#prisonverse

Erik’s anxiety was building to a dull scream when he recognised the bartender, to his surprise and delight. 

“Barty!” 

Barty looked at him blandly, then did a double take. “Wolff? You look well.” 

Erik looked down at himself. He… guessed so? The months since meeting Ištván had been the happiest of his life (if not the only happy time of his life) and being given free access to a gym and good food had filled him right out. “Thanks?”

Ištván was looking at the bartender with great interest. Did he think Erik and Barty were…? “Ištván , this is Black Barty,” he said, remembering (wrongly) some nonsense about introducing the older person to the younger one. “Bart, this is Ištván. He’s my…” Fuck. 

Ištván smiled and failed to elaborate. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Bart. I’m assuming you and Erik were colleagues, yes?” Did he really have to take so long pressing his gold credit card into Barty’s hand? 

Barty smiled, almost definitely taking too long to take the card out of Ištván's hand. Erik remembered Ištván's advice about counting to ten and moved in a little closer. “We were at The University, yes,” said Bart, discreetly not adding the “of Crime” part. 

“Have you been working here since you got - er…” Fuck. Erik was genuinely happy to see Barty, why was this so fucked? Thankfully Barty jumped in for him. “I had some people who owed me some favours, and some people I owed favours, and between them all, I now make Harvey Wallbangers for a living.” He smiled resignedly. “Not what I expected to do with my education, but then I’m not the only failed Masters student here either.”

A queue started to form and Barty waved apologetically, efficiently taking and making orders for cocktails that looked like Godzilla serum. Ištván had acquired them some uncomplicated sweet goop in glasses the size of astronaut helmets, and Erik was glad for the hiding place. Lurking behind his tiny beloved provided limited shelter. 

Ištván’s colleagues seemed mostly like wankers, and Erik was grateful that Ištván didn’t really try to pull him into any conversation. Something something Iraq something something Bush blah blah Visegrád rhubarb rhubarb Ireland. At least the music they were playing wasn’t bad. He should ask Barty what it was.

He wasn’t immune to the comments he overheard in passing - “rent boy”, he heard one old cunt whisper to another when he thought Erik couldn’t hear, jokes on him, I’m not paying any rent - but he definitely didn’t mind looming threateningly over drinkers he perceived weren’t treating Pišta with the right amount of respect. Only one, Mr Justice Ulrich, was honest enough to come out and say “and this must be your attack dog” while looking up at Erik and drooling a little. Ištván looked uncharacteristically lost for words - how fucking dare - but glowed with pride when Erik just said “not f’hire, sorry” and went back to his comically huge glass of wine.

Eventually the crowd fucked off to their plays or orchestras or whatever the fuck rich cunts did with their evening, only a few little clusters of pissheads in the corners like cobwebs. Istvan perched Erik at the end of the bar and ordered a giant pile of olives and a Sex on the Beach (“I’m just testing your friend”). Erik declined the offer of an elaborate cocktail in favour of the white wine he’d been on all evening, and wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about the olives. 

“What was your Masters in?” inquired Ištván politely, sucking the flesh off an olive and beginning a pile of pips. Bartosch looked sharply at him. “Will you laugh if I say Law?” 

“Not in the slightest,” hiding a smile behind dainty chewing. “What aspect of my beloved profession was your speciality?” 

Erik really disliked how Ištván was looking at Barty. He couldn’t even put his finger on why - didn’t he want his lover to like his friends? Especially since he hardly had any friends. 

“My thesis was about the impact of the Special Powers Act on democratic policing in -“

“Stop right there! If you keep talking politics I’ll have you killed-”

“Hey this music is really good, what is it?”

Barty heaved a sigh of relief. “Betty Davis. Like the old movie star but black and not dead.” 

Ištván burst into a fit of giggles, tearing Erik between falling in love with his beautiful eyes all over again and being gutted that it wasn’t him making Daddy laugh like that. “You’re awful. I like that in a man.” As if he could feel Erik’s increasing tension, Ištván grabbed his thigh under the bar and squeezed reassuringly. 

“At least you’re not still on that metal shite,” said Erik, reprising an ongoing argument from chokey. “For your information, that metal shite is melodically sophisticated and conceptually challenging.” Bart glanced around the bar. “A bit of Sepultura would do this audience a world of good.”

“It’d clear the place right out,” jabbed Erik, and turned to see Istvan beaming at him adoringly. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to earn this, but he wanted more of it.

“Right, whereas Fear of a Black Planet would have them up and dancing.” Bart was grinning as he said it though. Ištván shook his head sadly. “The young people, they don’t appreciate the classics. Dusty Springfield crossed the colour line so you whelps can quibble about who yells the loudest.” Barty immediately protested “Excuse me!” while Erik crossed over with “It’s time to get you to bed, Daddy,” which got him another one of those beaming smiles. “Is it now?” 

Bart coughed loudly. “I hate to interrupt this blossoming romance, but I should close up,” he said, exaggeratedly wiping the already-clean bar. Giggling, Erik helped a mildly-shickered Ištván off the bar stool, clutching him in his arms when he staggered. 

Handing over lockup duties to a colleague, Barty pulled on his leather jacket and grabbed a bag with a motorcycle helmet visible through the partially opened zipper. “It was wonderful to see you again, Erik.” He leaned in - up, though only a little -  and placed a soft, chaste kiss on Erik’s cheek, so fast it was gone before he could react. Then he was kissing Ištván European style on both cheeks and Ištván was returning the kisses with what seemed to Erik like way too much interest, but maybe that’s how they did it in Hungary? (one… two… three…) “I’ve got a very decent pad in Islington. You gents should drop in for a sandwich.” The way Bart was smiling - no, worse, the way Istvan was smiling back was giving Erik the reddest of mist, so he wrapped one arm about Istvan’s shoulders and pulled him in to kiss his temple, which required a bit of a curtsey but made the point. “Sounds grand. I better get his Lordship home before he does himself an injury.” His Lordship beamed up at him and allowed himself to be pulled into the late-model Jag he’d given Erik as a combination half-anniversary present and tax dodge. 

