"Lincoln Was Never Good At Hide and Seek (Because He Never Really Found Michael)", for putu2sleep
Title: Lincoln Was Never Good At Hide and Seek (Because He Never Really Found Michael)
Author: To be revealed
Rating: R
Category: Angst, Drama
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Requested by: putu2sleep
Summary: Lincoln never quite find Michael. He can only hope he'll come out of hiding.
Author's Notes: Beware: heavy-duty angsty stuff, from alcohol to incest overtones. Dark, I should say.
The requested elements were: Michael and Lincoln, one mentally unstable brother, distance between the two, and hiding out.
Lincoln Was Never Good At Hide and Seek (Because He Never Really Found Michael)
Regardless of what his latest employer had insinuated just before Lincoln punched him in the jaw and fired himself, Lincoln had never been to juvie. He'd been busted for smoking his first joint at the age of fourteen, but he hadn't been sent to juvenile detention for it. In fact, no one had sent him anywhere; his foster father at the time had given him a sound beating, and flushed his pot.
When Lincoln had been held up for breaking and entering three years later, he'd been tried as an adult and sent directly to a low security prison. Michael had flat out refused to talk to him for weeks. By that time, Lincoln had already been given a tiny apartment of his own, since it was difficult to find caring foster parents for a seventeen year-old delinquent.
He lost the apartment, however, a few weeks before he was sentenced to three months for breaking and entering. He hadn't actually stolen anything, except some leftovers and a blanket from the living room. The people who lived there, didn't have the heart to press for a harder punishment.
So, no, Lincoln had never been to juvie. But he was still a yo-yo jailbird; stealing and dealing just to keep himself housed and fed. And high, more often than not. And now, here he was again, leaving his cell for the last time - for a month or two. He always promised himself never again, and always proceeded to break the promise.
At least he wasn't getting a hard time from the other prisoners. He was rough, full of scrapes and bruises, and he looked too masculine - always had - to appeal to the “tradesmen” of the block.
And most importantly, he fought like a raging rhino, despite being younger and less muscular than many of the other inmates.
“See ya around, Sink!” his older cellie called after him. Some old geezer who'd been in there forever; he wasn't much of a talker, but didn't kill you in your sleep, either.
“This time I'm stayin' out!” Lincoln muttered, then followed the bull to get his personal effects back. He hadn't left a dime in there; he knew better than to let the bulls find cash while sorting through his stuff.
Back in his jeans, Lincoln felt more like himself. More like the nobody he'd become, of course, but at least not just con number this or that. Ratty jeans and shirt in place, he could go out for a drink, wash the prison dust from his mouth.
And he did. He got a bottle of vodka and drank until he staggered, drunkenly, into the temporary apartment the State had provided for him. He didn't lock up - not like he had anything worth stealing - and passed out on the couch. In his alcohol-induced dreams, he fought with dozens of inmates who were somehow threatening Michael.
He broke their necks, feeling the satisfying snap as he defended his little brother.
Of course, he soon enough woke up in a cold sweat, barely managing to stagger to the bathroom before he threw up, the combination of alcohol and guilt making him heave until there was nothing left to throw up.
He'd promised to come straight to Michael after he got out; his little brother had called him and literally begged him to please, please come home? It wasn't exactly home. It was a small, neat two-room place that the State provided for Michael, who was working every other week night to afford food and books. But Michael had a small living room with a kitchenette, and a tiny bedroom with almost enough room for the two of them, when Lincoln visited.
Lincoln should have been squeezing into that narrow bed with Michael, hugging his baby brother of seventeen, last night. Instead he got drunk enough to pass out on the couch. Lincoln groaned. He had to get to Michael, right now. His little brother was a neurotic, insecure thing; the slightest insult from one of his classmates could send Michael into hours of self-loathing and vows to improve himself. If his own brother abandoned him...
Lincoln spent his last bucks on a cab. He hurried up the stairs to Michael's small apartment, fourth floor, and knocked frantically before he'd even come to a halt outside the door. “Michael?” he called, knocking again.
No answer was forthcoming. Lincoln pushed against the door, and it gave - Michael hadn't locked it. Lincoln's worry increased tenfold. Michael, behind an unlocked door, not knowing what had become of Lincoln, knowing only that he'd promised to come straight to Michael's place as soon as he got out the day before...
