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theknightmarket · 2 years ago

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"What can I say? I'm a badass.”

In which Yancy and a new prisoner find each other behind locked doors.

TW: swearing, angst, crime, childhood trauma, drug mentions

Pages: 26 - Words: 10,500

[Requests: OPEN]

Yancy had only ever been in solitary a handful of times. Six to be exact, but the most recent had landed him in hot water with the Warden, so security was bumped up to the max in Happy Trails Penitentiary. They reached a new record with two police dogs and ten guards on patrol at any one time – which, to many other prisons, didn’t seem much, but it was a big deal for this lot. Hell, it had been a while since they had gotten any new prisoners, save for that infamous pair who actually wanted to leave, and they had succeeded. Or people assumed they did because nobody ever heard from them again after their second night. There was a rumor that one managed to escape through the sewer system, while the other just plain disappeared, though neither was ever proven, and the gossip trailed off into the change in routine or exercise equipment.

While most prisoners forgot about the pair, Yancy never quite did. There was always something in the back of his mind that reminded him of them, to the point that it got kinda weird. He would hear a helicopter overhead and think of them, and then the kid shuffling down the hallway definitely said their name, and that glowing box they brought in with them was sitting in the Warden’s office as if he had never taken it out. It was getting on his nerves, and, when he swaggered into the mess hall on a bright, sunny morning, it all got too much.

Yancy made his way over to his usual table, upon which Bam-Bam, Tiny and Sparkless McGee were sprinkled around the plastic benches. Somebody’s meal tray was in the centre, but it was quickly tugged away to make room for him to sit down.

“Mornin’, Yance,” another prisoner called out, but the guy wasn’t in the mood to respond more than a nod in their vague direction. The others immediately picked up on it – living in the same buildings for ten years would do that to you – and pounced to comfort him. Yancy appreciated his friends, he really did, but it wasn’t what he needed now.

There were questions as to his health, the condition of his cell, whether his mood was soured by the bright light. All of these were wrong, but it wasn’t until Sparkles stepped up to the plate that he opened up.

“Visitation day, innit?” Like a sledgehammer to a glass window, Yancy broke the second the ‘v’ came out of his mouth. He wasn’t crying, though! He’d learned that it got him nowhere quick. But he couldn’t help the way his lips shivered, and water pooled in his eyes. That didn’t mean anything, it was just allergies in the barren, completely clear of debris, prison.

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?” And then Yancy started bawling.

“I-I just dunno what I did wrong,” he whispered, trying and failing to keep it together.

The group each chimed in with their ideas, “Maybe they got intimidated by you.” - “Maybe they never got out.” - “Maybe they’re still running from the cops!” but none of them helped him. Yancy loved his clique, they were the closest thing to family he had in the bricks, but he hadn’t told them what really happened to the runaways. None of them even knew they made it past the sewer grate. He wasn’t sure what stopped him from telling them, but something did, and it wasn’t anything he could overcome with some false ideas or promises to visit. They might’ve thought he was crazy, waiting for someone they’d never seen to arrive at the phone, but it was nice they supported him regardless.

“Ay, ay, whatever it is,” Sparkles slapped a hand onto Yancy’s back, a confusing but strangely effective way of calming him down, “ya did nothing wrong. If they don’ wanna see ya, then it’s their loss.”

Yancy nodded to himself slowly, then again with more vigor. Sparkles was right; he had a good life on the inside, just not good enough to keep someone new with him. Who cared? Not him, that’s for sure, and he would rest easy knowing that he had everything he needed right there.

The topic shifted onto something else, and the visitation day was forgotten easily. While, from time to time, Yancy still thought about the escapees, they were generally shoved to the back of his mind, and he focused, instead, on the echo of the bell throughout the prison. After breakfast was an hour of exercise so the inhabitants moved in a messy clump to the backdoor.

In the midst of prisoners and guards, Yancy felt a tap on one of his shoulders. He had never been good at his left and right, but, when he looked in the direction of that tap, nothing was there. Then, a poke on his… other shoulder, but nobody was there either. His eyebrows tightened and he bristled; he didn’t like being tricked, and there he was, looking like an idiot who didn’t know his left and rights. Never mind the fact that he didn’t, somebody was making fun of him, and he was going to give them a piece of his mind.

Yet, however mad he might have been getting, it all disappeared at the sight of Sparkles dashing off through the backdoors, a mischievous grin plastered on his face in a look towards Yancy. A smile appeared on his own face as he chased after his friend, grabbing Tiny’s elbow on the way. A chase Sparkles wanted, and a chase he would get. The two followed in between elbows and batons, avoided the edges of tables, and maneuvered more than a few stationary prisoners. Despite the heightened security, the guards couldn’t care less about their little game; if it kept them out of trouble, who were they to stop it?

So, for the majority of the exercise block, Yancy, Sparkless McGee, Tiny, and whomever they could bring along with them, played a raucous game of tag. Yancy would clamber over dumbbells to get at Bam-Bam, Bam-Bam would sprint through the long-jump sand to catch Tiny, and so on and so forth. He was pretty sure even an officer jumped in to help out Sparkles when he was chasing after another inmate.

Skidding to a stop at the chain-link fence, Yancy looked around. This was the life, huh? Nobody angry, nobody sad, nobody telling him to do stuff that he didn’t wanna do. Sure, he couldn’t leave the walls of the prison, but he had never wanted to. There was nothing that the outside could give him that he didn’t already have within Happy Trails, and, with his hands firm on his hips, he thought that it would provide less. Could you imagine Yancy with a 9-5 job, buying groceries every three days, and picking the kids up after school? He couldn’t, and he didn’t care to try.

He could do without the enraged yelling of the Warden from the backdoors, though.

In quick succession, everyone turned to look at the approaching man, who stampeded against the dirt path like a bull. An ominous hush fell over the yard, but nobody moved a muscle to break it. Instead, they watched intently as the Warden stomped directly to Yancy.

