WARNINGS: This chapter contains references to violence
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If Sara had been less overwhelmed by the gossiping mouths of her fellow pupils that morning, or if she had brushed close enough to one of the groups to actually listen to what the whole school was saying, then she would have known more about what had happened last night, at the Beehive, after she unexpectedly decided to leave with Michael Scofield.
Namely, she would know that, looking like a charging bull, Lincoln had gone not two minutes after them, after barely saying goodbye to his friends.
Right at this moment, Lincoln didn't care what it looked like. Didn't care that storming out of a diner didn't agree with that whole indifferent posture he more or less consistently tried to adopt, didn't care that Nando was trying to grab his arm and get him to stay, didn't care that absolutely everyone in the school might think what he himself was thinking right now: that Sara had turned him into nothing short of a tame toy in the past few months, and now, she was making a fool of him.
He got inside his car, brushing aside the empty beer cans and other debris left over from his hanging out with his friends there before getting to the hive. The car smelled of booze and smokes and stale fries.
Without thinking, Lincoln started the car and rolled into the main street that led out of the 'Hive.
It wasn't hard to spot them.
They were wandering into the streets, walking at a strolling pace, holding hands.
Lincoln's heart was pounding madly inside his chest.
"Idiot," he muttered. "She had you learning lines, for God's sake. Always hated Shakespeare. Bloody hell."
It was difficult to drive slow, not to let the vehicle follow the spot where his eyes were set, burning on the back of his brother's head.
Lincoln didn't allow himself to look at him now, when they were at school. It was best to let the rumors die out, if he didn't want people finding out about their relationship.
The only people he'd told were Nando and Sara, and as angry as he was with her at the moment, he didn't think she'd gone about spreading that information.
Lincoln kept his distance, making sure the pair never spotted him. It was the first time he followed someone, by car or otherwise, but he thought he did a rather nice job of it.
Why he did it was absolutely unclear to him; it was especially unclear when they snuck into a building that must lead to Michael's apartment, and Lincoln had to park in the opposite street and sit there and wait, like an idiot.
What had he been thinking?
That he'd confront Sara? Yes, right at this moment, it had felt in order. And say what? That she couldn't just take off with his brother, that that sounded like the most unfair thing she could ever do to him?
Lincoln waited a long time.
Now that he'd made it all the way here, it would be pointless to leave without getting at least some satisfaction from the ride.
One of his friends had forgotten a pack of cigarette that lay on the floor in the backseat, and though Lincoln didn't smoke, he considered giving the habit a try, just to have something to do. Nando called him a couple of times and the second time, Lincoln picked up, tried to sound nonchalant.
"Hey, Nando."
"Jesus, Linc. You scared me a little, storming out of there like you did."
"Nothing to worry about. I'm home. Just had a nasty headache to nurse."
"Is that true, or is that what you want me to tell the others?"
"Whichever feels best to you."
"Right," Nando sighed.
Sometimes, it felt like his friend was getting truly tired of him; like, if theirs hadn't been such a long-standing friendship, Nando would have slammed the door on him a long time ago. Lincoln didn't resent that. Fernando Sucre was a nice kid.
It was Lincoln's own fault if he pretended he had no dark edge, that nothing from his parents' death to his estrangement with his brother could get to him. If you hide some of yourself from your friends, then you don't get to feel betrayed that they don't like what they see when it comes out.
Maybe if Lincoln was always honest about how he really felt, about that urge to shout that snuck up on him sometimes, unannounced, then he would have no friends at all.
Like Michael.
It was hours before they came out.
By the time Sara's red head of hair caught his attention, Lincoln had lost all hope, thought she was definitely going to spend the night.
There was a ridiculous look on her face, not exactly a smile; a look some of the girls he knew had on their faces when they got high.
They started to walk and Lincoln turned on the car, cursing. He had waited too long, surprise numbing his senses. He lost them for a moment, panic rising in peaks, but caught them again on the same avenue they'd walked down on their way to Michael's flat. They were going the same way they had come.
