#tw!non-con

Part 2 Part 3

Part 1 - Pride

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence

''What the hell is this?'' Dad asks with a raised voice while looking through the monthly bills, eyes narrowed. Mom looks up from the ironing board in front of her. Dad is as usual seated in his armchair by the old television, resting his tired legs on the footstool, his cane by his side. Phil and Martyn are sitting beside him on the grey carpet, eyes fixated on the cartoon playing in the television. Phil keeps quiet. Martyn has taught him to.

Mom places the iron back on the ironing board and takes place beside Dad, who points at something on the paper with a stiff finger. She bends down to get a closer look, takes a step back as she finds out what he's referring to. ''The oven broke,'' She explains with a weak voice, folding her hands in front of her. ''I had our landlord come fix it.'' Dad grabs the remote, turns off the TV.

''Hands on the wall.'' Mom doesn't cry as she obeys, she never does. Phil clenches his small fists and looks to his big brother. They both know what comes next. Dad arises from his chair, grabbing his cane. Martyn covers Phil's eyes with a hand, but he can still hear the well known sound of wood against flesh, the screams of pain that follows. -x-x-x-

''Howell,'' A female guard commands Dan to step out from the line of newly arrived inmates, voice monotone and eyes fixated on the clipboard in her hands. She hands Dan a small paperclip and an identification card as he approaches her with stiff steps, signals for him to tag along with a quick, impatient hand gesture. Dan attaches the card to the pocket of his orange jumpsuit and follows her hasty steps. The obnoxious colour makes him stick out among the grey sweatshirts, white tank tops and jogging pants adorning the other inmates, signals his status as a newcomer, a newborn to the hierarchy behind bars.

''Breakfast starts at six, lunch at one, dinner at five,'' The guard informs him as she leads him past the dining hall and activity rooms, quiet criminals staring him down, calculating his every move. There's no hoard of dehumanized animals awaiting him, no wordstream of profanities and dirty promises flowing his way; just an agonizing, straining silence, making his ears ring and blood boil. A lot of them are covered in tattoos, steroid muscles prominent through their shirts. Dan has neither, got nothing but his pride. ''Work hours are between breakfast and lunch, phone and shower hours between lunch and dinner.''

Dan walks with his chin raised, face stripped from every emotion. He won't show them any sign of weakness. ''Got it,'' He responds and fixates his eyes on the prison's concrete walls, painted in a mocking pattern of blue and white, symbolizing qualities none of the men within these walls posses; hope and innocence. The entire interior seems cynical and impersonal, every single furniture Dan passes is made of steel and bolted to the floor beneath his white canvas shoes.

The guard guides him up a staircase leading him to an elongated corridor filled with claustrophobic cells, only segregated by metal bars. When he'd awaited his trial back at county he'd been isolated twenty three hours a day, but at least his concrete cell had provided him with an illusion of privacy and space. ''We lock down at nine, all lights are out at ten.'' The guard stops in front of a cell and scribbles something on her clipboard with the pen in her hand. The cell contains two steel beds bolted to the floor, two small steel cabinets mounted on each side of the wall, a small window in the middle and a steel toilet underneath it. No sink. ''Your cellmate is inmate Liguori, he'll fill you in on the rest.''

Liguori, a young man Dan guesses to be around the same age as himself, looks up from the book in his hand at the mention of his name, offering Dan a short nod out of courtesy. Despite the friendly gesture the man's hooded eyes are cautious and calculating, defined jaw locked in a tense frown, distrust engraved in stern facial features. Dan returns the nod and enters the cell, wondering how long it will be before that look adorns his own face.

''I don't get any toiletries?'' He asks the guard as he sits down on his bed, the thin mattress reminding him of a piece of cardboard. The question makes both the guard's eye and Liguori's lip twitch, one in annoyance and the other in amusement.

''This is a category B prison, inmate,'' The guard barks, finally looking up from the clipboard. Dan knows his existence has been reduced to nothing but a waste of air by the glare he receives. ''Not a goddamn hotel.'' The guard slams the cell door shut and storms away.

