"And The Rain Screams Sucre," for ferrynheit
Title: And the Rain Screams ”Sucre”
Rating: NC-17 (sexual scene, violence)
Category: slash, angst, au
Characters: Michael/Sucre
Requested by: ferrynheit
Author's Notes: The prompts issued involved dialogue, seeing something good in someone bad, and rain. I hope this fits the bill.
Sona is only one prison in Panama, as Sucre and Scofield are incarcerated by weather, relationships of the past and an improbable hope for the future.
sleet
Ultimately, he is left watching.
A spectator of a man, an observer of life. A boy who desperately wanted to participate, but has never been chosen for the A Team, no matter how much he trained or how often he networked. An adult who remains on the outer cusp of living fully and in harmony.
Just when he thinks he has made inroads, he is left looking on. Again.
At a time when he strives to be part of a relationship with meaning, he merely stands and witnesses the normalcy of life in a family, and a partnership rooted in gender stereotypes and commonality.
He is alone. He’s studying the scene in front of him, as it unravels like the most tragic of plays, and he feels the aloneness like the shove of fingertips to his Adam’s apple. His breath is shackled to the outskirts of exhausted lungs, his throat is clasped together in the tightest of vices. The breadth of his chest is hurling abuse at the confines of stress, urging him to simply let go - to let it all go for the sake of his sanity, his health, any chance he has at future happiness. Or fulfillment.
But he can’t tonight. He wants his surveillance to create an aura of depression and anguish, in the hopes he will drown in the aftermath of a tide that threatens to reek havoc on his dry land. He doesn’t deserve any dry land - never has. It is fitting he stands and views the finality of hopes to his happiness, unable to even shed a tear at this stage because of the waves of sorrow he has caused.
Has always caused.
His knees almost buckle as he sees the woman touch a cool hand to the head of the one he loves hardest - or wants most - he’s never really been sure. She may yet achieve her dry land, and if he stands willing it for long enough, he may suffocate in the remains of her ire.
He prays it so.
deluge
Sucre hadn’t realized how much he missed Michael until the day his old buddy was liberated from the death howls of Sona. Having spent time recently with Scofield’s brother, Fernando had forgotten how well he and Michael related to each other. He soon found himself stepping comfortably back into the role of easy banter and interesting dynamics. Michael was so different to Burrows. If Sucre hadn't known they were brothers, he would have picked them for the most unlikely pair of siblings he’d ever come across. Perhaps that's what made a good brother, Sucre considered - he was often saddened this was something he'd never know in his lifetime.
The closest to hermano he ever had was the impostor, Hector.
Somehow, Sucre couldn’t help but dazzle a smile at the thought that they would ever go to jail for each other; rather one would kill the other before having to resort to such a sacrifice for someone so dubious. Sucre was certain Hector would feel exactly the same.
Lashings of Panamanian rain whipped along the exterior of Lincon’s car as they waited for the signal that Michael was at the meeting point. Sophia was playing offense, positioning herself at the predestined pickup spot, hoping beyond any form of probability Scofield would emerge from the jungle of haggard souls, dragging Whistler by his shaggy ass. Lincoln was gunning the car, sweat pouring off him in shards, which made the raindrops on windscreen glass look like pinpricks. And Sucre was riding shotgun. Ready to help Scofield, willing to risk his life in the event of necessity. Able to feel the bind of gratitude roping his memory to Fox River emancipation, a borrowed car, a website of sanctity. His eternal bond to Michael.
But in the wake of fleeing from the sewage trough of Sona, Sucre realized the emotions he felt towards Michael had changed. He was no longer a labrador puppy, gorgeous and golden, bouncing about the heels of a brilliant, tattooed maestro. Nor was he the passionate Don Juan, in love with a woman lost and in awe of Scofield's knowledge of grammar and language. Sucre was different. Michael was changing, before his eyes. Sucre had altered, while Michael's eyes had been staring at the stale grime of prison walls.
The days following Michael’s liberation from the jungle of squalor were pelted by the constant, lulling thrum of rain. It thrashed from the sky. Michael stood outside their safe house, appearing to douse the sins from his body. It created a humid intensity unlike anything they had ever experienced. Sucre peeled off his shirt and long pants, choosing to wander around in his knee-length, khaki shorts. The rain was mesmerizing in its rhythm. Michael stared with unwavering icicles at the occupants of the safe house, while Fernando found his head filled with songs that emitted a rain-lashed beat.
After nearly a week of ardent focus and the safe house becoming a prison of its own, Lincoln left. The caged lion roared something at his brother like I can’t stand this shit anymore!, bristled his hackles at Sucre, and thundered out into the night. He slammed the door in his zeal and prowled toward the jungle with the arrogance of the king of felines and the needs of the most intact male.
"He'll be back soon," Michael said to Sucre, "he hates being stuck inside. I'll give him two days."
Sucre smiled. The idea of spending time alone with Michael was something to be celebrated. He had spent enough time with Lincoln over the past weeks, and had tired of his gruffness and outward ego. It was time for Michael to remember what life was like when he only had one cellmate.
