on cue, you pick up on the light near incomprehensible pattering from outside.

A mildly annoyed noise escapes from your mouth as you shift from the disturbance, subconsciously pulling away to bury your face into the gap between his shoulder and neck. Comfy. 

He squeezes your arm a few times in a futile attempt in beckoning you to wake up. You don’t accept it. “Blegh, still asleep?” He tsks lightheartedly. No, unfortunately not, but you’re not gonna go and let him know that now, are you?

You halt your groggy attempt at getting back to full unconsciousness in order to smile stupidly, and have the excellent sleep deprived idea to kiss the gap between his neck and chin, sleepily lulling there.

His breathing stutters, “Ah, you…really know how to get me ‘goin, know that?” 

Of course you do, that’s half the fun in it. The other half is getting back at him for waking you up. You need a good night’s rest after all that…physical activity.

He presses his lips firmly on your cooling shoulder, his hot breath ghosts over the teeth marks previously imprinted in your skin. Normally, you’d be worried about it (and the matching dark mark you accidentally made on his neck earlier), but you both made up your minds on escaping in the morning. There’s a surprising number of ways to get out with two people in the know cooperating. You suck in air through your teeth, successfully ignoring his attempt at getting you to respond. Nope, you want to go back to sleep, thank you very much.

“Hm, not taking the bait?” He chuckles mischievously, rocking his hips against yours. You huff dramatically and press back to call his bluff, all without opening your eyes. Now he’s just being mean. “Fffine, alright, you got me. You’re asleep. Sure.” He relents hesitantly, and with a bit of playful mocking “ Guess that means you get to know all my sappy secrets, now–since you can’t hear.”

You hum, once again allowing yourself to fully relax into his embrace once more. Oh, you gotta hear this. 

“Y’know…I meant it when I said I’m gonna do it right–once we get outta here, I mean.”

“It’s stupid but I, I think I might love you.” He snorts, fingers trailing up your back aimlessly. “‘Real gross, I know- Don’t tell Mitch. He’ll be mushy about it for months.”  

Oh, you’re totally gonna tell his brother. It’ll be funny, you’ll all laugh…and you’ll be out in the open sitting on a bench somewhere staring at an actual honest to god tree while Stan has his arm around you, his brother smiling at both of you softly, but not too soft. Just like he was described to you.

Stan’ll be happy to finally be rid of this awful place and you, you’ll actually know what’s up in the world, and you’ll be right next to him the whole time. Never alone again.

You would kick your feet like an overexcited puppy at the notion if you weren’t so tired. Yeah, just a few hours and it’ll be real. With that, you finally find your will to sleep once more, slowly encouraged by Stan’s steady breathing.

…

…

…wait…did he say he…

What.

What? 

“What?!” You shoot up from the pillow, grabbing the mattress with one hand, and something soft with the other. Your heart feels like it might explode from startling awake. 

He…he said that he…that he loved–but why would he…

“Ughh why’re you being loud?” A hand reaches up to tug on your arm in a consistent motion, unknowngly grounding you. You peek down, eyes meeting a still very much half asleep Stan, the arm not tugging on yours rests across his eyes comfortably, “Come back…” he whines tiredly, hanging his once resting arm on your shoulder in an attempt to let gravity bring you down, completely unaware of your shocked state.

He loves you. And…Your inner chest swells to the point where you really think you should get it checked out, but none of that matters.

“I…” You focus your attention back on him, watching as he continues his weak attempts at pulling you down. Is this really something you want to admit? Oh, screw it, of course it is. “I think I love you too..” You whisper, allowing him to drag you back to his side. He sighs in content, 

For what feels like the first time in ages, you really do care. 

-

-

It’s a bright morning, one made better by warm smiles and more than a few kisses. You’ve never felt more alive. It’s right, and makes the thought of eternity exciting instead of all encompassing to the point of suffocation.

An hour of bliss and halfhearted planning is all you have until the sound of hard methodic footfalls under dry brick alerts the both of you. Stan grabs your arm softly, and you somehow manage to untangle yourselves and straighten out your undone jumpsuits before they make it to the end of the floor with time to spare. 

You both face the cell door in faux obedience. Stan flashes a toothy smile, no doubt trying to test his luck with the guards. It’s one you stare at through your peripheral vision with a contained grin, even as you hear the footsteps get closer. Maybe if you weren’t staring so hard, you would have noticed there were three instead of two.

The cell door opens as always, and as usual, they call for Stan first. He nods slowly, winking at you as he passes. Oh, he’s really testing his luck today. Once they have him chained, you routinely take one step forward, more focused on the funny look Stan gives you through the bars than the actual task. The third guard lifts his arm sternly before you can take another. The bars slide right in front of you.

Stan turns around, ghost of a smile completely faded from his lips as he stares at you. The bars cut his image into two. “What…?”  

‘It’s your lucky day. You’re getting out of here’

You think it’s what one of them says, but the rapid pounding beneath your ribcage makes it hard to listen. No…he’s not Brigade!

His face pales in a way you haven’t seen in a while, in a way that makes your chest strain. Then two guards begin to drag him away, much to his vocal protests. “Wait–wait! I can’t–” 

You run to grasp at the bars, pressing your face between them without any pausing thought. You catch him thrashing between the guards as he’s dragged down the stairs. A baton whacks down on your hand right before he leaves your skewed field of view.

You grab at your knuckles, barely registering the pain in your back from hitting the cracking floor, still littered with half chewed pieces of the map from the day prior. Faintly, over your own pounding chest, you can make out the sound of his yelling, and the guards over that, shouting…reassurances? He’s going home . 

Guess there are more than three ways out of there, after all. He was right –he was right!! You smile regardless of your fading pain. He was right. Despite your best efforts, you can’t keep it from going away. 

Oh. You never needed to let go, that didn’t mean someone couldn’t take him from you! But that’s par for the course, isn’t it? 

The coolness of the somehow perpetually frigid floor takes hold, and you gulp down the last bit of warm air that dared to seek refuge in your lungs. With two stunted movements from knee to foot, you stand, allowing your numb fist to straighten back into place. You retreat to a far corner slowly, staring down at your laceless shoes as the sound of your own name is drowned out by the ambiance of prison life.

It’s for the best.