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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 23rd 1990 (1.42 a.m.)
Unable to sleep, Tom lay on his bunk thinking about the week that had passed since his release from solitary. He was gradually readapting to the noisy and often brutal life of general population, but even though he was acclimatizing to the everyday living conditions, he still found himself seeking solitude from the constant boisterous activities that occurred in every nook of D Block. He spent most of his time lying on his bunk reading the worn books he had selected from the tiny storage room that served as a library. Most of the inmates left him alone, partly because he was friends with Mosco and partly because he had proven himself when he attacked Howell, the most hated hack on the Block. He still had to endure the occasional crude taunt when he showered, however, although his face flamed red with embarrassment, he refused to react to the provocation, preferring to block out the wolf whistles and ignore the threats of sexual assault as best he could. Occasionally Mosco would intervene, threatening the agitator with physical harm, but mostly the Hispanic remained silent, his hands balled into tight fists and a murderous look marring his handsome face. He knew the prison code well enough to know he would do Tom more harm than good if he jumped to his defense every time an inmate made a suggestive remark. He needed to keep a level head and allow Tom to fight his own battles, no matter how difficult it was to stay silent.
For Tom, the change in Mosco’s attitude toward him was an ongoing mystery. Since his release from solitary, Mosco had not approached him for sex and their only physical contact had been the gentle kiss his cellmate had placed against his forehead the day he returned to the Block. He was mortified that he had begged Mosco to tell him he loved him, but at the time, he was seeking comfort because he could feel himself slipping back towards the mental flogging of self-loathing that had plagued him after Amy’s death. Once again, a little voice inside his head was telling him he was unworthy of love and he needed to hear the words spoken aloud if he had any hope of giving himself the psychological absolution that would purge his soul once and for all of the self-hatred that threatened his sanity. He had initially believed his relationship with Booker would have a cathartic effect on the negative way he viewed himself, but he now realized it was the exact opposite. During every heated argument and physical fight they had experienced in their short time together, Dennis had been quick to remind him of his past, the spiteful words spilling readily from his lips. Whore and junkie had been the insults of choice during his vituperative rants and Tom now understood how much the pejorative commentary had severely affected his self-esteem. He did not then (and he doubted he ever would), feel that he was worthy of Booker’s love and no matter how hard he tried to redeem himself in the eyes of the man he thought was his soul mate, he would always be the ex-junkie whore that had screwed up his life.
But then there was Mosco. It had surprised him that his friend had capitulated to his request so readily and he found himself intrigued by his cellmate’s willingness to tell him he loved him. However, he was not a gullible fool. He knew in all likelihood that the words were a lie, but the eagerness for Mosco to console him had been a pleasant surprise. Not that his cellmate was a shining example of a considerate lover. Mosco had proven himself to be cruel, manipulative and just as ready with the insults as Booker. But unlike Dennis, his cellmate had not turned his back on him when he was most in need of comfort and the Hispanic was now an integral part of his life. Since his return from solitary, he had noticed a real change in Mosco and he liked what he saw.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the rhythmic sound of Mosco’s breathing and for the first time in a week, he slipped his hand inside his boxers. A low moan escaped his lips and as his fingers stroked himself to hardness, he knew he needed to move forward and accept the harsh reality of his failed relationship with Dennis, no matter how difficult it was. Booker had deserted him without giving him a chance to explain his actions and the dark haired officer was now just a remnant of his past, whereas the man lying above him, the man who had brought him back from the brink of insanity, might well be, a part of his future.
**
Friday March 23rd 1990 (6.23 a.m.)
Two bloodshot eyes stared back at Booker from the small bathroom mirror hanging on the wall, their glassy gaze mocking him with their inability to focus. Rubbing a trembling hand over his stubbled chin, he exhaled heavily and tried to remember the night before. There was a large gash on his forehead and a split in his lower lip, indicating that he had been in a fight. The throbbing in his anus suggested something more disturbing, but even though he had no memory of the previous night’s events, he knew the sex had been consensual because that was what he did now; he fought and he fucked. Except he didn’t fuck men, he let the men fuck him. Along with the violent brawls he sought out in disreputable bars and alleyways, it was all part of his twisted need to punish Tom whilst punishing himself. He was not searching for love or affection, he was searching for pain, in fact, he craved it, along with the alcohol that helped to numb his aching heart and fuel his violent outbursts. He was the poster child for self-destructive behavior and he did not give a damn what people thought. .
However, the extent of his rebel-rousing was about to have some serious consequences. With only one month’s probation left, his Captain had given him an ultimatum; take two weeks off, get clean or he would have no choice but to revoke his law enforcement certification. It had come as no surprise, Harry had warned him on several occasions that he was walking a thin line towards unemployment, but he remained too caught up in his own misery to care. That was until he woke up that morning in a pool of his own vomit and he realized he had hit rock bottom. He was a drunken, whoring antagonist and if he did not get his shit together, he would wind up heading down the same nefarious path as the man who was the cause of all his internal suffering, and he would be damned if he would give Tom the satisfaction of seeing him fail.
Rubbing a shaky hand over his mouth, he glared defiantly at the haggard face staring back at him, but his bravado quickly faltered and tears sprang to his eyes. “Happy fucking birthday,” he whispered, before allowing the tears of shame and remorse to trickle unchecked down his pale, chiseled cheeks. He was twenty-five years old and his life was falling apart around him.