Michael was taking her home, Lincoln realized. On foot?
Lincoln wanted to laugh, but the anger had made his throat too tight.
If one of his friends wanted to have a date with a girl, they borrowed his car, or somehow got their hands on their folks'. It just didn't do, walking a girl home; and it took hours, too.
Maybe Sara wouldn't be into him that much after that.
He couldn't picture any of the girls he'd gone on dates with having to walk more than fifteen minutes without complaining. From where he was, he could only see the back of her head now, her red hair easy to spot in the night, but the look he'd seen on her face as they were getting out of the building kept flashing back into his mind.
They stopped in a neighborhood Lincoln recognized as Sara's.
Not that he'd ever been at her place, never, but he knew her father was rich, some hot-shot politician, the girls had talked about it on a few occasions.
Lincoln parked his car in some corner and watched transfixed as they said goodbye.
He waited for a kiss and inexplicably felt no relief when there wasn't one.
Because Sara had that same look of floating happiness on her face, that look he hadn't known how to create even after playing friends for months and speaking Hamlet lines he'd learnt by heart.
His brother's face was in full view again as he started walking away. Lincoln's eyes shot from Michael to Sara – who was just standing there, watching Michael, like a bewitched girl in a vampire movie.
That was just perfect, wasn't it? And unsurprising, too. When they were little, everyone had preferred Michael; their mother, for one, couldn't get over how clever he was, how independent. All because he could tie his shoelaces early and read better than Lincoln before he was five years old.
Now though, Lincoln couldn't say what did it. By becoming popular, becoming what every girl wanted and what every boy wanted to be, he thought he'd gotten rid of that empty pit inside his chest, which filled with burning anger every time he saw Michael.
It was clearer than ever now that he'd been wrong.
Lincoln didn't hesitate for a second when Michael passed by his parked vehicle without a look back. He got out of his car, slammed the door behind him, and he felt suddenly certain that this was what the whole night had been about.
Seeing his brother, alone.
"Walking home, are you, Romeo?" He heard the fire in his own voice as he spoke.
Michael turned around.
Hate boiled thick in Lincoln's throat at the sight of those quiet blue eyes, eyes that nothing seemed able to move.
What kind of a little boy doesn't cry when he finds out both his parents died in a car crash?
But Michael hadn't; not then, on the spot, nor in the days that followed before he and Lincoln were separated.
Secretly, Lincoln suspected his brother might suffer from some kind of sociopathic disorder. Lincoln kept that secret from himself, because that would take the responsibility off Michael's shoulders, and then Lincoln's anger would have nowhere to turn.
And with no target to discharge it, Lincoln thought he might actually burst.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Michael said.
Exasperatingly, he didn't sound surprised.
"Did you follow us all the way to my apartment and wait for us to come out? I wouldn't have expected you to have the patience."
Lincoln evaded the question with a jibe. "In all the books you read, you never got your hands on dating one-o'-one? Spoiler alert, you suck at it, man."
The laugh Michael let out was genuine and Lincoln felt his hands turn into fists so tight, he knew immediately what was going to happen. It was only a matter of time.
"Is that why you followed me? To give me a lecture on dating?"
It would have been so easy for Michael to go on with that arrogant tone and say that, clearly, what Lincoln had been trying on Sara hadn't been working and so he'd rather do without his advice.
The obvious fact of Sara's preference lay thick and smothering in the air between the two men, so clear it almost seemed tangible, but Michael didn't speak the words.
Lincoln craved to push his brother into a corner, to get him to react in a way he would understand, so he could lead the situation where he needed to.
He could feel the anger bottling up, like water pouring into a glass over the brim.
"Why'd you have to go after her?" Lincoln managed not to raise his voice; it didn't take that much effort to sound indifferent. He had the practice. Besides, he had known from the moment he had gotten out of his car that this was about Michael, much more than it was about Sara.
