Long Live Living, a prison break fanfic

Title: Long Live Living
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael, Lincoln, brief bits of Lisa, LJ, and Veronica.
Prompt: 064: Fall
Word Count: 7,151
Rating: R
Summary: Pre-series gen: Just go, go and this'll be over and you can forget about this whole thing. But he can't make himself turn and flee, because he's getting desperate and Lincoln hasn't been around in three – almost four – days and he can't find a job and he's running out of ideas and options.
Disclaimer: Paul Scheuring and a whole lot of other people who aren't me own Prison Break.

Warnings: Somewhat graphic m/m non-con.

"Sorry kid, we're really looking for someone with more experience.

"Sorry kid, I need someone full-time."

"We need someone bigger 'n you."

"Need someone stronger."

"Want someone more professional." Whatever that meant.

"Hey kid, you looking for some cash?"

He chews on the corner of his lower lip and squeezes the strap of his backpack as he walks slowly from school, stumbling through streets that he's walked down dozens of times but only once or twice let himself actually notice. A sudden burst of autumn wind disturbs the long strands of hair falling from his head, pushing them into his eyes, and he lets them remain there.

He wants to hide behind his long hair and half-hopes that no one will notice him and he'll be forced to give up on this idea for lack of returned interest.

He shivers against the wind and fights the urge to fold his arms against his chest, wishing he had a better jacket. It's starting to get dark already, and he knows that it's just because it's November, and that's what happens in November – things get bleary and dark and depressing, and there's nothing ominous about the overcast sky above him because it's just weather and this is just business. Or something.

There are a few people, mostly older women, who are leering at him, probably expecting him to shell out some money in exchange for some experience, and he avoids their eyes. Most don't pay him much attention, however, and brush past him with the same expression of desperate anonymity that he tries to wear.

His steps are long and measured, but in his head he's running, flying down the street and through the alleys and around the corners that will lead him back to the relative safety of their motel room. Almost there, almost there, no one wants you, almost through this. He wants badly to know that he tried and failed and that he'll have to think of something else to come up with some money.

"You know you're always welcome to come back here, stay with us," she told him, reaching across the table to brush the hair out of his face. For once he even appreciated the motherly touches she seemed to mysteriously adopt after giving birth.

"I know," he replied, struggling to hold onto the little boy squirming in his lap. LJ fought to free himself of Michael's grasp, slapping at the table with chubby hands after the toy car that had gone rambling across the tabletop away from him. "But things're okay. We're okay," he lied.

"Michael…" she said, cocking her head a bit to give him a doubtful glare.

"Lisa…" he repeated, mimicking her admonishing tone.

Every so often, when he was particularly angry or particularly scared, he considered these offers she often gave him and thought seriously about how easy it would be to pack his things up and come back here, how it might be better for everyone and how Lincoln probably wouldn't even care. And then he'd wish that Lincoln would punch him for being so stupid and selfish and faithless.

He's just about to the corner – seven more steps, maybe six if he could stretch a bit – when he hears a scratchy voice call out "C'mere, kid," and he knows even before he spins around who it belongs to.

Seven more steps, just go, don't stop. He repeats it to himself a dozen times as he bites down on his lip again and turns to look at the older man behind him.

The man who's putting a stiff hand on his shoulder.

The man who's rubbing – grinding – his thumb into Michael's arm.

Just go, go and this'll be over and you can forget about this whole thing. But he can't make himself turn and flee, because he's getting desperate and Lincoln hasn't been around in three – almost four – days and he can't find a job and he's running out of ideas and options.

He bites his lip until the salty taste of blood stings his tongue, and it feels a million times better than the fingers digging into his skin. The other man watches him and smiles faintly when a small dribble of blood spills out of the corner of his mouth, and he's just horrified enough to push the man's hand away and run, but it might be too late now.

The man is gripping him fiercely, nails biting through Michael's t-shirt into his skin, and pulling him forward to step around a corner. And Michael follows along dumbly, feeling frozen – but malleable at the same time, as he's letting this man pull him along and stand him on a mostly empty sidewalk sandwiched between too-close-together buildings, and he just can't stop it now.

