“Stop doing that, man,” and Chico’s fingers freeze, his nails a millimeter away from scratching at the ragged scar at his throat. He drops his hand and turns to face his cellmate.
“What are you, my mother?” he grumbles. Miguel shrugs, a faint smirk curving his lips.
“Gonna make it worse.” He pushes himself off the frame, walks over to the beds and sits down on the bottom bunk with a grunt. “You should’ve said something. Could’ve got you some cream from the infirmary.”
“Can get it myself.” You don’t need to swipe it, is what he means – what he guesses he means. Or maybe it’s exactly like it sounds, I don’t want your help.
Miguel doesn’t seem concerned either way. “Alright.” He pulls off his shoes, kicking them to the other end of the room – it irritates Chico, the left one laying on its side, the right almost in the center of the floor; how fucking hard is it to line your shoes up? Now you sound like your mother, he tells himself.
“Make sure you actually do it, though,” Miguel continues. Chico watches him peel off his scrubs, replacing the pants with sweats and rummaging around in the pile of laundry for a clean shirt. “It ain’t gonna go away on its own. Hell, mine still fucking bothers me.”
“What, your face?” Chico regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, and regrets it further when Miguel cuts his eyes away from him for half a second before muttering an unconvincing “yeah.”
Nah, not your face.
He can see which one Miguel’s talking about, the dime-sized scar just shy of his heart, a knotted lump of tissue where the wound healed over. He’s seen Miguel scratch there before, but always through fabric – never put two and two together before now.
The one I gave you. What I did to you.
He almost finds it funny, how something that had felt so right at the time could give him so much grief years later.
Almost.
Miguel notices, of course – a boxer’s quick reflexes, more lives than a cat – and sighs. “Don’t worry about it, man. Water under the bridge.”
Chico nods absently. It’s bullshit, of course. He still hasn’t forgiven Torquemada for giving him those tabs ('just a bad batch' his ass; he knows when he’s been fucking spiked) and even though everyone’s behaving now, getting along all nice and friendly, he probably never will – still gets the urge to smack the smug look off that cocksucker’s face every time he sees him in the quad. No fucking way Miguel doesn’t harbor the same feelings, at least to some degree.
Then again...
Easy, Chico, Miguel had said the other day, after a snide remark from Torquemada had left him fuming. Leave him be.
How can you be so calm, man? Chico had demanded. After what he did to you? We’re all just good now?
He doesn’t normally bring it up – the details regarding what exactly had happened between Miguel and his former podmate while Chico had been in the hospital had been left ambiguous, Miguel making it clear from the moment Chico returned that he didn’t want to talk about it. Sometimes he figures it must not have been anything too bad, his imagination just running wild with a lack of concrete information – but some of the comments others make from time to time leave him wondering.
He rape you? Make you his prag?
How could you just let that shit go?
Miguel had said nothing for a moment, then replied, Wasn’t nothing I didn’t ask for.
The memory makes Chico swallow hard, remembering what else Miguel had asked for.
I want you to shank me – his big brown eyes gleaming with an intense energy.
Doesn’t matter, Chico thinks. You only asked ‘cause I backed you into a corner. You only asked because I was gonna keep trying to kill you anyway. You asking doesn’t make it okay.
I still almost killed you, and for what?
Fucking nothing.
“Hey.”
Miguel’s in front of him, suddenly – takes Chico’s hand and lays it over his heart. Warm skin under his palm, the rough flesh of the scar at his fingertips, a steady pulse thrumming beneath the surface.
“Still beating,” he says. “I’m still alive, and so are you. What’s done is done. Stop thinking about it.” Miguel squeezes his hand gently. “All scores are settled.”
Repeating Enrique’s words – words he’d scoffed at at the time. Yeah, right.
The call for count rings out, and Miguel lets go and steps away – would’ve had to regardless, too many prying eyes. Chico would run his tongue over that same spot in the dark later, but for now they had to play it cool.
“Get your shit tomorrow morning,” Miguel reiterates. “First thing.”
“Sí, jefe. Claaaro que sí.”
“I mean it. And I don’t wanna see you messing with it in the meantime.” He points at Chico. “Or else.”
Chico grins. Or else what? They wouldn’t fuck?
Yeah, right.
“I like it when you get all bossy and shit,” he says instead. “Better save some of that for later.” Chico flicks his tongue like a snake, and Miguel’s lips twitch, his eyes dancing with silent laughter.
“Cállate,” – shoving Chico lightly as he steps out of the pod. As soon as his back is turned, Chico’s hand immediately returns to his throat, scratching deeply in the few seconds it takes for him to join Miguel outside.
By the time the hack gets to them he can already feel it again, an itch buried deep within the tissue, a wound that would never fully heal.
All scores are settled.
He locks eyes with Torquemada, standing beside a bored-looking O’Reily across the quad. Torquemada cocks his head slightly and smiles, unfriendly – then points his lips as if blowing Chico a kiss. The itch grows stronger, and Chico clenches his fist, fingernails digging into his palm.
Yeah, right.