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Sucre looked up when he heard the distinct noise of their toilet being moved from its original place against the wall, the usual rasp of metal against concrete floor a little louder than it should be. It wasn't exactly Michael-like to make unnecessary noises, but then again, the man had been acting strange all evening.
Sucre could understand. The plan had seemed so perfect and for a while, he had believed in it. Believed in Michael and the confident glimmer in his blue eyes, when the Fish had given the go. He still believed in the man and trusted him maybe a whole lot more than he should; he could so easily make all his doubts fade away, with just a few words and a look Sucre swore was gentle and fond as he told him the less he knew the better it would be. He had understood that Michael was keeping him safe, was willing to take all the blame for this stupid ass plan if something were to go wrong.
Something had gone wrong.
They were back in their cells, the guy's brother was still on death row and they now had no idea what the next plan was. Sucre had thought, at first, that it wasn't a big deal, there had to be another way. There probably was, and he knew that Michael knew it too. He just needed to figure things out, coping with the pressure of the so imminent execution of his brother. Still, because that guy was clearly the best, he had found another way. Another path that had disappeared along with a good patch of skin on the man's back, result of a serious burn... and some gesture Fernando wasn't proud of. This event had been the beginning of the end.
They obviously needed more time than they could possibly have and it was hard on Michael's nerves. Sucre could get it.
He still didn't like it when Michael Scofield, the brains of their little escape, his so annoyingly logical cellmate, the one man that seemed to be in perfect control most of the time, felt so desperate.
It had struck him that evening when Michael, after pacing for a while and looking intensely at his forearms for some clue, some spark of genius that would generate a whole new plan in that crazy brain of his, grabbed the sheet to hang it in front of their cell.
"You found something?"
Because that was the first logical explanation to this behavior. Unfortunately, no good news, telling by Michael's frown and the way he suddenly worried his bottom lip.
"I won't be long."
Sucre hadn't pushed it. Hadn't tried to keep Michael from going into the walls either. On further consideration, he had regretted it. Michael had no clue what to do next. He was just doing something because taking some rest wasn't part of the plan, of any plan at all. He was thinking and searching and exhausting himself- and clearly, Fernando had never seen someone with such a lack of self-preservation instincts- even though he was running head first into a wall. It was all too soon, too abrupt. Lincoln would still be alive tomorrow morning and for now, his brother only needed to stop thinking so much and rest. Rest to clear his head, deal with the strong emotions he was experiencing, let himself heal from the burn and then find a new way out of here. Act like the confident, smart mouth Michael Scofield from the very beginning. The one that wasn't on the verge of nervous breakdown.
Sucre got on his feet and stretched, looking as the man straightened himself, putting the toilet back in place. He found himself peering at the man in search of any sign of injury, not finding a single one and sighing with a barely contained relief. Just as he was about to turn and remove the sheet that still hid their cell, he suddenly realised that Michael was sweating. Sweating... a lot. His reaction was immediate.
"What part did you not understand in 'Don't go back down there', Michael?"
He got no answer.
"Last time you went there, you burned yourself so bad I had to rip the uniform off your skin!"
It was as if Scofield was completely lost in his own head. Not only did he not respond to Sucre in any way, he didn't even flinch and nothing could seem to shake him from this distant state. Blue eyes staring into space, wide and unfocused, the moment felt so intense it soon made the other uncomfortable. He was used to the intense looks, Michael always looked intense, but this was something different. This was Michael thinking so much that he completely cut himself from the world. This was in fact pretty scary.
"Michael," he tried to grab the man's shoulder, shake him slightly. After a few seconds, his cellmate finally blinked and let out something that sounded like:
"It didn't happen again."
"No, no, si, but it could have. It could have! You gotta stop doing this to yourself, Papi."