Lincoln rushed into the small space of Michael's living room, no entrance hall between the door and the main apartment. No Michael.
“Michael!”
He crashed through the door to Michael's bedroom, expecting to find Michael rocking back and forth in a corner or something equally cliché and horrifying. The bedroom looked as immaculate as always, so Lincoln went to the adjoining, smaller than tiny bathroom, throwing open the door too quickly.
The door banged against the wall just as Lincoln saw Michael, sitting hunched over on the floor, staring with wide eyes straight ahead, tears running swiftly down his cheeks. Lincoln dropped to his knees next to the frail body, placing a hesitant hand on Michael's shoulder.
“Michael?”
Michael gave a shudder, but didn't respond. Lincoln pushed him into an upright position, and promptly froze. Across Michael's throat ran an angry, red line - almost three inches of sliced skin, dried blood smeared everywhere. And then Lincoln noticed the razor blade lying next to Michael's limp hand.
Lincoln almost screamed. But his voice never found its way out of his throat. Instead, he picked Michael up roughly, carried him into the bedroom and laid him on his side on the bed. The younger brother didn't make a sound; his eyes were glazed over and devoid of life.
Lincoln could as well have been in another galaxy. When Michael disappeared like that, there was a distance between them that only Michael could cover. No one could reach Michael; Michael was dead to the world, locked in his own big brain. Michael was hiding inside his own head, and only Michael knew where to find him.
It scared Lincoln that he couldn't reach his brother. Not just because the distance itself was so overwhelming, but because even though Michael was still alive, it wasn't a sure thing that Lincoln would ever see him again. Not if he just disappeared, stayed inside his mental hiding place.
Like the shrink said, only Michael had access to that place, and only Michael could get himself out of it. If he didn't...
“Michael!” Lincoln shouted, shaking his brother violently. “Michael! You shit head, Michael! Don't you ever try that again! If you ever... You don't get to kill yourself until I've kicked your ass for scaring me like this! Michael!”
Michael finally gave a slow blink, as if coming out of a trance. He shifted, eyes slowly sliding back into focus. Then he tensed. “Lincoln?”
“Yes, Lincoln, you little shit!” Lincoln said, near howling with relief. The wound had apparently stopped bleeding, but pulsed dangerously when Michael spoke.
“What the hell were you thinking, huh? Fuck it, Michael, you can't... don't you ever... You tried to kill yourself!” Lincoln said, his voice shaky.
Michael sat up, gazing sorrowfully and shamefacedly at his brother. “No, I didn't. I... I couldn't breathe. When you... I thought you weren't coming. I couldn't breathe. Lincoln, I was going to die! I just... I had to breathe, Lincoln. And then I could breathe, but you still weren't here, and it hurt! And I...”
Lincoln pulled Michael to him in a fierce, desperate hug. “Michael! You cut your throat with a razor blade! Don't you ever, ever scare me like that again!”
Michael gave a pathetic sniffle. “I wasn't...” He sighed. “No, Lincoln. I won't.”
Lincoln cursed himself. He'd hurt Michael again. Why did he always end up hurting Michael? He hugged the younger man tighter. “I'm sorry, Mike. I'm so sorry. I forgot; I didn't mean to... I didn’t do this on purpose, Michael.”
Michael finally relaxed into his brother's strong grip, hugging him back. Lincoln's shirt, already stinking of booze and days without being laundered, was getting soaked through under Michael's cheek.
Lincoln disentangled himself from Michael, then went into the bathroom and found a wash cloth, some antiseptic and a few Band-Aids.
“Take off your tee shirt.”
He instructed Michael to hold still while he cleaned off the blood, swathed the cut (fortunately not deep enough to worry Lincoln; he'd seen his share of minor injuries and this was nothing life threatening) with antiseptic, then clumsily put on a few Band-Aids to cover it all.
Stepping back, Lincoln took in Michael's slumped shoulder, bony rib cage and eyes seemingly too large for his face. He felt another pang of guilt. Michael had always been slim, but never quite this skinny.
“How long since you ate?”
“Don't know,” Michael whispered. “I was waiting for you.”
Lincoln leaned in and placed his lips softly against Michael's forehead, a gentle apology that he'd never been able to bring himself to say out loud, even though he needed to supply it often enough.
Michael whimpered and his fingers went to Lincoln's sturdy arms. “I thought you weren't going to come back.”
