Augustus: Nature vs. Nurture. What makes us who we are? And do we ever really change? I mean, once you've gotten through your childhood, suffered the indignities of adolescence, and reached so-called manhood, are your instincts and patterns so deeply entrenched into your psyche that no matter what happens, you'll still remain the same essential person? What is it that makes us who we are? Is it the way we think of ourselves? Or is it the way others see us reflected back to us? Is it the way we walk, talk, and fuck? Or is it the way we think, and what we feel?

How did we get to be this way? If you were born somewhere else, had different parents and completely different experiences, what would you have turned out to be? Maybe you wouldn't even recognize yourself. Or maybe, you'd be exactly the same. Superficial things would change, like the color of your skin, your gender, your job, the language you speak. But maybe the same essence that is you would remain in tact.

Maybe different situations make you become a different person, make you change. Or maybe that secret self was always there, lurking, waiting to be unleashed. It was silently hiding in a small, dusty corner of your mind until another piece of you summoned it. Maybe you don't like this new dimension of yourself. But once you know that it's there, even if you don't like it, can you purge it? Or do you just have to try and subdue it, appease it? Maybe weall have the same facets, we just don't seek them out and use them the same way. Maybe we're afraid that once we summon the beasts to take care of things our more demure sides would rather not do, we won't be able to exorcise them so easily.

**

Simon Adebisi is not difficult to figure out. Some people don't understand him at all. They don't know about his past, his childhood, or his family, so they have no concept of how he was nurtured, what was instilled in him, what he was taught to value, what he learned to scorn. They don't ask him these questions, and he doesn't offer any information. What people fail to realize is that they don't need this information to know who Adebisi is and what makes him tick. There is nothing deceptive, nor veiled about him. He doesn't wear masks, he doesn't make pretenses. With Simon Adebisi, what you see is what you get.

So what do you see when you look at Adebisi? Depends on who you are. Your perceptions of him are colored by YOUR background, and who you are. If you're a middle aged, white male who is financially successful, a bit insecure in your own masculinity, and someone who refuses to admit to yourself that you are even slightly prejudiced, Simon Adebisi is pretty much your worst fucking nightmare. He's a huge, incredibly strong, powerful, take no shit, black man who walks with his back straight, head held high, and who also happens to be so good looking he'll make your pristine girlfriend/wife/mistress turn her head and entertain fantasies that you'd prefer she reserved for you. If you are said pristine girlfriend/wife/mistress, you look at him with lusty eyes, feeling trills of forbidden excitement over such fantasies.

That still doesn't explain the man himself, but one simple word does. Nature. We don't need to know very much about his nurturing, because he's a man who is built almost exclusively for nature. He is Original Man, in the oldest, deepest sense. He sprung forth from the primal fatherland of Africa, not here in America. We don't know the exact root country. No one asks, he doesn't offer. But he certainly didn't grow up on the streets of New York, learning how to bargain, make trade-offs, and compromise.

He didn't grow up learning the laws of men. He didn't grow up studying the laws of god. Instead, he was immersed in and soaked up the oldest and most primal laws of all. He grew up watching and seeing the truth of the Laws of Nature. He didn't read Darwin, he lived it. You were either predator or prey. The food chain means more to him than simply being able to cut in line at McDonald's because he's brawny and intimidating. Only the strong survive. Only the best equipped will be granted the life span to be able to pass along their desirable traits to offspring. There is no balance of powers. It is much more simple than that. You either hunt, or you are hunted. You are either on the very top of the pyramid, or in constant jeopardy of being devoured if you aren't.

To people whose minds are constantly flipping esoteric questions around, he is an animal. His actions, when viewed by candlelight of morality, weighed on the scales of modern justice, and judged by compassionate souls, are horrifying. They are seen as primitive, base, and disgusting in the context of the laws of men, the laws of gods. But according the Laws of Nature, Simon Adebisi is the quintessential essence of Evolved.

That puts Miguel Alvarez in a gravely dangerous place. Right now, he, not Adebisi, is standing on the top of the pyramid at Oz. Adebisi isn't playing this game for respect. He doesn't play it for money. He doesn't play it to be cool. To him, it's not a game, but life itself. His actions aren't predicated on hate, or revenge. His instincts push him to operate in a manner consistent with survival. The only way to survive is to be on top. If you aren't at the top of the food chain, you're someone else's dinner. He has no intention of being carved up, marinated, and served with au jus alongside the mashed potatoes that he dishes out to the other inmates. He will not be hunted. So he will hunt.

****

Everything he has ever been taught has told him that fighting is good. It is admirable, it is ok, and it is part of the essence that makes you a man. If you want something, battle for it. If you need to prove yourself, do it with unbridled force. If someone harms you or a loved one, rage back. So he does. But it doesn't come without a price. It doesn't come naturally to him. It doesn't feel right, or good. When he does harm, it doesn't give him a feeling of release, a feeling of empowerment. At first it made him feel vicious, and low. But he did it anyhow. Now he's apathetic about it. He steels himself and does what he needs to. It no longer hurts him, or gnaws at him, at least, not most of the time.

How can you be taught such things? Certainly his mother didn't sit him down on her lap and instead of crooning lullabies into his ear whispered about the value of slicing up an old man's face. That's not how it worked. She told him fighting was bad. She hates violence. She taught him that he needed to find a way to get out of the street life, make something more of himself. But he watched her. Her actions belied her words. His family may have said things to him, tried to teach him one way, but the ever present undercurrent was something altogether. You can only swim in the surface water for so long until eventually the stronger, pulsing riptide gets hold of you. When her husband, his father, got sent to prison for murder, she did not stop loving him, wasn't angry with him, didn't lose respect for him. She mourned the loss of him. When her father-in-law, his grandfather, cut out a man's heart, he was not scorned by the family. He was lionized. His mama told him that violence is bad, killing is wrong. But he sat and watched the two men of the family become legends for those exact things. They were in prison, but they were respected, loved, and aggrandized.

When he'd play on the monkey bars at the playground, he'd see the other kids, how they'd pick unmercifully on some others. If the hassled kid would back down and shrink away, they'd get it twice as bad the next day. If he'd stand up and punch the bully in face, he'd be applauded.

When his own sister got caught in fray with some neighborhood thugs, his mother pulled him aside and made it clear. "You are the man of the house. You have to do something."

He never embraced it, but he accepted it. 'Better them than me.' He never minded defending his own, standing up for himself, that wasn't the problem. It was the other times. Times he didn't really see the need for such force, but he used it because he thought he should. Those were the ones that bothered him. He felt it was wrong, but he thought it was right.

He learned the same things about love and honor. His dad loved his mom. That went without question. But when faced with making a decision to spend the rest of his life with her, but without any juice on the street, or his life in prison with ample respect, he choose the latter. And no one thought he was wrong. Same for grandpa. They loved their wives, and their families, but if they had no respect, no manhood, they would be useless. It is better to be alone and respected than to be with a precious loved one and thought of by others as less than a man. Love was for the women. Pride was for the men. That never felt quite right to him, but he thought it must be so.

***

He never learned those brutal lessons. He saw the opposite. His brothers were always getting in trouble. They'd lie, cheat, steal, and fight. Then they'd get caught, and they'd be severely punished. The people around them lost all respect for the way they behaved. His mother still loved them, but she was disappointed in them. His father got to the point where he couldn't stand the sight of them. They were always running from the law. They were not successful, they were failures. He wanted to be the polar opposite. Lying, cheating, stealing, and fighting were bad to him. He knew that to his very core. He built his life on the ideals of upholding the laws of men. He didn't want to harm and maim, he wanted to protect and serve.

What made him do the things he did? Loyalty and honor were more than words and ideals to him. They were a way of life. But there was always something simmering deeper. As sickening as his brothers were for their stupid brawls, when a friend got in trouble, he was always more than eager to back him up and take a few shots in a fistfight.

Then things got bad. And he can now recite a list with at least a hundred items on it of why it happened. He was abandoned. He was afraid. He was protecting his partner. He was doing his job. He was full of vengeance and rage. He had wanted to take his own life, failed, so he was determined to take something. He had to settle the score. It was justified. It was clean. He was doing his job. He was, it was, they were, and on and on. The reasons go on and on, but none of them can change one simple fact. He killed another man.

