humo caliente 8
You know when you choke, and for a second it feels like it's all over, down the tubes, here we come belly up? You know when you smell fresh air, and it feels like it's the beginning all over again, nothing better, no how, you're golden? Sands is in between all this. He's drowning. The bed has dug a hole into his back, just below the bruise (oh don't you know it's got to be a lovely violent violet, too) El gave him as a parting gift. The gift that wasn't the hot slide of come down his throat, a throat now raw and dry and all-over shit.
Breathing comes as an after thought. Oh, right, should do that. Bingo. It stings his sinuses. He can still smell the bile on the floor by the door. All that was left for him to let out when the tequila was gone.
"Good morning, yeah."
He's got a ring on his finger that was his father's. He took it from him as he lie embalmed, dead, in that thick oak coffin (satin innards, gold motif, it was the only magnificent thing Sands remembers of him). It's not that he's a horrible person, he didn't steal it, he just wanted something to remind him of why he's so glad the man's dead after all (so he can finally say, it's about time). He can't see the band anymore, but he does reach down and twist it, tight enough to pinch the skin underneath. Good ol' Dad, still a clinch of pain.
He remembers to breathe again.
Lying in darkness, lying in his invisible coffin—just like his father's dark, dark wood casket, with the blood red insides, like a split lip, like broken skin—it's easy to forget to breathe. It's easy to forget to live. The sting again, from the pinched skin, is enough to convince Sands he's not dead yet (yet is such an operative word). His sigh comes just as El walks in, creaking and jingling, all noise, no voice.
"I'm starving."
"You look dead."
"You flatter me, El, you really do, but. I'm too occupied for your cute shit."
Maybe the comment never existed, or El just decided not to say it. Always the case, always the catch.
"Food. Pork. Tequila. Christ."
El's killing him, he really is. Begging isn't in his nature, not often anyway, and waiting and patience aren't either, but Sands doesn't want to eat alone. He's decided. He doesn't quite want to wander out there; Mexico, streets of dirt and blood and sweat (some of it his). What could happen to a blind gringo is anyone's guess, and his guess doesn't happen to be iced tea with cartel grunts. No. It happens to be just more of his parts missing, more disfigures to remember to breathe around. Maybe his fingers this time, or his tongue. Places he'll be feeling with his fingers, places empty and devoid of symmetry, devoid of humanity, torn and broken. He won't quite see but he'll know. He'll fucking drag a hand down and see it all anyway, bit by bit (his imagination has a way of running away with him). Fear's a thing of yesteryear, fear's a thing of someone who can see it in another's eyes. His is faded grey, and humanity is (was) a card he played. It'll slip through razored fingers.
"Sands."
They might as well be fucking, with the way El says his name.
"Yeah?" The open-mouthed yeah, left dragging around in his throat to come out longer, bored.
It's a cigarette. Pressed to his lips. Held to his mouth. He can smell the El on it, the waft of Legend still there from being in a pocket, stuffed down a boot, tossed into a guitar case.
He feels wired to that piece of paper and tobacco, caught by the balls (oh, literal).
He moans. Shameless as a dog, shameless as a whore, shameless as death. Teeth, around the filter, closing and pinching the edge, almost unsmokable now but he doesn't plan on smoking it right then anyway. He plans on thanking El for his kindness, actually. Right here and now. Right here and complicated. Convolution has its taste in Sands.
He gets as far as his fingers around a forearm, skirting the bend of an elbow and the power behind the arm. Gets as far as beginning a sentence and then ending it in a woosh. Get as far as smacking his head into the headboard (that he didn't know was there, of course) and coughing, acid, acid. The fingers that were on him earlier, almost in this kind manner, this gentle mocking, crush his windpipe in a way that doesn't only fill his head with blood, but his sinuses, too. There's the blood running, slow, slowly, slower (as if he's full of black sludge), to his top lip and stopping. Past tense moments. El kisses it, all of it's like burning, and finally answers Sands' question.
Why haven't you killed me yet.
"Company."