Rainbow
This is a companion piece to miss_vacant's piece Lighthouse. She wrote Sara's POV, I did Linc's. (I didn't DO Linc, I did Linc's POV, get your mind out of the gutters, people!) If Linc/Sara isn't your thing, don't read these, but really, you should read Lighthouse because it's simply breathtaking. This is my pale fangirl imitation.
Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life.
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
~Lord Byron
If Michael was really dead, Lincoln didn’t know if he could go on. If Michael was really dead, Lincoln couldn’t see the point.
The first time the thought at least I have Sara went though his head, Lincoln knew. Michael was really dead. And if Michael was cold, Sara was warm. If Michael was gone, Sara was here. If Michael couldn’t save him anymore, maybe Sara would.
He acknowledged something like default in the easy routine they fell into together, because there was no mother, or Veronica or Michael. They had no one but each other, no one who could understand what they had lost, what they had fought so hard for, and lost anyway. He didn’t fall into breathtaking love with Sara. He fell into the bitterest, darkest place with her, and somehow emerged on steady legs.
If Michael had been the savior, Sara was the guardian. If Michael had been the schemer, Sara was the nurturer. If Michael had been there, Sara would not be. Not in his head the way she was, not curled next to him trustingly on motel beds that they slept in like brother and sister. Michael was his brother, but Sara was not his sister.
Michael was not there, and Sara was, and at some point, Lincoln could not fight the need to possess her in the way Michael never had. When he finally reached for her, it was as though she had been prepared. She accepted him, but it hadn’t been welcoming. She took him, but it hadn’t been easy. Unlike the companionable silence they shared during the daylight, when the breach came in the night, there had been nothing easy about it. The struggle had been both needy and necessary, anchoring and scattering. He’d been held tighter than ever before in his life and thrust away momentarily only to be pulled back, clasped in arms and legs that would never have received him in any other situation.
The violence that erupted in that small space, in a moment that should have been reserved for tenderness, could never have happened any other way. Some other time, Lincoln thought, if there was another time, it could be different. This time it was teeth and fingernails, grunts and groans, yearning and malevolence, war and peace.
In the bright sunlight that showered them the next morning, Lincoln felt reborn. He lay quietly next to her, wondering if she would get up from the bed and disregard what had happened there. She did get up, and his heart tightened painfully, but a few moments later, she returned, the mattress dipping under her slight weight. When her hair skimmed across his shoulder and her head settled against his chest, he wrapped his arm around her securely. He could feel tears leaking from her eyes like baptism water trickling over his body. The night had been about goodbye, burying the dead and resurrecting the living. In the darkness they had been released from their yearlong mourning sabbatical. Michael would always be with them, but never between them.
If Michael had loved conditionally, Sara did not. If Michael needed assurances of innocence and explanations for circumstantial evidence, Sara couldn’t have cared less. If Michael died saving Lincoln, Sara lived rescuing him while he rescued her right back.
Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life.
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
~Lord Byron
If Michael was really dead, Lincoln didn’t know if he could go on. If Michael was really dead, Lincoln couldn’t see the point.
The first time the thought at least I have Sara went though his head, Lincoln knew. Michael was really dead. And if Michael was cold, Sara was warm. If Michael was gone, Sara was here. If Michael couldn’t save him anymore, maybe Sara would.
He acknowledged something like default in the easy routine they fell into together, because there was no mother, or Veronica or Michael. They had no one but each other, no one who could understand what they had lost, what they had fought so hard for, and lost anyway. He didn’t fall into breathtaking love with Sara. He fell into the bitterest, darkest place with her, and somehow emerged on steady legs.
If Michael had been the savior, Sara was the guardian. If Michael had been the schemer, Sara was the nurturer. If Michael had been there, Sara would not be. Not in his head the way she was, not curled next to him trustingly on motel beds that they slept in like brother and sister. Michael was his brother, but Sara was not his sister.
Michael was not there, and Sara was, and at some point, Lincoln could not fight the need to possess her in the way Michael never had. When he finally reached for her, it was as though she had been prepared. She accepted him, but it hadn’t been welcoming. She took him, but it hadn’t been easy. Unlike the companionable silence they shared during the daylight, when the breach came in the night, there had been nothing easy about it. The struggle had been both needy and necessary, anchoring and scattering. He’d been held tighter than ever before in his life and thrust away momentarily only to be pulled back, clasped in arms and legs that would never have received him in any other situation.
The violence that erupted in that small space, in a moment that should have been reserved for tenderness, could never have happened any other way. Some other time, Lincoln thought, if there was another time, it could be different. This time it was teeth and fingernails, grunts and groans, yearning and malevolence, war and peace.
In the bright sunlight that showered them the next morning, Lincoln felt reborn. He lay quietly next to her, wondering if she would get up from the bed and disregard what had happened there. She did get up, and his heart tightened painfully, but a few moments later, she returned, the mattress dipping under her slight weight. When her hair skimmed across his shoulder and her head settled against his chest, he wrapped his arm around her securely. He could feel tears leaking from her eyes like baptism water trickling over his body. The night had been about goodbye, burying the dead and resurrecting the living. In the darkness they had been released from their yearlong mourning sabbatical. Michael would always be with them, but never between them.
If Michael had loved conditionally, Sara did not. If Michael needed assurances of innocence and explanations for circumstantial evidence, Sara couldn’t have cared less. If Michael died saving Lincoln, Sara lived rescuing him while he rescued her right back.