Characters: Lincoln/Michael (Slash)
Summary: Post-Escape, set in the “Shape of Freedom” Universe. Lincoln and Michael continue south on their escape route, and their relationship takes on new developments.
Author’s Notes: Written for the fanfic100 challenge, where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln/Michael. This is for prompt #56, “Breakfast.”
The air is surprisingly still when Lincoln awakes, surrounded by their tent somewhere in northern Mexico. There are a few morning birdsongs, and distant rumbling from the highway, but it is quieter than the night in Mississippi and more comfortable than the next night’s stopover that they’d spent crumpled up in the car.
It’s cozy, despite being too early, and Lincoln’s grateful for the drop in temperature. It is perfect right now, just warm enough here with Michael blanketed across him. That wasn’t where they’d left off last night, with the thick and humid air filling the tent and the space between them. This far south, this time of year, night feels the same as dark, endless day. The heat and the heavy air press in even through the car windows, and there is barely the energy to move.
Lincoln is too tired to move now, and he hasn’t slept this close to Michael since leaving home years and years ago. Having each other as an anchor kept them both from drowning when things got too bad. When he wouldn’t try for himself, he’d do it to keep from abandoning his brother. It didn’t last forever, that noble path he was aiming for, but it was longer than he’d have bothered with on his own.
The feel of warm skin against his own is… like coming alive again. He’d forgotten just what it was like to be close to someone physically and emotionally—spent years pushing down that need before it killed him. He’d schooled himself in not thinking about what he couldn’t change, trying not to miss what he couldn’t have. It floods back so quickly now, the memory of what it is to touch the people that matter to you. There has been no head on his shoulder, no arm across his chest for more than six years. He’s been touched with violence, disdain and need, but to be held like he’s been missed—like he deserves any measure of affection—is something so pure and wonderful that he’s amazed he survived without it.
Michael’s arm over his chest is placed not in carelessness but in desperate relief. It’s as if Lincoln will vanish if he lets go, as if he can’t believe they’ve made it this far. Lincoln smiles to himself as he holds Michael quietly closer, looking up at the pinpricks of light coming through the rain cover over the tent. Michael stirs a little, leg sweeping up slightly across Lincoln’s hips. That’s when Lincoln becomes aware that he might be enjoying this more than he should.
He is trapped under Michael’s thigh, half-hard and tingling with guilty anticipation. His mind flashes back to that moment in the boxcar several nights back. A rush of emotion had overtaken him, and suddenly he was kissing Michael before he even knew it. He doesn’t know how long it went on before he realized that it was probably wildly inappropriate. He vaguely remembers that he was happy and too full of celebration, and that it felt really, really good. If he’s being completely honest, he’d have to admit that he wasn’t particularly sorry he’d done it either. If he’s being the most horrible and worthless sort of brother, he might also hone in on the fact that Michael didn’t say No.
Michael surges against him then, and Hello. His breath hitches in response to that welcome stimulation, and he feels an answering hardness against his own leg as Michael writhes a little in his sleep. It’s been too long since anything but his own hand has touched him there, and it is too good—that press and rub and the shock of surprise. Michael moans and moves again, and the small sound that escapes Lincoln brings his brother’s head up in groggy response.
Michael is hazy for a moment, before his eyes become huge-- and then calculating-- as he realizes exactly what’s going on. He takes in Lincoln’s warm embrace and clear arousal, and then smiles a little wickedly as he moves again, deliberately now, and watches the effect on his brother. Lincoln gasps as his body narrows down to there, that sensation, and his eyes drift shut as Michael’s hand sweeps down to grasp and stroke and pull. He is straining and moaning as it gets too intense, and Michael’s mouth is on his neck, sucking, biting, licking. It is so hot, and so wrong, and yet Lincoln’s arm slips under Michael’s side, pulling his brother against him as he snakes an arm around Michael’s hip and urges him to thrust up against him. Every nerve in Lincoln’s body is on fire and it is just too much, and then Michael’s mouth is on his and their tongues are slipping over one another and Lincoln is coming all over Michael’s hand. He grips Michael against him with both arms, and Michael is shooting up along his side in a slick, wet explosion of lust.
