FIC: Malagueña, Once Upon A Time In Mexico RPS, Johnny/Enrique
TITLE: Malagueña
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: Once Upon A Time In Mexico RPS
PAIRING: Johnny Depp/Enrique Iglesias
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own anyone. This never happened.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
SUMMARY: Johnny has certain misconceptions about Enrique. Enrique goes about disproving each and every single one of them.
On the second day of filming Mexico, two teenage girls manage to slip past the filming barricades the crew set up before dawn. They bypass the camera's direct view, effectively ruining the take; they stumble past Antonio and Johnny and Willem and everyone offset and on, and stop in front of Enrique.
"Por favor, Enrique," one of them says breathlessly, holding out a notepad and a pen with trembling hands. "Usted firmará esto?"
Rodriguez begins to swear bitterly. Enrique carefully avoids looking at anyone else as he takes the pad from the girl and inks his name quickly. "Cuál es su nombre?"
Her eyes widen. "Belicia," she breathes, "y mi amigo es Eldora."
Production on set has diminished rapidly. One of the camera men is talking on a cell phone, Rodriguez is rolling a cigarette and still muttering grimly, and a few of the lighting technicians are poring over a crinkled take-out menu. Antonio, however, is still glancing around blankly and Johnny is watching Enrique with a mixture of amusement and condescension. Enrique looks up to see Johnny's sardonic grin and feels heat splinter at his fingertips and spread up to his ears, hot wildfire of embarrassment. "Allí usted va," he mumbles, hands the pad back to Belicia.
Once Rodriguez sees that both girls have their autographs, he yells, "Salga de aquí! We're filming, crazy fucking bitches!" Both girls giggle and are escorted offset by a make-up assistant. Rodriguez breathes a sigh of relief, annoyance etched onto his features. "Hey! Back to work, everyone! Someone make sure that doesn't happen again next time!"
*
Enrique has always admired Johnny. He loved Gilbert Grape, bought a copy of Edward Scissorhands when it came out on video, and rented From Hell three times at least. Enrique won't admit it, but it hurts to know that Johnny thinks of him as a pretty boy and nothing else.
He takes his time drinking a café olé out of a glazed pewter bowl, watching the sun rise above the crumbled buildings. When he finishes, he leaves a generous tip next to his empty bowl and walks to their filming location. The set is alive when he arrives, buzzing with energy. "You," says one of the costume assistants when she spots him, "c'mere, Iglesias, I need you to try this on." She holds up a red velour jacket, helps him into it. "Hold still, okay? I need to trim the hem of this." She grabs his hips and spins him around, kneels down with a mouthful of pins and neatly snips away at a few faulty seams.
Enrique shifts and feels perspiration bead on the back of his neck. He shifts uncomfortably and flexes his fingers once, twice. He lets his mind drift, focuses on the aftertaste of the coffee and the pay-per-view he watched last night. He snaps back to reality when he hears Johnny, glances offhandedly to see him talking to Eva Mendez, sprawled in a folding chair while puffing away on a black cigarette.
"Fucking pop stars," Johnny says, "if we start having repeats of yesterday I don't know who I'll shoot first, him or the fucking fangirls." He makes a gun with his hand. Bang, he mouths, and Eva Mendez laughs and slugs him on the shoulder, reprimanding him.
Enrique feels his stomach knot. "Hey," he says. He feels alert in a physical sense, every cell vacillating. The costume girl calls after him, but he ignores her. Eva glances between the two and begins to say something, but Rodriguez calls her aside, and she answers with a yeah and jogs over. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't ask for that."
Johnny shades his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand, takes a drag on his cigarette and lets the smoke stream from nostrils. "So?"
"So I'm not a fucking pop star," Enrique snaps, can't quite keep the gritty quality out of his voice, "and I don't appreciate you talking about me like that."
"You know what they say about the shoe fitting and all," Johnny says, the corner of his mouth kicking up in that infuriating way, and Enrique feels the anger in the pit of his stomach, sick and swooping like a hawk.
"What's your problem, man?" Enrique's eyebrows draw together until they become a single, dark narrow line. "I never did anything to you. Why don't you stop being such an asshole?"
Johnny swings his head up, squinting abruptly at Enrique. "Why don't you blow me, fuckmook?"