But then again, Michael was gone, eyes settling on a spot on the wall, clearly not seeing the wall itself but more likely some kind of scheme or complicated stuff he was thinking about. He was so unresponsive that Sucre, for a brief instant, thought about calling for some help. Then, he decided against it and simply led a tensed yet compliant Michael to his bunk. Fingers brushing the glistening skin, the Puerto Rican started slowly stripping Michael of his shirt. When he would have expected at least a small protest, he didn't even earn a single look as he pulled the shirt over Michael's head without the man seeming to notice at all. Using the piece of clothing, he wiped the sweat from the Fish's face before giving his cheek a little pat. The white undershirt stuck to his hot, moist tattooed skin in a way Sucre shouldn't find appealing... yet it was oddly attractive, only it also reminded Sucre of the most heartbreaking scream he had ever heard. If he could go back in time, he'd keep Michael from going into the walls that peculiar night so he wouldn't end up hurting him so bad... With a sigh, he kept talking, filling the odd silence lingering between them.
"You promised to get my puerto rican ass out of here, Papi. You better not give up on me right now."
He swallowed with some difficulty, discarding the clothes away on the floor and turning to the sink to wet some towel he then gently rubbed on Michael's face. The man didn't protest at all, didn't flinch at the touch, didn't look at him even. There was the slightest of frowns on his face, a thin line Sucre tried to ease with a gentle thumb. It scared him to know that Michael was locking himself up in his own head like that. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't right. He could understand the man's distress and felt as much because he realised he really was of no help at all, but the man didn't have to do this to himself. He had to snap out of this soon before... before what? Before Fernando really starts to freak out? Before Michael loses himself completely and never comes back again?
"You can't think clearly with that burn, the painkillers, all that you're going through right now. You have to stop now, Michael. This is insane. You'll get back to it tomorrow morning."
He was now rubbing the towel on the man's shoulders, careful not to hurt him as he approached the burned area, then slid the wet towel along the man's spine and over the skin of his back. Cold against hot skin. His cellie suddenly shivered, a small response of his body to the temperature contrast as if to prove that it was still working, someone was still home. It was so hot down there... Judging by how much Michael had sweat, he had stayed there for a while. Probably walking around, close, too close to those same pipes that had burned him, looking for something, anything... Waiting for something that wouldn't come, not now. A breathless laugh escaped Sucre's lips and he gently raised a hand, fingers barely brushing the skin of the man's face, one finger following his jawline.
"You really are a mess, Michael Scofield," his fingers grabbed him tightly by the chin and he tried to lock eyes with him, even though he felt like those blue eyes could see right through him, lost in a total daze, "now cut the crap!"
Michael's lips suddenly started to move almost frantically, forming words at such a speed although he barely made a sound. Sucre could only make out a few words, especially 'Lincoln' and 'escape' and the rest was lost under a shaky breath, when the man stilled all of a sudden, his lips slightly parted. Still thinking way too much. This man was almost like a machine, his brains capable of things Sucre wouldn't even dream of, still every machine has its weaknesses and at some point, it needs a good fixing. The comparison seemed a little nebulous, yet terribly accurate.
Before the Puerto Rican had the time to do or say anything else, he heard the steps of a guard walking by. He cast a glance towards the sheet that was still up, wondering how long it had been now. If anything, long enough to draw some suspicion, if the way the CO suddenly adressed them was any telling.
"What are you two ladies up to in there?!"
Shit. He couldn't simply remove the sheet and let everybody have a look at Michael right now. Being seen in that state wouldn't do him any good and Sucre couldn't risk him being put into the psych ward. As a few long seconds elapsed, he started to panick a little, especially when the CO raised his voice and asked once again, fumbling with his keys, clearly about to have the door to cell 40 opened. On an impulse, Sucre did the only thing that crossed his mind, something that wasn't exactly sane but he clearly was out of options here. Without warning, he grabbed Michael between the legs and gave it a fairly good squeeze. While he wasn't expecting much out of it, only praying for Michael not to blow up their cover, against all odds, the man moaned. Sucre's heart skipped a beat and he heard himself murmur a breathless:
"Dios mio, Papi...."
