Hello, fellow fanfictioners! This is not only my first Prison Break story, but it's my first slash story. I'm a little nervous, but I really tried to make this as in character as possible while still twisting it to my Michael/Mahone needs. I adore them right now, and I really hope you all enjoy what I have so far! Let me know what you think!
Spoilers: Up to and including the season opener of season 3. Story is set in Sona. Still includes Alex's withdrawal among other things, but it doesn't follow the main plot that was introduced.
Disclaimer: I only own the story, not Prison Break or its characters. Which breaks my poor little soul.
"Pick it up."
Alexander Mahone lifted his eyes up at the towering prisoner above him. His dirty wife-beater met the top of his naval, revealing an ink-covered stomach to match his arms and neck. His greasy, sandpaper-colored hair was messily thrown back in a ponytail, and his greasy, chocolate-colored mustache swallowed half of his upper lip. In between this angry giant and Alex lie a pile of brown slop, otherwise labeled as food.
Just days ago, Alex had arrived in this Panamanian version of hell on Earth. Just minutes ago, he found himself desperately clinging to the wall beside him, grasping for support so his knees didn't buckle. An overwhelming pressure of heat pounded down on him; his jet-black t-shirt soaking up the sun's blazing rays. He was out of pills and out of contact with his dealer, which presented Alex with two options: End his miserable excuse of a life (which he often contemplated in the screaming silence of night, doing so even before entering Sona) or withstand this sudden and painful detox.
Finally, just seconds ago, this man who appeared to be vying for number one place in the sloppiest-prisoner-at-Sona competition found himself colliding with Alex's beaten-down torso. Alex barely had time to react as the man grabbed Alex's sweat-induced shirt and yanked him forward.
"That was my only meal for the rest of the day. Pick it up." Alex struggled to meet the prisoner's eyes as the setting sun glared down at them.
"You bumped into me. I don't want any trouble." Alex found himself speaking with even more precision than normal. He wasn't in any state or mood to fight, but he most certainly wasn't going to end up like Bellick, either. Wearing tight, ragged clothes that clung to his body. Scavenging for food in the most questionable of corners.
"Well trouble is what you got now, punk. But if you ain't gonna pick my grub up - " his eyes traveled down the length of Alex's body, "- then I'm sure we can find some other way for you to repay me."
Alex wiped the drops of sweat off his forehead before pushing away from the prisoner and grabbing him by the neck. In an instant, the man's face hovered over the pile of shit – sorry, food – and his body lagged behind as Alex kept his right hand at the base of the man's neck and the other hand pressed down on the small of his back. With a twitch and a deep breath, Alex channeled the former Company assassin inside himself. Calm, but eerily disquieting.
"Let's discuss other means of settling this dispute. I force this pile of waste down your throat and watch as you choke on it -" the man writhed against Alex's hold, causing Alex to shove his face into the food. Alex leaned in close to the man's ear as a dangerously low tone replaced his neutral one, "- or you can back the hell off and leave me alone."
As the prisoner opened his glop-covered mouth, defiance and ignorance shining in his eyes, Alex readied himself to beat the guy to a bloody pulp. His body may be worn, but the constant fight inside him was ever-lingering. Just as Alex lifted his arm to throw a punch, something on the opposite end of the courtyard caught his eye. Someone.
Michael Scofield.
Alex took everything about his former (and present?) nemesis in as his undivided attention strayed from the man struggling beneath him. Michael's long-sleeve, faded gray shirt hung loosely over his tattered jeans. His face and body were noticeably drenched in sweat. His eyebrows slightly scrunched as his striking blue eyes met Alex's. Power and purity radiated from Michael's being. His stance was short of intimidating, and his delicately flushed lips contradicted the scowl he consistently strived for. But something about him – something about Michael Scofield – reached into Alex and pulled him away from the man he was holding down. Something about Michael stripped Alex of the nagging violent temptations that previously enveloped him...and he didn't know what to do about it.
Alex raked both hands through his messy brown hair and threw a disgusted look to the prisoner on the ground before offering a vague yet honest threat.
"Next time will end badly for you." With that, Alex found himself stumbling over to where Michael had just been standing, only to be greeted by T-Bag.
"Well hello there, Agent Mahone. All this heat gettin' to ya? You look worse than I did the day I failed to recite one of the synonyms to the word 'rabid'." T-Bag's heavy southern accent made each word he said sound longer and more deliberate. His snake-like tongue darted out as he eyed the former FBI agent in front of him.
"I was eleven years old and it was blisterin' hot and my daddy forced me to wear two sweatshirts and sleep underneath three comforters. Now you can only imagine what my little body looked like afterward. Of course, my daddy wasn't in the mood for his usual method of punishment so perhaps that night wasn't so bad after all." A slow smile crept on his face as he stepped forward. Alex shifted uncomfortably and turned his back to T-Bag. His mouth gave a small twitch as he advanced toward his cell.
"The word was 'obsessed', if you were wonderin'," Alex heard T-Bag sedately hiss. Alex winced as he continued across the courtyard.
As Alex sunk down into his depleted mattress, he pressed his face into shaky hands. A long sigh elicited from his mouth as thoughts about Sona stampeded his brain. Slowly and surely, his days would consist of the rotten stench that drained this place of its lacking but still-present humanity. Of bored prisoners looking for a fight, failing to overpower him until the day his body gives out. Of the never-ending craving for his drug shouting endlessly until his mind shuts down and his body crashes. Alex needed something, anything, to distract him from his thoughts. To keep him from giving in to the irresistible option of suicide.
After hours of speculation and debate, T-Bag's earlier utterance of 'obsessed' fogged his brain. Maybe Alex was obsessed with the tattoos. They had been, after all, the guiding light that led him straight to his prey. Maybe he was obsessed with that smile. The tight, yet beautiful-when-really-observed smile that took Alex's breath away. Or maybe he was just obsessed with the persona. The bravery and intelligence that defined Michael...that made him untouchable. No Company hit man or filthy prisoner could ever be a match for him. He always won in the end...even against Alex.
With a sigh, Alex tugged at his last drop of remaining energy and lifted himself up. His muscles protested as he uncertainly dragged himself toward Michael's cell.