Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7186313.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Prison_Break
  Relationship:
      Lincoln_Burrows/Sara_Tancredi, Veronica_Donovan/Michael_Scofield
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-13 Words: 5426
****** A Falling Knife ******
by badboy_fangirl
Summary
     Michael dies, leaving Lincoln and Sara to their own devices; this is
     juxtaposed with flashbacks to a time when Michael and Veronica
     comforted each other.
Notes
     When I wrote this, back in 2007, it was the first time I'd written
     dark themed fic. It wasn't a popular thing then, which is funny to me
     now, just because Prison Break is a pretty dark show in reality, but
     fanfic at that time was more of an escapist, give-them-happiness type
     place. My warnings at the time were this:
     Okay, so this isn't like anything I've ever done before. So you might
     not like it. So here are my WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH, unpopular
     pairings of M/V and L/S, NC-17 SEX, SADNESS and TRAGEDY.
     It was an experiment for me as a writer that now I wouldn't bat an
     eyelid at, but at the time it was SRS BSNS. LOL, it just makes me
     laugh now.
“My mom always said, Never grab a falling knife. I never knew what she meant
until now.”
“Why would she say something like that to a little boy?”
He paused. “Maybe because she knew when we grew up, Linc would be the knife.”
 
 
“Before my mom died she told me to always take care of my brother.” He pushes
out a heavy breath. “I never did a very good job.”
“Your mother never knew you’d face something like this.” The compassion is
unexpected, but it does little to comfort him.
“Yeah, but even when I could have protected him, there were lots of times I
failed.”
 
 
Wiping at her cheeks gently with his thumbs, he decided that her eyes had
always been fathomless to him. He couldn’t see the bottom, though they were
always clear and honest when he looked into them. He would stare at her face,
the crooked smile and the too-big mouth especially, and he would know she
wasn’t the prettiest girl in the world. He knew it in his mind.
But his heart couldn’t tell the difference between her green eyes shining at
him and the smell that filtered through his mind when he’d hugged his mother.
He couldn’t see a difference between who she was and how she made him feel.
And because he longed for that feeling, sometimes whatever he had to do to have
it was all that mattered.
 
 
With her brown eyes welling up with tears, he can’t take away the bottle. He
knows he should, he knows that of all the things that have gone wrong in the
last two months, this will probably be the wrong-est, if there is such a word.
“You said no needles, so no needles. But I need this. I need it,” she says, and
he sits down next to her, pulling the cap off himself.
The sick thing is, he needs it too.
 
 
“We’ve talked about this so many times, haven’t we? Why don’t you just make a
recording and push the button for me when I come crawling back like this? Why
are you so patient with me?” she asked, still wiping at her cheeks, though
wiping away the tears did nothing to prevent new ones from falling.
“I love him, too, Vee. I understand.” When she gave him a rueful look, he
shrugged. It was a lie on a few different levels. “Okay, I sort of understand.
But what’s the point in me telling you that you can do better? You already know
it. We just want Linc to be better. We want him to be the guy.” And if Lincoln
could have been decent to Veronica, Michael had told himself numerous times, he
wouldn’t have to imagine how he would treat her so much better if she were his
girlfriend.
She sniffed. “The right guy. For the longest time I’ve told myself he’s the
right guy for me, so everything else doesn’t matter. But really, everything
else does matter. And if it matters, he’s not the right guy.”
“I know,” Michael whispered, pulling her closer. She let her head fall against
his chest and when she rubbed her cheek back and forth on his shirt he felt his
heart start beating faster.
 
 
The first drop of liquor on his tongue causes his taste buds to explode with
feeling. He passes her the bottle and watches as she tips it back. Her throat
works, the long graceful line of it seizing up when the drink she takes is too
much. Coughing, she nearly drops the bottle but he recovers it as she tries to
put it back in his grasp.
Rubbing his hand across her back, he soothes her as the alcohol seeks to
relieve them both of thought and worry. “It’s been a while,” she chokes out,
her voice rough from the liquid sticking to her vocal chords.
“I know. That’s why I took a small sip. Gotta go slow. Gotta make it worth it.”
“Nothing can make it worth it,” she whispers, moving slightly to lean her
shoulder against his chest.
He doesn’t say anything as he brings the bottle back to his lips.
 
