Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Inside, it had been easy, and wasn't that ironic? Everybody and their little brother was doing it. Hell, it even gave him stud creds, being the one who tamed the dick-biting bitch and made him crave it like a good prag. Outside, he could feel their stares weighing on him constantly, and not stares envious of Beecher's sweet ass, no, those other stares.

He knew it was for the best when he'd dragged Beecher back inside, tried to tell him so, pleaded with him to understand. But no, Toby always had to live in fanciful worlds of his own making. In a 3 by 3 cell, Chris could give him that, create a little world just for them where he felt almighty and Toby could live inside his own mind. But Toby had never been able to let well enough rest, and always demanded so damn much, and he had to drag him out kicking and screaming, and expected him to do the same here, and be grateful for it.

He'd had Toby back for a few years on his own terms. He knew he owed it him to try it his way. If only it wasn't for those stares...

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He felt the repeated rise and fall of Toby's ribcage under his hand, the bones poking out underneath the lean muscles. It would be so easy. Not a clean break like he had been so careful to do that first time, no, these bones would be brittle. The countless tiny shards would pierce Toby's living organs and it would be all over real soon, in a sea of purifying blood. Toby wouldn't even need to suffer, well, not long anyway, and Chris would be free at last.

Toby made a sound in his sleep and Chris ran a hand down his side to soothe him.

Not tonight, then.

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He was being led by the hand and trotted along, docile, vaguely listening to Toby's chirping, something about where they were headed next or whatever. Car honks, angry shouting from a cabbie, people rushing.

He barely registered the the sign. He usually ignored these things, unless they were directed at him. If he was perfectly honest, he probably agreed with the guy.

Seems Toby didn't.

Fags are unnatural.

“If fags were unnatural, why would God put men's G-spot up their asses?” came the manic cackle beside him.

He felt sweat down his neck and tried to drag Toby forward, but Toby wouldn't budge.

An iron hand weighed on his nape, pulling his lips to Toby's and a bruising grip around his wrist led his palm to Toby's ass. Toby kissed him and, as usual, he felt the heat, but this was a different kind of heat, a curtain of blinding white flames behind his eyes and hellfires rotting at his gut. To the outside observer, it was Toby demonstrating the delights of cock and surrender to a couple of bigots, but the bruising grip on his wrist told him better. He knew, like he had known climbing the stairs to Mc Manus' office to rat on himself, Vern and Metzger, that if he ran away from this, there would be consequences. So he blanked his mind and kissed back.

A couple of queers catcalled and Toby grinned at them. Chris averted their eyes.

“I really fancy some shrimp” Toby deadpanned, eyeing the Deli across the street.

He resumed walking and Chris followed.

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“So this is where little To-bi-as grew up...” he drawled, taking in the Star Wars knick-knack, PG-13 posters from some long forgotten teenage hottie and neat rows of law books with scribbled notes sticking out.

“If you're going to be like this, Mother will happily stick you in the guest room and I won't stop her!” Toby snarled at him. His dick gave a twitch. Snarly Toby did that to him, not the prospect of exile in the darkest recess of upper-class suburbia.

Toby froze in front of a shelf and he moved closer. A picture of His Toby and That Dead Bitch. Prom night, looked like. Toby looked hot, with his angelic curls and geeky glasses, begging to be debauched.

He put his arms around Toby, feeling his tension, and turned the frame face-down. Toby let him.

“Don't get your panties in a twist, sweetheart...” he drawled in his ear “just because she ditched you on prom night don't mean you can't get a good time...”

Toby turned in his arms, staring at him, wide-eyed, like he'd gone insane. He quickly caught on his leer, though, and schooled his face in a perfect mask of blue-blood arrogance, like when he was calling one of the Aryans white trash. He kept forgetting that lawyers were born actors.

“Oh yeah? And what's your idea of a good time, bad boy? Drink Bud and finger me behind the bike shed?”

Game on.

***

Toby traced the veins down his cock with a fingertip like he had never seen anything both so alien and fascinating. Fuck, he was way too good at this.

Toby looked up, all wide baby blues and nervous blush, and whispered 'I've never...'

His Toby sucked cock like he was born to do it but this Toby sucked cock like a first-timer. An over-eager but nervous first-timer, all kitten licks round the head of his dick, careful lips swallowing him halfway, a hint of teeth, an embarrassed giggle and a muttered 'sorry'.

