All hail Robert Rodriguez the Creator! (I'm sure he has much better things to do than sue little ol' me for toying with his charecters.)
Many thanks to Kerttu, for letting me play in her AU; I promise to clean it up when I leave...if I ever do.
And as always, my deepest gratitude to Mojave Dragonfly for time and effort spent keeping me away from "nice" and "subtle".
The premise here is simply that everything that happened to Sands in the movie after he was drugged in the bar was a really evil hallucination on his part. His eyes did NOT get drilled, his sight remains intact, he didn't have a shootout because he was tripping his brains out in the back of a car when El found him, killed his captors and got him to safety, sometime in between escaping the Barillo compound and saving the president. Sands has since tracked El down in Guitartown, and the two of them have formed an uneasy partnership. (Did I mention this is slash? Yes, Sands-slash-El, unlike "A Good Dog", this episode is going to get messy.)
The post-hallucenogenic psychosis is fading, but Sands has another problem on his hands...one he hopes El Mariachi will help him with.
Reawakening
Sands stands at their bedroom window, looking out at the gray night sky with clouds scudding ahead of the wind. His hands are clenched on the flaking paint of the old shutters, arms outstretched as the April breeze blows rain toward Guitartown. Below the second story room, a few faint lights are visible in the village. The breeze grows stronger and his dark hair flutters back from his face like a ragged banner. A suggestion of moisture touches his naked skin.
A few moments ago, he awoke in the darkened room with a sense of tension held barely in check. After recent months struggling to discern the lines between reality and dreams, this particular tension is almost a relief: Sands is, without any polite euphemisms, horny. It doesn't lessen his desire, that he's sharing a bed with another man; Sands will take satisfaction however or from whoever he can get it; he's not fussy about gender, although he has, so far, drawn the line at his own species.
The first raindrops begin pattering softly against the tin roof of the old mission. There is a new freshness in the air. Sands inhales the intoxicating scent hungrily; the soil soaks up the spring rain after a dry winter and the fragrance of sweet earth and cool rain mingle and perfume the air. A gust of wind spatters him, an invigorating sensation. The coolness of the water isn't enough to discourage the erection tugging at his cock.
If this is another waking dream, he hopes the Mariachi will cooperate; in waking life he hasn't, not like Sands wants him to, without the perpetual skirmishing beforehand. Too damned hung up with guilt and morality; who the hell ever heard of a gunfighter going to confession, for crying out loud? Why would some so-called higher power care one way or another about a little recreational sodomy? And it's too bad El feels that way; Sands is definitely in the mood.
It's been a couple months since Sands has had his ashes hauled. Between the events in Culiacan and his fragile sanity since then, he's alternated between spasms of rage and subterranean dispair. Tonight, he feels alive, and for the first time in months, the thought is not a burden, but a blessing.
A blessing? He's been hanging out with El too much, that he can even think anything so corny. But semantics aside, Sands feels stronger, at home in himself. The current of air against his bare skin, the caress of the water as the droplets, warmed by his body's heat, roll down his slender torso - he savors the aroma of rich loam and ozone, enjoying a rare moment untainted by fear, pain or rage. Now if he could just take care of the hot desire that wants to be released...he reaches for the twitching hard-on, toying with it, imagining the Mariachi handling him, satisfying him with those hands that are so skillful on a guitar's strings.
A creaking floorboard behind Sands alerts him to the nearby presence of another. "Sands? More nightmares?" the Mariachi says, sounding concerned. Muscular arms gently encircle his waist. "Cold, wet - Dio! Come back to bed, I will warm you up."
Sands grins like a predator, all teeth, releasing the worn shutters and pinning the Mexican's arms against his ribs with his own biceps. "That won't take much," he quips, guiding El's right hand to his still-stiff boner. He shifts his weight, leaning back against the other man and rubbing against him in unmistakable invitation.
'The' tenses. For a moment, as he pulls his left arm away from Sands, the American thinks he's gone too far. The few encounters they've had stemmed from the most primative fight-fuck-or-flee response, when the second alternative outweighed the other two - although fight has surfaced once or twice. Not seduction, not ever, or even the old familiar power struggle, lately, because Sands has been too crazy and El has been too Catholic.
