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2020-11-04
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El Aquila Y La Serpiente

Summary:

Sequel to Recuerdos Y Resurreccion. El has a problem and there doesn't seem to be an answer. Originally published at lj comm 'agentsands' and my own livejournal on 10/27/03.

WARNINGS: for language, h/c, Dark Themes, mild violence.

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DISCLAIMER: Rodriguez is god. I own dirty socks and a cat El Mariachi was convinced he was going mad. Poison, leeching out of the twisted mind he coveted, was coating him inside with a thick film of black ooze that made his skin crawl with self-loathing. There would be no more dead lovers in his arms. It was nearly December, and he watched patiently as the doctor changed the bandages on Sands' ruined eyes and loaded him up with another dose of morphine. For the better part of the three weeks since Dia de los Muertos, the agent had been completely out of it, floating in his own world of opiated dreams. El wondered what those dreams could possibly be and if Sands could see in them. Sands was rarely lucid for very long, and when he was, he was vitriolic as ever, spitting caustic comments out with a sneering smile and a laugh that bordered on hysteria. El thought he was never more beautiful than when he was spewing his poison, tearing the heart out of a world that had so cruelly maimed him. The image of Sands lolling on that tomb, his face like a brand, glowing between stone wings of flame was fixed in his memory. It haunted him, taunted him, dared him to dive into insanity with a single, tempting smile. He could not shake the thought that he was falling, caught in those deceptively slender arms, being carried down to hell by a disfigured Lucifer who dared heaven with smiles and sneers and a diamond-hard soul of ice. El Rey del Hielo. The king of ice. El dropped his head into his hands and sighed. He was no longer empty inside, longing for Carolina, for his lost child, for revenge. He was in love. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ El strummed the guitar softly, watching the bed and its occupant from beneath his lashes. The boy, Chiclet Sands called him, was holding one outstretched hand in both his small ones, petting the long fingers gently. One of them moved, twitched, then reached around to clasp the small wrist, tapped it softly, then fell away again. A white fire started somewhere within the watching musician and he ducked under his hair to hide his burning face. He was jealous of an adoring child who somehow had gained the right to caress where he himself could not. The shame was choking him. He put the guitar down and walked swiftly out of the room, unable to watch anymore. He walked fast, stomping down the dust in the little path that ran between parched fields. It had been too dangerous for both he and Sands to remain in Culiacan. Chiclet's abuela had smuggled them both out of town in a truckful of half-dead produce to her sister's farm, far out in the countryside. It was quiet and peaceful to the point of comatose, but safe. The doctor visited once a day on the excuse that Marta was old and had a heart condition and no other relatives closeby. He left disposable syringes, filled with the drugs that kept Sands from losing whatever mind he had left with the pain. He provided ointments and bandages and showed El how to clean out those torn sockets, how to find a non-collapsed vein and send him back to dreamland. Those were the only times he dared to touch the wounded man, but they were the highlights of his day, when he could trace his fingers over the expressive brows, run calloused pads whisper-soft into the miserable mess of his eyes, brush back the dark hair that still smelled of copal. His tenderness was generally rewarded with another round of vicious abuse, but he didn't care. He told himself it was the pain as he swabbed up the thin arm but he knew it was not. He was in love with a monster. And the monster, most definitely, did not love him back. When had he started to love? He remembered the walk back from the graveyard on La Noche, when Sands had finally collapsed as the morphine wore off and pain and blood loss took their toll on him. He remembered how he had gathered up the slight body and carried him back to Chiclet's abuela's house, how they had been accompanied in solemn procession. Damn it all to hell, they thought Sands was a hero, a martyr for Mexico. They touched him like some chingado santo, lit candles for him, prayed for him. Him. The one who set the entire sorry mess in motion and had looked to fly away, a bird of paradise on stolen wings. Well, he would look no more and the wings had fluttered off into a blood-stained street, a guitar case and Fideo's pants. It still made El's blood boil. But something happened when he had lifted Sands, the dark head drooping over his arm, bloody bandages pressed tight into ruined sockets. Such a curious feeling of protectiveness, no, of possessiveness had crashed over him like a black wave so hard he had stumbled into the house, clutching his burden to him until they pulled him away. He had almost snarled with fury as they took Sands to the back room and he followed, dizzy with the venomous infection just touching the man had inflicted. Contagious. His poison was contagion itself and El would never be free of it. He turned around and trudged back to the farmhouse. The boy was out in the back, throwing rocks at the hens. El shook his head