Was this how Vern had seen him, all those years ago, before Chris was even in the picture? The thought sent white hot rage careening round his brain, this fucker, spoiling what was his, stealing what should ever have been his and his only. He regretted not sinking that shank himself, and no, a shank was way too easy, he should have broken all his bones, ripped him open, watched him bleed slowly. He felt his hand grip Toby's hair violently and knew he had to get back. His mind was a dangerous place and he had to get the fuck back, right now. Vern was dead, those other boys were dead, for better or for worse. There was only Toby, his wry, unpredictable Toby, and this college boy Toby he'd never get to know. He loved them, he would never hurt them. They were just playing and he had to get himself back in character.

He gave a gentle tug.

“Come up here, uptown boy. I got a surprise for ya...”

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One more passive-agressive jab aimed his way and he'd have to borrow the late Harrison Beecher's antique rifle and rob the corner store. The corner store would stock champagne, caviar and truffles imported from Paris so that would be a step up in his career. Well, former career. He was now an upstanding citizen and fixed bikes for a living. Oh joy!

Instead, Chris lit another cigarette from his dying one and snubbed out the butt in one of Victoria's no doubt rare and expensive flowerpots.

Angus joined him on the patio and silently took out a cigarette. Chris lit it for him and, if his hand lingered longer than necessary on his wrist, well, that was pure scientific curiosity, to see if the blush crept up his cheeks as fast as Toby's. He had fucked his way up the social ladder, and you never knew when you'd have to hold up your own against some Professor of Genetics at some dinner party.

Toby joined them and leaned against Chris. Chris put his arms around him. He knew all of Toby's unspoken rules. In front of Victoria, sitting closer than friends and the briefest brush of fingers. In front of Angus, hugs were allowed.

“Since when do you smoke?” Toby scowled at his little brother.

Since you pissed away all your first-born duties and I had to pick them up tenfold hung, heavy, between them.

***

“You're doing great” Toby praised, nuzzling his jaw.

“Your little brother seems all tensed-up” Chris leered. He was sick of all this bullshit, sick of Victoria's polite jabs, sick of Toby's patronising tone.

“I know all your tricks and they're not working” Toby glared up at him.

“What tricks?” Chris asked with hurt, innocent eyes “Just carin' about your family, Tobe. Just sayin' Angus looks like he could use some fun and it ain't cheatin' if you keep it in the family, it's bonding. Mommy never taught you to share your silver spoon with you little brother, or ain't there no need because you were each born sucking on your own?”

“Not working” Toby repeated in a low hiss “Don't even dream of pulling off that crap. We're staying overnight as planned and that's the end of it.”

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Toby fucked himself back on him, moaning in the pillow, and it had never been so good, never, ever, not when these boys had pleaded for their life, not when they had surrendered to their fate and to him. He had never felt so almighty.

“Yeah, moan for my cock you little bitch.”

Toby froze and stared at him over his shoulder, eyes piercing and unreadable.

Uh-oh.

Any lesser man would have lost his hard-on but He Was Chris Keller so he stayed ramrod hard. Still, he felt the phantom ache of teeth gnawing at his balls, ready to snap them off.

Slowly, Toby laid his head back down, gripping the metal bar of the bunk with both hands.

Okay...

Chris grabbed both cheeks hard enough to bruise and resumed thrusting, staring transfixed at his cock invading Toby's hole.

“Fight it all you like but we both know better. You were born to be my bitch and you love it”.

Toby made a strangled little sound and spread his legs wider.

He gripped Toby's hips, pulling his cock away from the mattress.

“Don't you dare touch your cock. You're my little fuckhole and you come just from that, my cock in your ass.”

He was close, so close. He rammed frantically in and out of Toby, pressed his thumb right on the swastika, nerve endings sensitised by the branding, and felt Toby lose it, sobbing, his ass griping his cock like a vice.

Keller collapsed and slid down to rest on Toby's ass, his ass, full of Keller's come. He kissed every inch of soft, pale skin, the ugly brand, and licked the stray dribble of come.

***

The following day, Beecher ate breakfast with Said, threw a hissyfit over dirty laundry and made him pick up the pod.

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When he awoke, Toby was still fast asleep, sprawled on his stomach on the side of the bed near the door. In the first few months after he'd got Chris out, he had never let go, clutching his biceps with bruising fingers all through the night. Now he had started to relax. Or drift away. Chris wished he knew.

Chris tiptoed around the bed and downstairs, took oranges from Toby's fridge, and started squeezing methodically. He found this routine comforting. This he could do: fuck Toby, bring him food, wack anyone who messed with him. If only it could be enough for Toby. But it never was. Hold me. Give me space. Pay attention to me. Stop watching everything I do. It drove Chris nuts.

A car honked outside and Holly stumbled through the door, clothes rumpled and dark circles under her eyes.

