Page 112 of Caged In

“I’ll get you one in here.” Sin stalks Izz out, his massive body pressing close behind as Izz stops in front of his clean clothes.

Izz picks up his towel. Rubbing it over his warm damp skin. “I can’t keep sponging off you.”

Sin’s already buying him food and treats, and card games, and mattresses—which cost so much in here, he’d have to sell a kidney to afford it on his prison job’s meagre pay.

“I don’t mind.”

“But I do,” Izz snaps.

Sin doesn’t seem to care about money. Treating it as one would an apple core—throwing it away with no regard. Izz would love to have so much money he could afford to throw it at people.

“Why.” Sin seems genuinely puzzled by Izz’s refusal. “It’s my money to spend on whatever I want.”

Because I want to earn my own keep in the world, and not be reliant on others . . .

It would be nice though. For once. To be the one someone gifts money to, and not the one who has to earn it for the family.

“I-I—it just matters,” Izz doesn’t know how to explain it. How to word his past—how he is supposed to be the responsible one, and it feels weird to have someone else in the role.

Sin chuckles, in his usual dry humourless way, “your mind’s a curious thing, isn’t it. So caught up in others, you’re not taking the time to get what you want. Denying yourself. For what. Social standing. Because society says it’s wrong to sponge off someone who’s doting on you.”

“It’s called a gold-digger,” Izz mumbles. He doesn’t want to be one of those either.

When no reply comes back, he looks over at Sin, who’s smirking at him. A playful light glinting in his black eyes.

“You can always say I‘demanded it of you, for my protection’,if it makes you feel better.”

Izz scrunches his nose at Sin, impulsively sticking his tongue out—

He ducks his eyes. Regretting the childish act. It doesn’t help his whole I-can-take-care-of-myself monologue.

“Come, we’re leaving,” Sin commands, fully dressed and prowling to the door without waiting for Izz’s replay.

Izz hops after him. Trying to move and pull his last shoe on at the same time. He calls it an accomplishment for not tripping and face planting.

“Where to?” Izz questions, stomping his heel into his shoe as he obediently follows after Sin.

“You have a tattoo to receive.”

“W-what? No—” Izz stutters, trying his best to think of some sort of protest.

Sin ignores him, speaking right over the top of him as though Izz hasn’t said a word, “you want one, don’t you.”

Well, yes. He does. But . . .

What’s the difference between a tattoo and all the gifts he’s already given you . . . ?

“Yes . . .” Izz gives in reluctantly.

It is true, Sin’s been buying him things since the moment he walked into prison all those weeks ago. And he’s accepted them all. Hell, he sleeps on one of those gifts every night and his back is grateful for it.

He truly does want a tattoo. Not sure why it feels a little off to have Sin buying it for him—he assumes Sin will be buying it? He’s not sure how the payments for tattoos go down in prison. Is it favours? Cash? Commissary goods?

He can’t recall if Sin had given the artist money the last time. He doesn’t think so. He’d been pretty out of it when hegot his first one. Way too excited to be getting inked, he barely remembers anything else happening around him.

~~~

And that’s how Izz finds himself in the same cell in I-Wing. With the artist . . . he can’t remember his name—if the guy had told Izz his name the first time?

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