and wondered if he, too, was infected, striding into the house to treasure moments alone, watching. Sands was still on the nod, pale and limp beneath the sheet. El sat down on the bed beside him and reached out a trembling hand, fingers wavering timid over the still face. Maimed, too-thin from weeks of drugs and pain, he was undeniably the most beautiful man El had ever seen. Perhaps, El thought, he was more beautiful now, without the pitiless depths of the dark eyes that had watched him with sardonic amusement across the table of a wretched cafe in Culiacan. He touched one cheekbone gently, curving his hand to travel down the hollow, around the chin, then up to circle the exquisite mouth, pouting, even in slumber. The lips were soft, softer than he would have imagined and he held his breath, daring to bend in close, to brush his own in a quivering touch against them. They moved. "Are you having a good time, you fucking miserable cocksucker?" El jumped back so fast he overturned the chair Chiclet kept near the bed. "You're awake." "What? Couldn't you tell? And just exactly what the fuck were you doing?" El stammered but did not answer. He could still taste the lips that were now twisted into a cruel smile. "If you're planning on giving me the kiss of life, jingle-pants, you'll have to do better than that." Sands' laughter followed him down the hallway. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Another three weeks and the doctor was weaning him off the morphine. It made him even more bad-tempered and foul-mouthed, if that could be at all possible. Only Chiclet seemed to be exempted from Sands' sulphuric commentary. El was hard-pressed to understand how he could bear the tirades of invective hurled at him at least once a day. Yet, to his ears, each insult, each vicious slur was a note, a note of crystal clarity, pure and whiter than snow in its purity. He knew he was too far gone to ever turn back when a thrill of jubilation shot straight up his spine the day Chiclet reluctantly left to go home. They were alone, except for Marta, who was fairly deaf and the doctor, who dropped by less and less. Sands was on the mend. He was able to stand, to walk around and feeling his way, had managed, in only a day, to memorise the layout of the house. El wondered about his memory, if it was as razor sharp as the remarks that spilled from those beautiful lips. He wondered if Sands remembered everything since Day of the Dead, if he remembered Day of the Dead at all. He didn't dare to ask. He was treading cautiously around the object of his affection, biding his time. He could be patient. That was remarkable because El had never been a patient man. He was a man of action, reduced to stillness. He played his guitar, listened to Sands' venomous bile and Marta's snores and waited. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sometime after Christmas, El knew they would have to leave. It was not fair to squat in this place, using old Marta as a shield. Sands' acidly agreed with him. "Hiding in plain sight? Hmmm?" he laughed. "And just where are we going, fuckhead? Since when is this a 'we' situation?" "You cannot travel alone." El was busy with the bandages over the healing sockets. The ugliness and horror of them was sickening, but his hands were gentle, craving the slightest excuse to touch. "Stop laughing. I don't want to hurt you." He smiled crookedly and was silent as El finished replacing the gauze that hid the horror from sight but never from mind. Sands leaned forward, dark hair swinging close to his cheeks and whispered, "Don't you just love doing that? Is that what made you come shooting out of the closet?" The low laugh in his ear haunted El for days after. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They picked up a ride south, heading out of Sinaloa towards Mexico City. Sands was still limping, more fragile than he would ever admit, and each day exhausted him to silence. El found he missed the nasty comments but enjoyed the chance to simply watch and be while Sands slept. His face slack, lips parted, curled on one side, he looked like a tortured angel, cast down from heaven. El wanted to pull off the bandages and weep healing tears into those ruined holes. He contented himself with playing the guitar and tried to make himself think about Carolina, of all he had lost. He was trying to find the empty holes in himself, but they had been filled and he was helpless to drain them again. They were full of dreams in which he could wrench a single kind word or gesture from one who was completely devoid of compassion for himself or anyone else. The icicle walls around Sands were a fortress and he was determined to melt them, no matter what it took. They stayed in a string of wretched hotel rooms until they reached Mexico City. Sands absolutely balked at another ratshit hovel. "Fucking no! I won't. I'm not going to creep around with my tail between my legs, even if that's all you've got between yours, asshole. Now find me a phone." El guided him to a phonebooth, and watched the long, delicate fingers play over the keypad the way his own plucked at the guitar strings. There were an awful lot of numbers being punched in and Sands was smirking when he hit the pound key and punched in another series of numbers. "What? What are you doing?" "Shut the fuck up, " he snapped and continued with another round of digits. Finally, he hung up the phone and smiled brightly. "Where is the Banco Nacional?" El shrugged. "I don't know. I've only been here