humo caliente 7
It can be explained two different ways: El fucked his mouth, Sands sucked him off. He'll explain it one way: a blur. Blur like fast cars in the hot sun, coiling up dust and venting exhaust, smeared reflection. Grey, only black, unseen. Blur like white noise and the twist of a headache. Blur like the rumour El, himself, is. Legend walks the streets, they'll say. What they won't say is that he came down Sands' throat with a grunt, a rattle and jerk to the metal halves bolted to the floor that are supposed to be walls. That he petted down Sands' hair, throat, and asked if he was alright, pessimistic.
"Kiss my grits."
He feels about three feet tall—present, bed and blanket and close air—and can't say he likes that. Knows he's sneering up at the ceiling, but couldn't give a fuck, really. His spine hurts from the shove and nudge, the forearm across the windpipe. He scrabbles to sit better and swallows thickly. Nothing from El's side (if he's there at all), then, just the blare of a horn and women yelling outside, ground level. God fucking help him if he's growing used to that sound. Brain's boiling behind empty sockets but that's really alright, it's good. Sizzle and spark that starts at the spine and crawls its way into his brain, spider legs, veins. When you think you're going to die and all you can do is beg it on.
He could feel better.
"Dying feels like a vacation."
El's definitely there (boot click and metal on metal).
"You're still living."
And the conversations he has with this one. Can't decide if he's more amused than annoyed. The answers, his side of the entire set up. His voice, growl, rumble, like incoming danger. The sky's falling. Crack of stone. Sides of a cave. Hollow but filled, filled...
"I'm really, really glad you reminded me," he says, turns his hands palm up to dig the nails in. Maybe he broke a finger because one's not bending all the way, getting down, getting over. The frown starts, and he nearly winces by the end of it. How it pulls on muscle and dried blood he didn't even know was there.
"I've got a question for you."
The guy could be looking out a window, could be leaning, praying, making faces at him for all he fuckin' knows. Jesus Christ, he has no eyes. How the fuck are you supposed to function? (and the answer is, of course, you're not—that just dampens your day, doesn't it.)
"Why haven't you killed me yet?"
That's your five million dollar—peso, excuse me, question, El.
And he seems to know it.
By the end of however many days it's been, Sands is pretty damn sure El's trying to keep him out of the cartel's (whatever's remaining, or whoever might have heard word from the grapevine) sight. Which is terribly sweet, isn't it? He feels like he's been reverted to the good old days, where you could actually trust people and have a moment's sigh. Knowing, knowing, gut feeling everything, that your buddy's got your back. Don't worry, he promised he wouldn't back-stab. He won't betray for loads of cash and a hot lay, oh no. Insert winning smile and a wink here. This is truth.
Sands wants to throw up.
He gets just as far as the doorframe and does.
(The inside of his mouth's like the beaten in grit of the bathroom floor, the walls. Swarthy green and brilliant inflamed yellow. Stains, rust or worse, like the sunset or landscape in water paintings. Frequent. And all of this Sands can't see, just imagines. Gets from the smell, the touch, something living inside his head that still sees. Can pick up and put together, like sounds around shapes, implosions of just edges.)
And El doesn't answer him all at once. Gets it nice and thin and stretched around the corners for Sands to scowl at. Stays quiet and then finally just leaves, steps out, seriously. Leaves Sands awake, asleep, dizzy and paranoid. Keeps him where he is for two hours. But he does come back, El does (almost kind of not expecting). Dead weight in the air that's still the question. Framed just right, this could be Sands' moment of peace, before anything's decided and El hasn't spoken.
That's about the time he realizes he doesn't just want to have sucked the Legend himself off, he wants to be fucked by the Legend himself. Already really, so to speak, steeping into analogy, but seriously. He's all about actuality anymore. Besides, he really doesn't do with being kept waiting.