Page 33 of From Best To Bested

Ezra had been true to his word. He didn’t fuck Roman in the ass for the next three days, prioritizing Roman’s mouth instead. He’d eased up, though, allowing Roman more opportunities for his jaw and throat to adjust. He even acquired an ointment to help with the swelling in Roman’s ass. Ezra would call him over, order Roman to strip, and then tenderly apply the cream to Roman’s hole.

He still paraded Roman around, but Roman learned to ignore most of the comments, and if anyone got too close, Ezra interjected. Watching his back had never been Roman’s favorite thing to do in prison, but he used to have more conviction, more willingness to stand up for himself. Right now, he was learning to let go of that fire.

Ezra burned bright enough for the both of them.

Later in the afternoon, Roman tagged along for another workout until he was too tired to stand. Roman knelt on the fitness mat, winded from sparring, exhausted from Ezra testing strikes out on Roman’s unguarded body, and pained from having to sit on his knees, hands rested on his hips, shoulders raised, back arched, and toes turned ever so. Ezra liked the stance, liked how Roman popped his butt out and showed off the definition of his full body, so Roman would remain statue-esquefor the last thirty minutes of Ezra’s cooldown routine. Roman didn’t have a cooldown, except perhaps the sitting stance.

“You know what I was thinking?” Ezra asked, running a small towel over his sweaty face and giving Roman a soft grin.

Roman swallowed then shrugged. He didn’t know what Ezra was thinking. He never knew. Not really. It was exhausting to pretend otherwise and much easier to just accept wherever Ezra’s fancies flitted.

“Matching tattoos.”

“Oh,” Roman said, hiding his disappointment, his discomfort.

He had never gotten a tattoo. He’d counted down the days until he turned eighteen, a hundred ideas in his head. Some online personality with millions of videos convinced him the random tribal patterns he wanted down his arm would be a waste of space for the eventual perfect sleeve Roman would get.

He didn’t know what that sleeve would be, but an arm was prime real estate for tattoos. After a girl in his senior class got “good” and “not not good” in Korean, which another student fluent in the language explained while also discussing how characters in Hangul worked, Roman realized he didn’t want anything in a language he couldn’t speak. He still thought about the bewilderment on the girl’s face, the shock of learning she didn’t have “good” and “evil” inked on her wrists.

Everything Roman considered never lived up to the permanence of a first tattoo. Like all firsts, Roman wanted it to be special. His senior year tattoo was postponed until college, then it was postponed until graduation, but once he got locked up, it was supposed to be postponed until his release. Unfortunately, his time with Ezra had taught him not to hold out much hope in special first times for anything, enjoying himself, or having a say in the direction of his life.

The closest Roman had ever come to getting a tattoo was at Stacy’s insistence. She had almost as strong a hold over Roman as Ezra now held, and she’d come quite close to convincing Roman to get her name as his first tattoo. A bold request which she had readily wormed into his brain, even suggesting some discreet places from his butt, upper thigh, inner thigh, all the way to the low V cut of his abdomen she used to lick and tease before going down on him.

Ultimately, Roman declined and got Stacy to stop hassling him with her minxy pleading by throwing his own label out that she wasn’t ready for: girlfriend. Stacy loved to roll in bed with Roman, but she also liked to keep it open for anyone else’s company, finding life too short to commit to monogamy.

Roman hoped Ezra didn’t plan for Roman to get his name branded on him but resigned himself to whatever fate Ezra had in store.

“What’d you have in mind?” Roman stayed seated, head raised so he could look up to Ezra. He always had to look up.

The pair headed back to their cellblock and ended up in an abandoned lounging area where a biker worked on Jake’s back, adding some flames to a charred corpse. Jake’s tattoos were often bright and bloody. Sometimes, Roman suspected they were also confessions. Lots of screaming women, lots of severed limbs, lots of random numbers which might’ve been part of some psychotic secret pattern. Roman didn’t care enough to investigate. Jake smirked at Roman but didn’t speak, nodding between him and Ezra, then puckered his lips and made kissy noises.

Roman ignored Jake, grateful when he left without a comment, and took his seat first. Ezra wanted it to be a surprise, so he wouldn’t know how their tattoos matched until after Ezra’s piece was finished. It wasn’t the worst pain, but it was an unexpected burn. Roman anticipated more stabbing feelings,though there was that too whenever the needle used lost its heat from the lighter the biker used. Roman kept his neck craned for hours, letting the man work, letting the man cover the left side of his neck with something Roman would never be able to hide. It’d be permanent. It’d be the first thing people saw. Here and when he was released. If he was released. Some days, he thought he’d die behind bars.

“Looking good,” Ezra announced with a gleeful expression. “Oh, I got one more small idea. You do colors, right?”

“Depends,” the biker replied. “What’d you have in mind?”

Ezra spoke softly, and Roman didn’t waste his time listening in. He’d learn soon enough. Without prompting, the biker grabbed Roman by the jaw and turned his head to face him. When the hot needle went straight for his right eye, Roman tried to scramble out of the chair.

“Relax.” Ezra slapped his arms over Roman’s shoulders.

Roman obeyed and squeezed his eyes shut until he felt the needle hit his cheek, searing again and again until the biker finished whatever second tattoo Ezra had gifted Roman.

Once he was released, Roman sat across from Ezra, waiting patiently for his piece to be completed.

“Thanks, man.” Ezra shook his hand, keeping his neck turned and body positioned so Roman couldn’t quite see the tattoo Ezra had gotten. “Thank him.”

“Right.” Roman stood. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?” the biker asked with the same level of gloating Roman got from everyone. Even with Ezra’s protection, Ezra’s clout, Roman could feel the arrogance and joy others took for his situation, for his downfall.

“Thank you, sir.” Roman didn’t require more prompting. This wasn’t the first time an inmate demanded manners from Roman; it wasn’t the first time they wanted to call into question his subservience. It was just another day.

Ezra spun Roman around, walking behind him and ushering Roman through the halls. He got plenty of looks and a few comments, and some didn’t seem terrible. He hoped that meant the tattoos weren’t too unflattering, though he prepared for the worst.

“Take a look,” Ezra demanded, prompting Roman to the mirror.

The first tattoo Roman spotted was the three hearts on his face.

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