humo caliente 6
El insists with a twist of the wrist and a shove that Sands go into the stall. He really insists that Sands lose the shirt, and the belt, and open his mouth because here he comes. He also insists that Sands lean and grind into him just like that and forget about the tequila, and the Ray-Bans, and the hot sun.
The walls weren't white in the stall like they probably should have been, the toilet was completely missing, the whole atmosphere smelled of piss—but they really didn't care. Didn't notice. As long as El could fit his hands down Sands' pants they were easy. Shiny. Better than dead. Rattling stall doors and squeaking against stained linoleum.
"Holy fuck, you piece of shit." Sands' voice dives when El slams him into the furthest wall. It comes back up to say, "Bar restrooms. All coy before, in bed. Does that remind you of something?"
Fingers in unwashed hair pulling head back. Mouth on a curve of jaw.
"Or someone?"
Nothing like breath in his lungs for too long. His nails scream a bad note across the metal door.
He's throwing up again. Tequila acid replaced with El aftertaste. Made only marginally better by the hand holding his hair out of his face and the promise of a bed to be kept this time. A lumpy motel bed, but a bed.
Sands spits, swallows an estimated ten times and waves El off with a shaky gesture. Like a trained dog. The hand leaves, and his hair falls around his ears. He's going to venture to say he's never been so tired. And there's a true metaphor about life to be had here, but he can't be bothered so he crawls to bed, dragging himself in. He's asleep before he can hear El's pants jingle.
El doesn't know why, exactly, he hasn't told Sands to leave. Get out, fuck off, go away. Maybe he really didn't care, or he remembered what it was like to live with someone, and didn't shake it. He didn't tell Sands to leave, and Sands never tried. Something was static.
He adopted a problem that might be better than worse.
He adopted a yappy dog with nine lives and a cordite flavour that lingered far too long.
A cordite flavour that sleeps like a wheezing, dying animal. Clinging to life out of sheer anger, stubborn pride, and something cousin to luck. He'll go out an extinct anomaly. Smoke hanging around the barrel of a gun never fading. Disease of the earth inescapable. El might have sat down and prayed then, but he didn't. He peeled his boots off and stayed.
Sands is either extremely lucky, or extremely unlucky. And he doesn't care for anyone to extrapolate on which. It is what it is, and knowing won't change a thing. Ignorance is, and always will be, bliss. He's stopped trying to know things, because knowing things come back around.
You're taking a risk with knowledge. True brilliance, true genius, is knowing you'll always know nothing.
Didn't God have some sense of humour.