He fights with it now. He used to ignore it, push it to the back of his mind. First he was busy being angry. Angry at being hung out to dry, angry at the system that forced him into the situation, then slapped him for it. Then he was occupied. Busy assimilating to a new life, again protecting someone else, again seeking justice. Next, he began falling. Falling for a man, which he thought was impossible.

Now he has to face it. He doesn't want to rage against Meldrick, and he doesn't want to hate himself anymore. But he can't fully be with Meldrick until he's comfortable with himself. And what he now knows, and has to learn to accept is a startling thing about himself.

No matter what the reasons, the circumstances, or the outcome, the act itself is what he needs to reconcile. That and the fact that he wanted to do it. That's his secret that he struggles with. All those reasons and explanations and justifications are just fine to present to the general public. But they don't know how he felt, what he thought as he had his finger on that trigger. He wanted to do it. He felt in control, and calm. He wanted to kill Luther Mahoney, and so he did. That's what terrifies him, sickens him, and he must now understand and live with. He needs to figure out how long this person has been hiding inside of him, and how he got there. He has to know if the interloper is already gone, or if he's only a stone's throw away, always within striking distance. So now he's looking, and seeking. And now he knows something about himself that many people never know, and fear to find out. What he knows is this: Mike Kellerman has the killer instinct.

Not only does he have it, he's used it. Maybe that's the curse. Maybe people who have the will to kill should also have easier consciences. Maybe for most of them, the value of human life is not so great. But it is for Kellerman. It no longer matters what kind of man Mahoney was. The simple fact remains that he was a man, and his life was ended by Kellerman. He. Killed. A. Man. Not many people really know how that feels. They may think that they can imagine, but can they? He thought he knew exactly who he was. But he's still shocked when he looks back and realizes what he did. Now he knows what he's capable of. He's looked into the darkest and most hidden corners of himself, and discovered previously unfathomable things lurking there. And that is what he must make his peace with now.

***

Most people think that prison has changed him. They don't even recognize him as a shadow of what he used to be. He was an educated, smart, cultured, family man who worked hard to take care of those around him. He valued the superficial things, his Harvard degree, his black BMW, his pretty wife, and his beautiful home. The people who knew him then see none of those things anymore. What they see is a scruffy, mercurial, half crazed stranger. He no longer values material objects. He values his fortitude, he values his resolve. Did he change, or did they never know him at all?

He doesn't know, because he had never been tested before. He may have been smart before, but now he's wise. All his conditioning had taught him to be civil, refined. He was never exposed to violence, so he never had to react. The thought of it sickened him. He had nothing but disdain for the rough, vicious, uncultured heathens that populated the less exclusive neighborhoods of the city. He worked for what he had, but he never once had to fight. The thought of it was absurd. What good can it do you anyhow? Better to reason, debate, compromise through disagreements. He was taught to shave his face clean, keep his clothes ironed, and act like a gentleman. Be cordial, and courteous. And that worked for a long time, why should he question it?

It didn't even occur to him to fight back when the shit started to fall. He simply tried to keep some dignity in tact and remain human. And then he snapped. But was that a change, or was it something that was always there, he had just never used? He had been taught not to act like this, but it came so easily to him. And it worked. He seems to have a natural proclivity for it.

They think he's crazy, deranged. He doesn't know if he is, but he doesn't think so. He does what he needs to do. But it's more than that. It feels good. He's not addicted to violence, no. And he doesn't use it randomly. But he's not afraid. He's not afraid of anyone hurting him, he's not afraid of anyone pushing him around, or humiliating him. Because he won't let them. And that makes him feel powerful, that makes him feel like a real man. When he smashed that glass that shattered into Schillinger's eye, he wasn't horrified that he had injured another person. He was high as hell, but he also felt the adrenaline and that other, unnamed, intangible, indescribable feeling. The feeling of finally being a man. The feeling of standing up for yourself.

He's not malicious, or petty, that's not in his nature. But he's no longer willing to be submissive, or abused. He can, and will, stand on his own.

He knows how it feels to take a human life. And it doesn't feel good. The worst part to him is that he didn't choose to do it though. But it's taught him other things. It made him aware of the brevity of his own, and it is a constant reminder of what's important.

He knows that standing on your own isn't the same as being alone. He had never been alone. He has always been instinctually inclined to seek out a mate. And when he finds one, he cherishes them. But they always abandon him. Before he learned the value of self respect, he would crawl after them, accept any demands, do anything to keep them by his side. Not anymore. He'd never leave or hurt if he's in love. But if his lover betrays him, he won't put up with it. He may love Alvarez, but he's not going to take shit from anyone anymore. He deserves to be loved the way he loves, and he'll either demand that same respect, or be alone.

Maybe he has changed. Or maybe he's finally released something inside of him that had always been lurking there. He's not sure. Maybe he is psychotic, but he's even smarter than when he earned his formerly cherished degree. Often, the wisest men are deeply insane. But he does know one thing. Whether he learned to be this way, circumstances drove him to it, or if it's actually his intrinsic nature finally unleashed is unimportant. This is who he is now. He's not going back.

***

He's closed off. He doesn't share, he doesn't confide, and he never cares too deeply. It's not only his impulse, it's how he's been conditioned. Detached. Aloof. Fiercely independent. No large investments. Vaulted.

But it didn't work. He has to fight it. He wants to help, and he wants to reach out. He wants to shoulder the burden, not just for a day, but for as long as he needs to. But he knows that's not his method of operation. He's frightened that his patterns are so ingrained that he won't be up to the task. If he's not, he has to decide now, otherwise the consequences this time could be even more catastrophic.

His instinct is to run. It's the old syndrome, flight or fight. He never backs down from confrontations. He will hold his own against anyone. He never has to look deep and dig out hidden forces to give him strength and resolve against adversaries, he's always been able to summon the courage to battle when needed. He never runs. If absolutely necessary, he will fight. But when the dilemma is not confrontational, when he is not being threatened, but instead approached, he runs. Intimacy is more daunting than violence.

The time is now here. He wants this, but he's also starting to panic. Fight, or flight? He knows what his nature is. But if he wants this badly enough, he's going to have to defeat those inclinations. If he runs now, he will never be granted another chance. The time for that is over. This is already his third opportunity, more than any person rightfully deserves. But if he stays and tries, he MUST stick it out. That is not even up for discussion. He would unquestionably destroy the other person if he backs out once things get too intense. Once the other person has placed his trust in him, he must be up to the task of upholding that trust.

Can he do it? He doesn't know. He knows what he wants. His palms sweat and throat gets dry as he turns it over and over again. It may already be too late. He pulls a hand down across his goatee, takes a deep breath to try and quiet the nervous pumping of his blood. His mind, his body, his subconscious are all in agreement. Flight. Run. Go now. Go far. Hide.

But his heart is fighting them all. Stay. Help. Fight for this. How strong is his desire? Can it overcome his instincts and his past?

Augustus: So this frog, he's swimming in a pond, right, happy as can be, when all of a sudden, he hears someone calling him from the bank. "Psst, yo! Little amphibian, com'ere!" So, the frog, being a cordial little dude, he swims on over and sees this scorpion. "Hey, I need to get to the other side of the pond, frog dude, how 'bout you give me a ride on your back?" So the frog looks at him like he's nuts, and says, "No fucking way, homes, you just wanna sting my green ass and send me to a watery grave." And the scorpion says, "No, no, I promise I won't sting you, I gotta get over there." So the frog agrees. The scorpion climbs on his back and when they reach the middle of the pond, all of a sudden, the frog feels this searing pain in his side. "What have you done," he cries out. "You've killed us BOTH, now you're going to drown along with me dying from you stinging me! Why?" And the scorpion looks down at the little frog, croaking out his dying breath just before he submerges for eternity, dragging him down with him, and replies, "I couldn't help it frog. I'm a scorpion, it's in my nature."

**

Adebisi has Mathews cornered in his pod, the smaller, weaker man is pressed into a back corner as Adebisi crowds in front of him. Grabbing his wrist, he inspects the jewelry adorning it. Raising one brow and looking at it curiously, he holds the other man's smaller arm in his hands, then begins to unfasten the watch. He is disturbed as he hears his name being called from outside the pod and turns to answer it.

