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Clear sunlight falls through the colorful stain glass windows and paints luminous frescos on the white marble floor. The church is empty aside from the two widows in the front row, their rosaries gliding through their hands like snakes. Michael suspects they come here more for gossip than for prayer anyway.

From time to time, a custodian lurches through, mumbling softly under his breath and never taking his gaze off the floor.

It’s been so long since the last time Michael attended here, yet he still remembered the best days for solitude. He takes out his sketching pad and smoothes out the edges even though they are perfect. Tapping his pencil lightly he focuses his attention on the real reason for his coming.

Five paintings, Saint Florian, a stone weighing down his neck, his hands tied, Saint Lawrence, cooked to death on a gridiron, Bartholomew, flayed alive, Januarius, thrown to the wild beast and of course, Sebastian, strung up and pierced by arrows. Painted by a reclusive monk from Texas they were purchased by an eccentric old heiress, who recently became even more eccentric when she changed faiths and decided to spend the fall years of her life in India. Apparently she felt enough left over loyalty to donate large parts of her estate to the church and so the paintings had ended up here in St. Stephen’s church in Chicago.

Composition and Interior Design has never been his favorite thing, but he liked the idea of contrasting the composition of the paintings themselves and the effect of their placement in the structure. He already knows that he doesn’t like what they have done with them. They are all pale flesh against dark backgrounds and the heavy gold framing clashes with the color of the marble. Putting them too close together just enhances the impression of constricting gloominess. They are the dark corner in what is otherwise a house of light.

He’s been coming here all week, sketching them over and over again, trying to make sense of the composition. And still he can’t shake the feeling that there is something that eludes him. Almost by its own volition the pencil starts ghosting over the paper filling it with shadows.

Why are martyrs always depicted with an expression of serenity, like they are at peace with themselves? When Michael thinks of them he pictures frantic screaming, contorted faces, burning flesh and endless self-doubt. Doesn’t the church itself teach how to cleanse your soul in pain? Yet the only pictures they provide are of an unearthly calm in the face of adversity.

Without conscious thought his brain registers the steps behind him, closing in. They are heavy, almost familiar, but the margin of error is too great. It is an open house, for every man to visit for a private little hour with God. His hands don’t halt their work, but he barely flinches when warm fingers brush the back of his neck.

“Why do you still come here? Thought you finished that thing days ago.”

“It’s not finished till it’s perfect,” he hears himself reply softly.

Lincoln crooks his head and reaches over Michael’s shoulder tapping his fingers directly on the paper. “Looks perfect to me.” Michael doesn’t answer and resists the urge to rip the page right out and start from anew.

He watches as his brother yawns and stretches, indifferent to his surroundings, before shooing Michael further into the bench. It creaks when Lincoln gets down beside him and somehow that makes Michael breathe more deeply.

“Why did you pick it? I thought you stopped believing in … all this, ” his brother says, indicating the church around them with a short wave of his hand.

“I have. “

“So, what are you doing here?” A mischievous grin appears on Lincoln’s face. “Looking at Our Lady’s tits again?”

Michael rolls his eyes and turns his focus on the church’s altar. Unlike the paintings it hasn’t been renovated in a while and could use a dash of new color to fight the signs of time. But even as the paint peels off in places, the impression is still majestic. The Trinity with the Virgin sitting at their feet, surrounded by the choir of Saints and Angels. Palms turned upward God Father stands behind his son, the dove floating freely above them.

Michael likes Christ. In his mind, who wouldn’t? He was a good man and he reached out to the poor and sinful. He likes the Madonna and her soft and understanding gaze as the envelopes the illegitimate children in her cloak, protector of innocence. He likes the Saints and martyrs and their stories of torture and sacrifice. He likes the magnificent churches with their graceful arches and elaborate ornaments. He even likes the tacky gold coatings because they make him smile. He likes the priests and nuns and he admires their work and dedication. He still volunteers for their programs when it’s about care for the elderly or feeding the less fortunate. It’s just God he’s not so sure of.

Lincoln is different. He prefers God, but he’s not a fan of details. Usually you have to drag him to church and being in the presence of God’s people makes him uncomfortable. He breaks at least one commandment each day, sometimes more. He’s broken each one of them at least once except maybe the first one and the one about not killing. And maybe it’s vanity, but Michael likes to think that he isn’t even all that sure about the first one either. Still, there’s not a sliver of doubt in Linc’s mind about God’s existence. He does not care about the details and he does not bother to question it. Linc goes with his gut and that tells him that God is the biggest motherfucking badass on the block and if you can’t join him, you would at least be well advised to not stand in his way.

