out_there | Prison Break Fic: Form, Not Meaning

Title: Form, Not Meaning
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Alex
Rating: NC-17
Words: 10,774
Notes: Set late S3 (between 3.10 and 3.12, really). No spoilers for S4 because I haven't seen any of that yet. Thanks to

aurora_84 for the encouragement to write this,

oxoniensis for the beta,

sdwolfpup for letting me ramble for a thousand words before deleting three words of dialogue and

celli for ~~being mean to me in chat~~ bringing the magic!

Summary: "Keep staring like that," Mahone growls as he walks by, "and they'll get the wrong impression."

Most things in Sona start in the compound, in that small courtyard of red-brown dust and hunched, hopeless shoulders. Anything that ends there concludes with savagery and blood, so most things end in the shadows of someone's cell, in the stale sweat stench of narrow corridors, in threats and promises and bribery.

But regardless of where it ends, it starts here. So Michael watches.

He stands in the heat, the never-ending, sweltering heat of this place, leans against the rough brick, and observes the prisoners around him. Sona lacks the grass and steel of Fox River -- no grays and greens here, it's all reds and browns; fine sand and sun burnt skin, sweat rolling down the side of a neck smearing dirt in its trail -- but the courtyards share the same purpose. They share the pattern of the prison. The pattern of inmates: who talks to who, who trades for extra rations they don't need, which alliances are meant to be seen and which are kept quiet, hidden away amongst the crowds.

It's not the patterns themselves that Michael pays attention to: it's the changes in the patterns. That's the only warning he'll get before something goes wrong.

Michael stands about watching, and that's his pattern. It's what the others expect of him. It makes Whistler nod at Michael as he wanders through the sunlight, a slow stroll before he returns to the dubious protection of their shared cell. It makes McGrady smile, wave with one hand while he dribbles a basketball with the other, the sleeve of his basketball shirt threatening to fall down a narrow shoulder.

Even T-Bag expects it. There's a moment where he catches Michael's eye and smirks from the second floor, tilts his chin to look down on Michael a little more before disappearing into the relative opulence of Lechero's rooms.

The only one of their little gang that doesn't acknowledge Michael, and Michael's habit of watching, is Mahone. Mahone who perches on the brick wall on the other side of the compound and stares into the dirt. He flexes long fingers, fists them, flattens them against the rough brick work. He can sit still for hours, the lean of his shoulders never changing, but his hands always move: twisting, turning, twitching beneath his elbows when Mahone folds his arms and tries to hide it.

It's a strange combination -- showing a tell by hiding it -- but Mahone's full of those juxtapositions. Sharp, bright eyes and vacant, distracted stares. Gentle, soft voice and ragged, desperate threats. Torn collar of his shirt and carefully trimmed fingernails. Mahone soaks in the lazy Panama heat, as quick to threaten and growl and claw for what's his as any of Sona's other guests, but he doesn't belong. Animal grace and too human anxiety, and Michael wants to think of him as a wolf amongst the sheep, but no, he's more of a lion amongst the hyenas. Something sleek and contained stalking through the brutal violence of these crowds.

Mahone shakes his head briefly -- as if rousing from a daze or shaking off bad dreams -- and gets to his feet, keeping one hand on the wall while he gets his balance. But a lion would suggest a pride, Michael thinks as he watches Mahone make his way across the courtyard, and it's hard to imagine Mahone as part of a group. For all that he had a family, for all that he led a team, it's hard to imagine Mahone as anything but alone.

"Keep staring like that," Mahone growls as he walks by, "and they'll get the wrong impression."

Michael blinks, keeps his expression as it was, keeps watching. He counts to 1,354 inside his head (can't look like he's chasing Mahone, not where everyone can see), takes one final look around and goes inside.

The corridors are just tall enough to stop them feeling claustrophobic, but only just.

This isn't his responsibility but Michael needs to know if that comment was caused by drug-fuelled paranoia or Mahone's regular strength distrust. Mahone knows about the plan, and he's a lot harder to predict when he's high, a lot harder to manage.

Guessing Mahone's headed back to his cell, Michael turns down the corridor, hands in his pockets. He finds Mahone staring out the window, arm leaning on the rough concrete sill, one hand curled around the bars. There's a shine of sweat across his forehead, but that could be the heat. His hand is clenched tightly around the bars, but that could be to control the shakes of detox.

When Mahone looks at him, his eyes are bloodshot but that could be tiredness. It isn't easy to spot when Mahone's high, so Michael steps carefully into the room.

"Want something?" Mahone turns back to the window, to the bold blue sky outside, hair hanging over his forehead as he stares out at the clouds.

Michael's reminded of being a kid, of going to church and taking communion under meticulous carvings of a crucified savior. He remembers the details around the wooden nails: the wrinkles etched across the palms, the fingers curled lightly, the curve of bone where the ankles crossed. He remembers being terrified of it and trying to watch the stained glass windows instead, the shaggy-haired saints staring up, waiting for blessing from on high.

Mahone looks like that. Like he's waiting to be saved, facing the unknown with blind faith.

But only for a moment. Then he runs a hand through his hair, pushes it up off his face, and gives the stretched grimace that passes for his smile. "Well, Michael?"

"You said they'd get the wrong impression," Michael says slowly, because it's not smart to spook a man who can kill with his bare hands. It's a small cell, but he keeps at least a yard between them. "Who's 'they'?"

"Bagwell, for one." Mahone shrugs, takes his hand off the bars. "But the others will jump to the same conclusion, just give them time."

"And what's the wrong conclusion?"

Mahone laughs. It's not a sound that belongs in Sona. "Come on. You're smart enough to know that."

"Pretend I'm not."

Peeling himself from the wall, Mahone steps closer. Michael moves away, giving him space, but it puts his back against the wall, leaves him further from the cell's door.

"Think about Fox River. Think about the assumptions you'd make if you saw one inmate eyeing another. Watching him. Staring."

"I'd assume he was a mark," Michael says as Mahone steps closer, directly blocking Michael's exit. "A target."

"Not the way you watch. No posturing, no threats. You can't stop staring at my hands," Mahone says, tone twisting the words into something lewd. Then he slides forward, covers the remaining distance and presses a hand against Michael's hip. Leans in far too close. "What would Bagwell think?"

Michael gets it, understands what the prison is seeing and what Mahone is seeing, and the one interpretation he never considered. "I'm not--" He clamps down on the denial because it's partly true. He was watching. He was staring. Just not for those reasons.

Mahone keeps the heel of his hand pressed against Michael's hip bone, fingers curling against Michael's side as he leans forward, leans closer. Michael can feel the heat of Mahone's palm as if the thin cotton of his clothes wasn't there; he can feel the pressure of Mahone's fingers as if they were on bare skin.