Now, in public, Mr. Murder-Slaughter might not have looked all that intimidating. He was on the shorter side, balding but well-groomed, and easily imagined with a kind smile. However, if you were to meet the guy inside Happy Trails Penitentiary, you would know he could be the meanest son-of-a-bitch you’d ever encounter. He commanded the prison with an iron fist and used them effectively to scare the inmates into submission. He was only made worse by how quickly he could switch from caring to, as his name would imply, murderous. It was a wonder how he hadn’t been incarcerated himself yet.

The prisoners counted their lucky stars when he passed by them and wished all the best for Yancy when the Warden’s glare landed on him.

“Boy, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Yancy snapped out of his paralyzing fear to lower his eyebrows slightly; he didn’t have any idea, and he wasn’t being given a lot to go off of. So, after risking a glance over his shoulder to Sparkles, he shrugged and replied, “Nuh-no, Warden.”

That response only seemed to push his buttons further, leading to him grasping Yancy’s shoulders as if he would run away if he didn’t hold him there. He was pretty sure he’d be leaving marks in the dirt when he moved again.

“Well, then, lemme show ya—” The Warden pulled the boy ahead of him and shoved him in the direction of the cafeteria again. It was hard for Yancy to hide his disappointment, he always had been terrible at covering up emotion, but it didn’t take much for the other inmates to worry for him, before they were cut off by a yell of, “—and get back to your regularly scheduled exercise!”

That sent them into a frenzy, people grasping for handles and throwing each other into the air to seem like they were working out. Yancy didn’t take notice of any of it, too worried about what he was being brought to the Warden’s office for. While he had never spent too long in a school setting, likening it to the principal’s office was the best he could do, and he didn’t like either scenario.

“Go on, sit,” Mr. Murder-Slaughter ordered, faking serenity in the face of pure wrath. He landed himself in his own chair, pulled it close to the desk and held his fingertips together overtop the mat. Altogether, he was scary.

Yancy gulped as he followed suit in the seat opposite.

“Why d’ya think you’re here, boy?” The stinging kindness was cracking by the second, especially with the venom unleashed at the end.

Yancy spluttered for a second. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong recently, but it was anyone’s guess as to what would set the Warden off if he’d had a bad day. Weakly, he muttered, “I dunno.”

“Well, I’ll let ya what ya did!” he exploded, slamming a fist onto the wood of the desk. There was an audible crack as one of the legs dented the stones underneath, and, for the first time in a while, Yancy found himself actually fearing the Warden. It brought up some all-too-familiar experiences, memories that he’d rather keep buried.

His eyes looked down, his hands clasped together, his lips quivered. He didn’t like this at all, but he couldn’t just leave. That’d get him in even bigger trouble.

The Warden either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he continued just as strict as he was before, “Not only did you let two high-class prisoners escape, but you also helped them!” He shot up from his seat, the back of it slamming against the wall and shaking the furniture. Bringing a hand to his forehead, he sighed, “We needed them to stay here, but you just had to get them out. Do you want that, too?”

“No, Warden—”

“Do you want to leave, too, huh? ‘Cause we can make that happen, just say the word.”

Yancy was on the verge of shaking, and he could feel the tremors starting to make their way through his spine. He kept his cool, though, bit his lip, and shook his head. “No, Warden, I don’t wanna leave.”

This seemed to calm him down, as his voice dropped to an acceptable volume. Still, he leaned in close over the desk and stared intently into Yancy’s eyes. Really, it was creepy, but he didn’t know what else to do than to stare right back. If he was trying to tell if he was lying, or he just liked putting his inmates on edge, Yancy would never find out; the Warden withdrew as if nothing had happened, and he collapsed again into his chair.

“Look, kid, I get it.” He didn’t believe him. “You see a fresh face, here, and they actually wanna get out so ya help them, ‘cause they’re interesting and new. But that can’t happen no more, or we’ll lose our budget and we’ll, eh, we’ll have to let some of ya go.”

The suggestive look on the Warden’s face scared Yancy. His eyes widened involuntarily, and he, regrettably, started to think once more about life on the outside. What a horrible fate! He’d sooner get transferred than be integrated back into normal society.

“So,” he coughed, “we’re gonna have to give you a punishment. Nothing too serious, but it won’t be fun for ya.”

Yancy understood that he did a bad thing and he needed to have some repercussions for his actions. Personally, he would’ve considered being abandoned by those people he helped to get out punishment enough, but the Warden didn’t need to know about that; if they ever did come, he didn’t want them to get re-arrested just for his spite.

“Now, we’ve had some time to think over a suitable punishment for ya, and we’re all pretty certain this will work out perfectly. It’s light, but you better learn your lesson from it.”

Hey, he would’ve assumed the worst had it not been for his comforting tone, but it seemed like Yancy was getting off relatively scot-free.

“Two weeks in solitary!”

Damn it.

Not ten minutes later, Yancy was stuffed in a barren cell, cold as the grave and the smell of one, too. If he looked hard enough, he would probably interrupt the funeral service for plenty of insects and vermin, but he did little more than take a deep breath, regret it, and flop down on the makeshift slab of a bed. The concrete provided no comfort, and minimal streams of light that trickled in from the small window just teased him. Was it a mistake to help those two escape? Was it worth it?

Any thoughts of doubt were wiped as he recalled the hopeful look on one of their faces and the warm, glow-y feeling that filled up his stomach. Yancy didn’t have many opportunities to do good in the penitentiary, but the times that he made the better choice were ones he cherished.

He focused on those memories for a while, trying to keep out the silence and ignoring the steady fall of the sun and rise of the moon. It wasn’t like he could do anything else to keep busy; solitary wasn’t a physical punishment, but it worked wonders because it was mental. Everything was boring after just a few minutes, and the people who came out the other side were more forgiving, more docile than the ones who had gone in. It acted like a factory machine that pressed inmates into the same shape, just for them to be dumped into an incinerator at the end of it all.

Not Yancy, though – he prided himself on being one of the only prisoners to get out just the same as ever. That’s why he was able to go in six times without cracking. Overtime, he just built up a tolerance to it, like a disease or the chef’s bad cooking. Never once did his happy-go-lucky aura dim.