"Adebisi,"

"What do you want, O'Reilly?" Turning his attention back to Mathews for the moment, he nods at him. "You, you can go, I'm keeping this," he informs him matter of factly, inspecting the watch again.

"Uh, but, this is my pod," the naïve young kid replies.

"I'm going to look around, see what else I want." He waves his hand insistently. "Go!" As the younger man scurries away, confused and afraid, Adebisi chuckles to himself.

"I want back in the kitchen," O'Reilly states flatly.

"What for?"

"Come on, man, I hate mopping floors. I know you miss me, let me back in."

"Why should I?"

"Hey, I helped get Schibetta out of the way for you, you could show me some gratitude."

"The way I see it, you was cozy with him."

"Don't believe everything you see, Adebisi, you know that. Hey, who's in charge now anyhow, you or Alvarez?"

"Don't matter to you. You aren't part of this at all," he answers, poking a finger into Ryan's chest and beginning to walk away.

"Yeah, well, I want to be," O'Reilly grabs Adebisi's arm to stop him from walking away from him. Adebisi's only reply is to turn around, raise an annoyed brow, and shoot O'Reilly a look letting him know he's crossed a serious line by grabbing him like that. Releasing the huge bicep, O'Reilly continues. "I'm getting bored. Come on, let me back in. I know you. You're sick of Alvarez already, it's time to get him out of the way. You don't need him anymore."

"I don't need you either."

"Yeah, but you like me, and I can make things easier for you. Come on, let me back in, man."

"What you gonna give me if I do?"

"How about control of the tit trade, all to yourself."

"Why would I trust you more than him?"

"Cause I know something about you he doesn't."

Nodding, Adebisi bites. "What's that?"

"I know you're one bad motherfucker, and I wouldn't dare cross you," O'Reilly slaps him on the shoulder and heads off.

Looking down at the watch in his hand, Adebisi sucks between his teeth and nods, calling after O'Reilly. "This is true. I am one baad motherfucker."

**

Sitting at the table with Guerrero, Alvarez knows he's in serious trouble now. Martinez was paroled yesterday, and Rodriguez got transferred to genpop last week. It's now just the two of them for the time being, and Guerrero was one of the first to desert him the first time around. He's been watching Adebisi too, knows he's getting restless. Things have been running smoothly for two months now, regular shipments of tits being delivered that they then split up and distribute equally among their gangs. But Alvarez controls it. He dictates what comes in, how much, and when. He knows that isn't to Adebisi's liking. Even though he's been fair, and generous with profits, he knows that the large man has been growing increasingly unhappy.

Preparing to stick a fork into the rapidly cooling meatloaf in front of him, the tray is suddenly jerked away from underneath him. "What the fuck man," he stands up and looks to confront the intruder. He is greeted by the handsome, smiling face of Ryan O'Reilly.

"You don't have to eat that slop," he tells him, placing a new tray down on the table. "Made this special for you. You get perks like that, you know," he explains, and then retreats hastily, leaving Alvarez to wonder what it was all about.

Sitting back down, he looks at the food in front of him, expecting to see a special meal, as was often prepared for Nino when he ran the kitchen. Meatloaf, same as what O'Reilly snatched away. 'Nino,' he remembers. They fed him glass until it killed him. He looks down at the tray, not daring to ingest a single mouthful. He doesn't know if the food is laced with poison, covered with broken glass, or merely a warning, perfectly fine, but meant as a reminder. It is the first official shot off the bow that Adebisi is ready to make his move.

**

Two days later

As Kellerman is mopping the floor outside of Dr. Nathan's office, he looks up and sees Alvarez inside, greedily munching on the doctor's lunch of a peanut butter sandwich. Dropping his mop, he walks into the office and crosses his arms, accusation and disgust pouring from his eyes. "What are you doing? It's not enough that you heist drugs, you're stealing her food now too?"

Still chewing hungrily, Alvarez swallows then spits back a reply. "I'm fuckin hungry, man. Leave me alone."

Laughing, Kellerman stands his ground. "I know the food isn't that great in the cafeteria, but you can stomach it to survive on, Alvarez."

"No I can't."

"What are you talking about?"

"Adebisi's trying to kill me. He's poisoning my food."

"Whatever."

"I mean it. He wants me out."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Fuck yeah, I'm serious, I ain't eaten nothin in two fucking days, I'm starving here, man."

"Why's he trying to kill you?"

"I don't know, that's what he does."

"How do you know?"

"Look, I just know, ok, detective? I don't have hard evidence to prove my case, but O'Reilly's weaseled his way back to the kitchen, and every day he personally serves me my food. I ain't eatin that shit."

"Well, you can't not eat forever."

"Well, that's great advice. I never knew that. Thank you, man, thanks for clueing me in about that."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I don't fuckin know, I'm tryin to figure it out. I don't know what to do."

"Are you gonna kill him, Alvarez?"

"No," he says, taking another huge bite, trying to stuff as much as he can at once into his body. "I ain't gonna kill him. I ain't like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It just means I don't wanna fuckin kill no one, ok? I got about three more months and then I'm outta here, baby. I ain't fuckin up my parole. 'Sides, I ain't never killed no one, don't wanna neither."

"Yeah, so you think it's a bad thing, even though he's trying to kill you. Three months? You think you can survive for three months if he wants you dead?"

"I don't know, I'll figure something out, but I ain't gonna whack no one. That just ain't me."

Crossing his arms again and getting defensive, Kellerman finally spits out what he's been thinking. "Yeah, well I killed someone, you think that's so awful, huh?"

Still chewing, Alvarez brushes past him out the door, leaving Kellerman to follow him to hear his reply. "No, that's different. You HAD to do it. That dude woulda shot Lewis if you hadn't. You didn't have a choice, you was doin what you had to."

"Yeah, well what if I told that I was happy to do it?"

"Well, you like killin? Then go whack Adebisi for me."

"No, I'm not happy about it now, I don't mean it felt good like that,"

Turning around quickly, Alvarez has grown tired of the interrogation. The lack of food has already made him edgy and short tempered, he's losing his ability to focus his attention for too long on one thing. "Look, what's your point, man? Adebisi don't have a gun pointed at my partner, ok? And so what if you wanted someone dead, everyone thinks about killing someone. You had to do it, and that's that. It's done, get over it," he spits out and tries to walk away.

Grabbing his arm, Kellerman stops him again. "Yeah, well I can't get over it. A man is dead, because of me, and I have to live with that every day now."

Looking at the floor and sighing, Alvarez shakes his head. "Ok, I'm sorry. That came out wrong. All I'm sayin is this, you didn't have a choice, you had to do it. That's why I don't wanna kill Adebisi, I don't wanna live that, you know? But now you got to, amigo. You gotta find a way to make your peace with it. Fuckin Kellerman, man, that's all you do, torture yourself, you gotta stop that shit, man. Not everything in the world is your fault, or your problem." With that, he determinedly stalks away, leaving Mike to think about what he said.

**

Sitting across from him playing a boring game of checkers, Lewis keeps stealing glances up at the fair man. Noticing that he wants to say something, Beecher finally confronts him. "What, what is it?"

"Huh?"

"You keep looking at me, what the fuck do you want?"

"Well, I was just...ah, nothin', forget it."

"Spit it out, Lewis."

Double jumping and collecting two red pieces, Lewis leans back in his chair and folds his arms. "Are you sorry you trusted him?"

"Who?"

"Alvarez."

"Fucker."

Leaning back in and pointing across the table, Lewis traps Beecher with his gaze. He's not afraid of the simmering craziness, the temperamental outbursts. In fact, he's often amused by them, so he presses on. "Nah, I'm serious here. You trusted him, right?"

"Yeah, I trusted him, Lewis."

"You regret that?"

Sighing, Beecher looks away. Sweeping his eyes across the room, he taps a black circle on the table as he composes his response. "No," is all he offers.

"Well, after what happened with Schillinger, how'd you trust someone again?"

"I don't know, Meldrick. It was easy to trust Alvarez. I wanted to. You can't live your whole life running away just cause you're scared. I did that for too long with Schillinger. If you want something, you gotta suck it up and go for it."

"Well, was it worth it?"

