Chapter 8
Touching
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: R for language and mature themes
Summary: El asks a question, and we get a few more answers about what happened to Sands.
Author's Notes: Have I said lately how much I love you all? I was so worried after posting the last two chapters, and once again you all proved to me that I am an idiot for worrying. You guys are just the best. Thank you, thank you.
Okay... On the first chapter of this story I said I would provide a warning for any chapter containing sexual content. This is your warning. It is not graphic, but I know some people prefer not to read slash, even implied slash. You're safe up until the end of the chapter. If you want to stop reading, well, you'll know the point you should stop. You won't be able to miss it.
****
El sat up slowly. His head felt like someone cruel had stuck it in a vise, and was steadily tightening the clamps. He slumped forward over his sprawled legs, fought a brief battle with his stomach, and vomited.
Not a good idea. The convulsions that gripped him while his stomach emptied itself made the pain in his head reach new heights. He moaned aloud. He dared not move and stir the hornet's nest in his skull, so he just stayed where he was, leaning over his legs, eyes squeezed shut, a pile of puke inches from his nose.
This, however, was hardly a good position to be stuck in. Breathing through his mouth, teeth gritted, El eased himself upright. The world did a slow tilt around him, then settled down.
When he was certain he would not faint, El opened his eyes.
It was still dark outside, but the day was steadily lightening; gray light crept into the living room. The TV was still on, the volume down low.
Six men lay dead. There was blood everyone. Guns were scattered across the carpet; one was even under the window.
El looked around blearily.
Fideo lay in the middle of the floor. One hand rested on his stomach. The other was outflung. His fingers curled up toward the ceiling.
Tears pricked at El's eyes. Of all the friends who had died for him, this one hurt the worst. The others had died because they had believed in him. Fideo was dead because he had lost his faith.
For a while he just sat there, too overwhelmed to move.
Some time later, a sound in the back of the house caught his attention. He lifted his head, and immediately wished he hadn't, as a bolt of pain crossed his skull.
The sound came again. El glanced at Sands, who was still passed out, and tottered to his feet. He had to try twice before he could do this without falling, but at last he made it.
Miraculously, the small gun was still in his hand. Gripping it tightly, he made his way down the hall. The sound had come from the kitchen.
He licked his lips. He would call out, order the person to step into the hall. Maybe he could just take the man's weapon and send him running. Maybe there would not have to be any more killing.
The swinging door to the kitchen began to open. El cocked the pistol.
A gun poked out. "Drop it!" El shouted.
The man in the kitchen fired the gun. The bullet spanged harmlessly into the wall, missing El by several feet.
He dropped to the floor, firing at the owner of the gun. But there were only two bullets left in the tiny pistol in his hand. All too soon he was met with just a dry click when he pulled the trigger.
Fortunately, the kitchen door had swung closed again, and the man inside did not return fire. El forced himself to his feet. He took a few steps forward, then had to stop. He braced one arm against the wall and leaned over so he could vomit one more time.
The pain in his head churned thickly. He groaned and staggered on.
He pushed open the door to the kitchen, expecting to see a body on the floor.
But there was nothing. El frowned.
He had barely stepped inside the room when the pantry door was flung open. Two small hands emerged, holding a pistol.
El leaped back, smashing his shoulder into the doorframe, cursing himself. He was going to die here in his own kitchen, because he had been too stupid to go back into the living room and get another gun from the many just laying around.
The gun fired. A bullet buried itself in the wall a foot from his face. Involuntarily, El let out a cry.
The person in the pantry ran out into the kitchen, and stopped.
"Oh! Señor, it's you!"
Chiclet stood there, Sands' gun in his hands. He was pale and wild-eyed, and the hands holding the gun were shaking. But despite his fear, he had stood his ground, and he had tried to defend his friends.
At that moment, even though he was wracked with pain and ready to collapse, El loved him.
He held out his hand. "Give me that."
Chiclet handed over the gun. "It belongs to Señor Sands. I took it from his room."
"Does he know you have it?"
"No."
"Then we will not tell him," El said. "And if you wish to learn how to shoot, I will teach you."
Chiclet nodded. He had calmed down considerably, but he was still too pale. "Are you all right?"
El thought about it. "Sí," he said.
The boy did not smile back. "Señor Sands?"
El just looked at him. He had no idea how to answer that question. He had regained consciousness in time to see the stranger standing over Sands with a gun. He had felt the gun in his hand, and without thinking, he had moved it so he had a clear shot. There had been no hesitation, no second thoughts. He had simply killed the man.
Sands had asked if it was over, but there had been a strange note to his voice. El had gotten the distinct impression that Sands had not been talking to him.
