Unpleasantries he hopes aren’t unfolding right now.
“You need back up?” Miller’s arms are already unfolding to move on, clear as day he has no interest in helping.
“No, no it’s fine.” It’ll be messier if there’s an audience. He might have a chance by himself to talk to the psychopath and find out what’s going on.
Miller claps a hand on Rogers’s shoulder on his way past. “Radio if you do.” At least that is a promise of assistance. As much as they all avoid Sinn'ous they aren’t about to leave an officer facing off alone against him.
Rogers’s feet drag the whole way to A-Wing. Inmates gathered in bundles along the way bear him no mind, continuing their conversation or journeying elsewhere. An addictpops something in his mouth, which has Rogers rolling his eyes. They could at least try to hide it.
Not his problem right now. Nope, his problem is in the shape of the dead. He really hopes he isn’t about to walk into some chainsaw massacrescene.
A-Wing is thrumming in life. Packed full of inmates in their collective groups and the sameness of grey clothes in different levels of fade. Loud voices carrying, too many to hear individual words. It’s a good sign, indicating no one is dead. Whenever there is a death everyone clears out, and hides in their cells. No one wants to be caught anywhere near a dead body.
One of the major gangs for this Wing is by the far wall, taking over three cells. Their presence is a show of force to deter others. A good thirty or so men of various builds, yet all tagged in similar ink. Including that of an aquatic animal of some unknown species, on the meaty flesh of their right thumb. In a visible place to flash their affiliations.
33
SINN'OUS
The only way to describe it would be non-existently vacant. That’s what Izz’s eyes are doing. Fixated forward, dilated and notblinking. The boy is perched on the edge of the bunk where Sinn'ous placed him after carrying him to Izz’s cell. Placing him here seemed better than elsewhere, this way, when he snaps out of whatever shock response this is he will be in a familiar secure environment.
Sinn'ous waves a hand in the boy’s line of sight, then snaps his fingers. No reaction. He has to say, this is a first for him. He’s seen many variations of shock, but nothing remotely this outwardly visual.
The sheet, still tucked firmly around Izz’s lower half, is red stained. He’s not sure if it’s from the men he killed or the boy. A hand to the chest has Izz flopping back onto the bunk, one bounce is all his body gives then stillness. If he didn’t know better he’d say the boy is on drugs.
The sheet is first to go, followed by the orange top and white undershirt, his lower half is bare, sending rage straight back into Sinn'ous and tugging a growl from his throat. One sock remains, and nothing more, save for the tinge of pink smeared over his inner thighs.
Fully exposed to give Sinn'ous the needed visual to check over his body while he lies there, eyes unblinking and unfocused.
Sinn'ous is clinical in his ministrations, running his hands up and down every limb, feeling for broken bones or abnormalities. Anything to indicate this state is a pain response to something internally wrong. When nothing is perceived as amiss, he slowlyflips the boy over, handling him delicately. Next he starts from the hair, checking for head injuries before trailing his way down until he reaches Izz’s round globes of ampleass.
A deep breath is needed, a steeling of one’s mind to clear the raging words demanding he go back and violate all those men with dry, splintering wooden broom handles. He pries Izz’s asscheeks apart, lips thinning into a snarl at the blush of blood he finds. Fetching the sheet he dampens a clean corner, bringing it back to wipe over the reddened skin. The anus seems fine, no large tearing or any fresh blood replacing what Sinn'ous cleaned away. He is red and slightly puffy, but considering how bad this could have gone the boy is acceptably well. If you ignore the unnerving lack of response.
He has Sinj to thank for his arriving when he did.
Once the remnants is washed off, Sinn'ous digs into the cupboard and gathers fresh clothes, setting it all on the bed beside Izz. Sucking in a lung full of air thick as rocks, he leans down and kisses both of Izz’s plump asscheeks. Their creamy give under his lips beg for him to take more.
Reluctantly he pulls off enough to turn the boy so he can begin the redressing process. It’s almost an acrobatic sport, contortinglimbs and maneuvering body mass to dress him. Right down to his socks, all he skips are the shoes, no need for those when they’ll be staying in the cell, and it’s too cold in here to forgo socks. Not unless you’re a masochist who wants to lose a toe or two to frostbite.
He scoops Izz back into his arms, sitting on the bunk and placing the light boy onto his lap. Untucking Izz’s sheet to wrap around the both of them, willing his body heat into the frail creature.
He’s not sure how long they sit there but eventually movement stirs in his arms and Izz nestles tighter against him.
“Izz?”
No reply comes, and no more movements occur. Guess Izz wasn’t actually coming back to them?
Satan?
Sinn'ous sends down an unspoken question of prayer. He wants to know if Izz will be okay, and at the same time he doesn’t want to know. Not if the answer is one he can’t handle. And right now he’s not sure he can handle it if his prey dies in his arms. Not by another’s actions.
He half jumps out of his skin when a guard walks into his peripheral vision. The only reason he doesn’t attack is nestled in his arms, clinging to him even while completely out of it.
“Sinn'ous, mind if I come in?” No authority is bled into Rogers’s neutral tone, it’s pitched calm and low.
“You drew the short straw,” Sinn'ous surmises offhandedly, eyes scanning over the delicate body in his hold. His angerdispersing the longer he stares at his prize.
You are all mine.