Their kisses are fierce, and then more languid as climaxes ebb away. Michael wipes his hand off onto the sleeping bag before sliding up Lincoln’s shoulders and brushing up along his neck. He holds Lincoln’s face, stroking and pulling at those pouting lips as he kisses and tongues over and around them. Lincoln can taste himself faintly on Michael’s fingers, and so can Michael—because he slips them into his own mouth and just takes a moment to enjoy the sexuality of that flavor. Any thoughts of We didn’t—we shouldn’t flee from Lincoln’s head at that sight, and he is half-hard again already at the way Michael looks—eyes closed, mouth wrapped around those fingers and the smallest, most damning moan in the back of his throat. “Oh God,” Lincoln hears himself saying, and he pulls Michael closer, coaxing those fingers out of Michael’s mouth and into his own. Michael’s hips are bucking softly in sympathy, but it’s too soon—a promise to be fulfilled later.
Lincoln kisses those fingers, and then those lips so close by, and draws Michael’s head down onto his shoulder. They laze there, Michael’s fingers sweeping firmly over Lincoln’s shoulders and chest in aimless circles before coming to rest over his heart. Lincoln’s pulse is still hammering, echoing back into his own body, but whatever he might have said just then is clearly unnecessary. No-one is feeling regrets, and no-one is pulling away. If anything, he hasn’t felt this peaceful in as long as he can remember.
Michael’s voice rumbles up through his skin, gathering below his chin. “You’ll never guess what I have for breakfast,” he says, and Lincoln can hear the smile in his voice.
“You’re thinking about breakfast right now? After what we just did?”
“Absolutely. Unless you’ve got someplace to be.”
Lincoln just laughs. Apparently they’re not going to talk about it, and he’s more okay with that than he thought he’d be.
“Okay, what is it? Please say it’s not Spam.”
Michael chuckles softly. “Not even close. Although the shelf life is similar, I’ll bet.”
Lincoln is intrigued. Possibly alarmed. His head turns toward his brother. “God, what the hell is it? Is it edible?”
Michael lifts up and his smile will not stay hidden. “Nutritionists would say no, but you’re going to love it.”
“It’s—are you ready?”
“Yes, for the last time! Tell me!”
Michael leans forward and whispers, “Pop Tarts.”
Lincoln’s face breaks into a huge, slow grin, because it is just perfect. Sugary, wonderful garbage-snacks with absolutely no food-value of any sort. They’d begged and badgered their Mom for them again and again, and the taste of them is like a childhood secret. There’s something decadent about eating them as adults, with no-one to point out that you really shouldn’t.
Lincoln sits up, bringing Michael with him, and they just look at each other, both on the verge of laughing.
“Can we have them now?” Lincoln asks, and Michael shakes his head at the eagerness.
“They’re right outside—maybe even baking a little in their wrappers.”
“Please tell me you got raspberry.”
“And frosted blueberry, because those are your favorites. And cinnamon for me.”
“You really did plan everything, didn’t you?”
“Yes I did. Even the fun stuff.” And Lincoln wonders briefly if that includes the last half hour, but decides it’s probably better not to go there.
“Uh… what about the sleeping bags? How are we going to clean them up?”
“What’s the point?” Michael says, “They’ve been stuck in that storage locker for almost a year now. It’s about time they had little excitement.”
Like me, Lincoln thinks, and almost wants to laugh hysterically at that.
“Think they’ll survive the crumbs then?” he asks.
“Definitely,” Michael says. “This is just the beginning for them. They’re going to have adventures.”
And there’s a glimpse of unspoken plans and the two of them together, and Michael’s got a glimmer of seduction in his smile.
Lincoln leans back and waits, ready for anything that might happen. Right now, he’s just happy to be along for the ride.
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