As the times before this had gone, Yancy was humming to himself by the first half hour. It wasn’t like anyone could tell him to shut it – it was solitary, after all, he was alone – and the quiet was the hardest thing to get along with in the cells. It was some little tune he had heard over the guard’s radio, sweet and slow and easy. He hadn’t much time to practice, but he thought he was pretty good so far. Instruments had been banned after one of the kids smashed a guitar over an officer’s head, and thus whistling lessons had been introduced, and were quickly discontinued when they realized the prisoners were terrible at it. He hadn’t heard anyone whistle for months since then, meaning he was his personal jukebox for the time being.

“You’re actually pretty good.”

Yancy nearly screamed.

He scrambled like a cat doused in water to the other side of his cell, falling off the concrete slab and pressing himself next to the tiny desk. He wasn’t alone, after all, but that thought played second to the panicked thoughts that rushed through his mind unnoticed and unpicked upon. Breaths came in and out of his lungs at much the same speed, until he coughed and stood tall. It was instinct, and he felt stupid enough to sit back down when he fully realized he was trying to size up against the brick wall.

Finally catching his breath, Yancy asked shakily, “Wh- who’re youse?”

Figuring that this guy would be your only company in this dingy cell, you gladly gave him your name. He repeated it in an accent you weren’t overly familiar with.

“Who are you?” you asked in turn when silence had settled once more.

His tone was overly defensive. “Who wants ta know?”

You looked with a confused glare at the brick wall his voice was coming from. He looked back.

“Yancy,” he eventually answered.

Immediately, a wave of realization overcame you; as you were being transported to Happy Trails Penitentiary, your drivers had been holding a very spirited conversation about this one lad. Hyperactive, the ringleader of these prisoners, but pure in a weird sort of way. He knew how to fight, sure, but show him an R-rated movie and you’d want to shove your hands over his ears at the first curse word. There wasn’t much more information than that, but it was enough to get the gist of what the guy was like. The only thing that interested you more was the mention of his name and his place of origin – Yancy, either from Ohio or Brooklyn, and the stark combination was apparently possible given who they were talking about. Now that you were actually hearing it, although it was muffled slightly by the walls, you understood.

“You don’t say…” You chuckled to yourself, unheard by Yancy.

You left the introductions at that. You weren’t sure how you’d pass the time yet, so you focused on your surroundings. It wasn’t much, but you’d seen worse solitaries before. Briefly, you wondered if this could even be considered solitary confinement, considering that it wasn’t, y’know, solitary, but you learned a long time ago to never look a gift horse in the mouth, so you brushed off the thought and kept looking around. The slab you currently sat on was no different to the floor, down to the conspicuous stains splashed around the place. It was a vast change to the weirdly welcoming exterior of the prison.

With how quickly you had succumbed to the quiet, you almost flinched when Yancy began to speak again. It was notably more collected than before, but not aggressive. “So, what’re youse in for?”

Your head tilted involuntarily at his choice of words, but you answered him nonetheless, “Well, I’ve committed arson, assault and property damage, but I got done in for trespassing on this old guy’s farm.”

The laughter came quick and hard, like a tidal wave crashing over a beach, and it almost made you forget that you were in prison at all. Yancy’s voice was sweet, and it extended to the chortled that weaved through the cracks in the brick. You soon joined him with a few chuckles of your own, and, when you had both calmed down, finished with, “What can I say? I’m a badass.”

That got another giggle out of him, but he went silent for the next seconds. What you couldn’t see was Yancy rearranging himself to sit comfortably back on his slab, back against the wall between you and his legs crossed in front of him. It was better than the ground, and he was filled with a strange sense of comradery; he’d never had someone else with him in solitary, so it was a nice change of pace to have someone new to talk to.

“What about you?” you asked, mindlessly gazing out of the window.

“I killed my mum.”

Despite you not being that much better, the sound you made was somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, coming out as a strangled ‘euf’. Most prisoners you’d come across were guarded about that kind of stuff, especially if it was someone they were related to, but you supposed it was different around here. You’d have to get used to that if you were planning to stay your sentence this time.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your lips momentarily parted. “Did she deserve it?”

Again, silence flooded back in. Someone lifted the trap, let water pool around your legs, and then Yancy slammed it shut as he replied, “Nah, but it had ta’ be done.”

You could accept that, and he wasn’t going to talk more about it, so you had no other choice. Besides, it wasn’t your place to comment on the morality of his actions, especially when you had no idea why it ‘had ta’ be done’.

Yancy didn’t seem affected by his admission, though, and he continued to speak. “Been here most of my life, so it didn’t really matter that I got caught so fast.”

“How’d you get by?”

“Ah, well, I had my friends, ‘course. They really helped me out in the tighter spots, y’know? Like, when Sparkles landed here and helped me fight off these thugs. Only eighteen, too, so we kinda stuck together after that.”

You unknowingly shuffled forward on your bed, easily enticed by Yancy’s stories with nothing else to do in the cell. His voice was pleasant to listen to, you’d admit that, and the childish joy that painted it was a lifeline in the bleakness.

“He’s the guy with the jangly stuff, right?”

“Yeah! Sparkles McGee‘s his full name. I dunno if he’s Irish or not, he don’t have an accent, but he can be as intimidating as one when someone gets on his bad side.”

There was a menagerie of characters in Happy Trails, meaning that the ones who stood out were either widely outrageous or completely normal; Sparkles was one of the former, and you had remembered hearing clinking from the hallway you were being tugged down before a brunet man emerged from around the corner. You were surprised that he was allowed to keep the things on him, but you weren’t one to waste a perfect opportunity when the guard was yelling at him to slow down.

No point in dwelling on that, now, and you prompted Yancy, “Who else are you close with?”

