Chapter 19
Understanding
Disclaimer: I am not Robert Rodriguez, and I do not own El and Sands. I'm not writing this for profit.
Rating: R for language
Summary: El finally figures it out
Author's Note: I owe so much of this chapter to my beta reader Melody. She threatened to feed El to a meat grinder if he didn't sit down and think about things. And as she always does, she made me fix all the things wrong with it once I had written it. So Melody, girl, this one is for you.
****
He heard singing. Which was odd because nowadays he didn't know anyone who could sing. Certainly not any women, and it was very definitely a woman singing right now.
The words were in English, and they were hard to follow. El was proud of his fluency with the language, but it was always harder to understand when the words were sung. He could only make out one word in two. Enough, however, for him to know that he was listening to a love song, a lament for lost chances.
And suddenly he realized he knew that voice. His eyes popped open.
Carolina smiled at him. "Hola," she said softly.
El sat up, his heart beating so hard against his ribcage that it physically hurt. "Carolina!" He had meant to shout her name, but it came out as a breathless whisper.
"Still you do this," Carolina said. She shook her head. "Ay, mi querido, what does it take with you?"
"What?" He did not understand her.
"Who is the blind man?" Carolina asked.
El blinked. "His name is Sands. He--" And he suddenly realized that Carolina had not meant the question literally. He flushed, and dropped his head.
She leaned forward, and he felt a ghostly touch on his bowed head, like a whisper of silk. "You need not fear, my love."
"I'm afraid," he confessed. Everyone he had ever cared for was gone. Everyone he had ever loved had been taken from him. How could he endanger anyone else?
How could he let himself feel again?
And Carolina, his beautiful lost Carolina. How could he dishonor her memory?
"No," she said, so kindly that he was able to look up at her. "I told you, do not fear. You do not taint my memory by loving another."
"I don't know what to do," he whispered. "Tell me. Tell me what to do."
"You must follow your heart," Carolina said. She smiled at him. "As you have ever done."
She stood up. He reached out a hand, wanting to keep her here with him. "Don't go!"
But she was moving away from him, and although he reached out, she was not there, she was gone...
...and he was awake.
****
He lay blinking in the sun, his head pounding. A latticework of shadows covered his face from a tree limb draped across his head and chest. He lifted a hand to push a twig away from his mouth, and encountered Sands' gunbelts laying across his chest.
Judging by the position of the sun, he had been unconscious less than an hour. But he knew, even without sitting up, that it was already too late.
Sands was gone. Probably dead.
Then why aren't you dead?
He didn't know.
What are you going to do about it?
Well, nothing. Not right now. Right now he had to figure some things out. Whether it had been a dream or a heavenly visitation, Carolina was right. At this moment, he was the blind man. And there could be no going forward until he could see again.
Two things at least were very clear. The first was that Sands, whether he knew the truth of it or not, had feelings for El. Possibly even love.
The second was that he had deliberately gone to the cartel, because of those feelings. And he had done it thinking El did not return those feelings.
But do I? Do I really?
Okay, okay. It was too scary to try and answer that question straight on. Better to approach it obliquely. Think about something else. Think about how Sands would answer the question.
Still the same psychotic asshole you know and love.
Know and love. He didn't think he had ever heard Sands use the word "love" in that context before, except to mock it, when El had suggested he loved Chiclet. He seriously doubted Sands even knew what love was. There were many things about Sands' past that he did not know, but he believed strongly that Sands had known very little love in his life. If any at all.
Which made El the first.
Still the same psychotic asshole you know and love.
He closed his eyes, remembering that night in the hotel. The way Sands had sat in the darkness, wearing no clothes, and no sunglasses. Completely vulnerable, all the barriers stripped away. Sands had been reaching out to him, he realized now, in the only way he knew how.
And he hadn't seen it.
Carolina was right. He really was blind.
A low groan escaped him. I didn't know...
Well it was time he did know. Time to understand some things. Because they could not go on as they had been, not with so many unanswered questions, so many unresolved issues.
Do I love him?
He thought back, recalling memories from the past two years. From his first meeting with Sands in the cantina, to the last night they had spent in Cozumel. He thought of the way Sands laughed, or the lazy drawl that meant he was excited about something. The quick hands, the way he could navigate a strange room without fear or hesitation, the unflinching bravery he exhibited in the face of his blindness.
A year ago in Durango, El had dreamed of Sands' death at the hands of the CIA. He could still remember his grief in the dream, and the way he had pulled his guns, determined to kill them all. He remembered the coldness of the room they had kept Sands in, and the blood on the agent's face. The way Sands had smiled to hear him.
He remembered the feel of the scorpion dagger sinking into his chest. The pain of a wound meant to save his life.
