Ryan woke up. Another morning in the same old hell hole. But today, something was a little off centre. He wasn't sure what, but he'd figure it out. He always did.
He slid off the bunk, grabbed some pants, zipped up as he moved towards the sink. He looked ok, no differences there. Damn, he had good hair. This longer style suited him more than he would have thought.
Ignoring his lameass podmate, he scooped up the nearest wifebeater, absentmindedly noted it needed a good bleach to make it sparkling white, and slouched out the door.
He'd never really noticed before, but if Em City got a bit of variety with the paint colours, it might even be aesthetically pleasing. All that glass, the freestanding stairs up to the hack station, the place had a good basic structure. All it really needed was a bit of cleaning up.
The hacks droned in the background, reading the same old names and numbers in those same old monotone voices. Today it was that old guy, and some new guy who was nothing to look at. What they needed in this place was a hack with a nice ass. Someone with the Irish background, the right genes that would give Ryan something sweet to look at.
Count finished and he idly looked around, watching the next moves, planning his own. Maybe he would be able to figure out why he felt so odd this morning if he could figure out what everyone else was up to.
Peter Schibetta, surrounded by his cronies, was one pasty fucker.
Alvarez was leaning against the glass wall of his pod, conferring with some spic asshole. What was going on there? Ryan wished he could read lips. In Spanish. Fuck. Instead, he was forced to just stand there, guessing at the schemes while watching Alvarez's hand slowly stroke his stomach, tiny almost-circles, finally stopping to hook his thumb in a belt loop.
Bet Alvarez would look way better leaning against a hot, brick wall; sun beating down on him, shades on. The sun would glint off that hair in the most subtle way. The heat would make him sweat the tiniest bit, giving his skin a slight gleam.
Oh shit. Shit. He new what was wrong. He'd figured it out.
He woke up this morning, all right. He woke up gay.
He turned away, studied his vague reflection in the glass wall.
Fucking too much. His rep really didn't need this shit right now. No way Schibetta and Alvarez and all the other fuckers would take him seriously if they knew he'd woken up gay. He was fucked. And damn, he looked good in this shirt. Every contour, every line, baby.
No way. He had to find a way to keep up the jiz he'd built during the riot. He needed that schemer rep, the cool-head-under-fire rep, not a checking-out-hacks-and-thinking-of-a-sweaty-Alvarez rep.
He turned back, leaned across the railing and took in the quad below him. Beecher walked past the TV, looked up and paused, a weird glint in his eye, a half smile behind that skanky beard.
Ryan's neck tingled, and he glared back. Shit. He knew that look. It was the same one he'd had on his face looking at Alvarez.
Looked like he hadn't woken up a little bent all alone.
He shook off the stare and retreated back to his pod, making a mental list. Ok.
1) Stay away from Alvarez.
2) Stay away from Beecher unless absolutely necessary.
3) Stay away from anything that might make him look like a pussy.
4) Be glad there weren't any Irish hacks with a decent ass in the place.
5) Find a female distraction. Make sure everyone knows you're hot for her. Possibly achieve this by telling her, or committing some kind of grand (but hard-assed) gesture. Do this at any cost.
Yeah. Five easy steps to maintaining his manly man, 'I ain't no fag' rep. He could do that. Easy.
Now he had to clean this shirt, and then go to the gym. After that, he would need to start taking care of his list.