3 Stories

The next day, well after noon, Lincoln hauls Michael out of bed and drags him to some seedy part of town to see some new friend he made in prison, all buck teeth and thin blonde hair, the walls covered with swastikas and Michael really doesn't want to know. The guy gives them two pairs of old combat boots and says he wants them back later. There’s no logic to this and his are a size too large, but it’s no use complaining. They are heavy on his feet and chafe his calves as he stumbles after Lincoln and yet he laughs when he yells not to twist his arm out of its socket.

The reception area looks like one right out of beauty parlour, if it weren’t situated in a warehouse that is. Lincoln puts his arm around Michael’s shoulders, flashes their fake IDs and now Michael is Marty and his birthday is in June. Michael wants to ask if this is a good idea, but it’s too late for that now because they are already coming, approaching in long, hurried strides. The photographer wears a funny hat and his accent is harsh and melodious at the same time, a strange singsong like watching The Muppets on Sunday morning while high. He scoffs their scars and bruises and Lincoln’s faded handmade tattoos as he inspects his merchandise. They let him, but he can feel Lincoln tensing up next to him when the guy tilts Michael’s head up to inspect his eyes.

They withdraw to the back for some agitated discussion. the young one, I can work with that, it murmurs from the walls. Lincoln pretends he doesn’t hear and bites him, bites the flesh of his hand between the thumb and index finger. Then he turns around to engage in the negotiation. He drives a hard bargain it seems and gesticulations become more heated. In the end Lincoln unbuttons his jeans with a cocky grin and this seems to be what gets both of them the ok.

In the back room a lone red couch stands on rolled out plastic surrounded by harsh, biting lights. He looks at Lincoln, slightly confused, because there’s no place for them to take their clothes off, but then Lincoln is on him, kissing, sliding his hand up Michael’s body and lifting his shirt over his head. And the cameras start clicking.

Fingers digging into Lincoln’s hair, pulling his head closer to his chest -- you sure? He whispers and Lincoln just smiles up at him.

Their bodies are twisting, shifting, rearranging on the old leather couch. Crane your neck, relax your jaw, look over here, stop blocking the angle. His head starts swimming from the orders, but he isn’t really listening to any of them. It’s just him and Lincoln, finally alone in their little word, and most importantly stark naked except their combat boots, chaffing against each other.

Somebody offers them a pill or two, but he just shakes his head, never taking his eyes off Lincoln’s face. They form their picture perfect. He is prodded, opened and displayed, his chin is turned towards the light, his legs manipulated into every shape anyone could ever think of. Sometimes they are told to stop and some gopher rushes in, waving powder and foundation, covering old marks and blemishes that might insult the eye.

what if somebody finds us? He breathes, his fingers still meshing in Lincoln’s hair, pretending there is no one there around them. they won’t, Lincoln tells his pale white flesh as he kisses his way around a nipple. thought this through, only here till tomorrow – a deft lick down his belly, a soft scrape against his hips and then Lincoln is nuzzling and mumbling against the inside of his thigh, Belgian magazine, exclusive, crazy Europeans, nobody will ever know. He pulls Lincoln up and they kiss noisily and messily and they don’t stop quickly even when a high pitched voice barks at them to cut it out.

One leg dangles off the couch, rough rubber soles scraping over the floor. Lincoln’s mouth rests against his hip bone and Lincoln’s fingers sneak their way down the nether crevice. Michael moans and relaxes and then Lincoln’s fingers are inside, testing, finding, teasing. Pleasure reverberates in every bone and he can lose himself in the touch completely, even here, because he knows there will always be Lincoln’s hand, stroking his stomach, keeping him tied to his world. It’s over all to quickly and the click of the camera rips them apart again.

A shift and he is sitting, knee drawn under his leg, back curled over, with his head bobbing up and down as he slowly wets his brother's erection with his mouth. i’ll gladly fall for you, the words form in his head and he knows he doesn’t have to say it because wherever he goes there are his brother’s hands catching him. An order later and he’s kneeling and bent over, hands stretched out and knees against his chest with Lincoln’s hands softly stroking up and down his back. Another shift and he frames his brother’s face with his hands and kisses him so sweetly, like it is the most innocent thing they have ever done.

It’s almost their last shot, their role of film bled dry and the ghosts around them grow restless. The first blue shirts arrive to take down some of the lights. The world around them is unravelling. Only a few more minutes left and Michael shivers at the contrast of his dark boots against Lincoln’s back and he hugs him tighter. Lincoln touches one finger to Michael’s nose and it makes Michael smile, like always. He closes his eyes and thinks he likes the idea that somewhere out there, there will be a Michael and a Linc, forever young, forever kissing, forever touching, forgotten in some long used up magazine in a cellar in Amsterdam or Paris or wherever they are going.