callmetofu (callmetofu) wrote,

DTL (*dundundun*)

Title: DTL (*dundundun*)
Pairing: Michael/Sucre (Lincoln)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Beta: goshdarnheck
Category: Angst, Romance
Summary: Don't know how much you need it till it's gone. Michael decides to go after Sucre.

Fly safe, papi.

The words fall easily from his lips, without thought. Ever since the plan started Michael's life has been full of things never done, never seen and never thought before. It seems ridiculous now and far away.

What is real is this: The smell of Sucre's neck. The weight of Sucre's hand against Michael's shoulder. The salty taste against Michael's lips.

And the light of Sucre's smile.

Michael is losing a friend.

He wants this. It is the right thing to do. He is happy for Sucre. Of all the things Michael has screwed up maybe this is the only drop of good karma in his bowl. There's a warmth blooming in his heart as he watches Sucre walk away, towards a better place.

And yet, with each step Sucre takes the cold creeps back in Michael's bones.


They are driving into nothingness. There's no before and no after. Michael's world has turned into a universe of frayed threads and he's not allowed to move on before he's picked up every single one. There is no plan anymore. No greater, shining goal. Suddenly Michael can no longer see what lays beyond the horizon.

What they are doing is wrong, just stumbling ahead, following whatever comes their way.

No plan, no map, no future.

Michael's chest constricts. They are surrounded by an endless space and yet there is no room to breathe.

This is where he is supposed to be. It's his mess, it's his to clean up. He has nowhere else to go. His life now is an unlit road as they are speeding over it, haunted, with no signs, no life and no ending. None of this is home.

Right now, it seems no longer worth going on without Sucre's smile in his life.

Michael tells himself that he is where he is supposed to be going. Even as his mind starts to see his own nephew as a hemorrhaging wound that will cost them their escape, even as each meeting with the doctor feels suspiciously like swallowing glass shards. Even as he begins to wonder if he's starting to hate his own brother.

Sucre was... unexpected. Michael doesn't remember having had a friend before. Friendships were work, he remembers, a carefully woven web of appropriate social activities, exchanged gifts, common goals and background. Relationships were complicated, especially the ones not based on blood. Instead everything about the plan had been hard. The only thing that had worked smooth, effortlessly was them Sucre and Scofield; a little smile, an awkward handshake and just ... breathe.

Michael makes a fist, squeezing bones together tightly as pounding headache threatens to split his skull. He runs his hand over his eyes. He steals a glance at his brother, the terse expression in his eyes, the clenched jaw. Linc and him, underneath they are still made from the same cloth. When Michael looks into the doctor's eyes, he sees himself reflected there. She's just like him, strong, intelligent, and an innocent caught in this game. But Sucre...,

Sucre is unlike anyone Michael has ever known.

Sucre is light.

Sucre is hope.

Michael doesn't know where he is going.


When he finds her, they yell at each other. Her perfect lips pout and her curls bob up and down and Sucre is too happy to have it all back to care. She beats his chest and wraps her arms around him and when he kisses her she tastes a bit like honey.

He leans her forehead against hers and his heartbeat speeds up and this time there are two lives inside of her. She keeps yelling at him and crying and smiling and hitting, her grandma squawks and raises her pan and Sucre still can't get the smile off his face.

He settles back into the chair and peels an orange while Nana begins to shift the blame from irresponsible youths with no jobs to girls with too much makeup and Sucre doesn't bother to stand up because he knows Maricruz's grandmother enough to know that even if she raises her hand, she would never *lower* it in rage on her beloved granddaughter and unborn grandchild. Instead he smiles some more.

Sucre knows his family and he knows Maricruz's as well. Laments have to be uttered, at this point they are mere background noise. He has walked through the hells and now he can withstand everything. When Nana Delago shakes her head at him and calls him a fool in love he beams at her as if she'd offered him a medal.

He has come and he has won.