On the other side of the thin sheet that hid them from too curious eyes, the shadow of the guard stilled, then with a snort he turned around and kept walking. Great. If people weren't sure about what really happened in cell 40 when the sheet was up, they would now definitely think they were screwing each other's brains out. Fernando recalled Michael asking him about what mattered the most, protecting his prison rep or getting out of here. Seemed like he didn't even have the choice anymore... Not that he actually minded. Not with Michael's eyes suddenly staring at him, right at him and not lost in the distance, seeing things that only he could understand. There was a frown on his face, but his lips were parted and glistening with saliva, as if he'd licked them just a moment ago. He still didn't look like his normal self, not quite, but something was more alert in his eyes and the gesture had obviously triggered some reaction. Sucre hesitated, bit his lip, then without a second thought he made to repeat the gesture, only his hand hadn't even reached Michael yet when the man suddenly grabbed his wrist, fingers tightening their bruising hold. Shit.
In any other situation, Sucre would have apologized and backed off. Hell, he wouldn't even have grabbed Michael like that in the first place. He didn't swing that way. He... He didn't use to swing that way, in fact. Guess prison does change you, but hey, a man's got needs right? Every time T-Bag would call Michael 'Pretty', the man always agreed deep inside that si, si, his cellie really was pretty. He was even prettier. And he was a good man. He didn't belong here, he was way too good for that. In any other situation, Sucre would never have seen Michael Scofield as more than a friend. But this wasn't any other situation. This was something else. Something new. This was Michael looking at him with despair. This was Michael breathing "Fernando..." so gently he thought he'd hallucinated it, eyes cold and focused but lips so sweet and tempting...
"I've got you, Papi... I've got you."
He refused to let himself think that he was taking advantage of the man as he slowly pushed him backwards until he was lying on the bunk, the upper half of his body leaning against the wall for some sort of support. As he was going to reach for the man's underwear, Michael tug at his wrist with a hiss of pain and it actually took a minute for Fernando to understand that the position was hurting him for where the wall pressed against sensitive raw skin. Immediately, he apologized profusely and pulled Michael up again, only to help him lie on the bed in a position that wouldn't bring up more pain. Once the man seemed to be comfortable, Sucre murmured "My hand, Papi..." and was relieved to feel his pretty cellie let go of his wrist. He reached for the plain white boxer short and slowly pulled it down, holding his breath without noticing as he took with him the only piece of clothing that preserved Michael's body from his eager eyes. Running a hand over Michael's naked belly, he let his fingers brush against moist skin and follow the lines of ink up to the man's chest, secret paths and information, every single detail being part of a complex plan that had always fascinated him. When he'd first seen Michael, he hadn't taken him for this type of guy. Couldn't have predicted the man had his upper body covered with ink. It had been quite a surprise, a pleasing one, and now that he had the chance to let himself take in all the details of this very masterpiece, touch it, feel it ... He'd take the opportunity. It was almost a shame it stopped right below the collarbone, yet Sucre didn't hesitate when he let his tongue follow this peculiar sensitive spot, smiling against his skin when Michael's breath caught from the hot trail Fernando's mouth had left behind. If he couldn't reason Michael into getting some rest, then he would force him to. There was no way he'd still be able to think after what Sucre had in mind for him.
