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If being wanted is startling, fallling in love is terrifying. Elliot's life isn't his own, and neither is Toxic's. Neither of them can afford to be in love, this is ridiculous! But Toxic just does it, like loving anyone in this hard, grey place isn't insanity. It's somewhere between idiotic and inspirational.
Toxic covers Elliot in kisses, brazenly steals for him, and takes over his haircuts so he doesn't have to go around with this godawful pseudomullet if Spiderlegs doesn't have time, anymore. He acts like Elliot's faded old carcass is something to be proud of, and Elliot has no real way to handle that. Being 'technically a secret because we're in prison' is vastly different from the usual 'you're not the kind of guy a person really dates' from women, and 'don't get too close to me in public, faggot,' from men, and it's hard to catch up.
When Elliot happens to mention that he does also like women, in the course of casual conversation in the dayroom, Toxic takes it upon himself to score him a porno mag. He presents it to Elliot a few days later in the yard, like a proud puppy with a particularly fine stick. It's even tightly rolled up, enhancing the impression, and Elliot rolls his eyes, chuckling.
"Hope you like it, boss," Toxic says, beaming. "I tried to get you something real classy, I think it's European."
"Christ, Toxic, the age of consent is below eighteen in some of those places," Elliot grumbles, "you might have just really fucked us."
Still, he accepts the gift. Turns out to be a lot of random pissing in it, but some of the shots are beautifully composed, and there are a couple of girls that are definitely... striking. It also makes a good figure-drawing reference, something much appreciated by guys who want pin-up girl tattoo art, so is really does work out.
Of course, while Elliot can trade for just about anything can be obtained inside, he can't do anything about the vicissitudes of prison laundry. He has submitted to many indignities within the California penal system and will surely endure many more, but there is a special irritation to clothes that don't fit, dirty sheets, and odd numbers of socks. One of Elliot's first steps to being taken seriously had been to become well-dressed. He's not dependent on it, and he has his ways. He can roll and tie oversized pants into place, and just let enormous shirts billow, but this week, his dignity is sorely tried.
Elliot is not a large man. The medium shirts fit just fine. But these are not medium. These might not even be small. These might be from a women's prison somewhere, or a juvenile hall. His belly hangs out of them in a way that brings back terrible memories of high school locker rooms and Robbie's grabbing hands and constant shit about the potbelly Elliot probably wouldn't lose until the week before he starved to death, as if people don't carry weight differently... whatever, it's old baggage. He has far more serious problems in his life than looking like a clown.
He isn't going to burn through everything he has stashed for the next lockdown just because he's going to feel like an idiot in the chow line, but Elliot does give himself one day to sulk about it, reading The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter and eating crackers before he has to face anyone but his cellmate, a hulking reptilian hybrid who everybody calls Dragon. He's easy to room with: never talks, lets Elliot pick the music.
Today he comes back from lunch with a note from Toxic. God, the kid's spelling is bad, and his handwriting is vile. Elliot smiles, looking at it, even as he feels a pang of guilt at its content, which is: Miss u Daddy!!! :C Plz come out! Ur always sexxy and its mac n cheez nite!
Damn. In addition to the emotional appeal, Toxic makes a good point. One of the only decent things they serve here is the macaroni and cheese, presumably because it's easy to make a palatable cheap version, and it freezes well. Elliot sighs, sliding the note under his pillow, and grimacing as he tugs at his shirt.
"Think I can go to dinner without people whistling circus music and throwing food?" he mutters, and Dragon shrugs, oscillating one hand in a mezzo-mezzo gesture. Elliot chuckles. "Thank you for your honesty, Dragon."
He ends up having a lot more cause to thank Dragon, because Dragon lets him borrow one of his enormous shirts to wear to the chow hall, over his own. The whole effect is kind of like a wizard's robe, and a couple of guys call him 'Gandalf', but it could be so much worse.
And there's Toxic, at their usual table, so pleased to see him that it makes absolutely no sense with Elliot's understanding of the universe. If the kid didn't like sucking his cock so much, Elliot would think he was running some kind of long con.. "Boss," Toxic says, "I got extra peas for you, I know how much you like nutrition and shit."
Elliot smiles, sitting down beside him. "Thank you, Toxic. I do."
"Shit, what'd you do, borrow a shirt off Dragon?"
"That is exactly what I did. I don't know where they found these damned things, but what is practically a crop top does not suit a man of my age and gravity."
Toxic's eyes widen and glaze over, his lips parting. "Uh... shit, you sure?" he asks.
Elliot snorts. "You're ridiculous. I couldn't pull that kind of thing off when I was young, I've always been too thick."
Toxic actually makes a hungry little whine in the back of his throat, and Elliot can feel himself blushing. "Seriously!?"
"You're just really hot, boss, and all your body hair is really soft and this pretty silver..." he says, so earnestly that Elliot is even more embarrassed to be touched by it.
"I don't know what kind of insane you are, but I thank Satan for it every day," Elliot mutters, turning his attention to transferring the extra peas to his own tray.
Of course Elliot lusts over Toxic in return, but that makes sense. Shooting hoops in the yard, he looks like something out of a hip-hop music video set in a prison, not an actual prisoner. Christ, he's gorgeous. Elliot watches in a kind of rapt daydream as Toxic runs, jumps, rebounds, and takes sides in spirited debates about what constitutes 'traveling'. Elliot used to avoid the courts because of the clouds of yellow dust that always gets kicked up, but now he almost enjoys the flat, mineral taste, and the gritty feel between his teeth. Trained like a dog on pure, Pavlovian association.