"Yeah."

"Even though he stepped on you, broke your heart?"

"Look, fuck off, ok," he replies suddenly as he stands up. Flinging the checkers across the table at a stunned Lewis, he then stalks away. Left sitting there giggling to himself, Lewis has the most absurd thought. He'd love to see Pembleton deal with this nutcase in the box. Smirking to himself, he tries to picture what Pembleton's reaction would be the first time Beecher unleashed one of his caustic rhymes on Frank's arrogant ass.

**

Five days later

"What do you say, pal," O'Reilly slaps Adebisi on the back as he pulls up next to him.

"Always the most charming things, according the ladies, O'Reilly."

"Yeah, well, taken a good look at Alvarez lately? He's looking pretty weak, I think it's time to make the move."

"We'll make a move when I say so."

"Ok, big guy, you're the boss."

"And don't you forget that."

"How could I? You're always reminding me."

"What you been doing to his food?"

"Nothing. If we poison him, McManus will know immediately that it was us. We pulled that once with Nino, we can't get away with it again."

"Then why's he lookin so sick?"

"Cause he won't eat, he's afraid we're going to poison him."

"Why's he think that?"

"See, I told you I'm handy to have around," O'Reilly winks, never revealing all his tricks. "So what's the plan?"

"No plan. When the time is right," Adebisi raises the knife he's using to chop up carrots and gives it a flourish, "he'll just have to choose."

"Choose what?"

"His business, or his life."

**

Three Days later

Exhausted at 5 PM, Alvarez slinks down onto his bunk. He was almost out of here. He could have walked out of here in a few more months a free man and taken over the outside operation of delivering narcotics into Oz. All he had to do was hang on. But he's failing. Somehow, Adebisi has gained outside contacts that have started fucking with his men. O'Reilly, he figures. O'Reilly's the one setting things up on the outside to make Alvarez and his crew useless. They'll have their own suppliers delivering directly to them. And his men on the outside are getting more and more restless, they don't like being squeezed out of the business. Inside, he's down to one ally on his side, Guerrero. And he's awful chummy with Wangler these days.

Rolling onto his side, he winces from the rolling hunger in his stomach. He has to eat soon. Drawing his legs up to try and quiet the pain, he buries his head deep into the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position and ease the nagging, persistent ache in his neck.

Shivering from the cold, he lacks the strength to move and retrieve the covers right now. His bones are sore, he just wants to lay still. Closing his eyes and drawing his legs up closer, he wishes someone would come in and throw a blanket over him. He'd like to just pull it up over his head and go to sleep for a few years, forget about all this bullshit for a long time. He knows what would feel good. A thick blanket, a softer pillow, and a warm body curled up behind him. Someone pressing their chest against his back, wrapping their arms around his to keep him insulated, and safe.

Still lightly shivering, he begins to drift off. Neither fully embracing sleep, nor completely awake, he hovers in that twilight between the two for some time, his mind filled with pleasant visions, nearly feeling the physical sensations he craves. Breathing deeply, he reminisces about pleasant scents, happier times. The body pressed behind his feels so warm, so strong, yet so soft and cozy. The hand reaching around him, stroking his arm is gentle and relaxing. He musters the strength to roll over and face his benefactor, greeted with a whiff of clean, powdery fragrance. Not perfume, more like talcum powder. Rubbing his nose against the benevolent face, he opens his eyes, and is greeted with deep azure irises staring back at him, seemingly sparkling and smiling at him. Mmmm, raising a hand, he strokes it through the soft, wavy hair as he closes his eyes again, reveling in the feel of a strong hand caressing his back. It feels so comfortable, he feels at home.

But the feeling is fleeting. Sleep, the sister to death, soon claims his weary mind, and those lucid thoughts are overcome with more menacing visions. He can never recall the exact specifics of the dreams, but he recalls their nature. He always wakes up with the same feelings of dread and foreboding. He feels as though he's been chased all night long by jackals, hunting him down, driving him into small, perilous caves without any escape.

Augustus: Ok, how about this one. What if our nature is one thing, but our nurturing taught us another? I mean, maybe there is something about us that's just there. We didn't learn it, we didn't cultivate it. It's just part of us. But everything that we were taught goes against that. Which is going to win, the ingrained, or the harvested? Maybe that war and conflict against our own self is who we are then. You can't live forever like that though. Sooner or later, you have to lean one way or the other, because if you don't, oh, man. When you try and walk down the middle of the road, it's only a matter time before the traffic from one side or the other is gonna get ya.

Miguel keeps a wary eye on the hacks overlooking the pit as he evades their prying eyes and ducks into a dimly lit staircase leading to genpop cell block 4. Grabbing the rail to steady his weakened legs, he lowers himself onto the dusty stoop, tucks his legs underneath his thinning frame and wraps his arms around his knees. He has to eat soon. Glass or not, his body will eventually become so depleted that he won't be able to fend off Wangler, let alone Adebisi if a fight is to break out. He's trying to figure it out. Kellerman and Lewis have been sliding him some food, the most they can manage, but it isn't really enough. He has to somehow take control of the situation. He refuses to back down, relinquish all that he fought for. If he just turns over the keys to the market to Adebisi, he'll be a laughingstock, and they'll probably kill him anyway. How the fuck did he get in this mess in the first place? Beecher tried to tell him. He told him to stay the fuck away from it all. Why didn't he just listen to him? What drove him to do this? What has he gained? A few bucks. That's all really. Not like he can run out and spend it on a new cadillac in here. Can't buy a new stereo.

If he could talk to Beecher, he'd help him. He'd help him figure out what to do. But he can't. That's what he gave up in the trade off. Rubbing his jaw along his shoulder, he thinks about that now too. He lied. He lied to himself. He felt it was wrong to ditch him, but he reasoned his way into it. He misses him now.

The sound of footsteps gingerly falling upon the steps above him takes him away from that thought. 'Probably a fucking hack coming to bust me,' he thinks as he straightens up a bit. He's actually heartened by that. It could honestly be the best thing for him. He could mouth off a little, maybe even shove the hack around, get sent to the hole for it. Hatred for small spaces aside, that would be the ideal thing for him right now. He'd be safe in there for a while. He could eat, or does Adebisi prepare that food too? Shit, even if he does, he certainly can't determine who gets what meal. Yeah, he could eat in there, have some time alone, be able to think. He seriously wants to get sent to the hole, how sick is that?

He doesn't turn around to see who's approaching, instead he waits for the hack to confront him. Sitting there staring ahead, not really seeing anything, he feels the form walk down the stairs past him, then sees the figure come to rest in front of him. Tan pants. Not a hack. Fuck. Raising his eyes, he doesn't greet the interloper, he merely stares back at him. Beecher.

Tilting his head to the side, Beech doesn't speak either. He was going to. He was going to dig Alvarez a little bit, taunt him. Gazing down at his face and seeing his dark eyes so flat, he loses his heart for it. Wordlessly, he lowers himself onto the step and seats himself next to Alvarez. Although there is ample room to accommodate two people, he doesn't leave any distance between them, instead crowding Miguel against the banister.

Alvarez clears his throat, but still opts not to speak. He's overwhelmed right now. Maybe it's due to the fatigue, or maybe his conscience is stopping him. He doesn't know what to think though. But he knows exactly how he feels. He feels small, and wrong. All the guilt he tried to bottle up and push aside now comes pouring out, as if from a floodgate. But there's more too. Catching the gentle scent of the man next to him, he's filled with regret. How can prison soap and cheap detergent combine to create such a pleasant aroma he wonders. And how come no one else in Oz smells like that, like a little kid wrapped in warm clothes fresh out of the dryer. The unique aroma triggers comforting memories, ones that he's been submerging himself in to help him pass the restless, frightening nights.

Breaking the silence, Beech is the first to speak. "So, how's it going?" He doesn't know what else to say. He knows it sounds stupid, and it comes out cocky, arrogant.

"Ok."

"Yeah? You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin fine, a'right?"

"Well, you look like shit."

Turning to glare at him, Alvarez is almost glad he's being antagonistic. Maybe that will help in the long run. He can concentrate on this aspect of the man instead of other more appealing facets and convince himself that he truly is glad to be rid of him. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," Beech replies. "I just wanted to see if you're ok, that's all." Rising from his seat, he decides this was a bad idea. There is nothing left to say, and he can't help Alvarez now anyhow. Taking a few steps away with his back to him, Beech halts as he hears Miguel whisper a quite declaration.