He had answered anyway. A split-second later, Sands had collapsed. As far as El knew, he was still lying out there in the living room, unless the gunshots had roused him.
And what would happen when he woke? If he even woke at all? El had heard of cases where people forced to confront horrible episodes from their past simply could not cope with it. They retreated into themselves so far they became little more than vegetables. He thought Sands was too strong to do such a thing, but he had to admit the chance existed.
After today, all bets were off.
"I don't know," he said.
"I heard…" Chiclet swallowed hard.
El frowned. He would have to find out what had happened while he had been unconscious. There was no telling what Chiclet had seen and heard, and how it would affect him. Now, however, was not the time.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go get him." He turned around to leave the kitchen, and a huge wall of pain slammed into him. He made a noise, some kind of croaking scream, and then everything went black.
****
When he woke, he was in his own bed. His head was pounding horribly. His face hurt. The back of his throat burned. His stomach ached.
Something cool and wet touched his forehead. It caressed his skin, wiping away the dried blood there. El contemplated opening his eyes for about half a millisecond, then decided against it.
"Will he be all right?" That was Chiclet. He sounded far away, however, which puzzled El. If Chiclet was not the one tending to him, that meant…
"Yeah, he'll live." Sands. Sands was the one brushing the damp washcloth over his face so gently.
Amazed, El lay perfectly still. The pain in his head meant he couldn't have moved much even if he had wanted to, but he wouldn't have moved even if he had been healthy. He wanted to make this moment last as long as possible, this moment when Sands had been kind to him.
And he even knew why it was happening. Why Sands was able to touch him like this right now, when other times the agent could barely bring himself to come near El. He thought – wrongly -- that El was unconscious. He could stop at any moment he wanted. As far as he knew, right now he had the control. That made all the difference.
That, and Chiclet's presence.
"I think he has a concussion," Sands said. "We need to keep an eye on him. So here's what I want you to do. Go on home and get your things. You're going to stay here for a few days."
"Really?" Chiclet sounded bewildered. "What about school?"
"Fuck that. You don't need to go to school. They don't teach you kids anything useful these days anyway."
"Why do you need me?"
The washcloth left El's forehead. Water splashed. "I can't take care of him by myself," Sands said. There was a long pause. Then, "I need your help."
"I'll help you," Chiclet said loyally.
"I know you will," Sands said. His voice was muffled; he sounded exhausted. He was putting on a good show of normalcy for the boy's sake, but El wondered how long he would be able to keep it up.
The washcloth touched El's face again. He lay still. He knew Sands was right, that he did need Chiclet's help, but there was another reason the agent wanted the boy around. As long as Chiclet remained in the house, there would be no chance to talk, no time to discuss what had happened this morning. Chiclet's presence was an excuse for ignorance.
El's head hurt. He had killed a friend today, the last link to his past. He had no strength to refute lies, no matter how wrong they were.
He fell asleep again.
****
The rest of that day was very blurry for El. It was the time right after the shoot-out at Ramon Escalante's hacienda all over again. Things bled into each other, and the normally sharp lines and angles that defined objects were fuzzy and trembly. The world had a slow sway to it now, and it made him sick to look at anything for too long. So he spent most of the time with his eyes closed, hanging grimly onto consciousness when he could, floating in dark oblivion the rest of the time.
The second day was a little better. He felt more aware, like he had more say in what happened to him. The world had stopped swaying, and things were not so fuzzy. He was able to keep his eyes open for longer periods of time.
Whenever he woke, Chiclet was always there, ready with a smile. He talked softly, out of deference for El's aching head, but he always asked what the mariachi needed. Soup, water, the bathroom, anything El needed, Chiclet was happy to get for him.
He saw Sands only once, and that was toward evening. The agent was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. His head was bowed. He did not say anything.
On the third morning, El woke and felt almost healthy again. He drew in a tentative breath through his nose, and it did not hurt as much as he had feared it would. The pain in his head was gone when he was still, and returned as only a mild ache when he moved around.
When Chiclet brought him lunch, he was sitting up in bed. The boy grinned. "You're up!"
"I'm up," El repeated, a bit hoarsely.
"We were worried," Chiclet said.
We? I believe you were, Chiclet, but I don't know about Sands. I think even with a thousand guesses I couldn't tell you what that man is thinking right now.
"How are you?" he asked. He knew the boy had seen atrocities before, but three days ago he had seen more dead men, and his friends hurt and bleeding. He had even tried to kill one of those friends. Knowing him, he probably felt guilty about it. That was probably part of the reason why he had been so attentive these past few days.
"I'm okay," Chiclet said. He looked down.
