With the last of the guns, he lingered. It was the sawed-off shotgun that had saved his life on countless occasions, and he let his head rest against it for a moment, feeling the cold steel against his hot forehead. He always carried it with him, if not in the guitar case then tucked into the front of his pants, or hidden somewhere inside his jacket. This was the gun that had left General Marquez in considerable agony on the floor, both kneecaps blown off; El's last revenge, and his friends had been there to help him out and to share his victory. He smiled at the thought of Fideo, of Lorenzo, of his old friends Campa and Quino; together, they had been a team, something to count on, something to remember. After all, what good was a Mariachi without his fellow musicians?
"Weren't you going to teach me how to play guitar? You always said I had the fingers for it."
Curled up in bed together, tangled black hair sweeping across his chest, slender white fingers playing with the chains on his trousers. Stroking the other man's head, El looked up at the ceiling. A gigantic moth had found its way into the room, and was buzzing around the single lightbulb above, barely illuminating the bed and the two men on it. Tanned, Hispanic skin in sharp contrast to Caucasian white; a chessboard, but without the usual rules that brought order to the game. Noone ever knew who would make the first move, or draw the first weapon.
El nudged Sands gently, and pointed upwards.
"What?"
"Look."
"Haha. Funny."
"There's a moth in here."
"It's a fucking bug."
"It's beautiful."
"Whatever you say, man." Sands had gone back to playing with his pants, and with a sigh that was part happy, part exasperated, El resumed the caressing of his head. They often lay like this for hours, not speaking, listening to the silence and the wind, sometimes howling, sometimes just letting out slight gasps outside their window, gasps to match their own.
El groaned loudly and flopped back onto the bed, gun still in his hand. Out of old habit, he stuck it underneath his pillow, not bothering to check if the safety was off or on. The gun had replaced his long-lost teddy bear; he sometimes clutched it in his sleep, unaware, but strangely soothed by its physical presence. It made him feel safe, as safe as he could ever feel in a world where every step he took could bring him face to face with someone who wished nothing more than to see him dead. He had very narrowly escaped his followers the last time, but others had not been so lucky...
In a blinding flash, enough to make him cover his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting hard as if trying to shield himself from the painful memories, the day of the funeral came back to him, in full detail. A beautiful fall morning, birds singing, sun high in the air, and the temperature for once bearable, with a soothing wind caressing his cheeks as he stood, head bent, listening to the priest's last sermon. On the ground in front of him, stretched out on his back as if sleeping, arms tucked neatly to his sides, hands joined as if in prayer, lay Sands. Clasped in his grip was a single dandelion, swaying softly in the gentle breeze.
His troubled gunslinger had found peace at last. But his peace had come at a great cost, and even as the dark eyes had begged him to follow, El hadn't been able to do it. He had backed away from the bed, the ivory hand too feeble to retain its grip, and he had run, run as fast as he could, out of the hospital, into the street, down the main road, across the highway and straight into the desert. He had only stopped when his legs wouldn't bear him any longer, and he fell, face first, into the dust. Lying there, unable to move, unable to speak except in mutters, wails and long moans, the man who had at last lost everything turned his dry face to the sun and cursed the day he was born.
"Weren't you going to teach me how to play guitar? You always said I had the fingers for it."
Curled up in bed together, tangled black hair sweeping across his chest, slender white fingers playing with the chains on his trousers. Stroking the other man's head, El looked up at the ceiling. A gigantic moth had found its way into the room, and was buzzing around the single lightbulb above, barely illuminating the bed and the two men on it. Tanned, Hispanic skin in sharp contrast to Caucasian white; a chessboard, but without the usual rules that brought order to the game. Noone ever knew who would make the first move, or draw the first weapon.
El nudged Sands gently, and pointed upwards.
"What?"
"Look."
"Haha. Funny."
"There's a moth in here."
"It's a fucking bug."
"It's beautiful."
"Whatever you say, man." Sands had gone back to playing with his pants, and with a sigh that was part happy, part exasperated, El resumed the caressing of his head. They often lay like this for hours, not speaking, listening to the silence and the wind, sometimes howling, sometimes just letting out slight gasps outside their window, gasps to match their own.
El groaned loudly and flopped back onto the bed, gun still in his hand. Out of old habit, he stuck it underneath his pillow, not bothering to check if the safety was off or on. The gun had replaced his long-lost teddy bear; he sometimes clutched it in his sleep, unaware, but strangely soothed by its physical presence. It made him feel safe, as safe as he could ever feel in a world where every step he took could bring him face to face with someone who wished nothing more than to see him dead. He had very narrowly escaped his followers the last time, but others had not been so lucky...
In a blinding flash, enough to make him cover his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting hard as if trying to shield himself from the painful memories, the day of the funeral came back to him, in full detail. A beautiful fall morning, birds singing, sun high in the air, and the temperature for once bearable, with a soothing wind caressing his cheeks as he stood, head bent, listening to the priest's last sermon. On the ground in front of him, stretched out on his back as if sleeping, arms tucked neatly to his sides, hands joined as if in prayer, lay Sands. Clasped in his grip was a single dandelion, swaying softly in the gentle breeze.
His troubled gunslinger had found peace at last. But his peace had come at a great cost, and even as the dark eyes had begged him to follow, El hadn't been able to do it. He had backed away from the bed, the ivory hand too feeble to retain its grip, and he had run, run as fast as he could, out of the hospital, into the street, down the main road, across the highway and straight into the desert. He had only stopped when his legs wouldn't bear him any longer, and he fell, face first, into the dust. Lying there, unable to move, unable to speak except in mutters, wails and long moans, the man who had at last lost everything turned his dry face to the sun and cursed the day he was born.