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“What’s the point of having a well if you’re not even gonna use it?”
Simon feels his throat close up as Horace asks the question. They’re sitting in the courtyard, getting their fresh air before lunch and talking about recent happenings in the prison- like the new warden, and some new prisoners, and their recent interests. Simon really wishes the conversation would go in a different direction, but Horace is so caught up in the absurdity of the useless well that he doesn’t catch Simon’s expression of distress.
“I mean, it’d be a cute little thing to have, wouldn’t it?” Horace pondered, leaning back and throwing his arms over the back of the bench, one going behind Simon. Simon blinked harshly. Horace just keeps talking, “I mean, the gardening group could do with a source of water that isn’t that loud ass hose.”
“Uh-huh,” Simon replied, trying his very best not to show his discomfort.
“You were sayin’ you wanted to try out gardening, right?” Horace questioned. Simon prayed that this would be the thing that changed the direction of the conversation, and replied, “yeah, I like the idea of gardening.”
“Something about being proud of shit you’ve grown, or is it more to do with your stabbing tendencies?” Horace teased, nudging against Simon playfully. “Gonna show that dirt who’s boss.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Simon, snickering a little bit. “If only I had taken up gardening, then all those tragedies wouldn’t have happened. What a shame.”
“When you do end up a gardener, you’ll name one of your flowers after me, won’t you?” Horace turned to Simon with a dumb smile. Simon scoffed and rolled his eyes, despite how the way the words came out of the other man’s mouth made him feel, and replied, “yeah, before I uproot it.”
“You’re so romantic,” Horace responded sarcastically. “Hopefully the well will be put to use by then, I’d love to see you fall in. That’s probably why they haven’t opened it, and then I guess the whole rope thing could be a risk, but who’s gonna try throwing themselves down a well to try- well, y’know?”
Simon got stiff again, and had to wonder how the man beside him always managed to bring the most awkward shit up- even though he didn’t know what was so awkward that he was bringing up. How could he know? He was a bit busy being dragged through the well and being used as a weight in it to know, and it wasn’t exactly a part of his whole thing that came up.
“You good, Si?” Horace asked, noticing how tense the other man was. Simon lied back, “I’m fine.”
“So no?” said Horace. “I dunno what it is, but you’re really shit at lying to me nowadays. C’mon, share, no judgement and all that.”
Simon internally facepalmed, because as much as he wanted to hold his pride in his deception, there was just something about their relationship now that made it hard for him to get a good lie across. Maybe it was just because he was rusty, or maybe it was because Horace saw through him so easily now. He shrugged, “you don’t want to hear it, Horace.”
“ Simon ,” Horace droned on, leaning over onto Simon’s shoulder and frowning. Simon huffed and pushed the man away, exclaiming, “okay, okay! Just don’t get all depressed when I tell you.”
“Go on,” Horace encouraged.
“Ugh, it’s…” Simon bit his lip. “It’s something to do with, you know, the whole… you dying thing. At some point during the investigation, your body- you ended up in the well. As a weight.”
Horace looked at him dumbly.
“During my performance,” Simon said.
Horace continued to look at him.
“You were used as the weight that yanked me into the air during my performance. While you were, like, near dead. I’m not the one who did it, by the way! That was Roland’s doing,” Simon reiterated. “Jeez, how is this the first time you’re hearing about this? Did your attorney tell you nothing?”
“I was used as a what? ” Horace asked, then laughed, and then kept laughing. It creeped out Simon just a little bit, but he chalked it up to the shock. Horace wiped away his tears and said, “you’re for real? I know it’s, like, horrific, morbid, whatever. It’s also comedic as shit.”
“How are you finding this funny?” Simon asked in horror- and yeah, maybe he had found it funny when it happened, but it just made him feel ill now. Horace replied, “I’m gonna be so honest, Si, I always had a terrible feeling about that well. I’d look at it and get the creeps. Knowing it’s because I was used as some kinda circus prop is just really jarring, okay? I mean, most of the bad feelings I get around my ‘death’ are because of the… y’know. Let me live in bliss for a second and get a laugh out of this, won’t ya?”