once." "Well, find it. We're going to make a withdrawal." "What?" "Jesus, can't you stop being such a fucking nuisance for just one moment and find the goddamn fucking bank?" El held his peace and quietly asked a passerby. Sands calmly walked into the lobby and let El's whispered directions guide him to the manager's desk. He cooly sat down and smiled and proceeded to converse with the small, nervous man behind the desk in absolutely perfect Spanish. El felt as though a hole had opened up under his feet. He had known that Sands could understand the language, had imagined that he could probably speak some, but this was more than perfect. It was the voice of a native, without flaw or lapse anywhere. It took about an hour, but they walked out of the bank with ten-thousand American dollars converted to pesos. El was out of his depth entirely. He could not even begin to imagine what dark magic Sands had used to get so much money, or what ID he had used. He had been too profoundly shocked by the agent's linguistic acrobatics to pay attention to the signature or how he had known exactly where to sign the documents. Once outside, El realised he had been holding his breath for what felt like the entire hour. "Now we find a decent hotel. Nothing fancy. And nothing touristy. Savvy?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sands stretched out on the sofa of their hotel room, still smirking in that amused, irritating manner. It didn't hide the fact that he was exhausted. He had taken off the sunglasses with a sigh of relief. The bandages over his eyes were damp with sweat. "I should change those." El's fingers itched for just a touch, just a moment to get close enough to breathe in the scent of him. "You should go down to the fucking bar and get a bottle of tequila and about half-a-dozen limes." Sands retorted, pushing his hair back with one hand and digging in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. El lit it and picked up the money Sands had tossed onto the table, his chains jingling as he walked across the carpet. "Fucking Jesus Christ, you sound like one of Santa's reindeer." Sands called after him, chuckling. When El came back, the cigarette had burned itself down to the filter in the ashtray perched on Sands' chest. He was asleep, his face taut and drawn with pain. El gently pulled the ashtray away and smoothed back the dark hair. It was lank and needed a wash, and that would mean another battle. Sands always fought him but he could not do it himself, not while those wounds were still healing. El sighed, opened the bottle and took a long swallow. He knew he should wake Sands to change those bandages and make him take the pills the doctor had given him. He was too tired and he dozed off in the chair next to the sofa, his fingertips just brushing the strands of Sands' hair. He got his fight the next morning. Sands had risen and got himself into the bathroom, tried to shower himself and slipped, taking the curtain down with him, moaning as the water spilled over him, naked and shaking with pain and rage, his fingers tearing holes in the thin plastic. El had hoped the jar of the fall would make him docile, hurting too much to fight, but fight, he did, like an animal, the fury breaking through his careful facade like a wave. El held the slender wrists in a bruising grip and wondered if the same wave would come crashing over his own head and drown them both. Of course, along with the tantrum came a tsunami of curses, couched in poetic gutter slang in a range of languages that would have made him freeze except he was trying hard not to let the flailing blows get too close. It took an hour to calm the man down enough to refill the tub and settle him in it. Sands sullenly allowed him to take care of his eyes, and check on the pink puckered scars left by the bullets in his arm and leg. Somewhere in El's mind, he knew that it was not rational, but it had been a glorious morning. He had more than two hour's worth of touch, some of it harsh, but at least his fingers had the satisfaction of skin on skin, of running through the long hair and caressing, ever so gently, the warm back of Sands' neck. He had leaned in, his whole body aching and longing, pressed just a little too close, his lips drinking the droplets from the wet hair. Sands' shoulders shook slightly and for one terrible moment, El thought he was crying. Trying to cry. The snicker reached his ears dimly, along with a murmured "Maricon." But he didn't pull away. At lunch, El finally dug around in his psyche and found enough courage to ask, "You speak Spanish like a native. How is that?" Sands laughed softly, spearing a strawberry with his fork and bringing it to his lips. They curved around the fruit provocatively, a flash of white teeth as they sank into the ruby flesh. El's eyes followed the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "Hmmm...how is that? Well, you didn't think the Agency fuckheads would send me down here if I couldn't, did you? Jesus, El." "Why did you want to come here?" "Gee, you're just all kinds of talkative today. Because, beaner-boy, the cartels don't make waves in big cities. Too conspicuous. And I need to find out what the Cleavage Inspectors mean to do about me." The thought struck El like a blow. What would the Agency do about Sands? Did they know the extent of his dirty dealing? Would they just want to talk? Or was he a big black blot on their Latin American records? His lips thinned. "I won't let them take you." Sands laughed again. "Que es mas macho!" El