Chapter 3
Wondering
Disclaimer: If I owned El and Sands, they would have already seen some action.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: El is confused.
Many thanks again to everyone, especially Melody.
****
El led the way into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and drew out a first-aid kit. He remembered the day Ramirez had brought it home. That had been the FBI agent's last trip ever to the market, and it had exhausted the man. He had spent the rest of the day huddled in his armchair, a pinched expression on his face. El wondered what Ramirez would say if he could see the two men living in his house now.
Sands lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down. "I can't believe you cut me," he muttered.
El said nothing. He could hardly believe it himself.
That strange bewilderment had come over him again. He felt at a loss to explain himself and his actions. He could not understand why he had done it. And he didn't like feeling that way. He was a simple man, really, and he was not used to such complex emotions. He didn't like knowing that there were whole thought processes going on beneath his conscious brain, decisions being made and emotions being felt that he knew nothing about. It made him uneasy, and on edge.
As a consequence, he was rougher than he had intended as he yanked Sands' shirt up to expose the gash in his side. Sands cursed and flinched back. "Jesus, El."
With an effort, El reined himself in. He took a deep breath and knelt down, so he could see what he was doing better.
The knife had scored a diagonal line across Sands' side, sloping up as it went around his back. The cut was not long, but it went deep. It was still bleeding, so El just took a handful of gauze from the first-aid kit and slapped it over the wound.
Sands flinched again. "Christ, that's some bedside manner you've got there. I think I'm going to start calling you Florence Nightingale."
El held the gauze with one hand, and lifted Sands' T-shirt a little more, so he could see the other cut, which was higher on his back. This one had stopped bleeding, but the shirt had been sticking to the wound, and when El moved the fabric, the cut began to seep again.
El let the shirt drop back. "Take this off."
Sands jerked. "What?" The word came out sounding curiously airless.
"I can't see what I'm doing," El said. "So take it off. It's ruined anyway."
"Yeah, funny how often that happens around you. I think I've gone through an entire wardrobe since meeting you."
"You're better off without them," El said without thinking.
Sands chuckled. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did my clothing offend?" He sounded highly amused by the very idea.
El thought of their first meeting in the cantina. The striped shirt. The big cowboy hat. It had been hard to take Sands seriously – until the agent started talking, that was. Then everything had changed. "You looked stupid," he said shortly. "Now take this off."
"And if say no?" Sands asked, still amused.
"Then I will do it for you," El shrugged.
A long moment passed when El thought maybe he had pushed too hard and too far, that Sands would just snap and turn on him. Then Sands gave a small shrug, and pulled the bloody shirt off. He winced as he raised his right arm and El moved with him, to keep the gauze pressed to the wound on his side.
The shirt fell to the floor. El stayed still, applying pressure, waiting patiently for the cut to stop bleeding. He kept his eyes on the floor.
The strange thing was that he had been here before. Almost in this exact same position. But that had been nine years ago, and everything had been different then.
He could not even remember the name of the town. He, Quino and Campa had been playing in a bar, making shit money but having fun anyway. They were young, full of music and laughter, and living life the way they wanted to. They were the first friends he had made after the disaster in Acuña, and he had been incredibly grateful to them for giving him a chance. They had helped him become a better musician, and more importantly, they had taught him how to handle the weapons that life had forced upon him.
One night a fight had broken out in the bar. During the melee, Quino had been hit with a broken bottle, and the glass had cut him open, right across his chest. After it was all over El had taken him into the bathroom and tended him, cleaning and bandaging the wound, all the while sharing a bottle of tequila with his friend.
It had happened nine years ago, and El's memory of it was not the best any more, but he knew without a doubt that there had not been any tension in the air that night. None whatsoever.
Not like today.
He couldn't understand. This was not the tension between two men who wanted to kill each other. He did not worry that Sands would attack him. There was a very good chance that Sands would take his revenge for what had happened today, but not now. The agent was too self-serving for that. He would allow El to help him before he made his move. So El was not concerned about reprisal right now.