Liguori leans forward, watching her leave through the bars and only arising from his bed once she's completely out of frame. He grabs a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste from his cabinet, throws it to Dan.

''Thanks,'' Dan mutters as he catches the items, placing them beside him. He leans back against the bars, sighs as he tiredly rubs his face. The inmates at county all claimed prison would be better, some even adding additional charges to their sentences just to get transferred, but so far Dan can only doubt the truth of those statements. County is for the criminals who still have a chance of making it on the outside, prison is for the criminals who are no longer wanted on the outside.

''I'm not your friend, newbie,'' Liguori responds as he closes his cabinet, combing a hand through a mop of curly hair. Dan nods slowly in understandment, pushing his pride aside and respecting the yet undefined rules. ''But we were all new here once.''

''Yard time?''

''A privilege, not a right.'' Liguori takes place in front of the toilet, pushes his jogging pants a bit down and proceeds to take a piss. ''Hell, even the fucking air we breathe in here is a privilege according to those pigs.''

-x-x-x-

During breakfast the following morning Dan chooses to take seat at an empty table, defying the hierarchy among the rest of the inmates. The majority of them are visibly divided into groups, the leaders seated in the middle of the steel tables, their followers scattered around them. Apart from the tattoos, bland clothing and concrete surrounding them, the scenario truly looks like something taken out of an old renaissance painting. Dan doesn't want to take any part in it, his pride won't let him.

The movies all got one part right in their portrayals of prison; the food absolutely sucks, and Dan refuses to believe it was ever made for human consumption. He struggles to identify the grey sludge in the tray in front of him, but guesses it's supposed to resemble oatmeal. Before he gets to taste it the sound of approaching footsteps reaches his ears, and as he looks up a group is making their way towards him, steps laced with confidence and chests puffed up in a silly display of domination. Dan straightens his back, relaxes his shoulders and raises an eyebrow their way.

''Me and my crew would like to welcome you,'' Their leader starts out, his parade of dancing monkeys forming a half circle around him. Dan's cellie is there too, keeping his gaze down as Dan tries to catch his eyes. Their leader stands in the middle, arms crossed as he pins Dan down with his hazel eyes. He's older, a few years, with a square jaw and straight hair that haven't been cut in a while. ''Maybe we can help each other out while we're here,'' He says and moves closer to Dan, arms crossed over his chest. Dan can feel the rest of the inmates looking at them, eyes glued to the scenario as if it's an episode of a tv series. The guards near the two exits in each side of the dining hall are watching too, making sure all their tamed animals don't cross any boundaries. ''Make our stays a bit more pleasant.''

''I don't think so,'' Dan responds, the rejection finally making Liguori raise his eyes from the ground, offering Dan a gesture so subtle he almost misses it; a brief, sharp shake of his head. Dan squints his eyes at him, his fingers clenching around the plastic spoon in his hand, a vague fire of anger burning within him. Dan doesn't need help, doesn't need whatever protection both Liguori and the man in front of him seem to offer. He walks alone. He walks with pride.

''Careful,'' The man exclaims as he slams his fist down on the table, the force of it making the food tray clatter and tremble, specks of oatmeal escaping from it, landing on the steel surface instead. Dan takes a deep breath through his nose, calmly places his spoon in the tray. The leader bends down to meet him, points toward someone observing them from a distance. ''I'm not the only one who got my eyes on you.''

''Get your ass back in your seat or that's a shot, Kendall,'' A guard barks, but the leader, Kendall, stands still. Dan follows his finger's direction, is immediately captivated by a pair of wide, unsettling eyes a few tables ahead, bluer than the painted walls behind them and greyer than the concrete floor beneath them. They're like windows; the owner can look out but Dan can't look in.

''I only ask nicely once,'' Kendall continues the conversation against the shell of Dan's ear, but that's not what sends shivers down his spine. The face of the wide eyed stranger is graced by a touch of youth, childishness even, the only thing giving away that he's years older than Dan being the soft wrinkles in his porcelain skin, appearing near the corners of his mouth and eyes as he straight up laughs at the display before him.

