When Alex had come back to Sona, Michael had realized soon that something in him had changed.
The first time he had walked inside the Panamanian prison, the former federal agent had proven himself little disposed to giving in, to accept what had happened without fighting or doing nothing to go on.
When they had come to get him, Michael had believed Alex had been right hoping and not surrendering, but something had to have gone horribly wrong, and he could also imagine pretty well what.
If what the feds wanted from him was to testify, he couldn’t see how Alex could’ve done that in the state he was in.
But what Michael was interested in was not his testifying or what would’ve come from that.
He wouldn’t have cared much for him if it hadn’t been that, when he had seen him coming back, he had felt suddenly relieved.
Michael couldn’t understand why, nor he was prone to auto-analyse himself to find out.
He couldn’t think about anything but what his brother had told him, and perhaps it had been that change of course of his mind that he had liked so much.
He kept being obsessed by Sara’s face.
He kept thinking about what had happened to her, in a vicious circle alwys ending up in the certainty that her death was his fault.
He walked, flanking the prison’s yard, determined to find Alex before he met anyone else.
He didn’t know why Alex should be the one to tear him away from his demons, but he knew he needed someone to.
He found him in his cell, dark because of the worn cloth hanging in front of the window; Mahone was crouched on the thin mattress, his knees up to his chest.
The stared at a blank spot in front of him, torturing his lips with his teeth, a gesture that could’ve easily passed for nervousness alone, but in which Michael could see clearly the sings of withdrawal.
He sat on the floor in front of the bed, looking in the same direction as him.
“Welcome back.” he murmured. “I thought you weren’t going to set foot in Sona again.” he conceded himself a sarcastic smile.
By the corner of his eye he saw Alexander frowning, then shrugging.
“It looks like I wasn’t as useful as they thought I would be.” he turned to face the younger one, worried. “But I still have something to count on, don’t I? Your plan...”
“We’re getting out of here.” Michael interrupted him, dry, convincing both Mahone and himself.
They kept quiet for a few more minutes, and this time it was Alex who spoke first.
“Whistler told me what happened. He told me about Sara. I’m sorry, Michael.” he said, his tone so flat that Scofield doubted his words.
“I’ll take Whistler out of here, I’ll do what they want. And after I’ll make sure that my nephew is alright I’ll take that...” he paused, sighing and running his hands on his face. “I’ll do what I have to.” he finished.
He turned to face Alex, finding him still torturing his lower lips, and now his hands scratching his palms incessantly.
Michael was worried about him, and not for some sudden rush of compassion, but for the success of the escape.
He knelt, putting a hand on his face and forcing him to look him in the eyes.
Even in the darkness of the cell, he could clearly see the shadows under his eyes, he could see the sweat on his forehead; he could see his desperation, and despite all Michael still believed that expression wasn’t too different from his own right now.
He didn’t give Alex time to react; he leant toward him, resting his lips on Mahone’s.
But, against all odds, Alex didn’t fight it.
He let Michael kiss him for a few seconds, staying perfectly still, before kissing him back, opening his lips and searching the other’s tongue with his own.
A few minutes and they had to pull back. Mahone stayed sitting on the mattress, astonished, while Michael stood up and quickly let down the sheet working as a door, before going back to him.
“Why did you do that?” the older one asked, curious more than anything.
“And why did you let me?”
They both knew the answers, but neither was willing to admit the truth.
They went back searching for each other’s mouth, almost brutal in their movements, while Alex pulled the younger one together with him on the bed, quickly removing his shirt.
Michael let go, for this was what he wanted, what he needed.
He needed those hands and that mouth on his skin, to feel Alex’s weight on him, so as to distract him, to make him forget for a while all that was going on.
He wanted to become estranged to the world, Michael, and to do it he had chosen the darkness of that cell and the desperation on the man under him.
He let Mahone undress him quickly, and just as fast he freed him from clothes as well, feeling his fingertips brushing him with a tenderness almost paradoxical, seeing how impetuous he had been just seconds before.
He let him do as he pleased for a few minutes, then he took the initiative and went down on his skin with his mouth, quick, before anyone decided for some reason to go inside the cell; he leant down, wrapping his mouth around Alex’s cock.
The former agent tilted his head back, leaning his face against the cold wall, as to seek relief.
Neither seemed to be anymore haunted by their demons, neither seemed to be able to think straight, and so they both had reached their goal.