Michael's eyes were back to the wall when Sucre looked up, but telling by the way he was slightly out of breath, tiny shuddering pants escaping his mouth in rhythm with Sucre's fingers gently stroking his sides, he wasn't indifferent to the touch. Sliding both palms along the man's body, down to his thighs, the Puerto Rican finally let his fingers graze the sensitive skin between his cellie's legs. Michael was half-hard already, and while it wasn't exactly how Sucre wanted him, it was surely getting there. The light touch had been enough to draw a shudder from the genius, then Sucre licked his lips and closed his fist around him. He gently started pumping, warm palm against soft sensitive skin, putting just the right amount of pressure to get Michael fully hard in a minute. The fucker wouldn't surrender, not yet, his hands grasping the sheets of the bed in an attempt to keep himself from sinking into the sweet feeling. His eyes still wide opened, he looked almost afraid, torn between his pleasure and his discomfort, and it suddenly crossed Sucre's mind that maybe, just maybe, Michael was scared. Not of Fernando, but probably of himself. Scared of letting his mind empty itself and stop responding to the constant overload of stimuli Michael had to live with every single day. He was used to a frantic rhythm and now that he was in a particularly fragile state of mind, it was all he could relate to, the only place where he really felt safe. In his own busy head. Except that he didn't have to feel like that, Sucre thought bitterly as he slowly picked up the pace, one hand soothingly stroking the man's hip and thigh.
"You know you can trust me, Papi..." he watched as Michael twitched, barely keeping his hips from bucking shamelessly under Sucre's hands, "We'll work things out together. You want help, I'll give you help. You want me to dig, I'll dig. Whatever you want, Michael."
"L-Lincoln..."
His voice was a little rough, huskier than usual, still it sounded like music to Sucre's ears. It was a shame he had to shut him up.
"None of that, baby. Shhh ... We'll care about Lincoln tomorrow. For now, we're caring about you. All about you, Papi."
Michael was such an eye candy. He always was pretty, but it was nothing compared to how good he looked when he was slowly coming undone. He was fighting really hard against the pleasure that was building at a constant pace, clouding his brain and making it hard for him to think, or to focus for that matter. He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on the wall, but Sucre could see it wouldn't be long before he completely lost this battle. Every twist of his wrist at the end of rough strokes made Michael jerk slightly, and he was clinging to the bed by now, arched in an awkward position where his upper body wasn't on the bed anymore, but bent over the side of the bunk. Mouth hanging open, slightly drooling on the floor and his own lower lip, Michael Scofield looked completely wrecked. Wrecked with pleasure. He was still oddly and completely silent and if it hadn't been for the way his knuckles had turned white from the strength with which he clung to the bed, or the twitches of his painfully hard cock in Sucre's hand, the Puerto Rican would have thought the treatment didn't affect him at all. Except that it did affect him, and maybe more than he thought.
"C'mere" he all but growled gently, helping Michael straighten himself as he pulled him closer into a hug, wanting him close, pressed against his own body, with him and not in the distance. They were in this together. The man had to understand that.
With Michael resting his chin against his shoulder, arms tentatively wrapped around his waist, Sucre could go back to stroking him fiercely. It was rough and fast and very inelegant, but clearly effective, as he soon heard a groan close to his ear, warm breath against his skin, and he smiled to himself. Things were starting to get nice; it didn't take a genius to notice how Michael finally reacted to the whole handjob, tiny spurts of precum coating Sucre's palm and sliding along the length in translucent little drops. Bringing his hand up Michael's cock, he slid a thumb over the tip, smearing the pale liquid there and making the man groan again.
"Ahhh, si, Papi ... Dios mio, Michael, you're dripping wet baby... Look at you... Aren't you the prettiest thing ever... Let go, Michael, I've got you, I'll make it good, ah, that's it..."
He was breathing heavily too, by now. And he wasn't lying. Michael really was dripping, he was making a mess on himself and Sucre's lap, and it was all so slick and wet and hot the Puerto Rican couldn't help but keep praising him as he stroked him faster, harder, skin sliding easily against skin with all the natural lubricating. He teased the tip for a while, fingers circling it gently, feather-light touches, before he took him between thumb and forefinger, still teasing, playing with him, keeping his release just a few steps away by the lack of real, strong touch. One of his hands was on Michael's nape, massaging it, running his fingers through the really short hair. He could feel the man clinging to his shirt, fingers digging into his sides, but Sucre couldn't care less. He knew he was slowly driving Michael crazy, knew he was getting the upper hand. He was panting in Fernando's neck, trying to hold back what Sucre liked to think were actual moans, biting his lips to do so.