''Last warning, inmate!'' The guard barks once more. Kendall stands up straight again, not yet leaving, both him and the observing stranger awaiting Dan's answer. The stranger rocks gently from side to side, bites down on plump lips and burrows thin, long fingers in black hair in excitement. He looks absolutely mad. Dan can handle mad. Dan can handle Kendall. Dan can handle every fucking thing as long as he got his pride.

''I only decline nicely once, too.''

-x-x-x-

''How's home?'' Dan asks as soon as Adrian picks up on the other end, his voice a frail whisper despite the hallway being completely silent, empty. A fight had broken out in the yard a few minutes earlier, and Dan had seen an opportunity to finally make the call. Violence has never really entertained him anyway.

The phone in his hand is old, connected to an orange box mounted on the concrete wall through a curly wire. Calls in prison are expensive, each call charging the receiver around two pounds a minute, which is money Dan is very aware Adrian doesn't have, not anymore. He'll keep it short. He just needs to hear his brother's voice, just needs to know that life goes on outside the prison even if it feels as if the earth has stopped rotating inside it.

''Shitty,'' Adrian responds after a few quiet moments, Dan guessing he too is at loss for words. They haven't talked since Dan was first incarcerated, not even at Dan's trial. It's not that Dan hadn't had the opportunity to call at county, he just hadn't known what to say before now. He knows Adrian feels guilty and responsible for what happened, but not more than he does himself. Dan doesn't regret his crimes as much as he regrets the costs of not getting away with them. ''How's prison?'' He sounds tired, yet the languid voice still bears a touch of the cheekiness that used to characterize Dan's little brother.

''Pretty shitty, too.'' Dan relaxes his shoulders as the conversation goes on, slowly easing into comfortable familiarity. He wonders where Adrian is staying, how he manages to get by. There's so many questions he wants to ask, but also so many answers he's not ready to receive. He rests his free arm against the wall in front of him, looks down at the floor, mahogany orbs fixated on a speck of dirt on his white canvas shoes.

''You'll survive,'' Adrian promises, voice laced with a fierce certainty despite the layer of dullness wrapped around his vocal chords. The words result in an ugly grimace spreading across Dan's facial features, making his eyebrows knit together and the corners of his mouth tug downwards. He's tired of merely surviving; it's the bare minimum of life, a weak, shameful state of living reserved for society's fuckups, the bottom of the food chain.

''What about you?'' Dan truly couldn't care less about his own well being. It doesn't matter if he'll spend the rest of his days locked up, rotting away in his prison cell. Nothing matters as long as Adrian is okay. Nothing ever has.

''I'll survive, too.'' Adrian's certainty isn't so fierce anymore, but Dan is still grateful for the lie.

''Good.'' The sound of lazy footsteps in the distance makes Dan resume his prideful posture, body standing tall within seconds, the vulnerability that had previously adorned his face quickly turning to stone. ''I'll call again soon, okay?'' He promises, the air heavy with words that'll never be spoken. They don't need to say it, never really have. They just know.

''Yeah, yeah,'' Adrian responds, the sound of shoe soles scraping against concrete floor becoming louder, approaching. Dan turns his head as the steps comes to a screeching halt a few feet from him, and is immediately met with the same mixture of grey and blue from the dining hall a few days ago. The man just stands there, staring at Dan with wide eyes while fiddling with the hem on his sweatshirt. ''Take care, don't drop the soap,'' Adrian bids his farewell on the other end. Nothing about the man's demeanor reeks of danger, yet Dan still feels intimidated and cautious underneath his unnerving gaze.

''Little shit,'' Dan responds even though Adrian has already ended the call. He places the phone back on its stand and then turns to face the stranger, who looks as if he has something he wants to say. ''Got a problem?'' Dan asks, taking a step towards him, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. The question seems to entertain the man, a tight smile claiming his lips in seconds, revealing a row of white teeth. He's skinny, but Dan can still sense the patches of firm muscle beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He takes another step forward. There's only a feet between them now.