 
Veronica knew this was wrong. Being here with Michael like this was wrong,
because he had that look. The look. The look that said even though he was
willing to comfort her while she cried over his brother again, he longed for
something from her.
And it was a perverse feeling that welled up within her, making her want the
same thing. To get at Lincoln, to reward Michael. To make herself feel better.
Her parting remark in her fight with Lincoln two days before had been, “Fuck
you.” What better way to do that than to fuck his little brother?
Keeping her face pressed to his chest, she relaxed even more as her tears dried
away. His hand spread out against her back, and she could feel all five of his
long fingers moving slowly down until they splayed warmly at the base of her
spine, not quite touching her ass. He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate,
because for God’s sake, it was Michael, but she could feel his heart pounding
under her ear and she could hear his breath, ragged and sharp, as it bounced
off her forehead.
He was different than Lincoln, in so many ways. Gentle instead of rough,
hesitant instead of demanding. She could feel his emotion, how much he hated
his brother for what he had done to break her heart at the same time he
sympathized with her in wishing Lincoln could be the way he used to before
drugs and bad influences and unfortunate timing overtook his life. Michael felt
something for her about her, and he felt something for her about himself. And
she needed to be with someone right now who appreciated her, and who needed
something only she could give him.
And she really wanted to piss Lincoln off, even though he would never know who
she’d fucked instead of him. She’d just make sure it got around to him somehow,
that there had been someone else. He never needed to know it was Michael. It
wouldn’t matter who it was, not to him. He would be equally furious about
whomever she spread her legs for that wasn’t him. The secret thought that it
would be the one person he would never suspect made her body tighten in
anticipation. It was strangely its own aphrodisiac.
But would Michael understand if it was just for tonight? If for just one moment
she was the bitchiest she could be? At his expense? She needed it. She needed
to be the one who disappointed Lincoln for once.
 
 
Sara knows she’ll have to drink a whole lot more than half of this one bottle
to stop feeling the pain. Lincoln probably doesn’t realize his whole “no
needles” edict has profusely reminded her that they are without his brother,
not just for tonight, but forever. And there isn’t enough alcohol in the world
to take away the throbbing in her chest. But then again, there probably isn’t
enough morphine either, because she can’t almost accidentally kill herself
again. She has to live. She has to live, and so does Lincoln, because Michael
died for them. If they die too, what was the point? What was the point of his
broken body on a sandy beach in Panama, shot by some guy in a suit who claimed
it was for the best?
No, she and Linc, they have to live. Keep on living. They've already discussed
this at length.
He puts the bottle to her mouth and she lets him tip her head back as the last
few drops slide into her parched mouth. “We need more,” he mutters, his hand
tightening against the nape of her neck as one stray drop rolls from the corner
of her mouth down her chin.
“Yeah,” is all she replies with before his lips are there, against her skin,
catching the superfluous liquid.
Sara suddenly realizes she can dip her head slightly and her lips will be right
under his, but when she heard him say they need more, her agreement had been
for more liquor. As his lips slide unheeded down her throat, she realizes he
means more. More than alcohol. More than something to block out Michael’s
death. Something to prove they still live.
And living hurts so much more than dying, Sara is certain.
When his lips find the v-neck of her shirt and plunge deeper, she doesn’t
object. As his arm curls around her waist and drags her over his lap, the
buttons on her shirt pop open under his teeth. She cries out when his lips find
her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple, and the buzz from the
alcohol escalates with the shot of sensation that radiates from his mouth
throughout her body.
Her head falls back, her hands gripping his skull, holding him to her. She
thinks apologetically towards the heavens, Just this once.
But when she hears Lincoln growl against her skin, “As many times as I can,”
she knows she’s said it aloud.
 