"If you want to talk to me," El said, "that is all right."
"No, thanks," Chiclet said vaguely. He handed El the lunch tray. There was a bowl of soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a glass of milk. A child's lunch, put together by a child.
El tried to smile. "All right," he said.
"How are you?" asked Chiclet, clearly relieved to be changing the subject.
"I am fine," he said. "In fact, you can go home today, if you like."
"Are you sure?" The boy's brow furrowed. "I can stay, if you need me."
"No," El said, "I will be fine. Thank you for staying. But you need to get back to school."
Chiclet nodded. "All right." He looked sorry to be going. "Señor Sands is outside." He gestured vaguely toward the back of the house. "I'll go tell him."
El sat up, suddenly very alert. He had not dared hope for such an opportunity as this, but now that it was here, he could not let it pass. "No," he said. He tried to smile disarmingly. "I would prefer you didn't tell him, actually. He and I need to talk."
Chiclet grew serious. "You will help him?"
"I hope so," El said, and meant every word.
****
Chiclet went out the front door. El walked him out, then sat on one of the chairs on the porch. The day was overcast but warm, and there was little wind. It felt good to be outside again.
At the far end of the porch, a roll of carpet was propped against the front of the house. This was the living room carpet, and El wondered who had done the work of pulling it up. He was not curious enough to ask, however. He had no interest in learning what had happened during the past two days, where the bodies were, who had done the messy clean-up. He had a vague memory of seeing a man in a police uniform, and hearing someone asking him questions, then Sands' voice had driven them away, and he had fallen unconscious again. It was really all he remembered, and that was just fine with him.
Chiclet rode his bike down the driveway. He did not ring the bell as he went, but he did raise a hand and wave good-bye. El waved back, then settled himself in the chair.
A few hours passed. El let his head tip back, and dozed in the sun.
He woke to the sound of his name being called. "El?" It was Sands, from within the house. "El? Chiclet?"
El remained where he was.
"El? Fuck." To his surprise, Sands actually sounded worried. He wondered what the agent was thinking, if he thought maybe El had wandered off in a delirium.
Footsteps entered the living room, then turned around and went further into the house. Several long minutes passed, then the footsteps returned. They approached the screen door. Sands hesitated, then pushed open the door.
El said nothing. He just watched as Sands slowly crossed the porch and sat in the chair he favored, on the other side of the front door from El.
A long silence descended. Then El said, "I sent Chiclet home."
"I thought so," Sands said evenly. If he was pissed, he did not show it.
The silence drew out again. This time El said nothing. He could not be the first to speak. His job now was to listen, to whatever Sands chose to say.
For a long time it seemed Sands would say nothing at all. The afternoon shadows lengthened, and the sky began to darken as evening approached. El let his eyes drift closed. He was tired, and his head ached again. He had not eaten the lunch Chiclet had provided, and occasionally his stomach reminded him unhappily of that fact. But he remained right where he was, determined to outlast his friend.
Finally Sands said, "I know you know."
"Yes," El said. He opened his eyes.
"Well." Sands smirked. "Thank you for not acting like you don't know what I'm talking about."
"I would not do that to you."
"You're too kind." Sands gave him one of those thin-lipped smiles.
"We don't have to do this now," he said, wanting to give his friend a chance to back out now, before it was too late. They had to talk, sooner or later, but maybe now was still too soon. Maybe now was not the best time.
"Do what?"
"Talk about it."
"We are never going to talk about it, do you hear me?" Sands said in a tightly controlled voice. "Because I have nothing to say. Not today, not ever."
El sighed. This response was exactly what he had expected. But sitting here all afternoon, he had had plenty of time to run through imaginary conversations in his head. So he knew what to say next.
"You do not wish to say anything. I understand. But may I say something, just one thing?"
"Christ," Sands swore. "All right. But it better not be about how sorry you are."
"No, it is not that," El said. He did want to say how sorry he was, but he did not dare. Not today. Apologies could come later. If there was a later. "I want to say that it is your choice to talk to me about it, or not. And I will respect whatever choice you make. But before you make that choice, just remember how you felt after Puerto Vallarta, to get things out into the open."
There was a long silence. Sands looked like he couldn't decide whether to spit or cry. "Jesus Christ, El." He uttered a mirthless chuckle. "You really know how to fuck with a guy's head, don't you? All right. You can ask me one question. Just one. But I promise you I'll answer it truthfully. How's that?"
"That is fair," El said. It was not enough, not enough by far, but it was the best he would get tonight, and he knew it. And in truth, it was more than he had hoped for.
"Just one, though," Sands said. "So you better make it count."