Michael knows what it feels like to be burned. Knows how much it hurts to stand against something hot and feel it sear flesh. This isn't like that. It isn't pain and agony, but the heat… the heat is the same: constant and undeniable.

He's never been a particularly tactile person -- never expected to miss being touched -- but the insistence of Mahone's hand on him, the warmth radiating from Mahone's skin, the low demand in Mahone's voice as he shifts closer and whispers, "But maybe that's what you want them to think," makes Michael feel like he's about to ignite.

"So," Mahone leans closer, crowds him against the wall and presses a leg between his, "is that what you want?"

"Alex--"

Whatever Mahone hears in his tone, it's enough to make him freeze. Make him stop and stay in that embarrassingly intimate position: his head bowed, his breath coming fast and shallow against Michael's neck, knee between Michael's, his thigh pressed lightly against Michael's cock. It's barely a pressure but it's enough for Mahone to know Michael's hard; enough for Michael to know his body's betrayal was noticed.

Thankfully, there's a noise behind them in the corridor -- a scuffle of feet, a loud conversation in Spanish -- and Mahone pulls away fast. He takes a few steps backwards, runs his hands down the outside of his legs and clenches the material before letting go. He looks confused, befuddled, as scattered as Michael feels. Mahone looks at him once, eyes sharp and pale as titanium, head tilted, then steps backwards out of the cell and down the corridor.

Michael stays where he is. Presses hands flat against the rough, flaking whitewash. Closes his eyes. Tries to get his breathing under control.

Considers staying right there, waiting for Mahone to return, but someone might notice.

***

Michael never liked construction sites, the taste of dirt and diesel fumes at the back of his throat, the muted growl of bobcats and cranes, sun burning his ears and nose red while he inspected angles and measurements. But digging by hand is much worse. It's cramped and back-breaking, leaves his palms stained terracotta orange by the soil. There's always grit in his scalp, despite spending his too-short lukewarm showers scrubbing it out. He hates it, but if he's risking his life on the integrity of these tunnels, he wants them built right.

Even while part of his mind thinks in calculations, in torque, in applied force, he keeps thinking of Mahone. He could distract himself. Think of Linc and Sucre, think of LJ, but that would make him worry. He could go over the escape plan in his head but he doesn't want to think about it too much, in case he gives himself away. He could think about Sara... but that roils emotions he can't control, loss and anger and regret that threaten to capsize and drown him. He can't think about that now. Can't let himself feel that until he's out of here and can do something about it. He can use the anger but the rest, the other feelings connected to Sara, he can't afford those.

So he thinks about Alex Mahone.

Mahone has always been terrifying, able to do what no-one else can: understand how Michael thinks. Being smarter than everyone else, thinking in different ways, being quietly overlooked and never really known, these have always been Michael's defenses, his greatest strengths.

He allowed for people working out parts of the plan, possibly putting a few scraps of it together, but he hadn't worried about it. Once they were out of Fox River, there shouldn't have been any serious threats. But Mahone hadn't just understood the plan, he understood how Michael thought of it, how he put it together. Mahone had looked at Michael, and kept looking long enough to actually see him.

Michael doesn't flatter himself. He knows it's nothing personal. Mahone had to work Michael out, the Company left him no choice. But the fact remains that he could, that he did, that he was capable of it.

Michael digs until his mouth is dry and his knuckles are sore, then he crawls out of the tunnel. He stretches, leans back until his shoulders pop, rolls his head and twists his neck. When he turns, he finds Mahone watching him.

Even at ease, even with his shoulder against the wall, there's something about Mahone that still looks fidgety and restless. It could be the eyes, the way he stares straight at Michael and hardly blinks.

Michael scans the room, checking for anyone else, but they're alone. "What are you doing here?" he asks, picking up a dirty bottle of tap water. He's been here long enough that he doesn't even wish for ice as he gulps the liquid down.

"Not too many places you can be alone here." Mahone jerks his head to the side. It's a strange interpretation of a shrug.

"That doesn't answer the question." Michael sits down on the floor, back to the wall and doesn't look up when Mahone settles next to him. The silence is anything but comfortable. "You're really not going to talk about it?"

Mahone gives a piranha smile that almost passes for friendly. "Figured you'd crack eventually."

"Succumb to your charms?"

"I didn't say that," Mahone says. He doesn't say anything more, just sits and takes the bottle when offered. He sips the water slowly, plastic rim lightly resting on his lips, and then passes it back, wiping the rim on his sleeve. "I've spent enough time chasing you."

"Is that what you're doing now?" Michael asks, shifting his shoulders against the cool concrete, bending his legs in front of him. "Chasing me?"

A quick shake of Mahone's head. "No. I'm waiting for you to act on your decision."

"You make it sound like I've already made it."

"You have." Mahone folds his hands in his lap, twists them one over the other, but he keeps looking at Michael as he talks. "The thing with these decisions? They're made from the gut. They're instinct. Not logic or emotion, not loyalty or obligation. It's simple want. You want it badly enough, you take the chance."

Michael says the words that have been hovering around his head for the last hour. "You shot my father. Do you really think--"

"Yes," Mahone replies before Michael can finish his sentence. "You act like empathy is a compulsion. And once you empathize and feel needed, you forgive almost anything. Look at Lincoln."

"Don't." The words come out before Michael thinks. "Don't bring Linc into this."

"You had virtually no contact with him as an adult. Obvious abandonment issues," Mahone says, watching his hands now and ignoring Michael's objections. "Then he needed you. You figured out what happened to the money he borrowed, so you turned around and risked everything for him. Most siblings with a healthy, close relationship wouldn't consider it."

"Most people wouldn't be capable of it."

That makes Mahone look at him. Narrow his eyes and blink. "The point wasn't whether people could. The point was that you don't make decisions the way most people do."

"What do you want here, Alex?" It's always the relevant question with Mahone. He thinks enough like Michael to understand the importance of doing something for a result, the occasional need to side-step and approach a plan obliquely. Michael needs to know what this will cost.

"Escape," Mahone says quietly, ducking his head towards Michael. "A little time where I don't care that I'm here, where what I've done doesn't matter."

Michael doesn't believe it. Not a word. But he still leans closer, slides fingers along Mahone's cheek and meets Mahone's mouth with his. Mahone's lips slide open, the touch of Mahone's tongue, and Michael needs. He doesn't wonder at the sudden hunger, the desperate lust; he just digs his hands into Mahone's biceps and kisses him. Molds his lips to Mahone's, pushes his tongue inside, licks at the roof of Mahone's mouth.

Michael kisses with his eyes closed -- always has -- but he gets a brief snap of Mahone watching him. Up close, Mahone's blurred, out of focus, but his eyes are gunmetal blue, pupils blown wide. The image stays in Michael's head as he twists, turns, gets a knee over Mahone's thighs and straddles him. Ruts up against him shamelessly as Mahone sucks and twists his head, curls his shoulders forward to force this closer, deeper.