 
Lifting her head, Veronica found his eyes on her, steely and shuttered. She’d
seen that look before, the look he used to keep Lincoln from seeing how upset
he was with whatever new predicament he found himself in. He’d been doing it
for years, but now, at 19, Michael was a master. His eyes were unreadable, and
he could either be sizing her up or feeling pity for her; she honestly wouldn’t
have known except that at such close proximity his body betrayed him 100%.
She stretched her neck, bringing their faces into alignment. She looked into
his eyes, and didn’t try to disguise what she was feeling or what she wanted.
“Just tonight?” she asked, giving them both the easy out. If he said yes, she
didn’t have to worry about it happening again, and if he said no, he didn’t
have to worry that she’d ask again. She might want to hurt Lincoln, but never
Michael. She touched his cheek softly with her fingertips.
“Vee…” he whispered, his eyes dropping away from hers as a big breath shuddered
through his chest.
“We’ll never tell. It’ll just be tonight.” She lowered her gaze to his mouth.
His lips were reddening right along with his cheeks. Everything he wanted was
right there on his face, but with Michael, you never knew if he’d do what he
wanted, or if he’d manacle himself with the self-control of one who had vowed
to never lose the ground he’d gained. She bounced her lips off of his and
waited.
“This is really messed up,” he acknowledged, his mouth quirking on one side.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Veronica asked.
 
 
Lincoln’s cock throbs inside his jeans so vividly he can see flashing lights
behind his eyes. It isn’t that Sara turns him on this much as it is that he
hasn’t let himself feel anything in so long that the floodgates have burst open
with the slightly tipsy feeling the fifth of whiskey gave him. He could let
himself feel the misery of his dead brother, or his son that is lost to him
forever, just as good as dead, right along with his parents. He could let
himself feel in its entirety the truth that Michael should just have let them
kill him in Fox River. But instead, he lets his hand worm its way underneath
Sara’s panties and he feels the dampness of her arousal against his fingers and
his cock throbs even more ferociously. “God, I want you,” he mutters, but
that’s not true either. He doesn’t want Sara. He just wants to not think about
anything involving Michael.
As his fingers slide inside her though, all he can think is that Michael never
got to do this. Michael never had a chance to touch her, not the way Lincoln is
right now.
Somehow that’s the worst thing he can know right now and when Sara gasps and
squirms against his hand, he closes his eyes to her pleasure. His thumb finds
her clitoris, though, and a long, throaty moan drags from her and her
fingernails dig into his bare chest. Her hips pump fast in rhythm with his
rotating thumb and she shrieks and stiffens, and a flood of warmth coats his
hand while his heart beats out in the cold.
 
 
He didn’t answer her question with words. Instead he leaned into Veronica until
his lips pressed against hers. Veronica. Lincoln’s Veronica. He wasn’t stupid
enough not to know what this was about, but he trusted that Veronica would
never tell. Lincoln would never know it had been him.
And for this night, Michael would feel the feeling he hadn’t had since his
mother died. Comfort; a soft touch that gave him a sense of all being right in
the world. He knew Veronica wasn’t his mother, and what he was about to do with
her wasn’t childlike at all, but for whatever reason, she had always brought a
presence with her that reminded him of his mother. And in a few moments, he was
going to be as close to her as he could get.
He didn’t have much experience kissing, but that didn’t seem to bother Vee. She
teased him with her tongue and instinctively his tongue followed hers back into
her mouth. Their lips twisted simultaneously and their tongues rubbed together,
and Michael felt his excitement increase rapidly until he ached for something
more. For something that he hadn’t had before.
His hand reached for her breast, cupping it through her clothes and even
through her shirt and her bra he could feel the hardness of her nipple. He knew
that meant something good, that she was feeling something similar to him,
though he doubted she felt it as crazily as he did. He felt like his whole body
was about to explode, just from her tongue on his and his hand filled up with
her round flesh.
“Oh, God, Michael,” she breathed, her head tipping back. Her eyes were a darker
green than he’d ever seen and she reached down and pulled her t-shirt over her
head quickly. His eyes went to the bra now, to the lush curves he’d envisioned
too many times. He’d seen Veronica in a bathing suit before, but this was
different, and close up, and—oh! Her hand brushed at the front of his jeans and
he jumped. “Your roommate isn’t going to show up when we get to the good stuff,
is he?” she asked, panting slightly.
Michael looked around his dorm room, and shook his head to clear it. When they
got to the good stuff? If this wasn’t the good stuff, he wasn’t sure he could
handle what was the good stuff. “No,” he said rapidly. “And I locked the door
when you came in, so even if he showed back up, he’d know, you know…” but he
didn’t finish his sentence because his hands were shakingly unfastening her bra
and her breasts were in his palms and she arched against him as she laid back
on his bed. “Oh, Vee,” he breathed uncertainly. He didn’t know if he could
handle all the stimuli coming at him, so he laid his head against her breasts
and closed his eyes.
 
