NO CHANCE

This story is for Eggblue - with love

It always happens like this. The lights are gone and he steps away from the sink, putting down the toothbrush - bumping into El Cid's body - warm and not completely solid - but the broad chest pressed to his back makes Miguel feel cornered and hopeless.

"Yeah, it's crowded," he tries to joke; his voice falls down - husky and nearly incomprehensible. He doesn't like it sound this way but he can't help it. "But not so crowded, amigo."

Hernandez doesn't answer. Just moves a little forward and, caught between the sink and his body, Miguel seeks in a haste something to say - without fighting, without direct disobedience - something that would make Hernandez know that he's doing a wrong move, makes a hit on a wrong man.

He can never find the right words - not once. In the odd combination of reflected lights and dimness of Em City Miguel sees his own face in the mirror, dark widened eyes and strangely wistful expression. And behind him El Cid so much in shadows that his face is just hovering white in the darkness - more ghost-like than the ghosts Miguel used to see.

His hand slides suddenly along Miguel's ribs. He feels it send shivers through his body - even though the palm is warm - strong and hard but almost careful. Miguel sucks on his lower lip, biting hard to gather himself into action - and turns around forcefully in the little space Hernandez left him.

He knows what he will see - the mask again - not face; no expression - and the dark eyes peering into him from under the thick brows. The silence.

"I am a man, I am not a fag," helplessly. Does he say it to make the point or just to hear the sound of his own voice?

There is no shift in El Cid's stare, no change in his breathing - and Miguel starts already doubting if he said anything at all or he just imagined it.

Then a tiny sound through the nose - a chuckle - so contemptuous is its subtlety.

"You let a fag to lay you down on the ring," Hernandez says. "Who does it make you then, white boy?"

But I boxed for you, Miguel thinks. I did what you wanted. Always.

I took Rivera's eyes because you told me so.

He can't say it aloud. Not about the eyes - he never says it. And not to Hernandez - now - he can't bring in Rivera for it - to secure his position, to remind El Cid that he, Miguel, can be tough, too. What he had done... it's a sin to mix toughness into it.

I will not lay down *for you*, El Cid, Miguel thinks.

He slides away cautiously, in his bunk immediately, feeling another touch he didn't manage to dodge - the tips of the fingers on his cheek, callused and slightly moist. And the word follows him, the hated name that sounds in his ears even when the pod gets completely quiet:

"Mike-el."

Sleep doesn't come easily. Miguel's hands are ice-cold and he seeks warm places against his body, armpits or between his legs, getting half-hard with all these manipulations, despite everything. But he doesn't feel like doing it. He curls tighter, licking his lips nervously, missing the lollipop... he had tried to go to sleep with it in his mouth but it was a mess in the morning.

Then he sleeps - but there is nothing tranquil in it - tossing and turning, seeing the faces, dead and alive - of the ones he let down or betrayed or angered - his grandfather, Ray Mukada, Leo Glynn. Sometimes he can't get rid of them when he is awake; but when he is dreaming, there is no chance for him to fight at all.

Sometimes he even thinks what if giving in to Hernandez might set him free from his favorite ghosts. Because El Cid could claim him his own - and El Cid being more an evil spirit than anyone else would be able to keep them at bay.

But Miguel can't do it. You pay too dearly for a moment of weakness in Oz, even if you think suddenly that being weak is almost what you want.

He is not weak, he *is* a man, he can survive on his own. Fuck, Miguel ran Latinos before El Cid - he won't bend over for anyone. Not even for El Cid - especially for El Cid - after everything El Cid had done to him - had made him do.

Is it Miguel's luck or stupidity that he doesn't know what else El Cid can do?

He is playing cards in the lounge when Guerra comes up and leans over his chair:

"Drop it. El Cid wants to talk to you."