Michael's not the only one carried away. Mahone's hands are on his hips, fingers digging in and urging him to move; Mahone's groaning, muttering under his breath when Michael takes a quick gasp and dives back into another kiss. Michael doesn't know who grabs at clothing first, but Mahone's hands are pushing at his t-shirt and the buttons of Mahone's shirt are hard between Michael's fingers.

Michael pulls his t-shirt over his head, drops it to the floor and for a moment, only a split-second, Michael thinks of Sara. A flash of her in his memory -- the floral smell of her perfume, the delicate curve of her wrist -- so he forces his eyes open, gets fingers in Mahone's shirt. Makes himself look at the lean muscle framed by the off-white cotton, the discipline needed to keep such clear definition. The sparse, nearly blond hair across his chest and the crescent of sun-burnt skin near his collar.

He digs his fingers into the hard line of Mahone's shoulders, leaves a smear of terracotta. Feels the embossed edges of scars against his palms, old pain written like the dark, intricate whirls of Michael's forearms. Pushes Mahone's shirt down to reveal more. The shape of Mahone's arms imply gyms and weights, high numbers of push-ups; it's brute force for a punch, strength for wrestling suspects to the ground. It suits Mahone: a body that's practical, gives him an advantage but stays hidden under suits and an FBI badge.

Then Mahone gets a hand inside Michael's pants, forces the fly open, and Michael's careful study is overwhelmed by Mahone's fingers around his cock, Mahone's teeth sharp on his shoulder. Michael clings desperately, gasps out half-formed words. Rocks and squirms, with no rhythm, no grace. Tears himself apart with Mahone's hands, Mahone's mouth, Mahone's thighs between his.

It ends fast and messy, Michael spurting against bare skin. Mahone groaning, clawing fingers into Michael's legs, and then going still.

"This doesn't change anything," Michael says after he stops panting. He takes one more breath and clambers off Mahone's lap. Settles in a clumsy sprawl of limbs on the muddy floor and pulls his t-shirt over his shoulders. There's nothing to do but keep pulling it down, ignoring the mess smeared across his stomach.

"Of course not," Mahone replies, eyes closed, head leaning back against the wall.

"It doesn't change the plans, it doesn't get you to the front of the queue, and it doesn't mean I'm going to tell you any extra details." Mahone watches him with one eyebrow raised in disbelief, so Michael adds, "This doesn't buy you a better chance of escaping."

Mahone tilts his head to the side, watching Michael narrowly. One slow blink, then, "What are you expecting here?"

"I want to be sure you understand." Michael's actually expecting Mahone to try to argue around this, to let something slip so Michael can figure out how Mahone thinks this will benefit him. Or he's expecting Mahone to take him at his word -- that this won't change any of Michael's plans, that he can't afford to let it -- and walk away. "This doesn't change the escape. This doesn't make you my responsibility once we're out."

"First of all," Mahone says, leaning so close Michael can smell stale sweat and spunk on his skin, "the only thing that keeps you relatively safe in here is that you know the plan. Once you tell anyone, you become expendable. I don't expect you to tell me anything I don't need to know."

Michael nods. "And secondly?"

"Wherever you go, you'll have the Company's attention. That's something I'd rather avoid."

"You'll walk away? Easy as that?"

"I left my family to keep them safe. I walked away from Pam," Mahone says, voice dropping to a low rasp. "I walked away from my son. You think I'd have a problem with this, with you?"

Michael stays silent, and Mahone eventually adds, "I'll walk away from this without a second glance."

***

Time passes strangely in Sona. The lack of routine, of any real structure, makes hours feel like days. There's too much time to think. It leaves Michael restless, unable to sleep despite the relatively cool night. After lying on his bunk for a short eternity -- trying not to toss and turn, trying to lie still, trying to ignore the snores coming from Whistler -- he gets up.

Sona has few rules and no set schedules, and there are always men standing in the courtyard. They talk, play games, eat and drink; they live their lives and ignore the world outside.

Michael doesn't want their company, so he wanders the corridors instead. He steps from shadow to shadow, avoiding the sleeping figures curled against the walls. He looks at angles and doorways, mentally catalogues beams and struts and thickness of plasterboard, but he doesn't pay much attention to his direction.

Not until he recognizes the corridor.

Mahone's cell is only a few steps away. Michael stops, pauses mid-step, and tries to work out what he wants to do. Safest option would be to avoid this, to turn around.

He knows that's the safest choice, the most logical one. But... he pauses. Swallows. Makes up his mind to be smart -- he can't afford to be stupid in this place, he knows it -- and turn back, and then sees Mahone stretched against the bars, standing so deep in the shadows that only a glint of eyes and teeth can be seen.

Michael walks forward, steps inside Mahone's cell. He distantly notes the lack of sound, no one but them breathing in the darkness, as Mahone reaches one hand. It's so easy to let Mahone draw him into a kiss, let him curl a possessive hand around the back of Michael's neck.

It's not like the first time: no rush, no desperation shutting Michael's mind down. It's slower, careful. Mahone walking him backwards one shuffling step at a time, settling a hand on the bunk, still kissing as he guides them both down onto the mattress.

No scrabbling at clothes. Mahone slides the material up Michael's chest with his fingers splayed wide, and pulls it over Michael's chest with surprising care. He slips out of his own shirt, dropping it beside the bed, then leans down and kisses across Michael's shoulder, across the teeth-marks bruised into the skin.

All Michael can think is that this is a bad idea. It's a terribly stupid idea and he knows it. Mahone's warmth above him, body pressing down against him despite the considerate way Mahone leans on his elbows, and all Michael can think is that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this. That this will tear him apart, and if he had the strength, the self-control, he'd push Mahone off. He'd say something mean and cold, cut Mahone as deep as he could, make the man angry and offended, desperate to be as far from Michael as possible.

But he doesn't. He lies there, lets this happen. It's Mahone who stops, who whispers, "Michael?" and smoothes a hand down Michael's arm, circling Michael's wrist.

Michael stays silent, lacking the willpower to do what he should. He watches the corner of the ceiling and feels the side of Mahone's thumb catching against the skin on his inside wrist.

Mahone breathes against his ear and keeps his voice low. "Say it."

"What?"

"Whatever you're thinking. Say it."

Michael's breath catches in his throat. "Why?" he asks, because he can't show his hand, he can't let down his defenses. Not here.

Mahone pulls back and looks down at Michael. In this light, Michael doubts Mahone sees anything. "I'm not Bagwell. This isn't a bartering chip."

"Be easier if it was." The words are out too quickly for Michael to remember this is Alex Mahone he's talking to: whatever he says will be used against him. So he forces himself to smile, to make the words sound teasing. "I didn't say stop, Alex."