The rain throttled against the tin roof.
storm
The hate within brimmed and threatened to scald his brain like a dousing of the hottest, blackest expresso coffee, but still the dark, sinister man moved south. He had vengeance on his mind, and a serial killer pitting the fibers of his heart with the sharpest toothpick known to man.
He smelt revenge. He harbored a jpeg of Maricruz in his mind. He tasted Sucre's blood on the back of his tongue. If he bunched his tanned fists very tightly, he could feel the snap of the couple's necks beneath his palms, and the cry of their woes fucking his eardrums.
Hector had nothing to lose now. He knew where the bastard was - he was uncertain of the bitch - but he would have vengeance on her by stringing the floundering torso of Sucre from the highest post of the traitor.
In Panama. Down South, where all the fuck-ups meet their final days.
tempest
Two days came and went with ease of living in seclusion, marred only by the fact they were prisoners of a different ilk now. They were no longer captives in a Government installation, rather inmates within the invisible lockup of their pasts.
Michael spent most of his days veering between sacrificing himself to the guilty complex that was like a malignancy on his soul, and speaking about the future to Sucre. He moped. He used the freshness of the rain to welt lashings of flagellations upon his inked upper torso. He felt the heat of his former cell mate's stare, whenever he turned his back on the beach shack and sought the refuge of the cleansing deluge.
Michael felt the change in Sucre, as one would feel the maturing of a puppy into a fully-fledged, totally entire, fully-grown dog. The way Sucre looked at him was different somehow. The way he hugged his entire body when they were first reunited spanked of something unusual, and not totally platonic. The way Sucre's eyes spat shots of intensity and a brooding knowledge, making Michael aware there was a hint of want that had never been apparent at Fox River.
It was as if Fernando Sucre had undergone the most virile of metamorphoses while Michael Scofield had remained manacled in a heinous cocoon of hate and guilt and remorse.
And now, with Lincoln AWOL for an indefinite period of time, Michael found himself needing the comfort of his former cellmate more than ever. He'd forgotten how compatible they were. He'd overlooked the genuine feelings of affection he had for Sucre. He was reminded just how much Sucre had changed when he came in out of his purge in the rain, and found his old cellie stripped to a pair of soft, black boxers, his upper body buffed and there.
"Hey," Michael started, unsure exactly where to look.
He immediately felt stupid. This was the man he shared close quarters with in prison for fuck's sake, and now he was finding it difficult to meet his eyes because he was standing in the shack in his underwear? Seemed meeting his eyes wasn't the real problem, if Michael was honest with himself.
He was saturated. Michael wanted nothing more than to shed his own clothes and towel off, but the sudden awkwardness was unusual and more than a little unsettling.
"Hey yourself," smiled Sucre, his confidence matching the deftly-cut ridges of muscle crashing from the waistband of his shorts. He made no move to leave, but slammed his eyes directly into Michael's. "Was just going out to that junk shed out back. There's an old motorbike in there, Papi. Seen it?"
Michael was aware he was leaving a puddle of tropical rain on the floorboards, but he could feel the drizzle of fine droplets caressing his neck. He stood, erect - unsure - but appreciating an element of something straining between himself and Sucre. "No. I haven't."
"Gonna see if I can fix it up. Might come in handy next time I need to..."
Sucre's words trailed off as he momentarily left the room and found a pair of black shorts. Seeming oblivious to Michael's inability to move, Sucre padded towards the door as he worked each muscled calf into his cropped pants.
"Need some help? With the bike?" Michael asked, arching an eyebrow and tracking his buddies movement around the room.
"Sure."
Michael watched as he donned a rimmed black cap, and couldn't help but notice the rivulets of muscle sinew respond to each and every action of Sucre's body.
Jesus, Michael thought, fugitive life seemed to agree with his friend. Sucre practically sizzled and rippled, while Scofield felt his own body had suffered the strains of his sins; Sona had witnessed his subtlety nuanced leanness diminish to something resembling wastage.
Not bothering to change because it was inevitable the weather would work its drenching effect on the way to the work shack, Michael followed Sucre out to the tin-roofed canopy. He'd forgotten the sound of fierce, driving rain on a rattling rooftop. The dynamic deluge and consistent splattering was so loud, Michael resisted the urge to leave the shack door open, choosing to close it instead. At least it kept the noise to a manageable level.
"So. Here it is." Sucre stepped up to the old motorbike and flung his hand out in a gesture that matched the dazzling smile on his face. His body language was all glamour and pride. His demeanor pure excitement. Michael felt the arousal too, as though the enthusiasm was a palpable extension of some hope for future connection.
"She's a beauty," said Michael, watching Sucre looking at the bike.
"It's a he, Papi. This bike is pure male."
Sucre selected that moment to look back at Scofield, and Michael noticed his buddy's gaze drift to his mouth. Two involuntary reactions occurred, and Michael could no more stop the revelations of his body, than he could entreaty the rain to stop clouting the tin roof. His lips curled into the most raunch-laden smirk. His groin hardened with the most chiseled of responses.
"Why is it pure male, Fernando?" he crooned, and moved closer to the irrepressible Sucre.
"Because," he began, "I can do this...and this. And this..."