"Will it help you to sleep?" asks the mariachi reluctantly. "Without the bad dreams?"
"Yeah, absolutely," lies Sands. There have been fewer dreams the last week or so, but if throwing Sands a bone counts as doing a good deed, then he'll encourge the Mexican to think of it that way. It's not like Sands wants him to pledge eternal devotion; his philosophy is let's get it on: get it in/get it off/get away from me/get to sleep. What the hell does the man want from him, anyway, a dozen roses?
There is an instant of frustrated regret, then the Mariachi's free hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, brushing aside the wind-tossed strands to plant a kiss on his bare flesh. Sands sighs with relief as the hand that still grips him gives his dick a firm squeeze. El moves up against him, and Sands, with a rush of victory, feels hard proof that What's Behind Door Number Two is going to win once again.
"Bed," says 'The'. Being guided there, Sands is reminded of one of his old tee-shirts: "When you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow."
On his knees and elbows on the bed, Sands writhes with pleasure as El anoints him with oil from the bottle that's been gathering dust for so many weeks. Sands hasn't even had the energy to jack off. The calloused fingers exploring him so intimately find a thousand yearning nerve endings. His breathing quickens as El claims him, slowly. There is a moment of stillness as 'The' waits for him to relax.
As always, the breaking of old taboos gives him a visceral charge. The muscles in his belly are tense. His partner's oiled hand finds his rigid cock, which quivers with excitement. Sands moans, at what El is doing both to him and for him. The motion of the Mariachi's lean body is synchronized with the stroking of his fist.
El's lips skim the back of the American's neck, grazing lightly against his hairline, then he exhales streams of warm air against the damp patches. Sands whines with lust as the Mariachi kisses just behind his left ear. Soft Spanish whispers entice him, their tone more than the words, which he can barely hear, much less understand while strung out in a glorious state of fuckbliss.
The rasp of heavy breathing against his neck...Sands is exquisitely aware of his partner's increasing urgency, the quickening of his rhythm. His own surrender intensifies, until it overwhelms him, his whole body lost in a wilderness of pleasure. Through the ringing in his ears, Sands hears 'The' groan, experiences the hot rush of his climax as the other man strains against him.
Sands feels lighter than air, weightless, completely relaxed and at peace. Moving slowly, he rolls onto his side, making room for El, who still crouches, a motionless shadow at the end of the bed. He's watching Sands to see which side of the bed he wants, familiar with the American's habits. Reaching out, Sands draws him close, settling at last so that he lies on his back and the big Mexican is at his side. El is hesitant; Sands understands why. Before this, he's always pushed El away after sex, after his own satisfaction.
Not tonight. He arranges their embrace so that El's shoulder is nestled under Sands's arm, which hugs his back. El's face rests against Sands's chest. 'The' presses his lips to one of Sands's collarbones, snuggles a little closer. Gradually, Sands senses the tension leaving the other man's body as his breathing slows, deepens. Good, make El happy, give him all the warm fuzzies he wants, if it'll motivate "The" to service Sands on a regular basis. Sands feels the regular rise and fall of the Mariachi's chest against his ribcage.
It isn't like he doesn't owe the man something. Sands strongly suspects he wouldn't have survived the last few months without El's help. Hell, the odds were that he wouldn't have survived the Day of the Dead - but a man who had good reason to despise him saved his life. Saved his sanity, helped him through an inferno of chemical madness...
Is it over? Is the craziness finally gone? Sands catches hold of that thought and examines it, probing his own mind. He no longer wants to die. There are moments of pleasure in life again. He senses solid reality instead of uncertain surreality around him. The horrible images that have haunted him are in abeyance; he remembers them, with all their bright blood and suffering, but they no longer shred his sanity like sharp instruments of torture.
A gust of wind bangs one of the unlatched shutters, and El starts awake, confused.
Sands calms him, brushes back the soft spill of wavy brown hair. He finds the words in Spanish to reassure him.
"Sleep, my friend. It is only the wind."