They looked at each other for a second, then Simon turned his head away, his hand covering his mouth. Horace leaned over worriedly, hand rubbing over the other’s shoulder as he asked, “Simon?”
Then, Simon turned back, and he was concealing his laughter. His face was a rosy pink, and his shoulders bounced gently, and he spoke, “you’re such a freak, you know that?”
“Hey! Says the clown,” Horace exclaimed.
“Then I guess we’re a pair of freaks.” Simon grinned at Horace, and got a reciprocated smirk. Horace responded, “I guess we are, then.”
-
“You have my package, I hear?” Wellington announces as he walks into the special cell, Horace following closely beside him. Knightley was only there because the other two in their little group were a bit busy- meaning they decided to do some fun activities, like finger painting. Luke for the joy of it, and Simon because he was sure he could do something morbid with it. So it was just Horace and Wellington running errands.
Dogen was sat where he usually was, and Anubis was also sat where he usually was- his head in the assassin’s lap, tail wagging as he received scratches behind the ear and pets on his head. They both perked up, Dogen greeted them like he’d been expecting them. The old man spoke, “ah, Mr. Wellington and Mr. Knightley! How kind of you both to join my meditating.”
“Jeez, another meditation session?” Horace rubbed his neck as he thought about it. He liked Dogen, and he knew Simon liked Dogen, and he’d take any bonding he could get with them both, but never again did he want to sit for 2 hours in complete silence trying his hand at meditating. He almost went crazy, and he was pretty sure that was supposed to be the opposite outcome of meditation. He decided to keep quiet about it, much to his amusement, when Simon came to him whining afterwards about how difficult the whole thing was.
“Why, are you not a fan?” Dogen asked, but Horace knew that he knew given the big grin on his face. Horace replied, “just not my thing. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.”
“Fantastic outlook to have, Mr. Knightley,” Dogen said, then he turned to Wellington and continued, “and then, I suppose, this folk is looking for a stroke of perfume, correct?”
“Very much so,” Wellington responded happily. Horace gave him a look, and Richard voiced, “you look at me like that, but you’ve never wondered why I smell so good all the time? Really, I’m doing you all a favour. One of us has to have taste.”
Anubis whined as he was pushed off of Dogen’s lap, and the assassin must have given him a command, because the dog then stood up quickly and wandered over behind his kennel and pulled out a small cardboard box, bringing it back over to the group. Dogen gave Anubis a few pets, then opened up the box gently and revealed what was inside. Glittering like a diamond with a little nozzle on top, the perfume bottle was exactly what Horace had expected Richard would want.
“Oh, it’s so pretty… thank you again, Dogen,” Wellington spoke and took the bottle gratefully from the assassin’s hands. Horace had to wonder about Richard’s connection to Dogen, and how he could afford all this smuggled in stuff. He figured he could just ask about it, but maybe not in front of Dogen- he didn’t want to get into the man’s bad books for being nosy, is all.
“Khehehe, of course,” Dogen replied, “as long as you continue to be of great help to me, Mr. Wellington.”
Horace looked between the two of them, many thoughts going through his head such as: in what way was Wellington ‘of great help’ to Dogen, and why Wellington of all people? He was taken out of his pondering quickly as his arm was pulled up and a spritz of perfume was sprayed onto it. He pulled his arm back and said irritably, “hey! What gives?”
“Just testing out the new scent, horsie,” Wellington explained. “Give it a smell for me, won’t you?”
Horace looked at the other man dumbly, and when Richard nodded his head to Horace’s arm, he finally gave in and gave it a whiff. He pursed his lips, then smelled it again, unsure. He spoke, “it’s kind of… sweet. Fruity , even. Suits you.”
“Oh, haha, very funny,” Richard responded with an eyeroll, taking Horace’s arm and smelling the scent left on it. “Oh, it is fruity. Very nice work, Dogen.”