They drove home in silence and Erik made them tea, the ritual acting as a counting exercise in itself - 1, boil the water, 2, lay out cups (one, two), 3, add sugar (none for Ištván, three for Erik), 4, add tea to teapot (one for Ištván, one for Erik, one for the pot), 5, add boiled water at exactly 89 degrees celcius, 6. steep for exactly five minutes, 7, pour into cups, 8, add milk (a wee drappie for Ištván, half the cup for Erik). He was calmer, but not objectively calm, as he carried the tea to the modular lounge Istvan was now occupying. 

He handed Ištván his cup (gold) and sat down with his own (silver), snuggling into Ištván’s side like a tired Weimaraner. It took all of his energy not to crawl into Pista’s lap and bat away the book his lover was reading, a big fat spy novel so heavy you could kill a man with it. He tried reading it himself, but the letters blurred into a wall of grey - really, he preferred the comic books Ištván bought him, though he suspected Istvan did this to pretend Daddy wasn’t addicted to the latest Batman run. 

The tea made Erik a little dozy (definitely not the litres of sweet white piss he’d drunk at the bar) and he was zoning out, Ištván's fingers caressing the short hair over his ears, when his lover raised his head, pressed a light kiss to Erik’s temple, and asked quietly “What did you think of Bartosch’s offer?” 

“What offer?”

“To host us at his place.” Erik couldn’t see Ištván’s face but he was very definitely smiling. 

“Uh, yeah, he’s a sound bloke. As long as he doesn’t want me to do any of that bullshit with all the forks.” 

Ištván bit back a chuckle. “Unless he has a very specific fetish, I think he just wants to sleep with us.”

Erik sat bolt upright, suddenly very very awake. So he had been flirting with Bart! “Why?!”

“Because you are beautiful, and you deserve to be worshipped like a god.” Ištván put his fingers on Erik’s chin and raised his face to look deeply into his eyes. “Because you deserve pleasure like no other, and because I want to give everything to my boy.” 

Erik wasn’t hearing it. “You are everything. I don’t want anything but you.” 

“Really? You never think about what it would be like to be stuffed like a toad-in-the-hole? Hands caressing every inch of your skin while all your orifices are stuffed to bursting?” Pista’s eyes crinkled in that way he had when he was about to do something very wicked, and the thought did make Erik briefly gape a little, but - 

“You give me all of that. Am I not enough for you?”

“Yes, but - “ And then Istvan abruptly stopped talking, his eyes focused on someone not there, a sneering RP accent - 

Prude. 

My ex had no problem with it. 

Really, you’re so … straight. 

Grow up.  

He gripped Erik’s jaw tightly. “Do you feel loved?”

“I -“

No.

Ištván said he loved Erik, all the time, and Erik had no reason not to believe him. But Ištván was a mature, successful, educated man, and he was just some piece of shit. Erik tried to say something but all that would come out was a choked wheeze.

“Erik.” Ištván caressed his face, running a thumb over his eyebrow. “You have been utterly betrayed by people you should have been able to trust. Used by people who didn’t appreciate you. Underestimated by fools.” Erik responded only with distressed grunting. “Erik. Listen to me. Do you think I am a charitable man?” 

“Errrr… no.”

“Do you think I pity you?”

“.... little bit, yeah.” 

Ištván shook his face like he’d eaten a battery. “Put such thoughts out of your mind, Erik. I like to have the best of everything, and you are the best of anything.” He lifted Erik’s face to force him to make eye contact, as if glaring into his eyes would convey the fundamental truth of Erik’s worth. 

Erik jerked his face away, the compliment burning him. “You haven’t had the best of boyfriends,” he snapped, make it stop, make it stop…

“I do now.” 

“Maybe you'd prefer Bart. He’s more like you - been to uni an’ all -OW!” Erik rubbed his face where Ištván had very suddenly slapped him. 

“For fuck’s sake, Bart is a literal Lord. The fact that he’s piss poor doesn’t change the fact that he’s had every fucking educational advantage, whereas you, my darling,” kissing his reddened cheek, “you’ve come so far, no title, no connections… You’re the one who’s like me, not him.” 

Erik pulled away. “Please don’t make me share you.” 

my prisonverse erik is just coming off the back of a lifetime of not being enough for anyone — or at least that’s how he interprets it. he’s never been in a relationship, he has a very fractured relationship with his mother who he both idolises and demonises, feels like a failure for his grandmother, and has an incredibly insecure attachment style.

he struggles so much with his self-esteem when it comes to his own intelligence and worth as a human being. he’s pretty body confident and in my fic we find him in a place where he’s really putting most of his stock in his body and its appearance, he spends the majority of his free time when istvan’s at work at the gym working on his physique. he’s not really interested in making friends or having a life outside of istvan / their dynamic which is really not healthy but. hey, whatever works!!

compared to canon isterik he has a lot more reason to fear being replaced (he feels intellectually inferior, he’s worried his appearance will someday become unsatisfying, that istvan will get bored of their dynamic/stop seeing him as a passion project of sorts) and they are less of one another’s entire world as they are in canon simply because they’re not as surrounded by death, so more people stick around I guess

he really struggles to self-regulate and so his insecure attachment really shows through so much…