Michael wasted a few more minutes playing with his tongue on the other man’s erection, then he changed position and laid on the too little and too filthy mattress, gesturing Mahone to go with him.
Alex made room in between Michael’s legs, opening them up with a knee, and while he was about to reach his opening with his fingers Scofield shook his head, reaching his hand and intertwining their fingers.
“It doesn’t matter.” he murmured, and Alex didn’t insist too much.
The pain he felt when the man thrusted inside him was sharp, intense, different from anything he had ever felt. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes while the older one kept still, waiting for him to get used to that sudden intrusion.
Despite the pain, Michael felt good. He felt completely involved, he felt Alex’s presence inside himself, he felt that his nerves were completely concentrated in what he was feeling and were trying to fight that suffering, denying him to think about anything else.
And it was this, this was what he wanted, it was this voluntary pain he needed to fight what he couldn’t, what he hadn’t wanted in the first place.
When he opened his eyes again he looked at Alex, and saw the same relief on his face.
He wasn’t shivering anymore. There was no sign of that crisis that had looked at a point of no return, there was no sadness, no rage, no need to calm down his nerves.
It was like both their anguishes erased each other.
He nodded to tell him he was okay, and the other started moving, as if it had costed him greatly to keep still up until then.
He pulled back from him and went back in in a violent thrust, quick to put his hand on Michael’s mouth to prevent him from screaming, without risking to attract any of the convicts with the noise.
He thrusted, again. And again Michael thanked for that hand on his mouth, and thanked for that pain that was slowly turning into something different, something pleasant.
Alex moved relentlessly inside of him, and Scofield tried to keep his eyes open, to focus on those details on his face that weren’t masked by the darkness, because if he would’ve have been able to see them and if he would’ve been in complete darkness, he didn’t know what kind of tricks his mind would have played on him.
Besides, he’d had enough darkness during his whole life.
He felt him wrapping his hand around him and moving it fast, without a clear rhythm, until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Michael leant toward him, biting on his shoulder to choke a scream higher than the others, and like that he came. He collapsed on the mattress right afterwards, letting go, barely aware of Alex who kept moving, moaning low his name, coming himself inside the younger one; he then laid down on the small portion of bed left between Michael and the wall.
For a few minutes, the only things that could be heard were the shouting from the convicts outside the cell and the two men’s laboured, irregular breaths.
Still Michael couldn’t understand what had happened, and still his mind hadn’t given in to the obvious, revealing to him how big his mistakes had been.
Alex wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer, and Michael didn’t know if it was for an actual lack of room or because in that moment he wanted to let go to some human warmth; but, he realized, it didn’t matter.
He felt good there. He felt good touching that still hot skin, smelling intensely of sweat and sex.
He found out he liked it, and he also found out he felt incredibly guilty for the realization only.
“Why?” Alexander asked again, in a low whisper, almost hoping that the other one wouldn’t have heard the question.
Michael sighed, without moving an inch, without looking at him.
“I’m sorry, Alex.” he murmured. “After what’s happened I...”
“You needed it.” Alex finished the thought for him, sighing as well. “I get it. With all you’ve lost and with the fact that you can’t even give yourself a minute to grieve her death, I understand why you needed it.” he said, and Scofield appreciated the fact that he hadn’t pronounced her name.
He still didn’t feel ready to be thrown again in that reality that he didn’t want to face.
“It’s pretty pathetic of me, don’t you think so?”
He couldn’t see him in that position, but he was sure that Mahone was smiling.
“No. Not pathetic. The fact that we’re jumped each other like animals means only that we need to forget for a while all that’s waiting for us beyond these walls, beside the fact that we also need to get there.” he breathed in, tightening the hold on his shoulder and caressing him slowly. “If you don’t disapprove of me, then I won’t disapprove of you, Michael. In the end, we’re the same.”
Michael didn’t answer; instead, he thought about his words and found that he was right.
They were both running from something, and the fact that during the escape they had collided couldn’t be a coincidence.
He kept finding himself sordid, naked in that cell searching from something to keep his pain quiet, but the mere fact of not been alone in that sordidness was enough to make him feel better.
There was nothing else he wanted to think about, not for that day nor for the following one.
Now he just wanted to stay there, in between those arms, in that warmth and in that sharp darkness, and sleep until his ghosts would’ve disappeared on their own.
There was no room for them, not there in Sona.
He would’ve faced once he was going to be out of there.