In a series of moves which increased the temperature in the already humidified work shed, Sucre cranked on the throttle, erected the ignition hatch and pumped his foot against the kickstand. All the while, he moved astride the leather seat, bucking and swaying his hips in a primitive thumping of the most basic a ride.
Michael felt his eyes widen. He moved beside the bike and squatted down, pretending to inspect the chrome. "Sure seems like it's a boy."
"You better believe it Papi. It'd be a great ride."
"Yeah. I figure it would." Michael was still on his haunches, but he was sick of hiding the fact that his old cellie, straddling a bike and looking at his mouth, wasn't arousing him like all fuck. He reflected this by smearing his voice with gravel and using his tongue to soften the crunch on his lips.
"Wanna try him?" The invitation was so blatant, the words were merely an adjunct to the scorch of eyes and the singe of tension. The rain pounded further, the roof absorbing the pummeling.
"You game?" Are you sure? "I'm game if you are."
Sucre had to stop himself laughing incredulously. Was he game? Was Michael kidding? "Yeah," was all he managed. It was enough.
He watched Scofield move closer, his knees low to the ground as he groped towards the bike. Slowly.
Sucre lifted his far leg to sit side-saddle closest to Michael. Slowly. Very slowly, Michael nudged his way between Sucre’s legs, pressing his upper torso against the leather of the bike, and the black shorts of it's rider. "God. Michael."
The carnage of the rain continued to penetrate the scene. Michael reached upward and curled his hand around the back of Sucre's head, drawing him down into a kiss that was immediately carnal. Sucre responded by opening his mouth and sliding his tongue against the sleek offering of Scofield's, earning an appreciative moan from the man poised between his legs and laying claim to a road further south.
They spent time exploring each other's mouths and faces, while the wrangle of rain was at its gentlest.
As the tempo of the tempest outside increased, so did the intensity of Michael's quest. He moved his lips from Sucre's jaw and trailed full-forced kisses along the grunt of razor-cut pectorals, pausing momentarily to take Sucre's nipple into his mouth.
"Michael!...yeah..."
As quickly as Sucre's words were lost in the rut of the rain, Michael lowered his mouth further and teased the flagrant bulge beneath the hard fabric of the shorts. The elasticized waist proved no problem for the man with gargantuan knowledge of architecture and structure, and before Sucre knew what had happened, he was languishing hard inside Michael's mouth.
Scofield used the girth of his lips and the strength of suction to engulf Sucre's cock as far into his palate as possible. There was no moderation about his method, and Sucre's hips left the leather of the seat as he bucked into Michael's mouth. His hands moved around to clamp Sucre's ass so tightly, he hemmed his former cellie to the grip of his mouth. Sucre arched his back, held Michael's head at the precise angle that was driving him wild, and cranked his hips like the strongest Harley throttle.
It was over in minutes, and Sucre came with a muted groan and a smile that could absorb the most drenching of jungle storms. Michael allowed him to withdraw, and Sucre found he had barely enough strength to sit back down on the black leather seat.
"Oh. Papi, that was...oh man..."
Michael found his feet quickly, peeling off his long-sleeved tee, which was still saturated from his stint in the deluge. He grinned. "Glad we didn't start that at Fox River?"
"If we had started that, I would never have let you get out, Papi. God, and you swallowed too? That white sheet would've been up day and night, man."
"Course I swallowed," Scofield scorched, moving behind Sucre, and straddling his long legs over the motorbike seat, "semen’s a natural source of Omega-3; perfect brain food, buddy."
Sucre leaned back into Michael. His hands moved behind his own butt and began caressing Scrotum de Scofield, spending time finding the granite-impregnated gear-stick beneath the fly of Michael's shorts. "You're shitting me, Michael. Semen isn’t part of the Greek alphabet - all this Omega crap...think it's just your excuse for enjoying the swallowing."
Michael snorted against the tanned erotism of Sucre's neck. Allowing him full access to the dynamite of his groin, Scofield placed open-mouth nips along the column between Fernando's ear and his shoulder. Groaning as Sucre opened the hump of his fly, Michael smiled and whispered in his ear, "don’t worry about the Greek alphabet, buddy, best not to think at times like this. Best just to enjoy the ride."
And the rain constantly fucked the tin roof in time with the hum of the bike.
drizzle
After two days, the deluge ceased. It collapsed into droplets of pitter-patter, echoing the heartbeats of Sucre and Scofield as they fornicated like Panamanian fauna.
During the two days, the rain varied. Alternatively, lashing against the window as shards of passion, as though the wet yearned to fuck the protective dryness of the glass. Sucre entered Scofield with abandon, time and time again. And the rain howled it's approval.
Then it beat steadily, as though the Rain Gods have decreed a Panamanian drum festival, and there will be no let up, droning on and on and on. Rhythmically. Primal. Michael merely had to look at Sucre for them to both know what would happen next, and Scofield was not always temperate when he encouraged Sucre to bend over the couch. The rain collided steadily; frantically, but reliably.
For two days, they mated. They loved and touched and groped and grizzled. They wrestled. They panted and played and mimicked and moaned. They smiled. They talked sometimes. Mostly they combated the need for words with deeds, allowing their bodies to talk with the language of cavemen and mammoth and fucking phallic weapons.