"Hey, Depp!" Rodriguez calls, pausing mid-conversation with Eva. Johnny and Enrique both turn to look at him, spat temporarily forgotten. "Fuckmook. Did you say that? That's fucking brilliant. Someone add that in the script."
*
"Okay, blow torch scene," Rodriguez says. Enrique sits at a card table with him, a few other stunt doubles, a lighting technician and one of the cameramen. "Gonzales is going to be doing the shots with the actual fire. He's roughly Enrique's height, so it should be okay to film him from behind. We can shine light up on Enrique's face to make it look like firelight. We might have to run it through editing a few times, but once it gets through special effects I think it should turn out okay."
"No," Enrique says, and everyone turns to look at him. He's leaning back in his chair, booted foot propped up against a table leg, arms folded over his chest. "I don't want a stunt double."
"Enrique," Rodriguez says patiently, "you have--"
"No, I don't," Enrique interrupts, the chair coming down to hit the floor as his palms lay flat on the surface of the table, "it'll look better without a stunt double. The audience'll know that it's just someone else. A full-body shot is better. It pulls you into it. It's real." Silence. Everyone's looking at him. Rodriguez is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I won't sue," Enrique says, "I'm not gonna sue even if I manage to burn my balls off."
Rodriguez laughs and slaps him on the back. "Buddy, the only way you'll get ball burn is from a razor, not this," he says cheerfully. It's clear that he wanted to go through with Enrique's suggestion before it was even voiced, which makes Enrique feel slightly better about this. "Just keep it away from your crotch and you're fine. Get in costume, then. Someone go tell Gonzales to piss off."
Five minutes later, Enrique's on set, wearing his burgundy velvet jacket and holding the case while the stunt coordinator explains it to him. "Okay," he says, "a few seconds after Rodriguez says 'action' you're going to step forward and press this--" The stunt coordinator points out a tiny black button built on the underside of the handle. "--and hold it down. We have lighter fluid and hairspray in there and if you don't do it correctly, you'll end up getting burned." He shows Enrique how to hold it, how to turn and make like he's shooting flames onto Marquez's militia. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, pausing in the middle of his lecture. "I could go get Gonzales right now. Not trying to freak you out, man, but it's dangerous. A lot of shit could go wrong."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Enrique says, takes the guitar case from the stunt coordinator, holding it exactly like he instructed. Makes sure to keep his index and middle finger off the tiny button, splaying them across the leather stitching near the base of the handle. Come on, come on. He's going to do this, not only the right way but also the best fucking way there is.
There's only a few seconds of preparation before the scene starts. The stunt coordinator doesn't want to leave him hanging with the case, wants to avoid his fingers sweating up and slipping. "Quiet on the set!" Rodriguez shouts. "Action!"
Enrique steps forward, once, twice, heart hammering in his chest. No turning back now, and he shifts his fingers and presses.
He doesn't expect the violence, the force in which the flames are propelled from the case. It's so strong it nearly knocks him back, but he keeps his elbow bent slightly and wrist parallel to the ground, which helps him keep it steady. The heat is smothering. His vision ripples, everyone and everything around him blurring and fading and churning like a distorted lake. Light-headed waves start to crest, dizziness from the gas and intense incalescence, but he manages to bring the case around to either side of his body, panning steadily like Rodriguez had instructed him earlier. He keeps holding the tiny button down, fingers whitening with the effort of pressure and supporting the case, and just when he begins to think the scene will never end Rodriguez yells, "Cut!"
One of the technicians immediately rushes over to him and takes the guitar case away, setting it aside. Taking Enrique's hand, he turns it over, carefully inspecting it for burns. "Shit, you're a bit scorched here. Looks like the gas was leaking out near the handle... can someone get me some ointment and gauze?" he yells.
"I'm fine, really," Enrique says, pulling his hand away, "really." He grins and turns to see Johnny wearing an appraising expression. Johnny catches his eye and makes a 'rock on' sign with his left hand, returns his attention back to Rubén Blades and continues talking animatedly. Enrique feels a flush of pleasure creep up his neck and bloom hotly on his cheeks.
