"Hey Beecher." The way Ryan said it made it sound like the beginning of a question, but he just stopped there, arms stretched out across the table, fingers drumming restlessly against the flat chessboard.
Toby set his book down. "Yes?"
"How'd you figure out you were a fag?"
Ryan looked up at him very suddenly, as if not wanting to miss Toby's reaction - Toby, for his part, couldn't figure out which reaction to have. He simply sat there, very still, attempting to remain stone-faced and probably failing miserably.
Ryan flipped his palms skyward. "You gonna answer?"
"I'm thinking about the question," Toby responded carefully. He picked up his book again, pretending to return to reading. "Why are you asking?"
Now it was Ryan's turn to fumble a reaction. "No reason," he said unconvincingly. "Just curious."
"Mm, okay." This was getting sort of annoying, so he decided to force the conversation along. "I was just wondering if it had anything to do with you and Alvarez."
He pointedly didn't look at Ryan, but could feel the cold glare that accompanied the "there is no me and Alvarez" spat in his direction.
"Interesting," Toby prodded further, "the way you look at him says otherwise."
"I don't look at him," Ryan snapped.
Toby snorted. "Yeah, the way you do that says it too."
"You know what? Fuck you, Beecher." Ryan shot up out of the chair, the sudden movement knocking it over on its side. He slapped the book out of Toby's hands as he walked away.
---
An hour later, he was back.
"I'm not a fag," he opened with.
Toby sighed, and set his book down again. "Okay?"
Ryan twisted his fist against his other hand, staring at a far-off pod in silence for what felt like ages. Just as Toby reached for his book again, he spoke.
"This place is fucked up. Cyril's dead, Father Meehan's dead, Gloria quit, my stupid piece of shit dad got himself stabbed again so he's probably on his way out soon too." His hands stopped moving. "Ma's still here, which is good, but.." He spread out his hands in a sort of helpless shrug. "It sucks. You know?"
Toby nodded.
"So like..." he trailed off for another several seconds, then shrugged again. "I don't know."
"Okay," Toby replied, and Ryan must have caught the edge of mild irritation in his voice.
"Look," he said, raising his voice defensively, "I came to you because I thought you might, like, get it."
"You're not really saying anything."
Ryan punched the table. "I'm just -" Two of the hacks looked over, started making moves in their direction, but Toby waved them away, gave them a thumbs up, and they returned to the console. He lowered his voice. "I'm sick of it. We're all so fucking alone in here."
The note of despair in this statement was surprising, uncharacteristic. But Ryan was right. He did get it.
"That doesn't make me a fag though," he concluded. He looked up at Toby. "Right?" he added.
He could see the desperation reflected in Ryan's eyes, and felt a strange pang of nostalgia. Sitting in Sister Pete's office what felt like a lifetime ago, asking for the same thing, not really understanding what it was. Permission, he could see now.
"No, it doesn't," he responded.
Relief. Ryan gave a short nod. "Aight." He got up again, normally this time, and tapped the table lightly. "Later."
Toby watched him swagger back to the pod he now shared with Alvarez, completely ignore his cellmate, and flop onto the top bunk to stare at the ceiling. He had to laugh.
"Young love," he muttered to himself, and returned to his book.