"Didn't need to." Beneath the thoughtful tone, there's a touch of anger. It's strangely reassuring. "My conscience is heavy enough. I don't need to add this to it."

"Alex," Michael says, searching for the words, "this isn't--"

He doesn't know how to say it, so he pulls Mahone close and kisses him instead. This isn't coercion, isn't something Mahone needs to feel guilty over. This is something that will pull Michael apart, a petty act of self-destruction, but he can hold it together long enough to get Whistler out, to get LJ back. Once that's done, he can get out of Linc's life and implode, but right now, he needs. He wants.

Breathing heavy, Mahone pulls away. "I need to know this is--"

Michael kisses him before he can finish. "I'm not good," he says in the space between kisses, "I'm not good at letting people go."

"You said this doesn't change anything," Mahone says, words muffled against Michael's mouth.

"It can't. I can't let it," Michael says, lifting his hips as Mahone gets a hand under his waistband. "But I'm not good at walking away."

Mahone pauses, rears back on his hands and knees, and Michael grabs at him, tries to tug him back down. He worries, for a moment, that Mahone won't understand. Michael barely understands and he's the one inside his head. All Mahone gets is spoken words and body language, but maybe that doesn't say enough.

In the darkness, there's a quick flash of Mahone's teeth as he grins. "Easier to clean skin than clothes," Mahone says as he pulls Michael's pants open, as he gets hands under the material and pulls down.

Michael kicks off his shoes. While Mahone sheds his clothes, Michael tugs off his socks, rolls them one inside the other, and tucks them inside the toe of his right shoe.

"Man, your legs are lily-white."

It's the most inane thing to hear Alex Mahone say, and it surprises an amused huff out of Michael. It's not a real laugh -- Michael can't remember the last time he really laughed -- but it makes him smile and dryly say, "Thank you, Alex."

"I thought the tan was your natural skin-tone," Mahone says, eyebrow quirking. He uses one finger to trace inside Michael's thigh. "Didn't think you'd be so white you'd glow in the dark."

"Haven't had much time for sunbaking lately." Not the snappiest comeback in history, but it's hard to be witty when Mahone cups his kneecaps in each hand and pushes his legs apart. He looks up to find Mahone watching him, watching his face. Mahone grins and slides his hands higher.

Michael bites down on the urge to say something -- he doesn't know what he'd say anyway -- and closes his eyes. Makes his surrender obvious as Mahone licks a wet stripe up the inside of his thigh.

Without sight, Michael's forced to focus on the feel of Mahone's mouth sliding higher, the ticklish whisper of hair against his skin, the firm hold of Mahone's hands on his legs. Michael opens his mouth, tries to quiet his uneven breaths, but when Mahone's tongue snakes under the curve of his balls, when he licks and sucks, there's no way Michael can keep his gasp quiet.

Michael's been accused of always thinking, never concentrating on one thing at a time, and it's mostly true. Even now, there's a tiny part of his brain that can't help considering the hygiene of Sona and how long it's been since he's had a decent shower, but most of him is concentrating on clawing fingers into the mattress and spreading his legs wider.

Mahone indulges himself, teasing Michael with slow licks and the barest scrape of teeth, but not moving up, not touching Michael's cock. He drags fingers up and down Michael's thighs, pressing his palms flat before raking with fingernails.

Michael squirms, skin rubbing against the worn fabric of the mattress, and bites his lip, grits his teeth, does anything to stop himself from begging. He clutches the mattress, bears the shivery feel of Mahone's wet tongue until he can't, until it's driving him crazy, until he has to grab Mahone's wrist and pull him closer.

Mahone scrambles up the bed, sucking messy kisses over Michael's chest as he goes, and follows Michael's tugging hands. They kiss as Mahone settles between Michael's legs, and Michael rubs up against him. It's good, so good, then Mahone grabs Michael's knee, pulls his leg up, and braces his other hand against the rail of the bunk, and uses the leverage to try to fuck Michael through the mattress. Cock against cock, skin and sweat, and Michael doesn't know where to hold, where to touch; he only knows how to move, to meet Mahone's rhythm, to push against it and hold on as he comes.

Mahone's only a few breaths behind him, mindlessly rutting against Michael's hip, and collapsing to the side when he's done.

There are search lights outside, throwing an aged newspaper glow over clothing scattered across the floor. If Michael listens carefully, he can hear the hum of SUV motors as the guards do their rounds but if he doesn't focus on it, all he notices is the sound of two people breathing. With the other bunk above, and Michael lying between the wall and Mahone, the space feels enclosed.

He should sleep -- he needs to, honestly -- but he finds himself fighting the urge. He wants to remember this, he wants to be awake for it. He wants to think about nothing but the warmth of skin against skin, the reassuring movement of someone breathing beside him; he wants to pretend that this is something that matters, that this is important compared to the rest of his life.

Even if it's not. Even if, right now, he should be getting up, pulling on clothes and heading back to his cell before Whistler notices. Sighing, Michael shifts, getting ready to move, but Mahone presses a hand against Michael's shoulder, pushing it back down.

"It'll be dark for a few more hours," Mahone says. It's a coded request to stay.

Most of their conversations feel like code. Right now, Michael's too worn out, too well-fucked, to care about ciphers and cryptograms, so he simply nods and relaxes against the mattress. He closes his eyes, listens to the steady sigh of Mahone breathing and drifts without a thought until Mahone says, "You're not smarter than me."

Michael opens one eye, looks at Mahone sideways, his profile stark against the deep shadows of the far wall. "If you say so."

"It took you months to design those tattoos. It took me weeks to decode them, and for most of that time, I was high as a kite."

Mahone rolls onto his side, facing Michael, and slides a hand around Michael's hip. He rubs his thumb along the hipbone, sliding back and forth, and it seems an odd gesture to Michael. It presumes a right to touch, implies a level of affection that shouldn't be there. Michael's pretty sure he read Mahone right -- that this is sex as a distraction, as avoidance, that he appeals to Mahone out of convenience, not for any other reason -- but now Mahone's watching him closely, scrutinizing his reaction. Michael's tired, but he gathers the energy to force his face blank, to shut down any tells Mahone may be looking for.

"Is that all?" Michael asks, and his voice sounds dead.

"I'm more capable than you are."

"Trying to tell me you could build a tunnel, Alex?"

If anything, Mahone's study becomes more intense. "I didn't say I was an engineer. I said I was capable."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm able to kill," Mahone says. Michael tenses, but he doesn't let any other reaction show. Mahone knows about Sammy, he knows what Michael's done. "Not fighting for my life, not do-or-die. I'm talking about cold-blooded murder, executing an unarmed man because you've been told to."

"I thought you said it didn't get easier," Michael says, watching the floor, calculating the fastest way to get his clothes and get out.

"Didn't say it was easy, I said I could do it." Mahone falls silent but his thumb keeps moving over Michael's skin.