“I used to think that these were the Other people, “ Linc says and points at the paintings on the wall. “Don’t join our religion and that is what will happen to you. Why would you put up pictures of bad things happening to people after they have converted? Just doesn’t make much sense.”

Michael smiles. “You mean like bad advertising.”

Linc tilts his head as he rolls the thought around in his head. “Yeah, pretty much, “ he nods in the end. “One wonders why they did it.”

“I guess if you believe into something that strongly, you don’t care what happens to you.”

“You think they were wrong?”

“Why didn’t he save them? They were willing to give their lives for him, so why didn’t he lift a finger? Whisked them away, if he’s almighty?”

Lincoln shrugs. “How is it God’s fault if a bunch of crazies want to die for him?”

“So you think they just should have willingly run over to the other side?” he asks, slightly amused.

Lincoln frowns. “No, but they could have ran away. Fought back. If they want to die for him, what do you expect God say? No, thank you?”

Michael grins. Things are always so easy in Linc’s world. His gaze is caught again by the blood seeping out of Saint Sebastian’s wounds and he wishes he could explain to Lincoln that there can be a certain poetry in suffering, too, but he knows that it’s a concept that Lincoln will never be able to agree with.

“Look, just go home, I’ll join you later,” he murmurs.

“I know you. You’ll just be weird and grumpy all day if I let you stay, “ grumbles Lincoln before he leans in to slide two fingers inside the collar of Michael’s shirt. One hand trails up Michael’s thighs and grabs him through his jeans. Michael tries to keep his eyes on the colored canvases in front of him, but his legs spread automatically to give his brother better access as a very familiar spark travels up his spine and he arches against the helping hand that massages and manipulates.

Linc looks around quickly, like he is afraid that God is checking up on them before dipping down below. Michael’s eyes are still fixed on Saint Sebastian and he thinks that this is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, the soft brown curls, the pink girlish lips, the almost coy posture of his arm in an obscene display of supposed innocence. His hands tangle in Linc’s hair and he sighs as his brother’s lips wrap around his cock. There is suction and there is happiness and it prickles at the base of his spine as his body reacts to the welcome stimulation. Right now he’s sure that heaven can’t be much better than this.

Still, no matter how many years he’s lived without faith, he can’t stop himself from tensing for the fraction of a second as he waits for The Lord to smite him for this blasphemy. Of course, he never does and Michael files it away as just another affirmation that He is not really out there after all.

Afterwards Linc pulls back and turns, but stops himself as it occurs to him what he’s about to do. After one awkward moment he decides to keep it in. At this Michael’s head falls back and his laughter echoes from the church’s walls. He laughs because he can’t help himself. He laughs at the insanity of Lincoln’s mind that will allow him to blow his brother in the middle of church, but will balk at spitting out his cum in the House of God. He laughs because it took God himself to make Linc swallow and he thinks that maybe he needs to take Lincoln to church more often.

Linc shoots him an angry look, because now they have started to attract attention, disapproving hisses and damning glares from the two widows in the front. And yet Michael can’t stop laughing, he’s still laughing as he stuffs himself back into his pants, he’s still laughing as Linc leads him out the wooden doors.

When they walk out, Lincoln’s arm slung around his shoulder and Saint Sebastian is nothing but a lifeless canvas they leave behind as they step out into the bright summer sun.

~*~*~*~

Afterwards, in his apartment, Michael is tousled, naked, spread out on his bed, his body humming with desire. The sun shines through the window and sunlight tickles his nose and kisses his back and shoulders. The soft hairs on his arms look invisible and golden in this light. He doesn’t bother to hide his need, shamelessly gyrating against his brother’s hand. No matter how often they do this, it still surprises him how much he wants, how much he needs it every time it happens.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,“ breathes Lincoln as he kisses down Michael’s spine. “You are the one who is supposed to tell me to stop.”. Michael is supposed to be the good one, the one who is protected and safe while Lincoln is off doing stupid things that will get him killed one day. It’s only here that their situation is reversed and Michael is the one dashing forward and Lincoln is the one who so badly wants to stay behind. He wonders if Lincoln realizes that Michael never asked him to stop, none of it, even the stuff he doesn't like, the drugs, the bad friends, the drinking. Michael has never asked him to stop, that it's always Lincoln who stops himself.