 
Sara rests against him for a few minutes, maybe only a few seconds, and he
intends to end it here, not seek his own release, not in the face of Michael,
not in the thought that his brother can somehow see him, or might know what
he’s doing. He’ll just wrap her in the bed sheet and wait until she falls
asleep and then he’ll sneak out. He’ll take enough money to get him to the next
place, but leave the rest for her and she can have that. Michael would want her
to be taken care of.
But before he can lift her up in his arms and move from the sofa they’ve been
sitting on across the small cabin to the bed, she slides out of his arms to the
floor between his legs. Her fingers pull his belt loose and her eyes move up to
his as she unbuttons and unzips his pants.
Regardless of the fact that he shouldn’t let this happen, that they shouldn’t
have gotten drunk, and he isn’t even drunk enough to not know what he’s doing,
he still has a hard-on, and when Sara wraps her fingers around him, it does
nothing to dissipate the swelling in his lower regions. In fact, what her
fingers don’t do to inspire more blood to flood that area, her lips entice
totally as she leans forward and takes him in her mouth.
His fingers knot in her hair, but he locks his jaw, keeping words from coming
out. He doesn’t want to say her name, he doesn’t want to think of who she is
and that she isn’t the one who should be doing it, and he certainly isn’t the
one who should be receiving it. With no warning, his mind goes back, to other
warm lips and another flicking tongue and he can smell Veronica more vividly
than he has in all the years since the last time he was like this with her. And
then it’s her fingernails digging into his thighs and her throat contracting
around him as he moves without conscious thought.
When he comes, his bottom lip bleeds her name, the one he wishes for, not the
one he’s with.
 
 
Veronica’s fingers slid up the back of his neck, caressingly, comfortingly.
“It’s all right,” she cooed, tugging at him gently, bringing his face up to
hers.
Their foreheads came together and Michael whispered a confession that he didn’t
see any way around. “I’ve never done this before, Vee.”
Her fingers spread out against the back of his head. “Really?” she asked
quietly.
He nodded his head.
“You don’t want to do this with me, then,” she said. “You should do this with
someone—“
“No,” he said quickly. “I do want to do it with you, and I have a vague idea of
how to do it, but I just…” He paused, took a deep breath and looked into her
eyes unflinchingly. “I wanted you to know, in case it’s not very…good.”
When Veronica’s eyes filled with tears, he wasn’t sure what they were for, and
his confusion was starting to chase away his arousal. Then her hands cupped his
face warmly and she brushed her lips softly along the curve of his bottom lip.
“You shouldn’t want to do this with me,” she whispered. “But if you’re sure,
Michael, I’ll make it good for you.”
Holding himself over her on one elbow, he shook his head. “But it should be
good for both of us…and I know I won’t be—“
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “This will be for me, exactly what it
should be. All about you. Don’t worry. I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how to
make it good for me.”
The tension that had invaded his shoulders when he first told her disappeared
with her words. This was exactly why he loved Veronica, and why he thrilled to
steal even these few moments from his brother. He knew afterwards, even a few
weeks from now, she would probably be back with Lincoln, but it wouldn’t
matter, because he would have this. This memory, this sweetness that was his
and his alone, and no one could ever take that from him.
Her total acceptance relaxed his nerves, but brought his urgency back 10-fold
and he pressed his lips to hers enthusiastically. She shifted beneath him and
he landed on top of her perfectly, her breasts cushioning his chest and her
legs spreading slightly to let him nestle between them. The ecstasy of it was
almost enough to make him come in his jeans, but he took a deep breath and
stilled himself.
 
