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Eleven Heartbeats

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His boy looks exhausted at lunch and dinner as well and it’s not just the drugs they’re giving him. Tully watches him picking at the food, shovelling it around rather than eating. A couple of mouthfuls, then he stops. It’s as if he just can’t bother to try, being physically too fucking tired and with no real will to actually keep himself on his feet. He should probably be in the sick ward but Tully prefers him close.

It’s selfish and wrong and completely normal to him. You keep your possessions where you have control and access, simple as that. In PC or even the sick ward, it’s far too easy for others to try something with him. With his punk. Sure, people know what happened to those who raped him last time but cons aren’t famous for thinking twice when they want something. And depressed or not, Juice Ortiz is still a really fine piece of ass in here. Still lean and muscled, abs maybe not as defined as they used to, but definitely prime meat to cons fighting for the best substitute for pussy.

When they return to their cells for the night, Tully ignores him and just takes to his bunk and books. It’s almost unnaturally quiet from the other man though and after a little while, Tully checks on the Puerto Rican who’s clawing and fucking gnawing his wrists.

“Baby?”

Tully keeps his voice low not to startle the boy or draw attention from the others. They’re busy though, knowing the shot caller likes his peace and quiet after dinner, and Tully leaves his bunk and approaches Juice.

“Stop that, baby.”

Right. The boy seems lost in his own little world and it’s not a good one (not that Tully cares, because of course he doesn’t!) and his eyes are staring into nothing, glassy and unseeing.

“Hey, Juice…”

The use of his stupid nickname gives some form of reaction, a little blink, a small parting of the lips, a strangled breath. Tully realises the boy has probably used up every ounce of energy and strenght he has left for today and instead of despising him, Tully can’t help but pitying him. And feeling… yes, a little proud.

He’s just a punk. A fucking spic punk. A lowlife, a lesser human in every sense and still, Tully feels proud of him.

Honestly, Tully has never been good at staying true to the cause without the money as a motivator. Ideology is for teens and pathetic white trash like the Nords. He’d never fuck a coon or a chink, there are limits, but officially Juice is strictly Puerto Rican and that’s what counts. That and this bizarre way of defying the odds, the MC, the chinks and even those guards by just keep living and act like it didn’t matter, like what they did meant nothing to him. The way he mouths back at Tully like it’s nothing.

So Tully takes the arms where the ink has been enough roughed up to count as a start of covering up real estate the Puerto Rican no longer has any right to. He grabs the wrists, not to hold the punk down, but to stop him from scratching.

“Don’t hurt yourself, baby.”
“Because that’s your little privilege, right?”

The voice. It’s so hollow yet still pushing for Tully to do something. To punish him for the mouthing, to hurt and draw some fucking line, but the only thing he can think of, is Carl Green’s fists, his nails and teeth, the pain whenever Tully had to take a shit and how the burn marks were on display in the showers.

How Carl Green used to touch them under the water, showing off his embellished goods.

She got mouthy, boys. But then I gave her a little gift and you know how grateful she got?

Show us, Green!

You want me to show them how grateful you are, honey? Be a good girl now and lets show them how to put that mouth to good use… See, she’s getting better. Ah, that’s a good girl… She doesn’t even gag now! You gotta train them properly, boys…

The sound of some others on the block laughing at something snaps him out of the memory and Tully realises his punk is looking at him with a worried face, like he doesn’t know what to expect. Tully is still holding his wrists and he drops them and slaps his punk hard on the cheek.

“Go to bed, baby. You need to sleep.”