He tried to feel bad about it, he has, and yet he can’t. The incest, the sin, the wrongness of it, none of it feels real to Michael, like it’s just another intellectual exercise. What else is sex other than body parts mingling, pieces of skin sliding against each other, molecules interacting?

He has tried it with other people before, he doesn’t know why it is always better with Linc, but it just is. Maybe it’s something unchangeably embedded in their genes, a particular brand of saliva and pheromones that set his body ringing, maybe it’s Lincoln himself, his temper, his moods, the teasing tone in his voice. Or maybe it’s knowing what to expect, to know every fiber, every reaction, ever flaw.

Having studied the math and geometry of life Michael knows the equation for perfect golden cut of proportions, the optimal body index, the ratio of eyes to nose to lips. Beauty is in structure, it’s all about classic lines, and clean planes. It is in perfection and in grace.

Lincoln has taught him that sometimes all those rules don’t apply. Or at least they don’t apply to Lincoln. All his life Michael worked hard to avoid chaos, but everywhere Lincoln goes chaos follows and with him it’s beautiful.

It makes him not care whether they call it blasphemy or fucking or making love or taking a stroll down Cadbury Avenue. How can the words matter if the actions behind it stay the same and if they both like it so much? To him too, this has beauty. But Lincoln clings to the words, or this lack of words and these actions can only take place in this grey area between existence and non-existence where nothing is real unless you go and give it a name.

So Michael arches his back theatrically and lets out a purring moan. His actions are answered immediately with a sharp intake of breath. He doesn’t have to turn around to guess the expression on his brother’s face.

Burying his face in the pillow he can’t quite hide the satisfied smile on his lips. God might create the universe and rule the seven seas, but in here Michael is the one in charge. “What’s so funny,” Lincoln asks and Michael’s smile blooms in a full on smirk. “Just wondering what God would think about sodomizing your brother.” The hands on his lower back halt their ministrations. “Don’t say that.” Michael turns. “What? Sodomize?” “It’s not funny.” And at that Michael can’t help but burst out into laughter again. He turns on his back and shoves one hand under his pillow, proudly jutting forward his hips and rests his other hand suggestively next to his rigid sex. “Sodomy, “ he smiles and repeats the word as he draws his legs farther apart, rolls it over his tongue and picks it apart, letter for letter, syllable for syllable, fighting the desire to make the lame joke that just offers itself up. “I believe the Bible has quite strict instructions regarding that. Even if their rules on incest aren’t as … unambiguous.”

Lincoln flinches as the “I” word and just turns around and starts slipping back into his boots. Michael stares at him in disbelief.

“Are you crazy?”

“I have somewhere else to be.”

“Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He reaches for Lincoln’s arm and is pushed away roughly. Anger boils up inside of him and he is shocked at the almost hateful hiss in his voice. “You are being ridiculous. Don’t you dare leave now.”

“Shut up, Michael, will you shut up just this once?” Lincoln’s face is burning red and he tugs violently at his shoelaces. If he wasn’t so goddamn angry he would worry for the buttons on Lincoln’s shirt. “You never know when to quit, do you?” Lincoln rages on and Michael bites back a response.

Frustrated he falls back into the cushions and turns his head to look out of the window. The sky has turned from a clear blue to a moody mixture of black and grey and in a way it’s fucking perfect. He winces only for the tiniest moment when the door slams shut.

There are five types of breaks that Lincoln calls. There’s the cigarette break (5-10 minutes), where Lincoln is just out the door. This one is Michael’s favorite even if Lincoln comes back tasting of smoke and ashes. There’s the head clearing walk (20-30 minutes). Michael is lucky that Lincoln usually gets bored rather quickly. There are the Veronica breaks where Lincoln calls up V from the next phone booth. Michael hates those, but at least Lincoln comes back from them always horny. It took him a while to figure those out. There are the drunken binges where Lincoln goes out and gets smashed and doesn’t come around for two days at least because he wants to spare Michael the hangover. And there are the black holes where Lincoln disappears for a week or longer and Michael doesn’t ask and Lincoln doesn’t tell.

