It has never happened before. It’s Vee, for crying out loud. They have fought, laughed, wrestled, and tickled each other for half of their lives.
Okay, Vee has done all this to him for half for their lives. Michael has always been too quiet to initiate any of this. But even though he’ll deny it, he’s always liked it; liked it that Vee noticed him and cared about him.
Her hands are light and delicate around his wrists, but they pin his arms above his head with ten times the force Lincoln’s would have. Michael suspects it has nothing to do with Veronica’s actual strength, and everything with the effect she’s having on him. In theory, he could get rid of her with a breath and three fingers. In practice, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.
He’s flat on his back on the floor of Linc’s living room, with Veronica sprawled on top of him, her knees digging into his flanks and her small but full breasts pressed into his face. He breathes her in – she smells like soap, strawberry perfume and cigarette because Lincoln kissed her when she arrived – and his head spins. His hands unclench of their own volition, releasing to Vee’s grasp some book she doesn’t really care about but went after just to annoy him.
“Hey! Paws off of the lady, little shit!”
Lincoln’s protest falls onto them and makes Veronica roll her eyes, something that means ‘Seriously, Lincoln, this is Michael’. It cuts into Michael’s heart just a bit too deeply.
He rolls onto his side the second Veronica is on her feet, and he pulls his tee-shirt down his stomach, tugging it as low as possible.
This has never happened with Vee before, but he’s never been fifteen until now.
He excuses himself to his bedroom.
She’s a nice woman. Pretty and classy and smelling heavenly, just the kind he likes. Hot, Lincoln would say. Hot too, the kissing in the cab, and the petting in the elevator because they couldn’t wait to get to his place. He pants into her neck, lies back on the bed and takes her down with him in one smooth move.
He starts to feel his heart pound in his chest – in a bad, bad way, too hard – when her hands slide up his forearms and she playfully forces his fingers around the bars of the bedpost.
“Let me take care of you.”
Soft lips, soft strands of hair, soft kisses and caresses. He thinks so, at least, because all he can focus on are her hands around his wrists, holding him, restraining him, pinning him down. He tries to breathe calmly, and fails to.
He almost bucks her off him when he sits up, and the second he realizes it, his face takes the darkest, most embarrassed shade of red.
She swallows, rubs her sore shoulder, rubs his slumped shoulder, and doesn’t say that it’s okay. It’s obviously not.
“Do you want me to leave?” He shakes his head. No. “Do you want to pin my arms?” she tries to joke. Too soon, still too mortifying, but it’s the thought that counts so he crooks a sheepish smile.
He’s having a nightmare. Lincoln dying in the chair. But the nightmare hits so close to reality that it’s hard to tell the difference. He’s sweaty and breathing hard, thrashing on his bunk. He keeps flailing maniacally even after he’s awake and standing, leaning against the wall of the cell for support. It takes Sucre grabbing his hands and pinning his arms to his sides to steady him.
“Stop it, Michael,” his cellmate demands in a low and firm tone that brings him back to here and now. “You’re going to wake up the whole damn block. You don’t want badges in here.”
He nods. Sucre’s right, he doesn’t. He looks down in the dark, surprised that Sucre’s hands around his wrists feel so... not panic-inducing. Quite the contrary. They feel good; really good. He tries to step back, but he has his back to the wall and can’t go anywhere, so he moves forward just a little bit. Sucre gasps in shock at the warm pressure against his thigh.
Stifling heat and shadows swallowing everything, kind brown eyes and hands oddly soft despite their callused skin. Michael angles his chin up and brushes his lips against Sucre’s.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“I don’t do that, Fish,” Sucre whispers, before pressing their mouths together despite what he just said.
Michael closes his eyes and relaxes into the kiss. His arms are still tightly held on each side of his body, Sucre holding on to them for dear life.
Bright light, mattress nicer than usual and cold steel around his wrist. He wakes up in the infirmary under the watch of Doctor Tancredi. Sara. She’s sitting at her desk and looks up when he moves on the small bed.
That’s bad. That’s really bad. That’s a recipe for disaster. He yanks on the handcuffs chain, although he doesn’t know what he expects or hopes.
“Sorry about that,” Sara says. “The guard thought it was necessary and...” She throws a look through the open door and scrunches her nose. “... and he left.” She goes through her own collection of keys and triumphantly waves one of them. “Here.”
