Category Michael Scofield/Lincoln Burrows (Slash)
Summary: Michael sees Lincoln through new eyes.
Author's Notes: Written for the fanfic100 challenge, where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is for prompt #40, "Sight"
Most mornings, Michael would wake Lincoln before he went to school. Sometimes his brother didn’t set the alarm, or just didn’t hear it when it went off, depending on the amount of haze surrounding him from the prior night’s influences. Lincoln had a job to get to, and it was what they lived on. Making sure Lincoln was up in time was the sole contribution Michael could make.
He’d learned not to knock and yell, after a few times when Lincoln never did come out of his room and had almost been late to work. Opening the door and talking to him was unreliable, unless Lincoln already happened to be awake.
Now Michael would go into the room and shake Lincoln over and over, calling his name as Lincoln’s eyes opened and consciousness dawned. He would sit down and talk with him for a few minutes, Lincoln rubbing his hands over his face and still yawning, and when the conversation moved beyond minimal words and Lincoln’s gaze was clear, Michael knew he was done.
It was a morning in June that Michael went in and found Lincoln partly awake, half uncovered to deal with the unending summer heat. Lincoln’s chest was bare, muscles smooth and strong and lifting slightly as he rested against the pillows. He looked at Michael lazily and heavy-lidded, lashes impossibly dark against his fair skin. At that moment, Michael knew what the phrase “bedroom eyes” meant. Those eyes were sultry, and their languid blinking spoke of secrets and allure and implied intimacy. Michael was speechless, taking in the unexpected beauty that was his brother, and when Lincoln spoke it was with that deep, feline growl that belonged to sex and promises and soon.
“Bring me some juice, Michael?” he was saying, and Michael found himself hard at just the sound of his own name. He shook himself, staggering out of the room, and brought Lincoln back a glass. Their fingers brushed as Lincoln took it from him, and Michael watched those eyes close as Lincoln drank and then slowly licked his lips, those Roman statue lips that Michael wanted to lick himself. He dropped awkwardly onto the bed, still staring, and Lincoln caught his arm in bewilderment.
“Something on your mind?” he asked, and the blush that flashed over Michael’s skin made the room seem all too warm. Lincoln’s fingers brushed over his wrist, stroking absently as Michael’s heart stopped and all the air left his lungs. His gaze was caught on Lincoln’s mouth, on the half-smile lifting the corners and the silky fullness to the middle.
Lincoln’s hand came around Michael’s neck, and he pulled him down, chest to chest and settled him in softly. “You know you can always talk to me, don’t you Michael?” he said so quietly and earnestly, and Michael almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But he couldn’t take his eyes off of Lincoln, and he was so close, so enthralled that he felt himself drawn in beyond his will. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Lincoln’s, gently and firmly, and caressed a little even as he felt a slight response in return.
Lincoln was breathless and confused, asking “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
But Michael shook his head. “Not so much talk, no,” he said, for what was there really to say? He kissed Lincoln again, stronger now, enveloping and teasing Lincoln’s lips with his mouth and tongue, and Lincoln’s arms came around him tighter, gripping and enfolding him so completely. When Lincoln’s mouth opened to him, Michael brought his hands up to Lincoln’s head, sliding his fingers through the thick, satin hair and tonguing into his brother with inspired skill. Lincoln’s moan traveled straight to Michael’s groin, and he moved up onto him, straddling Lincoln and stroking that glorious, naked chest. He felt as if every part of him wanted to merge with Lincoln, to absorb him and be completed by him. But just moments after he started to thrust against Lincoln’s hip his brother’s hands came around his waist and stilled him, Lincoln’s mouth pulling back regretfully even as his eyes were black with arousal.
“I… think we’re getting carried away,” Lincoln said softly. He stroked Michael’s hip ruefully, while the other hand was already gently pushing him back. “This isn’t a good idea, and I should have put a stop to it from the beginning. I’m really sorry I let it get this far.”
Lincoln’s embarrassment flooded the room, and Michael felt his heart twist inside his chest. He could have kicked himself for even starting this, but Lincoln had been so enticing, so irresistible. Michael bit his lip, unable to even look at Lincoln for the pain it would cause him, and he stumbled out an apology that did nothing to dispel the guilt in his brother’s eyes.
“I’ve got to get to work,” Lincoln said awkwardly, and Michael backed up and out of the room, his last glimpse of Lincoln filled with wanting and torment and the image of his brother’s aroused beauty that would be forever burned into his memory.
Michael rocked himself on the bed behind his locked door, arms around his knees and eyes staring vacantly at the fractured paint on the wall. When he heard the shower door slam, he pulled himself up automatically and made his way shaking out to the bus stop.
That evening when he went to bed, there was something on his pillow. He’d hoped for a note, for understanding, something to smooth all the missteps between them.
Instead, he found the electric alarm clock and a list of instructions from Lincoln. There was no apology, no lecture, and none of the kindness Michael needed. And worst of all, the message was clear.
Lincoln’s door, and that opportunity, would remain closed.
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