For the first time in an age, Sucre felt accepted for himself. Treasured. Valued. For the only time in his life, Scofield was free from duty. Void of the need for sacrifice. Shedding the skin of his private martyrdom.
They were happy. Sated.
Then the rain stopped.
dry
Michael is woken to the silence outside. He feels Sucre at his back, something he could never tire of, no matter how humid the night air. The rickety ceiling fan works wonders on bodies slick with sweat, after the vigor of flagrant sex. Funny, Scofield hasn’t noticed the whirl of the fan so much before. He realizes the break in the rain has created the ultimate quietude of their isolation.
He attempts to close his eyes and will his battle-fatigued body back to sleep before Sucre awakens and demands more of him. He hardens at the thought. His cellmate has turned out to be one hell of a lover - giving, experimental, earthy, totally hedonistic. Not that Michael would tell him so. The very thought of explaining some of these adjectives to Fernando will take up valuable time when his mouth could be engaged in more pleasurable activities. Not that Fernando is dumb, he thinks hazily and notices Sucre's ever-buoyant erection butting against his upper thigh - just so talented in other, more exotic areas.
Michael's thoughts are stagnated by the silence. What?
"You awake?" he hears Sucre whisper in his ear.
"Yeah, buddy. I am," Michael scoops back, keeping his tone purposely low. Something isn't quite right in the shack, and from the sudden tension coiling in Sucre's body, Michael can tell he is aware of it too.
"Um? Can you hear something?"
Michael half-turns and puts his finger to Sucre's lips in an indication of caution. He nods in the darkness that yes, he has heard something. This is enough to cause Sucre to make slow, small movements towards his side of the bed, careful not to make a noise. In his stealth, Sucre reaches down and under his mattress, while Michael sits up and inclines his head towards the bedroom door.
And then, the sodden clouds of Panamanian skies open anew, and the rain bleeds from the trenches of the heavens.
The overhead light is switched on. "You scum. You fucking, disgusting scum." Michael is instantly disorientated, as a man in black yells obscenities and threats in a mixture of Spanish and English, stalking into the room like a raven of death.
"Sucre, Cagaste y saltaste en la caca! Cagaste y saltaste en la caca! Maricón!"
Hector stands at the foot of the bed, the florescent light acting as an interrogation lamp upon the sheen of the lovers, the fan's shunting lost inside the string of insults and the cascading overture of the rain.
"Hector! Oh Jesus Christ, Hector..." Sucre hears the surprise in his words of horror, but he is significantly embolden by the fact he too has a gun, and only Michael is weaponless, caught between the fury of the death squad member and the fugitive. "I can explain if you put down your gun."
Hector steps forward until his thighs bump the end of the bed. "I will not, Maricón. You are scum, I spit on you. You shit. You and him...You disgrace the family, you dishonour yourself. You violate Maricruz. You violate her very soul."
Michael makes a slow move with his hands in an attempt to intercede, but Hector no longer waits for Sucre to attempt to extinguish his outrage. He shoots towards Fernando - to rid the world of deceit, to cauterize his own wound hemorrhaging the life from Maricruz's canonization. To kill this fucking excuse of a man. A man who has never been worthy.
Sucre is faster though, and he shoots at Hector, piercing the capping at the front of his brain. Hector's bullet passes Sucre's bullet in a bizarre floatation image of mid-air ammunition slow-mo, and it strikes at the junction of his upper heart, and the air-sacs that were breathing life into this relationship.
Michael doesn’t know who has been hit, although Hector is dead the moment his cranium is penetrated.
Sucre is unsure who has been shot, even though he realizes intrinsically he has embedded a bullet into Hector’s brain.
Scofield feels pain, but he can’t be certain whether it is from a bullet or shock.
Fernando experiences gross discomfit, but is unclear about the cause of the agony.
The men exchange a look of alarm etched into faces, mirroring the cadaver mask of Hector lay strewn on the floor. It’s flooding outside, while the downpour runs red all over a bed of bleeding hearts.
And the rain screams Sucre.
clearing
He watches for an eternity. He lingers for all time.
The race for emergency assistance is forever blurred with other elements of the past thirty-six hours, but he doesn't need to mentally reconfigure the events in his mind. He's only consumed with his lover, lying on a medical trolley, life ebbing as surely as his own is destined for the trash heap. As though it's ever been free of offal anyway.
He feels the presence of each person hovering about the comatose form, like a studded whip to his heart. Perhaps the only modicum of hope he can take with him from this visual finale of fate, is that he has loved a man who is now surrounded by people who love him. A small family. A friend. A sample of happiness in pantomime.
As Sucre turns his back on the scene and wanders casually into the night air, away from Scofield, he gives no thought for recapture; no care for a future of emancipation. He smiles at the memory of Lincoln and LJ sitting either side of Michael as his body fights the bullet, and of Sara administering her professional care. Perhaps he is always destined to be naive enough to envisage something positive from such a dire situation - Michael, alive for now, in the care of loved ones...
...he doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter.
He simply moves amid the unforgiving weather, raises his face to the thunderous sky, and breathes. The purity of rain cleansing the taste of life without Scofield.