“Wait, didn’t you pick it yourself?” Horace questioned. Dogen said, “well, with a client as thrill-seeking as Mr. Wellington, I’m asked to pick whatever I think is most interesting.”
Horace furrowed his brows, because in what world was the fruitcake in front of him ‘thrill-seeking’? Wellington snorted, and Dogen went on, “I’m jesting, Mr. Knightley. They simply didn’t have the same one as before, since it was gotten so long ago, so I gave directions for the most similar one. Though, I don’t recall the last one being quite so sweet… not that it will get in the way, nowadays.”
Horace wondered about that, but before he could say anything, Wellington was saying goodbye and Horace was following after the man. They had more things to do- but it was probably mostly Richard’s excitement to put the perfume away that caused the hasty retreat.
“Hey, I was actually wondering,” Horace started as they left for Richard’s cell, “how did you and Dogen end up having such a… friendship? Acquaintanceship?”
“Well, you do know I was a virtuoso in the art of scamming on the outside,” Wellington explained. “I’m good at knowing people, and I’m good at getting information around- very useful skills that help in smuggling things into the prison, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh. I guess, yeah,” Horace replied. “Just kind of funny, y’know, you don’t seem like the type.”
“Agh, I’ve mellowed out,” said Wellington. “Besides, I needed to find meaning in here, and if that meaning is doing people’s laundry and helping an ex-assassin smuggle things in, then I’m fine with that.”
“Huh, never thought of it that way. Wait, does that mean I’ve mellowed out? That’s- OW! ” Horace exclaimed, trying to pull his arm away from the sudden grip but to no avail. He turned his head and saw…
“Anubis? Boy, what’re you- ow, ow!” Horace felt himself getting dragged away, and in an attempt to not fall over onto his face, he simply followed the canine much to his dismay. Wellington followed after, and he would have done something to stop the whole situation, but he wasn’t in the business of being another one of the dog’s victims.
“Ah, back again so soon, Mr. Knightley?” Dogen announced as Horace was dragged into the special cell. “How peculiar, I don’t remember sending Anubis after you in this way. I do apologize, I should have known his instincts would catch up eventually.”
“Instincts?!” Horace yelped as Anubis continued to drag him, but his nervousness left as the dog dropped his arm and barked once at the assassin. Dogen grinned, reaching for his puppy and praising, “yes, boy, you’re so smart, aren’t you? Yes, you needn’t be told what to do, you just do it. Good boy, Anubis, good boy!”
“Okay, Dogen, not to shit on your parade, but… why did he, y’know, decide to drag me all the way back in here?” Horace rubbed his bitten arm as he asked in confusion, and Wellington had the same confusion in his eyes, though it turned slowly from that lost look to an expression of pained understanding.
“Ah, are you not aware of how things used to be smuggled throughout the prison?” Dogen inquired. Horace shook his head, and Dogen laughed as he said, “I’m assuming you just expressed your ‘no’?”
“Agh, yeah, sorry.” Horace rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “Forgot.”
“Nearly a year in this prison and you still forget? Seriously, horsie,” Wellington teased, and got a little shove as punishment from Horace.
Dogen went on to explain, “well, originally the warden we all… know and love used to assist in my smuggling. I was quite the fear factor, you see, khehehe… anyways, she would spray the goods with her perfume, and then my boy here would sniff it out and bring it to me. Oh, aren’t you so good, Anubis?”
“That’s… actually kinda crazy,” Horace spoke. Dogen continued, “I’m quite surprised you haven’t heard of it thus far. I mean, you were a part of that scheme, afterall. Dragged right into this special cell, as a matter of fact.”
“What,” said Horace dumbfoundedly. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, Mr. Dogen, are you quite sure this is the time-” Wellington cut in, but stopped when the assassin raised his hand to silence him. Dogen spoke, “what better time than the present?”
Horace laughed in shock, and voiced, “I really need to keep a tally on this shit. I feel like I’m learning new info on that whole thing every week. Kinda scared I’m missing out on a lot of stuff about it.”