''You won't survive on your pride in here,'' The man responds as if he got his plan figured all out, sees right through the tough facade Dan trusts to keep him safe in here. His voice is deep, a smooth sound laced with heavy excitement that makes Dan's blood boil. He closes the gap between them, standing barely an inch taller. He reaches out, grabs the small identification card attached to the man's shirt.

''What will I survive on then, Lester?'' He asks, the name tasting foreign and bitter in his mouth. Lester doesn't flinch, doesn't front, doesn't do anything. He just smiles as if he can predict the future, as if Dan's fate is a book he has already read and knows the ending to.

''Submission.'' The word drips off Lester's tongue like venom, but he speaks as if it's the antidote. Behind the madness in his glossy eyes there's a primal emotion; hunger, need, desire. Dan feels sick.

''I'd rather die.''

-x-x-x-

The day Dan finally gets to discard of the obnoxious orange jumpsuit is the same day he gets assigned to work in laundry. The laundry room is in the prison's basement, a cramped and damp room without any windows, the only source of light being a small lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. The small room is filled with the soft humming of the washing machines and dryers, filling in the silence between Dan and his work partner. They're standing at a steel table, folding the grey jogging pants and sweatshirts, stacking them according to size. The job pays barely a pound a day, but Dan is still grateful for the solitude and comfortable atmosphere. Down here he's not a prey.

''It's pretty nice, isn't it?'' The man on the other side of the table asks, offering Dan a friendly smile as he looks up from a pair of pants. He's fit, a bit shorter than Dan, smooth skin baring traces of a tan that refuses to disappear despite being deprived of sunlight, eyes warm and brown. ''Keeps your mind busy.'' Dan nods slowly, agreeing. It reminds him of home somehow. ''I'm Padilla,'' The man introduces himself and reaches his hand across the table.

''Howell.'' Dan takes the hand, shakes it and reminds himself he's not in prison to make friends. Him and Adrian used to do the laundry every third day together. When they were younger Dan would take the warm towels from the dryer, cover Adrian's tiny, thin frame in them while he folded their clothes himself. It's the weirdest, smallest things he misses in here.

''First time?'' Padilla asks and Dan wonders what gives him away; the heavy bags underneath his eyes or the permanent lines of worry between his eyebrows. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the cell window this morning, and could barely recognize the person staring back; curly, untamed hair and a five o'clock shadow had never been part of his appearance before now. ''What are you down for?''

''Are you asking me what I did, or what I'm convicted of?'' Dan responds, earning a humoured chuckle from Padilla, proving he too knows the law system doesn't care about intentions, merely evidence; that is if you're too poor to afford an actual lawyer, and is stuck with a public defender like Dan was. The court didn't care that Dan was trying to save Adrian. The court cared that Dan had shot a guy and left him paralyzed from the waist down. ''Armed robbery, twelve years.''

''Parole?''

''In eight.'' He'd accepted a deal, plead guilty to one count of armed robbery, and in exchange they'd looked past around five counts of burglary alongside the possession of an illegal firearm. Twelve years is a long time, but some might consider him lucky. It doesn't matter now. Whoever said time is money couldn't have been more wrong. ''You?''

''I've done three so far, got one left,'' Padilla informs, face briefly lightening up with joy at the mention of how little time he got left. ''Got caught with a couple of grams on me.'' The guy seems like a ray of sunshine, and Dan can't even bring himself to feel jealous. Maybe he can befriend a single person in prison, just one. ''Wrong place, wrong time.''

''I can relate to that.''

-x-x-x-

''Boys,'' Dad warns during dinner, nodding towards the brothers' plates from behind the newspaper in his hands. They're all seated at the big dining table, just like a normal family would be. There's a big portrait of the Lesters hanging on the wall behind Dad, his hunting riffle mounted on the space above it. The plates are nearly empty, just a few pieces of steamed broccoli left on each of them. Phil hates steamed broccoli. ''Eat up, your mother spent a lot of time cooking this.''