"I don't think I did that," Michael said. "And I don't think I need to give you reports about why I do things."
They looked at each other in silence for a moment.
It struck Lincoln this was the first conversation he had with his brother since he had moved to town – really, it was the first time they spoke in years.
And Lincoln felt a brutal need to look Michael up and down and say he hadn't changed, to seal his feelings for his brother once and for all, so he could hold on to his anger, his resent.
It just felt like too much a part of himself would be gone without it.
A small voice crept inside his head, Why did you have to find such an unusual target? Kids lose their parents, they get angry at God, at the authorities, at all sorts of people. What kind of a boy sets all his hate on an angel-faced brother?
Maybe it was only that Michael didn't break down, didn't feel anything, while Lincoln was prey to such outbursts of rage and tears.
Yes, maybe that was it.
But Lincoln shook off the voice before it could get too deep.
"It's late," Michael said, taking his eyes off his brother to sweep the night with his icy gaze. "I'll go home now."
Lincoln didn't move, didn't say that that wasn't going to happen.
Of course it wasn't.
He hadn't just spent hours freezing inside his car so the night could end without one drop of satisfaction.
"Why'd you move here, Mike?" Lincoln asked. "Was it just to piss me off?"
Again, Michael didn't seize a window to call him out on his self-centeredness.
What he did was look at him with a calm look of understanding. After a while, he said, "I'm not going to make it easy on you. You'd like to punch me right now, I see that – get it out of your system. But you should know, I'm not going to get angry or start teasing you. I'm not going to prompt you to do it. If you really want to, just go ahead. Or let me go home."
Silence settled between them once more. Finally, Michael walked past him, and Lincoln was filled with a rage so raw, he felt every muscle in his body tighten.
That was how his brother always made him feel. Disarmed. Disabled. Like the flow of his own feelings was crippling him, while Michael stood pain-free, pain-proof. Impenetrable.
It was not hate for his brother, though, but self-hatred which spread through Lincoln like venomous intoxication, as he got hold of Michael's arm and dragged him back, before smashing his fist into his face.
Blood spurted out of Michael's nose, and it was a relief to Lincoln; seeing his brother bleed. Seeing he was made out of flesh and bones just like anyone, that his blood didn't remain magically trapped below the surface, that he wasn't completely empty inside.
He only punched him twice, because he was down after the first blow, and hitting any man that wasn't fighting back was too vile for Lincoln to endure it for long.
Lincoln had been holding his brother by the collar of his shirt to stop him from following, and when he let go, disgusted at himself and at Michael's refusal to hit him back, Michael collapsed entirely on the sidewalk.
Lincoln checked his knuckles, blood-stained, raw.
I only hit him twice, he thought, but the shamefulness of the act made any reassurance impossible.
Suddenly, he wanted to take Michael by the hand and drive him home. Why had he done this now, here? What was Michael supposed to do, walk it off?
These thoughts must have been visible on Lincoln's face. His mouth opened, he was about to speak, or maybe extend his hand to where his brother lay on the ground.
Then Michael's eyes found Lincoln and he saw the anger burning there, unspoken and unspeakable.
"If you touch me again, I'll kill you."
The glaring truth in his threat was such, Lincoln took a step back, though his brother's voice had been free from anger, barely above a whisper.
Michael stared at him from the ground, pushing him to retreat with his icy silence, and Lincoln obliged, until finally he was in his car, driving God only knew where.
He should feel ashamed, terrified at his own violence, but instead for the first time in his life, Lincoln felt at peace.
It was a feeling that couldn't be helped, and Lincoln enjoyed it, felt it fill his soul with quiet acceptance.
Because he had seen a real glimpse of his brother back there when the rage shone in his eyes.
Because for the first time, he had looked at his brother and seen something he recognized.
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End Notes: Thanks for reading this till the end. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. Take care!