Matt woke to his entire body aching, sprawled face-first on his bunk with his legs hanging off the side. His ears felt like they were packed with cotton, unable to process most of the sounds coming to him, everything washing over him in a dull roar. He focused, trying to cut through the haze, and realized he was hearing the clang of hands hitting the barred cell doors up and down the block. The correctional officers were calling the morning count.
He fisted a hand into the thin pad of his mattress. His blanket had disappeared somewhere last night during the- Well. It was probably on the floor. He raised his face and inhaled, but all he could smell was the overwhelming scent of Fisk's sweat and... other fluids. He gagged, vaguely remembering stumbling out of his bunk and using a fair portion of his only toilet roll to clean up the mess dribbling down his thighs, Fisk's eyes on him the entire time. Passing out had been a blessing.
"Let's go!" an officer yelled as a buzzer sounded; Matt flinched in surprise, hands flying up to cover his ears as it deafened him, cutting through his brain like a hot knife. It stopped, but his ears kept ringing, and he drifted for a moment, unable to move, until someone touched his shoulder. He flinched again.
"... have to get up, Matthew," came Fisk's voice, the beginning of his sentence lost to the ringing. He felt the air flowing a little more freely through the cell and realized the door must have slid back to let them out. He concentrated and heard the other inmates leaving their cells to stand in front of the doors in a rustle of fabric and dull thud of cheap, thin shoes on cement. He flung his hand out, groping, and shoved Fisk's hand away with a growl.
He had no idea what time it was, he was sore, hungry, and tired. His second day was getting off to a great start.
*
He stumbled into breakfast, another disappointing 'meal', then the morning services, where he sat on one of the many empty folding chairs and listened to an uninterested volunteer chaplain drone on about...something. He tried to pay attention, but the sounds of the prison in full swing were too much, washing over him and making it difficult to focus. It was hard enough just to find his way down the halls, sounds bouncing around every surface and confusing him even more. He had to walk with one hand outstretched, fingers trailing the concrete, following the other inmates from one room to another in an attempt to map out the complex. In the end, he had to stop and ask a guard where his cell block was, receiving a rather hostile response- nobody believed he was blind, still. Apparently, his unfocused eyes, visible to all without his glasses, weren't proof enough.
His 'vision' was a mess, shapes pinging back and forth as the sounds echoed around him, unable to place them precisely. He was tired enough that his brain was failing to put the input together into something usable. He needed his cane. He needed to not be in here, with no thought given to accessibility for blind inmates- not even any Braille signs to help him find his way, the bare fucking minimum.
Two days. Foggy would have visitation in two days, and they would discuss the upcoming trial and how to proceed. Rikers was just temporary. Even Fisk was still awaiting his own trial; Matt had been knee-deep in preparations for that when he'd been arrested, and now... well. He hadn't been officially disbarred yet, but it was coming. Hopefully, Foggy would avoid that particular fallout himself- he was yet to face charges, but it was only a matter of time. That he was able to visit at all was a minor miracle.
For what felt like the millionth time that week, Matt wanted to scream, to punch somebody- if not for his own situation, then for the mess he'd landed his friends in. His only friends.
This was why Stick had said to cut ties with them. If only he'd listened.
*
He stood at the door to the communal showers, clutching a towel, and tried to make sense of it. He could hear- running water, of course, echoing off the walls, nearly drowning out the voices of the men showering. Someone was laughing; a man pushed past him and Matt thought he turned his head to look at him, but he couldn't be sure. The sound was too much, too much to wade through, and he didn't want to enter, to make himself vulnerable here. Someone noticed his indecision and began to jeer in his direction, but it was tame compared to what he'd endured yesterday, before Fisk had... staked his claim.
Matt grit his teeth, his heart skipping a beat at the unbidden memory, of huge hands on his neck- he swallowed down the sudden flash of anger, hands curling into fists, uselessly. Fisk's 'protection' would probably keep him from being harassed here. The other inmates had kept a wide berth between them all day: in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in his brief foray to the library (such that it was). It hadn't put a complete end to the gossip, but he'd been doing his best to filter it out. Not that it had been difficult, as most of his attention was focused on not running into people as he walked. But he still heard the words here and there.
"You should have heard him," someone had said, earnestly, from across the cafeteria at breakfast. "Fucking obscene."
"Jesus, man, I'm trying to eat," another inmate had complained, mouth full. "Rather not have to hear about that fat fuck's cock right now. Or, you know. Ever."
Matt had silently agreed.
*
When Matt finally returned to his cell, unshowered and hungry, Fisk was absent. He sat on his bunk, slowly, still aching; the thin mattress wasn't much help in that area. The cell smelled overwhelmingly of Fisk, his mattress reeking of their mingled sweat and cum-
Matt fell to his knees and shuffled to the toilet fixed to the wall, barely making it in time as the contents of his stomach came back up in a rush. It was mostly bile; he hadn't eaten for days. He sat there, numbly, for some time, unwilling to move. He didn't want to get back up. He didn't want to get back on his bunk. He didn't want to sleep. He'd be locked in with Fisk again, soon enough, and he wasn't stupid enough to expect to be left alone tonight.
He flexed his jaw, grit his teeth, and reached up to grip the sink, lifting himself to his feet, shakily. He washed his mouth out, spitting, wishing he had a tooth brush. He hadn't been given one yet; he'd taken the towel from Fisk's side of the cell (put back, unused). The only things he had were the clothes he was wearing and half a roll of toilet paper.
