CHAPTER 17 JORGE—THE NEXT LOCKDOWN
Lockdown again, one day after the laundry, some unrelated incident on the block giving them another narrow window nobody planned for.
Jorge should be grateful for the timing.
Can't quite get there. Still feels too raw from yesterday, too much like something got peeled back that he's not sure how to put back on right.
Shawn doesn't ask if he's okay. Just watches him from the top bunk after the count clears, quiet in a way that isn't distance, more like patience.
"You're staring," Jorge says.
"Yeah."
"Gonna say something about it?"
"Already said what I needed to yesterday." Shawn climbs down, slow, deliberate, none of the usual restless energy in it. "Not gonna say it again just to hear myself talk."
Jorge doesn't answer. Watches him cross the cell instead, something in his chest going tight in a way that's got nothing to do with anger this time.
"That guard's been walking this tier twice as much since yesterday," Jorge says. "Watching me specific. We do this, we don't got the hour we had last time."
"Then we don't waste it talking either."
Shawn kisses him before Jorge can decide whether that's reckless or exactly right.
Different than the first time, less urgent-adrenaline and more deliberate, like Shawn's choosing this instead of just falling into it.
Jorge lets him lead for once, surprised by how much he wants to, how much of yesterday's rawness finds somewhere to go now that isn't a fist through a bar.
"Let me," Shawn says against his mouth, hands already working Jorge's shirt up. "Just this once. Let me."
Jorge doesn't fight it. Nods once, throat tight, and lets Shawn back him toward the bunk instead of the other way around.
Shawn takes his time with what little time they've got, mouth trailing over Jorge's chest, over the old scars and the newer bruise from the yard that hasn't fully faded, like he's mapping every place Jorge's ever been hurt and deciding to be gentle with all of it.
Jorge's not used to gentle. Doesn't know what to do with his hands except fist them in the sheets.
"You don't gotta be careful with me," Jorge says, voice rougher than he means it to be.
"Not being careful. Being thorough." Shawn's mouth drags lower, teeth grazing skin just enough to make Jorge's hips jerk. "There's a difference."
He proves it a minute later, mouth closing around Jorge's cock with none of the hesitation from before, taking him deep and slow despite the clock they're both ignoring, until Jorge's hand finds the back of Shawn's head without meaning to, not directing, just holding on.
"Shawn—" His voice cracks on it. "We don't have time for—"
Shawn pulls off just enough to look up at him, mouth wet, eyes dark. "Then stop counting."
Jorge tries. Fails. Gives up entirely when Shawn takes him back into his mouth, working him with a focus that has Jorge's back arching off the thin mattress, sounds coming out of him he'd never let himself make if the room weren't already vibrating with risk on top of risk.
"Gonna need you to stop," Jorge grits out, hauling Shawn up by the shoulders before he loses the ability to make that decision at all. "Not finishing like this. Not tonight."
"Then tell me what you want."
"You. However's fastest."
Shawn straddles him without hesitation, and Jorge realizes a second too late what he's asking for, watches Shawn reach for the small amount of lotion they've been hoarding off commissary for exactly this kind of moment, and something in Jorge's chest goes tight and unfamiliar at the trust in it, Shawn taking the position that leaves him most exposed like it costs him nothing to hand that over.
"You sure," Jorge says.
"Never been surer of anything down here." Shawn sinks down onto him slow, breath catching hard, hands braced on Jorge's chest. "Now shut up and let me."
Jorge's hands find his hips, guiding without controlling, and Shawn sets the pace himself, rolling his hips in a rhythm that's got nothing rushed about it despite the guard's boots somewhere too close for comfort.
Jorge watches him do it, watches every flicker of pleasure cross Shawn's face, and feels something loosen in his chest that's been locked down since long before Rubén, since long before the shop, maybe since he was a kid who never learned any other way to hold pain except with his fists.
"Jorge." Shawn's voice breaks on his name, hips speeding up, control slipping the way it always eventually does. "Jorge, I need—"
"I got you."
Jorge takes over from underneath him, thrusting up to meet every drop of Shawn's hips, hand wrapping around Shawn's cock to stroke him in the same desperate rhythm, both of them past careful now, past quiet, holding back sound with nothing but sheer will and a hand clamped over each other's mouths in turn.
Shawn comes first, spilling over Jorge's fist with a shudder that runs through his whole body, and the clench of it drags Jorge right along with him, hips snapping up hard one last time before he empties into Shawn with a groan he barely manages to swallow, forehead pressed to Shawn's sternum, arms wrapped around him tighter than he means to hold on.
They stay like that, tangled, neither one moving, both of them breathing like they ran somewhere instead of just fell apart in a six-by-eight cell with a guard three doors down.
"That's twice now," Shawn murmurs into his hair. "You letting somebody see you."
Jorge doesn't answer right away. Doesn't have to. Just holds on a second longer than the clock allows, greedy for it in a way he hasn't let himself be greedy for anything in years.
Then, from down the tier, closer than either of them wants it to be: footsteps.
Jorge's up and moving before the sound even finishes registering, yanking Shawn off him with more urgency than gentleness, both of them scrambling for clothes in the dark, and this time, when the flashlight beam finally sweeps their bars, it doesn't move on right away.
The flashlight holds on them a beat too long. Long enough that Shawn stops breathing entirely, shirt half-buttoned, heart slamming hard enough he can feel it in his teeth.
"Lights out was ten minutes ago," is all he says, finally, voice flat.
"Yes sir," Jorge says, already reaching to kill the small lamp neither of them remembers turning on.
The beam clicks off. Footsteps move on down the tier.
Neither of them breathes right for a full minute after.
"He knows," Shawn whispers.
"Maybe." Jorge sits on the edge of the bunk, elbows on his knees, waiting for his pulse to come back down to something normal. "Maybe he just doesn't care enough to make it his problem. Some of them are like that. Pick their battles."
"You believe that?"
"I believe we got lucky. Don't push it past that."
They don't talk about it again that night. Some things you let sit exactly where they land, no more digging required.