He'd been stretched out on Lincoln's bed watching the end of an I Love Lucy rerun when he fall asleep, and woke to a dull thud several hours later. The illuminated numbers on the alarm clock beside the bed gave the small room a soft red glow, something akin to a science fiction movie, and he sat straight up, eyes searching around the dark room for the offending noise.

The scraping of a key through the lock calmed Michael's rapidly beating heart, however, and he rubbed at his eyes as the door banged open and Lincoln shuffled inside.

"Hey," Michael greeted his brother.

Lincoln sniffed in response.

Michael watched from his spot on the bed as Lincoln toed off his worn-out sneakers and then rooted around the dresser for a few minutes before finding a several-days-old bottle of water.

He took a long swig as he headed across the room, tripping on the carpet as he walked. Through the red-tinted darkness Michael saw him spin around and glare at the floor, as if the carpet rose up just to trip him, before turning to fall heavily onto the bed.

And crash right on top of Michael, who gave a surprised yelp and squirmed out of the way.

"The fuck're you doin'?" Lincoln grunted as he shuffled to the side of the tiny bed, kicking Michael in the shin and snatching the blanket away to deposit his brother on the floor.

"I was – I fell asleep," Michael replied lamely, struggling to his feet amidst a tangle of sheets on the floor.

"Sleep…" Lincoln began into his pillow, and Michael imagined he would've finished "…in your own bed" had he not fallen asleep in the middle of the sentence.

At first the man doesn't touch him aside from the fierce grip on his shoulder used to guide Michael against the brick wall. His back is pressed flat, and the bricks first rustle his clothes, then rasp against his back. His thin jacket does little to protect his skin from the harsh bite of the wall, and Michael winces when the back of his shoulder scrapes. The man smiles at that.

Michael wonders if that's what this is all about – pain and power and possession, because the man still hasn't let him go, and now he's truly frightened.

Mistake! Mistake! Mistake! his mind screams at him. Not worth this, nothing is worth this.

But okay. He's here now and he can do this. He thinks to himself, What's the worst that could happen? But then his mind starts flitting through all of the worst things that could happen, and… he has to stop thinking right now.

The hand that was on Michael's shoulder begins moving upwards, and now the man won't stop touching him. He's pausing at Michael's neck, alternately stroking and pinching, and then moves around to rub at the back of Michael's head, fingers digging into the long strands that Michael has been growing out for years.

Lincoln is constantly teasing Michael about his too-long hair, and Michael likes the attention, usually throwing his brother amused looks through the flop of bangs that fall over his forehead whenever Lincoln buzzes his own head and then offers (pressures) to do the same for Michael. His mother had always said how much she loved his hair, and when he combs his fingers through it in the morning to straighten it into some kind of appropriate mess, he can almost remember what it felt like when he was small and she'd brush it for him.

And he'd never, ever admit it to anyone, but despite the huffs of indignation he always gives her, he actually likes it when Veronica ruffles his hair and for just a moment or two he's able to feel like a kid.

These touches to his neck and nape and head and hair have the illusion of affection, all sweeping caresses in between painful bites of fingernails into his skin, but Michael's not even remotely stupid enough to believe that there is any real warmth behind them.

Especially when the man begins to unbuckle his belt with his free hand.

"Linc?" Michael called softly through the darkness to his brother.

"Mmm?" came the muffled reply.

Michael paused for a moment, and then, "I miss Mom," spoken meekly into his pillow.

Lincoln sighed, stretched cracked his neck, then rolled over to face his brother. "Me too."

Michael nodded and burrowed further into the blanket, listening to Lincoln shift around in the bed beside him.

"S'okay," Lincoln mumbled, kicking Michael softly in the shin and then sweeping a hand through his hair. "Go to sleep. It'll be better in the morning."

Michael doesn't look over to where the man is pulling his zipper down, choosing instead to stare at the graffiti adorning the wall opposite him. He traces the yellow, green, white, gray, blue spray paint as it runs and twists and splashes over the wall, tries not to feel the hand on his neck gain pressure or think about what that means – what he wants you to do – and instead gazes at the words and the pictures in front of his eyes.