And Sucre drowns in the inevitability of it all.
The End.
Rating: NC-17 (sexual scene, violence)
Category: slash, angst, au
Characters: Michael/Sucre
Requested by: ferrynheit
Author's Notes: The prompts issued involved dialogue, seeing something good in someone bad, and rain. I hope this fits the bill.
Sona is only one prison in Panama, as Sucre and Scofield are incarcerated by weather, relationships of the past and an improbable hope for the future.
sleet
Ultimately, he is left watching.
A spectator of a man, an observer of life. A boy who desperately wanted to participate, but has never been chosen for the A Team, no matter how much he trained or how often he networked. An adult who remains on the outer cusp of living fully and in harmony.
Just when he thinks he has made inroads, he is left looking on. Again.
At a time when he strives to be part of a relationship with meaning, he merely stands and witnesses the normalcy of life in a family, and a partnership rooted in gender stereotypes and commonality.
He is alone. He’s studying the scene in front of him, as it unravels like the most tragic of plays, and he feels the aloneness like the shove of fingertips to his Adam’s apple. His breath is shackled to the outskirts of exhausted lungs, his throat is clasped together in the tightest of vices. The breadth of his chest is hurling abuse at the confines of stress, urging him to simply let go - to let it all go for the sake of his sanity, his health, any chance he has at future happiness. Or fulfillment.
But he can’t tonight. He wants his surveillance to create an aura of depression and anguish, in the hopes he will drown in the aftermath of a tide that threatens to reek havoc on his dry land. He doesn’t deserve any dry land - never has. It is fitting he stands and views the finality of hopes to his happiness, unable to even shed a tear at this stage because of the waves of sorrow he has caused.
Has always caused.
His knees almost buckle as he sees the woman touch a cool hand to the head of the one he loves hardest - or wants most - he’s never really been sure. She may yet achieve her dry land, and if he stands willing it for long enough, he may suffocate in the remains of her ire.
He prays it so.
deluge
Sucre hadn’t realized how much he missed Michael until the day his old buddy was liberated from the death howls of Sona. Having spent time recently with Scofield’s brother, Fernando had forgotten how well he and Michael related to each other. He soon found himself stepping comfortably back into the role of easy banter and interesting dynamics. Michael was so different to Burrows. If Sucre hadn't known they were brothers, he would have picked them for the most unlikely pair of siblings he’d ever come across. Perhaps that's what made a good brother, Sucre considered - he was often saddened this was something he'd never know in his lifetime.
The closest to hermano he ever had was the impostor, Hector.
Somehow, Sucre couldn’t help but dazzle a smile at the thought that they would ever go to jail for each other; rather one would kill the other before having to resort to such a sacrifice for someone so dubious. Sucre was certain Hector would feel exactly the same.
Lashings of Panamanian rain whipped along the exterior of Lincon’s car as they waited for the signal that Michael was at the meeting point. Sophia was playing offense, positioning herself at the predestined pickup spot, hoping beyond any form of probability Scofield would emerge from the jungle of haggard souls, dragging Whistler by his shaggy ass. Lincoln was gunning the car, sweat pouring off him in shards, which made the raindrops on windscreen glass look like pinpricks. And Sucre was riding shotgun. Ready to help Scofield, willing to risk his life in the event of necessity. Able to feel the bind of gratitude roping his memory to Fox River emancipation, a borrowed car, a website of sanctity. His eternal bond to Michael.
But in the wake of fleeing from the sewage trough of Sona, Sucre realized the emotions he felt towards Michael had changed. He was no longer a labrador puppy, gorgeous and golden, bouncing about the heels of a brilliant, tattooed maestro. Nor was he the passionate Don Juan, in love with a woman lost and in awe of Scofield's knowledge of grammar and language. Sucre was different. Michael was changing, before his eyes. Sucre had altered, while Michael's eyes had been staring at the stale grime of prison walls.
The days following Michael’s liberation from the jungle of squalor were pelted by the constant, lulling thrum of rain. It thrashed from the sky. Michael stood outside their safe house, appearing to douse the sins from his body. It created a humid intensity unlike anything they had ever experienced. Sucre peeled off his shirt and long pants, choosing to wander around in his knee-length, khaki shorts. The rain was mesmerizing in its rhythm. Michael stared with unwavering icicles at the occupants of the safe house, while Fernando found his head filled with songs that emitted a rain-lashed beat.
After nearly a week of ardent focus and the safe house becoming a prison of its own, Lincoln left. The caged lion roared something at his brother like I can’t stand this shit anymore!, bristled his hackles at Sucre, and thundered out into the night. He slammed the door in his zeal and prowled toward the jungle with the arrogance of the king of felines and the needs of the most intact male.
"He'll be back soon," Michael said to Sucre, "he hates being stuck inside. I'll give him two days."
Sucre smiled. The idea of spending time alone with Michael was something to be celebrated. He had spent enough time with Lincoln over the past weeks, and had tired of his gruffness and outward ego. It was time for Michael to remember what life was like when he only had one cellmate.
The rain throttled against the tin roof.
storm
The hate within brimmed and threatened to scald his brain like a dousing of the hottest, blackest expresso coffee, but still the dark, sinister man moved south. He had vengeance on his mind, and a serial killer pitting the fibers of his heart with the sharpest toothpick known to man.