Feeling the weight of Mahone's arm across his torso, Michael realizes that if this turns bad, he's going to need the element of surprise. He's going to need to be up and out fast, because there's no way he could take Mahone in a fight. "Do you always brag as pillow talk?"

"I know what it's like to be the smartest guy in the room," Mahone props himself up on one elbow, keeps his other hand across Michael, "but you need to understand that you're not. At the very least, I'm your equal. Possibly, given that I've got a good seventeen years of dealing with fugitives and you've got the Company very interested, I have the advantage."

Michael watches, says as little as he can. "Meaning?"

"You've always been smarter, more capable than those around you. You've always been the one who understands, who can fix things. Other people can't, so it becomes your responsibility." Mahone's voice is soft but Michael has no trouble hearing each and every word. "You need to get that you're not responsible here, not for me. When we're out, I've got a better chance than you. When you walk away, you don't need to look back."

It's not until Mahone lies down and closes his eyes that Michael lets himself breathe again.

***

Michael wakes up. His very first instinct is to keep his eyes closed, to stay as still as he can and take stock of the situation before anyone notices him.

"You slept for a couple hours," Mahone says softly, shifting towards Michael. It's a narrow bed and they're forced close. Michael lies on his back, arms neatly by his side while Mahone sprawls sideways across him. His leg is hooked over Michael's knees, his hand is curled loosely over Michael's chest, his head inches from Michael's.

"You stayed awake?" Michael asks, and Mahone gives two small nods against the shared pillow. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Occasionally. Insomnia's never as useful as it sounds," Mahone says dryly, abruptly reminding Michael that his pills had once been prescribed for a reason. "There's maybe an hour before dawn."

Through the barred window, the sky outside is indigo, stars impossible to see with the moving searchlights of patrolling vehicles. Once it lightens up, Sona's early risers will be wandering the corridors. Whatever stolen privacy they have will be gone, and Michael doubts they'll find another opportunity for this before they break out. So he turns his head and kisses Mahone with definite intention.

"Huh," Mahone says, voice barely loud enough to be heard. "You'll need to be quiet."

"Hardly a problem," Michael replies, rolling closer, his body tight against Mahone's.

"Actual quiet." Mahone grins. "Not quiet where you gasp very, very loudly."

Regardless of the teasing criticism, Mahone's hand is sliding down Michael's chest, fingernails scraping over inked swirls. It's not a surprise when fingers trail over his stomach and lower, but when Mahone wraps a confident hand around his cock, Michael still needs to trap his gasp behind clenched teeth.

Close to his ear, Mahone sniggers, almost silently, and says, "Having trouble there?"

Mahone sets a slow, leisurely pace, palm smooth and dry against Michael's hardening cock. Not urgent, not demanding, but Michael still has to blink and gather his thoughts. "No trouble." He doesn't let his tone betray the effort it takes to speak.

"If that's such a cake-walk for you, maybe we should try something else." Mahone moves his leg, rubs the arch of his foot along Michael's ankle.

There's a wet lick to the edge of Michael's earlobe, so Michael keeps his reply short. "Sure."

"Roll over," Mahone says, and it's almost a command. "Get on your knees."

"What?"

"Hands and knees," Mahone says slowly, as if his one hand jerking Michael off has made him brain-damaged.

Michael reaches down, grabs Mahone's wrist and holds it still. Mahone looks surprised, so Michael spells it out. "Shooting up in a prison environment. In this prison. With a needle from T-Bag. There's no way--"

"I'm not going to fuck you," Mahone says easily, rolling his eyes in the half-dark of searchlights moving outside. "I just want you on your hands and knees."

Michael's first, second and third instinct is: no, no and hell, no. He's always known the wisdom of avoiding vulnerable positions, but Fox River drilled it so deep inside him that for a second, he considers getting up, getting out, moving now. Then he takes a breath, and wonders if Mahone can see enough in this darkness to read him.

"Or we could do something else," Mahone says, curling his fingers to brush the inside of Michael's thigh.

It's a matter of trust. Or, for Michael, it's a calculated risk. Given that Mahone still needs him for the rest of the plan, given that Michael has the power to sabotage Mahone and leave him stranded during the escape, Mahone has too much to lose to try something now. It wouldn't make sense.

But refusing... Refusing might reveal more than Michael wants Mahone to see. So he releases Mahone's forearm and rolls over. Pulls his weight up to his knees and elbows, and waits.

Mahone smoothes a hand across the back of Michael's shoulders, keeps the movement steady and unthreatening. Michael doesn't need the concern, doesn't appreciate it. "Going to tell me what you want here?"

"Consider it a surprise." Mahone leans over, catches skin between his teeth and then soothes the spot with his tongue. "Although I'm guessing you don't like surprises."

Talking is more familiar, more reassuring, than touch. "Not as a rule." Michael pulls the pillow closer to him, wedges it between his wrists and his forehead.

"Never liked surprise parties as a kid?" Mahone asks, moving on the mattress, kneeling behind Michael. He leans over, settles one hand on the bunk's frame, and sucks a kiss to the back of Michael's neck.

Michael can't hide the shiver. He doesn't really try to. Instead, he shifts his weight to accommodate the pressure of Mahone's chest leaning on his back, and lets his eyes close. "Never liked parties."

"Too many people?" Mahone murmurs as he curls a hand around Michael's hip, palms Michael's cock like an after-thought. He moves his mouth down, lips and tongue trailing down Michael's spine, occasionally detouring along a rib and back. He avoids Michael's right shoulder where the skin's scarred and stretched tight from the burn. "Or too much to take in at once?"

Mahone sounds interested, so Michael tries to reply. "Both, I guess. It was just uncomfortable. Too much background noise and conversation, too many people and too much happening. I used to be sensitive to that stuff as a kid."

Mahone pauses halfway down his back, keeps one hand loose around Michael's cock and uses the other to trace wet skin. "Used to, huh?" There's a laugh, a dry amusement in his tone. "Because it's not like you pay any attention to that stuff now, right, Michael?"

"Mostly, I tune it out," Michael says, turning to look over his shoulder at Mahone, blurry and indistinct in the darkness. "People aren't that important to me."

Mahone snorts, understanding the joke for what it is, and goes back to kissing his way down Michael's back.

Relaxing his weight into the mattress, dropping his head again, Michael can't help but think, analyze and examine the sensations. Pleasurable, certainly, but not directly sexual; slow and steady in a way that makes Michael wonder if Mahone's slept with anyone since his divorce. Something about the unhurried pace, the indirect attention, that suggests domesticity and the comfort of sleeping with someone familiar and known.

He stops himself from asking, though. Some things shouldn't have to be shared.

Sliding his hands around Michael's hips, Mahone licks down to his tailbone. Michael rests his head on the pillow, expecting Mahone to start working his slow, methodical way back up but with a scrape of teeth, Mahone stays his current direction.