No, it felt more like the tension that had followed him down the hall last night as he had crept toward Sands' room. He had barely opened the door when he had seen the agent's feet and legs. Realizing Sands was very much awake, he had panicked, and shut the door too fast. The sounds had given him away, and he had lain awake the rest of the night, waiting to hear his own door open, for a gun barrel to lead the way into his room.
But nothing had happened. He had begun to think he had gotten away with it.
He should have known better, he thought now.
He took a deep breath and slowly lifted the gauze pads. He looked up. The gauze was soaked through in several places, but the cut had stopped bleeding. This was good.
What was not good was that he could not keep his eyes on what he was doing.
Sands sat very still, his head bowed. His right hand was braced on his thigh, elbow out, the better to give El access to his injured side. The line of his jaw was very tight. He was not happy about any of this, El knew. He wondered which was worst for Sands -- being cut, or being at El's mercy.
Why will you not let yourself trust me, my friend? What happened to you?
He shook his head. He would probably never know the answer to those questions. His hands fumbled as they threw the bloody gauze into the trash can. He stood up, and nearly staggered.
Santo Dios, what is the matter with me?
He turned on the water and wet a washcloth. He wrung it out, knelt down again, and gently began to wipe the blood off Sands' skin. Sands flinched at the first contact of the wet cloth, then was still.
I've been alone for too long, he thought. That is the explanation.
That is the only explanation.
Sands remained still. He seemed to have decided that the best way to get through this was to endure silently, and get it over with as quickly as possible.
With a mental sigh of surrender, El gave up trying to concentrate on what he was doing, and let his eyes wander over Sands.
He was beautiful, El thought. He was not very tall, and he was so slender that his strength was well-hidden. Only now, seeing the fine muscles on his back, chest and arms, was it apparent where that strength came from.
No wonder he can knock me out with one punch.
The scars in his left arm went all the way through, mementos of his confrontations with the drug cartels, first on the Day of the Dead, then again at Ramon Escalante's hacienda. Another thin scar crossed his upper abdomen, and El knew with just one glance that this one was a knife wound. It looked old, very old. He remembered Sands' story of the first men he had killed, how they had carried knives, and wondered if one of those men had cut him.
The scar on his chest was accompanied by a thin, straight mark, legacy of the surgery that had removed the bullet. He had come close to dying that day, El knew, closer than ever before. The memories of that day at Escalante's hacienda were still vague in his mind, but he remembered quite clearly the way Sands had leaned on him as they had staggered across the courtyard.
He dropped the bloody cloth to the floor and reached for the first-aid kit. "You need stitches," he said.
"If you even think about sticking a needle in me," Sands snapped, "I'm going to break your fingers."
El nodded. "Then you will have to stay in bed for a day or two, so this can begin to heal."
"Fuck that," Sands said. "Just slap a bandage on it, and I'll be fine."
"No," El said, very seriously. "You will do yourself real damage if you do not rest for a few days."
Sands sighed heavily. "All right, all right. Florence."
Feeling reassured that all his work here would not be undone the very next day, El set about cleaning and bandaging the two cuts he had made. He worked slowly, as gently as he could. Some days Sands pissed him off so much he would have gladly done the agent harm, but today was not one of those days.
He was reminded, oddly enough, of his daughter. She had known no fear, and she had continually found new ways to injure herself in her bold exploration of the world around her. She climbed, crawled, jumped, ran, and grabbed whatever and whenever, without hesitation. He had mended her skinned knees and scraped elbows more times than he could count, singing a sweet canción as he worked, drying her tears with a tissue and staying with her until she was smiling and ready to take on the world again.
And it was strange, and it was illogical, but he felt that same protectiveness now. That same desire to stand up and prevent the world and all its dangers from coming any closer to the one he cared about.
He smoothed the bandage over the first cut, the one high on Sands' back. He brushed his fingers over the fabric in a repetitive stroking motion, making sure it lay flat. And it took only a slight shift to the right for his fingers to find Sands' skin.
His fingers were shaking, but he did not stop. They kept stroking, lightly, not wanting to alarm.
And Sands, to his amazement, did not stop him.
Too long, he thought. No man should be alone for too long.