“Well, you know of the well situation, I hope?” Dogen asked, and Horace snorted in response. He replied, “yeah, only took me talking extensively about there being a useless well in the courtyard for Si to spill about it.”
“And now you know of this aspect. If my elderly memory serves me correctly, that’s the majority of the happenings,” the assassin shared, his hand rubbing over Anubis’ head as the dog once again got comfortable in his lap. Horace wondered about that, since the man had a pretty stellar memory, there were probably just a few unimportant things left- not things he really cared about. What could be worse than being used as a weight or being dragged through the prison half-dead?
“Now, I apologise on behalf of Anubis, you two should get along,” Dogen said eventually, sitting more upright and clutching onto the beads around his neck. “I have much meditation to catch up on, unless either of you wish to join me?”
It was safe to say that, as much as the two enjoyed Dogen’s company, they couldn’t have gotten out of there quicker.
-
Horace didn’t expect to find himself inside of the same cell anytime soon.
It wasn’t your usual cell, either, but one of the holding cells. And just his luck, he was inside the very same one where he’d been held almost a year ago now. The weirdest part was probably how the place hadn’t changed a single bit.
The very same toilet was there with the noticeable lack of toilet roll, and the menu was still there on the desk with the same exact rotation as it had last year, and the same books minus a few were still there in the sad excuse for a shelf- he noticed that one of the big brown books was missing, and the prison escape books were no longer there.
The bed was much the same too, and incredibly uncomfortable. The bed in his cell could almost be considered luxury in comparison to the absolute brick that was the holding cell bed. Looking down onto the floor, he saw that one particular spot was way cleaner than the others, but the crevices between the boards had a rusty looking red wedged between them. He then remembered, vaguely, what had happened in this cell when he’d been held here. His head ached at the idea, and at the fact that the prison hadn’t put in the effort to replace the damn floor. He thought to himself, that’s a biohazard, isn’t it?
He wondered about that.
He leaned over and looked under the bed to see just how far they had cleaned the cell, and laughed at what was underneath. The floorboards looked poorly put together, like they’d been broken before, and given what he knew of the events of that day, it probably had some shit to do with whatever trauma happened to his body.
His head ached again, and he hoped that Shields would get here quicker. He felt like he’d been here for hours waiting on the man- all this because the man wanted to check up on him. Not even for any kind of legal proceedings!
“Prisoner K-1735?” said the guard who came up outside the cell, cuffs in his hands. Horace still really, really didn’t like being called by his prison number- if anything, he was headstrong, and of all the things he had to get used to in prison, that was probably the least likely thing for him to succumb to. He gave the guard a stern look of displeasure, and the guard spoke again, “ahem, prisoner… Knightley? Your attorney is here to speak with you now.”
Horace knew the deal, standing up as the guard let himself in, putting his hands out in front of him and allowing the guard to cast the cuffs over his wrists- and for some reason he got an insane bout of déjà vu, and the sudden need to look behind himself.
He’s taken out of the cell quickly enough, without much happening, and his nervousness settles.
They got to the meeting room, and behind the glass was his attorney, sitting there all happy with his hat on his head, kicked back and relaxed. Horace voiced sarcastically, “sorry for taking so long.”
“Ah, there’s the man of the hour! Knightley-boy, how’ve ya been?” Shields spoke, sitting up more attentively and continuing, “my bad for keeping you waiting, got caught up in some crazy traffic! New roads being built and all, y’know?”
Horace frowned and replied, “no, I don’t know.”
“Oof, my bad- again . Forgot you don’t really leave this place.” Shields rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell you what, this’d make you feel better, wouldn’t it?”
Horace wished he could cross his arms, but considering his wrists were currently bound by metal, he landed on tilting his head and raising a brow to get his questioning across. Then, as he watched the other man pull out a small bag, a little bit of hope entered his heart. Shields opened the bag and placed the little black container on the small panel in front of him, and from that Horace could see what was inside- a beautiful, spicy california roll. Something he hadn’t had in a long, long time.