LONG LIVE

LIVING

The letters coil and wrap around one another, the words tangling together so that they almost look like they're dancing even though the paint is dirty and faded. This was probably created years ago, and Michael wonders who did it and why, and what exactly that means – why these words together? How exactly do they fit?

What were they thinking about? Is it a hopeful cry by someone who was desperate and hopeless? Or a celebration, a commemoration of someone's happiness?

"C'mon." The gravelly, softly demanding voice breaks Michael out of his thoughts, and he almost jumps when the man's thumb digs hard into his collarbone and pushes down on his shoulder with enough force so that Michael is sure there will be a bruise there later.

Michael looks at the man for the first time since he was spotted on the sidewalk earlier, and the eyes before him narrow slightly. The man can't be much more than forty-five, but his face is already weathered and worn, caught somewhere between old and young, and creases form almost elegantly as he frowns slowly. Michael knows he'll get no more warning than that.

Michael's eyes flit back to the graffiti for a moment. He sucks in a breath and sinks down slowly to kneel on the ground, back still pressed rigidly against the wall, and wonders what else the artist did in this alley.

"Well these are good choices so far, but you really should be applying to at least twelve schools."

Michael gaped. Twelve?

"You want three schools that you're sure to get into," the guidance counselor continued, with no reaction to Michael's shock. "Three that you have a fair shot at getting into, and three reach schools."

"Twelve?" Michael finally managed to ask.

The guidance counselor nodded. "At least."

"But I – "

"Your grades are quite good," he barreled on through the next subject in an effort, Michael suspected, to wrap things up quickly so that he could move on to the next fifteen-minute meeting with yet another student.

"And your SAT scores are excellent, even on your first try you did well, though colleges won't see that, still though, nice job, and you should be able to write a dynamic application essay."

Michael nodded along as the guidance counselor flipped rapidly through the pages of his file, firing off information as if he actually knew Michael personally and was more than just the faceless nameplate on an office door that Michael had come to know him as.

"You don't have a lot of extracurriculars, that'll be the weakest part of your application, but your grades and test scores and your writing samples should be enough to make up for that, so really I think you have several options, the question now is where you want to go."

The man strokes himself lazily for a moment while Michael kneels before him, still trying hard to avoid looking straight in front of him. The back of his head is being cradled, and the fingertips that rub lightly back and forth through his hair make him shiver. It starts out gentle, just like earlier, before those fingers start to dig in and Michael's head is pushed forward.

And then he's doing it. And he kind of wants to die. For a moment he even thinks he might – there's no room to breathe, no way to catch his breath or even suck in some air through his nose, and everything is coming so fast and harsh, it feels like the air is being torn from his lungs.

He's trying so hard, so hard not to think or see or hear, eyes clenched shut so tightly that tears begin to trickle out from under his lids. But he can't not listen to the way the man is panting above him, and he gags for the first time when the man moans. A string of words are coming out of the man's mouth now, filtering down to Michael's ears, things like yes, c'mon, baby, good, fuck, and he can't stop himself from hearing it all. He thinks those words might never get out of his head now.

He's hurting – knees throb, jaw aches, head pounding dully, and he's only getting the barest gasps of breath – and it's now that he really begins to struggle, completely frightened. He tries to pull his head away, but the sides of his face are promptly grabbed, and the man twists fingers into his hair to keep him still. His fingertips are digging deep into Michael's scalp, scratching angrily at his head before gripping his hair so tightly that Michael thinks large chunks of it may be pulled out by the roots.

And there's nowhere to go, he realizes with another gag. There's no escape from this, and he's going to be forced to simply endure it. He almost throws up, but there's just no chance for even that. Anytime he gives the slightest jerk of his head – vain attempts and deep-rooted instinct to get away – those fingers just grip tighter, yank him by the hair back into place. All the struggling earns him is an appreciative rumble from the man's chest and a greater ache in Michael's head.

Tears continue to flow uncontrollably down his face, over his cheeks, mix with the mucous coming from his nose and spit dribbling out of the corners of his mouth, and god, oh god, when is this going to be over? he wonders desperately. He's doing nothing, really, but kneeling and struggling a little, and this man is hurting him, using him, and taking something from him in the process. He can't quite put his finger yet on what that is, but he's sure it's something important, and something he'll never get back.

"I wanna stay with Lincoln."