"Adebisi's gonna kill me."

Turning back around to face him, he doesn't think before answering. "I know." Looking at the other man, he sees him in a way he never had before. Alvarez was the strong one, so Beecher thought. Beecher thought he needed him. He was the one with the muscular arms, and he strutted with his head high. He was the one who made all the moves. He was the one who made Beecher feel human again, who gave him the strength to give himself. Look at him now. Hunched there with his head hung low, unable to look up into Beecher's face, he's becoming gaunt and pale. And why? Beecher knows. Miguel can lie to anyone he wants to, even himself, but Beech knows the truth now. He loves him. But he wasn't strong enough to stand up for that, and Beech understands that. It wasn't that long ago that Beecher wasn't strong enough to stand up for himself, let alone someone else. But now he can. And now it's his turn to be the strong one.

"Miguel, it's gonna be ok," he whispers as he moves forward and sits deliberately close to him again. Placing a hand on his knee, he speaks soothingly, "We'll figure something out."

Shaking his head, still refusing to look in the direction of the man offering him generosity, Miguel utters only one word, "Why."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why you wanna help me?"

"Because you helped me."

"Fuck."

"Alvarez, look at me," Beecher commands, leaning even closer.

Reluctantly, Alvarez turns to obey. He figures he at least owes Beecher this. But he also wants to. He wants to believe him. He wants to put his faith in him that things will be all right. But he's wary. He's afraid it's a trick. Everyone wants to destroy him now. Why shouldn't Beecher? Hell, he's the one who should want to the most. And he is a crazy fuck. He expects to turn and see him leering at him, laughing at him. But he's not. It's even worse. As he turns and looks into Beecher's face, it is concerned, and sincere. His eyes are soft and welcoming, and still that incredibly deep azure. Miguel's throat constricts as again he's overcome with remorse. He can feel the pressure building in his eyes, the dull throb of pain in his neck hitting a piercing high note. He's ready to fucking cry. Sniffing and looking down, he babbles out the only thing he can honestly say. "I'm fuckin sorry, man. I'm so sorry."

Placing a hand under his chin, Beecher raises his face again forcing him to look at him. "I know. It's ok." Gazing into the dark eyes, Beecher knows he's telling the truth. Heavy lidded, dusky, and opaque as they are, they can't camouflage the fear, pain, and regret. There are no tears falling, he's been too conditioned to allow that to happen, but Beecher knows they are back there, lurking. He can't stand to see so much hurt, so he raises his hand and gently places his fingertips upon Miguel's forehead. Drawing his hand down, he forces his eyes closed. Slipping his other hand behind Miguel's head, he gently lowers it toward his shoulder.

The thoughts of weakness and control have dissipated in Alvarez. He's tired, and weary. All that he wants right now is to feel a few moments of comfort. Allowing Beech to guide him, he nestles his head into his neck. Squeezing his eyes closed to keep the sight of the depressingly dingy stairwell out of view, he buries them in the warm, inviting skin. Feeling Beecher lower his own head and nuzzle his cheek against his, he releases his worries, forgetting his burdens for the moment. Tobias' hand upon the back of his head strokes his hair, gently smoothing it, soothing him even more. Without a thought, Alvarez naturally reaches around the body next to his, grasping to Beecher's back to draw him even closer. Allowing his arms to encircle the other man, hands resting upon his spine, arms pressed against his sides, he can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. The steady rhythm of his breath is a calming metronome, marking only time, and making everything else fade away. Through the soft cotton of the worn t-shirt, he can feel the human warmth of Beecher's body radiate against his arms.

Tobias detects the quaking in Alvarez, and realizes he is shivering. He never knew it before now. He thought he knew this man, but there was one thing he forgot, or failed to ever notice. He thought Miguel had all the answers, he thought he was so strong. He thought he was tough, and hard. And he is. But he's also just like everyone else. He's just like Beecher. Inside, he's fragile. Still stroking his head and neck, comforting him, Beech now begins to rub his hand up and down along his back, trying to generated heat within the body. Shifting his own frame slightly, he presses even more intimately close to Miguel, snuggling him next to him. Swaying slightly, he keeps crooning the words over and over, repeating them like a mantra. "It's ok. It's gonna be ok."

Tenderly cuddling, cheek to cheek, eyes closed, inhaling the familiar comforting scent of his old lover, Miguel believes him. The hands upon him aren't asking for anything, but are comforting, calming, and reassuring. Clinging to the other man, shutting out the rest of the world, all of its expectations and demands, he truly thinks and feels it will all be all right.

One Week Later

O'Reilly still hand delivers Alvarez every meal. He's getting weaker by the day now. Even the stolen food delivered to him isn't enough to sustain him much longer. He can't even remember now why he started all of this. What was so important that he backed himself into such a precarious position?

Things went bad on the outside. Alvarez lost his focus, wasn't able to concentrate on what needed to be done, and his boys fucked with O'Reilly's. Subsequently two recent shipments have been botched. Alvarez doesn't care. He's finally decided. Fuck the tit trade, fuck the struggle. He's going to tell Adebisi to clear up the problems; they're his now, he's the one who wants to be in control. What he fails to consider is that Adebisi is already mad as a hornet. It's one thing to have the business fucked with, but his personal supply was also cut off when those shipments didn't come through. He's out of tits, he wants answers, and narcotics, right now.

Scratching the side of his face, Adebisi barks the command to Wangler. "Get Alvarez, make sure he brings some tits," he bellows. He figures that in the short run, Alvarez can pinch him some tits from the hospital, or that he's still been getting tits in through the mail room or other hacks. Those outlets haven't been cut off. At O'Reilly's suggestion, after he gets some necessary fuel to appease his body, he'll then open the table for negotiations.

O'Reilly pulls Wangler aside on his way out, dropping one further instruction in his ear. "Why," Kenny asks. "What's it matter who hears it?"

"Just do as I say, ok? I've got something in this too."

It's a horrid walk for Wangler, he can barely remember what he's being sent after. He's fiending so bad he's having trouble thinking of anything else. He also knows if he doesn't get some fucking tits pronto, it's only going to get worse than this.

He finally makes it to the pit of Em City and looks around. Clearing his head, he finds his mark and moves toward Alvarez. He has already forgotten O'Reilly's instructions, but luckily for him, it pans out anyway, Alvarez is playing a game of poker with Kellerman. Tapping him on the shoulder, Wangler stands behind him, scratching the length of his arm, obviously jonsin. "What? What the fuck you want, I'm in a game here," Alvarez cockily replies.

"Adebisi wants you in the kitchen, now," Kenny relays the message.

So this is it. Glancing across the table at Kellerman, he rises from his seat and throws the full house he was holding down on the table in disgust.

"Yo, yo," Kenny stops him. "He says to make damn sure you bring some tits. He's jonsin, bad."

"Yeah, a'right."

"I'm going with you," Kellerman says. O'Reilly knew he would. He's a fantastic judge of character, that's how he can so easily manipulate so many people. And the one thing he knows about Kellerman that can never be changed is his loyalty. Now he's got his chance. While Adebisi is rampaging, Kellerman will be caught in the crossfire too.

Shaking his head, Alvarez doesn't have the desire nor the patience to wage a battle with Kellerman over this. He doesn't see a problem in the first place. He's gonna give Adebisi a stash of tits to get him through, and also hand him the reigns to the operation. What more could he want? But, just in case trouble starts, he also figures it won't be a horrible thing to have Kellerman watching his back. He is, after all, walking into a pit of jackals.

When he exists his pod after retrieving a stash, he's greeted by Beecher. He's standing outside, twirling a white shower towel. "Hey, mi amigo, I'll be right back, I gotta do something really quick," he explains.

"I'm going with you."

"What? No you ain't."

"Yeah I am. Shut up."

Again not seeing the harm, he shakes his head and begins walking down the hallway, Beecher at his side, followed by Kellerman and Lewis.

"Man, I hope I can get my hands on some fuckin food while I'm there," he says absently.

