Prison Break - Kaleidoscope (5/9)
Title: Kaleidoscope (5/9)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sucre, Michael, Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 980
Warnings: Slash
Summary: It happens during one the rare moments when the three of them, Michael, Burrows and him, are alone in the guards’ break room.
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Sucre
It happens during one the rare moments when the three of them, Michael, Burrows and him, are alone in the guards’ break room. For some reason, the tension between the Fish and his brother has been tangible since early that morning, to such an extent that Abruzzi dropped a couple of snarky comments; it’s only when Abruzzi leaves the room with T-Bag that the gloves are off, though. Nothing spectacular, just a few ironic, dry sentences traded between the two of them, atypical enough to draw Sucre’s attention - usually, Michael’s tone stays even and Lincoln just grumbles or grouses whatever he has to say. Very soon, they’re standing nose to nose, their voices barely an exasperated and hissing murmur as the discussion gets harsher. Michael grits his teeth, Lincoln clenches his fists. To each his own weapons, Sucre assumes.
In the presence of other people, they always show a united front, a smooth façade. Yet, sometimes, Sucre can see things he isn’t supposed to see. Things that, he’s almost certain, others don’t notice. He was the only witness of Michael’s despondency when, on a couple of occasions, his damn plan very nearly took a bad turn. He was the only witness of Lincoln’s panic at the end of the riots. Sure, everybody saw, but he was the only one to actually realize, when Sink gripped his jaw and looked him in the eye, how much dread lay under his anger and impatience.
Sucre wonders whether he should feel flattered or insulted that they don’t make a bigger deal of his presence. Inspiring trust is one thing, but they’re in jail for God’s sake, and he can’t help thinking that arousing a bit more of wariness would be...
He doesn’t have the time to dwell on that thought. The clash reaches his paroxysm when Lincoln throws something about acting for the wrong reasons. When he sees the expression on Michael’s face, he tries to apologize and clutches Michael’s arm. Spitting an angry “Go to Hell!” (and Sucre thinks that, really, this is not the kind of thing to tell to a death row inmate), Michael spins on his heels, grabs Sucre by the nape of his neck and kisses him. On the mouth. Tongue and everything because Sucre had the bad, bad idea to open his mouth to protest and Michael shamelessly...
He struggles. At least, as soon as he’s gathered his thoughts, he tries to shake off Michael’s embrace. Not that easy, because the Fish holds him firmly, a hand behind his head, the other in his back, and really doesn’t pay attention to Sucre’s efforts to break free.
“Mature. Really mature, Michael,” Lincoln points out, his tone heavily laden with derision. “For someone who’s supposed to be the older brother to his older brother...”
Michael disregards the remark and the kiss continues. And continues a bit more, leaving Sucre torn between an indistinct disgust and an odd curiosity. He doesn’t do this kind of thing, he’d rather sacrifice... he doesn’t know what... than allow a guy to touch him like that. Yet, even though he knows that in a couple of hours he will hate himself for it, curiosity prevails, and he closes his eyes, unclenches his jaw and lets Michael kiss him. There’s something in the way the Fish hugs and holds him, avidity and despair, that forbids him to act as he would want and should - step back and punch the man in the face.
Next to them, he can hear a curse, footsteps, and then Michael’s hands move on him, make him swirl, and he stands face to face with Lincoln.
Michael was demanding, almost aggressive; Lincoln tests delicately, almost politely, tastes and teases with a surprising kindness. All that without tearing his eyes from Michael. The crazy thought that it’s not actually him that Lincoln is kissing flashes through Sucre’s mind and he pushes it away to the best of his abilities. He really doesn’t want to think about what it means; the facts are already disturbing enough, he doesn’t need to elaborate wooly theories.
He tries to move back, to free himself, but Michael pushes into him, pushes him into Lincoln, and he’s trapped between them. Their arms snake around his shoulders, their fingers join on his neck, in his back, on his hips. He can feel one of Michael’s hands sneak down his stomach to his crotch, squeeze and stroke. There’s a reassuring “Shh, Fernando...” when he jerks, then a wet kiss in his neck. He lets out a small, absurd sound, part sigh and part protest. Lincoln smiles against his mouth and murmurs, “He’s good, huh?” Fernando screws his eyes shut and refuses to think.
It’s a noise outside of the break room that separates them. In a split second, Michael is back to his trowel, Lincoln to his paint brush. Suddenly deprived of the weird and inappropriate support they were offering him, Sucre stumbles and steps back to lean into the wall, his cheeks burning hot. He frantically wipes his face on his sleeve, coughs, spits and swears, glares at them when they look at him with amusement.
“You’re no better than T-Bag!”
“You think T-Bag would’ve been happy with sucking faces?” Lincoln says.
“Your brother touched...” He stops abruptly and raises his hands in front of him as to keep both of them away. “I don’t know what your problem is, but leave me out of this bullshit.”
Wincing, he spits one last time on the dirty floor, scratches his mouth on the back of his hands and grouses a last “Coños!” He can’t however hold in a small smile, and he turns his back to them when he sees them exchanging a complicit glance.
They show a smooth façade and make up to the expense of the people surrounding them - him, in this case, but he suspects that it’s hardly the first time they’ve joined forces like that.