He gets dressed again. Heroically he suppresses the urge to clean and sits down with some work instead. Darkness falls quickly and it’s becoming harder and harder to concentrate. One quick look at his watch tells him that he’s dealing with a Four or a Five. But not tonight. He throws on a jacket and steps out outside.

~*~*~*~

His hair and shirt are wet from a thin spray of Chicago rain when he finds Lincoln standing at the corner outside of a bar with a group of his drinking buddies, already slightly sloshed and laughing. “I love you, come home with me, “ is what he wants to say, but sometimes love requires compromises and sometimes that means talking in a language that is easier for Lincoln to process. So he walks up to him and tenderly whispers “Come, suck my cock, “ instead.

And Lincoln takes his hand and they walk off without one moment of hesitation. A minute later, in a dark alley Michael’s back is chaffing against the wall and for the second time today his cock slides down to disappear in Lincoln’s mouth. He closes his eyes and bites his lips as he wonders if Lincoln has ever worshipped his God like this, in the dark and on his knees and if he’d blow the big Him too if he ever got the chance and about all the fun stuff the angels in heaven must be missing out on. All thoughts seep from his mind and he gasps as Linc’s hands start fondling his balls and tug on his pants. Lincoln pulls them down his legs and it takes him a moment to realize what he is up to when Lincoln starts fumbling with his own zipper.

He slides one foot out of his tennis shoe and frees it from the confines of his jeans and then Lincoln is up against him, full body contact, pressing him against the wall and bringing their erections together in a volatile struggle. He hooks his leg around Lincoln and his hands snake around Lincoln’s neck. He can see every irregularity in the brink wall across them, every drop of rain, every reflection in every puddle, but the only things that matter are Lincoln’s hands on his ass, lifting him off the ground ever so slightly with each thrust. Lincoln shivers as he buries his nose in Michael’s cold neck and he tries to warm it with his lips, never once breaking their rhythm. Michael’s eyes flutter close and greedily he tries to touch any part of Lincoln that he can reach. He bites his lips before trapping Lincoln in a hungry kiss, hoping that one day he can tell him about this burning ache, this hunger that consumes him whenever they are close. He reaches down between them and grasps both of them with one hand and a few strokes are enough to push him over the edge. He bangs his head painfully against the wall as orgasm hits and there’s blood in his mouth before he slumps and Lincoln catches him and presses both of them tighter against the wall.

Michael rests his head against Lincoln’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath and stop the racing of his heartbeat. He leans in for another kiss, one semen slicked hand against Lincoln’s neck and he could swear he can feel his brother smiling against his lips. Lincoln pulls back and cradles Michael’s head in his hands, softly stroking the beginning bruise.

“You know, you gotta stop hurting yourself,“ he whispers, his eyes full of tenderness and Michael swallows hard and can only shrug in response.

Lincoln needs his time and he needs his rituals and so after a hurried clean up they meet up with his friends again and go back to the bar. Michael sits on Lincoln’s lap, drowning shots with his head thrown back and laughing one touch too loud, surrounded by people who have all learned to stop wondering why Lincoln sometimes calls his brother “Baby” and has a hand up his thigh or around his waist. Lincoln needs this distance, he can fuck *Michael* and he can love his brother, he just can’t do both at the same time and in a way Michael understands. For a while they are almost normal.

They stumble out around shortly before midnight and make their way home. Michael can feel his brother’s breath against his neck as they climb the stairs to Michael’s penthouse. Soon Michael is biting his pillow again and comes for the third time in 12 hours, but finally the way he wants it, the way it’s supposed to be.

~*~*~*

Epilogue

There are the quiet moments of lying next to Lincoln. His body is sated and his mind blissfully empty. Lincoln breathes evenly and deeply and Michael can’t imagine a more relaxing way to fall asleep. Lincoln’s fingers are softly teasing the nape of his neck, turning him around until they are facing each other.

“I’m sorry for what happened, “ he says and Michael wants to say that he is sorry, too, for making Lincoln fuck his brother, but he has a feeling that no matter what they talk about, no matter how honest the intentions behind it, if they talk about it now it’s going to end in another fight and words being said that neither of them want to hear.

So he breathes hard and cuts Lincoln off, drawing him closer into a kiss as he vows to himself that he’ll keep on fighting those words for as long as he can.