The signs had been there for so long, but he had willfully denied them. It had begun in earnest during the search for Chiclet's brother, when he had begun to watch Sands so carefully, but the beginnings reached back even further than that. Thinking back on it now, he thought it had truly begun the night he and Sands had sat in the backyard of the house and Sands had let El touch his face. The night El had first contemplated kissing him.
Are you still standing?
Still.
He thought of the terrible morning Fideo had betrayed them, when Sands' darkest secret had been so cruelly unveiled. He remembered the feel of Sands' hand on his as he had pulled the trigger, killing the last man from the cartel. He remembered the desolate, tearless weeping on the morning after they had first slept together, and the way Sands had trembled in his arms.
Que quieres en la vida? Carolina had asked.
What do you want in life?
Libertad, he had answered. Freedom. But what was freedom, when you had no one to share it with?
Once, he had known love of the truest kind. He had given everything of himself to Carolina, and she in turn had given him all she had. But she was gone, had been gone for years. He had thought he would spend the rest of his life alone. How amazing then, that he had found someone again.
No one kissed him like Sands did. No one made him feel the things Sands did. No one was as complicated as Sands was.
There was no one else for him, except Sands.
And maybe it was not romantic, what he felt, but that did not make it any less true. There was passion, and fire and flame. There was constancy, and respect. Honesty. Sincerity. Trust.
Love.
A great shudder swept through El. He let out a long sigh. There. He had admitted it. He loved Sands.
Immediately he felt lighter inside. Strange, but true. He had been carrying the weight of doubt around for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to be free of it. Now he knew his course, and what he had to do, and the relief that came with the knowing was overwhelming.
"I love him," El said aloud, testing the words. He liked the way they sounded. He smiled.
The smile lasted long enough for him to sit up and throw off the tree branch covering him. He had finally figured out his own heart, and that was good, but there were still two problems facing him. The first was that Sands did not know he felt this way; had likely gone to his death with that ignorance. The second was that El now had to chase after him yet again.
And for the last time, he swore. When it was finished now, it would be finished for good, one way or another. They would never be apart again.
He stood up with a wince. His head throbbed, most of the pain centered on his jaw. Sands had hit him hard, and he had been completely unprepared for it. His neck ached too, from the way his head had snapped back so viciously. But he was alive. The cartel had come looking for them, and yet he was still alive. All because of Sands.
He picked up Sands' gunbelts, holding them so the pistols knocked against his shins. Rubbing the back of his neck, he began walking up the road.
****
As he neared the house, he drew his gun and began to scan the ground for signs of blood. Rather than feeling reassured when he did not see any, he grew tense and anxious. Where was the blood? Where were the signs of a struggle?
There had been men in the yard. He could see their footprints still, in places where the grass was beaten down. Where were they? How long had they been gone?
A body lay on the porch.
A small cry escaped him. He dropped Sands' gunbelts and ran toward the house, all caution forgotten.
Chiclet lay facedown on the wooden boards of the porch. El reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. The boy did not stir. Carefully, praying hard, El rolled him over.
A large bruise encircled Chiclet's right eye. Dried blood ran in a line down his chin from a cut on his mouth. But his chest rose and fell evenly, and El slumped in relief to realize that the boy was still alive.
He sat back on his heels. What had happened here? Where was Diego Sanchez? Where was Sands? Why had they left Chiclet alive?
Why hadn't they come looking for him?
Too many questions. And he could not wait for the answers. He opened the screen door, then the front door, and went inside.
The house was a shambles. Everything that could have been destroyed, was. Shards of glass mingled with wooden splinters and puffs of plaster. The furniture bled stuffing. There were holes punched in the walls. Bulletholes in the floor.
The bedrooms were awful. Mattresses slashed and shot and overturned. Clothing destroyed. Mirrors shattered. Furniture broken.
In the kitchen, the sink was full of broken glass and dishes. Food had been flung all over, and it spattered the walls and floor and even the ceiling; an eggshell clung precariously to one blade of the ceiling fan as it slowly rotated.
El clenched his hands into fists. They had destroyed his house. They had hurt Chiclet and they had taken Sands.
They were going to die. Every last one of them.
He turned on his heel and stalked back outside, letting the screen door slam behind him. He dropped down to one knee in front of Chiclet. He shook the boy's shoulder. "Hey. Chiclet. Wake up."
The boy's head lolled. His eyelids fluttered. El shook him harder, and Chiclet opened his eyes. His gaze was unfocused at first, but El counted to five, and Chiclet at last looked at him.
"Señor!" The boy tried to sit up. He got about halfway up, then moaned loudly, putting one hand to his head.
El helped him up. "What happened?"
Chiclet stared at him blankly for a second, then his eyes widened. "Señor Sands! The men took him! He told them he would go with them, if they let me go."