"I'm sorry, sweetie, you can't."

"But – but he's my brother, and – " and they were supposed to stay together, and he didn't want to stay with some strange family in some new house.

He just wanted his own family, and Lincoln was the center of it now.

And then it's finally, blissfully over, but not before the man sighs and squeezes Michael's head, pulls at his hair, and lets himself go in Michael's mouth, and Michael still can't get away. Traces of this man are spilling over his lips and down his chin, and just like the words yes, c'mon, baby, good, fuck, it'll be part of him forever. Michael coughs and sputters and the man just holds him tighter, until his head feels like it's on fire with the pull of his hair.

There's one last push and then the hands on his head are gone and Michael immediately scrambles backwards, arms flailing slightly, and he bangs into the wall behind him, head thunking back against the hard surface.

Michael leans, crouched, against the wall and everything is still for a moment as he breathes heavily, sucking air in huge, quavering gulps. He doesn't hear anything aside from his panting and the rush of blood in his ears, and then the sound of a zipper being pulled up.

He keeps his eyes closed.

There's some more rustling above him, more contented sighs from the man, and then he feels something hit him lightly in the face. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know that they're bills.

He doesn't move, even to gather up the money, as the man says, "Thanks kid, that was good. See ya 'round."

And then there are footsteps, loud and heavy and growing softer, and he's alone. He waits until the last echoes have faded and only the distant sounds of the other people on the streets around the corner can be heard before slowly opening his eyes. They water and burn from being shut so tightly, and he has to squint even though there's no sunlight in sight.

His mouth feels sticky and clammy and he just barely manages to swallow down the puke and bile that burst up through his throat. The tears are threatening again, but he's lost just about all of his energy, and though he knows in the back of his mind that it's dangerous out here and he shouldn't be sticking around, he allows himself just a few moments of collapse against the cool, welcoming pavement.

It's only four in the afternoon, but it feels like years since he came wandering through these streets in this neighborhood as he curls up on his side, back against the wall, and stares at the graffiti on the wall across from him.

LONG LIVE

LIVING

His face was smashed into the ground so hard he was sure it would be dented forever. He struggled and whimpered, and the older boy just laughed and punched his back before reaching into his pocket to search for the change he'd been demanding.

Suddenly the weight on his back was gone and Michael spun around to see the bully being pulled off of him, arms flailing wildly as he was shoved to the ground. Lincoln stood over him, teeth bared and chest heaving. Michael swallowed and tried not to shake as he stood up, brushing bits of concrete from his knees.

Lincoln grabbed the other boy by the collar and dragged him off the ground to shove him against the wall.

"You ever touch my brother again," Lincoln growled into the face of the cowering bully. "And you'll spend the rest of your life eating through a straw. You got me?"

The boy gaped, nodding quickly, and Lincoln dropped him back to the ground before turning to Michael and nodding in the direction of home. They fell into step together, Michael having to walk quickly to keep up with Lincoln long, stiff strides, and when Michael glanced back over his shoulder Lincoln grabbed him by the elbow and hurried him forward.

"Don't look back, Michael," he said gruffly. "It's a sign of weakness."

Michael didn't look back again. Once they were down the block and around the corner, Lincoln took his hand, and held it the rest of the way home.

Michael pushes open the door to their room stiffly, preparing himself for a barrage of questions from Lincoln on where he's been, what he's been doing, what's wrong with him, is he okay…

But Lincoln's not there. Michael knows that he shouldn't be surprised, he hasn't been around for several days, no reason to think that he'd suddenly turn up now, but disappointment punches through his gut and couples with the nausea that's been threatening to spill over all the way back here to force him into the bathroom and empty his stomach into the toilet.

Once he's finished heaving and hacking and sputtering, tears are again flowing uncontrollably down his face, and he'd blame it on a natural reaction to throwing up, except that he can't stop it now and it feels like something is tearing through his chest and ripping the tremors and sobs right out of him.

He wants to curl up on the floor, but more than that he desperately wants to be clean, so he picks himself up and strips, thinks about throwing his clothes out except that they really can't afford him needlessly tossing things away, so he balls them up and stuffs them into the pillowcase they use as a laundry bag and hopes that he can wash away the phantom smells that permeate them.