They will be a family.


Michael's heart is unease. There is a new player on the board, but he's yet another unknown quantity, another key piece that Michael is not prepared for. Their new ally's words are smooth, Michael has to admit that, but it's too clean, too easy. Michael doesn't have all the information. There is no road map to follow, no sign to lead them the right way, just this new man's word. By now Michael knows, the new players only bring new lies and new complications.

Michael slumps to the floor. His throat is dry and the brick wall is rough against his back. It's a small comfort that Lincoln doesn't trust their new "friend" either. Muffled conversation seeps from the next room and Michael can't bring himself to care. Just one moment of rest and he'll return to sharpness, the sharpness that they need to survive, the sharpness that everybody expect from him. Even their new acquaintance has it in his eyes, sizing Michael up, expecting things, expecting the great Michael Scofield.

Michael's eyes flap open and he scans his surroundings. An empty room in an nondescript basement in an abandoned nondescript building. His throat closes up as he pictures both of them, himself and Lincoln, drenched in their own blood exhaling their lives, too soon, too soon, always too soon, right here on the unwashed floor.

No, Lincoln made him give up the gun.

His eyes adjust to the darkness. On the wall there's an old phone. A dark brown piece, old fashioned, with a coiled cord, slowly collecting dust in the darkness. Michael pushes himself away from the wall and runs his fingers over it.

Their new "friend" will want something. He will offer new threads, new escapes, but it never comes for free. Michael has long since given up the hope that he won't pay for it with his soul, one way or another.

Sucre, Sucre, Sucre...

It always was a risk. Or rather, it was an option. Now it's a certainty. Some time ago, it seems far, far away now, he was still stupid enough to think that he could beat the odds.

Sucre, Sucre, Sucre...

He doesn't even have a number. Not yet. Sucre just left. It will take time to reach his destination and he'll probably want to spend some time with his bride. Maybe a few days from now there's be a note. And maybe in a few months there will be baby pictures and a grinning family at a secret photo account.

Maybe Michael will get to see them, if he's still alive.

"It's not supposed to be easy," he tells the unspeaking apparatus.


Lincoln is leaning back in his chair, popping his head into the open door.

"'You say something?"


Michael goes back in and takes charge. Just like he is supposed to.

He's the hero, that's what he does.


Michael is asleep, peacefully and for the first time in what seems like an eternity on a soft, yielding mattress. There's a window open because a playful breeze tickles his chest. He knows they are in Panama because the air is warm and humid. He's never felt so comfortable in his life.

A cheeky hand strokes his ankle and dances up his calf. Michael's lips break out into a wide smile. He can almost feel the warm honey colored skin gliding over his own and then a warm mouth fastens around his dick. He moans and arches his back, thrusting into the suckling velvet warmth.

Sucre, Sucre, Sucre...

Michael jerks up in his sleep and almost bumps his head against the window. Just another speed bump and for now he is too tired to even get upset that Lincoln is going too fast. Lincoln always goes to fast. Michael has given up asking him to do otherwise.

"Just...," he mumbles.


"Nothing." He stares out on the road in front of them. "Where are we?"

"I took a detour. Don't really trust that guy. No sense to lead him straight."

"No, I guess not," Michael says rubbing his eyes tiredly.

The silence between them draws out longer and just as Michael is ready to fall asleep again, Lincoln lets out a small cough.

"Is this a doctor thing?"

Michael frowns. "No. Yes. No." He sighs. "It's none of your business."

"You have been tired. That is my business."

When I fall, so do you. Michael closes his eyes and bites back a snide remark.

"It's nothing."

"You are thinking about something. I can tell."

I always think. In fact, I always think of everything. Why take notice now?

"Nothing special."

"Will you be alright?"

He can see his brother getting tense again. Rubbing his brow Michael sinks back deeper in his seat. "I'll handle it."