Warm slide of lips between Michael's cheeks, and Michael has just enough forethought, just a glimmer of instinct, to bury his head in the pillow as Mahone presses his tongue flat across Michael's hole. Even so, Michael's muffled gasp still sounds loud in his own ears.

Mahone pushes inside, wet swirl of tongue shockingly intimate, and Michael goes from patiently interested to desperately hard in the space of three heartbeats. Two hands spreading Michael's ass, the whisper of a breeze across the wet skin of his back, and Michael's clawing fingernails into his palms, shuddering as Mahone licks deeper.

Michael isn't a sexual puritan, but it's one thing to be aware of these things and a completely different thing to grit his teeth, to press his burning face into the pillow, to feel heat rising on his skin as he spreads his thighs and arches back, wordlessly begging for more.

Michael can't help picturing how this would look, what someone else would see. His low crawl of a position: knees spread wide, elbows angled for support, shoulders hunched forward. The bruise-dark lines spread across his back, dissecting his skin into things he needs to know, blurring into the ugly red burn aching behind his shoulder blade. It's all tricks and traps for his memory, but a stranger would only see the surface artwork, the muscles shifting underneath as Michael tries to move and stay still at the same time.

They'd see Mahone kneeling behind him, palms and thumbs spreading Michael's cheeks, face pressed to Michael's ass.

Or maybe not. Maybe a quick glance would only show them the lean lines of Mahone's back, stray light catching on Mahone's thighs and calves, the hidden strength of Mahone's biceps, the mess of Mahone's hair. In this darkness, they might not see Michael at all; maybe it would only be the outline of another figure. Like reading the notes of classical music and not feeling the soul-crushing beauty of the piece, a stranger would see bodies but not the acts, the form but not the meaning.

Michael can't say how, but he's sure Mahone understands. Hears every note in Michael's gasps, every quaver of his body, every held beat of his pulse. Feels the crescendo building beneath Michael's skin.

Mahone gives him what he needs; reaches around to Michael's cock, hanging heavy between his legs, and jerks him off. Keeps licking, keeps moving his tongue, keeps Michael focused on that slick push inside him but it's that firm pull on his cock that stops him from losing his mind.

Michael's arms are trembling, his back stiff with the effort of not thrusting into Mahone's grip, because that would mean thrusting away from Mahone's constantly moving tongue. He's holding his breath, trying desperately to stay quiet. He might not be succeeding, but as long as Mahone doesn't stop touching him, doesn't stop fucking him open with his mouth, Michael doesn't care.

Just as he thinks he can't stand any more, that this will drive him insane, break him apart and leave him in pieces, Mahone moves his thumb, pushes it in beside his tongue. It's more sensation than Michael can take -- more than anyone could take -- and one quick swipe of Mahone's palm over the head of his cock makes it too much. Makes Michael come, feeling himself clench around Mahone's thumb as he tries to smother his groan.

"You really have an interesting definition of quiet," Mahone says, crawling up and shadowing Michael, mouth moving against Michael's left shoulder.

Michael wants to say something sharp about Mahone's clear oral fixation, but it's hard to be sarcastic with his brain somewhere around his knees. He's aware, in that soft, muted, post-orgasm way, of Mahone rocking against him, but it takes him a while to recognize the hardness of Mahone's cock against the small of his back. It takes him a little longer to get his arms to move, to pull and push Mahone off him.

Mahone watches, wide-eyed and breathing fast, but doesn't reach for Michael, doesn't touch himself. Just asks, "Whatever happened to tit-for-tat?"

"I'm getting to it," Michael says, words sounding less sluggish than he feels. He uses a hand to press Mahone flat onto the bed, and moves a little clumsily to kiss the line of Mahone's neck. He's a little uncoordinated, but getting a hand around Mahone's cock isn't exactly nuclear physics.

He manages a few awkward pulls but it doesn't quite work.

Mahone doesn't complain, wraps one arm loosely around Michael's back as Michael stops and rearranges himself. Michael gets off his elbow -- arm shaking with the effort of taking his weight, too soon after coming like a subway train -- and lies on his side on the mattress instead, licks his palm, and tries again.

Mahone doesn't say anything, doesn't make a sound, but his breathing speeds up. The hand against Michael's back tenses, fingers pressing into the muscle.

Jerking off might be familiar, but doing it to someone else is slightly strange: a wrong angle, a lack of immediate feedback. It takes a few experimental tries to find a speed that makes Mahone tense up, an angle that makes Mahone bite his lip and stretch his head back, drawing tendons tight along his neck. But once Michael finds it, it's surprisingly easy to exploit, to make Mahone shiver and twist, hand tight on Michael's back.

It's impressive the way Mahone stays quiet throughout. Shallow breaths, almost impossible to hear, mouth caught in a snarl. Even as his hips snap upwards, even as he spurts over Michael's hand and his own stomach, he stays silent.

When Michael mentions it later, Mahone shrugs, says, "Pam was living with her mom when we first dated. She refused to stay over at my place, so it was silence or nothing."

Michael nods, and reaches down the bed to pull the sheet over them. Judging by the violet sky outside, there's about half an hour before he needs to be gone. He intends to lie here for every one of those thirty minutes.

"It's a pity you weren't attracted to law enforcement." Mahone turns his back to the cell bars and Michael's not sleeping, just lying there, so he doesn't mind Mahone talking. He kind of likes it, actually.

"This is what you think about?" Michael asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Were you thinking about escape plans?"

"No," Michael says honestly. "I wasn't thinking of anything."

Mahone's eyes narrow for a moment, and then he shrugs. "When I first started tracking you down, when I figured out the first tattoo, I remember thinking it was a pity you hadn't landed on the right side of the law."

"Assuming corrupt law enforcement is the right side."

Mahone shakes his head, but Michael can see the smile. "Not the point. Point was that you'd have made an excellent agent."

"FBI?" Michael can't keep the surprise out of his tone and it comes out a little louder than he'd intended.

"Trouble is that it requires an urge to protect others," Mahone says. Michael opens his mouth to argue, but Mahone continues, "I saw your workload. I know how many pro bono and community-based projects you volunteered for. You wanted to help people, build them better lives. Law enforcement tries to do the same thing, but it's all about catching the bad guys."

"I don't think life's as simple as good guys and bad guys."

"Yes, you do," Mahone says, but he lets the conversation drop.

***

The sweltering heat finally breaks into rain, big warm drops splattering the compound. It doesn't leave the place clean and new, but it gives the dirt a new surface to cling to. It also forces Michael to speed up his plans. He makes braces and double-checks the digging, watches the patrol vehicles outside and gets specs on the generator; he realizes the easiest way not to be seen outside is to get the guards inside Sona. In short, he's too busy to think about Mahone.

