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the only good fight there is

One year ago, Lincoln Clay had avenged his family and began the first day of the rest of his life ruling New Bordeaux. His men were strong, his underbosses stronger, and his empire was essentially invulnerable. Lincoln was too highly regarded now to be touched by local authorities and the FBI; there wasn’t sufficient evidence against him anyhow, something he made sure of as soon as he shot Sal Marcano at his desk. The new life of Lincoln Clay was glamorous and rewarding - he got to wear nice, tailored suits and when he spoke, people listened. Lincoln never had this type of power before, but rather than consume him it did the opposite. To make a long story short, Lincoln Clay was bored. Work (because that’s all it was now, work) gave him pounding headaches and the urge to shoot something, preferably any of his three underbosses, as they were often the cause of said headaches. Vito and Burke bickered like an old, heavily-accented married couple while Cassandra rolled her eyes and silenced them with a single cutting remark. If Lincoln had hair, he would have ripped it all out by now.

As a result of his boredom, Lincoln often wound up in Nicki’s office practically begging to be sent on a supply run of some kind. The redhead would tease him relentlessly for it, but then she would offer a drink and companionship and Lincoln would always leave happier than when he had entered. Lincoln was eventually introduced to Darlene, Nicki’s partner, months after Nicki had first mentioned her. Darlene was a small Latino woman with shoulder-length brunette hair, hazel eyes, and plump lips. Turned out she was pretty handy with cars and on rare occasion helped Burke out when her brothers were unavailable, which is how she met Nicki. Lincoln had liked her from the start, admiring her soft voice that could spit fiery words of passion when it came to equal rights for coloured folks and homosexuals. Yet what Lincoln admired most about Darlene was how she looked at Nicki, with a glimmer in her eyes and a soft edge to her smile that tugged at his heart and often reminded him of blue eyes with a similar glint to them, a sarcastic smile that was just a smidge too adoring at times. Lincoln never allowed himself to go any further down that train of thought except for late nights, when it was too hot to sleep and too late to do anything but lay there and think. Lincoln had never felt more alone in his life than in those moments.

Aside from hours of endless paperwork and meetings and various aches and pains, there was virtually nothing in Lincoln’s life that kept him going. Nicki and Darlene made the effort to meet him every fortnight or so, usually in one of the booths at Perla’s where they could relax and know they weren’t being overheard, and Vito frequently invited Lincoln to Benny’s Ristorante for a sizeable portion of his beloved bucatini recipe. Occasionally Cassandra would swindle him at poker while Emmanuel laughed at his expense. On extremely rare occasions, Lincoln would cover for Burke when the man was too sickly to do much that day, but those days were few and far between. Burke was still an old Irish asshole to him, and Lincoln was still a “chalky bastard” to Burke, so they didn’t do much bonding.

Lincoln continued to meet his underbosses in the abandoned planetarium, but his other one-on-one meetings were held in the newly-renovated basement of Sammy’s bar. Lincoln had noticed that people tended to feel more comfortable there despite the violent history of the place; many deaths, a fire, and a cult all in the one area. Lincoln had a hard time entering his former home by himself ever since Mardigras, ever since he entered through a shattered window with a fresh scar on his head and in his mind and damn near collapsed along with the building. He would never admit this weakness to anyone, not even Aunt Lil, but he had a feeling she knew all the same. His aunt was nothing if not perceptive, a trait which Lincoln both admired and loathed. Nicki and Darlene would love her, that’s for sure. He would have to bring them around sometime.

What with all the trauma surrounding Sammy’s bar, Lincoln offered the bedroom in the basement to his aunt to live in and make her own. After all, it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford a house or two of his own now. Lily had accepted the offer quickly; grateful to leave the hotel Lincoln had placed her in like he knew she would be. Lily loved being in charge of the bar, loved knowing that she was making her brother proud wherever he was, and Lincoln loved seeing her happy so the decision to sign it all over to her wasn’t a difficult one to make. In fact, it was probably the easiest decision of Lincoln’s life to date. Buying a house, on the other hand, proved to be extremely difficult. Aunt Lily had insisted on accompanying him to every viewing and she asked all the right questions - facilities? electricity? quiet neighbourhood? history of the house? - whereas all Lincoln wanted was a house he could walk into and feel at ease.