Michael bites the inside of his cheek as he stares at the landscape rushing by. The car is an empty hollow, if it weren't for the hum of the motor and the sound of their breaths.

"You think they made it?" He finally asks.


"The others. The good ones." Westmoreland didn't make it. Tweener didn't make it. Other than Sucre, there are no more good ones left."

"Hasn't been anything on the news lately."

But they both know that people disappear these days, without the news knowing.

Lincoln taps his fingers against the wheel and snorts. "Why is that the cockroaches, like T-Bag, always live the longest?"

Conversation stalls again and both of them stare quietly at the road.

"You are worried for your friend."

Michael rubs his eyes, too tired to fight. He's two seconds away from just curling up against the window and no longer listening to what Lincoln has to say.


"He'll be alright." Lincoln says finally.

"He has a baby on the way."

Lincoln throws him a look in the interior mirror. The thoughts Of course I know, it's not like he would ever shut up about it. echo through the car, unspoken. It would probably be best to shut up around now, but the words keep working their way up Michael's throat. "He'll be meeting her in Mexico, at her grandmothers. The plane won't be able to take him all the way, but he is crafty." He trails off again. "Maybe we could visit them one day."

He can feel Lincoln's eyes boring into him.

"Is there something I should know?"

Yes, he was going to name his child after me.

She waited for him and he was so happy.

"No," he says and it is true. There never was anything, just smiles and arms brushing against each other and companionship. Back then it seemed like such a little thing. Right now, it would make every difference in the world.

Michael's got a feeling that Lincoln doesn't really believe him and they spend the rest of the drive in silence.


He slips on his glasses. His Clark Kent disguise never fails to make him smile a bit. The Internet Cafe is as hidden as he could hope for. Michael descends a flight of stairs into a windowless room. Ripped posters cover every wall and the closest to a distinguishing feature are several old pillowed chairs around coffee tables. A lonely TV set hangs from the ceiling in a corner. The stations are lined up near the back and quickly he slips behind one up against far off the wall.

His fingers fly over the keys. It feels wonderful, like creating a lifeline to reality. He still steals glances at the door. It's useless really, Lincoln is waiting upstairs. If they really came down, it means that they would have gotten Linc and it would all be over anyway.

Michael's heart skip a beat when he reads over the lines he's been looking for, much earlier than he anticipated. He allows himself another secret smile even if he knows that he won't go there soon, maybe even never. He runs his thumb over the screen. It makes him feel connected.

A moment later Michael's back straightens abruptly. He has learned that the signal of the special news report rarely ever means good news for them. Almost timidly he raises his voice to the screen. The newscaster is wearing purple today. Her hair is in a tight little bun. The picture next to her sends chills down Michael's bones.

"In the latest developments in the pursuit of the Fox River Eight, another inmate was recovered. Benjamin Franklin, also knows as C-Note, was ambushed at his hideout near Baxtonville. His wife and child...".

Michael's throat dries out. He doesn't wait for the next sentences. On the way up he nearly throws his brother over. His voice sounds strident to his own ears.

"We are leaving."


"We are going after Sucre."

Lincoln frowns. "Why?"

Michael doesn't bother to answer and strides towards their car. He doesn't have to turn around. He already knows that Lincoln will follow. Just a second later Linc is sinking into the seat next to him.

"Why?" he repeats.

Michael closes his eyes. It's not a bad plan he tells himself as his brain rattles down travel routes, options and scenarios. Maybe it would be good for them to disappear for a while. It will be a move that Mahone won't expect. That Kellerman won't expect. What is expected is for them to take the most direct line towards their next clue, right into the next trap. They have broken out of prison, but now their cage stretches from border to border. Maybe this will be their chance to break out of it.

Beyond that, underneath the facade of coolness and self-control, lurks a creeping, crawling eternal sense of dread. Like in a terrible horror movie there always seem to be eyes staring at the back of his neck, an invisible enemy waiting to catch up any moment he lets down his guard. We need each other. All of us. We need to stick together. Otherwise they won't survive.