“I’ll get it to ya when you’re headin’ on back to the prison proper.” Shields pushed the container to the side, then said, “so, how’ve ya been? Heard a rumour you’ve been livin’ nice and pretty in here, lots of friends.”
“Why did you just wink,” Horace deadpanned.
“Agh, c’mon, you know what I mean!” Shields spoke. “Just heard you and that Shy Monkey guy-”
“Simon Keyes,” Horace interjected.
“Yeah, him. Heard you guys are best friends now, eh?” Shields went on. Horace said, “I still don’t get why you winked.”
“Agh, it’s whatever,” said Shields, waving his hand nonchalantly. “Go on, tell me! How’s life been treatin’ ya?”
Horace laughed, thinking back to the time spent in the holding cell nearly a year ago, and all the events that took place after, and then to his few recent moments in the holding cell, and replied, “well, it’s been better than death, that’s for sure.”
-
“Mr. Knightley, it’s nice to meet you.”
The woman that stood in front of him wasn’t one he’d seen before, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know who she was. The lack of police attire really threw him off, but it was clear as day that she was the new prison warden- Ms. Fuji Sho.
Horace hesitated, the room being a painfully familiar and daunting place despite the renovations. The carpet was different, and he had to wonder whether that was because of personal grounding preferences, or because his blood had dirtied it beyond cleaning. Everything else had changed, too. The desk he’d been interviewed at was changed out for a nicer mahogany, and the chairs weren’t foldable ones anymore- the one on the warden’s side was an upholstered desk chair, and his side was a nice windsor chair with a comfortable cushion on it. Not that he had sat in it yet, he was still far too nervous.
“I understand that you have some… well, dreadful experiences in this office, and with that past prison warden,” said Ms. Sho, sitting as openly and non-threateningly as she could, which didn’t do much since her eyes were sharp and her outfit screamed ‘serious’, but the thought surprisingly counted to Horace. She continued, “but I am meeting you for that sole reason, Mr. Knightley. Well, I’m meeting every prisoner of interest, but two birds with one stone, I suppose.”
“And I understand that the last warden here had an… interesting outlook on prisoner-guard relationships, and I just want you to know that myself and my team of guards are going the more traditional route. Think of us more as a principal and her teachers, rather than a… peculiar woman and her animals,” Sho prefaced, then added, “if that was a worry of yours, of course. There will be no ‘hugs and kisses’ here, thank you very much.”
Horace felt a little brighter at that. The honesty in her intentions. Still, after everything, there was an issue of trust. Sho readjusted her glasses, and waved to the chair, saying, “you don’t have to sit down, if you don’t want to- I can just as comfortably talk to you either way.”
And she wasn’t intimidated by him looming over her…
He sat down and got as comfortable as he could, letting his cuffed hands fall onto the desk, looking at the new warden and waiting for her to continue talking.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I do apologize that it took this long for me to get around to you. I’m sure you know how hectic the prison can be, what with so many people ending up here upon such short notice, and the state only reinstating a permanent warden now.”
Horace felt a few faces come to mind, one being particularly angry and cat-like, and agreed, “yeah, pretty hectic.”
They looked at each other for a moment, then Sho spoke, “are you having any issues with your placement? Social, medical, anything of the sort?”
Horace thought for a moment and found that he was pretty happy- there hadn’t been any quarrels recently, and the medical check-ups went well, and this conversation was really starting to remind him of the one he had with the judge a few months ago. He shook his head, “nothing really, no.”
“How about other prisoners?” the warden asked. Horace shook his head and responded carefully, “no problems there. I’ve got a group, we get along fine.”
Sho looked like she wanted to say something more on that subject, but with Horace’s insistence she let it go, and instead directed her attention to something that had caught her eye the second the man came into her office. The small sparkle in the light of the room that found its source upon the man’s right hand. She spoke, “a ring, Mr. Knightley?”