*
"I would like to call a toast," Johnny announces, tapping his fork on the side of his glass, and the cast and crew stop laughing and talking in mellow, even tones to look at him. They're all sprawled around a rather low table, sitting on brightly colored cushions instead of chairs, in one of the quiet restaurants on the outskirts of San Miguel de Allende. It's relatively unheard of, but the food is excellent, the drinks are cold, and Rodriguez managed to score a private party room for all of them. "To first, Rodriguez, whom without none of this would have ever been possible, et cetera, blah fucking blah." He rolls his eyes dramatically and sticks out his hip, and everyone laughs. Rodriguez flips him the bird, grinning. "To the crew--you guys, seriously, getting up early while the rest of us slept in, you guys fucking rule. Thanks." More laughter, "and to the cast, you know I love you all." A chorus of hear hear sweeps 'round the table, "and lastly! But most definitely not the least--" Johnny holds his glass in Enrique's direction, and Enrique reddens. "--to our favorite fucking pop star, who is, in fact, not a fucking pop star."
Everyone applauds, roaring, clinking their glasses with everyone they can. Enrique keeps his eyes averted, lashes swept down low, letting the rush of red wine splash gently against his mouth until he regains his composure. He feels like a little kid, gratitude and affection and appreciation running warm rivers through him, and when Johnny flashes him a brilliant grin Enrique smiles uncontrollably. Again.
One by one, and in pairs and triplets, everyone says their tearful goodbyes and files out of the restaurant. Everyone else stays sprawled across the cushions, eating and drinking and talking and then eventually just drinking and talking. Eva bums a ride off Danny Trejo, Rubén helps Rodriguez walks out of the restaurant (he's too drunk to stand upright), and finally it's just Johnny and Enrique, half-filled glasses of tequila and a plate of half-chewed lime slices between them.
"Christ," Johnny says, helping himself to a tequila and pursing his lips at the sharp tang of lime, shaking his head slightly, "I'm going to miss this place. Feels like home."
"Yeah," Enrique agrees ruefully, "but I'm going on tour next month. I won't be able to visit that much."
"Fucking pop star," Johnny teases, and Enrique still feels the sharp stab of embarrassment, not quite so searing as it would've been before but still there.
"Did you mean what you said?" he asks quietly.
Johnny blinks. "You mean during the toast?"
"Yes," Enrique says, downs another tequila because it gives his hands something to do. Bring the glass up and tilt it back and set it down, and he doesn't look quite so awkward and insecure.
"Yeah, I did," Johnny says, and he doesn't sound sarcastic at all which makes Enrique turn to look at him, because Johnny always sounds somewhat sarcastic, "I really did. You're not, mate. You're not. I'm sorry I was such a prick."
Enrique smiles, worrying his lower lip with his teeth for a moment before his smile broadens. "You know, you were--are--" Corrects himself, "my favorite actor. Always have been. I still have the copy of Edward Scissorhands that I bought when I was little."
"No way."
"Saved up my allowance for a month," Enrique admits, trailing a piece of lime skin in a small mountain of spilled sugar and sucking on it, savoring the sweet-sour tang, "my parents wanted me to learn the value of a dollar back then. I thought that particular concept was fucking bullshit and I still do." He laughs softly to himself, then realizes that Johnny isn't laughing along with him. Johnny's staring at him, eyes dark and almost glowing, flickering in low light of the candles lining the walls, and Enrique can't breathe suddenly because Johnny's lips are covering his.
Enrique makes a soft, nearly inaudible sound, moves back to accommodate Johnny when he climbs over a stack of cushions. Johnny lets his weight rest on his palm, cups the back of Enrique's neck with the fingers of his left hand as he kisses him firmly, wet tongue sliding along his lips, demanding entrance. Enrique feels his nerves sizzle, go up in flames. Johnny breaks the kiss, leaves his lips just barely brushing against Enrique's, tequila kiss yeah, and slides his hand up Enrique's denim-covered thigh. Enrique pants raggedly as Johnny's fingers stroke along his inner thigh, inhales when Johnny cups him through his jeans.
"Mi dios!"
The door to the party room swings open. An empty tray clatters to the ground as the waitress' hands come up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide. Johnny's head swivels 'round and Enrique stares dumbly at her, swollen lips still parted.
