Title: "Ultraviolet"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Once Upon a Time in Mexico"
Rating/Classification: 'R' for language, slash.
Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own them. They belong to Robert Rodriguez.
Summary: A ficlet to follow "Border Crossings" because the boys wouldn't leave me alone.

El whispers to him that it's morning and he turns his face towards where the sun must be. "You stare too long and you'll go blind," he murmurs, absently, amusing only himself.

The Mariachi isn't much of a talker. Doesn't yell at him for calling him 'El', for sitting on his keester in one place and bitching about piss-poor Mexican heat waves and how he no longer has the little fucking brat around to fetch him booze. He doesn't yell at all...just slides his arm around his waist and helps him up.

"Your wife...she was beautiful?" he wonders, remembering Belini's story...so overblown... like something out of a pornographic spaghetti western. Sharp-shootin' librarians.

"*Si*. She was." The arm around him doesn't even tighten.

He's been here for weeks and there's nothing that pisses off his new buddy. Nothing. Not even when he steals the covers...because El just reaches over and steals them back. As he pulls the scratchy cotton back over them both, his fingers always linger...tracing ovals around his dead sockets. It's gotten to the point where all the Mariachi has to do is that and he's hard.

"Is there a specific reason, mi amigo, why you're screwing me? Or are you just one of those odd little Mexi birds who gets all hot and swollen over a piece of ass, no matter what we've got swinging between our legs? 'Cause I'm not beautiful. Gotta tell you...I wasn't completely heinous before... but I'm definitely not beautiful these days. I will *not* be nabbing 'Best Looking' in the CIA yearbook this year. It's a shame, really. I got 'Most Likely to Start a Coup' two years running."

El helps him down the last series of steps. "You're wrong," he murmurs. "You're very... very beautiful."

"You're an unreliable narrator. Completely and totally full of shit. Are we entirely sure somebody didn't remove your eyes, too?"

"I wish..." A chuckle. "Sometimes I wish somebody would remove my ears."

"Fuck you, too."

When it's afternoon, El gives him guitar lessons. That's how he knows the time has passed. Everyone else is off having siesta and hands slightly larger than his own cover his... bring them onto something flat and smooth and woman-shaped. His fingers trip on the strings and he knows he'll never be much good...but it's always nice to have a gimmick, a shtick, in case he loses this guide, too, and needs a way to make money on the street. Come one, come all, to see the eye-less white mariachi . Or, he could always sell gum.

"Tranquilo," El urges, posing his hands on the fret board, making the chords for him. "You must relax. Feel the music. If you can't feel it in your soul, you'll never be a guitarista."

"You're a bossy motherfucker when you get going. Anyone ever tell you that?" he demands, grumbling, as the first notes of a simple melody are dragged forth from the unfortunate instrument.

"My Carolina used to...all the time." And whether the lips brushing against his temple are intentional or not, there is a kiss. "Now keep playing...*toca*. Show me what you've learned."

He turns his face towards the sun again. It's warm. Bright. He pushes the Mariachi's hair aside and catches the rays on his tongue.


September 16, 2003.

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