[SECOND FILL] Day two (1/2)
He fisted a hand into the thin pad of his mattress. His blanket had disappeared somewhere last night during the- Well. It was probably on the floor. He raised his face and inhaled, but all he could smell was the overwhelming scent of Fisk's sweat and... other fluids. He gagged, vaguely remembering stumbling out of his bunk and using a fair portion of his only toilet roll to clean up the mess dribbling down his thighs, Fisk's eyes on him the entire time. Passing out had been a blessing.
"Let's go!" an officer yelled as a buzzer sounded; Matt flinched in surprise, hands flying up to cover his ears as it deafened him, cutting through his brain like a hot knife. It stopped, but his ears kept ringing, and he drifted for a moment, unable to move, until someone touched his shoulder. He flinched again.
"... have to get up, Matthew," came Fisk's voice, the beginning of his sentence lost to the ringing. He felt the air flowing a little more freely through the cell and realized the door must have slid back to let them out. He concentrated and heard the other inmates leaving their cells to stand in front of the doors in a rustle of fabric and dull thud of cheap, thin shoes on cement. He flung his hand out, groping, and shoved Fisk's hand away with a growl.
He had no idea what time it was, he was sore, hungry, and tired. His second day was getting off to a great start.
*
He stumbled into breakfast, another disappointing 'meal', then the morning services, where he sat on one of the many empty folding chairs and listened to an uninterested volunteer chaplain drone on about...something. He tried to pay attention, but the sounds of the prison in full swing were too much, washing over him and making it difficult to focus. It was hard enough just to find his way down the halls, sounds bouncing around every surface and confusing him even more. He had to walk with one hand outstretched, fingers trailing the concrete, following the other inmates from one room to another in an attempt to map out the complex. In the end, he had to stop and ask a guard where his cell block was, receiving a rather hostile response- nobody believed he was blind, still. Apparently, his unfocused eyes, visible to all without his glasses, weren't proof enough.
His 'vision' was a mess, shapes pinging back and forth as the sounds echoed around him, unable to place them precisely. He was tired enough that his brain was failing to put the input together into something usable. He needed his cane. He needed to not be in here, with no thought given to accessibility for blind inmates- not even any Braille signs to help him find his way, the bare fucking minimum.
Two days. Foggy would have visitation in two days, and they would discuss the upcoming trial and how to proceed. Rikers was just temporary. Even Fisk was still awaiting his own trial; Matt had been knee-deep in preparations for that when he'd been arrested, and now... well. He hadn't been officially disbarred yet, but it was coming. Hopefully, Foggy would avoid that particular fallout himself- he was yet to face charges, but it was only a matter of time. That he was able to visit at all was a minor miracle.
For what felt like the millionth time that week, Matt wanted to scream, to punch somebody- if not for his own situation, then for the mess he'd landed his friends in. His only friends.
This was why Stick had said to cut ties with them. If only he'd listened.
*
He stood at the door to the communal showers, clutching a towel, and tried to make sense of it. He could hear- running water, of course, echoing off the walls, nearly drowning out the voices of the men showering. Someone was laughing; a man pushed past him and Matt thought he turned his head to look at him, but he couldn't be sure. The sound was too much, too much to wade through, and he didn't want to enter, to make himself vulnerable here. Someone noticed his indecision and began to jeer in his direction, but it was tame compared to what he'd endured yesterday, before Fisk had... staked his claim.
Matt grit his teeth, his heart skipping a beat at the unbidden memory, of huge hands on his neck- he swallowed down the sudden flash of anger, hands curling into fists, uselessly. Fisk's 'protection' would probably keep him from being harassed here. The other inmates had kept a wide berth between them all day: in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in his brief foray to the library (such that it was). It hadn't put a complete end to the gossip, but he'd been doing his best to filter it out. Not that it had been difficult, as most of his attention was focused on not running into people as he walked. But he still heard the words here and there.
"You should have heard him," someone had said, earnestly, from across the cafeteria at breakfast. "Fucking obscene."
"Jesus, man, I'm trying to eat," another inmate had complained, mouth full. "Rather not have to hear about that fat fuck's cock right now. Or, you know. Ever."
Matt had silently agreed.
*
When Matt finally returned to his cell, unshowered and hungry, Fisk was absent. He sat on his bunk, slowly, still aching; the thin mattress wasn't much help in that area. The cell smelled overwhelmingly of Fisk, his mattress reeking of their mingled sweat and cum-
Matt fell to his knees and shuffled to the toilet fixed to the wall, barely making it in time as the contents of his stomach came back up in a rush. It was mostly bile; he hadn't eaten for days. He sat there, numbly, for some time, unwilling to move. He didn't want to get back up. He didn't want to get back on his bunk. He didn't want to sleep. He'd be locked in with Fisk again, soon enough, and he wasn't stupid enough to expect to be left alone tonight.
He flexed his jaw, grit his teeth, and reached up to grip the sink, lifting himself to his feet, shakily. He washed his mouth out, spitting, wishing he had a tooth brush. He hadn't been given one yet; he'd taken the towel from Fisk's side of the cell (put back, unused). The only things he had were the clothes he was wearing and half a roll of toilet paper.
It was going to be a long night.