Johnny exhales impatiently. "Licencia, por favor." She turns to look at Johnny, nods only once, then turns and practically sprints out of the room. Enrique doesn't know what to say now. I didn't start that, you did, I'm just not into that shit, I think we're both more than a little tipsy, I won't mention it if you won't. Of course they're all lies, but he'd rather go home aching than put up with Johnny's scorn.
"Gracias, señora!" Johnny calls after her. Enrique emits a strangled laugh, but doesn't get to finish because Johnny's suddenly kissing him again, licking his anxiety away like salt sprinkled over the back of his hand.
"Wait," Enrique mumbles against Johnny's lips, gasps as Johnny's hand slides between his legs once again, "wait," he's finally caught Johnny's wrist and pushes it away. Johnny moans in frustration, tears his mouth away and glares balefully at Enrique. "Door," Enrique manages through desperate gulps of oxygen, "don't want anyone bursting in on us again, d'you?"
Johnny's resentment disappears, a brilliant smile replacing his frown. "Point there," he says, "is there a lock?"
Johnny strokes him idly through his jeans, and Enrique's hips scoot forward, rising slightly. "Yeah," he moans, "I saw it when I... when I came in."
"Excellent," Johnny says, kissing him again, tongues tangling wetly. They somehow manage to move backward, Johnny's fingers sliding underneath Enrique's shirt and Enrique fumbling with the zipper of Johnny's jeans. Johnny slams the door shut and locks it with nimble fingers, and then they're falling in a twisted heap onto a convenient pile of pillows, Johnny's thigh wedged in between Enrique's legs. Johnny rocks against him almost desperately and Enrique swivels his hips, slow dirty grind. "Yeah," Johnny breathes against Enrique's mouth, nudges his chin aside so he can nibble at Enrique's earlobe.
"Does that offer still stand?" Enrique asks suddenly, and Johnny lifts his head and one eyebrow and stares at him in confusion.
"Which offer?"
"To blow you," Enrique says, and both of them travel back in time for just a few moments.
"Yeah," Johnny says, slowly smiling, "yeah, it does." He rolls off Enrique, onto his back, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. Enrique hooks his fingers in Johnny's belt loops again, tugs him down the pillows a bit, angling him there, yeah, it's good this way, he'll make it good like this. He undoes Johnny's fly and Johnny lifts his hips, helping Enrique to roll them down. He pushes the warm denim down to Johnny's thighs before he thinks, fuck it, leaves them there and shoves up Johnny's shirt. The head of his cock presses against his stomach, red and pulsing, painting a sticky trail across his stomach. Enrique smiles, bends his head, and kisses him. Slow open-mouthed presses of lips on the tip, and Johnny groans and presses his head back, candlelight gleaming off the lean length of his body.
One look at Johnny, though, arching and needy and skin splintering for his touch, and Enrique can't wait. He places his palm flat on Johnny's thigh, marvels for a moment at the warmth of Johnny's skin. Throws caution and hesitation to the wind, sucks Johnny in and lets the liquid heat of his throat slide around him. Johnny's fingers automatically come to rake through Enrique's hair, wrapping around the short silky strands as his hips lift and rise and fall, twist. He breathes unsteadily, wetting his lips and squeezing his eyes shut, stilling, but Enrique's fed up with that control junk and makes an indignant sound around Johnny's cock. Secretly smiles at the way Johnny whimpers, fingers around his hair tightening and digging. Enrique welcomes the burn, solid scrape.
Johnny's panting now, uncontrollably, breathing harshly, and Enrique knows he won't last for much longer. He meets Johnny's eyes, pulls away and sucks his finger into his mouth, tongue sliding and flicking, letting Johnny see. Johnny moans, the sound bereft and pleading, and then suddenly Enrique's finger is between his legs and liquid wet heat is swirling around his cock again. Johnny stops breathing; Enrique feels it, feels the tenseness and the rapid uncoiling of the spring within him. Johnny cries out and the world goes white-hot and brilliant, for just a moment.
Enrique crawls up on the cushions next to Johnny, listens to his harsh breathing, occasional soft groan piercing on the inhale, and finally, everything's normal, earth tilted upright. Your turn? Oh, mine, as Johnny takes his wrists and pins them over his head, lets his mouth skate over his jawline and throat, and Enrique thinks back. What did they say about the tango, that it took two? Well, yeah, he guessed it did.