''They're not hungry,'' Mom excuses them. Dad looks up from the newspaper with narrowed eyes. He calmly folds it in his lap and places it beside his own plate, then grabs Mom by her hair and bangs her head repeatedly against the surface of the table. The boys both shovel down the remaining broccoli, Dad only releasing Mom once both plates are completely empty.

''They don't pay for the food in this house,'' He says and picks up his newspaper again, chuckling a bit at a comic strip. Mom thuds to the floor, covering her bleeding face in her arms. Martyn grabs Phil's small hand underneath the table, clenches it reassuringly.

-x-x-x-

The nights are the worst. Dan always lies awake, tossing, turning, mind a battlefield for aggressive, undefeatable thoughts. He thinks about a lot of things; how Adrian is doing, what cell Padilla is in, when Kendall is going to approach him again. He tries to keep Lester out of his mind, but his unsettling, grinning face always appears as he's finally about to fall asleep, immediately stirring him into full consciousness again.

''Liguori?'' He asks one night after giving up on getting any sleep, instead staring at what the cell's tiny window allows him to see of the night sky. There's a bunch of twinkling stars adorning the blackness tonight, making the darkness seem less empty.

''Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, Howell,'' Comes the respond a few delayed moments later, Liguori's voice rough with sleep and hostility. The man pulls his blanket over his head and turns his back to Dan, trying to end the conversation. He can't blame him.

''I can't.'' Silence dwells upon them for a few moments, and Dan briefly thinks his cellie has fallen asleep again. Liguori groans defeatedly, the bed creaking as he sits up, something humane behind the tough facade awakening. He tiredly rubs the palms of his hands against his face, yawning.

''Look, man,'' He starts out and rests his back against the steel bars. Dan finds his hooded eyes through the darkness, the stern look engraved in Liguori's facial features softening a bit. ''Prison sucks, but you'll be fine.''

''Thanks,'' Dan says even though it isn't himself he's worried about, and for a brief moment he thinks he sees a glimpse of a smile dancing across his cellie's lips. Maybe Liguori's not so bad after all.

''I'm not your friend,'' He reminds Dan as he lays down on the thin mattress again, turning his back and leaving him to ponder his thoughts alone. Silence dwells once again upon the suffocating cell, a serenade of muffled screams of submission somewhere further down the corridor eventually lulling him to sleep.

-x-x-x-

''Wanna sit at our table?'' Kendall whispers against Dan's ear while they're standing in line for dinner, the exhales of air against his skin making the bile in his stomach rise, the small appetite he had for the prison's poor excuse for food immediately lost. ''Final offer.''

''No thanks,'' Dan responds flatly, directing his rejection to both the man behind him and Lester's eyes imprisoning him from across the room. The inmate behind the kitchen counter slides him a food tray. Dan seats himself at his usual table, alone and prideful.

-x-x-x-

The last friday of each month the inmates are allowed to watch a movie in the activity rooms, cramped together on a row of steel chairs in front of an old tv. It's Dan's first movie and he has almost survived a month in prison. He's trying not to keep count, knowing he'll have to endure a minimum of ninety five more, a hundred and forty three at max. Tonight they're watching a documentary about predators in the savannah, which has been carefully picked out by inmate Lester. ''You've got an admirer,'' Padilla whispers in Dan's ear while shoveling down a handful of stale gummy bears from the commissary. Dan doesn't need to turn his head to know who it is, can feel the lunatic's eyes resting on him, his skin burning where they linger, observing his every move. In the TV a lion is doing the exact same thing, hiding among some yellow grass, waiting for a nearby, unsuspecting gazelle to pass him by.

''Crazy eyes over there is the least of my problems,'' Dan responds and leans back against his chair, the words raising doubt behind the secure facade. There's a reason Dan haven't been jumped yet, put in his place and stripped of his pride. He suspects it has something to do with Lester, always watching from afar as if his gaze is some kind of forcefield. He's not proud to admit he seeks out those wide eyes from time to time.