Michael has never been a superstitious person. He's always told the story how his brother taught him to face the monster. But now it feels like there are doors again. Doors upon doors and most of them invisible. Somehow that makes it even worse.

"We have to leave, " he says hoarsely.


It takes Michael 20 minutes to calm down and then he sends Linc into the next internet cafe to get the details, find them a map. Michael waits. He can't bring himself to go inside again. They exchange a short nod when Lincoln emerges.

"You really want this," Lincoln says and snatches the printouts away when Michael reaches for them. Seems that you never fully outgrow puberty. Michael meets his brother's gaze and feels his determination falter.

"It's a good plan."

An endless moment passes between them and then Lincoln lazily massages the back of is neck.

"Might not be worst thing." He throws Michael the key. "This time you drive."

Not wanting to analyze Lincoln's mood Michael slips behind the wheel. He closes his eyes when he starts up the engine. This is a good thing, he reminds himself. The guilt washes over him again.

"Thank you," he says.

"What for? It's only fair that you have to drive for once."

Michael swallows. There is so much there is to say. "I know sometimes it looks like all of this is just my quest. That doesn't mean..." It doesn't mean that you don't matter. I will help you to exonerate yourself. I still care. Only sometimes it just feels unfair that you still have a chance to be innocent when I don't. He falters.

"Mike, " his brother gives him a reassuring smile. "It's fine."

"Promise?" Michael blurts out only to feel sheepish afterwards.

"Yes, and now drive."

And Mike believes.


He drives for six hours and when they switch Michael curls up in the backseat. His eyes drift shut as the steady movement of the car lulls him to sleep.

His dreams are confused shapes and feelings. He and Linc are running through the jungle, sweat trickling down their backs, muscles aching from the strain. The air is heavy and filled with the cries of wild animals. They arrive at a steep cliff and he holds his brother's hands when he jumps.

On a pure white beach Sucre stands with Maricruz, a jeweled blue veil dancing around them like a flag. Her face is in shadows. Michael only knows her from the pictures Sucre kept in his cell, but here in his dream she is faceless. The sea laps casually at the shore and the waves are crowned with white foam. There is no wind and if he didn't have to hurry he would wonder why that makes no sense. The sun is burning in his eyes.

Michael runs breathlessly through the sand and it burns the soles of his feet.

The car's warm interior cradles him and Michael frowns in his sleep. He is not rushing to break up his friend's happiness.

Is he?


"We should have called him," says Lincoln and Michael shakes his head.

"I left a message."

"You sure this is the right place?" Lincoln paces. He is still uneasy being out of the country. Michael closes his eyes and leans against the car. They both freeze as they hear a car approaching.

It's Sucre, jumping out of an old Chevy, wearing a huge smile on his face. "You are crazy," he yells. "I can't believe you came, Fish."

Michael's feet almost sag away with each step and he nearly stumbles into Sucre's hug. His cheeks hurt from the grin that splits his lips as the squeezes Sucre close. Wouldn't want to miss the wedding, he wants to say, but the words die in his throat when he looks into Sucre's eyes.

Sucre's fingers curl at the back of Michael's neck and then his thumb strokes Michael's cheek. "I still can't believe it," Sucre whispers, laughing breathlessly and Michael can only smile in return.

Warm fingers trail down Michael's arm and then Sucre shakes his hands, still unable to believe that this is really happening. Finally he tears himself from Michael's gaze, and Michael is pulled towards the waiting car.

"Come, you have to meet her."

Two minutes later Michael is shaking hands with an elderly lady and then with slightly bored looking girl. He doesn't have to hear her name, he already knows who she is. He doesn't meet her eyes when he grips her hand. He doesn't want to know her. He doesn't want to like her. It's enough for him to see the way Sucre beams at her and how he proudly slings his arms around her shoulders.

