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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Friday March 16th 1990 (4.28 p.m.)
The loud, raucous laughter ringing in Tom’s ears had the same effect on his nerves as fingernails scraping down a chalkboard and he visibly cringed as the sound became louder. The two months in solitary had taken a toll on his body and he lurched unsteadily on his feet, the muscles in his legs unaccustomed to exercise and his eyes still sensitive to the harsh fluorescent light. He felt overwhelmed by the sounds and smells that invaded his senses and he instinctively placed his hands over his ears in a futile effort to block out the noise. Perspiration soaked his clothing, accentuating the already unpleasant smell wafting from his unwashed body and a hot flush preceded the nausea that rose from his stomach. He struggled valiantly to control his weakened body, but as he entered the recreation area, his head started to spin and with a soft grunt, his eyes rolled back and he slipped unconscious to the floor.
Silence filled the room and every inmate stopped what they were doing to focus their attention on the prone figure on the floor. With an irritated sigh, the escorting guard kicked out with his foot, his boot connecting heavily with Tom’s stomach. “Get up Hanson,” he growled. “I ain’t got time for your amateur dramatics.”
“Mierda! (Shit!)” Mosco murmured and pushing through the crowd of curious onlookers, he approached the annoyed hack with a smile. “Leave him with me Officer Jacobs, I’ll take care of him.”
Jacobs eyed Mosco up and down before deciding he did not really care what happened to Tom, as long as he did not have to deal with it. “Get him cleaned up Mosco, he’s stinkin’ the place up.”
Mosco gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement and locking eyes with Diaz, he motioned towards Tom. “Help me get him to the shower.”
With the excitement now over, the inmates returned to their various activities and once again, the room filled with loud chatter. Diaz pushed through the crowd of men and gently nudged Tom with the toe of his boot. “Do you think he’s gone loco?”
A glimmer of sadness flashed in Mosco’s large emerald green eyes, but the look vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I hope not,” he muttered and squatting down, he gave Tom’s shoulders a gentle shake. “Hey Tommy, wakey, wakey.”
Tom’s eyelids slowly fluttered open and he gazed up at Mosco in confusion. “W-Where am I?”
Mosco cast a worried glance at Diaz before focusing his attention back on Tom. “You’re in prison Tommy. You remember me don’t you?”
“Oh…” Tom murmured softly, his eyelids once again fluttering closed, “I thought I was in heaven.”
Diaz snorted in amusement, but his expression quickly sobered when his Jefe threw him an angry look. “Sorry,” he muttered and shoving his hands in his pockets, he gazed down at Tom, “it’s just, how could anyone think this agujero de mierda (shithole) could be heaven?”
“Maybe because he’s been living in hell,” Mosco muttered. “C’mon, help me get him to his feet.”
After two months in isolation, Tom barely weighed one-hundred and thirty pounds and it took Mosco and Diaz little effort to pick him up off the floor and carry him into the shower room. Sitting him down on one of the broken wooden benches, Mosco addressed Diaz in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I want some privacy, no one comes in here… entiendes? (understand?)”
A cruel smirk curled at Diaz’s thin lips. “Yeah Jefe, I understand. Be gentle with him, he’ll be as tight as Virgen María (Virgin Mary) after all that time alone.”
Mosco ignored the insult against the Blessed Virgin and focusing his attention on Tom, he waited for Diaz to leave before crouching down and placing a gentle hand against his cellmate’s pale cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then you can eat something, you’re skin an’ bones mi chico hermoso (my beautiful boy).”
Tom sat silently as Mosco removed his t-shirt and hoodie, and when a gentle hand helped him to his feet, he stood compliantly and allowed his cellmate to finish undressing him. As fatigue started to shut down his mind, his eyelids grew heavy and he swayed unsteadily on his feet. He fell into a dreamlike state, but when an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in close, he immediately recoiled from the contact and opening his eyes, he gazed in horror at Mosco’s naked body. “N-No!” he stammered and backing away, he cowered in the shower stall. “P-Please Mosco, don’t. I c-can’t take it, not now… please! I can’t… I can’t!”
It was not the reaction Mosco had expected and his eyes widened in surprise. “It’s okay Tommy,” he pacified in a low voice and holding out his hands, he slowly approached his frightened cellmate. “I don’t wanna do that, I just wanna help you get clean.”