"What the hell, Alvarez, I brought you dinner last night, didn't you eat that?"

Grinning at the thought, he answers, "Yeah, man, I, well, I ate most of it."

"What do you mean, most of it? I thought you were starving, how come you didn't eat it all?"

"Well, Beech, it's just that it was, you know, kinda fuzzy."

Stopping in his tracks, Beech folds his arms over his chest defiantly. "Fuzzy? Well, excuse me for having to shove food in my pockets to smuggle it out of the cafeteria for you."

"No, no, man, I ain't complaining," he replies, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It was just weird, you know?"

"No, I don't know. What do mean weird, exactly?"

Covering his face to try and conceal his laughter now, Alvarez leans back against the wall and looks over at the other man. "It's just, you know, most people woulda stuffed a roll or something in their pocket, maybe some sandwich, you know?"

"Yeah? Well I thought you liked mashed potatoes."

Nearly hysterical with giggling now, Alvarez tries to compose himself the best he can. "Yeah, man, I do. Only you would stuff mashed potatoes in your fuckin pockets for me though. It's just weird, that's all."

Nodding once and walking away from the snickering man, Beech turns quickly as Alvarez hurries to catch up with him.

Behind them, Kellerman nudges Lewis with his elbow and nods at him, "Would you do that? For me? Would you stuff mashed potatoes in your pockets for me?"

"What?"

"Well, I think it's nice. I'd do it for you. Mashed potatoes, creamed corn, whatever you wanted, I'd bring it to you."

"Mikey, man, I hate that creamed corn, I don't want you bringing me more of it."

Rolling his eyes, Kellerman tries again. "I'm just asking if you'd bring me mashed potatoes."

"Tell you what, Kellerman, when they start serving real mashed potatoes, I'll bring 'em to you if you want."

"What do you mean, real ones?"

"That ain't no real potatoes they feed us, Alvarez tastes is hinky if he likes those things. They some sort of flakes or fake spuds or something, I ain't messing up my pockets over fake shit like that."

Up ahead, glancing over at Beecher, still swinging the towel around, Alvarez is finally lured into asking. "What's with the towel?"

"Intimidation factor."

"Huh?"

"For Adebisi. It'll make him think twice about getting cute."

"A fuckin towel, man? How's the fuck's a towel gonna intimidate anyone?"

"Long story. Still got a lot to tell you about, Miguel."

Chuckling, he looks over and admires the other man briefly, "Yeah, I guess so."

As they pass by the janitor's closet, Beecher points to it as a sly smile creeps across his rounded features. "Quickie on the way back?"

Smirking again, Alvarez keeps walking. "I don't know man, you got me a little concerned."

"About what?"

"Well, I'm afraid we start foolin around, you know, getting down, and I reach into your pants I'm gonna end up with a handful of yesterday's mashed potatoes. Fact, I don't know WHAT I'm gonna find there anymore."

"I changed pants, Alvarez!'

"Yeah, man, so you say, still and all, pockets full of mashed potatoes, I don't know what else you got going on in those pants, man."

"I changed PANTS!"

Behind them, Kellerman and Lewis hear the outburst but merely look at each other with raised brows and shrug.

Strutting into the kitchen side by side, Alvarez and Beecher both pull their faces into masks of indignant determination, the recent joking now completely forgotten. O'Reilly does a double take as he sees Beecher approaching with Alvarez; Lewis and Kellerman are a few paces behind them. Cursing under his breath, Ryan heads over to cut the leading duo off, beelining straight for Beecher. He had thought they were finished. He's the last person he expected to see walking into the middle of this confrontation, and one of the only ones he truly doesn't want to see. Beecher is one of the rare people in the world that O'Reilly actually likes. He doesn't know why, but he just does. Most people, he doesn't give a damn if they live or die, but he's always had a soft spot for Beecher.

Walking purposefully directly toward him, he pulls up and stands in front of Beecher, blocking his path. "What are you doing here, Beecher?"

"Just out for my afternoon stroll, O'Reilly."

Glancing over at Alvarez who's eyefucking him, then back to Beecher, he goes for the direct attack, "I thought you and this yo you were done, Beecher, you going slumming again or something?"

Alvarez makes a quick motion forward, as if to swing at O'Reilly, but Tobias quickly intervenes, putting his own body between the two of them. "Ease up, O'Reilly. I'll let that one go, for old times, but that's the only one," he says gravely. Shoving him aside, he then strides forward with Alvarez by his side.

Weaving through the tables, they find Adebisi in the back, chopping up the mystery meat of the day for the stew for dinner. They can tell from 20 paces away that he's in bad shape. The sweat is glistening on his smooth, dark skin, giving it an exotic sheen. He's trembling badly, and constantly shifting his weight from side to side. Raising an arm to swipe at his brow, the large knife in his hand glistens under the fluorescent lights. Seeing them approach, he forgets the task at hand, dropping the knife and walking over to them. It is not his customary, laid back, rhythmic strut, instead, a purposeful, brisk stride, not for posturing, but designed for propulsion forward. Nodding at Alvarez, he speaks his mind immediately. He is racked with discomfort, can't stand the thought of waiting another moment before getting some relief. "You bring some tits?"

"Yeah," he responds, digging in his pocket and flipping a small stash onto the counter next to him.

Behind them, O'Reilly motions to the lone hack in the cafeteria, signaling that now would be a good time to find duties elsewhere. Taking kickbacks not only from Alvarez, but also lately from Adebisi directly, he heeds the instruction and hastily retreats. Noting his sudden and conspicuous departure, Lewis and Kellerman exchange a loaded glance and take a few more tentative steps closer, toward the back of the kitchen.

To Miguel's shock, Beecher lurches and grabs the stash of heroin before Adebisi can lay his hands on it. "Not so fast. What are you going to give him for this?"

"Beech, man, don't."

"No, Alvarez, we all know what's going on here. This may be your last sale, better get a good price, don't just give it to him."

Stepping closer to the fair man, Adebisi motions with his hand, waving toward himself, "Give me the tits."

Looking up at the ceiling in mock ponderance, then directly back at Adebisi, Beecher is the one who takes a step forward now. "No, I don't think so. Not before you understand some things," he says, cockily flipping the towel around, twirling it counter-clockwise.

Adebisi takes a look at the towel, and can't help but remember the shower room. He was almost killed by this small little man with the aide of a towel just like that. He stops for a moment, sweat still pouring across his face, salty drops threatening to fall into his eyes at any second. "What?"

Keeping the bounty of narcotics tucked safely behind his back, Beecher nods over to Alvarez, "Tell him."

Clearing his throat, still shocked at the incredible cajones Beech is displaying, he speaks in a low voice. "I want out. I don't want nothin, you can have control of the trade, man, I'm steppin asi..."

"Not that," Beecher bellows, interrupting him. "Fuck that, Alvarez. YOU figured all this out, you set it up, you financed it, it's your fuckin business. Tell HIM to fuck off, to get the hell out of your way."

Eyes wide, jaw dropped, and momentarily speechless, Alvarez can't believe what he's hearing. Everyone else knew it about Beecher, how completely insane he is. But Alvarez had always just thought he was quirky, a bit volatile. Now he realizes just how fucking tripped he truly is though. "Beech, man, ease up, I don't care anymore. He can have it."

"See that, now give me the tits," Adebisi moves forward again, lunging at Beecher, trying to grasp the stash behind his back. Adebisi may be large, but Beecher is quick, and he turns and takes deft evasive steps, breaking into his trademark cackle as the chase begins. Alvarez begins to lunge at the larger man, but feels a tug on his shoulder. He is spun around and greeted by Kenny Wangler's fist landing squarely upon his jaw. Staggering under the blow, he loses his balance and falls onto one knee.

Moving quickly, Kellerman and Lewis both begin to rush toward the fray, only to have O'Reilly grab Mike from behind, and use Wangler's move, cold cocking him squarely in the jaw. Unlike Wangler though, O'Reilly's punch is less successful, and it has no opportunity for a follow up. Before he even regroups to take another swing, his face is introduced to some very serious Lewis fist, which efficiently puts him on the floor.