 
Sara climbs back into his lap after a few moments of lung-heaving recovery, and
Lincoln’s hands land on her hips, which are nothing but silky skin beneath his
fingers. He opens his eyes and sees that she’s totally naked now, and not
inclined in the least to be done with what they have been doing.
“Did you think about him while I came in your mouth?” he asks, because he has
to know that she is somewhere else too, not on this boat with him, but outside
of it, in some miraculous place where things are the way they should be.
Her eyes are partly sad with pain and partly bright with anticipation, as
though making him ejaculate is a triumph she has never known before. “I think
about him all the time,” she says, not giving him exactly what he wants.
He roughly grabs her by the back of her neck, jerking her closer to his face.
“I’m going to fuck you, and I want you to scream his name when you come.”
Her eyes dilate even further, the brown irises obscured by black pupils and
Lincoln sees his soul in those dark depths. He should have died, not Michael.
He should have died, not Veronica. He should have died, not Aldo. And Sara
should have something to ease her pain, but not him. “Yes,” she agrees,
wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. She bites his
already bleeding bottom lip and he hisses in pain, the howling wind of it
whipping through him, propelling him to his feet to stumble a few feet to the
bed. Dumping her down, he spreads her knees, holding her legs apart with his
hands. Burying his face there, he breathes deeply of her smell, but regrets it
instantly because it’s not the smell he’d imagined a few moments before.
He knows she’s not Veronica, and there’s no way to get that back, so instead he
channels the methodical intensity of his brother and sets his mouth on her,
determined to drive her wild before he leaves her nothing but a pile of money
to comfort her.
 
 
By the time they were both naked and Veronica was sucking in a breath as he
pushed inside of her, Michael’s every cell was alive and aware and totally
involved in what he was doing. He had often held himself in his own tight fist
and imagined this moment, but nothing compared to it. She was tighter than his
fist ever could be and warmer and wetter than he could have ever dreamed. Those
three things combined sent his mind spinning as he panted and tried to control
the urge to ram himself into her.
Her hands slid down his back and over the curve of his bottom, pulling him
closer, even though he didn’t think it was possible to get any closer to her.
She shifted again, her legs wrapping around his hips and he pressed his elbows
deep into the mattress in an effort to hold his chest up off of hers.
“Veronica,” he gasped, kissing her lips repeatedly, all the while phrases fell
out of his mouth like, “Never felt this way before,” and “Am I hurting you?
Does it hurt? Oh, God, you feel so good,” and “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” but
he didn’t even know what it was exactly that he couldn’t do, and she just
murmured his name and shushed him, before she moved her hips against his.
He groaned loudly and she giggled, shushing him again before whispering, “Move
your hips like this,” and she demonstrated again, which only seemed to incite
him further until he was doing what she hadn’t really taught him. Instinct took
over and his lips found hers while he hammered into her. She drew one of his
hands down between them and placed his finger against her clit, whispering to
him how to move the digit so that it rendered her speechless. He marveled as it
worked, because her eyes rolled back in her head and her hips moved hungrily
against his and suddenly they were both there, in the throes, and Michael
wanted to watch her face, but he couldn’t because he felt like his brain had
imploded as everything went black.
 
 
Sara had been fucked hard a time or two in her life, that she can recall. She’d
probably been fucked really hard while high as a kite, but none of that really
comes back to her clearly. But she’s never been fucked quite like this. As if
she is hated but treasured, as if she is the center of the universe, but not
quite deserving of it. Lincoln is ruthless in his domination, his lips and
tongue and teeth so involved in every part of her body that she is bruised and
soothed at the same time, and when he finally joins their bodies, she closes
her eyes and focuses with all her might on the image of Michael that she had
conjured just for this moment.
He is sweaty and hot, hard and strong, and moving inside her so rightly, like a
dance that he has practiced so many times, she soars to the edge of oblivion
and then teeters back as he slows his movements to extend the moment beyond
anything she can properly comprehend. This is how she knew he would be, so
perfect, so right for her, the perfect dream that she had always searched for.
The perfect man to run away with forever, and never look back on the life that
has never given her anything anyway.
When she comes, she does call his name, but it’s all for naught. She knows it
isn’t him in her arms, or deep inside her, because if it were him, she wouldn’t
be afraid to open her eyes, and she wouldn’t be thinking of how her life had
finally given her one thing, only to take it right back in the form of his
still body, the light extinguished from his eyes forever. She wouldn’t sob
uncontrollably into his brother’s shoulder and hear him whispering, “I know, I
know,” and she wouldn’t know that he did know, and that he had tried to make
her forget but as long as they are with each other, neither of them will ever
forget.
It’s an impossibility to forget the one you love most when the one he loved
most lies beside you every night.
 