Horace looked at his hand, having forgotten it was there, and took his hands away from the desk. He didn’t know why he still wore it- comfort, maybe, but it wasn’t really comforting. Familiarity. He replied, “yeah.”
“Look, Mr. Knightley,” Sho voiced, amused but in a cold way that matched her character, “I don’t care about some ring. As long as no one tries swallowing it. You understand?”
Horace nodded.
“Though, I was reading over a few of your files before you arrived… you didn’t have that ring during your transferral here, but you do now, and it can be found…” she spoke and closed her eyes in concentration, and continued, “in the case file regarding that old warden’s arrest.”
Horace, feeling quite irritable, spoke a full sentence for the first time since he entered the room, “can I just ask- why are you bringing this up?”
“It’s just that a part of that casefile stuck in my mind. I’m sure you’ve been told of it already,” Sho said. “What a despicable thing it is to try to steal from who you think is dead. It’s a good thing that man has been transferred, or else I would have kicked him out myself.”
“What?” Horace voiced. He then looked at his hands, huffed through his nose in amusement, and ran his cuffed hands down his face. “Oh, yeah, of course someone tried to rob my dead body. Jeez, Simon’ll love this one.”
“Oh. So you weren’t aware.” Sho’s stoney expression still didn’t falter, but she pushed her glasses up once again. “Well, the more you know. Isn’t that right, Mr. Knightley?”
“Yeah, sure,” Horace said, feeling dumbfounded but also a little more light. It was nice that the new warden cared, but wasn’t falling to her knees in sorrow about it- he’d seen the same look on himself, and it wasn’t pretty by any means.
“Well then, as short as it was, that’s our time done.” Fuji Sho stood up, and Horace felt a sudden jump in the pit of his stomach, but it eased as the woman sat down swiftly, seeming to have noticed his intense apprehension of being loomed over. She spoke flatly, “my apologies. You may get the door yourself, there’s a guard waiting outside ready to take you back to the prison proper.”
Horace nodded and stood up, and wondered how this new prison warden was so comfortable with letting him walk around the room as if it was nothing to worry about. Not that he’d take advantage of the situation and trash the place, or even worse, hurt the warden, but it peaked his interest. Maybe she was just nice in that way, despite her tone and strict exterior.
“Uh, goodbye?” Horace said unsurely, and simply got a wave from Sho who was still sitting in her chair. Before he could open it, his hands in an awkward position due to the cuffs, she spoke up, “oh, and please do tell your friend, Mr. Keyes, that I’ll be seeing him next? And tell him not to worry, I’m quite fond of his performances.”
Horace wanted to laugh, but sucked his teeth and wondered how it would go down. Though he considered just how considerate this new warden was, and figured Simon would do just fine chatting to her.
He nodded, opened the door, and allowed himself to be escorted back to the prison.
-
“You remember what I’ve told you, young pup?” Dogen spoke, his wrinkled hands holding the chisel and wood steady.
Simon groaned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his busy hand, and replied, “don’t rush it.”
Horace looked at Simon and then asked, almost cheekily, “and what did you do?”
Simon took a deep breath, looking at the piece of hacked wood in his hand. It was meant to be a knight piece, but the current lack of head on the thing made that difficult to decipher. Simon finally responded, “I rushed it.”
It made Horace laugh a little, how Simon spent all those years meticulously calculating each and every move, all those plans and backup plans for backup plans, very much taking his time in his revenge, yet he faltered when it came to taking his time carving out a small piece of wood like this. Horace would have thought that time would allow Simon to be more normal about it, but he was wrong.
“Try again,” Dogen said, handing another piece of wood to Simon. “You will get it in time.”
“I respect you a lot, sir, but this is torture,” Simon groaned, but took the wood anyway and started to map out in his head how he wanted to go about this. Dogen simply replied, “khehehe.”