Talk? Do they ever talk - even alone in their pod, even when there is nothing else to do? He should say 'I am busy, later' - but it comes to his mind a bit too late - after he puts the cards and gets up without a word. His partners follow him with thoughtful eyes - not really dissing but not quite respectful, too. He can care less about it, though - wondering what Hernandez has in store for him. Another test, huh? Whose eyes must he pluck out this time?

Guerra strolls to the door behind the stairs monitored by a hack that looks at them with empty eyes. She doesn't mind them going in.

It is a small place with brick walls, dimly lit with two bulbs under the ceiling. Miguel hears the door sliding shut behind him - and there is Hernandez in front of him, standing silently with his arms crossed on his chest. He nods slightly when he sees Miguel.

"What did you want, El Cid?"

No answer. An arm is braced suddenly around Miguel's throat, pulling him up, crushing his windpipe - and he feels the hands grabbing his arms, twisting them behind his back, even before he has the time to start struggling. There are more than one of them behind - he hears them panting and feels how hot and sweaty they are - and as he tries to get free, yanking on his arms and shoulders, he realizes that he is caught immovably.

He panics - with the lack of oxygen more than with anything else - but there is nothing he can do against it. He can't speak, he can't fight - and eventually he only can look at Hernandez pleadingly as the arm keeps pressing on his throat mercilessly. His sight starts blurring when Hernandez nods again - and as Guerra sinks his fist into Miguel's belly, the arm is suddenly gone, letting him double over and cough in the contradictory urges to get in some air and to heave.

"I just wanted to say that you should've done it an easy way when you could, Alvarez," El Cid says. "Now it's gonna be my way."

"What..." Miguel's mouth is too dry and even the beginning of the phrase comes out muffled. He never has the chance to finish it - his arms are twisted up roughly - probably a reminder about his manners - and his head is yanked back by the hair. His haircut is short but not short enough not to get a good grip on it, making him face Hernandez again. For all this time El Cid hasn't moved an inch, his feet spread, his arms folded - and his eyes drill at Miguel with too much gloom in them to leave any place even for gloating.

"You know what, white boy," he says. "You ain't so daft."

And there is Guerra, willowy and reeling, approaching Miguel again. The flash of the knife in his hand is the same short and bright as the flash of his teeth in a smile:

"Don't you make a sound."

Do they think he won't? He is so close to Em City that he can hear its noises so clearly here, all this steady roar of many people together. There is just wall between them. He can...

But he doesn't do anything. His eyes follow the ugly wide blade in Guerra's hand as if the light gathering on the polished metal hypnotizes him. It is how he misses the moment when Guerra's other hand slides between the belt of his pants and his belly.

Miguel jerks. It is instinctive - the revulsion is stronger than the fear of the knife - and his thrashing is so violent that for a moment he manages to break away from the hands that hold him. Too little to achieve anything. He is hit twice, a blow across his face - from Guerra with the knife's handle - splitting his lips and making him feel how hot and quick his blood is, running over his chin; and a heavy punch from behind, in his kidney, making him gasp with pain.

"Fuck you, bitch," he hears Ricardo's whisper in his ear as the grip on his hands is resumed. Ricardo... Of course. He can feel the long body pressed against his with all its length, hot and muscular - but what makes Miguel feel cold, makes him shiver suddenly is the hardness between Ricardo's thighs pressed to his ass firmly.

"You messy shit," Guerra says in a mocking voice, looking with squeamish amusement at the trail of blood on Miguel's t-shirt. There is too much blood in his mouth, he couldn't swallow it in time.

"Doesn't look so clean any more," El Cid remarks calmly.

Miguel clenches his teeth. The pain in his kidneys is still bad, subsiding slowly - and he feels kind of unfocused, shifting his eyes from Hernandez to Guerra and back.

So, that's all? That's how he will end up? Under their lousy witticisms? After everything - like this?

He had never feared blades. He liked them; why, he had cut himself - he had tried to kill himself. But when Guerra raises his knife and drags it along his cheek, it seems that the blade radiates cold, leaving the icy trace on his skin, even though barely touching it.

