He’s left there, a small smirk refusing to wipe off his face. Watching Izz sashay away.
“I’ll see you after work,” Izz throws over his shoulder, disappearing down the stairs.
In a haze, Sinn'ous stabs out the joint he doesn’t even like, on the sole of his prison shoes, and slips the end into his pocket. Ass thumping onto his bunk, he hangs his head in his hands. Staring at the floor, and wondering what the fuck just happened to him.
Why did heletthat happen to him?
He isn’t sure how long he sits that way, scolding himself and trying to make sense of it all. Before he’s breathing out a curse, and thinking, ‘screw it. He’ll go to laundry, and drag Izz back here. And fuck the boy into his stacked pile of skinny mattresses.’
Because that’s how you control a situation, you make the other person submit. And he will have Izz submitting to him.
44
SINN'OUS
“. . . So I’m here to apologise and hopefully hit a restart on us.” The words are half muffled, drifting around the machines of the prison’s only laundry room. It’s a voice he recognises but can’t place.
Something tells him to follow the voice, so he does. His instincts reaching out and hovering over his environment.
There are many inmates in the cramped space, carrying bundles of clothes, equally wet or dry. Tables on the far end are crowded by men folding clothes and loading trolleys. This isn’t a place he usually dwells in. However, Izz’s here and Sinn'ous has come to drag the boy out.
He’d lasted a full hour, give or take, before the empty cell had closed in on him and he’d needed a distraction. A soft-skinned, expressively spoken distraction.
And speaking of his distraction, Izz’s sharp clipped tone carries behind the words of apology. “I’m not interested. You said what you did. Put out how you feel about me, without knowing shit about me. That’s on you. I’m not interested in having anything to do with you.”
Rounding the stacked machines, he finds who he’s looking for glaring daggers at David. A machine left urgently beeping behind the pair. And the tension? The air is thick in its densefog.
What’s going on here? And why is David standing so close to what’s mine.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay.” David huffs, his irritation breeding into desperation.
Killing right now might be frowned upon. You know, witnesses and all. No cameras though, so it isn’t completely out of the realm of possibilities. And even if there were cameras, he can have it taken care of.
Izz blatantly ignores David. Stuffing his hands into the machine’s belly to heft out the wet load, the movement pulling his prison shirt tight over his bunching shoulders. The boy might not be well toned, but he is built in a way that’s appealing to the eye.
David steps forward, closer than Sinn'ous likes anyone to be to Izz. “Can we just restart—”
“He told you to fuck off,” Sinn'ous cuts into the scene, his focus hardening on David. A singular pinpoint of pent-up rage humming to be let loose. And it’s directed right at the one standing too fucking close to something that belongs to Sinn'ous.
Both men jump, and spin to face Sinn'ous. He doesn’t miss the way the scripture tattoos on David’s face tighten in unnerved fear or the wet slop of clothes dropping out of Izz’s hands onto the dirty floor. It hadn’t been his intention to startle the boy, an unforeseen fallout. David on the other hand he’ll like nothing more than to kill, and that terror behind wide eyes . . . it’s something Sinn'ous could eat.
Not that he’s ever eaten flesh. He’s heard it’s quite delish, and close to pork in flavour. It’s never really appealed to him to try, though he won’t fault those who have.
Izz shocks him by stepping into David’s space, and holds out a hand. Sinn'ous’s brows tick together and he has to fight to smooth out his features. He isn’t one to allow his emotions to run outwardly unchecked.
David looks at Izz, and back at Sinn'ous briefly before accepting the outstretched hand.
It takes everything in Sinn'ous not to lash out and remove that hand from existence. Cut it off at the wrist for daring to touch Izz, stick it in a blender, and make David drink it.
Izz offers a brief smile, small and polite in nature. “We’re cool. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to be your friend anytime soon.” He drops the hand and turns away.
Sinn'ous doesn’t budge an inch out of the pathway, it satisfies him to watch David squirm and flatten himself against the machines to squeeze past. He makes a point of glaring at David the entire time.
Not as satisfying as it would be to kill him, but it will do for now.
“Don’t even think about it,” Izz scolds, scooping the wet mass of clothes off the floor, and moves it to a dryer.
Sinn'ous suppresses a smirk, enlightened by the fact that Izz can clearly read him so well. Because he is definitely thinking of killing David.
