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Struggling with the backseat mechanics, Michael sighs as he gives up and runs a hand across his head. They won’t be folding down. He hears Lincoln shutting the trunk in equal frustration before hurrying to his side of the car, and the sound of pouring rain fills the interior before his brother closes the door again.
”Guess I’ll sleep on your lap then,” he jokes as he writhes around, trying to get comfortable in his wet clothes, and Michael huffs at it quietly. The silence that follows stretches out – it’s no surprise, both of them being as tired as they are – but to Michael, many little things like these are starting to bother him even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Something is off.
They’re not quite there yet, but several complicated and depressing thoughts tend to crawl back to his mind in moments like this.
Most of them about Lincoln.
It’s something in his throat that feels heavy, and sometimes it’s in his chest too. Whenever he thinks about Lincoln, it feels like that – something unknown and odd. Not being able to name it only makes him even more uncomfortable. Uneasy. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to name it. His better judgment won’t allow it.
The rain morphs from a strong pour to a light drizzle. Michael watches as the new droplets of water chase each other down the windshield, joining one another before giving way for more. In a few moments or more, the hard, hammering sound of a thunderstorm rolls right back in.
Lincoln shuffles.
”I like the ambiance,” he swallows down, and Michael gives him a quick glance. His head’s lulling back on the headrest, eyes closed. ”Don’t know last time I heard the rain.”
”Uh-huh,” Michael hums in the lack of a better response. Nonetheless, he agrees – only a crappy light inside the car, absolute darkness outside, listening to Linc and the rain – it’s reminiscent of some slow childhood day. The seat isn’t too bad either, quite comfortable actually. It is only the feelings he can’t quite grasp, that are beginning to go into overdrive without his knowledge.
That is precisely why it doesn’t take long for Michael to notice a tear dripping down to his hand. Blinking his eyes in surprise, a silent, soft gasp in the back of his throat, he quickly looks away from Lincoln. More tears drip from his lashes, blinking them away before it becomes noticeable. Why is he crying?
”You okay?” comes Lincoln’s voice quiet and careful. Of course. He’d always had the instincts for this kind of thing – quite annoying, as Michael had concluded many years ago.
”I’m fine,” Michael sighs, looking down at his feet as he wipes away the remaining wetness on his cheeks. ”Don’t know why that happened.”
”You’re stressed,” Lincoln replies, and Michael feels the finger on his face before he sees it. Lincoln wipes away whatever was left, and the hand retreats. Michael swears his heart pounds so hard Lincoln can hear it too.
Then, something in his head decides that he’s going to burst out sobbing.
”Michael, what–” Lincoln gasps as he reaches for his brother, and Michael feels a set of warm arms wrapping around him. Lincoln pulls him to his chest, and Michael winces at the wet fabric. ”Mikey, oh my Mikey, it’s okay.”
My Mikey.
There’s something in hearing that, that makes him cry three times worse.
”Woah, woah, hey now,” Lincoln tries to shush him, but Michael reaches for his shirt to cling on. It’s the stress. That’s what this is about. It’s the plan. It’s the danger, it’s the uncertainty. It’s him, it’s Sara, it’s LJ, it’s Lincoln. Most of all, all these years, it’s about Lincoln.
”You– You could be dead,” he manages to spit through his teeth, fingers gripping on his brother’s side and shoulder so tight that he must be hurting. ”Without you, I-I would be with– without–”
”But you’re not,” Lincoln reassures him, but nothing is really making sense in Michael’s head right now. All he knows is that he needs to fuse into Lincoln right here, never let go. It’s just when he thinks he could take one of his feelings captive, to finally inspect it, that it slips away like it was never in his reach. All he can understand is that Lincoln needs to be here for him or he won’t survive.
Michael isn’t sure how many minutes pass until he’s in a somewhat coherent state of mind again. Lincoln is still caressing him, but seemingly tired. The touch is lazy, all five of his fingers soothing the side of his head slowly. Michael hiccups.
”Can I say something selfish?” he hears Lincoln mutter, and the question makes Michael smile ever so slightly through his sniffles. It was a common occurrence, trying to make him feel better with something stupid, even after a huge meltdown.
