Chapter Text
Michael Scofield was the new kid in school. After a dozen moves to a dozen different cities, he was used to being the outcast. His head told him it wouldn't last. Eventually, his family would stay in one place, the right place, or he would find it himself. His heart told him differently. When friends left just as quickly as they'd came, Michael believed it wasn't moving that made him undesirable. Yet whatever made him him resisted any attempt at change.
The tip of his pencil broke as he thought about it, leaving craggy chunks of graphite on the white and gray of his sketchbook. He felt someone hovering over his shoulder.
"Did you draw that?"
Michael took a deep breath and all the noise and fluttering bodies of the cafeteria came back to him. He spared a glance at the girl behind him, tall with long brown hair covering the flowers on her blouse. "Yes," he replied, and started cleaning the smudge he'd made.
"It's really good," she said.
Michael set down his eraser and reassessed his work. A few sketchy lines formed basic angel wings. It wasn't nearly what he'd envisioned.
"It's awful," Michael said, "but thanks."
The girl frowned for a second and ran a hand through her hair. "Well, um, you seem busy, but if you want someone to sit with—" She pointed to her friends who waved from a few tables over. "My name's Sara."
He nodded and Sara started to walk away before he recognized the opportunity. He stood and called, "Wait!"
She turned back around. "Yeah?"
Michael glanced at her giggling friends once more before tearing out a page of his sketchbook. "Here."
Sara took it, a hesitant smile on her face.
Michael smiled back awkwardly. He said, "You can keep it, or throw it away—I'm probably just going to start over..." He trailed off as her smile grew. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "My name is Michael."
Sara held the page delicately and replied, "Thanks, Michael." He watched her go back to her table before realizing he was still standing. Giving the cafeteria one last look, he settled down with his sketchbook and started drawing again. Someone plopped themselves across from him. Michael didn't look up from his work.
"Hey!" came a voice working way too hard to be gruff.
Michael fixed his brows together and took in the stranger before him, a round-faced boy with dark hair, his red letterman jacket making him look bulkier than he actually was. The boy held a finger at him.
"Have you been talking to my girl?"
Michael focused his attention on the tip of one of the angel's feathers. "If you mean Sara, then I'd have to say no."
"Yeah? And you didn't give her nothing, neither?" He grabbed Michael's sketchbook and flipped it around. "What even is this?"
"Give that back," Michael ordered, teeth gritted.
The other boy grinned, cheeks turning pink in his glee. He thumbed through the pages before tearing out a ream and ripping it in half, then again, and again before Michael was leaping over the table to save his artwork. They were both on the floor before he knew it.
"Give it to me!" Michael yelled, the other wriggling beneath him. He managed to tear another page.
"Art is for pansies!"
Michael thought there was nothing more stupid he could have said, and would have said so had he not been otherwise preoccupied. He snatched the corner of the book, a portrait of his dad wrinkling and ripping under his own hand.
"Bellick!" shouted a man's voice. The boy scrambled away and upright, leaving Michael with scraps and a bent sketchbook as a uniformed man came over, broom in hand. "What are you doing?"
Bellick stuttered over an answer as the mustached man pushed the broom into his hands. He turned to Michael and asked, "Are you alright?"
Michael's breath came hard, eyes burning as he peered at all the laughing faces and silent awe around him. He wiped his face and strode out of the room, laughter growing stronger in his absence.
In the bathroom, he tried to steady himself, breathe deeply and relax—it was just lines on paper, he could do if again—couldn't he? In a panic, Michael flipped through what was left of his sketchbook: the hand position practice, the half-finished Millennium Falcon, a lazy doodle, and then... blank paper. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, begging not to be found like this unless by some miracle Lincoln walked through the door. Lincoln who'd graduated with the oddest mix and match of credits from four different schools and states two years before.
Michael stayed put in his bathroom stall until he could breathe again. The bell rang and he stepped out into the hallway with his sketchbook tucked tightly under his arm, nearly bumping into the janitor in his rush.
"Hey, kid," said the mustached man, "I scraped these up for ya."
Michael blinked at the pile of scraps in the man's hand and took them shakily. "Thank you," he muttered.
"Word of advice," he replied, "Brad Bellick's a scaredy cat. Just mention my name next time."
Michael’s lips quirked to the side. "And that is...?"
"Charles. But most people call me Cooper." The man leaned on his broomstick and whispered, "I know Bellick's mom."
