IV.
Sands pushed himself up on his elbows, resting more of his weight on the right one. "What?"
"This is the last night. I only thought to stay because it was too early to move you, but now there is no time left."
"Gee, El, I think that's the longest sentence I've ever heard come out of your—"
There was a restless shuffle as El got to his feet. "We leave, first thing tomorrow. Three days is too long."
He heard the room's single light being clicked off (miniscule drop in temperature), and El striding past him to the window. The curtain rings rattled. Presumably the mariachi was looking out of it.
A tiny draft came through as the curtains were parted, the cooler evening air telling him it was some hours after sunset. It carried with it the smells of motor oil, a mixture of fresh (and not-so-fresh) fruit, and cooking from below. His mouth almost watered. Someone out there was having a better dinner than he'd had tonight. A cigarette might be a good idea right now; he'd had one right before his unpalatable meal, but his tongue still seemed full of ashes.
He rubbed at his forehead, trying to dispel the growing ache, or at least just hold it off long enough.
When El said leave, he meant…
"So. Any fuckmooks down there waving guns at our window?"
El didn't reply.
"See, I figured not, what with the general lack of the shooting and the screaming and the drama. But thanks for playing anyway."
El said, "I see no one likely."
But three days. El was right; it was high time to get out of this town, wherever the hell they were. It was only out of necessity that El had picked a town so small Sands hadn't ever heard of it and wouldn't be able to find it on a map with both hands to save his life (especially, hah, now). But it didn't mean he had to like it. (Being in the Town That Time Forgot, that is.)
He fumbled for, and found, one of the unopened water bottles on the table. The plastic was only barely lower than room temperature, but he pressed it to his brow anyway, trying to ease the pressure building behind, behind, where his eyes used to be. Fuck! This kind came up fast, like a summer storm. In its worst stages, he'd start seeing phantom flashes alongside the spikes of pain, and he'd vowed never to go through that again. And not because of the spikes.
Above the slight sloshing of the water, he heard El say, "Sands?"
"Yes? Of course I'm peachy. It's obvious."
He heard the other man approach and kneel down on the rug. "Headache, or fever?"
"Don't know," he answered sullenly.
"Move this." The bottle was nudged aside, and a broad palm (callused) placed on his forehead. Sands jerked back in irritation.
El lowered his hand, but didn't go away.
Sands shrugged carelessly. "I think it's both."
"I know it's both." Pill bottles rattled, then rattled some more, and then El hissed under his breath before getting up and moving across the room. The light switch clicked again.
Sands smirked, suddenly feeling marginally better.
The other man returned, along with the sound of one bottle being unscrewed. "Here."
Sands held out a hand, and two matte-smooth, slightly convex rounds landed in his palm. A water bottle tapped against the fingers of his other hand, and he took it, finding it half-full (or half-empty, really) and with the top already off. He closed his fist around the pills. He'd been through this so many times already, and the thought of having to continue to dose himself throughout the near future made him feel suddenly sick. He knew exactly how the pills would feel going down. He knew exactly how dull and, well, water-y the water would be. It was always the same.
"Take them," El said quietly. "We have to leave at dawn."
The headache chose that moment to stab at him again, so he did. The pills always seemed to start dissolving before he could swallow them, leaving a bitter layer on his tongue; their coating wasn't the best, so they always caught a little in the back of his throat. He gulped down more water, trying to wash it away, but it didn't seem to help all that much. He could just picture it sticking to the inside of his esophagus, chalky and persistent.
He lay back, dropping the empty bottle over the side, heard El scoop it up before it could land. "Do you need another?"
He shook his head, but only a judicious amount.
El got up once more, and as Sands waited for the pills to work their pharmaceutical magic he could hear the sink running (you had be patient with the cold tap), followed by lighter splashes hitting the basin. El came back (flick of the light switch one last time on the way), and sank down again. Sands lifted a hand, and a small folded towel was laid in it, damp and blessedly cool. He settled it on his own brow, checking to make sure no water seeped from it to soak into the bandages over his face (but then, none ever had).
Silence filled the room. Sands didn't feel inclined to talk, and El…well, no newsflash there.
The pain was burrowing into his temples. He rubbed at them, then tried not rubbing at them, but it didn't seem to make much difference. Outside, a car roared by loudly, raucous thumping bass splitting the night right through to his skull. He winced and gripped the compress a little more tightly until the vehicle had faded into the distance, but his head had apparently decided that it was a catchy beat and kept it going, thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud.
Aw, that was no fair. "Get Happy" was a much catchier tune, and had no pounding backbeat besides.
He tried lying still, then thought about rolling over, then tried shifting uncomfortably instead. If he was unlucky, he hadn't taken the medicine soon enough, and it wouldn't help much with the pain. If he was unlucky, but with still a smidgen of luck left, the pills would at the very least knock him out, and then he could be unconscious through the worst of it. He pulled up the blanket, and discarded it a moment later. There was too much heat already, barely kept in check by the compress.
He pressed one hand to his stomach. If he was very unlucky, it would want to get in on the act, too, and start tying itself into the sort of creative knots only found in Boy Scout manuals.
"Is it not working?" El said, voice low, and Sands jumped. He'd nearly forgotten the man was still sitting there.
"What do you think?"
El leaned over to reach for something, and when he leaned back, it was with the distinctive ting of liquid rolling in a glass bottle. The cap was worked off, filling Sands' lungs with the odor of tequila. Wait a minute. Sands was never one to get in the way of a good drink, and sure at the moment he wanted to claw at his temples until it felt so good when he stopped, but even he wasn't suicidal enough to want to mix pills and the hard stuff.
At least, not right now.
El was leaning closer. "Let me try this. All right?"
Sands frowned. What the hell?