Eventually, he found just that in an old three storey red-brick house at the edge of the Hollow, bordering on Barclay Mills. It was a little run down, with rusted gates needing to be pried open to head down the cracked driveway which eventually divided to accommodate a white fountain covered with leaves and moss. The garage at the side of the house was big enough to fit two cars comfortably, and had a small staircase leading up to an overhead level that could be used for storage if there wasn’t a large hole in the centre of the wooden floor. Aunt Lil hated the place. Lincoln loved it. He offered to buy it right then and there, standing in the knee-length grass of the garden in his grey three-piece suit, sans jacket. The salesman was all too happy to be rid of the run-down dwelling and because of all the pre-existing damage, it was practically a steal, although Lincoln would no doubt have to fork over a few thousand on repairs before the place reached its full potential.

The repairs and refurbishing proved to be much-needed distractions; they kept Lincoln occupied and free from boredom for the first time in months. A handful of men working for Cavar Construction came five days a week to help Lincoln out with the most extensive damages - the rest he did himself, quite happily and without fuss. The garage was cleared, cleaned, and the hole in the upper-level was fixed and then the wood was sanded and varnished to look as good as new. Lincoln had no idea how to fix the fountain so he just took it out and installed a smaller, simpler one and he was pleased with how quaint the premises looked once the grass was mowed and the hedges were trimmed. One night, while Lincoln sat in the middle of the carnage that was his kitchen, nursing a glass of bourbon and thinking about the type of cupboards he should buy for said room, there came a thud from outside and a loud “Shit!” followed shortly after.

Lincoln was up in an instant, his strong hand itching for the combat knife tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Lincoln slowly crept through the archway leading into the dining room and peeked through the window to check for any sign of the intruder. Nothing. Then there was a loud knock on the front door, followed by two quick raps.

“Hurry your ass up and open this goddamn door, Clay, or I swear to god-”

Lincoln hurried from the dining room, ran past the living room and through the hallway, and then he flung open the front door to see John Donovan, in the flesh, in the same fucking suit and smoking a cigarette. Donovan grinned around the cigarette, lips curling around a cloud full of smoke, and he said, “Miss me?”

“You motherfucker,” Lincoln swore. Donovan let out a cackle and stubbed his cigarette out on the red-brick wall.

“What the hell are you doing here? Thought you’d gone back to your boring desk job?”

“And let you have all the fun? No way, compadre.” John gestured past Lincoln, into the hallway, and he raised an eyebrow. “You gonna let me in or am I gonna stay out here all night with my dick in my hand?”

Lincoln pretended to consider this despite stepping to the side instantly, allowing his friend to brush past him as he entered. “Might let you stay out, give me some entertainment for the night.”

An inelegant snort sounded from the kitchen as Lincoln shut and locked the front door, John no doubt draining the last of the bourbon like the greedy fuck he is. Sure enough, when Lincoln entered the room an empty glass bottle of bourbon lay on the counter beside Lincoln’s now empty glass, and Donovan was searching the mess that was the kitchen for more. “Believe it or not,” began Donovan, head stuck into one of the old cupboards due to be removed. “I’ve been told I’m more fun inside the house as opposed to outside, especially in the bedroom but, hey, the kitchen works too.”

With rolled eyes, Lincoln responded, “Don’t get too carried away, John, you’re not as irresistible as you think you are.” That right there was a bold-faced lie and both of them knew it, but neither said anything about it. Instead, Donovan pulled out the dusty whiskey bottle Lincoln had found that morning and waved it around with a charming grin on his face.

“Let’s get shitfaced, hm?”