It's down to the last few hours and everyone is working. They switch between digging, clearing the excess dirt and building the braces, but the others are all wearing matching expressions of worried concern. The memory of Michael's last failed attempt is written clearly in their nervous glances.

Michael ignores them as much as he can, tries to focus only on his current job of checking the braces and identifying any weak spots that need further support. Even so, he can't help overhearing Whistler say, "So tomorrow, when we're out of here, where are you going next?"

Michael remembers the same questions, the same conversations, from Fox River during the last stages of preparation. People start talking about their dreams, reassuring themselves that it's worth risking everything for that elusive vision of freedom. It wouldn't interest Michael, except he knows it's only Whistler and Mahone below, building extra braces.

"Got an old army buddy up in Canada," Michael hears Mahone say. He almost sounds wistful. "Wilderness, cabins, that type of thing."

"You think he'll take you in?" Whistler asks. He's looking for more information, Michael can hear it. "Most people aren't too happy to see a fugitive on their doorstep."

"He owes me."

"He'd have to owe you a lot."

"About fifteen bucks, actually." Mahone chuckles like it's an inside joke. "Once I'm up there, I can stay clear of people."

"So you'll be a hermit in the woods, out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Trees, mountains, bacon. Sounds like freedom to me."

"God, I'd kill for bacon," Whistler agrees warmly.

"You'd have to in here," Mahone says under his breath, and they both fall quiet.

It might be none of Michael's business but Canada can't be Mahone's plan. There's no way Mahone would get into the country, let alone make it inland to somewhere remote. It's not something Michael has to fix, not something he should worry about, but he crawls out of the tunnel and climbs down. "We need more metal to reinforce the braces. There's nothing here, but one of the bars on Alex's window looked loose."

Mahone uncrosses his legs and stands up. "I'll give you a hand."

Michael stays quiet as they walk, debates the wisdom of mentioning this at all. It's not his place to criticize, not his responsibility to help Mahone stay safe when this is all over. But he can't walk away and let Mahone do something incredibly stupid either.

Mahone walks over to the window and Michael has a brief flash of déjà vu: Mahone outlined against the sky, arm on the sill. When Michael comes closer, Mahone says, "None of these bars are loose. So what do you really need?"

Staring out at the desert sand, Michael knows he needs to do the right thing. "You can't go to Canada. You won't even make it across their border."

"I'm not going to Canada, Michael," Mahone says, corner of his mouth lifting. "Columbia, maybe. Seems appropriate with the drug trafficking charge."

"You told Whistler Canada."

Mahone grins, tight and mean. "I don't trust James Whistler not to put a knife in my back."

"And me?"

"I wouldn't trust you to put a knife in any man's back," Mahone says, leaning closer. It's almost a joke; Michael almost smiles. "We both know South America is my best chance."

"Not the States? Not--" Michael stops short of naming Mahone's family, but Mahone flinches all the same.

"I go back, they become a target." Mahone turns, watches his fingers tapping on the bars. "What about you?"

Before Michael can say that wasn't part of the deal, that Mahone doesn't get to know the rest of his plans, Mahone adds, "Not details, just... in general. I wondered about Sara Tancredi. She disappeared after all the media frenzy."

Michael remembers her eyes, her cautious smile, her dark hair falling across her white lab coat. "You think I'm planning to disappear with her?"

Mahone shrugs and says, "I'm curious," as if this topic were dinner party conversation, as if the thought of Sara doesn't leave Michael breathless and disorientated.

"She disappeared," he says, and struggles to find a way to explain this, to say without showing more than he needs to. "There's as much chance of me finding her as you finding Shales."

For a moment, the only sound comes from outside the window -- the whistle of the breeze, guards yelling, a distant song from a radio -- and Michael wishes he hadn't said anything. Wishes it was still his secret in this place.

"I'm sorry." Mahone sounds like he means it. It doesn't make Michael hurt any less.

"For what?"

Whistler's voice, but Michael doesn't turn around. He's not sure how much would show on his face.

"It's not going to work," Mahone says beside him. "No way we can get one of those loose in time."

"So Sammy was a preview of our future?"

"No," Michael says, using the stab of guilt over Sammy to lock Sara's memory away. "We'll find something else. There's got to be something."

"Sammy," Mahone says slowly, as if he's just thought of something. "The metal rod. With the concrete. That's down there. Would that work, Michael?"

"Should do it," Michael says, walking past Whistler and heading back to the others.

Michael punches in the code with Mahone standing behind him, subtly shielding the information from Whistler. Whistler doesn't try to see, he just asks, "How about you, Michael?"

Michael looks at Whistler over his shoulder and pushes the door open. "What?"

"Plans? You know, freedom," Whistler says, casual and curious. "Once you've traded me in and got your thirty pieces of silver, what are you going to do?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael catches the tilt of Mahone's head, the way he's looking blankly at the ground, trying very hard to look as if he's not paying much attention.

"Thinking of a career in law enforcement," Michael says and Mahone gives him a sly sideways look.

"I was serious," Whistler says, and Michael's sure he was: serious about finding extra information, serious about having some scrap to give the Company.

"So am I. I think it would be a pretty good fit for me." Michael walks down the corridor. Mahone keeps step beside him. Whistler has no choice but to follow. "I've got a good knowledge of the correctional system, know the types of people I'd be dealing with."

"And there's good job prospects," Mahone says beside him, tone extremely dry. "Especially for someone occasionally willing to make deals with mob bosses."

"And I look good in navy," Michael replies.

"How do you feel about donuts?"

"Can take them or leave them." Half a step behind them, Whistler huffs. The joke's annoying him and that's all the motivation Michael needs to keep going. "I'm used to living on coffee and late nights, though. Maybe that'll make up for it."

"You'd have to take up smoking," Mahone says, smirking now. "Can't fit the stereotype otherwise."

"Do I need to fit the stereotype?"

"It's a requirement of the job."

"Surely there are other stereotypes I could go for?"

Whistler shoots them a look they both ignore and says, "I'm going to take a turn digging."

"Hardworking, sleepless nights. It's the stereotype that fits, Michael." Mahone walks over to the far corner, shuffles his feet in the dirt, stirring up red-brown dust. Then he leans over and picks up the metal rod from where it had been hidden from plain view. "I don't think you could pull off the drug-addled or the crooked cop. Lone workaholic seems far more likely."

"I'll have to think about it." Michael settles on his knees next to the half-built braces. The metal reinforcement was just an excuse but since he has the materials and the opportunity to strengthen the tunnel, he might as well make the most of it. "Can you hold this?" he asks Mahone, holding up one of the braces and measuring the rod against it.

Mahone sits down beside him in the dirt and holds as instructed. He doesn't ask questions, just holds his hands where Michael puts them and lets Michael work. When Michael stops to test the bar's strength -- stronger than he needs, it'll work well -- Mahone says, "About becoming a cop," and Michael knows he isn't joking now, regardless of the tone, "want any help?"