Stepping under the hot shower spray takes up most of the energy he has left, and he ends up squatting on the tiled surface with one arm braced against the wall and his head bent to let the water glide down across his skin. His hair turns damp and soggy and drips down into his eyes, and he can still feel the fingers wrapped tight in it, holding him in place. It still feels like the hair is being ripped right out of his head.

He hears through paper-thin walls and old, rattley piping a toilet flushing in some room down the line and suddenly the shower spray is boiling-hot, tearing across Michael's flesh. He can feel firm hands pushing him, holding him down in the splatter of water across his shoulders and down his back. The shower does nothing to wash away what he's done.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the empty bathroom, crouching down as he lets the water run through his hair and into his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," feeling weak and helpless and nothing.

"I got fired today."

Michael blinked, confused. "You – what? What d'you mean you got fired?"

"I mean I lost my job," Lincoln barked angrily, grabbing a can of beer from the mini-fridge and ripping the tab open.

"Lincoln…" Michael started, not sure how to finish. There wasn't much more to say on the subject anymore that hadn't already been argued over, several times messily and angrily.

Lincoln collapsed onto his bed and flipped on the old television without reply. Michael watched quietly from across the small room as his brother sunk deeper and farther away.

He crawls into bed after piling on several layers of T-shirts and sweats and falls asleep almost immediately. When he wakes hours later the alarm clock reads 5:07 and soft, gray light is filtering through the cracks between worn, ratty curtains.

Lincoln still isn't anywhere to be seen, and Michael makes a half-hearted stretch to peer through the bathroom doorway, knowing already that Lincoln isn't in there either.

He slides from his bed into Lincoln's and pushes his face into his brother's pillow, falling back asleep without much thought for where Lincoln might be. There are no dreams, but when he wakes he feels dizzy and disoriented, expecting for no real reason to be back in their old apartment. He's already nauseas when he wakes, but he stumbles out of bed to the bathroom when he realizes after a few minutes that his mother isn't down the hall making breakfast and Lincoln isn't kicking the covers off one bed over.

He spends most of the morning sick and aching everywhere, especially his head, and pouring over what he's done. He makes one attempt at doing some work for school, but he doesn't get much further than Scofield, Michael J. scrawled across the top of the application for MIT before his mind is taken over with frantic thoughts of oh god, what did I do? and I just can't do it again, I can't and then ohgodohgod, AIDS and he's horrified with himself for doing this so unprepared and thoughtlessly.

He gets sick again that afternoon, breaks into a fever complete with sweating and chills, and his head pounds when he curls himself back into Lincoln's bed. He pretends that he can smell his brother in the sheets as he falls back asleep.

"He called me the other day."

Michael looked up from the mostly-uneaten burger on his plate to see Veronica fidgeting over her own, twirling a piece of hair through her fingers.

"Really?"

Veronica nodded. "He left a message. Wanted to tell me he'd split up with – with…" She trailed off and looked away from Michael, dropping her hands to her lap.

"Lisa," Michael supplied, though he was pretty sure Veronica remembered the other woman's name.

Veronica nodded, looking a little bit sick, and Michael wished he hadn't said that.

"It was kind of a weird message. He seemed pretty…" She trailed off again, ripping a tiny piece off of her napkin to ball up and toss onto the plate.

"Yeah," Michael replied, unable to finish the sentence for her this time.

Michael spends another entire day sleeping and feeling weak and nauseas, then wakes again, Sunday morning, with a clearer head and a growling stomach. He sits cross-legged on Lincoln's bed with a bowl of stale Cheerios and maps out a plan for the rest of the week, and he can feel the chaos drain from him as he does so.

Use the money to pay off the rest of this month's room bill tomorrow.

Deep breath in.

Go to the free clinic downtown after school on Tuesday.

Air pushed out hard.

If Lincoln's not back by Wednesday, call Veronica.

Hands stop shaking.

Start looking for a fulltime job on Thursday.

No more bile threatening to push its way out.

Burn the college apps. on Friday.

Head still pounding, but things are in order now.

He's made some decisions and he's in control of things again, not quite so worried now that he has a plan and a path and course laid out for himself, and the last decision he makes for the day finally feels like something close to absolution.