Struggling to get to his feet, Alvarez is delayed as Wangler jumps on him, a violent fury of flailing arms and hands coming down upon him. Through the corner of his eye, he is still alert enough to see Beecher streak across his line of vision, waving the bag of tits above his head as he jets around counters, weaving and avoiding Adebisi at all costs. Through it all, his lunatic cackling rings out as the dominant sound throughout the cafeteria. Knowing the grave consequences he'll face when Adebisi finally catches up with him, Alvarez uses all his power to rise and topple Wangler off of him, not realizing that he's being assisted by Kellerman and Lewis pulling the teenager off of him.

Disoriented and confused, he staggers to his feet to get his bearings again, and sees Lewis' face in front of him as he steadies himself. He hears the belligerent cackling ring out again, and jerks his head in the direction it's coming from.

He turns just in time to be completely horrified at what he sees. Adebisi is stalking deliberately toward Beecher, brandishing a huge carving knife. He doesn't have time to think, he simply reacts. Grabbing another knife off the counter as he rushes after the giant, he hurtles toward him as quickly as possible. He knows Adebisi isn't fucking around anymore, and he's crazy as hell. Gauging the distance left between the two men, he knows he has no alternative. Adebisi is prepared to strike now, his arm raised and weapon cocked for business. Backed against the wall, Beecher has nowhere to go, he's cornered, trapped.

Leaping onto the larger man's back, Alvarez is completely aware of what he is doing as he slices the knife across Adebisi's neck. He feels the warm liquid of the man's blood course over his hand as he pulls the knife through his throat. Stumbling and flailing wildly, Adebisi throws Miguel off of his back before falling to his knees as he clutches at his neck, trying to squelch the spurting, relieve the searing pain. Unable to scream, he gurgles in protest to what's happened to him. Eyes wide, mouth ajar, he knows these are his last breaths. Watching him collapse on the floor, Alvarez is filled neither with grief nor relief. He doesn't know what to think, or what to feel, his is simply stunned. Turning to look at Beecher for support, he is stricken with what he sees. He's lying crumpled against the wall.

He didn't hear him scream, and his vision was obstructed by the giant in front of him. He wasn't aware that Adebisi got a parting shot in, somehow being able to plunge the giant knife into Beecher's chest.

"FUCK," he wails, falling on his knees to Beecher's side. "Beech, man, fuck, you alright? You're gonna be ok. I need help here!" Screaming now, trying to prod someone into action, he keeps shouting, "Get a fucking doctor! SOMEBODY!"

Lying there, gasping for breath, chest heaving in pain, Beecher turns and looks at Alvarez, seeking reassurance. "Oh, fuck, jesus christ, man, fuck, motherfucker," a seemingly endless barrage of curses is all Alvarez can manage to string together.

Standing around stuporously, everyone is too shocked and riveted to actually move and take action. Finally, coming to his senses, Kellerman bolts away in search of assistance. Everyone else, O'Reilly, Wangler, and Lewis, stands there, horrified, speechless, watching things unfold as if they are watching a play.

"I think I'm hurt, Miguel," Beecher weakly replies, searching for signs of his condition reflected back in his partner's face. What he sees is rapidly escalating panic. What he feels is incredible pressure in his chest. He's struggling to breathe, and every heartbeat feels like a crack of lightning ripping through his body. He's rapidly getting cold. He sees that Miguel is covered in blood, but he doesn't know if it's his, or Adebisi's.

"I gotta go get someone, I'll be right back, Beech, hang on, you'll be ok," he squeaks out. His voice is reaching a fevered pitch, betraying the hysteria he's trying to conceal. "I gotta get a fucking doctor or something."

"No," Beecher forces out through the pain. "Don't leave me, there isn't time."

"You need help man, I gotta go," he says frantically, beginning to rise up. Beecher clutches his arm, gripping it fiercely. Using his last reserve of mortal strength, he pulls him back down.

Falling back to his knees, and hovering over the fair man, Alvarez understands. "Beech," he says voice trembling, "I'm here, I'll stay. But you gotta hold on, just, hold on, you gotta stay with me. You're gonna be ok." Shaking, he reaches out and places a hand on his forehead, stroking it, not even noticing that he's smearing it with blood.

"Pull it out," Tobias pants out. "Fucking pull the knife out of me already," he demands through clenched teeth.

Hands shaking severely, Alvarez grips the knife, and inspects Beecher's face. "I don't know, man, fuck, maybe I shouldn't, maybe it'll make it worse, fuck, what do I do, I need a goddamn doctor, WE NEED HELP HERE," he roars, hoping someone in the vicinity will heed his desperate calls.

Nearly choking on the words, Tobias grabs his hand again, a viselike grip indicating his resolve. "Get it out, now."

Squeezing his eyes closed, Alvarez clutches the knife with both fists. Exhaling once, with a sudden movement, he jerks his hands upward and releases it from the soft flesh as Beecher unleashes a deafening wail.

"Somebody fucking HELP US," Alvarez roars above awful screech of Beecher's. Placing his hand firmly against Beecher's chest to try and slow the bleeding, he leans even closer. Cradling his head with his other hand, he leans his face next to Tobias' and keeps crooning reassuring words, "It's ok, you're gonna be ok, just hang on, baby, we're gonna get you help."

"I'm fucking dying."

"No, man, you ain't, don't say that."

"Yes I am. Miguel,"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

"You're gonna be ok. Tell me a rhyme or something."

"What? I'm bleeding to death here and you want me to tell you a limerick?"

"Yeah. You're gonna be fine, it'll take your mind off the pain. Come on, man."

"St. Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes, country garden in the wind and the rain, wherever he goes, the people all complain."

"That's good, man."

"Miguel?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm dying."

"No you ain't. Just hold on, baby. Help's gonna be here," he says, not believing it. He sees, he knows what's happening. He grabs Tobias' hand, squeezes it hard, and draws him even closer to him, resting cheek to cheek with him for a moment. Not caring who hears, or what they'll think, he tells him the only thing left to say. "I love you."

"I know. I always knew, even when you didn't."

Snorting back a combination of a sob and a chuckle, Alvarez pulls back, searching Beecher's eyes. Even contorted in pain, crimson staining the rest of his face, his blue eyes still sparkle with life and secrets, seemingly only for him. "Well, then you're the smart one."

"Seaside washed in the suds and the foam, been so long he's got to callin' it home," he recites, then cackles madly through coughs.

"Yeah, fucking St. Stephen baby, everyone complains. Ok, ok, just hold on, stay with me, ok," he replies, not thinking coherently anymore. He feels Tobias begin to shiver uncontrollably, so he gently draws him even closer, snuggling him into himself, stroking his sandy hair.

"You killed him for me."

"Yeah."

"Didn't help."

"Nope." He's been watching, noticing Beecher's breath getting shallower, he knows he's near the end now. "I was too late."

"Alvarez, I don't have potatoes in my pants."

Choking on laughter, he replies the only way he can, "I know, man."

Clutching Beecher against his own body, he whispers softly now, trying to be gentle, "Please stay with me, just a little longer. I'll make it up to you, I will, baby. I love you, Beech. Just hang on, ok. Just, please, stay with me, please."

He feels the shivering stop and pulls back slightly again to gaze at his love. He looks at the blue eyes. The sparkle is gone, for the first time there is nothing looking back at him. He raises his hand and places his fingertips heavily upon Beecher's forehead. He then pulls downward, forcing his eyes closed for the last time.

His faces twitches a little, contorted with grief as he pulls the limp body next to him again, rocking back and forth, and begins to howl.

The howling doesn't cease as the hacks arrive and pry him away from Beecher's body. It doesn't stop as he is dragged off to the solitary cell. No one knows exactly the precise moment it did finally stop for the first time. But every once in a while, it still resurfaces to this day.

**

The next day

Lewis ducks into the janitor's closet, relieved to find Kellerman there, sitting on the floor, looking generally lost. He'd been searching for him for nearly half and hour, and there really aren't that many places to look in Oswald. He was quickly reaching a state of panic, afraid that yesterday's events had been too much for Kellerman to withstand.

Hell, it had nearly been too much for Lewis to stomach. It was once again a shining example of why he doesn't like to get too close to people. Yeah, he liked Beecher and Alvarez, but knows that Kellerman deals with them much more intimately. Beecher was his bunkmate, they spent 12 hours a day with each other. And he worked with Alvarez every day. He's worried that the dual loss may send Kellerman over the edge.