Lincoln was reminded of Ellis for the first time in a while. He could hear his brother’s voice, excited to spend a night drinking with his friends and family and his brother that had just returned from war, as if it were yesterday. If Lincoln focused hard enough, he could kid himself into thinking it really was yesterday and that he was back home with the only two people that truly gave a shit about him. Lincoln could kid himself into thinking that, but he wouldn’t. It still hurt to think about his family, and Danny, and his old life as Lincoln Robinson, Sammy’s son. Now, he was Lincoln Clay, ruthless and violent, the city’s favourite son. Sometimes, when Nicki and Darlene weren’t there to talk and Aunt Lil was too busy running the bar to offer any advice, Lincoln yearned for his old life as Sammy Robinson’s son, the war vet that slept on a rickety bed in the basement. At least then he’d have his family, and he’d have somewhere he belonged. The life of glitz and glamour got old quickly, and then all Lincoln was left with was an entire city at his disposal and more money than he knew what to do with. He belonged nowhere, to no one, but Donovan was here now, which he supposed counted as something.

Lincoln, aware he’d been silent for too long, nodded and reached for the whiskey. “Please.”

A while later saw both men lying on their backs on the cold kitchen floor, staring at the ceiling. Donovan had stripped himself of his tan suit jacket and placed it beneath his head as a support, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up past his forearms to reveal milky white skin, a stark contrast to Lincoln’s dark arm beside him. The whiskey had been drank despite its slightly off-putting taste which left Lincoln’s mouth feeling and tasting all kinds of horrible, but in that moment he didn’t care much. Beside him, Donovan laughed a little breathlessly. Curious and well on his way towards being drunk, Lincoln turned his head and frowned at his friend.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” answered Donovan, and he chuckled again. Lincoln poked him hard in the stomach. “Hey! Quit it, you dick. I’m just … thinking.”

“That’s a first,” muttered Lincoln sarcastically. John poked him in the stomach as retaliation.

The blonde huffed and then turned his body so that he faced Lincoln, resting on his left elbow so that he was slightly upright and could focus on his friend better. Donovan still had a hard time comparing this Lincoln to the Lincoln he met in ‘Nam. That Lincoln smiled more, and he laughed, even though they were at war and could very well die any goddamn minute. The Lincoln of last year presented him with the weakest and strongest moments of his friend’s life; shot in the skull, barely able to stay conscious, to killing every motherfucker that dared stand between him and his goal of killing Sal and Giorgi. Looking at Lincoln then, Donovan saw the shell of a man who used to be. Bearded and positive Lincoln Robinson was long gone, as was the brutal and determined Lincoln Clay, which left the hollow remnants of the man beside him. Something was missing, John thought. A swagger to his walk, a glint in his eyes, the confident clench of his jaw – all gone. Donovan missed it all terribly.

John realised he had been staring, unashamed, at Lincoln for far too long to be considered normal but when he snapped out of his trance he realised with a jolt that Lincoln was staring too, looking up at Donovan for quite possibly the first time ever with plush lips parted ever-so-slightly and soft, wistful eyes that seemed to share the same thoughts as John; that he could just reach out, grab him by the back of the neck, and pull their lips together. A simple action like that would have a monumental result on both of their lives. A kiss, chaste and sweet and so unlike the two of them, would only lead to more and more until they couldn’t get enough of each other. John couldn’t afford to fall any deeper into this hole he had already dug for himself the moment he thought of Lincoln as more than his closest friend, his only friend. His feelings were reciprocated – they were mirrored right there on Lincoln’s beautifully open face, shining in his eyes like a lighthouse whose light warded John away. If Donovan were a weaker man he would have said screw it and jumped right in, consequences be damned, but he knew better and, for once, hated himself for it. Kissing Lincoln would mean signing away his heart and soul and his entire life because once he started, he knew he would be unable to get enough. He would never leave Lincoln again, and they both knew he would have to eventually.

Donovan was never one to deny himself the simple pleasures in life, but there was nothing simple about his feelings for Lincoln.

“So, who are you planning to terrorise next?” asked Lincoln. John heard the real question for what it was: When are you leaving? Where will you go? Why can’t you stay forever and be happy, here, with me?