He suddenly remembered the day he had explored Sands' face with his fingertips, his eyes closed as though he was the blind man. A shiver ran through him, and he jerked his hand back. Sands startled, and El abruptly realized that the agent had been half-asleep, or something similar. That was why he had not stopped El from touching him.
"You'll be fine." He stood up, and turned around to leave. Suddenly the bathroom seemed far too small. He felt suffocated, hardly able to breathe around the constriction that gripped his chest. He needed to go outside, and feel the wind on his face.
"What was that all about?" Sands demanded. He wanted to be pissed, maybe, but he didn't sound too angry.
He sounded, El thought with surprise, almost wistful.
"Nothing," he said.
Sands shook his head, chuckling. The laugh only sounded partially forced. "El Mariachi, ladies and gentlemen. Mexico's premiere psychologist, slowest field surgeon, and the loneliest man of them all."
Bristling, El whirled around. "Fuck you." He drew his arm back, fully intending to strike Sands.
And then he stopped. Sands was still sitting there, smirking at him, but he had turned his face up. He was waiting for El to hit him, expecting El to hit him.
Wanting El to hit him.
There had been a time when Sands had needed no motivation to strike out at El. The mariachi felt sick to his stomach. He dropped his hand back to his side. "I know what you're doing," he said.
"Oh yeah? What am I doing?"
"You want me to hit you, so you can hit me back. You want me to justify your mistrust. Only I am not going to do it." He swallowed hard. He strove to sound sincere, wanting, needing Sands to believe him. "I am not going to hurt you."
Sands made a non-committal sound. He stood up and walked toward the door, forcing El to press himself up against the sink so the agent could pass him by. "Maybe so, El. Maybe so. But you're still a lousy friend."
Just like that, he was furious again. Even the knowledge that Sands was baiting him made him no less angry. "How would you know?"
In the doorway, Sands stopped dead in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, just long enough for El to regret the cruelty of what he had said. "Because I know what kind of friend I have always wanted. And you are not it."
El reached behind him and gripped the edge of the countertop at his back. "That is because I don't let you control me," he said. "I don't let you walk all over me. That is what's missing from your pretty picture."
He walked out, shouldering Sands hard into the doorway as he squeezed his way past the agent and into the hall.
"Who's walking all over who?" Sands called after him. "I just let you feel me up. So you tell me, who's walking all over who?"
El stopped. His hands curled into fists. I am not going to give in to him. I am not.
"Christ," Sands swore. He stepped from the doorway and turned right, heading for his own room. "You're a real piece of work, El."
Refusing to say anything, El walked quickly down the hall. He shoved the front door open so hard it banged against the outer wall of the house and rebounded, nearly smashing him in the face.
He just swatted it aside and kept right on walking.
****
He had walked all the way into town before he was able to calm down.
He went into the cantina and ordered a beer. He drained it in one swallow and ordered another. His head ached dully, and there was a faint pink tint to the skin of his hands – stain left by Sands' blood.
He stared down at his hands for a very long time.
The day he and Carolina had escaped Marquez's soldiers, they had fled to one of the many small, nameless towns that dotted the landscape of Mexico. They had taken shelter in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the village just as evening fell. Still chained together, trembling with spent energy and passion, they had made love for hours. The chain had excited him, seeing the silver links against Carolina's golden skin, feeling the metal turn warm with their body heat.
He had always known he was a passionate man. It was one reason he had wanted to be a mariachi, like his ancestors. To love music was to embrace passion, and he had accepted this about himself with open arms.
Except now that passion was about to be his undoing. For so long he had kept himself carefully in check, mindful of everything he said and did. After Carolina's death, he never got upset, or excited, or allowed himself any strong emotion. Not until Cucuy had come for him, and he had met Sands.
Then he had felt again.
Then he had hated.
But that was in the past. Marquez was dead, Barillo was dead, and he had found a friend in the unlikeliest person of all.
Since Carolina's death, he had needed a friend. So for two years, that friendship with Sands – violent and cautious at first, then gradually softening – had been enough.
He was beginning to realize that it was not enough anymore.
He wanted more. He needed more. And there was no one else in his life, no one who might possibly provide that more.
Except one person.
"No," El whispered. "It can't be."
