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
"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.