He finds a body in the bathroom and realizes that he would not be in the least bit surprised if it was Fideo's.
He and Sands had fought like angry ten-year-olds, biting and pulling and slapping haphazardly, years of combat experience and expertise left in the dust of their frustration. It was a brilliant mess of greens and yellows and blues, interjected by the careless red streaks of Sands's oaths.
Eventually, they came to a stalemate when he pressed one of Sands's lock picks against his head and threatened to take out an eye, and Sands had another one digging into the side of El's head, centimeters away from his left ear. The irony of the situation was not at all lost to him.
He had gone to the bathroom to wash away the blood and spit. He tripped over a foot when he stepped in.
Behind him, Sands's footsteps were heavy, but for once, he did not speak. There was only the sound of their breathing and the cockroaches scurrying in the walls. Everything was angles and gray.
Now, Sands is laughing again. El Mariachi is beginning to hate the sound. It is ugly and red and swirled with brown and black.
"Look El, it's your sidekick," he gasps between giggles and loud, rasping breaths.
El exhales.
No, he is not surprised at all.
He wonders why his chest suddenly feels tight.
Sands slumps against the opened bathroom door. His breath comes out in pops and gasps; the sound of his mirth is half sob.
El bends down and gropes for Fideo's pulse. After all, who knows?
The body is already cold. The blood on the floor is slick. He discovers that Fideo had died with his eyes open. For a moment, the familiar stink of shit, blood, and gunpowder almost overpowers him.
Sands's laughter peters off into silence, and El hears him stand up. He releases a half-groan as he bends down to pick something up off the floor. The sound of cloth and skin and metal: a study in browns and blues.
El Mariachi feels the muzzle of Fideo's gun against his cheek.
"This is what he used, I'm presuming." His voice has taken on a duller hue, like blood left to dry.
El's hand hovers over Fideo's face, and he realizes that he is touching the edges of an entry wound in the side of Fideo's head.
He takes the gun and sighs. By feel, he recognizes that it is Fideo's old gun. His favorite. The one he called Dolores. El did not ask why. He is not one to pry.
He realizes that he has forgotten his guitar in the cantina again. He doesn't know why it occurs to him only now. It is an ordinary guitar; nothing but wood and string and vibration. He hopes Paz will take care of it until he goes back for it.
The gun in his hands is empty, but slightly warm. Everything is still. Indeed, everything is black and black and black. He imagines that he can hear the stars.
El Mariachi is suddenly very much aware that he cannot see.
Sands coughs in the blankness, and it is harsh and yellow and welcome.
"Fuckmook took my gun. Don't know where he put it."
A sigh and the sound of shoes scuffing tile. Impact. El feels the corpse shift. "What do you propose we do with the body?" Sands's voice is small and distant, like a scream from the opposite side of a long tunnel.
For a moment, the blackness is absolute.
"I don't know."
El Mariachi wonders why Sands is still here.
-End-
A/n: I may or may not be adding to this particular story. I get the feeling that I left a lot of loose narrative ends hanging, but for me, the story feels finished. For now. :3