''I wouldn't be so sure about that.'' Padilla looks to the unopened bag of liquorice resting in Dan's lap. He shoves it towards him with a roll of his eyes, Padilla throwing his fist up in victory as he rips open the seal. Dan would smile if he didn't feel so cautious. There's a burning curiosity flickering inside him, a desperation to get under Lester's skin now that the man is under his own. The gazelle in the TV is moving closer. The lion prepares to attack.

''Why?'' He asks, immediately biting his tongue in regret. He's not sure his pride will save him once he knows what Lester is capable of, what lengths the man will go to. The gazelle is standing right in front of the lion now, merely seconds away from becoming prey.

''Kendall might be a hardcore criminal, but he isn't convicted of two counts of first degree murder.'' The lion springs from its hiding place with a mighty roar, burrowing its sharp teeth in the gazelle's neck, tumbling it to the ground. The gazelle fights for a brief moment, quickly giving up as the blood starts to flow, succumbing to the predator. In the corner of his eyes he sees Lester rocking aggressively from side to side in his chair, unable to contain his madness and excitement, a tight smile dominating his lips. His eyes aren't even on the TV.

''Really?''

''I think he's been down thirteen so far,'' Padilla informs, stuffing a few pieces of liquorice into his mouth. A guard who's been keeping track of the inmates moves from the room's door frame, turns the TV off as the credits starts to roll. ''Spent four years in psych before that.'' All the inmates arise from their chair, making their way towards the exit. Kendall slides a firm hand across Dan's neck as he passes him, and Dan can't help but think the most dangerous predators doesn't approach their prey, they wait for them to come on their own.

-x-x-x-

''Dropped the soap yet?'' Adrian asks as soon as he picks up on the other end. It's one of his good days, Dan can hear that by the hidden snicker lingering in his dull voice. He can imagine how the cheeky brat is smirking weakly on the other end, and can't help but smile a little himself. There's no fight in the yard this time, inmates standing impatiently in line to use the phones. He'll have to make it quick.

''Little shit,'' He responds even though Adrian hasn't been a little boy for a couple of years now, twenty years old. He'll always remain the little brother Dan had to keep close during thunderstorms, the one he'd sacrificed his childhood for so he could have one himself. Their parents had crashed in their old Toyota when Dan was sixteen. Adrian must have been ten. ''How are you?''

''I'll be fine,'' Adrian yawns, the brief moments of silence allowing the beeping of a heart monitor to inform Dan where he's staying. Adrian being in the hospital means he has a roof over his head and food on the table. It also means he's reached a point where he's no longer able to take care of himself. Dan chooses to look on the bright side of things. He has to.

''Good.'' He'd found the marks when Adrian was thirteen, specks of blue and purple scattered down his spine. He hadn't taken him to the doctor until the reoccurring nosebleeds started. Maybe things had been different if he had. ''Visitations are on Tuesdays, you coming?''

''I'll try, yeah?'' Adrian offers, a female in the background muttering something inaudible to him. Dan hopes the nurses takes good care of him. ''Next week, maybe.''

-x-x-x-

The prison's shower room is like the laundry room a small, cramped and damp room without any windows, but instead of a single lightbulb actual lamps are mounted to the ceiling. It's the only part of the prison Dan has been in so far that isn't completely made of concrete, the floor beneath his naked feet instead made of linoleum tiles. He guesses they've been white at some point in time, but either the shady lightning or years of filth and dirt makes them appear yellow.

In one side of the room the faucets are lined up, rusty pipes staining the concrete wall with specks of brown and red. In the other is a bench where the inmates can place their towels and clothes. There's currently one set of each folded neatly on it, but Dan can hear the rustling sound of someone discarding of their clothes behind him. Showers in prison aren't safe. There's no guards placed at each side of the exit, keeping a close eye on their caged animals, making sure they remain tamed. He feels the heavy gaze find rest on him, lingering on his naked form; that exact animal isn't tamed.