"I thought about giving you another scar," Guerra says, "but you'll probably enjoy it too much, loco."

So, he lowers his hand instead of cutting - down to Miguel's chest - and there the tip of the knife settles between Miguel's ribs on the left side - too low for the heart, though.

The strike here won't kill, Miguel thinks and relief of this thought immediately changes with chilly realization. Unless... unless it will be just the first strike.

"Let's check if something else tweaks you," Guerra says and Miguel hears others laugh. Except Hernandez, that is; his face never changes, his eyes never leave Miguel.

At first it is just strange liquid heat spreading from the knife's tip. It takes a while - maybe, seconds - to realize that the blade sinks between his ribs slowly. It stops too soon for him to think he is dying. Not deep - just an inch probably - and now it does hurt, burning steady pain that makes Miguel's breath odd and ragged, no matter how he tries not to wind under the examining, gleeful gaze of Guerra.

"Please..." his voice is just hoarse whisper - and he licks his lips, trying to pull himself together, to forget about the metal still inside his body. "Please, you don't need to do it."

"Oh no, we do," Guerra says and El Cid shrugs, the deepest contempt distorting his face for a few moments before it acquires its blank expression again:

"He is begging."

He is. He was not going to - was going *not* to - he doesn't know how it happens. Perhaps it is not even El Cid or Guerra who he begs.

He is just in a few feet from the people - separated from them only with a few layers of bricks. Why can't it happen that someone comes in here - Beecher or O'Reily or some hack?

Please... He begs the one who has the power over it - to reverse the situation, to save him. He doesn't want to die. An ironic thing for someone who tried to hang himself in the loop made out of a sheet such a short time ago.

Or, maybe, he doesn't want pain. He shivers when Guerra turns the blade between his ribs - blood running freely from the widening gash, the knife grazing the bones, making Miguel catch the air with open mouth. He gasps but he doesn't cry out. The fear of El Cid is deeper than under his skin, is in his bones - and even thinking that he will die now he still can't disobey him.

Blood makes a wet hot trail on his t-shirt and pants, soaked cloth clinging to his skin, growing cool and sticky. Another twist of the blade and Miguel goes limp in the hands that hold him. He barely sees a short sign Hernandez makes with his eyes - and then Guerra pulls the knife out.

"We don't want to off our Mike-el so soon, right?" El Cid says and they all laugh again. "Not before we'll get all we want from him."

And Miguel knows what it means - they all know, another burst of their laughter shows it. But the truth is, Miguel realizes suddenly, that he knew it all the way - that's why his mind advised him that it would be better if Guerra just killed him.

Not that he ever had any choice.

Suddenly Ricardo lets him go - pushes him on the floor on his knees - but his hands are still clutched and twisted up. Miguel bends forward - a perfect pose of submission; the pain in his out-turned shoulders is excruciating and he tries to spare himself at least some of it - but no luck, they just twist his arms higher.

"Yeah, I like to see you this way, scum," Ricardo says.

Really, Carlo? Since when? Miguel doesn't ask it - he can't - and, anyway, he knows the answer. Here, in Oz, you'd better hit first... and not only when there is a chance that you'll have to hit back.

Suddenly Ricardo is at Miguel's side - and his boot kicks him under the ribs, making him heave agonizingly. He can swear he hears the rib crack.

"Say thank you."

Now Ricardo is in front of him - his boots at least. And his voice sounds from above - from too high where Miguel can't look up. But he doesn't need to look.

No way. He won't say it. Fuck Ricardo! Does he really think he can make him? He who used to look up at Miguel in the streets.

"I am waiting, Mike-el."

Oh come on. El Cid pronounces it much better.

He sees the boot hitting and he tries to dodge it - but he doesn't have any freedom of movements, what with him almost hanging on his arms? His mouth fills with blood and hard sharp crumbs of the teeth and he makes a short muffled sound of shock and pain.