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: Once Upon A Time In Mexico RPS
PAIRING: Johnny Depp/Enrique Iglesias
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own anyone. This never happened.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
SUMMARY: Johnny has certain misconceptions about Enrique. Enrique goes about disproving each and every single one of them.
On the second day of filming Mexico, two teenage girls manage to slip past the filming barricades the crew set up before dawn. They bypass the camera's direct view, effectively ruining the take; they stumble past Antonio and Johnny and Willem and everyone offset and on, and stop in front of Enrique.
"Por favor, Enrique," one of them says breathlessly, holding out a notepad and a pen with trembling hands. "Usted firmará esto?"
Rodriguez begins to swear bitterly. Enrique carefully avoids looking at anyone else as he takes the pad from the girl and inks his name quickly. "Cuál es su nombre?"
Her eyes widen. "Belicia," she breathes, "y mi amigo es Eldora."
Production on set has diminished rapidly. One of the camera men is talking on a cell phone, Rodriguez is rolling a cigarette and still muttering grimly, and a few of the lighting technicians are poring over a crinkled take-out menu. Antonio, however, is still glancing around blankly and Johnny is watching Enrique with a mixture of amusement and condescension. Enrique looks up to see Johnny's sardonic grin and feels heat splinter at his fingertips and spread up to his ears, hot wildfire of embarrassment. "Allí usted va," he mumbles, hands the pad back to Belicia.
Once Rodriguez sees that both girls have their autographs, he yells, "Salga de aquí! We're filming, crazy fucking bitches!" Both girls giggle and are escorted offset by a make-up assistant. Rodriguez breathes a sigh of relief, annoyance etched onto his features. "Hey! Back to work, everyone! Someone make sure that doesn't happen again next time!"
*
Enrique has always admired Johnny. He loved Gilbert Grape, bought a copy of Edward Scissorhands when it came out on video, and rented From Hell three times at least. Enrique won't admit it, but it hurts to know that Johnny thinks of him as a pretty boy and nothing else.
He takes his time drinking a café olé out of a glazed pewter bowl, watching the sun rise above the crumbled buildings. When he finishes, he leaves a generous tip next to his empty bowl and walks to their filming location. The set is alive when he arrives, buzzing with energy. "You," says one of the costume assistants when she spots him, "c'mere, Iglesias, I need you to try this on." She holds up a red velour jacket, helps him into it. "Hold still, okay? I need to trim the hem of this." She grabs his hips and spins him around, kneels down with a mouthful of pins and neatly snips away at a few faulty seams.
Enrique shifts and feels perspiration bead on the back of his neck. He shifts uncomfortably and flexes his fingers once, twice. He lets his mind drift, focuses on the aftertaste of the coffee and the pay-per-view he watched last night. He snaps back to reality when he hears Johnny, glances offhandedly to see him talking to Eva Mendez, sprawled in a folding chair while puffing away on a black cigarette.
"Fucking pop stars," Johnny says, "if we start having repeats of yesterday I don't know who I'll shoot first, him or the fucking fangirls." He makes a gun with his hand. Bang, he mouths, and Eva Mendez laughs and slugs him on the shoulder, reprimanding him.
Enrique feels his stomach knot. "Hey," he says. He feels alert in a physical sense, every cell vacillating. The costume girl calls after him, but he ignores her. Eva glances between the two and begins to say something, but Rodriguez calls her aside, and she answers with a yeah and jogs over. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't ask for that."
Johnny shades his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand, takes a drag on his cigarette and lets the smoke stream from nostrils. "So?"
"So I'm not a fucking pop star," Enrique snaps, can't quite keep the gritty quality out of his voice, "and I don't appreciate you talking about me like that."
"You know what they say about the shoe fitting and all," Johnny says, the corner of his mouth kicking up in that infuriating way, and Enrique feels the anger in the pit of his stomach, sick and swooping like a hawk.
"What's your problem, man?" Enrique's eyebrows draw together until they become a single, dark narrow line. "I never did anything to you. Why don't you stop being such an asshole?"
Johnny swings his head up, squinting abruptly at Enrique. "Why don't you blow me, fuckmook?"