With the idea of Simon’s patience in mind, and those plans, and the fact that all three of them were wielding chisels and carving, Horace felt a sudden reminder of his death. It wasn’t as intense, he realized, more like a distant memory- not the same way he felt about his amnesia obscured memories, either. He’s still distressed by it, and he felt like if he continued to think about it in depth he’d spiral just a bit, but thinking about it like he did just now didn’t immediately throw him for a loop. He felt weirdly normal about it.
“Mr. Knightley?” Dogen spoke, and Horace snapped out of his thoughts and replied, “huh? Yeah?”
“I should reckon that you keep an eye on how thin you’re making your tower,” said Dogen, clearly amused. “Khehehe, unless you’re a huge fan of toppling towers, of course.”
“Agh, thanks,” Horace responded, taking the chisel away from the center of the rook and moving onto the top of it, carving in the square grooves on its head. Aside from the noticeably smaller middle, it was probably one of his best pieces yet. Simon looked on as he carved it, and eventually said, “you’re good at that. Why?”
Horace laughed, then said, “well, all my gun practice, I guess. Lots of coordination there.”
“Yeah, but you’re so… rough,” Simon voiced.
“And you’re not?” Horace remarked. “When you want to be, I mean.”
Simon laughed and added on, motioning to the broken knight beside him, “and when I don’t want to be too, apparently.”
Horace hummed, saying, “hey, Dogen, maybe you and Simon should meditate more often. Maybe it’ll help this whole carving situation?”
“Sounds like a wonderful plan!” Dogen voiced cockily. Simon mouthed a very big ‘NO’ at Horace, and Anubis who’d been sitting there idly the whole time finally made a move and let out a bark. Dogen continued, “saying things behind my back, are we, young acolyte? You wound me!”
“ God, ” whined Simon as he put his head in his hands, both Horace and Dogen laughing at the display. “I can never catch a break, can I?”
It came to Horace’s mind again then. How could he bond with a man so tied to his death like Dogen, the man with the chisels and bells and the dog that played such a significant role in it? But then he looked to Simon, and smiled, and figured maybe it wasn’t the first time this kind of thing had happened.
“What are you grinning about?” Simon said pointedly. Horace looked to him and said with a tone that could be argued as adoration, “you’ll be able to do it eventually, Si. Just think how nice it’ll be once you finally get it, yeah?”
Simon looked at Horace, and there was a certain glint in his eye, and then the man looked down to the chisel and the block in his hand and replied abashedly, “you’re right… thanks, Horace.”
-
They’re in Simon’s cell, and Simon is sitting comfortably watching Horace look around. He always felt unusually protective about it, like he’d been with all of his belongings and living spaces, but for some reason he decided to allow a bit of snooping. As a treat. Or maybe he was going soft.
“I never noticed the books here,” Horace commented, picking up the small stack that was under the table. “Hey… these are from that holding cell!”
“What’s it?” Simon questioned, and the books were splayed out in front of him on the bed. Three big red books, and one brown. Horace spoke, “‘ 200 Days to Freedom - An Escape Story ’ in three parts, and ‘ A Second Chance at Life. ’ These were in that holding cell, the one I was put in, like, way back when. Noticed they were gone when I was seeing my lawyer a few weeks back.”
“Oh,” Simon voiced. Thinking about it, he had been in one of the holding cells before, but the same one as Horace? He couldn’t remember very well, considering it was so long ago, and considering he wasn’t doing the best in the head when he’d met Horace before his ‘death’ and at the time of his own arrival to the prison. He went on, “I must have taken them when I first got here.”
“Must’ve, yeah. I mean,” Horace said, “‘ An Escape Story ’? Which new inmate wouldn’t be scrambling to get their hands on that.”
Simon picked up the first volume and flicked through it, noticing the different annotations from previous readers, and how the majority of them seemed to be joking about how inaccurate the book was. Made sense why he didn’t remember it entirely, then, if it wasn’t going to be of any help to him practically.
He turned back to look at Horace, going to say something, but held off. Horace was looking down at the book titled ‘ A Second Chance at Life ’, clearly interested, and Simon couldn’t help but just… stare.