'Juice?' was the only question he asked.

'Sure' she said, sitting at the table.

Holy was quiet and he liked that. They'd both been to Hell and back, and he guessed words failed them.

He handed her a glass and started wiping the orange gunk staining the counter.

'I'll do that' she offered, but he shrugged and continued his task. Didn't she know he had nowhere to go? Didn't she know his world, his purpose in life, went in limbo the minute her Dad fell asleep, only to start again when he awoke? She probably didn't and he wished to God she never did. That sort of knowledge had done him and her dad no good.

He took two glasses upstairs and left Holly to sip hers.

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“And here's the guest room” said Victoria, opening one in a long row of identical oak doors.

“Why do we need the guest room?” Toby cut in “Isn't Holly sleeping in her old room?”

Victoria looked away, the heels of her Manolos clicking on the hardwood floor as she fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Chris, why don't you get the bags from the car?” Toby ordered sharply, and Chris complied swiftly because it had been many years since he'd seen that look and he was glad, for once, not to be on the receiving end of it.

***

Chris never knew the showdown that went down between Toby and Momma Beecher. All he knew was that when he came back with the luggage, slightly sweaty from the weight of Toby's designer suitcase (and who the fuck needs a suitcase for one night?), Toby took it from him authoritatively and deposited in his old room, before taking him by the hand and dragging him inside.

***

Later, after he'd enjoyed a surprisingly light meal under Victoria Beecher's deathly gaze, Chris lay in bed on his back, staring at the model X-wings swaying gently from the ceiling, Toby snuggled to his side.

“The bed smells strange.” Toby said. “You know I can't sleep when the bed doesn't smell like you.” He sounded anguished.

“Hey” Chris said gently, as though calming a spooked animal. He lifted his arm to wrap it around Toby's shoulder, but Toby let out a strangled sound and plastered himself to him, burying his nose in Chris' armpit.

“Hey, Tobe” he repeated, concerned that time. He lifted his other hand to card it through Toby's curls.

Toby sniffed his armpit and sighed in contentment, kissing the coarse dark hair. It would have been comical if Chris hadn't felt the tension and anguish radiating from his lover.

“No need to get so worked up, Tobe, I didn't mind sleepin' in the guest room, it's just one night.”

“No.” Toby interrupted sharply. “I spent years with those fuckers tearing us apart every fucking night for no fucking reason. Then I get out and I thought at last I'd have no choice, I'd be free of you. But you had to bring me back, you fuck, for more of the same. Then I get out again but that time, it's too late, because now I can't sleep without you. You have any idea how these years were for me, missing you every fucking second?” Toby was growing agitated, trembling by his side, as in the throes of fever.

Chris had to admit that no, he had no idea. Selfishly, he's been too wrapped up wondering how long it would take Toby to find a loophole and reverse his sentence, worrying that Toby might tire of it beforehand, to think much about how Toby was coping in the cushy outside world. Not that well it seemed.

“I want you to fuck me hard.” Toby said determinedly, springing like a Jack-in-the-box to lie half on top of Chris. “I want to be limping tomorrow when I greet all those fucks that never came to visit once, and wincing when I sit with them at that dinner table. Give them something to talk about, poor Tobias never got over prison, maybe he was already that way before. Maybe if you fuck me hard enough, they'll stop whispering behind my back and say it to my face. Make me bleed on the sheets, Chris, so the maid sees it and gets out of her way to hide it from Mother.”

“Toby” Chris whispered, staring up in his lover's wild eyes, soothingly caressing his hair. But there was no reasoning Toby when he got into one of his moods, and he was already stroking Chris' cock to hardness with rough, determined hands.

***

The following morning, Toby was sleeping like a baby, like he always did after a rough fuck, seemingly unbothered by his red, puffy asshole.

Chris sneaked out of bed quietly and went down to the kitchen to fix Holly's breakfast. Except the maid had everything ready so they just sat side by side, eating, while Holly shared bitchy insights about her idiotic third cousin and Victoria hovered nearby.

“Where is Toby?” she asked suspiciously.

“Still sleepin'.” Chris replied good-naturedly. Holly carried on eating, unfazed.

“Morning everyone” Toby chirped, a slight limp in his step as he strolled into the kitchen. He bent quickly to deposit a quick peck at the corner of Chris' mouth, a kiss chaste and innocent even by pre-teens standard, his own daughter was there after all, but still, way more than he'd ever done in front of his mother, barely daring to be in physical contact with Chris for more than a few seconds before her.

Toby fixed himself a cup of coffee and carefully lowered himself in the free chair on the other side of Chris from Holly, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady himself as he winced.