El's forearm brushed his shoulder, then the compress was lifted away, hot air eagerly rushing in to fill the void. There was the sound of the bottle being tilted up. "Excuse me," Sands started, "I kind of needed that—"
Wet, cool fingers touched his forehead, and his voice died away. "Un momento," El murmured, his words already evaporating the liquor, but Sands was not about to stop him, not while liquid relief was being stroked over his brow. Light as a spring rainfall, that hand swept comfort along his flushed skin, easing the fever, extinguishing the flames that threatened to scorch him from the inside out.
El pulled his hand away, and Sands held his breath, but then El came back, brushing a newly-moistened thumb over his temples. No eyes to open, Sands thought, too bad, because now would be a great time to close them.
"Does that help?" El asked.
"Yeah." It came out a whisper. "Yes," he said, more firmly this time.
El didn't say anything, probably nodded, but Sands didn't care. As long as he didn't suddenly decide to go away.
That bottle-tilting-up sound again, and then the compress was replaced on his forehead, almost frosty now. It helped with the pain, lessened some of the tension that crawled through the back of his head and neck. The painkillers were starting to slowly rev into gear, too. About damn time, slackers.
On the rug, he heard El put down the bottle and turn, felt the slight give of the mattress as the mariachi leaned his back against the side of the bed.
He must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew the headache had gloriously subsided and the compress had been removed again. His brow felt slightly more chilled than the rest of his face, and the heat was damped but not gone. The back of a hand laid itself against his right cheek, disappeared, and returned to anoint it with more of the alcohol, then did the same for his left.
Before it could fully retreat, he reached out and unerringly caught the wrist.
Above him, El tensed. "Sands?"
Not giving himself time to think, he pulled El's hand back towards himself. He touched one fingertip to his lips, letting them part slightly, feeling the tequila already starting to burn. He darted his tongue over warm skin, tastebuds wakening to the strong agave flavor, the slight saltiness underneath. Tequila with mariachi chaser. Hell, maybe he ought to patent it.
El had gone very still.
Well, it was better than slugging him in the jaw. Sands wasn't sure he wouldn't have done that, had their positions been reversed.
But then, their positions weren't reversed, were they? And that was the whole point, because why waste time questioning the what-ifs when you could be taking advantage of the now? And El was continuing to not-slug him, which was good enough.
He slowly licked the rest of El's (that was his right hand) fingers clean, then pressed his lips against the palm before releasing him. El withdrew his hand, but did not otherwise move.
"Well," Sands said brightly, "normally I'd be nervous at the fact that you're all speechless, but keep in mind who I'm dealing with here…"
One finger came back to touch his mouth briefly, and El sighed. "You are still feverish."
"Only a little."
Fluid sloshed in the bottle, and El's hand grazed his jaw before dipping to spread cool liquid along his throat. Sands rolled the aftertaste of tequila against the roof of his mouth and decided that he could allow it. He tipped his head back, suppressing an unexpected quiver as strong fingers caressed his collarbone. El did not seem to be deliberately trying to indulge him, but El did not seem to be rushing the job, either.
El's fingertips lingered momentarily in the hollow at the base of his throat, and then Sands did shiver as El lowered his head and blew gently across the dampened skin.
"Shit," he gritted out. He'd give his spare left arm to know what the hell expression El had on his face right about now.
Well, there was one quick way to find out. He grabbed the other man's shirtfront and drew him in, not abruptly, because that would be asking for a third hole in the head courtesy of a sawed-off shotgun; but firmly, and with clear intent.
Oh, christ on all his crutches. He yanked hard, found El's mouth, and covered it with his own.
For a frozen heartbeat, it was like kissing a marble statue, a stone angel. But then the statue came alive, and El returned the pressure, lips opening in invitation. Sands did not hesitate. El tasted of tequila and Coke, of the peppery spice that had insinuated itself into their dinner (it was much more appealing in this presentation), very faintly of tobacco. No lime tonight, but then El seemed to generally take his liquor slow.
El's palms were flat against his chest, so light Sands could barely feel him there, as though what hovered above him was a shade, another delusional phantasm. Damn him—damn him, the mariachi was many things, but he was no ghost. Sands tugged sharply, his fingers twisted in lapels, and this time El became more substantial, hands warm against his ribs.
There was more to it than that, though. El tasted like a man who spent his days in sunshine, but also knew how to spend his nights in smoky bars, and who somehow possessed the ability to turn his soul into music. Like a man who knew how to take life, but had forgotten how to live it for a long, long time. But only forgotten. Or maybe that was just his sorry-ass imagination, running the fucking hell away with him.
He bit down hard on the full lower lip, suddenly desperate to leave brands in the flesh. El grunted, and the weight on Sands' chest clamped down punishingly, like a vice, threatening to cut off his air. Sands savored the dizzying sensation for a moment before letting go, tongue flicking out to run softly over the tiny marks he'd made. The crushing pressure relented enough to let him breathe again.
El broke the kiss. "Enough. You still have a fever." But his palm cupped the side of Sands' face.
Frankly, he felt exhausted and wrung out, and his body, simmering under the heat still within, was naggingly sore all over. "If you say so," he retorted.
"I did."
El slid from his half-propped position on the bed, taking with him a warmth that had nothing to do with fever or tequila, and leaving behind a coldness that had everything to do with the utter endlessness of night.
Sands opened his mouth, and said, "Wait. At least…" And then ran out of any words he was willing to allow get past his teeth. He made a vague gesture in the direction of the rug.
There was a pause. "Are you offering to trade?"
"Dream on, fuckmook."
"The bed is not large enough."
"Are you telling me I don't know the size of my own bed, guitar-boy?"
There was a slightly longer pause, then El said, very seriously, "If I fall off, then I have no choice but to kill you."
Sands ignored him. But he did deign to move over.