Prison Break - Unspeakable
Title: Unspeakable
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael, Sucre (underlying Michael/Lincoln)
Genres: Gen, implied slash
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~ 750
Warnings: Implied slash and incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Sucre walked in on them, Linc and him. Earlier that day. In the guards’ break room.
Notes: Initially written for camille-miko who wanted Michael discussing with Lincoln, Mahone or Sucre his relationship/affair with one of them. Thanks to torigates for the beta.
“You want to talk about it?” Michael asks.
He’s sitting on the stool, at the small table in the corner of their cell. Sucre, perched on his top bunk, has been making commendable efforts for over one hour to avoid meeting his eyes. Said efforts are made quite useless by the fact that he can’t help stealthily glancing at him every now and then. Michael can feel each of his looks, just like a sting on his skull or the nape of his neck.
Sucre walked in on them, Linc and him. Earlier that day. In the guards’ break room. Wrapped into each other’s arms, and mouth to mouth. Lincoln rumbling that it was stupid and dangerous, but pressed into Michael and incapable to let him go. In retrospect, Michael realizes how Lincoln was right, how lucky they’ve been that it was Sucre, not T-Bag or Bellick, who saw them.
They didn’t have the time to break apart when the door was suddenly opened. Sucre goggled at them, stumbled back and tried to get out, but Lincoln caught him back. A hand around his throat, he pinned him to the wall and didn’t have to speak a single word. No need to talk, explain or threaten actually. In three seconds and a few looks, everything was made perfectly clear.
“No.” Sucre rolls on his side to sit, his legs dangling freely, and despite his answer, adds, “You two do... stuff?”
Any other time, any other subject, Michael would have joked, played on the words, told that they did a lot of stuff - what did exactly Sucre mean? As it is, he just heaves out a small sight, has a small embarrassed yet amused smile. Of course they do stuff. It’s the logical, although certainly not natural, order of the things. The naïve hope in Sucre’s question reminds him how terrible in their banality said things are. From his cellmate’s expression, he can tell that Sucre doesn’t want details. It’s just fine because he doesn’t feel like giving any.
“For how long?” Sucre presses on.
He shrugs, not bothering answering, and thinks that maybe his offer to discuss the issue with Sucre was a bit fleckless.
Sucre’s features darken at his reaction. “Did Lincoln...” He can’t complete his sentence; he lets the words hang between them and gives Michael a pointed look. Michael needs a few seconds to realize, understand what Sucre actually means.
“No!” he protests forcefully. He takes a deep breath and starts again, more calmly. “No. It’s not like that. It’s never been like that. I’m... I can be persuasive.”
How to admit his most shameful secret in four little words, he thinks sarcastically. Sure, it’s not like he didn’t try to fight off the inappropriate attraction, and it’s not like Lincoln didn’t put up a good fight either. But in the end, he convinced Lincoln, he won him.
“Like I don’t know!” Sucre blurts out, brutally brining him back to the present.
The words escaped him and he grimaces sheepishly. They smile at each other and, for a short while, everything seems to be back to normal. Then, Sucre’s expression changes again and he glances at Michael in a weird way. No disgust or contempt in his eyes, only incomprehension and pity. Michael’s not sure it’s any better.
“Is this why you’re here?” Sucre asks in the end. “Why you do this? Because you’re...”
Michael stands up abruptly, his back stiff, and takes a few steps towards the barred door before realizing he won’t go anywhere.
“I’m here because Linc is innocent. I’m here because he’s in this situation partly because of me. It’s all that matters.”
They stay quiet, Sucre staring at an imaginary spot on the wall in front of him, Michael facing the other cells and ignoring the catcalls.
“I don’t understand how you can do that,” Sucre says.
Michael turns around to look at him.
For years, each kiss with Lincoln had started with a heave of disgust, which always disappeared to be replaced with a much more pleasant feeling [1]. There is no more time for that now: kisses and caresses are stolen, each time a bit more urgent, each time a bit more desperate, and if everything doesn’t go as planned, there might as well be no other time. From where the desire and need come from, how they could find such an outlet is something Michael has never been able to explain.
“Neither do I,” he admits in a murmur.