''Kendall wants you,'' Lester announces and turns on the faucet next to Dan, combing a hand through his black hair as the luke warm water wets it, slicking his fringe back. Dan turns his face towards him, takes in his form. Lester's skinny, but Dan can see the subtle outlines of muscle engraved in his pale skin. There's scars, long and thick across his back, the skin raised and bearing a purple tint. Where Dan's body is yet smooth with youth Lester's isn't, a thin trail of dark hair leading from his groin to his navel, starting again at his chest.

''I didn't know,'' He responds, eyes finding rest at Lester's face, voice coated in a layer of heavy sarcasm. The man lets out a short chuckle, a soft sound that makes Dan's blood boil and sends shivers down his spine. Lester does a weird thing where he rolls his tongue and bites down on it with his front teeth, a gesture Dan would consider adorable hadn't it been executed by the lunatic. ''Jealous?''

''Yes,'' Lester admits shamelessly, eyes never leaving Dan's. Sharing eye contact with him is like staring at the sun for too long. They're too bright, making him feel dizzy, and Dan thinks they might burn through him if he continues. ''Do you fear him?'' The man asks with a tilted head, curiosity and amusement gracing his deep voice.

''No.'' Dan doesn't fear anyone, his pride won't let him, so when Lester in a single step is standing in front of him, trapping him against the wet wall by placing a hand on each side of his face, he simply stands tall, chin raised. ''Fear is a choice.'' They're close, Dan can feel Lester's calm heartbeat where their chests are touching, his own heart beating fast with adrenaline.

''What else is a choice?'' Lester asks, leaning closer, hot exhales of air landing on Dan's plump lips. He turns his head, studies the hand trapping him to his left, constantly clenching and unclenching, desperate to touch. Lester turns Dan's face towards him again by grabbing his chin with his other hand, demanding and awaiting an answer.

''Pride,'' Dan responds, eyebrows furrowing as Lester releases his chin. The answer makes that unsettling, tight smile reappear on Lester's lips. Dan can't decide if it's in mockery or amusement. A combination of both, maybe. He looks like a kid on Christmas Eve.

''Submission, too.'' He begins caressing Dan's cheek with rough fingertips instead, his touches too soft and gentle to come from such bloody hands; Lester is petting him. Dan takes a deep breath, the words making every cell in his body burn with anger. He reaches behind him, turns off the faucet and pushes Lester's hand out of the way. Lester takes a step back, releasing him.

''That's not an option.'' Dan says, making his way to the bench, grabbing his towel. It's not entirely true, he knows that; whatever game Lester, Kendall and him has been playing is about to come to an end. There's only two possible outcomes. Either Dan unwillingly becomes a prisoner or he willingly imprisons his pride.

''Pride can be taken,'' Lester reminds him as he gets dressed, taking place underneath the spray of luke warm water again. ''Submission can't.''

-x-x-x-

''Howell!'' Liguori yells from behind Dan, making him stop in his tracks. He's standing in the hallway between the dining hall and yard. Lunch starts in half an hour, but he finished his work shift in laundry early today. Liguori must have too. The man jogs till he reaches him, places a hand on his shoulder, a friendly gesture that's unfamiliar and doesn't usually characterize his cellie. ''Yard time?''

''Maybe later,'' Dan responds and feels Liguori's hand twitch through the fabric of his sweatshirt, catches the way his lips raises in a frustrated snarl for just a single second. He tries to catch the man's hooded, wandering eyes, narrows his own as he fails. They start walking again, their steps echoing off the walls in the empty hallway. It's just the two of them. The other inmates are still working.

''Come on, let's shoot some hoops,'' Liguori continues, voice coated in a thick layer of desperation. He practically jumps in front of Dan as they reach the entrance to the dining hall, blocking it and prohibiting Dan from entering. Dan crosses his arms over his chests, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. ''It'll be fun, yeah?'' The amount of conversations they've had so far can be counted on one hand and definitely haven't been about basketball. Something is up.