But it didn't matter. His brain could argue with his heart all it wanted, but it would lose that argument. It always had, and it always would.
Even if I wanted to – which I don't think I do – he would never.
Which answered that question, swift and simple.
It wasn't much of an answer, but it was something. Feeling slightly better about the whole thing, El paid for his beers and began the long walk back to his house.
****
As he was walking up the driveway, he heard high, childish laughter coming from the backyard.
Chiclet was here. He frowned. He had been gone longer than he had thought, if this was the case. He had left mid-morning, and if Chiclet was here, that meant it was late afternoon, and school was out for the day.
The laughter in the backyard got louder. Then it abruptly changed into a scream.
El broke into a run. He sprinted past the house and into the backyard, just as the scream became shrill peals of laughter again. He slid to a panting halt, wide-eyed and feeling very stupid.
Somehow – he would never know how – Chiclet had persuaded Sands to play a game with him. A misshapen soccer ball lay in the grass about halfway across the yard. Sands had been standing between two trees that had obviously served as the goal. Chiclet had been running past, trying to kick the ball between the trees, and instead of blocking the kick, Sands had merely reached out and grabbed the kid, tackling him and taking them both to the ground.
Chiclet was laughing so hard he was wheezing. "No fair!" he shouted. "You cheated!" He lunged for his feet and Sands pulled him down again. The boy struck the ground and lay there, clutching his stomach and laughing.
"Well come on," Sands said, sitting up. He was grinning. "You need to learn how to feint. You were so obvious, even a blind man could see you coming."
Chiclet gaped at him for moment, then shrieked with laughter. "You saw me coming!" he cried in delight, and tackled Sands, sending them both to the grass again.
Sands went down under the kid's assault, protesting, laughing.
El's heart stopped.
Sands was laughing.
Not with sarcasm, or mocking cynicism. This was genuine laughter, the first El had ever heard from him.
His heart started up again, but each beat was accompanied by a stab of pain. That laughter touched him in the place where all his confusion originated. He would never be able to make Sands laugh like that.
Sands had Chiclet, but who did he have?
When he saw the mariachi standing there, Chiclet abruptly stopped laughing. He scrambled to his feet. "We were just playing," he said.
Sands sat up, but remained on the grass. He did not turn his head. "Is it El?"
"Sí," said the boy.
"Of course. Who else would be such a killjoy?" Sands sighed. He stood up, and El saw him wince, although he tried to hide it. He wondered suddenly how much it had hurt the agent to play games with Chiclet, and marveled again at the connection Sands had made with the boy.
"You do not have to stop," El said, knowing that it was too late.
"I have homework to do," Chiclet said. He gazed wistfully at his soccer ball, then looked up at Sands. "Can we play again tomorrow?"
"We'll see," Sands said. "Go inside."
Chiclet nodded. He headed for the house. When he reached the steps leading to the back porch, he paused to look over his shoulder, and cast a doubtful glance at El.
When the screen door had shut, Sands folded his arms. "Have a nice walk?"
El just stared at him. There was a single blade of grass caught in Sands' hair, and El could not take his eyes off it, how green it was.
"You want to leave, is that it?"
He blinked. "What?"
"I said, do you want to leave?"
"What do you mean?"
"You tell me, El." Sands sounded tired. "You've been a shit ever since Lorenzo died, and hell if I can figure it out. So I'm asking now, and then I won't ask again, do you want to leave this house?"
The thought had never occurred to him. Bad things had happened in this house, but El would not dream of leaving. He had settled here, for good or for ill. Culiacan was his home now. "No," he said.
"Then what the fuck is the matter with you?" Sands demanded.
El thought about the answer he had found to his problem while sitting in the cantina. It was not much, but it would have to do. There were no other answers. "Nothing," he said. He turned and headed for the house.
"There is nothing wrong with me," he said.
*****
Author's Note: This chapter seems a bit throwaway on the first read, I know, but hold on. It sets up what I hope are two big payoffs, in chapters 4 and 5.
And Mollymo, if you're reading this...I'd love to send you the alternate chapter 9 from ATDHC, but I need your e-mail address please. Thanks!