"Hey, Depp!" Rodriguez calls, pausing mid-conversation with Eva. Johnny and Enrique both turn to look at him, spat temporarily forgotten. "Fuckmook. Did you say that? That's fucking brilliant. Someone add that in the script."
*
"Okay, blow torch scene," Rodriguez says. Enrique sits at a card table with him, a few other stunt doubles, a lighting technician and one of the cameramen. "Gonzales is going to be doing the shots with the actual fire. He's roughly Enrique's height, so it should be okay to film him from behind. We can shine light up on Enrique's face to make it look like firelight. We might have to run it through editing a few times, but once it gets through special effects I think it should turn out okay."
"No," Enrique says, and everyone turns to look at him. He's leaning back in his chair, booted foot propped up against a table leg, arms folded over his chest. "I don't want a stunt double."
"Enrique," Rodriguez says patiently, "you have--"
"No, I don't," Enrique interrupts, the chair coming down to hit the floor as his palms lay flat on the surface of the table, "it'll look better without a stunt double. The audience'll know that it's just someone else. A full-body shot is better. It pulls you into it. It's real." Silence. Everyone's looking at him. Rodriguez is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I won't sue," Enrique says, "I'm not gonna sue even if I manage to burn my balls off."
Rodriguez laughs and slaps him on the back. "Buddy, the only way you'll get ball burn is from a razor, not this," he says cheerfully. It's clear that he wanted to go through with Enrique's suggestion before it was even voiced, which makes Enrique feel slightly better about this. "Just keep it away from your crotch and you're fine. Get in costume, then. Someone go tell Gonzales to piss off."
Five minutes later, Enrique's on set, wearing his burgundy velvet jacket and holding the case while the stunt coordinator explains it to him. "Okay," he says, "a few seconds after Rodriguez says 'action' you're going to step forward and press this--" The stunt coordinator points out a tiny black button built on the underside of the handle. "--and hold it down. We have lighter fluid and hairspray in there and if you don't do it correctly, you'll end up getting burned." He shows Enrique how to hold it, how to turn and make like he's shooting flames onto Marquez's militia. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, pausing in the middle of his lecture. "I could go get Gonzales right now. Not trying to freak you out, man, but it's dangerous. A lot of shit could go wrong."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Enrique says, takes the guitar case from the stunt coordinator, holding it exactly like he instructed. Makes sure to keep his index and middle finger off the tiny button, splaying them across the leather stitching near the base of the handle. Come on, come on. He's going to do this, not only the right way but also the best fucking way there is.
There's only a few seconds of preparation before the scene starts. The stunt coordinator doesn't want to leave him hanging with the case, wants to avoid his fingers sweating up and slipping. "Quiet on the set!" Rodriguez shouts. "Action!"
Enrique steps forward, once, twice, heart hammering in his chest. No turning back now, and he shifts his fingers and presses.
He doesn't expect the violence, the force in which the flames are propelled from the case. It's so strong it nearly knocks him back, but he keeps his elbow bent slightly and wrist parallel to the ground, which helps him keep it steady. The heat is smothering. His vision ripples, everyone and everything around him blurring and fading and churning like a distorted lake. Light-headed waves start to crest, dizziness from the gas and intense incalescence, but he manages to bring the case around to either side of his body, panning steadily like Rodriguez had instructed him earlier. He keeps holding the tiny button down, fingers whitening with the effort of pressure and supporting the case, and just when he begins to think the scene will never end Rodriguez yells, "Cut!"
One of the technicians immediately rushes over to him and takes the guitar case away, setting it aside. Taking Enrique's hand, he turns it over, carefully inspecting it for burns. "Shit, you're a bit scorched here. Looks like the gas was leaking out near the handle... can someone get me some ointment and gauze?" he yells.
"I'm fine, really," Enrique says, pulling his hand away, "really." He grins and turns to see Johnny wearing an appraising expression. Johnny catches his eye and makes a 'rock on' sign with his left hand, returns his attention back to Rubén Blades and continues talking animatedly. Enrique feels a flush of pleasure creep up his neck and bloom hotly on his cheeks.