"Dislocate his arm!" Ricardo hisses - and for a moment it is exactly what Miguel feels happening to him, the splash of scalding pain in his right shoulder.

"No," El Cid says - and for a moment Miguel almost can't believe that it is what it means. But the pressure comes down immediately, leaving him panting, almost sobbing in relief. Yes, in relief, even though he knows how temporary it is. "I don't want him go to the hospital."

So? That's why they probably didn't cut his face. It would be noticed. But beyond logic Hernandez' words sends chills through Miguel's body. El Cid doesn't want him crippled or dead... only El Cid never does anything out of mercy.

"Come on, guys, we don't have the whole day," Guerra says.

"And my dick is tired of waiting," Ricardo adds deliberately.

Fuck you. In your dreams, Miguel thinks unhappily, biting his lips and making them bleed again. Because he knows, he knows that he can do fuckin' nothing about what's going to happen - no way to prevent it.

"Why? Why, El Cid?" there is desperation in his voice that makes him sick with himself. And doesn't he know the answer?

"'Cause you are good for nothing else, Mike-el."

"Ass or mouth, Mike-el?" Ricardo echoes, running his fingers over his belt. Shut up, shut up, Miguel thinks. He is swooning with hatred and denial. It can't happen to him, it just can't. It is not supposed to - not with him, not with Miguel Alvarez, with his father in Oz, with his grandfather twenty years in solitary, with everything he'd done.

Everything like what? Like pushing some tits? Like poking out someone's eyes?

His eyelids sting. He realizes too late that it is tears - and he can't keep them away from his voice when he says - angrily and yet weakly:

"You stick it to my mouth, you lose it."

He knows at once how breathtakingly stupid it was - but it is too late. They all heard and they all understood what it was - defeat.

"I take it as your choice," Ricardo says and walks around him. Miguel's arms are spread wide now and two men hold him the same firmly. His spine is vibrating as he senses Ricardo behind, he wants to look back and doesn't know what stops him, fear or the remnants of control.

"Fuck you, fuck you," he whispers miserably - mechanically, not registering the meaning of the words, not feeling that there is blood leaking from his mouth.

His body struggles when Ricardo kicks his ankles apart - but his mind gave up. He knows it will happen and there is nothing he can do about it, just fuckin' take it.

So, here it goes.

Ricardo's body is living heat as he kneels behind him, chest to Miguel's back - and Ricardo's long arms laying around his waist still him suddenly. Miguel looks up and sees El Cid looking down at him - no trace, no chance of mercy in the dark eyes under the wide brows. No change in his position for all the time either. But as Miguel's eyes slide down along El Cid's body, he sees the round bulge of Hernandez' groin, prominent and undeniable.

What's so funny about it - it is probably hysterical that Miguel's mouth curves in a shaky, desperate grin. And El Cid doesn't like it; doesn't like it at all. He makes a step forward - at last - leaning down in a smooth fluid motion towards Miguel:

"You like what you see? It will be all yours."

He doesn't hit him. He looks at Ricardo and nods very slightly and Miguel thinks no, he wants to be dead now, before it happens. But he doesn't have any say here - Ricardo's hands yank his belt and open his pants and pull them down, pull them down with the shorts.

His knees set so wide apart to give the room for Ricardo between them that Miguel is almost out of balance. He sees Guerra reaching the boot to his genitals - and tries to back away - pressing into Ricardo. What's worse?

"Ah, I see you are in love with me, baby," Ricardo whispers, loud enough for others to share the joke. He can't understand how Ricardo can be so hot and yet make him feel so agonizingly cold that shivers rack his body unceasingly.

Well, he has nowhere to back away any more - and Guerra touches him with the boot - not hitting, though.

"You do have balls? Why don't you use them then?"

"Why, he does. For making kids. Didn't he have a kid? It was his kid, wasn't it?" Ricardo says almost absently, pulling his zipper down.