He smelt revenge. He harbored a jpeg of Maricruz in his mind. He tasted Sucre's blood on the back of his tongue. If he bunched his tanned fists very tightly, he could feel the snap of the couple's necks beneath his palms, and the cry of their woes fucking his eardrums.
Hector had nothing to lose now. He knew where the bastard was - he was uncertain of the bitch - but he would have vengeance on her by stringing the floundering torso of Sucre from the highest post of the traitor.
In Panama. Down South, where all the fuck-ups meet their final days.
tempest
Two days came and went with ease of living in seclusion, marred only by the fact they were prisoners of a different ilk now. They were no longer captives in a Government installation, rather inmates within the invisible lockup of their pasts.
Michael spent most of his days veering between sacrificing himself to the guilty complex that was like a malignancy on his soul, and speaking about the future to Sucre. He moped. He used the freshness of the rain to welt lashings of flagellations upon his inked upper torso. He felt the heat of his former cell mate's stare, whenever he turned his back on the beach shack and sought the refuge of the cleansing deluge.
Michael felt the change in Sucre, as one would feel the maturing of a puppy into a fully-fledged, totally entire, fully-grown dog. The way Sucre looked at him was different somehow. The way he hugged his entire body when they were first reunited spanked of something unusual, and not totally platonic. The way Sucre's eyes spat shots of intensity and a brooding knowledge, making Michael aware there was a hint of want that had never been apparent at Fox River.
It was as if Fernando Sucre had undergone the most virile of metamorphoses while Michael Scofield had remained manacled in a heinous cocoon of hate and guilt and remorse.
And now, with Lincoln AWOL for an indefinite period of time, Michael found himself needing the comfort of his former cellmate more than ever. He'd forgotten how compatible they were. He'd overlooked the genuine feelings of affection he had for Sucre. He was reminded just how much Sucre had changed when he came in out of his purge in the rain, and found his old cellie stripped to a pair of soft, black boxers, his upper body buffed and there.
"Hey," Michael started, unsure exactly where to look.
He immediately felt stupid. This was the man he shared close quarters with in prison for fuck's sake, and now he was finding it difficult to meet his eyes because he was standing in the shack in his underwear? Seemed meeting his eyes wasn't the real problem, if Michael was honest with himself.
He was saturated. Michael wanted nothing more than to shed his own clothes and towel off, but the sudden awkwardness was unusual and more than a little unsettling.
"Hey yourself," smiled Sucre, his confidence matching the deftly-cut ridges of muscle crashing from the waistband of his shorts. He made no move to leave, but slammed his eyes directly into Michael's. "Was just going out to that junk shed out back. There's an old motorbike in there, Papi. Seen it?"
Michael was aware he was leaving a puddle of tropical rain on the floorboards, but he could feel the drizzle of fine droplets caressing his neck. He stood, erect - unsure - but appreciating an element of something straining between himself and Sucre. "No. I haven't."
"Gonna see if I can fix it up. Might come in handy next time I need to..."
Sucre's words trailed off as he momentarily left the room and found a pair of black shorts. Seeming oblivious to Michael's inability to move, Sucre padded towards the door as he worked each muscled calf into his cropped pants.
"Need some help? With the bike?" Michael asked, arching an eyebrow and tracking his buddies movement around the room.
"Sure."
Michael watched as he donned a rimmed black cap, and couldn't help but notice the rivulets of muscle sinew respond to each and every action of Sucre's body.
Jesus, Michael thought, fugitive life seemed to agree with his friend. Sucre practically sizzled and rippled, while Scofield felt his own body had suffered the strains of his sins; Sona had witnessed his subtlety nuanced leanness diminish to something resembling wastage.
Not bothering to change because it was inevitable the weather would work its drenching effect on the way to the work shack, Michael followed Sucre out to the tin-roofed canopy. He'd forgotten the sound of fierce, driving rain on a rattling rooftop. The dynamic deluge and consistent splattering was so loud, Michael resisted the urge to leave the shack door open, choosing to close it instead. At least it kept the noise to a manageable level.
"So. Here it is." Sucre stepped up to the old motorbike and flung his hand out in a gesture that matched the dazzling smile on his face. His body language was all glamour and pride. His demeanor pure excitement. Michael felt the arousal too, as though the enthusiasm was a palpable extension of some hope for future connection.
"She's a beauty," said Michael, watching Sucre looking at the bike.
"It's a he, Papi. This bike is pure male."
Sucre selected that moment to look back at Scofield, and Michael noticed his buddy's gaze drift to his mouth. Two involuntary reactions occurred, and Michael could no more stop the revelations of his body, than he could entreaty the rain to stop clouting the tin roof. His lips curled into the most raunch-laden smirk. His groin hardened with the most chiseled of responses.
"Why is it pure male, Fernando?" he crooned, and moved closer to the irrepressible Sucre.
"Because," he began, "I can do this...and this. And this..."