Lincoln kissed Michael's temple. “Don't worry, baby brother. I always come back.” His mind added, Stinking of pot and booze, maybe. But I always come back.
“We can call for pizza?” Michael suggested softly, tipping his head back when Lincoln's eyes alighted on his cheek. “I don't... want to go out.”
Lincoln nodded against his little brother's soft skin. “I didn't want you to get hurt, Michael. We'll stay in. Beef and tomato?”
Michael hummed sadly and pulled Lincoln closer. “Don't go?”
“I won't, Mike. Just promise me you won't do it again?”
Lincoln wasn't really too happy about the feelings Michael kept inspiring in him as his little brother rubbed slowly against him, for comfort, for confirmation, for security. He should probably leave his little brother alone until the seventeen year-old nervous wreck had calmed down, then order them both some pizza.
But Michael was so needy, so alone and abandoned, and had already tried to cut through his own throat so he could breathe - all because of Lincoln. So Lincoln held Michael on the bed, letting the younger man rub against him until he finally found the safe haven he was looking for. Then he left Michael to clean himself up while he called for pizza.
Michael stayed in bed, letting Lincoln bring the pizza into his bedroom. He didn't leave the safety of his covers - or Lincoln's body, once the older brother got back in the bed - at all. Not until Lincoln left the bed to make coffee the next morning, and Michael hesitantly padded out to sit tentatively on his worn old couch.
“You done hiding?” Lincoln asked, handing Michael a mug of sugared caffeine. Perhaps not what Michael needed right now, but it was that or orange juice, and it was really too cold for anything chilled. The apartment's heating wasn't too efficient.
They sat underneath the only spare blanket, together on the couch, as Michael drank his coffee. Every time he swallowed, the Band-Aids on his throat moved. Lincoln frowned.
“Hiding?” Michael asked, sounding a little guilty.
“You just... go into your head, sometimes,” Lincoln said. He wished he had a strong drink to get through this conversation. “And I can't find you.”
Michael shivered and leaned into Lincoln. “Sorry. I don't mean to. And I wasn't trying to... kill myself. Really. I just... panicked.”
Lincoln shrugged. It was really all he could do. “I won't disappear like that again. Even for a night.”
An empty promise, he knew. But the only one he could give.
-The End-
Author: To be revealed
Rating: R
Category: Angst, Drama
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Requested by: putu2sleep
Summary: Lincoln never quite find Michael. He can only hope he'll come out of hiding.
Author's Notes: Beware: heavy-duty angsty stuff, from alcohol to incest overtones. Dark, I should say.
The requested elements were: Michael and Lincoln, one mentally unstable brother, distance between the two, and hiding out.
Lincoln Was Never Good At Hide and Seek (Because He Never Really Found Michael)
Regardless of what his latest employer had insinuated just before Lincoln punched him in the jaw and fired himself, Lincoln had never been to juvie. He'd been busted for smoking his first joint at the age of fourteen, but he hadn't been sent to juvenile detention for it. In fact, no one had sent him anywhere; his foster father at the time had given him a sound beating, and flushed his pot.
When Lincoln had been held up for breaking and entering three years later, he'd been tried as an adult and sent directly to a low security prison. Michael had flat out refused to talk to him for weeks. By that time, Lincoln had already been given a tiny apartment of his own, since it was difficult to find caring foster parents for a seventeen year-old delinquent.
He lost the apartment, however, a few weeks before he was sentenced to three months for breaking and entering. He hadn't actually stolen anything, except some leftovers and a blanket from the living room. The people who lived there, didn't have the heart to press for a harder punishment.
So, no, Lincoln had never been to juvie. But he was still a yo-yo jailbird; stealing and dealing just to keep himself housed and fed. And high, more often than not. And now, here he was again, leaving his cell for the last time - for a month or two. He always promised himself never again, and always proceeded to break the promise.
At least he wasn't getting a hard time from the other prisoners. He was rough, full of scrapes and bruises, and he looked too masculine - always had - to appeal to the “tradesmen” of the block.
And most importantly, he fought like a raging rhino, despite being younger and less muscular than many of the other inmates.
“See ya around, Sink!” his older cellie called after him. Some old geezer who'd been in there forever; he wasn't much of a talker, but didn't kill you in your sleep, either.