"Nice to meet you," she breathes. "I have heard so much about you."

Michael nods and searches Lincoln with his gaze. His brother is currently under the suspicious scrutiny of mama Delago, but he's taking it with a stride.

"He hasn't talked about anything else since he got your message," a soft voice says close to his ear.

"I'm glad," he replies. He slowly takes his eyes off Lincoln and his eyes seek Sucre's smile again.

"Let's go then," Sucre grins. "There'll be food."


There is food and Michael lets himself relax as they wolf down Maricruz's grandma's homemade tamales. It amazing how no matter where you are, the kitchen is always the most comfortable spot of any place. Michael remembers barely ever using his own. This one here is filled with light, the clatter of pots and the chatter of its inhabitants.

The afternoon passes quickly, like dream. As night falls he finds himself at the back of the house in the car with Sucre, glad for this chance to talk alone.

The light is already fading and he only anticipate Sucre's expressions. "Wait, you have to listen to this song," Sucre says and fumbles to find the right frequency. Michael breathes in his scent as he leans forward. His hand finds Sucre's knee and he is surprised that Sucre doesn't move away. Do Latino men really touch each other so much more? All he knows that it's different with Sucre, far away from the restrained environment he grew up in. Sucre is spontaneous and natural rather than poised and deliberate. So different from what Michael has with his brother.

He lays two fingers on Sucre's leg and leans in. "I missed you," he says and softly presses his lips against warm and soft ones in the dark. It's a chaste kiss, lips resting against lips before he draws back.

"Oh Fish," Sucre whispers with much sadness in his voice, "you know I don't do that kind of thing."

"But I do," Michael says and kisses him again. He is bolder this time, opening his lips against Sucre's mouth. His hand touches the side of Sucre's face and Sucre doesn't move.

The words just won't come.

They both jerk up when a clattering crash and a mewling cat followed by a litany of curses announce that Lincoln seems to have taken the opportunity to stretch his legs.

Michael's heart sinks when Sucre pulls away and his hand slips off Sucre's cheek. He should have known. But he can't bring himself to feel ashamed for it. He's tried his bit and he lost. He can feel the splitting headache coming back.


He follows Sucre on automatic and almost bumps into him when Sucre stops. His friend's shape grips Michael's sleeve and leads him away. Around the house, instead of back in. Sucre babbles uncomfortably about the climate, the fishing situation and some story about road kill as the walk along the beach. They plop down on the cool sand. Michael joins in when Sucre strips his shoes off and lets the surf lap over his feet.

He rests his chin on his knee and starts to drown out Sucre's attempts to keep up the conversation until his brain filters out the one essential word.

"... Maricruz ..."

Michael's hand darts up Sucre's leg and before Sucre can respond Michael catches him again in a long, longing, desperate kiss. He has this one chance to keep this opportunity from slipping away. Thousand thoughts dance in Michael's head as he struggles to put them into words, to explain just why this means to much. Helplessly, he rests his forehead against Sucre's throat. In a cascading chain reaction, his shoulder leans into Sucre and his knee bumps into Sucre's leg, each contact increasing the sharpness of his need. He wants to fall into him.

Slowly Michael lets the heat peter out, focusing solely on breathing against Sucre's warm skin. Suddenly, he is even more lost.

"Don't you want to ask me?" he starts.

He can sense Sucre looking away. "About what?"

"About why I came."

Sucre turns and meets Michael's gaze, his eyes huge, just a hint of glitter in the night's darkness. "Maybe I don't want to know."

Michael can feel a knot building in his throat. "Please, don't..." Don't make it this way. "I have spent so much time being everybody's hope, I have lost my own. I can't live like this." He grips Sucre's legs, his fingers twisting against rough denim. "I don't think I can live without hope. I...I don't want to cause you pain."