It takes over an hour because the scissors he uses are crap, an old pair with bright yellow plastic handles that his mother had used for sewing and somehow made its way from the "throw away" pile to the "pack up and take with us" pile after her death. But he hacks away with them, the only scissors they have around aside from the tiny pair on the pocket-knife Lincoln bought for Michael on his last birthday, and finally gets enough of his hair chopped away into the bathroom sink to use one of Lincoln's razors on the rest.

When his long, dark strands are littering the sink, shower and floor, his shirt and his feet, Michael runs and hand over the short, stubbly hair now atop his head and finally feels a relief from the phantom fingers that had been pulling at him for the past two days.

"Don't worry," she said, clutching his hand as he tried to reign in his tears. "You'll always have Lincoln. Your brother'll take care of you."

But who would take care of Lincoln?

Monday brings with it a new chill in the November air, telling Michael that although it's not desperately cold just yet, winter is coming up fast. His feet swoosh through fallen leaves on the way back from school, and with a glance upwards he notices for the first time how bare the trees that sporadically line the streets have become.

He gets to the room and his mind is already inside, on the money folded up and stuffed into one of his socks. But when he opens the door he almost trips over the threshold when he sees Lincoln lounging on his bed watching television and munching on Doritos.

"Hey," Lincoln greets him through a mouthful of chips, spilling crumbs on his shirt.

"Hi…" Michael replies slowly, straightening up and dropping his backpack by the door. Before he can say anymore – ask Lincoln where the hell he's been, if he's okay, if he's found a new job yet, why the hell he hasn't at least called to tell Michael that he was alright – Lincoln sputters and nearly chokes on his chips.

"What the fuck did you do to your hair?"

Michael rubs a hand over his buzzed hair self-consciously and looks at the floor, shrugging absently. "Just felt like a change."

"Uh huh," Lincoln says, and when Michael looks back up, Lincoln is staring hard at him.

Like he knows. Like it's just written all over Michael.

He shrugs again, and Lincoln watches him for another moment before letting the issue drop and turning his attention back to the TV. Michael lets out a breath and takes a few steps into the room before his eyes catch on the stack of papers propped beneath Lincoln's elbow on the bed beside him.

"What's that?" Michael asks, glaring at his brother and the stack of college applications next to him.

Lincoln glances to his side and then up at Michael, shrugging carelessly. "Found 'um under the bed. Just flipping through them, no big deal."

"Lincoln," Michael warns, folding his arms against his chest and glowering.

"Seemed like a weird place to keep them, though," Lincoln continues without bothering to acknowledge Michael's discomfort.

"It's my stuff," Michael offers lamely, trying to make his voice sound much bigger than it really is. "I can keep it wherever I want."

He'd been hoping that Lincoln wouldn't ever notice these, wouldn't ever ask about college, and when the subject of what Michael would be doing after high school finally came up deadlines would be long past and he'd maybe even have a job that would paint a much better picture of the immediate future than more school.

He knows how Lincoln feels about him and school.

"Most of 'um are schools around here," Lincoln remarks, picking up the booklet at the top of the stack. "Shouldn't you be applying to… Harvard or some shit like that?"

Michael watches him flip through a University of Chicago brochure and then ducks his head, shifting on the balls of his feet but unwilling to concede and sit down just yet. At least standing this way he can tower over Lincoln, for once. Not that Lincoln seems all that intimidated.

"I don't think I'd get in to Harvard," Michael says quietly.

"'Course you would," Lincoln replies absently, without looking up, and Michael would beam at the easy faith his brother has for him if he didn't know that so often that faith came at the expense of Lincoln's faith in himself.

Michael sighs, uncrosses his arms, bites his lip, and bites the bullet, perching himself on the edge of his bed. His hands fall into his lap and he suddenly feels gangly and misshapen, out of proportion and unnecessary.

"I've been thinking," he begins carefully, staring at the floor for a moment and then looking up to try and catch Lincoln's eye. "Maybe I'll take a year or two off – from school, I mean, after I graduate – get a job, save up some money before I go to college."