*
"I would like to call a toast," Johnny announces, tapping his fork on the side of his glass, and the cast and crew stop laughing and talking in mellow, even tones to look at him. They're all sprawled around a rather low table, sitting on brightly colored cushions instead of chairs, in one of the quiet restaurants on the outskirts of San Miguel de Allende. It's relatively unheard of, but the food is excellent, the drinks are cold, and Rodriguez managed to score a private party room for all of them. "To first, Rodriguez, whom without none of this would have ever been possible, et cetera, blah fucking blah." He rolls his eyes dramatically and sticks out his hip, and everyone laughs. Rodriguez flips him the bird, grinning. "To the crew--you guys, seriously, getting up early while the rest of us slept in, you guys fucking rule. Thanks." More laughter, "and to the cast, you know I love you all." A chorus of hear hear sweeps 'round the table, "and lastly! But most definitely not the least--" Johnny holds his glass in Enrique's direction, and Enrique reddens. "--to our favorite fucking pop star, who is, in fact, not a fucking pop star."
Everyone applauds, roaring, clinking their glasses with everyone they can. Enrique keeps his eyes averted, lashes swept down low, letting the rush of red wine splash gently against his mouth until he regains his composure. He feels like a little kid, gratitude and affection and appreciation running warm rivers through him, and when Johnny flashes him a brilliant grin Enrique smiles uncontrollably. Again.
One by one, and in pairs and triplets, everyone says their tearful goodbyes and files out of the restaurant. Everyone else stays sprawled across the cushions, eating and drinking and talking and then eventually just drinking and talking. Eva bums a ride off Danny Trejo, Rubén helps Rodriguez walks out of the restaurant (he's too drunk to stand upright), and finally it's just Johnny and Enrique, half-filled glasses of tequila and a plate of half-chewed lime slices between them.
"Christ," Johnny says, helping himself to a tequila and pursing his lips at the sharp tang of lime, shaking his head slightly, "I'm going to miss this place. Feels like home."
"Yeah," Enrique agrees ruefully, "but I'm going on tour next month. I won't be able to visit that much."
"Fucking pop star," Johnny teases, and Enrique still feels the sharp stab of embarrassment, not quite so searing as it would've been before but still there.
"Did you mean what you said?" he asks quietly.
Johnny blinks. "You mean during the toast?"
"Yes," Enrique says, downs another tequila because it gives his hands something to do. Bring the glass up and tilt it back and set it down, and he doesn't look quite so awkward and insecure.
"Yeah, I did," Johnny says, and he doesn't sound sarcastic at all which makes Enrique turn to look at him, because Johnny always sounds somewhat sarcastic, "I really did. You're not, mate. You're not. I'm sorry I was such a prick."
Enrique smiles, worrying his lower lip with his teeth for a moment before his smile broadens. "You know, you were--are--" Corrects himself, "my favorite actor. Always have been. I still have the copy of Edward Scissorhands that I bought when I was little."
"No way."
"Saved up my allowance for a month," Enrique admits, trailing a piece of lime skin in a small mountain of spilled sugar and sucking on it, savoring the sweet-sour tang, "my parents wanted me to learn the value of a dollar back then. I thought that particular concept was fucking bullshit and I still do." He laughs softly to himself, then realizes that Johnny isn't laughing along with him. Johnny's staring at him, eyes dark and almost glowing, flickering in low light of the candles lining the walls, and Enrique can't breathe suddenly because Johnny's lips are covering his.
Enrique makes a soft, nearly inaudible sound, moves back to accommodate Johnny when he climbs over a stack of cushions. Johnny lets his weight rest on his palm, cups the back of Enrique's neck with the fingers of his left hand as he kisses him firmly, wet tongue sliding along his lips, demanding entrance. Enrique feels his nerves sizzle, go up in flames. Johnny breaks the kiss, leaves his lips just barely brushing against Enrique's, tequila kiss yeah, and slides his hand up Enrique's denim-covered thigh. Enrique pants raggedly as Johnny's fingers stroke along his inner thigh, inhales when Johnny cups him through his jeans.
"Mi dios!"
The door to the party room swings open. An empty tray clatters to the ground as the waitress' hands come up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide. Johnny's head swivels 'round and Enrique stares dumbly at her, swollen lips still parted.