"So he said," Guerra remarks.

And he thought it couldn't be worse? Miguel knows these are just words, they are supposed to be insulting, that's why they say them - and what can he answer, anyway? Fuck off? Shut up? He is not in the position to tell them what to talk about.

He is in the position to be fucked, right?

"First time it hurts," Ricardo says, his arm wrap around Miguel's waist for the support - and then Miguel feels the blunt wet touch of silk and hardness between his ass-cheeks. He thrashes again, without result - and the ring of the arm around him tightens. Ricardo has long strong arms. Maybe, there were nights when Miguel thought how it would be to be held in these arms - you think about lots of shit at night in Oz.

How did Ardith feel when these arms locked around her?

He hears a sound of spitting; better than nothing, yeah - a sane thought comes. But there is another, unreasonable - not thought even but agony that beats through his veins. Not better, not anything, no, it doesn't happen.

Even when it does.

"Oops," Ricardo says pushing in.

You should push back. Where did he hear it? The little wisdom of survival. Like you are going to take a shit. But it is unthinkable. He will not participate in it - he is not a fag... he put out Rivera's eyes to prove that he is not a fag, didn't he... just to think that it didn't help, after all.

He gasps when the pain becomes almost intolerable - and at the next moment Ricardo's cock-head is in him. He hears Ricardo gasp, too - it must have been not easy for him - but if Miguel hoped the pain would go down, he was wrong. It continues - growing much worse, spiraling up till it makes him sick as Ricardo pushes his cock in with short stabbing motions. Inch by inch all the way - and Miguel goes limp, the only thing in him that still feels is the length and width of Ricardo's cock buried fully in his rectum.

"I like breaking in tight pussies," Ricardo whispers, the darting lick of his tongue cold and blade-like against the line of Miguel's jaw. Miguel's lips are covered in drying blood and it cracks when he whispers suddenly:

"You are not doing it..."

"The hell I am not," Ricardo grins but Miguel seems not to hear it.

"You are not doing it... you are not doing it..."

Does he mean Ricardo at all?

"Oh come on, fuck the shit out of him, the others want their turn, too," Guerra sounds bored - and Ricardo pulls out, his hands on Miguel's hips for leverage, fingernails burying deep into his skin.

Perhaps Ardith had had these marks on her, too - after *that*?

He feels faint - the pain making him dizzy, not being able to see clearly. He hears the sound of loud breath, almost sobs - and it takes some effort to realize that it is his own. No sound loud enough to be heard behind the wall, however. And Miguel doesn't hear the Em City any more, either - or is this rustle in his ears that? It seems to be ages since he was in the bright-lit lounge, all glass and steel, a man among other men.

Maybe, it had never been.

Ricardo fucks him in long steady motions, all resistance of flesh broken - Ricardo must be a good stud - you bet he can go like that for hours. If others didn't wait for their turn, that is.

"Come on, baby, take it, take it, you like it?" his whisper speeds up, blurs to incoherent as his motions speed up, too, fast and hard, slick in blood, a flash of pain every time Ricardo's cock goes through the torn tissues. "You like it?"

He licks Miguel's nape, he bites, too - and his hand catches Miguel's cock, twisting it as if trying to bring it to life belatedly. Nothing happens, of course. Ricardo grunts. He is in a frenzy, his hands wandering, crawling under Miguel's bloody t-shirt until reaching the edges of the bleeding gash.

"See how you like this," he mutters almost too fast for Miguel to understand as his fingers push into the gash, trying to sink into it.

Then Miguel cries out. It just hurts too much - he forgets to keep silent. He convulses, nearly breaking his wrists - and then goes slack... as Ricardo finishes the sequence, in wild thrusts - coming, shooting his sperm as deep inside him as possible.