The fear in Tom’s eyes slowly faded, but his exhausted body continued to tremble uncontrollably. “You promise?” he whispered.
The pathetic tone of Tom’s voice reminded Mosco of a small, frightened child and a physical pain stabbed at his heart. “I promise Chico,” he murmured softly and stepping into the cubicle, he turned on the faucets.
Tom flinched as a hard spray of water cascaded over his body, but soon, the therapeutic warmth lulled his tired mind and muscles and bracing his palms against the cracked tiled wall, he lowered his head and surrendered to its warmth. Moments later, gentle hands lathered his filthy hair with shampoo, but when the long fingers massaged his scalp, he winced in pain.
Noticing Tom’s discomfort, Mosco carefully probed the area and he swore softly. “Bastardos! They should have taken you to the fucking infirmary.”
Comforted by Mosco’s tender touch, Tom slowly shook his head. “I’m okay,’ he mumbled in a faraway voice and closing his eyes, he relaxed against his caregiver’s muscular body and succumbed to the pampering.
Mosco suppressed a moan of longing and biting down on his lower lip, he tried to ignore the hardening of his cock and instead, he concentrated on the task at hand. After rinsing Tom’s hair, he soaped up his hands and tenderly washed every inch of his friend’s body, taking care not to linger over his genitals. He could not explain it, but since seeing Tom again, there had been a dramatic shift in his psyche and he felt an unexplained protectiveness towards him. His initial motives for befriending Tom had been completely self-serving; he had a plan in place and if he managed to execute it, his standing as Jefe would remain secure. However, in the space of a few short minutes, things had become unexpectedly complicated. He now realized that he had actual feelings for Tom and he felt a heavy weight of guilt upon his shoulders for having instigated the plan that had landed his cellmate in solitary. Although he now felt a degree of remorse, in his mind, his reasons at the time had been justified. Firstly, he was el Jefe and he would be damned if he would allow the man he was fucking to dream about another, and secondly… well, that motivation had a more sinister connotation. He needed Tom to be isolated from all family and friends… he needed him to be alone at the time of his release.
It was all part of the master plan.
But no matter how he tried to rationalize it to himself, as he gazed at the mentally and physically fragile man standing before him, he wondered if he could actually go ahead with the arrangement. He had no doubt in his mind that his feelings were real and for the first time in a very long time, his heart expanded with love instead of lust. There was no denying it, he was falling for Tom Hanson and he was falling hard.
A small chuckle escaped his lips and he shook his head in amusement, sending small droplets of water flying into the moist air. Never before had he allowed himself to acknowledge his softer side. With a convict for a father and a drug addict for a mother, his childhood had been rough and he had learned from a young age to toughen up. At twelve, he was already in a gang and by the age of thirteen, he had witnessed almost every brutality known to man. However, deep inside his soul, there remained the remnants of a lost and innocent child and seeing Tom so vulnerable had awakened his long forgotten social conscience. It was a strange feeling, but he now felt an overwhelming need to love and nurture his chico hermoso in a way he never had before.
He no longer just wanted to fuck Tom, he wanted to be his inamorato.
Pushing his body against Tom’s inert form, he leaned forward and turned off the faucets. Steam hung heavily in the air, giving the shower room an ethereal aura and placing an arm around Tom’s shoulders, he slowly led him from the cubicle. “C’mon mi amigo (my friend), let’s get you dry.”
Tom’s body swayed gently back and forth, the warmth of the shower coupled with Mosco’s tender touch soothing the delirium in his mind and relaxing his tense muscles. He grinned sleepily as his friend patted him dry before wrapping a towel around his waist, the fears and horrors of the last few months now magically forgotten. But the reprieve from his demons was short lived and when they left the sanctuary of the bathroom and entered the disorderly confines of the testosterone-filled rec room, his anxiety quickly returned. He started to hyperventilate, the labored sound of his breathing echoing loudly in his own ears. His panic-filled dark eyes darted from side to side, the malevolent faces of his peers instilling fear in his heart. Once again he was trapped in hell, the only difference was, this time he had company.