He can feel himself choking up just as the words begin to flow. Michael hates himself like that. He twists around, intensely aware of Sucre's body right in front of him. The way his jeans hug shapely muscular legs, the way his chest moves with each breath. Behind his sweet and unassuming appearance, Sucre has the body of a Greek statue, a piece of art. He can't believe that there was a time when he lived, and breathed, and slept right next to this and didn't even notice because he was too busy and too captivated by Sucre's charm to really, truly see. He finds Sucre's eyes again, sinking and drowning in those endless pools.

"I have never met anybody like you. Your face," he stumbles. "Everything is in there, every thought, every feeling." He catches Sucre's chin, pulling him back to face this confession. "When you laugh, when you frown,.. you never hide anything, you let everybody read you like a book." I wish I could be like that.

He runs his palms over Sucre's chest and to his surprise Sucre lets himself be pushed down into the sand. Their bodies sink into each other as Michael covers Sucre's with his own. Shoulder's bump against shoulder's, his nose against the side of Sucre's face.

He wants to tell Sucre everything, about the dreams, about how the thought of Sucre kept him going on. Instead he finds the little buttons on Sucre's shirt, pulling, twisting them open. He welcomes each slip of naked skin with a kiss, till he's hover on the edge of Sucre's belt. "Oh Fish," Sucre sighs above him. "que estas haciendo?".

Michael tugs the buckle open and flicks the button underneath open with his thumb. He travels up again, kissing the side of Sucre's face as the zipper splits apart with a soft whirr. His hand finds soft curls and Sucre's warm, silky dick, just on the verge of hardness. Michael strokes it alive as Sucre bucks underneath him. His own body has been on edge the whole day, just from being close to Sucre. Kissing his way down again, he pulls his own pants open, sighing with relief as the cool night air strokes over heated hard flesh.

Kneeling between Sucre's legs he plops a small package of lube from the pocket of his jeans. It makes him blush, to be so calculating, but when he bought it, it represented hope. He leans in again to kiss Sucre's hipbone before he slowly pushes Sucre's knees up to his chest. Sucre's breathing becomes more labored and more panicked. He can feel Sucre freeze and he know that it's foolish to ask for this. But he can't think of any other way to make Sucre understand.

"On your side," he whispers pleadingly and Sucre obeys. Littering Sucre's shoulders with heated kisses her slides behind him, squeezing Sucre's dick with slick fingers till Sucre rocks back against him again. He slides one arm underneath Sucre's head and presses close. Michael hopes that Sucre can feel that his heart beats wildly against Sucre's back. Filled to the brim with need Michael sinks his teeth into the spot where Sucre's back joins the body sucking hungrily as he works one finger between Sucre's beautiful full quivering cheeks. He works swiftly, adding a second finger and a third as Sucre's moans helplessly in his arms. Twisting Sucre's head back Michael finds Sucre's lips as he starts to push in. Be with me, he thinks as he guides himself inside and swallows Sucre's visceral groan with his own.

The body under him quivers and resists, impossibly tight as Sucre rolls over over and thrusts his ass up. Michael can feel every muscle under him shaking as Sucre drags his face over the sand and moans "Just do it Michael!" And Michael does. He pulls Sucre's hips up to meet him and slams into the willing body in front of him, eliciting a wounded howl from Sucre. Almost angrily he jacks Sucre's dick, wringing an orgasm from him. He never would have picked Sucre for a screamer and he prays that they are far enough away. He want, no he needs to be *there* first so Michael can follow. Still stiff, unaccustomed to each other, their bodies join in a frenzied coupling till Michael can feel Sucre starting to shoot long, cool streams of seed into Michael's hand. Sucre's body contracts around Michael's dick, pulling him right over the edge. Michael's world explodes in ecstasy.


