start a fight [muke af]

xxv

xxv

Luke hated having the shower duty. He and four other officers took half a day to get all of their inmates through the showers. Luke hated it.

He leant against the cement wall, watching six men trim their facial hair. He tired not to envy them too badly. Luke couldn't grow facial hair, even the fuzz on the end of his chin didn't grow past that.

"Aw, Baby Lukey is jealous," Barakat called out, looking at him through the fogged mirror.

"Stop it."

"So cute, so small," Michael continued. He had a smile on his face when he made direct eye contact with the blonde. "Come on, Son, let us Daddies teach you how to shave."

"Dude, shut up." Luke crossed his arms over his body, glaring at the older man.

"That's not how you talk to Daddy," Jack whispered under his breath, causing himself and two other inmates in line to laugh.

"Such a cute lil' twink." Michael snickered, knowing Luke could hear them.

"I can grow hair, I have to shave it for work."

Barakat and Clifford laughed, their heads tilted back as they shaved their necks. "Alright, sure," Michael said. His eyes casted back to Luke from the clean reflection of the mirror.

"You're such an ass." Luke rolled his eyes and leant more comfortably against the brick wall. He trailed down Michael's tattooed body, loving the black ink drawn so carefully upon him.

He had some big back piece that must have taken hours to do. His pale skin was barely visible, Luke wondered why Michael only chose black ink. Did he want to be a black and white portrait? Because that's all he truly looked like.

Luke wanted to know how far the ink went. He could see his tattoos from the top of his sloped shoulders to the bottom of his back, then a towel was wrapped around his waist, which then showed the top of his knees down to his toes. Everything was tattooed, Luke found it so hot.

"Have you got any?" Barakat asked as he turned around, showing a few of his own tattoos.

"Any what?" Luke asked, fearing he'd been caught.

"Tattoos. We all saw you eyeing us down, Mate." Jack took another towel from the rack, drying his hair a little more and wiping shaving cream from his face.

"I've got one," Luke said, holding out his hand.

Michael held out his own hand as he turned around, he pointed to his elbow, "I've got the same crescent moon." He then moved up his arm, flexing his bicep, "Then To The Moon up here."

"Why can't we get tattoos in prison?" The older inmate asked with a sigh.

"Because this is prison," Luke responded. He eyed Mike's sleeve as he continued to hold it out. He loved the spacing of each piece, the black ink against his ghostly skin. "How long did this take?"

"I got the first one when I was thirteen," Michael said, pointing to an arrow on the inside of his elbow, "Two decades later, I'm about 95 percent tattooed." Michael spoke with pride about his inkings, he liked them.

Mike wasn't in control of a lot of things when he was growing up. He couldn't control his anger, he couldn't control his father, he couldn't control his schooling. When he started getting tattooed, it was finally something he could control. He could control the placement, the size, the ink, every small detail.

He liked having that control.