Waves of fear radiated off his trembling body and sensing his agitation, Mosco wrapped an arm around his slim waist and pulled him close. Several inmates wolf whistled and crude comments sounded around the room. “Hey Mosco, you got your puto back… he’s still veeery pretty... I wanna watch you fuck him… hey Hanson, did you miss having el Jefe’s cock up your ass? Maybe I’ll pay you a visit too…”
Mosco leaned in close and whispered in Tom’s ear. “Don’t listen to ‘em Chico, I made you a promise and I’m a man of my word. You’re safe with me.”
The reassuring words barely registered in Tom’s mind, all he wanted was the safety of his cell, so he could close his eyes and block out the unwanted sounds that were ricocheting inside his head. He stumbled blindly up the metal staircase, his panic rising with every footfall. As the jeering grew louder, he was desperate to free himself of the threatening taunts and breaking free of Mosco’s protective hold, he tripped up the remaining two steps and staggered into his cell. His jagged breath ripped at his throat and falling to his knees, he wrapped his arms protectively around his head and began to rock back and forth, the comfort of Mosco’s tender touch now just a distant memory. Once again, he felt the veil of madness slipping over his mind, but this time, he did not fight it; he was too exhausted and all he wanted was to find some peace.
When a gentle hand stroked his back, he shrank away from the touch, but the hand was persistent and it continued to offer comfort in the form of a soft caress. Minutes passed and his breathing gradually became less labored. The panic slowly cleared from his mind and lowering his arms, he gazed up into Mosco’s worried eyes. “Hey Chico,” the Hispanic murmured softly. “Do you wanna get dressed?”
Realizing that he had lost his towel in his frantic effort to escape, he nodded his head. Mosco’s lifted him to his feet and helped him dress in a t-shirt and boxers, before leading him over to his bunk. “Lie down. I’ll bribe a hack to bring a tray of food to you.”
Tom climbed onto the narrow bed and blinking back tears of exhaustion, he shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
Staring down at Tom’s thin frame, Mosco started to protest, but when he saw the fatigue in the dark eyes gazing up at him, he quickly bit his tongue. He patted Tom affectionately on the head before turning to leave, but a soft whisper stopped him in his tracks. “Tell me you love me.”
His eyes widened in surprise and spinning around, he started to speak, but the shock of the question had him tripping over his words. “Tommy, I… um… I…”
Tom’s dark eyes glistened with unshed tears and grasping hold of Mosco’s upper arm, he pulled him down onto the bunk and pleaded with him in a fraught voice. “Please! Even if it's a lie, just tell me you love me!”
The last time Mosco had uttered those three tiny words, he had been fifteen years of age and his mother was dying from AIDS. He had made a vow in that hospital never to open his heart to love again, it was just too damn painful and he had stuck to his word. He had entered into countless relationships with women and never once had he told them he loved them. When he was arrested at age twenty-one he already had a reputation and it did not take him long to rise to the rank of Jefe. With no women to fuck, he turned his attention to men and he had claimed many scared, naïve cherries. But no matter who he claimed, it was unashamed lust not love… that was, until now. Now he felt his heart softening under the allure of Tom’s desperate gaze and although the sensation made him nervous, he found himself wavering. For the first time in over ten years, he wanted to give of himself completely.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward and he pressed his lips against Tom’s smooth forehead. “I love you Chico,” he murmured softly.
Tom’s face visibly relaxed and closing his eyes, he let out a contented sigh. “Thank you.”
Unsure how to proceed, Mosco rose to his feet. He stood staring down at Tom for several long seconds before exiting the room.
****
Friday March 16th 1990 (7.22 p.m.)
Officer Hanley escorted Mosco up to his cell. After checking that Tom was present, albeit, asleep, he motioned to the control room to shut the cell door. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he instructed as the barred gate slammed closed, “he’s been through a lot.”
Mosco ignored the comment and pulling his t-shirt over his head, he threw it to the floor. Kicking off his boots, he stripped off his jeans and proceeded to climb onto his bunk, when a soft voice sounded from the bed below. “Did you mean it?”
At the sound of Tom’s voice, Mosco’s stomach somersaulted and his heart began to beat a little faster. He was surprised at the affect his cellmate was starting to have on him, but it was not an unpleasant feeling, just unexpected. Settling down on his mattress, he pulled his battered crime novel out from under his pillow and opened the worn book. “Go to sleep Hanson,” he replied, but as he stared blankly at the yellowing pages, a smile played over his lips, softening his features. He was in love.
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Chasing a Butterfly