**
Friday March 23rd 1990 (7.06 p.m.)
After showering and cleaning up the putrid mess of vomit in his bed, Booker spent the day lying on the couch staring blindly at the TV, the tedious laugh tracks of the sitcoms and the monotonous voices of the newsreaders, barely penetrating through the fog shrouding his mind. He did not eat or drink, his abused stomach protesting with audible growls and gurgles that threatened to spew forth a mixture of the previous night’s carte du jour, which had consisted of copious amounts of beer, bourbon and a serve of greasy fries, before he had prowled the streets looking for a fight or a fuck. It had been his lucky night, he had found both, but his battered body was now rebelling against the months of abuse and he felt nauseous, clammy and his hands shook uncontrollably. But as much as he blamed Tom for his current downward spiral, deep down in the recesses of his mind that only became active when he was hung over and suffering, he knew he only had himself to blame. He was a pathetic shell of the man he had once been and only he was capable of turning his life back around. It was the wakeup call he needed because he knew if he did not change his ways soon, he was facing a life of loneliness and misery.
A loud knock at the door startled him out of his reverie and moaning in protest, he slowly sat up, his hand clutching theatrically at his aching head. For a fraction of a second, he considered ignoring whoever it was, but his curiosity got the better of him and with a sigh, he rose to his feet and stumbled across the room. Keeping the chain in place, he opened the door a few inches and peered out through the gap.
Harry’s cheerful face grinned back at him and he felt a flutter of appreciation in his heart for the friend who stood by him, even when he was at his worst. “Hey,” he muttered, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth. “Now’s not really—”
Harry’s eyes took in Booker’s battered face and pallid complexion, but he did not make comment. On several occasions, he had almost come to blows with Dennis about his drinking and fighting, but he had quickly realized that an intervention was pointless. Booker was too proud and hotheaded to heed any advice that he had to offer, much like Tom had been. Also, the dark haired officer was no fool, Harry was certain that he was well aware of how his licentious lifestyle was leading him down a path of self-destruction and that if he wanted to keep his job, he needed to put the past behind him and forget all about Tom. He was concerned that after their initial conversation when Booker had revealed what had happened, he never spoke about Tom or about the explicit photographs again. But he also understood that his friend needed time to grieve his loss and he hoped that once he accepted it was over, he would start to repair his shattered heart and move forward with his life.
“Hey, yourself,” he grinned. “It’s your twenty-fifth birthday, you can’t sit at home wallowing in self-pity, we need to hit the town and celebrate!”
Booker paused for a moment before closing the door and removing the chain. He hesitated slightly before opening the door again and stepping back, he allowed Harry entrance into his apartment. Lowering his gaze to the floor, he rubbed a self-conscious hand over the back of his neck and gave his friend a watery smile. “Um, I’ve decided to stop drinking, so a night out celebrating probably isn’t the best idea.”
Ioki’s expression sobered and stepping forward, he laid a comforting hand on Booker’s arm. “Good for you,” he murmured softly. When all he received was a wan smile in return, he decided that his friend needed something to take his mind off his current state of misery. “So we tone down the celebrating and go to a diner that doesn’t serve alcohol. I bet you could use a feed of fried food to soak up all the alcohol you’ve consumed.”
At the mention of food, Booker’s stomach lurched and closing his eyes, he swallowed down the hot, watery bile that erupted into his throat. “I don’t think I can eat anything,” he muttered miserably.
Harry was not about to give up and he grinned mischievously. “So I’ll eat and you can sit and look depressed. Whaddya say?”
A hint of a smile brightened Booker’s face and he winced slightly as the cut on his lower lip opened up. Dabbing at the wound with his fingers, his expression relaxed. “Okay, but I’m warning you, I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”
Placing his arm around Booker’s shoulders, Harry gave his friend a gentle squeeze. “I don’t care, I just want to celebrate my best friend’s birthday… but more than that, I want to see him happy again.”
Tears glistened in Booker’s dark eyes and as the emotions of the past few months spilled forth, his lower lip started to tremble uncontrollably. “I just miss him so much,” he whispered.
It was the breakthrough Harry had been hoping for and pulling his friend into his arms, he held him close. “I know you do,” he murmured softly, “but you need to put your relationship with Tom behind you and move forward.”
Booker pulled himself together and rubbing a shaky hand over his teary eyes, he gave Harry a resolute stare. “You know what man? You’re right. Screw him, he can rot in hell for all I care. He’s a fucking whore and I’m better off without him.”
Although it was not exactly the response Harry had been hoping for, he smiled back encouragingly. Deep down, he actually felt a sliver of sympathy for Tom, but hell would have to freeze over before he would ever admit it to Booker. “C’mon,” he grinned, “I’m starving and if you’re not eating, I’ll buy you a glass of water.”
For the first time since waking up, Booker actually felt hungry and he returned a small grin. “Actually, all this talk of food is making me hungry. I’m thinking I could go a burger and as it’s my birthday, it’s your buy.”
Harry threw back his head and laughing loudly, he slapped Booker playfully on the back. “It’s a deal.”
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Chasing a Butterfly