Lincoln looks up at this, drops the brochure to his lap and glares at him. Michael tries not to shrink away from the mighty expression fixed upon his brother's face. Another time, maybe, when Lincoln's not looking quite so pissed, Michael might tease him about how much he looks like their mother when he fumes.

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Lincoln says in a tone that really means You'd better be fucking kidding me.

But Michael's thought this through, knows that it's the best option for them right now, and spent most of yesterday going over the good and the bad of putting off college. When it comes down to it, it's just a year or two, and he holds Lincoln's glare as he says as much.

"I can go anytime," he reasons. "And we don't have any money for it."

"You know that's bullshit."

"What, you have some secret stash of cash somewhere?" Michael all but laughs. "You won the lottery recently and forgot to tell me?"

Lincoln glowers and looks like he might hit him, but only moves far enough to sit up and spin so that he's facing Michael fully.

"No, dipshit, I mean you just… taking time off, like it's a fucking vacation, then going to school later, that's bullshit."

Michael frowns, confused and worried about the direction of this conversation, one that can have no possible good outcome considering that nothing will solve the problem of having no money.

And leaving Lincoln behind. But he's not worried so much about that, because Problem A is still front and center.

"I don't – "

"You don't think I planned on going back, finishing someday?" Lincoln interrupts angrily. "You make dumbass plans and then shit comes up and life interrupts you and… it just doesn't happen."

Michael's not sure how to reply to this. They've never spoken about Lincoln and school, at least not seriously, without one of them teasing the other – you study way too fucking much, you dork – least I know how to read a book, you big freak – and Michael had long since come to believe that Lincoln hated school and was thrilled to be done with it all.

"That's why you don't put these things off," Lincoln continues, jabbing a finger in Michael's direction and looking so very much like a parent. "You're going to college next year."

"It costs a lot of money," Michael argues. "A lot of money we don't have. Money that could be spent on other stuff we need, spent on LJ…"

"Let me worry about LJ," Lincoln says, and if ever Michael had a father, this is it in front of him. "And you just get in somewhere, then we'll figure out how to pay for it."

"Most of the applications alone are at least thirty bucks each."

Lincoln pauses for a moment, and then, "You have to pay just to apply?"

Michael shrugs by way of affirmation. He's pretty sure he could get a scholarship to most of the schools he applies to – they have them for nearly everything, he's been told by several different teachers. Scholarships for kids with a 4.0 GPA, scholarships for kids who did community service all through high school, scholarships for kids who are interested in engineering, scholarships for kids with two different color eyes, scholarships for kids who like Diet Coke, scholarships for kids who lost a mother to cancer, scholarships for kids whose fathers took off before they were old enough to know it, scholarships for kids whose brothers are drug addicts, probably even one or two for kids who've had to suck dick on the street to pay the rent.

None of that will take care of Lincoln, and when he's really, truly honest with himself, Michael thinks that maybe that's the real issue.

"Doesn't matter," Lincoln says quickly, rolling up the application for MIT and hitting it against the bed beside him. "We can… Look, I've got a guy who knows a guy who's hiring, a restaurant or something, so it's not like I'm gonna be out of work forever, you know?"

Michael nods reassuringly and gives him a half-hearted smile, knowing that Lincoln really will try. He may not hang onto the job for long – drugs or booze or girls or LJ or he will come up and distract Lincoln away from work – but he'll make an effort, at least in the beginning.

"And – we're not totally broke, you know," Lincoln continues, switching gears quite suddenly and speaking quickly, as if he needs to spit the information out at Michael as soon as possible. "There's some in the bank. Hundred-thou, maybe more – you know, interest and whatever. Enough for school."

Michael is dumbstruck.

"What're you talking about?"

"I, uh – insurance," Lincoln blurts, waving the rolled-up paper through the air between them. "Mom had life insurance."

Michael's stomach drops.

"What, you think she wasn't prepared?" Lincoln says, still speaking at a rapid clip. "Think she wasn't going to take care of us?"

All the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room and it's impossible to breathe.

"How – why are you just telling me this now?" Michael asks, stiff and just on the edge of angry. "We could've been – we could have… an apartment, and – "

"You think that's what she'd want you to spend the money on?" Lincoln cuts in. "No, she'd want you to use it for college. To get out of here and, you know, do something with yourself."