”Yes.”
Lincoln takes a moment too long to go on, almost making Michael think he won’t blurt it out after all. Too stupid?
”I like that you only cry like that in front of me.”
Oh.
The hand caressing his head slides more toward the back, and Michael shudders as he feels his brother’s laugh vibrating in his chest. The whole thing, it feels like it’s making him flush from head to toe.
And if Michael were to be selfish, only him would Lincoln hold this long, he knows. There’s no way of really knowing… but he knows. Just like Lincoln knows Michael would never cry like this with anyone else. They just know.
He wants to be desperately closer to Lincoln. He wants more, but doesn’t know how. It’s not enough. He needs something so bad.
Then, it’s a bunch of sappy, odd, and ridiculous feelings… emotions, thoughts… that Michael would never really admit to, that arise.
’Am I special to you?’
’Please, tell me that I’m special to you.’
’I need you.’
’I only care about you.’
’I’m the only one who would do this for you.’
And Michael does take pride in it. Nobody else in the world would ever go that far for someone, get themselves in prison like that. Scheme something seemingly impossible for months. Tattoo the entire thing across half of his body. And what Lincoln had done to end up in there, the 90 grand. For him. Just for Michael. For Michael. For him, him only.
He can’t name the feeling, but it’s definitely there now. It’s no longer lurking – as Michael’s fingers twitch on Lincoln’s shoulder, it burns – fuck, it fucking burns inside him.
There is a need so visceral that it needs to get out.
”Am I special to you?” he says it sharp and serious, he really does. And he needs the answer to be yes.
Lincoln is palpably taken aback – Michael can feel his chest stop heaving underneath his cheek – the hand on his head pausing before continuing with more of those oh-so-sweet strokes. The answer isn’t there yet, but it is.
”Yes,” it comes out so quiet it’s nearly not even there. And the mess in Michael’s head, it feels like all of it gets put into a blender. It spins until he’s about to burst. ”You are.”
”You’re too,” Michael inhales loudly before he'll vomit out the surge of feelings in his throat. He’s still shaking from crying so much, and he pushes his forehead into Lincoln’s neck in desperation. ”You’re so special to me, Linc.”
The hand from his head drops to his side, and Lincoln embraces him against his chest even tighter. Michael wishes it were enough, but it isn’t. He’s feeling so much that nothing is enough. All he can do is squirm around in his hold, feverishly trying to ease the need to release his overpouring emotions.
”Calm down,” Lincoln whispers above his ear, and it does all but. Even less does the warm lips against his scalp, leaving a short kiss on his burning skin.
All of a sudden, it clicks.
”Will never leave you.”
The lingering sensation of Lincoln’s lips on his head, gentle, firm arms around him, whispering tender promises into his ear, it clicks.
Slowly, Michael raises his head. Lifting his gaze up to meet Lincoln’s, the man is already staring back. The rain quiets down. It allows Michael to hear his tiny, tense breaths, eyes fixated and nervous as they watch him closely.
Something was always off.
Was this it?
”Linc…” Michael murmurs, and the worry in Lincoln’s eyes softens. His pupils seem big and blown, but maybe that’s just the lighting. It’s like he’s terrified to look anywhere else. Neither of them moves.
Michael can’t say there aren’t any alarms going off, blaringly red as his better judgment screams at him to think. He’d be lying. But none of it is as loud and bursting as the need to relieve himself from this. Let go of whatever the fuck is making him feel so suffocated and overwhelmed.
He needs clarity.
Something was always off, and now that he’s given the chance, he believes he might as well take the bait.
But he’s scared. Despite his body aching with so many truths untold, he’s too afraid. He’s inching closer only in his mind – grip unbelievably tight on Lincoln’s wet shirt, fingers curling enough to dig into his skin underneath – but in reality, they only stare.
The moment is broken by a loud strike of thunder, flashing a bright light across Lincoln’s startled face. It makes both of them whip their heads to the window, and Michael watches as the lightning connects through the clouds. It’s good they didn’t continue driving. That would’ve sent Lincoln crashing on a straight road.