“This time I'm stayin' out!” Lincoln muttered, then followed the bull to get his personal effects back. He hadn't left a dime in there; he knew better than to let the bulls find cash while sorting through his stuff.
Back in his jeans, Lincoln felt more like himself. More like the nobody he'd become, of course, but at least not just con number this or that. Ratty jeans and shirt in place, he could go out for a drink, wash the prison dust from his mouth.
And he did. He got a bottle of vodka and drank until he staggered, drunkenly, into the temporary apartment the State had provided for him. He didn't lock up - not like he had anything worth stealing - and passed out on the couch. In his alcohol-induced dreams, he fought with dozens of inmates who were somehow threatening Michael.
He broke their necks, feeling the satisfying snap as he defended his little brother.
Of course, he soon enough woke up in a cold sweat, barely managing to stagger to the bathroom before he threw up, the combination of alcohol and guilt making him heave until there was nothing left to throw up.
He'd promised to come straight to Michael after he got out; his little brother had called him and literally begged him to please, please come home? It wasn't exactly home. It was a small, neat two-room place that the State provided for Michael, who was working every other week night to afford food and books. But Michael had a small living room with a kitchenette, and a tiny bedroom with almost enough room for the two of them, when Lincoln visited.
Lincoln should have been squeezing into that narrow bed with Michael, hugging his baby brother of seventeen, last night. Instead he got drunk enough to pass out on the couch. Lincoln groaned. He had to get to Michael, right now. His little brother was a neurotic, insecure thing; the slightest insult from one of his classmates could send Michael into hours of self-loathing and vows to improve himself. If his own brother abandoned him...
Lincoln spent his last bucks on a cab. He hurried up the stairs to Michael's small apartment, fourth floor, and knocked frantically before he'd even come to a halt outside the door. “Michael?” he called, knocking again.
No answer was forthcoming. Lincoln pushed against the door, and it gave - Michael hadn't locked it. Lincoln's worry increased tenfold. Michael, behind an unlocked door, not knowing what had become of Lincoln, knowing only that he'd promised to come straight to Michael's place as soon as he got out the day before...
Lincoln rushed into the small space of Michael's living room, no entrance hall between the door and the main apartment. No Michael.
“Michael!”
He crashed through the door to Michael's bedroom, expecting to find Michael rocking back and forth in a corner or something equally cliché and horrifying. The bedroom looked as immaculate as always, so Lincoln went to the adjoining, smaller than tiny bathroom, throwing open the door too quickly.
The door banged against the wall just as Lincoln saw Michael, sitting hunched over on the floor, staring with wide eyes straight ahead, tears running swiftly down his cheeks. Lincoln dropped to his knees next to the frail body, placing a hesitant hand on Michael's shoulder.
“Michael?”
Michael gave a shudder, but didn't respond. Lincoln pushed him into an upright position, and promptly froze. Across Michael's throat ran an angry, red line - almost three inches of sliced skin, dried blood smeared everywhere. And then Lincoln noticed the razor blade lying next to Michael's limp hand.
Lincoln almost screamed. But his voice never found its way out of his throat. Instead, he picked Michael up roughly, carried him into the bedroom and laid him on his side on the bed. The younger brother didn't make a sound; his eyes were glazed over and devoid of life.
Lincoln could as well have been in another galaxy. When Michael disappeared like that, there was a distance between them that only Michael could cover. No one could reach Michael; Michael was dead to the world, locked in his own big brain. Michael was hiding inside his own head, and only Michael knew where to find him.
It scared Lincoln that he couldn't reach his brother. Not just because the distance itself was so overwhelming, but because even though Michael was still alive, it wasn't a sure thing that Lincoln would ever see him again. Not if he just disappeared, stayed inside his mental hiding place.
Like the shrink said, only Michael had access to that place, and only Michael could get himself out of it. If he didn't...
“Michael!” Lincoln shouted, shaking his brother violently. “Michael! You shit head, Michael! Don't you ever try that again! If you ever... You don't get to kill yourself until I've kicked your ass for scaring me like this! Michael!”
Michael finally gave a slow blink, as if coming out of a trance. He shifted, eyes slowly sliding back into focus. Then he tensed. “Lincoln?”
“Yes, Lincoln, you little shit!” Lincoln said, near howling with relief. The wound had apparently stopped bleeding, but pulsed dangerously when Michael spoke.
