2
He found Michael in front of the basin, clad only in his white prison boxers. He was straining his neck in order to inspect the newest wound on his left shoulder in the mirror.
„There's no shower. Seems to be infected. Can you see if it's dirty?"
„We better rinse all that blood off. Can you get your shoulder under the tap?"
With Lincoln's aid Michael bent forward until the wound was right beneath the low sitting tap. He inhaled sharply as the cold water hit his skin, but Lincoln's firm grip kept him from backing away.
„Ow, damn! This is worse than Fox River. At least we had warm water there."
„Hold still and don't complain, Mike. You picked this motel. We couldn't have gone further anyway. Even a superbrain like yours needs sleep."
„Obviously. Otherwise we wouldn't have gotten into this hole."
„Smart ass."
„Watch your mouth, con," Michael hissed. Then he was quiet. Because he was busy gritting his teeth while Lincoln cleansed the wound with a wet cloth.
Once the cut was free from dirt and blood it didn't look too bad any more. Sure, it would leave a scar, one more on Michael's body, but they only had to provide disinfectant and some bandages and the worst was over. At least that was what Lincoln hoped. Carefully he dabbed at the skin until it was dry. Michael held his head down, his hands clutching at the rim of the wash basin.
„Done," Lincoln said throwing the towel on the toilet lid.
Michael started breathing again and straightened his body. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Lincoln saw the gratitude his brother did not vocalise. He accepted it wordlessly with a slight nod. In the mirror his glance fell upon the long sword made of ink adorning Michael's chest. The horned figure holding it seemed strangely familiar. Lincoln frowned and tilted his head a bit to get a better look at the picture. The figure on the ground was naked. He was holding his head down in anticipation of the death blow. Lincoln raised his brows. Out of the figure's shoulders grew wings. This was the reverse of the picture on Michael's back! The same demon, the same angel, the same sword.
Michael watched his brother's face in the mirror with interest. He smiled mildly, as he saw the burgeoning awareness.
„Michael, this angel, that… that's you! The tattoos are your armour, your head, your brain is the sword. Just why --"
„Don't be silly. My hair hasn't been that long since I was fourteen," Michael snorted with amusement.
„You are this angel," Lincoln insisted. „There were only two possibilities, heads or tails. Either you succeded in getting me out or not. If it didn't work out, Michael, if they'd killed me, what would you've done?"
In jail you could lose your life any way you wanted. Especially if you had a pretty face and kept yourself out of the common games of violence and corruption. Lincoln felt the grip of sheer horror as he realised Michael would have played the part of the martyr, just like the angel on his chest. He felt horror and rage rise up. Brutally he gripped his brother by the forearms and shook him. Both men were of the same height, but despite his broad shoulders Michael appeared nearly petite compared to Lincoln's musceld frame.
„Fuck! You can't be left alone for a second, can you? It's all my fault! If I hadn't left you, if -- God, Mike! When they find us, I'll still end up in the chair, but you! You! Damn, couldn't you just have kept quiet in your neat little office?!"
Michael endured the fit of rage until it was over. Then he said: „Close your eyes."
„Wha--?"
„Stop the whys, just do it."
Lincoln complied. He was a little breathless. Michael took his brother's right hand by the wrist and pulled it to his chest. He pressed it close to his heart, held it fast with his own right hand and leaned his back against the broad chest of his older brother.
„You feel it?" he whispered. „Feel that, Linc? That's me."
The skin under his calloused palm was firm and warm. No trace of the tattoos. He knew they were there, but they meant nothing. The heart beneath them was no fluttering little bird in a cage, it was beating steadily. Lincoln swallowed. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe it was time to throw his doubts overboard and start believing they could make it. There was nothing he wanted more. Faith roots in the heart. The priest in Fox River had called that to Lincoln's mind. His own breathing calmed down while the heartbeat under his palm kept on pounding.
The left arm rose as of its own accord. Splayed fingers settled on Michael's hip first, then stroked over his belly in slow motion, brushed blindly across the fallen angel, until Michael was entirely encompasssed by his brother's arms.
Lincoln kept his eyes closed as he felt Michael's chest heave in his tight embrace. He kept them closed as the breaths deepened at his touch, his hands mapping Michael's torso. His whole consciousness was in his palms, perceiving with them everything that mattered right now. Which was Michael's soft and smooth belly, the round navel in which he dipped his fingers for just a second, the slightly perceptible ribs further above, and then Michael's firm chest and his small, round nipples. Lincoln's fingers grazed them in passing, but he did not fail to notice the hitch in Michael's breathing rhythm.
As Lincoln opened his eyes again he was startled by the desparation showing in Michael's gaze. He wanted to soothe him instantly, assure him everything was okay, but not one single word left his mouth. For three long breaths they were silent. Lincoln was staring at his brother's reflection in the mirror. He couldn't move. He wanted to comfort him, embrace him, although he was already hugging him tightly. He wanted to say something, so he opened his mouth but his brain failed to provide any words. His tongue felt dry and somewhat alien in his mouth.
.
.
tbc.