Closing the door behind him, Lewis stands there, looking at his partner, weighing his options. This is it. This is the crucial moment, and Lewis knows it. Right now, he wants to run out. He doesn't want to deal with all this pain, he's not sure he'll be able to say the right things, or make it all better, so he feels it will be for the best if he simply leaves, as opposed to making the situation worse. But he thinks of Alvarez. He left too. Then he regretted it. Once he figured it out, it was too late. Lewis doesn't want to spend his life like that, wondering what could have been. He looks at Mike again, and then he realizes something. He doesn't have to say the right things, he doesn't have to do anything. He just has to be there. And that he can do. It is completely within his power to simply be there. Taking few hesitant steps, he slides down against the wall and sits next to his partner.

"What he did, Meldrick, it wasn't wrong, you know."

"Who?"

"Alvarez. They're gonna lock him up. He's gonna be charged with murder, and they're gonna lock him away in solitary for the rest of his life."

"Yeah, I know."

"It wasn't wrong. I don't care if he hated Adebisi or not. He was trying to protect Beecher. He had to do it."

"I know, Mikey. The courts won't see it that way though."

"Just like me."

"Yep, just like you."

"I wasn't wrong you know. I thought I was for a long time, because I enjoyed it, because I was glad to kill him."

"Look, Mikey, it's over. You gotta get past all that now."

"I am. I am. I killed a man. I have to live with that every day of my life. But I had to do it. It was the right thing at that time, I thought it was. I hated myself for a long time, but I can finally make my peace with it."

"Then you gotta let it go, Mikey."

"I need to know something though, something from you."

"What?"

"Do you think I was wrong? I mean, I hated everyone for so long who thought I was wrong, but I don't anymore. And if you think I was, I can live with that too, just not with you. I can't get up everyday, trying to make things work with you if I don't know whether or not you think of me as a murderer."

"I don't think that of you, man. It was a bad situation, and I put you in it. It ain't your fault."

"That doesn't answer the question, Meldrick. I need to know this, or we have to call this off right now. Do you think I was wrong?"

"No. No Mikey, you wasn't wrong, you was protecting me, and you did what you had to do."

"You mean that? You sure of that?"

"Yeah."

"Ok then."

Patting his knee, Meldrick leans over, searching the translucent blue eyes to see what's going on in them. "You ok, man?"

"They used to come here, all the time, you know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"They loved each other, Meldrick. They made each other happy."

"Yeah, man, I know."

"But Alvarez ran away from Beecher, he didn't know what he had till it was too late."

"I know that too. Listen, Mikey, I ain't gonna make that same mistake. I know I left you before. But I won't do it again."

"That's not who you are though, Meldrick, you always back away."

"Yeah, well, I've learned my lesson. I don't wanna end up like that."

"Ok," Kellerman replies. He doesn't have the strength to question it anymore. The time has come that he has to trust. Words and talking only get you so far, and then at some juncture you have to look at the other person and instinctually know if they are serious or not. So he turns his head and looks at Meldrick and sees the stunning dark eyes flashing back at him. Suddenly, all his questions are answered. There are no guarantees, no way to put a lock on the future. But he has the present. Right now, he's tired, and drained. He's lost enough the past few days, and he feels empty inside. The face in front of him is understanding, and full of sympathy. And it offers relief, and comfort. And for right now, that's enough. "Meldrick," is all he says, and then leans forward, pulling the other man into a desperate embrace.

Lewis strokes his back, and holds him close. He's not getting up and running away, and it feels right. He feels soft lips press into the exposed skin of his neck, a warm hand tugging at his shirt collar, revealing more flesh to be tasted. Sighing uncontollably, he feels a warm blush creeping to his face in response to the attention being lavished upon his throat. Gentle kisses, tiny nips and licks fall all about his neck, upon his shoulder, pressed into his clavicle, the v of his throat. Nearly moaning the name, he draws back slightly, looking into the clear blue eyes again before he surrenders to the sensation. "Mikey, you sure you wanna do this?"

"Yeah, it's time," he explains, his chest rising and falling heavily under already exaggerated breathing. It's been too long, and he's been too alone, it's time to end it, now. As he leans forward and captures Lewis' mouth with his own, repeatedly kissing, sucking, and tasting, he doesn't feel the losses. He doesn't feel mournful, or regret. He doesn't feel alone, or cold. He feels alive.

Tongues begin tangling around each other, giving and receiving pleasure in an equal exchange. Their bodies grow fevered as they seek out and explore the contours of each other, reveling in the feel of the other, and melting under the tender ministrations they are receiving. Hot breath and words of reassurance fall and tingle in waiting ears, sending shivers of anticipation down their spines. Hands unbutton, fingers brush along secret and intimate areas, reserved only for the most private and trusted of partners. Gracious mouths seem to melt into the heated flesh they are tasting, suckling.

Details are heeded, tastes and sensations are catalogued as their bodies' aromas comingle, creating a new and unique scent, the smell of them, together. They have no thoughts of where they are, or anything else that has transpired. They have momentarily released the past, forsaking all the tormented memories in exchange for this, the beginning of the future. Struggling out of confining clothing, they fall back together again, barely able to control the surging emotions and sensations that drive them forward. Clinging to each other, each captured by strong, familiar arms, they hesitate briefly, stopping to gaze at the enraptured expression on the other's face, to search the shimmering blue and electric dark eyes gazing back at them. Faces drawn into lines of desire, furrowed brows and open, longing mouths, they each see in the other's glistening eyes what they have searched for so long, grace, forgiveness, and love. They aren't doing this merely for themselves, or the other person, they are doing it for the both of them, and it feels right.

Mounting passion overtakes them, and they are lost in the shuddering spasms of electric delight that courses through their limbs. Heeding the ancient, primal rhythms, they nurture each other, drive each other further and higher, both gripped with nearly unbearable pleasure, until finally the sweetness of relief overtakes them, wrapping them both in aftershocks of delight.

Two months later:

Looking around the cell for any stray articles he may want to keep, Lewis picks up his toothbrush, considers it for a moment, then tosses it unceremoniously into the trash can. Moving back over to the bunk, he peers into the bag he's packed, and dumps it's contents out. Running a hand through the miscellaneous articles, he rests on one. The Teddy Pendergrass cd. He puts that aside for the moment as he fetches the trash can. Sweeping his arm over the rest of the sundries, he pushes them into the receptacle.

"Don't want to keep any reminders, huh?"

"Nope. Just this. It's the only good thing I got from this place," Lewis replies, waving the cd. "Well, I guess it's time."

"Yeah."

"You take care of yourself, Mikey. I'm gonna be comin 'round, checkin up on you on a weekly basis, my man. I don't wanna hear stories 'bout you trying to take over the Em City drug cartel."

Kellerman laughs at that, momentarily breaking the tension. "Listen, Meldrick, you don't have to do that. I mean, you don't have to, hang around here, you don't have to wait for me."

"Shut up, Mikey, don't be stupid, a'ight? Ain't you learned nothin'?"

"I'm just saying, things change. I'm here for two more years, you can build a life in that time, I won't blame you."

"WE gonna build a life, Mikey. We already made our mistakes, now we gotta use the second chance, and I ain't 'bout to screw it up. Come 'ere," he says, reaching his arms out.

Kellerman chuckles a bit but makes his way into the embrace. They stand there like that, motionless, clinging to each other for a brief moment of time. "I'm gonna miss you, Mikey. Seriously, watch your ass in here."

"I know. I'll be fine though, don't worry."

"A'right. I'll see you next week."

"Yeah. Hey, Meldrick?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Mikey."

With that, Lewis turns and begins to walk out of Em City for the last time. He won't be returning as an inmate, only as a visitor. As of this moment, he is no longer prisoner number 98L298, he is once again Meldrick Lewis. His former life is still destroyed. He has no job, no place to live, no source of income right now. But he's not afraid, and he's not depressed. He walks out of here more secure and more comfortable than when he walked in. He doesn't have the specifics worked out yet, but now he knows what he needs to do. Step by step, in tandem with another person, he's going to build a home. It may be a couple years before they can be together every day, but he knows this is what he wants. He's ready, willing, and eager to finally share.