"Don't think I need it. My score on the IQ test should be good enough."

"Didn't ask if you needed it." Mahone ducks his head, using the bare lighting and harsh shadows of this room to hide his expression, but his tension shows in the tightly clasped knuckles by Michael's fingers. "Asked if you wanted it."

Michael thinks. Watches his fingers on the wooden planks between them, and thinks. Of course Mahone would understand what the law enforcement joke really meant; Michael had expected that, had wanted to give Mahone some answer, some version of the truth, didn't owe it to him but wanted to give it to him all the same. He hadn't expected an offer of help.

Mahone knows the Company. He knows the dangers, knows how desperately they'll eliminate a threat. But he's still offering.

"Given your experience," Michael says, chest pounding and voice even, "I guess a glowing recommendation couldn't hurt."

The others are in the tunnel digging further, so they're out of sight but they're not out of earshot. Michael knows how valuable Mahone's help could be -- with Mahone, it turns from a suicide mission to a one in five chance of Michael walking out of this alive -- and it's worth the risk to have something organized now. But he needs to do it without the others, especially Whistler, noticing.

Glancing up, Michael finds Mahone looking at him. Mahone glances down and back up at Michael, raising an eyebrow. It takes a second for Michael to get the message and look down at Mahone's constantly moving hand, where Mahone's scribbled block letters into the dirt, spelling out one word: LONELY.

"Hmm," Michael says, as if he's not concentrating on the conversation. Hopefully, Whistler will assume he's just continuing the joke. Or looking for information, searching for a weak spot he can use. "I've heard being a cop is a lonely job."

"Everyone's lonely these days," Mahone replies. It's a verbal shrug, meaningless as he draws a heart around the word and adds two letters beneath: NY. "It's a sign of the times."

Michael smiles to show he gets the message. Lonely hearts as in the old Lonely Hearts Club, specifically the personal ads in the New York Times. He's not concerned about what message they'll use to meet up, but he needs a timeframe, needs to know when to look.

"I don't know if there'd be enough time on your own." Michael shrugs, in case any of the others are watching them. From the hole leading to the tunnel, they wouldn't see anything but Michael's back and Mahone's side. Unless they were very sharp-eyed, they wouldn't even see the movement of Mahone's arm as he brushes the floor and erases the message into red-brown dirt. Even if they did, Mahone's always fidgeting with his hands, moving and twisting, so it probably wouldn't raise any suspicions. "I think a week sitting on a stake-out would drive me insane."

"Maybe you should think about that before you reply to an advertised vacancy," Mahone replies, and Michael runs through the plan in his head. In seven days, wherever he is, he'll find a copy of the New York Times -- or check the website -- and read the personals section carefully. It's a simple form of communication but it'll work. From there, they can work out the next step together, assuming Michael hasn't already found Gretchen or Gretchen hasn't found him. Assuming Michael's still breathing in a week's time.

Mahone stands, offers his hand to Michael. Michael takes it and pulls himself to his feet.

"In case..." Mahone says and trails off with a quick shake of his head. "Just in case. Knowing you has been interesting, Michael." Then with a smile, reckless and bright, he lets go of Michael's hand and walks away.

Michael allows himself one moment to watch, to memorize the slight hunch of Mahone's shoulders, the way he pre-emptively crouches before getting to the tunnel, the curve of lightly haired forearm as Mahone reaches up and his shirtsleeve slides up to his elbow. He watches Mahone push and pull himself up, and then disappear from sight.

***

Michael logs into an internet café and brings up the New York Times website. He keeps the hood of his grey sweatshirt pulled low and slouches in the chair, mimicking the college kids in the next row.

He wipes chip crumbs from the desktop, and clicks into the personals section. There are ninety ads there, some with corny headings like 'A Rare Diamond' and 'All About Chemistry', and some with acronyms he has to think to decipher.

It's too many to go through without risking attention, so he clicks on 'Men Seeking Men' and hopes. It gives him six results.

Glancing to his left, Michael uses the reflection of the glass to watch the exit, to watch the counter girl on her computer. She's staring at her screen and typing, short black fingernails with hot pink tips moving fast across her keyboard. She looks around, checking the end of the counter for anyone to serve, and then her concentration is focused back to her computer.

For the moment, it seems safe enough.

Michael pulls a small notepad and pen from his pocket, and starts reading the headers. He disregards the first three instantly, and then spots 'Lonely Heart' in the fourth. The description makes him snort.

LONELY HEART
SWM, 42, likes crosswords and jigsaws. Seeks smart younger man for puzzles and adventures. Pref no tattoos.

He scribbles down the phone and box number, closes the online poker site running in the background, and looks around one more time. Then he stands, slips out the front door and finds the nearest payphone.

He pushes coins into the slot, and works through the recorded message -- pounding extra hard on the 3 button that doesn't want to work -- and takes a deep breath.

Michael recites a set of numbers -- they're coordinates, a date and a time, a when and where for them to meet -- and stops himself from hanging up. He waits a moment, hoping Mahone will understand the things he can't say, and adds, "Alex," before flattening the receiver button with his palm.

The things he really wants to say, if he says them at all, shouldn't be recorded, played hours or days later. Michael stares at the phone for a minute, noticing the collection of dirt and sweat caught in the imprinted numbers on the buttons, the graffiti scratched into the plastic-coated casing. Then he dials back.

Same recorded message, same string of numbers punched into the phone, but this time he grips the handset tightly, fists his other hand in his pocket.

"Alex," he starts, stalling for time. He allows himself one breath, and then pushes the words out.

"I don't think I'm a good guy anymore. Don't know if I ever was, but--" Michael stops because that's not what he wants to say. "I want help. And company. I don't need it, but..."

A sharp sigh, and maybe he shouldn't have tried to record this. Shouldn't have tried to explain it. Shouldn't have expected anything more than the promise of help.

"Having you here would make this easier for me," he says, eyes scrunched shut and ribcage tight. Behind him, a horn blares as two cars nearly collide trying to get the same street-side parking space, and Michael flinches. Stares over his shoulder to see one of the drivers yelling, getting out of his car, yanking off his sunglasses as he strides to the other car. Accidents and arguments gather crowds, so Michael hangs up.

Moving casually -- looking back once at the accident because it would be suspicious if he didn't -- Michael shoulders his backpack and walks the opposite direction. He's already thinking about coordinates and the next step, planning the best way to tell Mahone everything.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

junalele.livejournal.com

This just blew me away. I...this...holy crap. I think this was the most intense, most insightful story I ever read about those two. I love the characterisation, their dynamics, the pace of this thing and how you fit it all into the atmosphere of late season 3, the colours of Sona and yes. Woah.

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Prison Break Fic: Form, Not Meaning

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