Johnny exhales impatiently. "Licencia, por favor." She turns to look at Johnny, nods only once, then turns and practically sprints out of the room. Enrique doesn't know what to say now. I didn't start that, you did, I'm just not into that shit, I think we're both more than a little tipsy, I won't mention it if you won't. Of course they're all lies, but he'd rather go home aching than put up with Johnny's scorn.
"Gracias, señora!" Johnny calls after her. Enrique emits a strangled laugh, but doesn't get to finish because Johnny's suddenly kissing him again, licking his anxiety away like salt sprinkled over the back of his hand.
"Wait," Enrique mumbles against Johnny's lips, gasps as Johnny's hand slides between his legs once again, "wait," he's finally caught Johnny's wrist and pushes it away. Johnny moans in frustration, tears his mouth away and glares balefully at Enrique. "Door," Enrique manages through desperate gulps of oxygen, "don't want anyone bursting in on us again, d'you?"
Johnny's resentment disappears, a brilliant smile replacing his frown. "Point there," he says, "is there a lock?"
Johnny strokes him idly through his jeans, and Enrique's hips scoot forward, rising slightly. "Yeah," he moans, "I saw it when I... when I came in."
"Excellent," Johnny says, kissing him again, tongues tangling wetly. They somehow manage to move backward, Johnny's fingers sliding underneath Enrique's shirt and Enrique fumbling with the zipper of Johnny's jeans. Johnny slams the door shut and locks it with nimble fingers, and then they're falling in a twisted heap onto a convenient pile of pillows, Johnny's thigh wedged in between Enrique's legs. Johnny rocks against him almost desperately and Enrique swivels his hips, slow dirty grind. "Yeah," Johnny breathes against Enrique's mouth, nudges his chin aside so he can nibble at Enrique's earlobe.
"Does that offer still stand?" Enrique asks suddenly, and Johnny lifts his head and one eyebrow and stares at him in confusion.
"Which offer?"
"To blow you," Enrique says, and both of them travel back in time for just a few moments.
"Yeah," Johnny says, slowly smiling, "yeah, it does." He rolls off Enrique, onto his back, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. Enrique hooks his fingers in Johnny's belt loops again, tugs him down the pillows a bit, angling him there, yeah, it's good this way, he'll make it good like this. He undoes Johnny's fly and Johnny lifts his hips, helping Enrique to roll them down. He pushes the warm denim down to Johnny's thighs before he thinks, fuck it, leaves them there and shoves up Johnny's shirt. The head of his cock presses against his stomach, red and pulsing, painting a sticky trail across his stomach. Enrique smiles, bends his head, and kisses him. Slow open-mouthed presses of lips on the tip, and Johnny groans and presses his head back, candlelight gleaming off the lean length of his body.
One look at Johnny, though, arching and needy and skin splintering for his touch, and Enrique can't wait. He places his palm flat on Johnny's thigh, marvels for a moment at the warmth of Johnny's skin. Throws caution and hesitation to the wind, sucks Johnny in and lets the liquid heat of his throat slide around him. Johnny's fingers automatically come to rake through Enrique's hair, wrapping around the short silky strands as his hips lift and rise and fall, twist. He breathes unsteadily, wetting his lips and squeezing his eyes shut, stilling, but Enrique's fed up with that control junk and makes an indignant sound around Johnny's cock. Secretly smiles at the way Johnny whimpers, fingers around his hair tightening and digging. Enrique welcomes the burn, solid scrape.
Johnny's panting now, uncontrollably, breathing harshly, and Enrique knows he won't last for much longer. He meets Johnny's eyes, pulls away and sucks his finger into his mouth, tongue sliding and flicking, letting Johnny see. Johnny moans, the sound bereft and pleading, and then suddenly Enrique's finger is between his legs and liquid wet heat is swirling around his cock again. Johnny stops breathing; Enrique feels it, feels the tenseness and the rapid uncoiling of the spring within him. Johnny cries out and the world goes white-hot and brilliant, for just a moment.
Enrique crawls up on the cushions next to Johnny, listens to his harsh breathing, occasional soft groan piercing on the inhale, and finally, everything's normal, earth tilted upright. Your turn? Oh, mine, as Johnny takes his wrists and pins them over his head, lets his mouth skate over his jawline and throat, and Enrique thinks back. What did they say about the tango, that it took two? Well, yeah, he guessed it did.