(no subject)

Oct 05, 2003 22:03

Sands/El, R.



i.

el kisses his cheekbone, licks the razor-sharp curve and trails his knuckles up and down olive-smooth skin, vertical and horizontal and slanting all over the place. no real pattern, just moving, and his fingers curl around the tops of sands' sunglasses and tug, ever-so gently.

sands grips his hand, squeezes his wrist so hard that el's hand goes numb and fills slowly with blood as the seconds tick by, because dammit he's trying it again. "fuck off," sands says quietly, and el thinks he hears a quaver in that low monotone but can't be sure. "just fuck the fucking fuck off."

"i don't care," el says softly, eyes dark and liquid, fucking mexican prick, "i wish you wouldn't, either."

"quit looking at me like i'm a slab of meatloaf," sands says, cruel upturning at the corner of his lips, "we're not in a fucking soap opera."

"how do you know if i'm looking at you?" el asks, gently closes his teeth around sands' earlobe, breathes as sands lets out a little 'ah' and clutches his thigh.

"because i know you," sands says, "and i'm not a moron."


ii.

it's later, much later, and darkness has fallen. shadowed sands with its billowing black curtains, erased the moon completely from the sky. sands is living in perpetual night, utter blackness. will never know the sunlight again, but he doesn't give a damn, and even if he did it wouldn't do any good pining away because wishes are rarely granted.

everyone, everything is dead, and at least that's what sands feels like, though technically mexico is saved. ajedrez, marquez, barillo--they're dead, and he can still hear the faint sounds of death and shooting outside, and the women wailing bitterly, ay, ay, mamacita, ay.

he feels the unfamiliar swelling in the back of his throat, and liquid hotness pushing behind his phantom eyeballs, and when nothing happens he realizes that he can't cry. his tear ducts are damaged beyond repair and he grips the edge of the sink, white-knuckled. emits a low guttural sound, one ugly noise after another. he sounds like he's choking, being strangled, but he can't stop. he's clenching his teeth so hard that the ache travels through his jaw, turns the bone numb, and still the dry sobs fall from his lips like spray from an everlasting fountain, until the fountain dies and he quiets, body stilling again.

the door clicks softly shut, almost inaudibly, but sands hears it (his hearing has improved amazingly), and he yanks the gun from the waistband of his jeans and feels around the barrel for less than a second before he cocks it. slides his finger around the trigger. waits. "you motherfucker," he says, "shoot me now if you're going to." but no shots come, and sands realizes he's talking to thin air.

el waits outside the door, listening as intently as sands, but all he hears is silence.
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