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Title stolen from a Nirvana song.

You Know You're Right

by sistersleep

Miguel was escorted to the gym -- and left there. Fucking hacks, couldn't be bothered to do shit. No wonder this prison was so fucked up. Guess the hack figured that with only two people in the gym, it was a good time for a smoke break.

"If one of you kills the other...I'll know who did it." Mineo laughed before he left.


When Miguel saw who the other inmate was, he didn't feel like working out anymore.

Or maybe he did. Now he wanted to pound away at the bag and show that cocksucker who should have won. Cramer was doing bench presses, without his little bitch around.

Miguel had wanted to lose himself in the stretch and strain of muscles, go to the quiet place in his mind. Flesh and bone working together, keeping him strong. He'd wanted to put the loss out of his mind. But now, it was right here with him.

"Alvarez." Cramer purred when he spotted Miguel's entrance from his prone position.

"Fuck off, Cramer." Miguel growled as he passed by the bench with barely a glance at the man.

He didn't want to deal with any shit right now. He went right to the bag, getting the shit to wrap his hands, preparing quick and efficiently. Ignoring the other man in the room.

Miguel's thoughts spun as he warmed up, spurred by that other presence even as it faded from his mind with the contact of fist to surface. He'd lost before, and while he rightfully hated it, it was nothing like this time. Nobody could fucking let it go. El Cid was treating him like shit again, blaming Miguel for bringing El Norte down. Fuck him. Miguel had given everything for them.

Even that little punk ass follower of Adebisi's had been making jokes at Miguel's expense. Miguel had seen that pendejo work out. He couldn't wait to see that little unskilled motherfucker get his ass handed to him in the ring.

And that slick Mick O'Reily...making money off of him. Rubbing it in his face.


Miguel had never had a loss like this. Because he knew he should've won. That made it burn longer than anything. This wasn't being bested by a better opponent, not that he particularly enjoyed that either. Cramer wasn't bad in the ring. But Miguel was better. He knew it. He'd felt it with that first hit. In his blood. He could taste it as they danced. That had been Miguel's fight. He had been in control.

And then...something had gotten all fucked up. Being in the ring messed up your head, it was a high like none other. A rush of pain and glory. Sometimes it was like you were fucking flying, sometimes like you were in the sweetest hell with no end in sight. But this had been different. Dizzy. Different from the head trip caused by the flood of adrenaline or a hit to his senses. It had been like he was sick or something. Weaker. Off.

But he'd been healthy. He wasn't even taking his meds. He was clean and sharp for the first time in ages. Fast. Until it hit him like a truck. Everything went slow and foggy. Lead limbed with his speed diminished. It wasn't fucking right. He couldn't explain it.

There was only one thought in his head now, though. He should have won.

As Miguel made all the hits he should have made, pounding away at the bag with everything he knew he could do, he noticed the shift of that presence he'd been ignoring. Cramer was sitting up on the workout bench now...not lifting, not stretching. Just watching. Him.

Miguel made a hit that he imagined being a beautiful cross to Cramer's face and slowed to a stop, leaning on the bag as he breathed heavily, juiced.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

"You." Cramer stood up, sauntering over. Cocky and confident. Not like a prag, because he wasn't.

He reminded Miguel a little bit of that crazy fuck Keller. Guys who got off with guys by choice. Miguel may hate him right now, for taking what was rightfully Miguel's, but he'd never call Cramer a maricon. Because whatever he was, he owned it. Without fear or weakness, and Miguel had to respect that a little. Even though he just wanted to guy to leave him the fuck alone.

"You're good."

The guy was complimenting him now? What the hell? That little flirt in his voice. Miguel held his ground. "Better than you."

That brought a small dark smile. "You think you're better because I'm a fag? Because a fag can't fight, right? So it was luck that I won." There was a challenge there, old constant pain covered by that cockiness.

It seemed like Miguel wasn't the only one who knew what it was like to get shit for something you couldn't control. Cramer was used to being underestimated and dismissed, and he didn't like it. Wouldn't let people do it. Miguel respected that too.

"No." Miguel said simply, still leaning casually on that bag. He owned it. This was his, something he was good at. "I don't know what the fuck it was...but I'm better than you, baby. And it has nothing to do with who you fuck."

That made Cramer smile more genuinely, but it still held a hint of that challenge. "I know how good you are. I saw. But I beat you. Are you pissed because you lost to a cocksucker?"