Nobody else knows that either. Big bad man scared of the thunder. Just Michael. Or maybe Veronica knows, but she… was almost just as dear to Michael as Lincoln is. Her too. Gone.
Fuck this.
There are no second thoughts as Michael’s hand detaches from Lincoln’s shoulder, lifting up to cradle his jawline. He turns his head around, and the last thing Michael sees is Lincoln’s lips parting in an attempt to say something. Only it is impossible, because Michael’s lips land on his.
Lincoln’s breath hitches, and Michael stays still. Slowly, he moves his lips against Lincoln’s. As expected, he’s too shocked to reciprocate, but it’s fine. Everything is so fucking fine right now. He doesn’t want to pull away; he wants to melt into Lincoln, but he knows he has to.
Softly, he backs away only an inch. Eyes half-lidded, Lincoln’s gaze trickles down shyly. There’s a hint of a red blush on his cheeks. Yet, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t push him off.
Michael takes it as an invitation to continue – attaching their lips again, even softer than before – hands drifting to both sides of his neck as his lower half yearns to slide himself on his lap. Should he?
Yes, he should.
Shifting carefully, Michael brings his right leg over Lincoln, and settles on his brother’s thighs without breaking the kiss even a little.
At the contact, Lincoln gasps faintly into his mouth. If that doesn’t send Michael’s head into a mush, then it’s the large hands that decide to inhabit themselves on his hips like they always belonged there. Lincoln kisses him back. Michael can feel the thumbs caressing back and forth on his pants.
’I’m this special to you?’
Michael deepens the kiss, desperately. Lincoln responds by securing a tight grasp around his hip.
’You want me too?’
It’s gentle and muted. Michael takes it slow, even when the position suggests otherwise. Similarly, Lincoln’s movements feel warm and cautious, not very daring at all. It carries on delicate and hushed, until Lincoln breaks apart.
”Mike…” he whispers as Michael brings a shaky hand up to his own lips, touching them for a residue of Lincoln. He feels so full. This is what was missing. For the first time ever, his head is straight. So ironically, everything feels right when it absolutely shouldn’t.
”So…” Lincoln speaks up warily, but Michael can already tell it won’t be anything negative. When Lincoln talks like this, he’s far, far from rejection. ”…you’ve felt like that.”
”Don’t know,” Michael admits with a sad hint of a smile. Before he can lean in to savor against his older brother’s lips again, finally, Lincoln’s hand stops him by the jaw gently. Michael stares with his glossy eyes, and he swears a distant, romantic soundtrack starts playing somewhere. Nobody cares about him like Lincoln.
”Think,” Lincoln urges in a broken whisper, his other hand still warmly hanging by his waist. Oh, he will be the death of him. ”What are you doing?”
Hell if he knows. Nothing was ever normal, and it doesn’t have to be normal now. But what he does know is that all those confusing, loaded thoughts have finally lined up once and for all. If this is all it takes for them to stay that way, Michael is ecstatic to indulge in having Lincoln in any way.
This is just how he shows love, or some sort of devoted obsession. He thinks he finally understands it. Is this really crazier than what he’s already done for Lincoln’s sake?
”Doesn’t have to mean anything,” Michael assures with a whisper back, tilting his head down to kiss the knuckles of Lincoln’s index finger. He drags his lips over the other digits, eyes falling close as he proceeds lower onto his wrist. ”It’s just love.”
Raising his lingering eyes to Lincoln’s own after a moment, he’s met with a crooked grin. ’Really?’
”You’re just as lost as I am,” Lincoln sighs with endearment, and Michael gasps as he’s finally being pulled in against his plush lips. ”Don’t got a clue in the fucking world.”
The rain outside gets louder as Michael whines and latches onto Lincoln’s shoulders for good measure, and no alarm or force could make him even consider pulling off. God himself will have to strike him down.
If he can be this special to Lincoln, he’s satiated. If Lincoln can love him the same, he’s fulfilled.
Right now, in the cold, cramped, noisy car, withering away on Lincoln’s lap, Michael is feeling more than the $5 million bucks.