“There’s Jimmy the Pickle, and Shithole Hank – Bam-Bam, and Tiny, and, yeah, Sparkles McGee…” Technically, Yancy could a majority of the prisoners, and even some guards. He’d been in there long enough to have made a rag-tag family for himself, gotten close to the people living out life-sentences and wished the shorter ones on their merry way.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of sway in this place,” you commented, not mischievous but more surprised that the officers let him get so much power.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it sway, but… yeah, I guess I do.”

And then you asked the dreaded question. It had been on your mind since you’d first heard him whistling, but you kept it under wraps for the sake of conversation. Now, with a lull and suitable point, you couldn’t help but ask, “So, how’d you end up in solitary?”

The water level rose to the point that it felt like you were drowning, your mind fuzzing over with concern when Yancy dropped into utter stillness. Hell, you might’ve thought he’d keeled over dead with how quiet he was being, but you heard him rise off of his slab and walk around his cell. He was searching for an answer to your question, not that you could see, that wouldn’t bring him to tears. Without his group to help him through it, he didn’t want to break down, and in front of a newbie, no less.

Regret fogging your thoughts, you jumped to say, “Y-ya don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

The pacing stopped and those chains that held up his bed clinked against the wall. “Nah, it’s fine—” You feared he was lying, and, by the crack in his voice, you were probably correct, “—I, uh, helped some people escape, and the Warden found out ‘bout it, chucked me in here and probl’y threw away the key.” He tried to joke about it, to bring back the light atmosphere, but it didn’t work. The corners of your mouth deepened, and you instinctively pushed your back against the wall, as if being closer would give him some kind of comfort.

Yancy only felt the frigid embrace of the stone, though. The happiness leaked out of his voice, leaving only the numbed, plain words to give you context. “It was these two newbies, got caught trynna hijack a helicopter after stealing some box. Never found out what it was all about, but I took it from the Warden’s office and helped ‘em get out through the sewer.” He could feel the tears building up in his throat. “They said they’d visit me, but they haven’t yet.” Bringing his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them to keep it tight, he tried to block out the sting in his chest from the first visitation day that had rolled around. When he had woken up bright and early, made himself all neat for them to come through the doors, but, well, he remembered how it went.

“Damn,” was all that you muttered. You weren’t equipped to deal with this kind of situation, especially since all that you were able to offer were kind words and a soft tone. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“Hey, ain’t that just life, though?” he muttered. Trying to convince himself of that fact was harder than saying it but pretending like he truly believed it was easiest. Ignoring the problem came second, so Yancy whispered something about getting a good night’s rest and rolled onto his side on his slab. It wasn’t comfortable, and he quickly began to miss the comforting stiffness of his cot.

You, however, would remain awake for the next hour or so, contemplating how you had gotten to this point. You wouldn’t call it rock-bottom, but it was definitely deeper than you were comfortable with. The agency you worked for gave you five strikes in the slammer before they left you to rot, and this was lucky number six for you. Spite tapped at your mind; those suits in upper management hadn’t seen a hard day’s work in their life, and they had the gall to blame you for your imprisonment after a job they ordered you do! Grinding your teeth together, you imagined their faces, prime and ready for a beating, when you got out – in ten to twelve years.

They should have been hoping you’d mellow out over time. Not likely, given your history, but it was their fault for keeping you there.

Although vastly unsupported by the prison’s psychologist, you and Yancy both fell asleep with troubled thoughts.

Unsurprisingly, you woke up with an aching back and growling stomach. Getting processed early in the day was a bad move, since it meant you’d miss both of the meals offered in the prison. You regretted getting caught at all, but fate could have been a bit kinder with the times. It was a good thing, then, that only half an hour or so after you’d regained thought, a tray of bland-looking food was shoved underneath your door. The metal slat closed behind it, leaving you the mismatched leftovers of the other prisoners’ breakfast.

The apple had rolled onto the stained floor and the dent containing what might have been porridge did not have any utensils. The milk looked alright, though, so you juggled it into your hands and leaned back on the wall. It reminded you of those movies you’d watched as a kid, the middle-school ones that you’d only ever seen a carton of milk in. You would have laughed at your first encounter being in a prison, but you were interrupted by Yancy.

“Morning.” He sounded almost unsure, as if he were afraid of getting nothing but silence back. Momentarily, he was proven correct when you were stunned by the ineffectual bout of morning voice the guy had. All of your limbs ceased movement, your eyes went wide, and you had to take a second to come to your senses. Suddenly, you were thankful for the wall separating the two of you.

Coughing lightly, you called back, “Morning to you, too.”

A grimace overcame your mouth when you realized that the carton was now completely dry, and you threw it to a corner of your cell. It landed with a muted thump into a pit of mold growing there. Your grimace deepened.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked. You assumed not great, but the silence was worse than an awkward conversation.

Yancy grunted, barely audible through the bricks, and then spoke, “’Bout as good as I do normally in here.”

“You’ve been in solitary before?”

“Ya sound surprised.” The small chuckle was appreciated, and you found yourself smiling alongside him.

“Yeah, I guess,” you responded, “you just give off this golden-retriever persona.”

Yancy was almost shocked. He hadn’t thought about how he came off to strangers, but that was mainly because he hadn’t interacted with one for years. Well, except…

He shook his head, manually removing the thoughts from his brain like cleaning out a junk drawer. “Is that a compliment?” It didn’t work, and, although he continued the conversation, his mind was far from it.

“I don’t know, I haven’t been here long enough to gauge the people here. Hence, asking you about your friends.”

That made sense, and you could have moved onto a different topic entirely, but Yancy kept being dragged back to the escapees. Despite only having known of you for a day, he liked talking to you. It kept his mind off of being in solitary, and he wanted to get one more thing off of his chest to rest his weary heart.

“D’ya wanna leave?”

It came out faster and clumsily blunter than he would’ve wanted, but it got the point across. If you said that you did, then he could just cut all contact and go quiet; he didn’t want to get attached to someone he was going to lose, though the worry that he already had definitely tapped at the edge of his mind.