 
Veronica laid very still under the collapsed body of someone other than
Lincoln. She had never made love with anyone except him, and she acknowledged
that she had just made love with Michael. She might have tried to fuck him, but
it could never be that way with him. Even if he hadn’t been a virgin, he was
too sweet. He was too Michael.
He was too in love with her to ever treat her badly. When Michael loved, it was
to extremes. He couldn’t do anything half-heartedly. He was so different than
his brother. Because Lincoln felt he could never do it well enough he never
even tried, whereas Michael didn’t understand anything other than utter
perfection. He wouldn’t quit even in impossible circumstances. Lincoln, beat
back by life so many times, would either fight like a madman or give up with
seeming indifference, as though he never cared at all. She’d seen him beat the
hell out of someone just because she was on a date with the guy and she’d seen
him act as though he couldn’t care less about what she thought of him. Michael
didn’t understand anything other than trying to make you feel his love, and he
had just poured everything he could into this moment with her.
He moved to lay beside her, his eyes open and worshipful on her face, his hand
running up and down her body, touching her as much as he could in this window
of time she had allowed him. She smiled at him because of all the conflicting
emotions running through her, the one thing that was undeniable was the
pleasure she had just felt with him and because of him. “Thank you, Michael,”
she whispered.
“I love you, Vee,” he whispered in return, unable to keep it to himself.
“I know you do,” she replied. “You know I love you, too, right?”
He nodded jerkily and smiled shyly at her. “I know. I know.” He squeezed her to
him and buried his face in her shoulder. “Will you stay here with me for a
while?” he asked.
Veronica shifted so she could wrap her arms around him. “Of course, I will,”
she answered. “I’ll stay as long as you want me too.”
She knew he knew it was a lie, but it was the only answer she could give him.
 
 
Sara falls asleep sometime after the storm of tears engulfs her. She thinks
Lincoln probably cried with her, but she just clung blindly to him until the
next thing she is aware of is the silence of the boat cabin they’ve shared for
some time, but never as intimately until now. She knows before she opens her
eyes, but she doesn’t want to know. As much as she’d give anything for Michael
to be back with her, she knows that being alone will be worse than being with
Lincoln.
She reaches out, but the bed is empty beside her. She whispers, “Lincoln?” to
the room and when no sound comes back to her, she says his name again in her
full voice.
Sitting up, she clutches a pillow to her bare, whisker-burned breasts and looks
around. The cabin is no different than it's been since Michael's death, except
that Lincoln is gone. The backpack full of money still sits in the corner, in
plain view, though the top zipper is partially opened. He must have taken some
money with him, and she can’t help but wonder if he left the rest of it out of
the goodness of his heart or just because he didn’t want to take anything with
him that reminded him of his brother.
Because she knows he isn’t coming back.
Sara remembers back to three days before Michael died. They’d been on the deck
of the Christina Rose, enjoying the sun. He’d been telling her stories about
their childhood when he suddenly told her the anecdote of advice his mother had
once given him. “My mom always said, Never grab a falling knife. I never knew
what she meant until now.”
“Why would she say something like that to a little boy?”
He paused. “Maybe because she knew when we grew up, Linc would be the knife.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“He cuts everything. We’re completely severed, Sara. From everything that ever
mattered to us. It’s not his fault, but it’s the way he is. We’re here because
of him. Can you live with that?” His eyes had been intense, deep, looking into
hers thoroughly, as though any little lie she might try to tell would be
perfectly transparent to him.
“I can live with anything, as long as I’m with you,” she said.
She’d meant it.
 
 
Fighting like hell hadn’t done any good, so he tells himself he just doesn’t
give a fuck.
It's too late now to make a difference.
Michael always said there was more to do, more they could do. Lincoln's first
mistake was letting himself be duped into believing that. Now, none of it
matters anyway.
Nothing he can do will bring Michael back; everything he does only reminds him
of Michael's absence. Sailing on the boat his brother had built, spending the
money his brother found, fucking the woman he loved.
Lincoln Burrows hunches his shoulders against the tropical breeze. It’s not
cold, just strong, and it hurts his ears a little, with the wind whipping
around them. As he walks away from the beautiful yacht, and the $5 million
dollars, and the gorgeous woman, he thinks about his baby brother. That was all
his; it all belongs to Michael, and because he can’t have it, neither can
Lincoln. He doesn’t want it, he reminds himself.
And it’s true. Because without Michael in the world the only thing Lincoln has
to keep him company is the knowledge that he must go on living. Living in a
world that no longer contains any of the reasons he ever would have wanted to
stay alive.
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their work!