"You want more, Papi ? What about a finger? Ah, si si si, you'd look so hot, opening up for it... Yes, you'd like a finger, I'd even make you take two of em', you're so wet, that would be no problem, we wouldn't even need any lube at all... You'd be able to take more than one, wouldn't you, Michael?"
He was babbling and he wasn't even noticing, and it went on for a while before he suddenly stopped himself all of a sudden, after a particularly intense 'Coming for me, Papi?' that escaped his lips before he could do anything to stop it. Biting his lips, he then pressed kisses to the man's shoulder instead, slowly regretting his words. Michael suddenly pulled back a little in order to lock eyes with him, looking as intense as ever, a faint blush on his cheeks and neck, his lips moist and red. Sucre bet they tasted like heaven, only it wasn't exactly the time to think about that. Maybe he'd pushed a little too far. Both his hands stilled and he gulped, melting under Scofield's penetrating blue eyes.
"I-I'm sorry Michael, I-"
"Fernando..." the man cut him, half-whispering, half-moaning his name, and gosh, he really was a mess, "d-don't ... don't stop talking ... please, just... Just... Haann..."
He could do that, he'd do anything for Michael, to make him feel better. Sucre could only blink once, twice with little shock, then give him a reassuring smile and pull him closer again, his lips ghosting over Michael's ear where he kept murmuring sweet promises and hot praises, babbling nonsense and compulsively rambling some Spanish that Michael couldn't even understand, but it didn't matter, it didn't fucking matter because then everything became frantic, wild and passionate, Michael's hips started bucking uncontrollably and he suddenly bit Sucre's shoulder to muffle a cry as he came hard and hot. Thick ropes of come shot all over Fernando's hand and both their stomach, Michael's eyes rolling back as he collapsed against his cellmate in a shuddering, panting mess. Sucre had never seen the man in such a state. Clearly, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
For a little while, nobody moved. Michael was resting against him and Sucre willingly took all his body weight without complaining in the slightest, hugging the man as tightly as he could. Once his cellie's breath was even again, calm and peaceful, his pulse getting back to a slower rhythm, the Puerto Rican smiled and whispered:
"Better?"
He got a sleepy "Yeah..." in response and while he felt like laughing with relief, he let out a sigh instead.
"Don't you dare do this to me again, Papi."
"Hhmm..."
"You scared the shit out of me."
"M'sorry..."
It was oddly charming how Michael apologized without hesitation, without retorting anything back in the way he always used to. Instead, he simply blinked sleepily and let Sucre help him lie on the bed again, on his side to avoid any pain in his back. They were both still a little sticky and Fernando rapidly cleaned them up a little with a discarded shirt, before pulling the sheets over Michael's naked body.
"Get some sleep, Michael. You need it."
He was clearly exhausted. A single orgasm and he could barely keep his eyes open, finally losing the battle against himself and his hyperactive brain, surrendering to the warm and comforting post-orgasmic feeling. It was only a small victory, but Sucre felt proud as he stayed on Michael's bunk a little longer, just to pet him gently, stroke his side, help him to sleep. It wasn't long before Michael's long fingers wrapped around his and squeezed softly, almost tenderly. And Sucre squeezed back, because they were friends, and that's what friends are for. Have each other's back and always be there, no matter what. Tomorrow would be another day, maybe the man would never want to talk about it again and would strongely deny what had happened that night, or maybe it would really have changed something between them and improved the trust Michael put in him ... But it didn't matter at all, and would never matter. Right here, right now, Michael was finally falling asleep, looking more peaceful than he had in days, and it made Sucre smile as he leaned closer, let his lips brush Michael's temple, and whispered:
"I'm right here, you know that ... I'll always be. I've got you, Papi."