The cry was not enough. Nobody heard it - or, maybe, those who did also knew that they shouldn't react. But Miguel doesn't know it. He is so far in a haze that he barely feels how Ricardo pulls out of him - something wet and unpleasantly warm leaks on his thighs - and there is Guerra kneeling behind him, between his tired, too wide spread legs.

Where's the knife, Miguel thinks fuzzily. No, no knife - it is skin and flesh that goes inside him, pain over pain, no resistance at all this time, all slick inside.

Guerra must be thinner - it doesn't hurt so bad - or, maybe, his mind just blunted, his ability to feel diluted.

"You made him a mess," Guerra notices absently. His palms are on Miguel's shoulders but he doesn't stick his fingernails in. And he doesn't talk. Just goes on until gasping suddenly and leaning against Miguel's back. He puts the pressure on his arms like that - but Miguel is not sure he distinguishes this pain. And this touch - for some reason it seems to him there is no hatred in it; it is almost as if Guerra could rest against him after they had had sex.

"Hey, hombre, are you going to sleep here?" someone asks - Valenza, the one of those who holds him, Miguel understands.

Guerra gets up and spits. Not on Miguel - on the floor in front of him - but Miguel knows he could have done it - and feels strange dazed gratitude for it.

"It's all your own fault, Alvarez," Guerra says, "I told you should have taken your chance when you could."

And Miguel shivers and says, his head sagging:

"I know, man. I know."

Then they don't hold him any more - they feel that the fight is gone out of him - or El Cid feels it - El Cid who is there, watching all the way, not moving, not saying anything. They drop Miguel and he curls over his knees, with his head down. He is taken again, by Valenza, and even though the man complains it's too slick and slack, the pain is still here. But Miguel accepts it because it's what he deserves - now he knows he deserves it.

He doesn't quite follow the moment when Valenza exchange places with the fourth man - and he knows there are five of them, El Cid including - but he also knows perfectly that El Cid won't participate. Not like that. He made his point - whose doing it is and what Miguel pays for. As if he could doubt it. But their own scores will not be settled here.

He kneels and shivers when everyone is done - on the floor in the pool of his blood with whitish streaks of sperm in it, his pants crumpled around his ankles. The saliva is ropy in his mouth and it hurts like blades when he tries to swallow. Nobody touches him any more. It is over. Over?

They are silent - and look down at him - and he thinks he feels surprise in their eyes. He thinks he knows why this surprise is here. Who is he? He used to be Miguel Alvarez - but what they had done changed him. He is not the same any more. Never will be. And the realization of it is burning through his brain, more fierce than the pain his exhausted body can feel.

How can it be? If he is not the same any more? What does it hurt as if he lost something? He has nothing to lose - he is not a man any more and owns nothing to lose.

"Get your pants up, Miguelito," El Cid says and he jerks as if the name hit him. He doesn't call him Mike-el any more - it had meant to humiliate him - and he can't be humiliated now, he is already down all the way.

He tries to get up, fails and tries again - pulls up the shorts and pants. They shouldn't be wet - were off before everything started - but they are, all his clothes are a mess. He stands shakily and listens to El Cid:

"Now you are going to walk to the shower, Alvarez, and clean everything up. I don't want anyone to sniff up anything."

Others block him from the sight of the hacks when he goes back to the Em City. There is someone in the shower and Ricardo boos at him, so, he disappears. Miguel's hands are shaking and clumsy as he pulls off half-wet clothes. Someone, maybe, Valenza was sent for clean ones. He has their whole attention, doesn't he?

The water is shocking hot; how didn't he notice how frozen his body was - as if carved from ice. He shudders as the flows run over him, washing the blood from his face and the gash on his chest, washing it down from his thighs and swirling it away, red in transparent on the clean slick tiles.

"Here, cover it," someone says tossing him cotton and plaster and he does it mechanically, covering the wound that bleeds only sluggishly now. They keep looking at him as he dresses - what's the point, they already know him inside out.