* *
1. I’m lazy: I decided that this ficlet belongs to the same universe as Twilight and that using this ‘memory’ was okay.
Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael, Sucre (underlying Michael/Lincoln)
Genres: Gen, implied slash
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~ 750
Warnings: Implied slash and incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Sucre walked in on them, Linc and him. Earlier that day. In the guards’ break room.
Notes: Initially written for camille-miko who wanted Michael discussing with Lincoln, Mahone or Sucre his relationship/affair with one of them. Thanks to torigates for the beta.
“You want to talk about it?” Michael asks.
He’s sitting on the stool, at the small table in the corner of their cell. Sucre, perched on his top bunk, has been making commendable efforts for over one hour to avoid meeting his eyes. Said efforts are made quite useless by the fact that he can’t help stealthily glancing at him every now and then. Michael can feel each of his looks, just like a sting on his skull or the nape of his neck.
Sucre walked in on them, Linc and him. Earlier that day. In the guards’ break room. Wrapped into each other’s arms, and mouth to mouth. Lincoln rumbling that it was stupid and dangerous, but pressed into Michael and incapable to let him go. In retrospect, Michael realizes how Lincoln was right, how lucky they’ve been that it was Sucre, not T-Bag or Bellick, who saw them.
They didn’t have the time to break apart when the door was suddenly opened. Sucre goggled at them, stumbled back and tried to get out, but Lincoln caught him back. A hand around his throat, he pinned him to the wall and didn’t have to speak a single word. No need to talk, explain or threaten actually. In three seconds and a few looks, everything was made perfectly clear.
“No.” Sucre rolls on his side to sit, his legs dangling freely, and despite his answer, adds, “You two do... stuff?”
Any other time, any other subject, Michael would have joked, played on the words, told that they did a lot of stuff - what did exactly Sucre mean? As it is, he just heaves out a small sight, has a small embarrassed yet amused smile. Of course they do stuff. It’s the logical, although certainly not natural, order of the things. The naïve hope in Sucre’s question reminds him how terrible in their banality said things are. From his cellmate’s expression, he can tell that Sucre doesn’t want details. It’s just fine because he doesn’t feel like giving any.
“For how long?” Sucre presses on.
He shrugs, not bothering answering, and thinks that maybe his offer to discuss the issue with Sucre was a bit fleckless.
Sucre’s features darken at his reaction. “Did Lincoln...” He can’t complete his sentence; he lets the words hang between them and gives Michael a pointed look. Michael needs a few seconds to realize, understand what Sucre actually means.
“No!” he protests forcefully. He takes a deep breath and starts again, more calmly. “No. It’s not like that. It’s never been like that. I’m... I can be persuasive.”
How to admit his most shameful secret in four little words, he thinks sarcastically. Sure, it’s not like he didn’t try to fight off the inappropriate attraction, and it’s not like Lincoln didn’t put up a good fight either. But in the end, he convinced Lincoln, he won him.
“Like I don’t know!” Sucre blurts out, brutally brining him back to the present.
The words escaped him and he grimaces sheepishly. They smile at each other and, for a short while, everything seems to be back to normal. Then, Sucre’s expression changes again and he glances at Michael in a weird way. No disgust or contempt in his eyes, only incomprehension and pity. Michael’s not sure it’s any better.
“Is this why you’re here?” Sucre asks in the end. “Why you do this? Because you’re...”
Michael stands up abruptly, his back stiff, and takes a few steps towards the barred door before realizing he won’t go anywhere.
“I’m here because Linc is innocent. I’m here because he’s in this situation partly because of me. It’s all that matters.”
They stay quiet, Sucre staring at an imaginary spot on the wall in front of him, Michael facing the other cells and ignoring the catcalls.
“I don’t understand how you can do that,” Sucre says.
Michael turns around to look at him.
For years, each kiss with Lincoln had started with a heave of disgust, which always disappeared to be replaced with a much more pleasant feeling [1]. There is no more time for that now: kisses and caresses are stolen, each time a bit more urgent, each time a bit more desperate, and if everything doesn’t go as planned, there might as well be no other time. From where the desire and need come from, how they could find such an outlet is something Michael has never been able to explain.
“Neither do I,” he admits in a murmur.
* *
1. I’m lazy: I decided that this ficlet belongs to the same universe as Twilight and that using this ‘memory’ was okay.
Comments are always welcome.