''Fine.'' The words seem to ease Liguori, who lets out a relieved breath of air Dan didn't know the man had been holding in. Liguori moves from the entrance, guides Dan further down the hallway by placing a hand on his shoulder once again. There's a tiny voice inside Dan's head screaming for him to get away, but the mighty roar of his pride drowns it out. He pushes open the door to the empty yard, enters the small area secured by a barbed wire fence. There isn't even a basketball court, just a few weight benches and other work out equipment. ''We're not here to play basketball, are we?''

''No, you're not,'' A voice states from behind him. Dan turns his head and is met with Kendall's hazel eyes, his hoard of puffed up gorillas standing behind him, arms crossed over their chests as they keep watch by the door. Kendall pats Liguori on the back, but Dan's cellie doesn't look proud. There's still twenty minutes to lunch, the other inmates and guards wont be nowhere near the yard for at least a quarter.

''I'm sorry,'' Liguori says as Kendall retreats his hand, makes his way towards Dan. The apology is sincere, he can hear that. ''Survival and loyalty doesn't walk hand in hand in here.''

''Had to happen eventually, I guess.'' Kendall cracks his knuckles. ''You're not my friend,'' He says, mimicking Liguori's catchphrase. The man looks genuinely remorseful, shameful even, can't even meet Dan's eyes as Kendall's followers approach him. He doesn't fight back when they grab his arms, twisting them behind his back, offering him to their leader. Dan stands tall, chin raised.

''Sorry,'' Liguori repeats, turning his back to him as Dan receives a knee to his torso. He involuntarily bends over in pain, bites his lips to prevent any sound from escaping. A guy behind him hauls him back up by his hair, and Kendall repeats the process. He hears the ribs crack before he feels it, isn't allowed any time to react before his face is repeatedly met with Kendall's fist. His left eyebrow and lower lips splits, blood oozing down Dan's face, coating his sweatshirt and dripping onto the concrete beneath him.

Kendall takes a pause to wipe his bloody fist against his jogging pants, then motions for the gorillas to release Dan, who drops to the ground. He spits out some blood, wipes his sleeve across his face then looks up at Kendall.

''Still got your pride?'' Kendall asks with a cocky smirk, and Dan can't help but let out a deep laugh. The voice sounds deranged to his own ears, a crazy, cackling sound that makes the man in front of him frown and swing his white canvas shoe into Dan's stomach. He falls over on his back, lies on the ground while clutching his stomach.

''It's going to take a lot more than that,'' He manages to croak out between the laughs. He doesn't know what's so funny, maybe it's just the irony of it all. Kendall makes a swift hand gesture, making his followers repeatedly slam their shoes into his sides. Before Dan loses conciousness he looks up into the sky above him, a beautiful mixture of grey and blue, remembering Lester's words.

-x-x-x-

''What are you doing?'' Martyn asks, observing Phil chasing the small sparrow that always flies around in their backyard with a piece of bread. Phil huffs as the bird takes shelter in their apple tree, looking down at the brothers from a safe distance.

''I'm trying to feed the bird,'' He exclaims excitedly, jumping up and down in front of the tall  tree, waving the bread at the bird who turns it head, uninterested. Martyn sighs and grabs the bread, sits down on the grass and pats the space next to him.

''You have to make it come on its own.'' Martyn plucks the bread into tiny pieces, then throws some of it in front of him. Phil sits down and watches in awe as the bird flies down from the tree, plucking at the bread on the ground with its beak. Martyn then places the remaining pieces in Phil's hand, slowly guides it toward the bird.

''Do you think we can get one?'' Phil whispers quietly, careful not to scare away the bird now eating directly from his hand.

''Dad would never allow it,'' He responds, earning a frown from Phil. He pats his brother lovingly on the back, following the bird with his eyes as it flies away after finishing its meal. ''And free birds shouldn't be kept in cages.''