“What the hell were you thinking, huh? Fuck it, Michael, you can't... don't you ever... You tried to kill yourself!” Lincoln said, his voice shaky.
Michael sat up, gazing sorrowfully and shamefacedly at his brother. “No, I didn't. I... I couldn't breathe. When you... I thought you weren't coming. I couldn't breathe. Lincoln, I was going to die! I just... I had to breathe, Lincoln. And then I could breathe, but you still weren't here, and it hurt! And I...”
Lincoln pulled Michael to him in a fierce, desperate hug. “Michael! You cut your throat with a razor blade! Don't you ever, ever scare me like that again!”
Michael gave a pathetic sniffle. “I wasn't...” He sighed. “No, Lincoln. I won't.”
Lincoln cursed himself. He'd hurt Michael again. Why did he always end up hurting Michael? He hugged the younger man tighter. “I'm sorry, Mike. I'm so sorry. I forgot; I didn't mean to... I didn’t do this on purpose, Michael.”
Michael finally relaxed into his brother's strong grip, hugging him back. Lincoln's shirt, already stinking of booze and days without being laundered, was getting soaked through under Michael's cheek.
Lincoln disentangled himself from Michael, then went into the bathroom and found a wash cloth, some antiseptic and a few Band-Aids.
“Take off your tee shirt.”
He instructed Michael to hold still while he cleaned off the blood, swathed the cut (fortunately not deep enough to worry Lincoln; he'd seen his share of minor injuries and this was nothing life threatening) with antiseptic, then clumsily put on a few Band-Aids to cover it all.
Stepping back, Lincoln took in Michael's slumped shoulder, bony rib cage and eyes seemingly too large for his face. He felt another pang of guilt. Michael had always been slim, but never quite this skinny.
“How long since you ate?”
“Don't know,” Michael whispered. “I was waiting for you.”
Lincoln leaned in and placed his lips softly against Michael's forehead, a gentle apology that he'd never been able to bring himself to say out loud, even though he needed to supply it often enough.
Michael whimpered and his fingers went to Lincoln's sturdy arms. “I thought you weren't going to come back.”
Lincoln kissed Michael's temple. “Don't worry, baby brother. I always come back.” His mind added, Stinking of pot and booze, maybe. But I always come back.
“We can call for pizza?” Michael suggested softly, tipping his head back when Lincoln's eyes alighted on his cheek. “I don't... want to go out.”
Lincoln nodded against his little brother's soft skin. “I didn't want you to get hurt, Michael. We'll stay in. Beef and tomato?”
Michael hummed sadly and pulled Lincoln closer. “Don't go?”
“I won't, Mike. Just promise me you won't do it again?”
Lincoln wasn't really too happy about the feelings Michael kept inspiring in him as his little brother rubbed slowly against him, for comfort, for confirmation, for security. He should probably leave his little brother alone until the seventeen year-old nervous wreck had calmed down, then order them both some pizza.
But Michael was so needy, so alone and abandoned, and had already tried to cut through his own throat so he could breathe - all because of Lincoln. So Lincoln held Michael on the bed, letting the younger man rub against him until he finally found the safe haven he was looking for. Then he left Michael to clean himself up while he called for pizza.
Michael stayed in bed, letting Lincoln bring the pizza into his bedroom. He didn't leave the safety of his covers - or Lincoln's body, once the older brother got back in the bed - at all. Not until Lincoln left the bed to make coffee the next morning, and Michael hesitantly padded out to sit tentatively on his worn old couch.
“You done hiding?” Lincoln asked, handing Michael a mug of sugared caffeine. Perhaps not what Michael needed right now, but it was that or orange juice, and it was really too cold for anything chilled. The apartment's heating wasn't too efficient.
They sat underneath the only spare blanket, together on the couch, as Michael drank his coffee. Every time he swallowed, the Band-Aids on his throat moved. Lincoln frowned.
“Hiding?” Michael asked, sounding a little guilty.
“You just... go into your head, sometimes,” Lincoln said. He wished he had a strong drink to get through this conversation. “And I can't find you.”
Michael shivered and leaned into Lincoln. “Sorry. I don't mean to. And I wasn't trying to... kill myself. Really. I just... panicked.”
Lincoln shrugged. It was really all he could do. “I won't disappear like that again. Even for a night.”
An empty promise, he knew. But the only one he could give.
-The End-