Michael tries valiantly to hold onto his indignation, but it loses much of its luster at Lincoln's repeated use of the word you, as if he has no claim on any part of that money or success or happiness.

"What about you?" he asks, his own voice sounding small and distant.

Lincoln breaks into a smile and waves his free hand, and Michael knows his brother well enough to pick up on the insincerity of the expression, but he can't quite put his finger on what's going on behind it.

"There's enough for me too. Enough for both of us. I'm just, you know… saving my half for a rainy day."

Michael wants to scream at him, ask him what he thinks living week-to-week in a rat-hole motel room is, but he knows that Lincoln's definition of a rainy day is different from most people's. And there's no way he'll reveal what he did the other day, when he was worried about going completely broke and loosing their room. Had Lincoln been around two days ago, maybe – probably – Michael would have confessed, brokenly, that he did something, and he's sick with it, and he needs Lincoln to make it better.

But Lincoln wasn't there, and now Michael will keep this information to himself, tucked deep inside of him, never to be admitted to anyone. And it almost makes him want to scream again, say why the hell didn't you tell me? Look what I did!

But maybe he can save this little stash for a rainy day too. And that's something.

They sit in silence for a while, and it's only now that Michael notices the whisper-soft sounds coming from the TV in front of them. He feels exhausted, like he's just run a marathon or battled against a giant and he's ready to admit defeat.

"The Great Escape?" he asks Lincoln with a raised eyebrow.

Lincoln turns to look at the movie playing out over the screen and shrugs. "Steve McQueen's a badass." As if that explains his uncharacteristic love for old movies.

Michael nods and lies down on his bed, curls up on his side to see the screen, while Lincoln sighs and returns to his position stretched out on his back. A few minutes later there is a tunnel cave-in onscreen, and the half-empty bag of Doritos is passed between the beds, thrust under Michael's nose.

They watch with little, inane comments here and there along the way, laughing and scowling and grinning and hiding gasps at all the same parts.

On Friday afternoon Michael balls up the applications to every school more than fifty miles away – Columbia, Stanford, MIT, Georgetown, are all casualties – tosses the bunch of them in the trash, and flops down on his bed to read about the physics program at Loyola.

A year later, and he'll be away, but not far. Lincoln will try to clean himself up and he'll move back in with Lisa, and Michael will try to believe that this time really is the time, when he gets his life together for good, will try not to worry about the next time Lincoln falls apart.

He'll take classes and form some tentative friendships and fall in love with the school library, and when Lincoln complains that his current salary isn't enough to pay the rent, Michael will slip an envelope with the unforgotten stack of cash from that day under his door.

He'll meet a girl, Allison, who will be bubbly and friendly and smile at him in Intro to Logic and will balance out his shyness, and when he has sex for the first time it'll be with her.

He'll stroke up her arm, run his lips down the side of her throat, gasp when she squeezes his shoulder and wraps a leg around his waist. He'll fumble a bit, not completely sure about the mechanics of all this, and will try desperately to remember everything Linc's ever told him, bragged about, or babbled drunkenly about sex.

She'll laugh good-naturedly and run a hand across his head, thread fingers softly through his growing hair, and he'll think for a moment that he wants to marry her.

Then he'll slide his fingers into her and her breath will hitch and she'll arch against him, and her touches will turn frantic and rough, and that's when things will go to hell.

Michael will freeze when her hand fists in his hair. She'll pull, probably without much thought to what she's doing, and he'll be immediately shoved back into that day. Her hands will suddenly become the man's hands and she'll grip him and yank at him until his erection has completely vanished. His head will tingle, and then burn and ache and he'll try not to throw up on her when things he tried so hard to forget coming rushing through his head once again.

She'll realize at some point that something is wrong, ask, "Michael?" in a small voice, and he'll push away from her, whisper an apology and shake when he pulls his fingers out of her. He'll want to kiss her when he pulls away, but he won't, and he won't look at her confused expression, and he won't explain that it's not her, really it's not, and he'll pull his clothes on quickly and will all but run back to his room to sleep it off and try not to get sick.

The next morning he won't call her, but he will take a razor to his hair again. He won't let it grow out again after that.

-end-