Stare at how Horace’s hair drifted over his eyes slightly and curled at his neck, stared at Horace’s grey eyes flicking over the words on the book just in front of him, stared at his chiseled jaw and cheekbones and pointed nose. At his hands as they turned the yellowed pages, at his chest as he breathed in and out, in and out, slowly and softly. The crater of the scar that marred his throat in ripples of tissue and god, despite that, Horace was alive . Alive enough for his hair to continue growing, and for his eyes to have not glazed over with that look of death, and his skin was warm and his chest moved with every breath and he was here .
Simon swallowed.
“Jeez, you should give this a read,” Horace said eventually, looking up to Simon with a soft look on his face. “I mean, you should’ve given this a read a while ago. Lots and lots of stuff about finding love in your life while imprisoned.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Simon asked defensively. Horace snickered, and explained, “well, kinda felt like you were losing your mind before I got here, and your reputation too. Lots of ‘ oh look, it’s scary Keyes! ’ and ‘ if you say his name three times in the mirror, he’ll show up behind you and stab you! ’ stuff.”
“Have- have people actually said stuff like that?” Simon questioned, then added on, “not that I care. I’m just curious.”
“To my knowledge, no. Just jokin’,” Horace said with a bit of a laugh. Simon punched Horace’s shoulder playfully, complaining, “that was mean, asshole.”
Horace smiled and shoved Simon back gently, then went back to reading over the book.
Simon thought for a second about what Horace had said about how he should have and not should read the book. Had he found love in his life despite being here?
He thought about Dogen and how he said this place was a home for them, and he thought to Regina’s excitement that she could still come over and perform every so often and see him in the process, and he thought about the potential friends he could find in Horace’s friends, and he thought about Horace.
Alive, breathing, and right in front of him.
His chest filled with warmth and it felt like a cocoon had hatched inside his stomach, the butterflies making him confused on whether he wanted to throw up or if he wanted to hold Horace close and feel his hands on his and kiss him.
His eyes widen as he realizes it, and it’s too late to hide the realisation from the other man or himself, because Horace raises a brow and asks, “you alright, Si? Your face is all red.”
“What?” Simon says defensively, turning his head away from the other man and bringing his hand up to feel just how hot his face is. It just makes the embarrassment worse, because instead of Horace teasing him, he places a hand on his shoulder and asks worriedly, “Simon? What’s wrong?”
“NOTHING!” Simon exclaims, still turned away from him. He tries to think of something to do to make the situation easier to handle, but he was never good at thinking of things on the spot. That was more Horace’s expertise, whereas he was better at making extensive plans. Plans… it hits him cartoonishly like a lightbulb over his head, except if the lightbulb above his head was dim and in need of a change.
“Great seeing you Horace, but I forgot! I have plans! Haha,” Simon says uncharacteristically as he stands up, and motions for Horace to stand up too, which he does. Horace squints his eyes and questions, “plans? I thought you said we-”
“I know, terrible timing, right?” Simon pushes Horace out of the cell, and Horace doesn’t exactly know what to do with himself except follow along, taking a few steps down the corridor of cells. Simon speaks nervously, accompanied with an overzealous waving motion, “bye, Horace!”
Horace chuckled and waved back, “bye?”
Simon left him in the corridor and made his way back into his cell very, very quickly. He took the books from the bed and placed them back onto the desk that they were under before Horace came in. The same jittery feeling hits him again as he reads the title of the book on top of them all, ‘ A Second Chance at Life .’
He rubs his hand down his face, his palm cold but the skin of his cheeks warm, and he curses himself for having fallen for a man like Horace.
And he has to wonder what exactly that meant. He wasn’t some snotty brat anymore, and he wasn’t some guy he thought of as evil for the awful thing he was forced to do, and he wasn’t the bodyguard for some faraway land and he most certainly wasn’t dead.
He was… a friend.
He was falling for his best friend… or maybe he’d been falling for him the whole time.