You leaned back against the wall, further into the bricks as if you were able to phase through them with enough focus. You remained in the cell, where Yancy was still waiting for an answer. Did you want to leave? Well, of course, you did, there wasn’t anything better here than there was on the outside, and escaping wasn’t that hard of a feat given the shamefully low security.

But, then again, was there anything waiting for you back home? Prison meant keeping you trapped in one place, but the agency you worked for already did that. You were stuck in this city until they signed sixty forms to send you somewhere else, upon which you’d commit a crime, probably get arrested again, and then shoved in another cell again! It was a worse loss for them than it was for you, and, here, you had been having some nice conversation. Nice enough to stay for a little while, anyway, and, who knows, maybe you’ll be convinced to wait out your sentence for once.

Sighing, somewhat relieved that you had made the decision to stay, you replied, “Nah.”

And if you were relieved, Yancy was ecstatic. He resisted getting up and doing some kind of frenzied tap-dance out of excitement, and, instead, stayed rooted to his slab. He didn’t know exactly why he was so happy, but he was, and he was fine with that. He would deal with those unknown feelings later, when he had Sparkles and Bam-Bam and Tiny to help him through. Maybe you’d join them, and he could introduce you to everyone and—

He was getting ahead of himself. In the confines in his room, it didn’t matter that he blushed a deep crimson or that he had to bite his lip to keep his grin from spreading any further. He busied himself with scrambling to the floor and dragging his finger along the soot-covered bricks.

“You alright there, Yancy?”

You received no answer, save for the scraping and tapping that had made you curious in the first place. You watched where the sounds were coming from until they focused on one place in particular. Tap, tap, tap. They slowly became more forceful, a few seconds worth of securing one point on a brick, and then the thing was punched out altogether. The chipped rectangle tumbled into the wall opposite, revealing a tanned hand in its place.

It waved.

A laugh broke out of you, to the point where you nearly fell off your bed altogether. “How’d you figure that out?” you asked, in awe of the guy.

“One of the first times I was in here, I brought contraband with me, so I needed a place ta’ keep it while they did searches,” Yancy answered, “Nobody was ever in youse’s cell, so I shoved all my stuff in there.”

“Smart.”

He practically started glowing at that compliment, as if a switch had been flipped in his head. His smile slightly dipped, though, when he saw your abandoned tray on the ground in front of the hole.

“Ya not eating?”

You shrugged. “Not too into stuff that can’t decide whether it’s a solid or liquid. Plus, I’m not gonna use my hands to eat gruel.”

“Oh, the guards do that to newbies – somein’ like hazing, but it ain’t good for youse’s health.”

“So, frat hazing?”

Your comment went unanswered as Yancy slid back on his stomach to prop himself upright. It was only a couple seconds before another object came rolling through the gap. It bumped against the wall, knocking off some dust, but looked fine, otherwise. You picked it up.

“You sure?” you questioned tentatively, inspecting the rose-red apple.

“Youse gots to eat something, right?”

This time, it was you who blushed as deep as a sea trench. You weren’t sure whether it was his nature, or you were a special case, or you were just the only option, but Yancy was being nice to you. Genuinely sweet, and it was a weird experience for you. You barely knew anything about him, held one conversation with him, and yet you thought he was the best part of this prison. It wasn’t a high bar, but it was something, and you could feel yourself growing more and more fond of him as the seconds ticked on.

But that didn’t mean you would go without clarification.

Now resting on the floor, which didn’t feel as bad as you had presumed, you guided your tray into Yancy’s cell. There was a pleasant gasp exchanged for it, while you pointed out, “We just met.”

Another more confused noise was sent your way.

“Why are you being so nice to me? Talking to me, telling me about you, all that stuff. Why?”

Yancy knew this could go one of two ways; he could lie and say that he just liked your attitude, maybe that he didn’t want this awkward silence between you – or he could tell you the truth. The cold, hard, honest truth.

His shoulders dropped and the lights in his eyes dimmed as he realized that his fears were not mistaken.

“Guess I just got attached.”

You stopped short of responding for the better half of the next minute. While that may have seemed infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, it mattered to you, and it mattered to Yancy. You were given some time to consider the facts, apply the idea to his actions, while Yancy got scared. His fears surrounded him in the cold cell, and he wondered if he had blown his chances barely a day into knowing you. He tried to assure himself that it wouldn’t matter if you went completely silent, but both that and the bigger part of him knew that was a lie.

Going quiet when given a fact was a bad habit of yours, something that the prison boy would have to get used to if you were to stay talking. It happened a lot and normally didn’t mean anything bad at all, so he was able to breathe a sigh of relief when you answered back, “That makes sense.”

This time, Yancy was only confused. “Whad’ya mean?”

“Well—” you shuffled back against the wall again. You noticed it was a very cramped room, “—you told me about those people you helped escape. You must’ve cared about them if you risked getting solitary for them, and they haven’t come back. That’s gotta be rough on you.”

You weren’t a therapist by any means, but you’d sat in a psychology lecture back when you were in college. That, and it was pretty obvious what was going on.

“Yancy, you have abandonment issues.”

His head hit the bricks. His one visit with the prison’s psychologist had told him that much, but he’d never taken it to heart. Everyone had something wrong with them! His was just… more intense than other people’s. Or, he used to think that, but getting so attached to someone he had just met made it only more clear to him.

Not hearing a response, and unable to hear the thoughts slowly settling in Yancy’s mind, you prompted, “We can talk about it, if you want?”

“Yeah- yeah, I’d like that.”

The hours passed slowly, but they were full to the brim of venting, comforting and a few jokes sprinkled in here and there. It was a period of no holds barred, and everything was let out like opening a dam. The water swept up whatever was there already, the preconceived notions, the awkwardness, the discontentment – and it left behind warmth. Arguments were avoided and topic were reassessed. By the end of the second day in solitary, Yancy could confidently say that a lot of his issues were worked thoroughly. He would only phrase it like that because that was what you likened it to: if you don’t work dough, the bread that comes out will be floppy and weak, but if you knead it all equally, it’ll be able to hold its shape on its own.