Michael managed a smile, though the paper remnants in his hand were starting to weigh on him again. He told the janitor thank you and dumped his ruined artwork in the trashcan next to the physics classroom once he was out of sight. Behind him, someone crossed the hallway and let their curiosity get the best of them.
Michael laid low for the rest of the day. First days were always hard, but rarely did someone destroy something so precious to him. The final bell rang and Michael moved with the flow of the hallway, head down and hands tucked into his jeans. He pushed through the school’s front doors and trotted down the stairs as a sleek black car pulled up to the sidewalk. Michael frowned and tugged his backpack off his shoulder before getting in the car.
“I thought Lincoln was picking me up,” he said.
Christina Scofield shrugged and started driving towards home. “He had to work.”
Michael nodded and hugged his backpack close.
“How was your day?” Christina asked, her focus on the road.
“Fine,” Michael said.
“And by fine, you mean you’re going to pretend you don’t have a bruise right here?” She reached over and pressed her thumb into a red spot on his cheek. Brad had elbowed him in the face, albeit by accident.
“Ouch! Mom!”
Christina turned the touch into a loving caress and Michael pulled away. She returned her hand to the wheel and raised her eyebrows. “You know the punishment for lying, Michael.”
“I wasn’t lying,” he insisted.
“Sure,” she said, “and Lincoln definitely had to work today.”
Michael narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean?”
Christina pressed the brake as they approached a stop sign and turned to Michael. “You first.”
Michael scowled. “Some kid tore up my sketchbook.”
“Hm. Maybe now you can focus in class instead of spending all your time drawing.”
Michael held his backpack even tighter to cover the hurt in his chest. “I told you, Mom, it helps me focus.”
She shrugged and they continued through the traffic towards home.
“Your turn,” Michael muttered.
Christina smirked. “Something tells me Lincoln’s ‘work call’ was the work of little Veronica.”
Michael glared out the window, unsure if he was mad at Lincoln for the betrayal or his mother for suggesting Lincoln would do such a thing. They drove through a winding neighborhood to a tall and skinny red brick house, the yard hosting a big apple tree and a worn, white porch. Michael went straight to his room once he got the front door open. He plopped his backpack in the corner and himself on the bed and waited for Lincoln to come home. Christina poured herself a glass of wine in the kitchen.
Two hours passed before Lincoln came home, covered in grease and sweat from head to toe. Downstairs, Michael could hear his mom lecturing him.
“Lincoln, you reek!”
“It’s not like they’ve got a shower at work, Mom!”
“But you weren’t at work, were you?”
“…I don’t have time for this.”
“Dodging the question.”
“Nagging over nothing,” Lincoln countered.
“Disrespecting your mother!”
“Fuck off.”
Michael flinched at the obvious slap of Christina’s hand on Lincoln’s cheek.
“Go take a shower.”
A moment passed and Lincoln stomped up the stairs to find Michael waiting for him at the top. “Don’t hug me yet,” he said, “I’m all sweaty.”
Michael fought a smile and followed him to the bathroom. Lincoln stripped off his dirty tank top as Michael asked, “How was work?”
Lincoln smiled slyly. “Fine. Veronica’s car broke down again. I told her she didn’t have to pay me but she insisted.”
Michael nodded. Of course Lincoln wouldn’t leave his girlfriend stranded somewhere, and Mom did pick him up… Michael pointed to a red mark on Lincoln’s neck. “Did she pay you in kisses?”
Lincoln laughed. “A few.” He pulled out a stack of cash from his back pocket. “You eat yet?”
“I’m starving.”
Lincoln clapped a hand to his little brother’s shoulder. “Then we’re getting out of here tonight. Here.” He handed the money to Michael. “Put it in the college fund. I’ll be out in a few.”
Michael brightened and scurried off to his room as Lincoln shed the rest of his clothes and hopped in the shower.
“Jump in,” Lincoln said.
Michael climbed into the passenger seat of Lincoln’s truck as Lincoln walked around to the driver’s side. “You think Mom will be mad?” he asked.
Lincoln pulled the door shut behind him and said, “I hope she is. Shows her I can take care of you better than she can.” They backed out of the driveway and sped down a curving street out of the neighborhood. Michael fidgeted with his hands.
“She never hits me,” he said, sounding guilty.
Lincoln reached over and took Michael’s hand. “That’s a good thing, Mikey. If she ever does I’m taking you and we’re moving without her.”
Michael studied Lincoln’s hand in his and nodded. He watched the trees fly by.
“What do you want to eat?” Lincoln asked.
