it's so funny to me how close some of the things in that fic are to 4.2 Million Dollar Baby...me and wawa really do occasionally share the same brain
Miguel didn’t wait for an answer; just marched into the pod, straight over to where Alonzo sat on the floor, back against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to shove his foot into a too-small sneaker.
Caught red handed. Or red footed, as it were. “I’ve been told it’s traditional to begin conversations with ‘hello’,” Alonzo informed him. “Like so: hello, Miguel. Wonderful weather we’re having, don’t you agree?”
“The fuck are you doing with my shoes?”
“Hey, he wants to be you, Miguel, remember?” Guerra, his roommate’s ever-present shadow, hung back in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets. His lips curled into a smirk. “Guess that means dressing up as you, too.” He bit his tongue playfully, as if stifling a laugh – Alonzo smiled back, eyeing up the ragged scar on Guerra’s throat, fondly remembering what it looked like fresh and gushing blood.
“How very clever, Guerra,” Alonzo replied casually, kicking the shoe off; Miguel snatched it up like it was going to run away. “Did your schoolteachers consider you ‘a delight to have in class’?”
“Calling me stupid?” The smirk didn’t drop, but he shifted, straightened somewhat, the amusement in his eyes replaced with a dangerous glint. Alonzo’s smile widened a touch. Pretty little attack dog. Bark bark bark.
“Yeah, speaking of fucking shoes and fitting,” Miguel said, leaning over Alonzo to grab the other and point it at him. “Don’t touch my shit. Didn’t think I had to fucking tell you that. And don’t call him stupid,” he added as an afterthought. “Like your dumb ass has any room to talk.”
“Aren’t you a gentleman,” Alonzo said smoothly, “sticking up for your lover.” Miguel’s frown deepened, and Alonzo cocked his head. “Oh, my apologies, your lieutenant. Which one are you two calling it these days?” He waved dismissively. “Forgive me, it’s so hard to keep track.”
“Lover’s fine,” Guerra said without skipping a beat, stepping into the pod to fling an arm around Miguel’s shoulders. “What, you jealous, pendejo?”
“Not one itty bitty bit.” Alonzo watched Miguel wriggle away, looking slightly uncomfortable, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. For whom, exactly, is this charade? The nature of Miguel and Guerra’s little ‘partnership’ was obvious to anyone with half a brain – though, Alonzo supposed, that ruled out most of the inhabitants of their beloved Emerald City.
He pushed himself up off the floor, bumping Miguel slightly with his hip as he sashayed past. “I think it’s a wonderful story,” he continued, perching on the edge of Miguel’s bunk, pulling his own heels out from under the bed, “enemies to friends to lovers. A romance for the ages. Et-cetera. I hope I’ll be invited to the wedding.” He shoved his feet in, zipped up the sides. “I do love a wedding.”
“Ain’t gonna be a wedding,” Miguel muttered, at the same time as Guerra replied, “Think your invitation’s getting lost in the mail.” Alonzo smirked.
“Sounds like you two have some details to iron out. I’ll leave you to it.” He got up, blowing Guerra a kiss as he passed, receiving a truncated lunge in response (pull at your leash little dog, bark bark bark!) then stopped in the doorway, as if suddenly remembering something. “You need anything before I go, sweetheart?” Miguel met his eyes, and Alonzo casually brushed his shirt pocket.
Your medication, little dove?
Miguel held his gaze for a moment, a millisecond of indecision, then looked away. “Nah. Get lost.” He walked further into the pod, and Guerra narrowed his eyes, glancing over at Alonzo then back to Miguel, all but confirming Alonzo’s suspicions.
The wife doesn’t know – or, doesn’t approve. How interesting.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall during that conversation – but alas. Places to be, things to do.
Alonzo turned on his heel abruptly, leaving them in their little corner of troubled paradise.
Of course he was jealous.
Not of Guerra – Alonzo’s short-lived dalliance with Miguel was something he looked back on more with embarrassment than nostalgia (moreso now, he thought bitterly, with the reveal that Miguel had clearly shared at least a handful of the juicy details with his new squeeze. I want to be you – what on earth had he been thinking. Not much, clearly!). Miguel had had no interest in him – only in oblivion, escape from pain – and that, in turn, had held no interest for Alonzo. In fact, he found it pathetic. A beaten down, depressed junkie was not what Miguel Alvarez had been sold to him as – false advertising, how despicable! So he cashed in his 30 day guarantee lickety-split, return to sender: Guerra was welcome to continue his futile attempts to mold his little (lover’s fine rings painfully in his head) whatever into the leader he was unwilling and unable to be. And if Miguel wanted to buy drugs the normal way, well! – that was more than alright with him.
What annoyed him (and that was all it was, really, just a minor annoyance) was how quickly and easily dear “I’ll never be anyone’s bitch” Miguel Alvarez, sweet “last night was a mistake, forget it ever happened” Miguel Alvarez, darling “I’m not into that fag shit” Miguel Alvarez, had fallen into Guerra’s open arms, not a week after the latter had returned from the hospital. Oh no, Alonzo, I couldn’t possibly get it on with you. The dog, however, I can fuck. I’ll suck the dog’s cock.
What annoyed him was having to bunk with a sad little closetcase that everyone in the prison seemed to inexplicably worship. The unit manager, the nun, the priest, the doctor – all fussing over him like he was the prodigal son; the prisoners in Em City leaving him alone at worst and going out of their way to extend friendship and comradery at best (not that Miguel ever responded to any of it with anything other than hostility). God forbid Alonzo speak out of turn to anyone without being met with insults and dirty looks – but if Miguel Alvarez spoke, well. Everyone had better shut up and listen.
What annoyed him was the fact that Miguel Alvarez had fallen face-first into the cookie jar, through seemingly no effort of his own (not his winning personality, at least, or his breathtaking intellect); and instead of acknowledging and appreciating this, he pretended not to notice. Acted like his life was abysmal and the universe was out to get him personally.
So yes, he was jealous – but not of Guerra. And really, not of Miguel either. So, not jealous at all.
Just bored, really: it was all so tedious.
(Lonely made it sound so pathetic. Alone – better, but only a touch)
And mostly at himself, for feeling that way in the first place. For letting any of it get to him at all.
Boo hoo, he thought. Poor baby, you.
The real question was: what on earth was he going to do about the shoes?
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