He liked that analogy, he liked most of what you said, but a particularly touchy subject came up while you both talked over your dinner.

Yancy was almost knocked off of his feet when the words left your mouth, and he had to take a second to centre himself. After all, he wasn’t feeling overly emotional, and this certain thing only came out when he was overwhelmed. Whether it was anger or sadness, he was exclusive to the bad times.

“We don’t have to talk about him right now, but parents are normally behind a lot of issues,” you offered, facing the hole in the wall. Your tray of food had been discarded when you realized you still didn’t have any utensils. Of course, Yancy was kind enough to trade with you again, leaving you with three apple cores in the corner of your room.

He hadn’t taken a bite of anything.

“So, it’s normal, then?” His vision was downcast, a stark change in tone showing hope and doubt.

You shrugged slightly. “Normally doesn’t end with murder, but yeah.”

Yancy sighed, breathed in, and continued to exchange breaths until he felt he was ready. When he had fully quietened, he whispered just barely loud enough to hear, “I’m ready.”

“Then start from the beginning.”

Yancy’s upbringing could be described, as many others could, as rough. The only problem with that would be it wouldn’t do it justice on its own. Add in depressing, dramatic and downright traumatic, and you would get a better picture. To CPS, this was not what they saw; an employee once ended up at their front door, and what they saw was something entirely different. Baked cookies cooling on the table, washed clothes hanging on the line outside and smiling faces everywhere you looked. It was a front designed perfectly for that person to not report anything but joy back to the top.

But on days when visits were not scheduled, it was a nightmare. Yancy was born an only child, but to scrape up extra cash, his parents gathered a gaggle of children to babysit on weekdays. Tom was his favorite, Jane was adorable, and a pair of twins who lived a block down were trouble. It was all fine, except none of them got more attention than a pleading smile from Yancy’s mother, and a venomous, snide look from the man of the house.

His father hated kids. God knows why he had one of his own in the first place, and not even he knew why he stuck around. They would have been better off without him, Yancy would have been better off without him. He wouldn’t have been spending his early mornings biking down alleyways and trading bricks for cash. It was no secret that Yancy’s father was the town’s dealer, half of them were too scared to report him and the other half were his clients. The time he should have been spending learning the Pythagoras theorem or what a noun was, he was busy evading the cops’ daily routes and dishing out little, transparent baggies. His grammar never got better, that’s for sure, and, on one sunny Thursday afternoon, he ended up a couple streets away from Brooklyn.

And when he returned home with a new accent and interesting dialect, home-life went from a nightmare to pure hell.

He could remember that day like it was yesterday, as clear in his mind as the last shower he took. Shame it wasn’t as warm, or as comforting or homely. It was the complete opposite, in fact, because that was the day that everything twisted.

Freshly sixteen at the time, Yancy wandered through the overgrown grass, followed the stone path like the back of his hand. The rocks were cracked in two from being picked up and thrown, and dirt was visible around each piece. The front door creaked when he pushed against it, not even fully closer, and paint chips rained down on his shoes. It wasn’t a nice house, but it was one of the bigger ones that could fit as many people as they wanted it to. He couldn’t say it was in good condition, though.

Jane was quick to race up to him the second he stepped inside. He was flooded with cold, but her little smile sure made up for it. She was so excited to show him her schoolwork. The crayon drawing surely a picture for the fridge – he wondered how she ended up here.

There was some yelling from upstairs, but he ignored it in favor of heading to the kitchen. He knew his father would be in there, counting bills or sorting out pills. He had been such a scumbag, doing the same thing no matter who was around.

Keeping as quiet as possible, Yancy tried to be subtle in opening the cupboard. A cough from his left. It hadn’t worked, and even though he was sure the man despised every breath he took, he liked keeping tabs on the people around him.

“Did everything go well today?”

Really, he should’ve just said yes, and left it at that. He should’ve been in and out of the room like a flash. He should’ve been quiet.

But he was tired of being quiet. This guy that lived in the same house as him had no power over him. He had his bike, he could leave whenever he wanted, and his mother? Those times together, when it was just the two of them, were times he would treasure until the end of his life, but they were too few and too far between. His father shadowed every little interaction, as if a single word misplaced would mean the gallows. The one important thing that his father taught him was that consequences only mattered if you had a plan to get far.

So, he opened his mouth and replied, “Nah, dad, and I’d think youse’d know that.”

A strange accent, especially coming from someone you barely conversed with, should not have been that hard-hitting, but it set something off in the man. The bag of whatever-the-hell drug he was pushing now slammed to the table and bootsteps replaced the distant hum of a faulty boiler.

“What’d you say to me, boy?”

Yancy wasn’t a tall 16-year-old, but he made up for it with confidence, real or not. He broadened his shoulders and stuck out his chin.

“Youse heard me.”

“Youse? Where’d that come from?”

His tone was annoyingly plain, his words not worth staining with anything but deadpan. Yancy wasn’t worth it, apparently, and it only worked to fuel his anger.

“Don’t talk like that,” he ordered, “We’re from Ohio.”

In a fit of something more than rage, Yancy pushed against his chest and sent himself stumbling backwards. “Youse is from Ohio! We ain’t a family!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me.”

This would have been a good time to calm down, but he was on a roll with no sign of stopping. “I’ll do whatever I want! You don’t got nothin’ over me.”

Yancy twisted on his heel, ready to storm out to his bike and never come back into that hellhole, but a rough hand on his shoulder rooted his feet into the ground.

“Look,” he huffed, “I didn’t send you to school for you to end up speaking like this—”

If Yancy’s blood wasn’t boiling by now, then that surely did it. “Youse didn’t send me to school at all!” he yelled, tears billowing into his eyes, “I ain’t been to school in years, and youse’d know if you paid any goddamn attention to your kid, but youse don’t, so I ain’t gonna pay any attention to youse.”

The man’s tone shifted from enraged to a chilling calmness. He spoke as if he were explaining the alphabet to a child, “And why do you think I don’t pay any attention to you?”

