Michael was still, staring at the bunk above him. But he didn't see it.
All he could hear were T-Bag's whispered taunts. "Who taught you Pretty? Who taught you?" The words echoed in his ears. "That reaction…that's not the first time you've been hit. Or…cornered."
He gently ran his fingertips over the bruises T-Bag's fingers had left on his face. Those softly vile words kept coursing through his brain.
"So…who was it? Your daddy? Hmm? Or your mama? No…You got other family, Pretty? Uncles, cousins? Siblings? You got a brother, Pretty? Is that who taught you?"
Michael shuddered with disgust at the very idea. He trusted his brother. Loved him. Hell, he'd gotten an enormous, painful tattoo and committed a crime so he could save Lincoln from a death he didn't deserve. After their mom died, Lincoln was the closest thing to a parent Michael had.
Yes, his brother had beaten him. Many times…most of the time, he'd deserved those beatings, too. Sometimes, his brother would be drunk, be high, get furious, and beat the hell out of him for something minor, but not usually. But that wasn't what had taught him. He'd always trusted that his brother wouldn't go too far, wouldn't really harm him. Wouldn't damage him.
No. Others had taught him how to flinch, to throw his hands up, to keep his back to the wall. That had been others.
Memories pushed through his mind, flashing in front of his eyes.
Hands, pain, grabbing, shoving, his body, so much smaller and frailer, hitting the wall, the door slamming shut. Darkness. All darkness. So, so dark…
Michael forced himself to stop. It would do no good to go back there, to remember, to re-live. Not here, and not now. Hell, not anywhere. But especially not here, not now.
It had been others who taught him what would happen, in that storage room. Others who taught him what that look in T-Bag's eyes meant. That had been others.
In the dark, hands invading, breathing, heavy, rough, painful, his whimpers in the darkness. Then unbelievable pain, he screams, and suddenly he can't breathe, he's being choked and there's no air, and everything is going black, black, black…
"You okay, Papi?" Sucre's whisper startled him into the present with a gasp. He ran his hand over his face and wiped sweat off his forehead. "Papi?" Suddenly, Sucre was hanging down so Michael could see his face, brow furrowed with concern.
Michael breathed, in and out. "I'm fine," he whispered. He curled away, leaving his back to Sucre. Shame made him darken, and he was glad it was too dark for Sucre to notice. He wondered if Sucre could see his secrets, like T-Bag obviously did. Maybe T-Bag only saw them because he'd created those kind of secrets, and a normal man wouldn't see it. Maybe not. He decided he didn't really want to know.
He heard the top bunk creak as Sucre pulled himself back up, and let out a small breath of relief.
No matter what T-Bag saw, or thought he saw, it didn't matter. His words, that's all they were. Just words. And he was never touching Michael again. Never.
Michael suppressed a shudder that threatened to wrack his body. He tried to allow logic through his fear. He wasn't a child anymore. Even if Abruzzi hadn't arranged for his lackeys to take down T-Bag, surely Michael could have fought off the smaller man? Surely he wouldn't have been helpless, like he had been before. Surely not…
Not going back there. Not. Michael curled his arms protectively around his torso, and put his mind back to the plan. The escape route. Anything else.
It would never happen again.