In a series of moves which increased the temperature in the already humidified work shed, Sucre cranked on the throttle, erected the ignition hatch and pumped his foot against the kickstand. All the while, he moved astride the leather seat, bucking and swaying his hips in a primitive thumping of the most basic a ride.
Michael felt his eyes widen. He moved beside the bike and squatted down, pretending to inspect the chrome. "Sure seems like it's a boy."
"You better believe it Papi. It'd be a great ride."
"Yeah. I figure it would." Michael was still on his haunches, but he was sick of hiding the fact that his old cellie, straddling a bike and looking at his mouth, wasn't arousing him like all fuck. He reflected this by smearing his voice with gravel and using his tongue to soften the crunch on his lips.
"Wanna try him?" The invitation was so blatant, the words were merely an adjunct to the scorch of eyes and the singe of tension. The rain pounded further, the roof absorbing the pummeling.
"You game?" Are you sure? "I'm game if you are."
Sucre had to stop himself laughing incredulously. Was he game? Was Michael kidding? "Yeah," was all he managed. It was enough.
He watched Scofield move closer, his knees low to the ground as he groped towards the bike. Slowly.
Sucre lifted his far leg to sit side-saddle closest to Michael. Slowly. Very slowly, Michael nudged his way between Sucre’s legs, pressing his upper torso against the leather of the bike, and the black shorts of it's rider. "God. Michael."
The carnage of the rain continued to penetrate the scene. Michael reached upward and curled his hand around the back of Sucre's head, drawing him down into a kiss that was immediately carnal. Sucre responded by opening his mouth and sliding his tongue against the sleek offering of Scofield's, earning an appreciative moan from the man poised between his legs and laying claim to a road further south.
They spent time exploring each other's mouths and faces, while the wrangle of rain was at its gentlest.
As the tempo of the tempest outside increased, so did the intensity of Michael's quest. He moved his lips from Sucre's jaw and trailed full-forced kisses along the grunt of razor-cut pectorals, pausing momentarily to take Sucre's nipple into his mouth.
"Michael!...yeah..."
As quickly as Sucre's words were lost in the rut of the rain, Michael lowered his mouth further and teased the flagrant bulge beneath the hard fabric of the shorts. The elasticized waist proved no problem for the man with gargantuan knowledge of architecture and structure, and before Sucre knew what had happened, he was languishing hard inside Michael's mouth.
Scofield used the girth of his lips and the strength of suction to engulf Sucre's cock as far into his palate as possible. There was no moderation about his method, and Sucre's hips left the leather of the seat as he bucked into Michael's mouth. His hands moved around to clamp Sucre's ass so tightly, he hemmed his former cellie to the grip of his mouth. Sucre arched his back, held Michael's head at the precise angle that was driving him wild, and cranked his hips like the strongest Harley throttle.
It was over in minutes, and Sucre came with a muted groan and a smile that could absorb the most drenching of jungle storms. Michael allowed him to withdraw, and Sucre found he had barely enough strength to sit back down on the black leather seat.
"Oh. Papi, that was...oh man..."
Michael found his feet quickly, peeling off his long-sleeved tee, which was still saturated from his stint in the deluge. He grinned. "Glad we didn't start that at Fox River?"
"If we had started that, I would never have let you get out, Papi. God, and you swallowed too? That white sheet would've been up day and night, man."
"Course I swallowed," Scofield scorched, moving behind Sucre, and straddling his long legs over the motorbike seat, "semen’s a natural source of Omega-3; perfect brain food, buddy."
Sucre leaned back into Michael. His hands moved behind his own butt and began caressing Scrotum de Scofield, spending time finding the granite-impregnated gear-stick beneath the fly of Michael's shorts. "You're shitting me, Michael. Semen isn’t part of the Greek alphabet - all this Omega crap...think it's just your excuse for enjoying the swallowing."
Michael snorted against the tanned erotism of Sucre's neck. Allowing him full access to the dynamite of his groin, Scofield placed open-mouth nips along the column between Fernando's ear and his shoulder. Groaning as Sucre opened the hump of his fly, Michael smiled and whispered in his ear, "don’t worry about the Greek alphabet, buddy, best not to think at times like this. Best just to enjoy the ride."
And the rain constantly fucked the tin roof in time with the hum of the bike.
drizzle
After two days, the deluge ceased. It collapsed into droplets of pitter-patter, echoing the heartbeats of Sucre and Scofield as they fornicated like Panamanian fauna.
During the two days, the rain varied. Alternatively, lashing against the window as shards of passion, as though the wet yearned to fuck the protective dryness of the glass. Sucre entered Scofield with abandon, time and time again. And the rain howled it's approval.
Then it beat steadily, as though the Rain Gods have decreed a Panamanian drum festival, and there will be no let up, droning on and on and on. Rhythmically. Primal. Michael merely had to look at Sucre for them to both know what would happen next, and Scofield was not always temperate when he encouraged Sucre to bend over the couch. The rain collided steadily; frantically, but reliably.
For two days, they mated. They loved and touched and groped and grizzled. They wrestled. They panted and played and mimicked and moaned. They smiled. They talked sometimes. Mostly they combated the need for words with deeds, allowing their bodies to talk with the language of cavemen and mammoth and fucking phallic weapons.