watched him delicately pick at the fruit on his plate. He wasn't eating much and that was worrisome. Worse, every tourist around them had become a potential enemy and his eyes darted around the cafe restlessly. "Oh for fuck's sake, calm down. No one's going to stick a gun in my face and drag me off into the sunset. Not here. Might ruin the tourist business." Sands slid a slice of peach between his lips. He swallowed and grinned. "You're clenching your fists." El fought to keep his voice steady. "How do you know that?" "Because, my big Mexican hero, you're shaking the table." El watched him lick the peach juice off his lips and his entire insides turned upside-down and ached. Sands leaned his elbows on the table and the reflection of the sun off his shades was black blindness. "And listen, sweetie-pie. I want my goddamn guns back." El shook his head. "No." "No? Well, then I'll have to use one of yours." There was a poke at his leg under the table. Sands had the silenced .45 pressed against his thigh. "I generally don't like borrowing, but lately I've been in the market, so beggars can't be choosers." Cursing himself for forgetting just how dangerous this man could be, El sighed and nodded. "Si, si...alright. They're in the case with mine." Sands sat back. "I know. I wondered how long you were gonna keep teasing me. Now, we have a late dinner date tonight at a place called El Gato Azul." They never made that date. After lunch, Sands had been content to sit and smoke quietly in the lobby. El watched him with worried eyes. He was pale and it was all too clear when a wave of pain made his face twitch and his breath shudder. It was, of course, better that he stay down here than be up in the room, rummaging through that case of guns, so El left him in peace. Sands got restless after an hour or so and cautiously prowled the empty lobby, slowly working his way around it, fingers trailing over chairbacks, knees resting momentarily against a table to gauge its location. El watched him, fascinated at how carefully he managed to maintain the illusion of sight and still feel his way. He walked towards the far corner and stopped. "El?" Sands voice was soft. El was at his side in two strides. "What? What is it?" "What is this?" El breathed out his relief. "A piano." "Really." Sands' brow knit into a frown for a moment, then he slid himself onto the bench and opened it, rubbing the dust between his fingers, then splaying them over the keyboard, hitting a few soft notes. El leaned into the graceful curve of the instrument. "Do you play?" Sands smirked and flexed his hands, then ran a long arpeggio, his fingers light on the keys. Another arpeggio, then a glissando and then, suddenly, a crashing chord followed by a soft passage, another chord and El held his breath. The music abruptly stopped. Then it began again, a low chord, then a soft run of notes that melded into a dark, aching melody that grabbed at his heart, the bass taking up the tune and delivering it back to the treble in a cadenza that coalesced into an ever-increasing frenzy of notes that crashed out of the old instrument like waves. The song turned from minor to major like sunlight breaking through a bank of clouds, the sounds so soft, so tender and Sands' fingers danced over the keys effortlessly as the first theme repeated and grew, back to the minor key, building to a heart-wrenching climax. His hands moved on the keyboard like magic, so fast, one over another, up and down in a rainshower of sound that melted back to the main theme, then built once more as the single notes became chords, his left hand rolling the bass lines like an undertow. The theme again, that sweet, sad song pushed into a frenetic cascade of notes more manic and tortured with every passage as his fingers flew over the keys. A wild, dissonant run from bass to treble, treble to bass and the piece ended in a series of dark chords, like the tolling of a funeral bell. This was music unlike anything the Mariachi had ever heard. He knew it was some classic, but never had he heard such sounds that poured from the instrument like an ocean, reaching under his ribs and tearing at his heart with elusive fingers as fine and delicate as the ones that rested now idle on the keyboard. "What was that?" El whispered. Sands' face was hidden by his hair. "Chopin." His hands wandered over the keyboard now, picking out a few bars of a melody, then another. His face was white and he suddenly pulled his hands away as if they had been burnt and closed the keyboard. He stood up quickly, then sat down again even faster. His face had gone a deathly grey. El reached out cautiously. "Let's go back upstairs. You need to rest." Sands seemed so shaken he only nodded and let El take his arm to guide him up the stairs. He forestalled any possible conversation by throwing himself on the bed and rolling over. El spent the rest of the afternoon mulling over the agony in Sands' face as his body moved with his hands on the piano, the terrible, concentrated anguish that had poured out through the music. It overshadowed everything, even the tormenting memory of his nudity in the bath. Those eight or nine minutes of musical revelation had been pure passion; searing, brilliant, and aching with despair. It was a glimpse, a way to look into his soul, even now that the windows had been shut forever. El watched him sleep long into the night and knew then, that he had finally found a crack in the ice. FIN PART ONE NOTE: The piece Sands plays is Chopin's Ballade #l in G Minor