Category: Lincoln/Michael Incest/slash.
Rating: R (for subject matter)
Spoilers: Episodes 7-9
Warnings: Incest and slash. DO NOT READ IF THIS OFFENDS YOU.
Disclaimers: I don’t own “Prison Break” or any of its characters. However, I do know a good thing when I see it. Mmmm…
Chapter 1 (previously Chapter 10 of "The Arrangement," Chapter 1 now begins this follow-on series)
Summary: The brothers’ secret no longer belongs to them.
x-x-x-x-x Chapter 2: Discovery x-x-x-x-x
The next morning, part of the P.I. team got held up on the way to the Break shed. Lincoln and Michael slipped in first, moving quickly around the corner away from the door and kissing and rubbing up against each other like hormone-charged teenagers.
God, now that Michael had had a taste of this he wanted it so badly, nearly every waking minute it seemed, and he groaned with the glorious relief of being able to touch Lincoln at last, run his hands over him and feel that answering hardness pressing into his leg. The rasp of Lincoln’s chin against his face during their kissing was rough and erotic, and the sheer amount of raw, sexual strength between them made it hard to stay inside his own skin. He felt jittery, vibrating with need, and he could barely hold still. His hand slid down, unzipping Lincoln’s fly and pulling on him, and the deep-seated moans tumbling out of his brother were about to undo him. He felt wisdom and willpower slipping away, and he was on the verge of sinking to his knees when the door opened.
“Well, now,” T-Bag said, cordial and all too pleased. “Don’t mind me at all, boys. No reason to stop on my account.”
Lincoln bumped his head back against the wall and released a noise of deep frustration. Fuck, he thought. He was frustrated, achingly hard, and now this.
“I’ll be happy to keep watch on the door for you, long as I can get a little look-see.”
Michael looked at Lincoln in horror. Oh my God. NO! But Lincoln’s little smile his way reassured him.
“You know, I’ve been in prison long enough that I might be almost shameless enough to consider that,” Lincoln said. His eyes narrowed. “But not quite.”
“Really. You don’t say?” T-Bag leaned against the door, regarding the two of them. “Seems to me I might have heard something not long ago about the two of you being acquainted on the outside. Very well acquainted, you might say. In a familial way.” His smile was calculating, and there was a clear challenge behind it.
“Listen, you crazy-ass baby-fucker,” Lincoln said, stepping into T-Bag’s face. “I don’t care what you heard or where you heard it, but let’s just say that a man in your position shouldn’t be passing judgment on anyone.”
“Such language,” T-Bag said. “There’s no call at-all to be getting so rude, now. I merely convey what others have said." T-Bag rolled his neck casually, as if he had all the time in the world. "Rumors abound in a place like this, boys. There’s no telling where they start, or where--” he looked at Lincoln meaningfully, “they might end up.”
Lincoln’s fist drew back lightning-fast, but then the door nearly knocked T-Bag over as the rest of the P.I. team burst into the room.
“We interrupting something interesting?” Abruzzi drawled. “Anything we can help you with?”
T-Bag’s eyes shifted over to him, and back again. “We were just resolving a little misunderstanding about… boundaries,” he said. He graced Michael with a cold smile, and his eyes slid over to take in Sucre, standing just a few feet away.
Oh, Crap, Michael thought. He could see an uncomfortable discussion on the horizon, and felt the clouds lifting his small heaven begin to weaken.
“Man, that is seriously fucked up.”
Michael and Sucre were back in their cell, and Michael had decided to take the bull by the horns. He might as well let the air out of T-Bag's newest blackmail scheme before it had a chance to get started.
“So the other day, when you were in here together… Madre de Dios,” Sucre groaned. “Banging other guys is bad enough, but your brother? Shit.” He paced the cell, too many images in his head and too many ideas that he really wished had never cropped up.
“How long you been feeling that way about him?” He shouldn’t ask, but he just didn’t get it.
Michael sighed, and stared off at the wall. “A long time. Maybe since I was 12 or 13, even. Long before I even knew what I was feeling, what it meant when you thought about someone that way.”
“But your brother? Man, how can you even think about it?”
Michael smiled wryly. He had no real logic for this himself. “It’s not like I think it’s a great idea either,” he said. “If I could choose, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Because there’s no part of this that’s easy or explainable.” He looked at Sucre, willing him to understand. “Now that you’re here, inside, and Hector’s putting the moves on Maricruz… could you just stop loving her?”
“What? Fuck, no. Mami’s everything to me. I’ll never give her up to that maricon!” He looked at Michael, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, man.”
The insult had skipped right over Michael’s head, so he moved on. “But wouldn’t it be more convenient for you to just stop loving her? If you could?”
This philosophical shit that Scofield got into was a fucking pain, but Sucre tried to go along with it. “I wouldn’t want to stop loving her.”
“But could you?” Michael stressed.
“Hell, no. Maricruz is my world. I wouldn’t be me anymore without her. I wouldn’t want to be me.”
Michael’s face was as sad and sincere as Sucre had ever seen it. “Then that’s pretty much your answer. That’s exactly how I feel about Lincoln. I can’t stop feeling it, even though I’ve tried, and there is no ‘me’ without Lincoln. Without him, I’m just some other guy that gets out of bed and goes to work and comes home at the end of the day, and there’s nothing really alive inside that guy at all. He could be a robot, or dead, and no-one would ever even notice.”
Sucre felt something hearing those words, like he knew deep down what they meant. He didn’t have to accept it, but he might understand it. At the same time, he was still uneasy and restless, because—“Damn, Fish, that is fucking depressing!” God, Scofield and his moods. Prison was bad enough without people bringing in that depressing shit to remind you.
Michael threw up his hands. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t say it was fun. But now you know.” He sat down on his bunk and pushed back against the wall, eyeing Sucre from there.
“Still wish I didn’t,” Sucre muttered, as he climbed up to his own bed. He flopped down and yanked the headphones on, looking for something snappy to get his mind off the whole conversation. Ahhhh. Salsa music. That was better.
The fire’s glow warmed the edges of Michael’s bedroom, light and shadows licking at the contours of Lincoln’s arms. They lay together, lost in each other’s eyes, the beginnings of anticipation flowing between them like a current. Michael’s hand ran along Lincoln’s arm, resting against the side of his face as he kissed him slowly, tenderly, feeling Lincoln lean into him in return.
Lincoln’s kiss was loving, increasingly urgent, and their hands slid down almost in unison, reaching and stroking the other to hardness. Michael wrapped his free arm around Lincoln, pulling him as close as possible while still allowing them to pleasure each other.
Their tongues moved in synergy with their hands, harder and faster, and then Lincoln groaned suddenly into Michael’s mouth. The warm rush of fluid over his stomach made Michael cry out, rocking into Lincoln hotly and coming all over their merged hands and bodies. He kissed Lincoln again, all of it so achingly good, and nuzzled into his neck happily. Cleaning up could wait. And it had so been worth it.
As the sensation of cold dampness grew, Michael’s eyes opened. It was only half-dark, here in his cell, and his clothes and sheets were sticking to him.
“Coño!” he heard Sucre mutter up above him in irritation, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment knowing why Sucre was suddenly awake.
He flopped back down on his bunk with a sigh, both spent and frustrated.
He could have lived inside that dream. It had everything he ever wanted.