She uncuffs him, her fingers so careful and nimble, and it only makes things worse. Cheeks slightly flushed, he bends his legs at the knees under the sheet and lets his head drop back into the pillow; only to whip it up when she mutters something about needing to examine him.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I am the doctor here, Mr. Scofield,” she reminds him a bit coldly.
“Please wait a few minutes, Doctor?”
She takes in his position, the pink of his cheeks, the hint of alarm in his voice, the amused/self-conscious twinkle in his eyes, and she stills where she was about to pull down the blanket.
“It happens,” she says matter-of-factly. Before giving him the few minutes he asked for, she pats his knee. The touch travels straight up to his lower belly and sits hot and heavy in it. He wonders if she meant it as a reassuring gesture, or as a small retaliation for some of his provocations and antics.
Somewhere in Oklahoma, they fight. Ten minutes later, Michael can’t even remember the reason for their dispute, but in his defense, he has other things on his mind.
Anyway, they fight; they roll on the ground, grab and push and pull. Lincoln lets Michael have the upper hand for at least thirty seconds because he’s a nice big brother, not the dumb muscle-bound asshole you’d think, then pins Michael beneath him because he can and it’s how things are supposed to be.
Michael can’t outfight him. Moreover, Michael doesn’t mind too much being pinned and held down, as long as it’s by someone he cares about and trusts; even moreso if that someone is Lincoln. Lincoln leans up a bit on his elbows and stares him in the eye. There’s no way he misses the reaction their position elicits in Michael. It’s nothing new. It’s nothing they’ve had the guts to address before. Maybe, though, it’s now or never, so when Michael tries to wriggle his way out of Lincoln’s embrace, Lincoln holds him tighter and pushes him harder into the ground under him. He traps him for good.
Michael suffocates under Lincoln’s hard body. He loves it. It makes sense, anyway: he’s always almost choked on his blend of affection, love and yearning for Linc. Lincoln pushes against Michael’s left knee to part his legs wider, slots himself between them and rolls his hips. Just once. Michael whimpers, the sound so needy that it’s even more embarrassing than his other reactions to Lincoln’s closeness.
“You don’t want to do that,” he whispers, crazily, wisely trying to talk Linc out of it.
“We’re out of Fox River. You’re done telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
Lincoln rubs and grinds down until Michael arches up to meet his thrusts and comes in his pants, pleasure white and red flickering behind his eyelids and pulsing in his veins. Lincoln catches his startled grunt in a rough kiss.
Michael would swear of nothing, but he thinks Lincoln comes too, right after him. He closes his eyes and lies limply under the comforting weight of his brother.
He’s locked between them. Between Lincoln who’s sitting on the bed with his back to the pillow, and Sara who moves lazily on top of him as if she’s done it forever and will do it forever – the latter may be true. His arms are held above him and curled around Lincoln’s torso in an odd backwards embrace, his hands caught behind Lincoln’s back and pushed into the bedding. He rests his head on his brother’s muscular thigh and relaxes as best he can. Lincoln’s erection is hot and sticky against his jaw, and twitches in synchronization with Sara’s moans; his hands squeeze Michael’s forearms in a deliciously too-strong grip, hinting that he won’t be happy with just watching and holding.
“I don’t care which one,” Lincoln groans, “but I’m fucking one of you after.”
Sara is too far gone to do anything but look up and smirk at him. She licks her lips, either in anticipation of watching them together or having Lincoln herself, and bears down as deep as she can.
Michael can’t move. Sara riding him, Lincoln restraining his arms, the two of them holding him down on the bed. He’s locked and secured. His mouth falls open, pleasure too intense to be vocalized.
Sara’s breasts tease his chest when she bends down to kiss him, hard nipples and smooth skin grazing him. It tugs Lincoln down too, as if he was linked to her by a string, and he leans in and licks the sweat off her back. The pressure increases on Michael’s arms, forcing his elbows at an awkward and painful angle. He doesn’t care – scratch that, he revels in it.
The handcuffs, the silk ties and the rope, Sara’s pale pink lace bra too, everything they’d envisioned to use today lies worthless and discarded on the floor by the bed. They didn’t need it. Who would need it when he has Lincoln’s hands, huge and warm and unrelenting around his arms, while Sara straddles him and pins his thighs and shoulders to the bed? They provide all at once the lightest and strongest, the safest hold.
He’s down and locked between them. He never wants to stand.