His mind raced. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to know. But he only had this one chance, one chance to get it right. If he asked the right question tonight, maybe tomorrow he could ask another question. And another one the day after that. Eventually he would stumble upon the right question, the one that would really make Sands feel, the one that would get him talking, and release all that old pain and madness out into the open, instead of keeping it locked up inside where it was just poisoning him.
He took a deep breath. "How old were you?"
"Good question," Sands said brightly. "I was seven."
El closed his eyes in horror. A child, he thought sickly. He was just a child! "And that is when you went insane."
"Ah, a statement, not another question," Sands drawled. "You're learning. However, I'm going to have to respectfully decline to answer that one on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. Or selves, if you prefer."
"That is why you will not let yourself trust me."
El opened his eyes and looked at Sands. The agent had been smirking slightly, but now the expression faded. He suddenly looked very cold. "Yeah, sorry about that, don't mean to let you down or anything." His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Fuck you."
"And Chiclet?"
"Oh, well, better luck with him. He's just a kid and all. He probably doesn't even know how to use his dick yet."
"I would never hurt you," El said, grimacing as he said it.
"Said the man who popped me in the jaw on Christmas Day," Sands said. "Yeah, like I'm going to fall for that one, El."
He winced. "I meant, that way," he said lamely.
Comprehension dawned on Sands' face. "Look, just--" He broke off, and shook his head sharply. "Christ. I can't believe I'm sitting here talking to you about this. I should have killed you when I had the chance."
This made El sit up. "You what?"
"Yeah, it was almost Adios mariachi back there. It was real touch and go for a little while." Sands laughed, and El winced again; that laugh sounded too close to hysteria for his comfort. "Touch and go," he muttered. "You have no idea."
Touch and go. Touch. El drew in a deep breath. "I wanted to thank you for taking care of me that day. I know it couldn't have been easy for you."
"What?" That ragged note was gone from Sands' voice. Now he just sounded irritated. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"To touch me," El said. "I know it wasn't easy for you."
Sands bared his teeth. "You think you know everything now, don't you?" He stood up, pushing back on the arms of the chair as he did, so the chair scooted back and banged into the front wall of the house.
"Prove me wrong," El snapped, rising to his feet too, feeling his heart start to beat faster. Oh it was perfect, it was more perfect than he could have hoped for.
"Prove you wrong? You want proof?" Sands stalked across the porch, dark elegant grace in motion. El's heart thudded against his ribcage. "I'll give you proof."
His hands shot forward and seized El's face. He held on tight, refusing to let the mariachi pull back.
El had no intention of struggling.
Sands kissed him. It was a violent kiss, completely lacking in romance. Their noses bumped together, and El cried out with the hurt.
The instant his lips parted, Sands' tongue was there, sweeping the inside of his mouth, tasting him.
His pain became insignificant. There was only the kiss, and the way it made him feel. It had been so long since he had been kissed, since he had felt warm. Gratitude and loneliness surged through him, and he found himself returning the kiss, bruising Sands' mouth as his was being bruised, returning the punishment with equal passion.
Sands tore his mouth free. "You like that, huh?" He was breathing hard. He did not let go of El's face.
"What do you think?" El growled, and kissed him again.
This time Sands did not let him. He jerked his head to the side. He bit at El's jaw. "Do you still think I'm afraid of you?"
"No," El panted.
"Then touch me."
"What?"
"Touch me."
He pulled back in surprise, although not enough to escape the hold Sands had on his face. Was Sands saying what he thought he was saying?
Abruptly it occurred to him that this was not right. This was not true passion or desire. This was a frightened man determined to prove that he was not frightened.
And one lonely man desperate for touch. That's me.
But if he said no, there would never be another opportunity. If he rejected Sands now, he would be forever shutting the door on any chance the man had at healing. He had no choice, really. He had to go along with it.
He found, to his mild surprise, that he really didn't mind.
"How?" he whispered.
Sands chuckled. He was trailing kisses down El's neck, making the mariachi feel breathless inside. "How? Touch me like you touch yourself."
"I don't know--"
The hands on either side of his face were unforgiving, holding him so tight he could not move. "Touch me like you touch yourself at night, when you're lying awake in bed, thinking of--"
He could not bear to hear her name spoken aloud. Using his whole body, he moved down and to the side, capturing Sands' mouth, silencing him with a fierce, violent kiss. He finally raised one hand, letting it snake down between their bodies until he found the undeniable evidence of Sands' desire.
Beneath his lips, Sands smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Just like that."
His hands left El's face. They moved down, palms dragging over the mariachi's throat, down his chest, his belly, and still lower. El caught his breath.
And there was no more talk.
There was only touch.
******