He spends the night lying in Sucre's arms. He remembers talking, whispered confessions of fear and guilt. About Westmoreland's face as he left him behind, of Tweener and Sara and all the others he left behind. He knows that Sucre is feeling helpless and so he whispers, over and over, against Sucre's legs that it's okay, that he doesn't need more except to feel Sucre's body around him and Sucre's hand stroking his head. He falls asleep once or twice and every time he jolts awake from a nightmare Sucre's is still there. He remembers how the warmth and, he assumes, the color, slowly returned to Sucre's cheeks.

In the wake of dawn they walk back, slowing down the closer they come to Sucre's house. Before they walk through the door Michael halts and turns around.

"Does Maricruz let you, you know," Michael jokes and wriggles his behind a bit. He grins at Sucre's timid blush.


"What about... the Monica Lewinski?" God, he's really terrible at this.

Sucre blinks. "Of course. "

"But, at least she can't cook."

"Actually, she really can't," Sucre says thoughtfully.

Michael gins and playfully backs Sucre against the wall. "Damn, me neither." He revels in Sucre's laughter and then cuts it off with a tender kiss. Their kisses grow more fervent and Michael boldly pushes himself against Sucre's leg. He feels rotten for a moment showing Sucre exactly what there is that Maricruz definitely doesn't have. Michael groans happily when he feels Sucre's arms sliding around his waist, curious hands feeling him up and squeezing his ass.

His hand flies up behind Sucre's neck, tilting his face upwards for a mind numbing deep kiss.

"Bed, now," Michael orders and they stumble upstairs, crashing into walls and each other as strip off each other's clothes.

He pushes Sucre onto the bed. His fingers fly over his lover's, lover, lover, lover, his mind repeats happily, chest. He can't get enough of Sucre's body. Every taste of it sends his pallet into a new frenzy and lets him moan as heavy lust fills him to the brim. Sinking his gaze into Sucre's eyes he kisses down the rippling belly, kissing along the still denim covered hipbones towards the middle. His arms sling around Sucre's legs and hold them down as Sucre threatens to leap off the bed.

Michael strokes his fingers over Sucre's soles and rejoices when he feels Sucre's muscles tremble. Sucre's eyes widen when Michael licks the zipper and Michael's body chimes in response as if something struck a chord. He pulls Sucre's jeans open and frees Sucre's from the confines of his clothes.

The warm cock feels pleasantly heavy in Michael's hand. He vows to commemorate the expression on Sucre's face forever as he slides his mouth over the beautifully shaped mushroom head. It's an almost orgiastic feeling it itself. Michael is no expert in this either, his experience accumulating a some very few encounters back in college. He know he can't be that good at this and yet when Sucre looks at him he feels like some kind of god. He closes his eyes to turn his attention back to the flesh, to worship it with all the skill or non-skill he possesses. He flicks his tongue over the tiny slit at the head. Sucre's moans are music to his ears. He licks his way down the whole length and feels something twitch inside of him in response. His body is on fire just from having Sucre in his mouth and he realizes that he wants Sucre inside of him in every way. Michael softly hums against the base of Sucre's dick, never once taking his attention off it, as he slides down his own jeans, freeing himself for Sucre. He sucks Sucre in deeper as he plays with himself. All outside aids seem far away now as he preps himself and works to slick Sucre with his mouth.

It's crazy idea, but right now Michael's brain isn't even close to being in control. His body talks and his body wants Sucre! Regretfully Michael tears himself from Sucre's dick and climbs atop the bed. He runs his hands over Sucre's chest before grabbing hold of Sucre's throbbing member. He holds Sucre's gaze as he places it against his opening.

Sucre, Sucre, Sucre...

Michael moans and winces with the combination of pleasure and pain as he impales himself on Sucre's dick. His head rolls back and he is grateful for Sucre's hand on his waist that hold him, steady him. He entwines one hand with Sucre's squeezing their fingers together as he rides himself to orgasm.


He wakes up without Michael next to him and bolts upwards. Michael, standing on the foot of the bed, already half clothed, whirls around and meets his gaze. It shouldn't go this fast. He shouldn't be this used to Michael that a shock goes through his body when Michael isn't next to him. He meets Michael's smile and his heart beats faster, almost shyly so.