Michael sighed. “I don’t really want to be seen by anyone.”
“Something happen?”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
Lincoln was quiet, thinking. “Alright. How about burgers and fries and our favorite spot?”
Michael grinned at him. “That sounds perfect.”
Lincoln gave Michael’s hand a squeeze before pulling the truck into a drive-thru.
Night fell over the city of Fox River, littering the sky with stars and the air a slight humidity. Crickets chirped as Lincoln and Michael ate their burgers in the bed of an old white truck. They'd found the grassy hill overlooking the city during the summer, and it was a place where they could be honest and alone together, away from whatever troubles home or work or school brought.
“You want me to pick you up tomorrow?” Lincoln asked.
“Yes, please,” Michael said with a mouthful of fries.
Lincoln pointed at him, half-eaten burger in hand. “You know you could use some of the college fund for a car. I know a guy who can get you a good deal.”
“That’s your money, Linc. I couldn’t.”
Lincoln smiled like he knew something Michael didn’t. “Drink your milkshake,” he directed.
Michael brought the shake to his mouth and made an obnoxious sucking sound with the straw. “All gone,” he declared.
Lincoln stuffed the last of his burger in his mouth and washed it down with soda. “You really were hungry,” he said. “Did you eat lunch?”
Michael shook his head and wiped his mouth on a napkin.
“Mikey,” Lincoln scolded.
“The cafeteria food looked gross, okay? And I wasn’t hungry then.”
“Too nervous?”
Michael ran a hand over the short fuzz on his head. “Yeah.”
Lincoln gathered up their trash and laid down to look at the stars, Michael soon following. “Did you meet anyone?” Lincoln asked.
“Yeah.”
“Could you be more specific?”
Michael nudged Lincoln’s side at the sarcasm. “A girl named Sara.”
“Oooh,” Lincoln teased.
Michael nudged him again. “She said I could sit with her.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Linc, you know I’m not good company.”
“That’s not true at all.” He put his arm around Michael and pulled him against his side. Michael laid his head on his chest and sighed.
“I also met a janitor named Cooper.”
Lincoln chuckled. “What was he like?”
“Nice. Old. He had a pretty neat mustache.”
“Guess you’ll have a closet to hide in if the opportunity presents itself.”
“Hey,” Michael said, sitting up to look down at Lincoln, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just, you know. If you can’t outrun a fight, there’s lots of supply closets.”
Michael made a face as Lincoln smirked. “I also met a boy named Brad,” he said.
“Yeah?” Lincoln asked, raising his brows.
“He was a big jerk.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I was just hoping you’d meet a nice boy for once,” Lincoln said, and rubbed Michael’s shoulders.
“I’ve met nice boys,” Michael countered.
Lincoln pulled Michael against his chest again. “You know what I mean.”
Michael closed his eyes. “I don’t think Mom would approve of it,” he murmured.
“Listen, Michael,” Lincoln began, hugging him close, “What matters most to me is your happiness. If Mom doesn’t approve, then she can just—”
“Linc,” Michael interrupted.
Lincoln rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I’ll protect you. Okay?”
Michael smiled. “Okay.” A few moments passed in the quiet, only crickets and rabbits rustling in the bushes.
“Hey, did you see that?”
“See what?” Michael asked sleepily.
“A shooting star. C’mon, man, you didn’t see it?”
“My eyes were closed.”
Lincoln smiled softly. “Of course they were. Let’s get you home.”
“A few more minutes,” Michael pleaded.
“Nope. You need sleep.” He sat up and took Michael with him.
“Linc!”
Lincoln slid his legs over the side of the truck bed and hopped down, dragging Michael’s now limp-on-purpose body by the arms. He slipped an arm under Michael’s legs and carried him to the passenger seat, Michael protesting along the way.
“Lincoln! Come on!”
Lincoln bounced Michael in his arms, testing his weight and irking his little brother to no end. His hands held Lincoln’s leather jacket in a death grip.
“If you drop me, I swear—”
“What?” Lincoln let him go and caught him in the next instant, drawing a squawk from Michael. He fought his way out of Lincoln’s arms and shut himself in the truck before crossing his arms over his chest. Lincoln leaned over the open window.
“C’mon, Mikey, I was just playing.”
Michael grabbed the window’s crank handle and started rolling it up.
“I love you,” Lincoln called as the window shut halfway.
Michael stopped briefly. “Love you too.” Then, “Hurry up.” He rolled the window up the rest of the way. Lincoln started the car and drove them home.