He thinks absently how smart El Cid is. Didn't do anything irreparable to him. Clean clothes - and no outside mark of what happened. But El Cid also knows that Miguel won't ever be able to delete this mark inside him.

There are signs, however. As they go to the mess, Ryan O'Reily remarks behind him:

"A funny walk you have, hermano."

He whips back, blinded with fury - and Ryan steps away, his hands up, smiling. He knows. They all will know - those who don't soon will do, you can't hide the things in Oz.

What have you done to me, El Cid?

At night he understands fully what.

He waits for the lights to go out in desperate impatience - his body is about to give up - and his mind... he had never thought it could be an agony to be among other people - talking, looking at him, waiting for him to answer. How about the privacy of the hole? Or a hole - in the ground, for him to curl up and lick his wounds.

But there is no place for a weak animal in Oz.

When in his bunk, Miguel still shivers even under the blanket - so badly that he presses his palm to his mouth to stop his teeth from chattering - to stop himself from sobbing. He can't cry. It shocks and scares him that he should make such effort not to cry.

Then the shadow slides in front of his blurry eyes - there is barely a sound, El Cid can move so lightly when he wants.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice is almost normal - no derision, no hatred in it for once. He sits on Miguel's bunk and at the moment Miguel backs in the corner, his eyes wide-open and staring - as far away as he can be but it is not far at all. Hernandez' hand reaches for him, cupping his shoulder, sliding down to his chest to the busted rib that resounds with pain at every inhale. Miguel is frozen, no thought in his mind. He is ready to lash or ready to break and when he realizes at last what he thinks about, it stuns him. He doesn't want to go mad.

However, some say he is already mad.

"Remember you didn't want that?" El Cid asks suddenly and his hand wanders to Miguel's other side, fingers running lightly over the covered gash, probing. "Everything comes to that again, doesn't it? And now there's no way back."

El Cid strokes his cheek:

"You know you should've never let it happen, Miguelito. But you let it - and you lost."

He knows it. That is what makes him bite and bite his lips until he doesn't feel anything but numbness. Shh! There is nothing he can do.

"El Cid..." he whispers and the patting on his cheek becomes softer, almost fatherly. He had never known Hernandez could touch like this.

"I know, I know. You can't stand it now. I could've made you - but I will let you... take it easy."

El Cid sits back a little and move his knees apart.

"On your knees, Miguelito."

So, for a few days shitting is a torture for Miguel. But he is young and healthy and his body heals - and El Cid is as good as his word, he takes it easy as long as Miguel's mouth is ready to serve him - and to serve those whom El Cid thinks he should encourage; Miguel doesn't get any worse with it, does he?

And looking up at Ricardo from his knees or feeling Guerra's palm on his head, guiding him - he still feels El Cid behind and knows he is watched and knows who he belongs to.

And days later, when Hernandez thinks Miguel is well enough to take it again - he takes it. And keeps taking it. He needs to think consciously about keeping his bowels - and he washes blood out of himself every morning, getting a weird eye from some odd inmate in the shower - but they all know what it is, don't they? He is not the first, he is not the last. Nobody cares - but why should they? Did he care for anybody? Maybe, for Beecher when he had been there?

Come on, be realistic, it is Oz.

Beecher broke the pattern and was gone - something that Miguel knows he won't be able to do.

He stands in front of the mirror, sliding the disposal razor over his chin and wishes desperately it was a straight razor because then he would possibly find the courage to do it again and for all.

"You'd better be dead, Miguel," he sees his grandfather behind himself in the mirror and hears the voice he already started to forget. He tries to make his grandfather stay - but he leaves - vanishes - and then there is only Miguel's face in the glossy darkness - and looking at it, Miguel remembers El Cid's touches, painful and warm, possessive and accepting, remembers El Cid's tongue in his mouth - and he knows there is no enough water to wash it off.

Yeah, he thinks, you'd better be dead, Miguel. But at the same time a part of him thinks that he is where he belongs.

THE END