John’s chest felt too tight, as did the smile on his face. “Figured I might stay a bit.” He shrugged. “The Blue Gulf could probably do with the business.” Donovan knew that Lincoln would hear his response for what it was, too. It was an admission, an “I can’t give you much, but what little of myself I can give is yours.”

“Fuck that, you’re staying here. Spare bedroom’s a bit dusty but it’s better than that shithole.”

“Look at you, standards and everything! The Blue Gulf wasn’t that bad, but I won’t turn down a night of free sleep if you’re offering.”

“I’m surprised you even know what standards are, Donovan.”

Lincoln stood up from the floor and stretched his chiselled arms over his head with a groan that sent a tingle of heat straight down to John’s groin. A flash of sharp hipbone revealed itself when Lincoln’s loose grey t-shirt rose up an inch or so. Donovan wanted to sink his teeth into the tanned skin and mark it forever, to ward off anyone who dared look at those sinful hips after him. He wanted Lincoln to touch the spot where he had been, which he had nurtured with sharp teeth and a soothing tongue and soft lips, and he wanted Lincoln to think only of him whenever he so much as glimpsed himself in the mirror. John wanted to mark Lincoln all over and disappear before the blemishes faded, happy knowing that those phantom caresses would haunt his friend for the rest of his life, knowing that whenever Lincoln touched himself it would only ever remind him of golden blonde hair and wicked eyes and that he would pull himself to completion with Donovan’s name on his lips.

“You know jack-shit about my standards!” John snorted even as desire pooled in his gut.

Lincoln raised both eyebrows at him. “I was with you in ‘Nam; I know enough. Now get your ass up those stairs before I carry you.”

“Kinky.”

Lincoln smacked him on the head, which John deserved, and then he lead the way upstairs. Based on the dark circles under Lincoln’s eyes, Donovan figured that they would not be returning downstairs until morning and so he turned the lights off in his wake. Lincoln brought him to a faded wooden door and opened it, allowing John inside to take a look. It wasn’t as dusty as he had expected, which meant that someone must have cleaned up in there recently enough, and there seemed to be fresh sheets on the double bed. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he walked into the room and threw his jacket on top of the bed, admiring the unused room.

“Ensuite’s a mess so you’ll have to use the bathroom down the hall,” said Lincoln from the doorway.

John turned to face him while his hands busied themselves with loosening his tie. He watched Lincoln watch his hands, his throat, his mouth, and when their eyes met once more Lincoln’s pupils were so dilated that Donovan could no longer see their comfortingly warm shade of brown. Donovan stood in the centre of the room, unsure of himself and the situation he found himself in and yet he was unwilling to back down, arms by his sides uselessly with soft tan fabric hanging from limp fingers. He imagined what would happen if Lincoln came in and shut the door after him. What would he do if Lincoln stayed, if he kept looking at John like he hung the moon and painted the stars singlehandedly? Nobody had ever stared at Donovan like that before; like being alone in a dusty room with him and no one else was a privilege, a moment to be cherished forever, an indulgence momentarily sated. Donovan knew not what would happen if Lincoln followed him into his room, onto his bed and deeper into his heart, but he knew that just standing there would not be an option. Not with the moon illuminating ripples across dark skin, not with strong hands holding his hips so tenderly Donovan thought he could cry just thinking of the affection such a gesture conveyed, not when Lincoln was the only person he would want to say goodbye to on his deathbed.

It was a good thing, John supposed, when Lincoln muttered a quick “goodnight” and left.

_____________________________________________________________

pls be gentle i’m shy

P.S. I totally forgot a title for this so I took it from the poem Factotum by Charles Bukowski

In Loving Memory of that Suit™ John Donovan wore in the post-credits scene of Mafia III

it ain't dead I just love remembering it

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the world needs more cowboy homosexuality

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John "Fuck it, Lincoln, Just Kill any Racist You See, Ride or Die" Donovan

#MAC plays: Mafia 3 #Mafia #Mafia 3 #John Donovan #Lane Compton