He spluttered for an answer, eventually landing on a shaky, “Th-this ain’t a therapy session, youse just don’t like me.”

Now, he seemed almost shocked, and Yancy was almost going to punch him in the gut. “And why would you think I didn’t like you?”

“’Cause you—” His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He was trying to find an answer to this question, but even though it had years of evidence building up, nothing concrete came to mind, “— ‘cause you don’t! Don’t try to trick me, I know what you’re doing!”

“See,” a smile broke out onto his face, “there you go, back to normal.”

And, with that cheerful proclamation, he began to stalk back to his seat, where mismatched pills and baggies lay. Yancy felt his own feet move before he had the conscious thought to.

“Not back to normal!” he shouted back, a painful voice crack diminishing his confidence.

It was then that his mother peaked her head through the doorway, toting a frowning Tom behind her. Her clothes were torn in places, and a subtle, red splatter marred the bottom of her skirt. Yancy would have been concerned about this new feature if his mind weren’t clouded by anger towards the guy who made it happen.

Nevertheless, she asked meekly, “Is everything alright in here?”

His father was fast to answer, “Yes, everything is fine.”

Yancy wasn’t having it and, instead, jumped to cover up, “No, it’s not, dad—”

Like a sibling reprimanding the tattletale, the fully-grown man rolled his eyes and hissed, “Oh, be quiet for once in your life, Yancy.”

The lady was on the verge of saying his name, just a small word to get him to calm down, but he saw right through her and snapped, “Back off, woman.”

“Hey, don’t talk to her like that!”

In the corner of his eye, Yancy saw Tom slowly creep back to the staircase. His mother was too shocked to stop him, and his father, oh, his father tilted his head to look back to his only son. The careless smirk he once sported dropped into a vile scowl.

“So, you’re the man of the house, now, eh?” he mocked.

His skin turned cold, and shivers threatened to move him like an earthquake. Still, he replied, “Damn right I am, youse ain’t good enough.”

“Don’t speak to your father like that,” came another reprimand. Thinking back on it, he wasn’t sure if it was his dad or mum, but he was sure that it happened, and it pissed him off.

“Youse ain’t—”

Two hands secured tightly on his shoulders held him in place. Any thoughts of running or even taking a step back were banished from his mind. Out of fear of inability, he wasn’t sure, but he was forced to listen as his father ordered, “Either you stop that dumbass dialect of yours, or you can get out.”

His face got so close that he could see the wrinkles and off-set tan lines that ran laps around his eyes. The malicious glint the brown contained, the worst-kept secret of his family. His father was the devil himself, and he was sure that if he wanted to do anything to help them, he’d have to figure out what God did to get him out of heaven.

“So, what’s it gonna be, huh, son?”

Just six hours later, Yancy got out alright – it just wasn’t in the way his father had expected.

Blood on his hands, dripping a candy-trail for the four other children towards the police van, Yancy was barely conscious of him sitting down inside. He didn’t notice the revving of the engine, the moving of the scenery, the pat-down, the induction, any of it. It all passed in a blur, but he knew one thing for sure.

He didn’t want to be free – ever again.

You sat wide-eyed against the wall. You had expected a simple fight, teenage rebellion, and a bad attitude to the law. Yancy’s story was not that, in fact, but it, surprisingly, made more sense. Yancy was kind and generous and he understood the value of good relationships. That normally only happened after something bad.

And that was definitely something bad.

A sigh escaped your lungs as you processed the new information. It didn’t hurt any pre-conceived notions, it added to the ones you had been working on, actually. The whole abandonment thing, the protective golden retriever persona, it all made sense even with this new development.

A few moments after his final words, you nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Now that everything had settled, you were fine with it. It wasn’t surprising, considering where you were – the solitary wing of a penitentiary – and you actually commended Yancy for getting busted for something he believed in. It was a lot better than you; you were just doing your job for some capitalist pig.

Yancy was more shocked than you were. You had accepted this side of him faster than anyone had before. Maybe that was just your personality – or maybe you were in denial. Right now, though, he didn’t care, and that was a great feeling.

“So, do you want to start with the kids?” you asked, stretching out your back after so long lost in his story.

Confusion struck him faster than his consciousness could keep up with. Why would you want to talk about them? Then, of course, he remembered why he had told you about his whole deal in the first place, and a blush crept like a snake up his neck.

He laughed awkwardly, “Yeah.” And he was more than happy to talk about his little group of troublemakers.

Speaking of which, his current group of troublemakers had been rioting outside of the warden’s office for the past two days. They still adhered to their schedule, going to their cells before lights out and eating when told to, but you best believe that every other minute was spent blocking Mr. Murder-Slaughter’s door. That was, in total, an hour and six minutes per day, but that was enough to get on his nerves.

Coming back to the prison after a night out with his family, he was both amazed and annoyed to find Yancy’s clique sitting with make-shift signs, blocking his way back to his room. He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved the largest huff he could muster and gathered all of the officers in the penitentiary.

When everyone was all in one place, he called out, “Does anyone know what is going on with our prisoners?”

Nobody answered for a second, but soon, a young newbie was shoved into the pit in front of the Warden.

“W-well, they’re protesting… sir.”

“Protesting what?”

“That guy, their friend, they don’t like that he’s in solitary.”

He had expected them to be mad, but he didn’t think it’d get to this point – but, that begged the question, why were they still there!?

“And why is no one doing anything about it?”

More silence, until the first guy took it upon himself to just be the spokesperson in general. Lightly, he coughed into his hand and answered, “They’re not doing anything wrong. They have a right to be there.”

The Warden looked dumbly at the kid. He was barely over 20, it was a wonder as to how he landed this job, but he had, and he also had the unfortunate job of breaking any news to the boss there. Murder-Slaughter pitied him.

“You’re guards, for Christ’s sake, you have weapons!”

“Y-yeah, but it’s… it’s illegal, sir.” He was getting more confidence the more they talked, and he was even beginning to be backed up by his colleagues. A few prisoners looked around the corner and went to tell Yancy’s group of the events.