For the first time in an age, Sucre felt accepted for himself. Treasured. Valued. For the only time in his life, Scofield was free from duty. Void of the need for sacrifice. Shedding the skin of his private martyrdom.
They were happy. Sated.
Then the rain stopped.
dry
Michael is woken to the silence outside. He feels Sucre at his back, something he could never tire of, no matter how humid the night air. The rickety ceiling fan works wonders on bodies slick with sweat, after the vigor of flagrant sex. Funny, Scofield hasn’t noticed the whirl of the fan so much before. He realizes the break in the rain has created the ultimate quietude of their isolation.
He attempts to close his eyes and will his battle-fatigued body back to sleep before Sucre awakens and demands more of him. He hardens at the thought. His cellmate has turned out to be one hell of a lover - giving, experimental, earthy, totally hedonistic. Not that Michael would tell him so. The very thought of explaining some of these adjectives to Fernando will take up valuable time when his mouth could be engaged in more pleasurable activities. Not that Fernando is dumb, he thinks hazily and notices Sucre's ever-buoyant erection butting against his upper thigh - just so talented in other, more exotic areas.
Michael's thoughts are stagnated by the silence. What?
"You awake?" he hears Sucre whisper in his ear.
"Yeah, buddy. I am," Michael scoops back, keeping his tone purposely low. Something isn't quite right in the shack, and from the sudden tension coiling in Sucre's body, Michael can tell he is aware of it too.
"Um? Can you hear something?"
Michael half-turns and puts his finger to Sucre's lips in an indication of caution. He nods in the darkness that yes, he has heard something. This is enough to cause Sucre to make slow, small movements towards his side of the bed, careful not to make a noise. In his stealth, Sucre reaches down and under his mattress, while Michael sits up and inclines his head towards the bedroom door.
And then, the sodden clouds of Panamanian skies open anew, and the rain bleeds from the trenches of the heavens.
The overhead light is switched on. "You scum. You fucking, disgusting scum." Michael is instantly disorientated, as a man in black yells obscenities and threats in a mixture of Spanish and English, stalking into the room like a raven of death.
"Sucre, Cagaste y saltaste en la caca! Cagaste y saltaste en la caca! Maricón!"
Hector stands at the foot of the bed, the florescent light acting as an interrogation lamp upon the sheen of the lovers, the fan's shunting lost inside the string of insults and the cascading overture of the rain.
"Hector! Oh Jesus Christ, Hector..." Sucre hears the surprise in his words of horror, but he is significantly embolden by the fact he too has a gun, and only Michael is weaponless, caught between the fury of the death squad member and the fugitive. "I can explain if you put down your gun."
Hector steps forward until his thighs bump the end of the bed. "I will not, Maricón. You are scum, I spit on you. You shit. You and him...You disgrace the family, you dishonour yourself. You violate Maricruz. You violate her very soul."
Michael makes a slow move with his hands in an attempt to intercede, but Hector no longer waits for Sucre to attempt to extinguish his outrage. He shoots towards Fernando - to rid the world of deceit, to cauterize his own wound hemorrhaging the life from Maricruz's canonization. To kill this fucking excuse of a man. A man who has never been worthy.
Sucre is faster though, and he shoots at Hector, piercing the capping at the front of his brain. Hector's bullet passes Sucre's bullet in a bizarre floatation image of mid-air ammunition slow-mo, and it strikes at the junction of his upper heart, and the air-sacs that were breathing life into this relationship.
Michael doesn’t know who has been hit, although Hector is dead the moment his cranium is penetrated.
Sucre is unsure who has been shot, even though he realizes intrinsically he has embedded a bullet into Hector’s brain.
Scofield feels pain, but he can’t be certain whether it is from a bullet or shock.
Fernando experiences gross discomfit, but is unclear about the cause of the agony.
The men exchange a look of alarm etched into faces, mirroring the cadaver mask of Hector lay strewn on the floor. It’s flooding outside, while the downpour runs red all over a bed of bleeding hearts.
And the rain screams Sucre.
clearing
He watches for an eternity. He lingers for all time.
The race for emergency assistance is forever blurred with other elements of the past thirty-six hours, but he doesn't need to mentally reconfigure the events in his mind. He's only consumed with his lover, lying on a medical trolley, life ebbing as surely as his own is destined for the trash heap. As though it's ever been free of offal anyway.
He feels the presence of each person hovering about the comatose form, like a studded whip to his heart. Perhaps the only modicum of hope he can take with him from this visual finale of fate, is that he has loved a man who is now surrounded by people who love him. A small family. A friend. A sample of happiness in pantomime.
As Sucre turns his back on the scene and wanders casually into the night air, away from Scofield, he gives no thought for recapture; no care for a future of emancipation. He smiles at the memory of Lincoln and LJ sitting either side of Michael as his body fights the bullet, and of Sara administering her professional care. Perhaps he is always destined to be naive enough to envisage something positive from such a dire situation - Michael, alive for now, in the care of loved ones...
...he doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter.
He simply moves amid the unforgiving weather, raises his face to the thunderous sky, and breathes. The purity of rain cleansing the taste of life without Scofield.
And Sucre drowns in the inevitability of it all.
The End.