"No." Miguel repeated, shaking his head a little, deciding to be honest. "I'm just pissed because I lost. I don't care if you suck dick or eat pussy. I should have won. You're good...but I'm better." Miguel repeated. Knowing it was true. He wasn't the best when it came to boxing, wasn't one of the sports he owned completely, even he knew that. But he knew he'd been better than Cramer that day.

His honest response made Cramer laugh, and whatever hostility had been there from the man was gone now. Cramer crept closer, smooth. Miguel straightened up a little. If that fucker thought he was going to lay a hand on Miguel outside of the ring, he had another thing coming. Miguel hadn't fallen that far.

"Maybe so. You do know how to move, and you've got ...power." Cramer gave the sincere compliments to Miguel with a low little whisper, the pause just provocative enough. "I bet I know one thing I'm better at than you."

"Pissing off those Nazi fucks? Hate to tell you, I'm good at that too." Miguel said with a smirk before he cocked his head in question.

Maybe he was still fucked up. Maybe being off the meds was making him crazy. But this was...fun. That rush in his blood and sped up heart of working out mixing with the challenge of this man. This man who seemed to admit and acknowledge how good Miguel was. The only motherfucker who did right now. Cramer could have continued gloating, and fucking with Miguel worse than anyone about his loss. But he wasn't. There was appreciation there. One fighter to another. It felt good in the face of all the shit he was getting. The respect he deserved coming from the least likely place.

But there was more than a little appreciation for his ass in there as well.

"Nope, not that." Cramer's answer was almost sing song, but in that deep voice it came out more like a low laugh. Cramer slid even closer, one arm outstretched and reaching over Miguel's shoulder, braced on the bag. Miguel didn't give up his ground. Didn't flinch.

"Cocksucking." Cramer whispered the answer in his ear.

Fuck. Miguel shouldn't have let him get this close just to prove he wouldn't be chased off or intimidated by the other man's sexuality. Cramer was raising the hair on the back of Miguel's neck with his purr and the heat in his eyes. But part of Miguel, the part that was all ego and cock and had been taking a lot of hits lately, reveled in it. That deserved heat and appreciation all directed at him.

But he still wasn't touching the fucker. Miguel was straight, and he wasn't that desperate yet. But fuck, just this little buzz felt good. Sweat in the air. Pure. "Well, I'll give you that one. Since I'm never going to get on my knees for anyone." The hard warning was there in his voice, even with the easy cocky tease.

Cramer just smiled...like a snake. "Not a problem. I like a man who knows where he stands."

Cramer dropped to his knees in the blink of Miguel's eyes. "How about I show you how good I can be?"

"Don't fucking touch me." Miguel growled. But he didn't move. Couldn't.

He liked seeing Cramer there. It sent a twisted little thrill through his veins.

"Don't touch you? Are you sure?" Cramer's mouth was so fucking close.

It brought all of Miguel's attention down to his own dick. He was half-hard. From the adrenaline. The power of hitting that bag and owning it. From the flirt and jab with Cramer. From seeing this man who had beat him against odds now willingly on his knees before Miguel.


He was going to Dr. Nathan to get his meds as soon as he left here, because he obviously fucking needed them.

"Or do you just not want to touch me?" The brazen flirt stayed ever-steady in Cramer's eyes. He just didn't give up.

"I'm never touching you, unless you want a rematch in the ring." Miguel made it clear.

"Maybe one day. But for now...I'll give you a little rematch here. I'll blow you away, and you don't have to do a thing." Cramer's gaze stroked over his body like a touch. Wanting Miguel. "You'll get what you...deserve."

Strong hand gliding up his leg, over his pants. Coming to cup him firmly when he didn't stop it. Miguel groaned at the touch. It had been so fucking long.

A mouth was a mouth right? He wanted...something...so fucking bad. Cramer owed him. It was just them here. Sparring. Verbal turning to touch.

Miguel....didn't have to do a thing but let him. Cramer wanted him. Respected him. Strong man who didn't take shit, recognizing that in Miguel.

Supplicating himself before Miguel.

Fuck it. Miguel reached down, using all his will to keep his hand steady. Hide any shake of uncertainty or heat. Wouldn't show weakness now.

Miguel could have a taste of victory. He deserved it. "Okay, baby. Show me what you got."


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