“Who cares?”

“The law, and we do, too, sir.”

He spluttered, spit out some half-assed remark about their power – the kid retaliated with morality, he hissed another order, he battled it back, and this whole circle went on for another ten minutes before the Warden had reached his limit.

“I don’t care what you do, just get them away from my door!”

He stormed away, to who knows where because his office was inaccessible, but that left the officers with all the power to do whatever they wanted.

And, surprisingly, that fully aligned with the rules, because rhythmic steps broke through the faint chatter of solitary. A distant drip of water had the newbie grimacing, but he made his way down the hallway, nonetheless, swinging a chain of keys all the while. It was only when he came to an occupied cell did he stop.

“Hey?” he called out awkwardly.

Equally as awkward, Yancy yelled back, “Hey…?”

“Your friends have, um, mutinied, I guess?”

If you were able to see each other, you and Yancy would have shared a confused but entertained look.

“So?” Yancy asked.

“You’re free to leave.”

The metal door swung into the brick wall, luckily covering up the hole, and prompting the prisoner to stand up. His back cracked from how long he had spent on the floor, and, although this clearly meant he was able to go back to the comfort of his own cell, it was overshadowed by a guilty, sad feeling. Had he gotten used to the confinement? It’d barely been a week, and he hadn’t succumbed to it that easily before, so it was unlikely. Then, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten used to you. The person who got him through a lot of his problems and comforted him, even though they had seen little more than a tattooed hand. His cell mate.

A near attempt to call out to you was shut down by a pair of cold, calculated cuffs snapping against his wrists. He had nearly forgotten this was a prison, and he was considered dangerous. Your reaction had made that strange reality to him.

Back through the rooms, back through the corridors, back through, back, back, back – further away from you. He began to feel guilty, disappointed; he missed you already, and he noticed that his attachment issues hadn’t been solved just quite yet. He frowned.

His cell wasn’t as comforting as when he had left it. The bed was comfortable, it flattened under his weight, and yet, the material was mocking him. He drew his legs to his chest and stared at the wall across from him. It was concrete. It was sturdy and complete.

His eyes and heart fell.

It took Yancy a week to feel better. His friends, when he had approached them that evening for dinner, were welcoming and helpful. They cheered and talked and joked just as they had before he had gone into solitary. Sparkles threw mashed potatoes at Tiny, Bam-Bam fought back with churned milk – but nothing was the same for Yancy. It didn’t bring him the same joy to see his friends as it had before. He couldn’t resist the thought that something was missing, and he knew exactly what that something was. He was almost ashamed to admit that he missed you after barely a day of talking to you, but he reminded himself of what you’d said to him. He didn’t have to be ashamed, so he wasn’t. It was his decision.

That didn’t stop him from missing you in the first place, though.

And all throughout the next seven days, going through the schedule, he thought about what he’d show to you when you got out. Maybe the exercise equipment, or the food that you’d actually get utensils with, or his cell! You’d probably appreciate a good place to sleep for a while, you weren’t exactly likely to get much sleep on a concrete slab.

With those ideas in mind, he started to get excited for your release. Sitting on the table with his friends, he glanced around. They had been given the general idea of who you were, but your physical appearance was something he couldn’t pinpoint, and he kept some of the topics of conversation close to the chest. He’d blush furiously when they talked about it, and even more so when it turned into teasing. Stuff about his getting a crush, like a schoolboy, made him grow redder and redder, to the point he wasn’t sure if his blood was on the inside or out.

All of that was nothing compared to when you emerged, handcuffed, and dressed in the prison garb, from the solitary wing.

He might’ve passed out had he not been sitting on the table, but he couldn’t help his eyes swimming along your figure. He had expected gorgeousness but Jesus… Now, for completely new reasons, his feet moved quicker than his brain, and Yancy gripped your hand – rough, calloused, amazing – and tugged you into any random hallway. Lucky for him, the guards seemed to understand what was happening and didn’t follow.

He found it difficult to communicate his feelings at first. His mouth widened and shut, his eyes squinted and then dilated again. He was confused and shocked and excited all at once.

Finally, he sighed and whispered, “Hey.”

You smiled back. “Hey.”

He was so giddy, like a kid on Christmas morning. He had half the mind to pick you up and twirl you around – it was such an unfamiliar feeling that he actually got as far as securing his hands on your waist before he realized what he was doing. However, they stayed planted when you wrapped your own around his back.

“Hey, Yancy,” you muttered.

He was freaking out. He hadn’t learned what to do in this kind of situation, let alone talking face to face with you! If you could even call what you were doing ‘talking’, it was like you were doing tap dance around acting normally. Did he hate it or love it, he had no clue, but he knew that it was happening.

And, at that rate, only one thing could stop it.

Yancy had always been bad with relationships, dating and any kind of personal rapport, so you can only imagine how bad he is with kissing.

Fireworks overloaded his mind, clearing out fog and replacing it with bright lights and flashing bulbs and his own heartbeat in his ears. Your lips felt exactly how they looked, tasted like the apple you had probably just eaten for dinner. He wondered, briefly, if they had given you utensils this time, but it was overcome by you pushing further into his lips. Your hands darted against his spine, and he squeezed his own out of instinct.

The air you breathed mingled in one space when you leaned back just an inch. It was far enough that you could speak, but you weren’t given the chance to as Yancy connected your lips once more. After spending practically all of his life without this kind of thing, there was no way in hell that he would let you go so easily.

“Yancy, chill out,” you chuckled, securing him further away. It wasn’t even a full ten inches, but it worked to get him to pay attention to you.

“Sorry,” he whispered, slowly edging forward, “youse just too sweet.”

Your smile widened.

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait a bit, you’ve gotta introduce me to your friends, first.”

A determined look fell over Yancy’s face, a curtain drawing to a close the romantic gestures, and bringing you by the hand towards his table.

Now, looking out over Happy Trails Penitentiary, you were certain that, fuck those suits, you never wanted to be free.

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