El fought the urge to drop his head into his hands and groan. Ah, my friend, such courage! And it will only get you killed.
Then, If only I had told him! He would never have done this if he knew how I felt about him.
And on the heels of that, If you had told him, he still would have done it. Even more so. Because if he knew how you felt, he would have tried all the harder to keep you safe.
"We have to go after him!" Chiclet cried. "They can't have been gone long. We can go after him. There's still time." His voice broke. "There's still time," he whispered.
El put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Start from the beginning," he said. "Tell me everything."
Chiclet took a deep breath, fighting for self-control. He nodded, and when he began to speak, his voice was calm and unhurried.
He told El about the arrival of the cartel. At first the men had done nothing but lurk. Everyone in the village had known why they were there, but no one had talked about it. It was just one of those things that everyone knew.
Then things had changed. Shopkeepers found themselves forced to give things to the cartel men. Women were harassed as they walked down the streets. There were robberies, rapes. A man was beaten in the alleyway behind the cantina, so severely he died two days later from his injuries.
All this time Chiclet continued to visit the house of his friends, doing his duty. Sometimes he went with the village priest, but mostly he went alone. He had known the cartel men were following him, he said, but he had refused to stay away. He would not let them bully him, he said. Besides, up until this morning, the men had left him alone.
"I know what I want to do with my life now," he said, raising his chin stubbornly. "I will join la policia, and I will work to rid this country of the cartels, and all their evil." His face grew pensive. "I had never seen anyone stand up to them before," he said. "Not until Señor Sands did. He showed me what true courage is."
El swallowed hard. "Me too," he said.
Chiclet looked at him sharply, realized the mariachi was not mocking him, and relaxed. "They were here this morning," he said. "They grabbed me before I could get away. They made me stand here and wait. Someone called Diego Sanchez on a cell phone, so he would know when you were coming."
El nodded, thinking of the man sitting outside the cantina. "Then what happened?"
Chiclet told him how Sands had appeared, flanked by two cartel members, his hands cuffed behind him. But he had been smiling. "I was so happy to see him," Chiclet said. "But I was afraid, too. I was afraid they were going to kill him."
Instead Sands had brokered a deal. His life in exchange for Chiclet and El. And Diego Sanchez had agreed. One of the men had struck Sands and knocked him unconscious, and they had begun carrying him to a car.
"Then the man holding me hit me," Chiclet said, in a very small voice. Earlier he had sounded brave and defiant, but now he sounded like a child again. "I tried to stay awake, but he hit me too hard."
"What was the last thing you saw?" El asked.
"The car," Chiclet whispered.
"Would you recognize it again if you saw it?" El asked.
Chiclet looked up, and the hope blazing in his eyes made El wince. "I would," the boy avowed. He sat up straight. "I'm coming with you," he said. "I can shoot. And I know what they look like, and what their cars look like. I can help you find them."
Every inch of his body screamed that this was wrong, but El found himself nodding. Chiclet had earned the right to come along – and the boy deserved vengeance of his own. "We will leave right away," he said. "We cannot let them get too far ahead of us."
Chiclet nodded and got to his feet. He winced a little, then carefully schooled his features to show no pain. "What do you need me to do?"
"First we go into the village," El said as he stood up. Chiclet groaned, but El was adamant. "You must tell your family where you are going. And I want to speak to some people. They may have heard things, or know things. I have an idea where Sanchez's estate is, but the countryside of Sinaloa is large. He could be anywhere."
Unhappily, Chiclet nodded. "All right."
"I promise you," El said, "we will move as fast as we can."
Chiclet brightened a little at this. He started off the porch, then he turned around. His eyes narrowed. He pointed at El's face. "Did he do that to you?"
El touched the sore spot on his jaw. "Yes."
"To keep you away."
"Yes."
Chiclet smiled a little. "I'm afraid for him," he said. "But I'm happy, too."
El just nodded. He understood completely.
****
As they were walking toward the car, Chiclet said, "It was good for him, to go away with you."
It wasn't really a question, but El replied anyway. "I think so."
"Are you two...you know..." Chiclet's feet stumbled momentarily, and he blushed bright red.
El was startled. He glanced at the boy's heated cheeks, and found himself flushing too. "Would it bother you if we were?" he asked.
"No!" Chiclet exclaimed, surprised by El's response. "No. I'd be happy. He needs someone to love him." He hesitated and looked down. When he spoke again, it was with the air of someone revealing a deep secret. "When I came back, after Christmas, I told him I loved him. I don't think anyone had ever said that to him before. I think I was the first."
As sad as it was, El could not argue with this. "I think you were too," he said.
But I will be next, he thought. I will say it the first chance I get. I will make him believe that I mean it.
And I will never stop saying it.
Never.
******