Throwing the covers back Fernando jumps out of bed. He slips behind Michael and slides his arms around Michael's chest. He must be crazy, all his friends would tell him so, because he has this man in his arms and even when this man looks up to him with Sucre's dick between his beautiful luscious lips all Sucre can think of is that he has never respected anyone so much.

He buries his nose in Michael's neck. It smells of fresh and soap and Michael. Curious he lurks over Michael's shoulder and meets both their eyes in the mirror. Michael frowns at he smoothes over his loose white shirt. There's dark blue lines peeking forth between white fabric and Michael's head falls back with a sigh when Fernando runs his hand over them. Sucre's dick jumps when Michael's lips start nipping his throat.

"Michael!" he groans breathlessly as his hips thrust forward. Their fingers interlocked they rock together.

"I wish I didn't have them," Michael says.

Sucre stares at him and Michael slowly nods his head in the direction of the mirror where Sucre's hand still helplessly traces curled lines on Michael's chest. Michael's eyes dreamily find his reflection and together they sway back and forth. Michael's hand touches the glass to trace himself.

"It just feels like I will never be naked again." His eyes are earnest when he turns his head and meets Sucre's. "I wish I could be naked for you."

Wordlessly Sucre pulls Michael into a hug and holds him, his naked body flush against the rough denim of Michael's jeans and the soft cotton of his shirt. His heart beats like it it's about a burst. "Michael," he whispers and when Michael pulls back he cups Michael's face with his hands. "I just want you to know," Michael's eyes sink into his, these endless pools of blue that any man could lose himself in.


Fernando doesn't know how to deal with it. It's all too much. Michael is a vortex of bottled up intensity and feeling. He has seen Michael focused before, on the plan, on his brother, on the doctor and his task, he can barely believe that all this breathless intensity is focused on him now.

"Whatever happens, I want you to know that I could never say no to you," he stutters. And there it is out, his secret, why he let Michael into his body on the beach at night. Because who could ever deny this intensity? He doesn't know whether he considered himself a good person or a bad person before this, but he knows that he isn't meant to say no to this.


Michael sits in a chair on the front lawn when he hears the car roll in. He contemplates getting up, but instead sinks back, closing his eyes. Car doors opening, chatter, steps, car doors closing, front door. One set of steps separates moves from gravel to concrete to dry grass. Michael smiles and opens his eyes.


"Good to find you... dressed."

Lincoln throws himself into the chair next to him. It creaks and shudders suspiciously but Michael suspects that Lincoln keeps it upright just through the force of his cool.

"So, where did you go?"

"Market in the city. If you are wondering, she doesn't suspect anything. At least not anymore. She found hats. No woman suspects something if she's got hats."

He can feel that his brother has something to say judging from the way he shifts around in his chair. Finally he gets up and starts pacing till he crouches down in front of Michael's chair.

"You know we have to leave," he says firmly and Michael nods.

"I'll go with you. You need me."


"I'm not staying."

Lincoln's fingers close around his Michael's knee and he feels himself being yanked forward.

"Don't make me have to tell you to go for what you really want. It's time I did something for you. All my life I only did what I wanted. Now it's your turn."

"No, you didn't." You stayed with Lisa when LJ was born. You stayed with me.

"You think I sacrificed for you?" Lincoln hisses.


"You think I would sacrifice for an idiot who would rather ruin his life than be happy? You want to help me? Then don't ruin it." Lincoln's anger wilts away and his brother falters. "Just..., bet happy. Whatever you do be happy."

"Thanks," he offers weakly, again.

Lincoln slips on his shades and it's stupid because the sun has already started to set. "Look, bro, I was always here to clean up your messes. Not my fault that up until now you never made any." He smiles wryly. "At least none that I could fix."
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