It’s about Michael.
Alex doesn’t kid himself, doesn’t try to justify it any other way. It’s about Michael; about mutual attraction but not to each other. They both know it.
The alcohol had been Sucre’s idea, and Alex is thankful for it. It loosens him up, lets the tension ease its way from his body. He hasn’t felt relaxed in so long -- so, so, long -- and he doesn’t now, but he’s close to it.
They’re outside, sitting on makeshift seats and watching the darkening horizon. Blissfully alone. Alex doesn’t think about where the others are, doesn’t dwell on what they’re doing. Doesn’t care that Lincoln’s most likely running the water cold, that Bellick’s probably already half asleep, despite the early hour. Doesn’t care that Michael’s probably cooped up in the boat alongside Sara, working on plans or working on her.
Or so he tells himself.
“Nice night,” Sucre comments, bottle of Jack held to his lips. Alex hums, watches him in the low light. Takes in the awkward stance, the strong lines of his body. The way his throat works when he swallows.
Sucre’s not a bad looking guy, and if the circumstances were different, Alex probably wouldn’t say no. But that’s not what this is about.
He takes the bottle when it’s offered, tilts his head back and drinks until his throat burns. Until his eyes are on the brink of watering. He’s never had a problem with alcohol, but he understands the appeal.
“Yeah,” he says, too delayed for it not to be awkward. He looks away from Sucre, looks out to the water. To the boats and the seagulls flying above. It’s a nice view, but he misses Chicago. Had longed for the familiar cool since the long nights spent in Sona.
Sitting on their crates, silently watching time pass them by-- that’s how they stay until the sky darkens, until all that’s left is slivers of light. Just enough for Alex to see the body next to him, but not enough to make out the details.
There’s no point in talking, so they don’t. One minute they’re drinking, passing the bottle back and forth, and the next they’re on each other. Another pair of lips replacing the glass of the bottle but mirroring the taste.
It’s little more than drunken fumbling -- Sucre’s touches are inexperienced, his hands clumsy in their haste -- but it’s enjoyable enough. Alex works his mouth open, presses him to the nearest wall; out of sight from anyone who may be watching. Nudges his legs open with a thigh, hands grabbing at clothes and skin alike.
It’s easy, like this. Easy to pretend that it’s someone else. Easy to let himself be tricked by low lighting and an alcohol fuelled haze; by silent exchanges and closed eyes.
He’s thinking of Michael, and he knows Sucre’s doing the same.
Alex works a belt open, dips a hand beneath fabric and ignores the answering groan. He doesn’t focus on sound -- barely registers Sucre’s heavy breathing and the noises of the dock -- but rather on how it feels. On the satisfaction; the pleasure.
It doesn’t last long, not for either of them. Tired from long days and stressful nights, their bodies chase the pleasure. Almost collapse with it. Alex digs his nails into skin, leaves tell-tale marks along the strong torso beneath his palms, tries to keep his mouth shut when he comes lest he say the wrong name. Sucre does the same, teeth digging into the dip of his shoulder through the cotton of his shirt, eyes squeezed tight to keep the fantasy going.
And even if they can’t keep quiet, even if the name Michael is on the tip of both their tongues, it isn’t like either of them are ever going to tell.