* * *
Comments are always welcome.
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Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sucre, Michael, Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 980
Warnings: Slash
Summary: It happens during one the rare moments when the three of them, Michael, Burrows and him, are alone in the guards’ break room.
Previous / Next part
Sucre
It happens during one the rare moments when the three of them, Michael, Burrows and him, are alone in the guards’ break room. For some reason, the tension between the Fish and his brother has been tangible since early that morning, to such an extent that Abruzzi dropped a couple of snarky comments; it’s only when Abruzzi leaves the room with T-Bag that the gloves are off, though. Nothing spectacular, just a few ironic, dry sentences traded between the two of them, atypical enough to draw Sucre’s attention - usually, Michael’s tone stays even and Lincoln just grumbles or grouses whatever he has to say. Very soon, they’re standing nose to nose, their voices barely an exasperated and hissing murmur as the discussion gets harsher. Michael grits his teeth, Lincoln clenches his fists. To each his own weapons, Sucre assumes.
In the presence of other people, they always show a united front, a smooth façade. Yet, sometimes, Sucre can see things he isn’t supposed to see. Things that, he’s almost certain, others don’t notice. He was the only witness of Michael’s despondency when, on a couple of occasions, his damn plan very nearly took a bad turn. He was the only witness of Lincoln’s panic at the end of the riots. Sure, everybody saw, but he was the only one to actually realize, when Sink gripped his jaw and looked him in the eye, how much dread lay under his anger and impatience.
Sucre wonders whether he should feel flattered or insulted that they don’t make a bigger deal of his presence. Inspiring trust is one thing, but they’re in jail for God’s sake, and he can’t help thinking that arousing a bit more of wariness would be...
He doesn’t have the time to dwell on that thought. The clash reaches his paroxysm when Lincoln throws something about acting for the wrong reasons. When he sees the expression on Michael’s face, he tries to apologize and clutches Michael’s arm. Spitting an angry “Go to Hell!” (and Sucre thinks that, really, this is not the kind of thing to tell to a death row inmate), Michael spins on his heels, grabs Sucre by the nape of his neck and kisses him. On the mouth. Tongue and everything because Sucre had the bad, bad idea to open his mouth to protest and Michael shamelessly...
He struggles. At least, as soon as he’s gathered his thoughts, he tries to shake off Michael’s embrace. Not that easy, because the Fish holds him firmly, a hand behind his head, the other in his back, and really doesn’t pay attention to Sucre’s efforts to break free.
“Mature. Really mature, Michael,” Lincoln points out, his tone heavily laden with derision. “For someone who’s supposed to be the older brother to his older brother...”
Michael disregards the remark and the kiss continues. And continues a bit more, leaving Sucre torn between an indistinct disgust and an odd curiosity. He doesn’t do this kind of thing, he’d rather sacrifice... he doesn’t know what... than allow a guy to touch him like that. Yet, even though he knows that in a couple of hours he will hate himself for it, curiosity prevails, and he closes his eyes, unclenches his jaw and lets Michael kiss him. There’s something in the way the Fish hugs and holds him, avidity and despair, that forbids him to act as he would want and should - step back and punch the man in the face.
Next to them, he can hear a curse, footsteps, and then Michael’s hands move on him, make him swirl, and he stands face to face with Lincoln.
Michael was demanding, almost aggressive; Lincoln tests delicately, almost politely, tastes and teases with a surprising kindness. All that without tearing his eyes from Michael. The crazy thought that it’s not actually him that Lincoln is kissing flashes through Sucre’s mind and he pushes it away to the best of his abilities. He really doesn’t want to think about what it means; the facts are already disturbing enough, he doesn’t need to elaborate wooly theories.
He tries to move back, to free himself, but Michael pushes into him, pushes him into Lincoln, and he’s trapped between them. Their arms snake around his shoulders, their fingers join on his neck, in his back, on his hips. He can feel one of Michael’s hands sneak down his stomach to his crotch, squeeze and stroke. There’s a reassuring “Shh, Fernando...” when he jerks, then a wet kiss in his neck. He lets out a small, absurd sound, part sigh and part protest. Lincoln smiles against his mouth and murmurs, “He’s good, huh?” Fernando screws his eyes shut and refuses to think.
It’s a noise outside of the break room that separates them. In a split second, Michael is back to his trowel, Lincoln to his paint brush. Suddenly deprived of the weird and inappropriate support they were offering him, Sucre stumbles and steps back to lean into the wall, his cheeks burning hot. He frantically wipes his face on his sleeve, coughs, spits and swears, glares at them when they look at him with amusement.
“You’re no better than T-Bag!”
“You think T-Bag would’ve been happy with sucking faces?” Lincoln says.
“Your brother touched...” He stops abruptly and raises his hands in front of him as to keep both of them away. “I don’t know what your problem is, but leave me out of this bullshit.”
Wincing, he spits one last time on the dirty floor, scratches his mouth on the back of his hands and grouses a last “Coños!” He can’t however hold in a small smile, and he turns his back to them when he sees them exchanging a complicit glance.
They show a smooth façade and make up to the expense of the people surrounding them - him, in this case, but he suspects that it’s hardly the first time they’ve joined forces like that.
* * *
Comments are always welcome.
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