| Some OUATIM drabbles |
[May. 13th, 2009|10:44 am] |
Rating: PG-R for swearing a bit of man sex
Pairings: Sands/Lorenzo, Sands/Fideo, Sands/El respectively
Summary: Just a few drabble/short story type things (some are a lot more than 100 words, some are less).
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Robert Rodriguez.
Author's Note: The first few drabbles are sort of related, and the last one has nothing to do with the first few. //Words in Spanish//
The average staircase has between twelve and sixteen steps. Sands knows this because he counts on every staircase he encounters. He hates having to feel around with his foot to see if he’s reached the top or the bottom. (Ex) Agent Sands does not like to look like a fool.
Salt has larger granules than sugar. Sands learned this lesson the hard way the first time El had taken him to a restaurant to have breakfast. Just when Sands thought that the cheap coffee in Mexico couldn’t get any worse, he proved himself wrong.
Canes can make great weapons. Sands had despised the long, collapsible piece of metal when Fideo had presented it to him; he hated advertising the fact that he was blind. But when he’d snuck up behind the man who’d had two pistols pointed squarely at El and whacked him over the head—felt the satisfying splash of blood against his face—he’d silently thanked the drunken mariachi.
Sands is good at getting what he wants. Really, really good. If there was a ‘getting your way’ contest, Sands would win. Fair and square, too. No shooting the judges or the other contestants or anything. But Sands discovers that without his eyes, it’s even easier to get what he wants. When Sands is arguing with someone, or attempting to manipulate them and they won’t budge, he tilts his head down, ‘accidentally’ letting his glasses slip down his nose, exposing his eye sockets. Sands finds it hard not to smirk when his opponent is suddenly overwhelmed with sympathy or disgust, and he is once again victorious. Sands traces his fingers over the small handgun in his lap, the smirk he’s been fighting finally rising. It looks like El can’t resist his powers of persuasion either.
Braille was invented by a sadistic asshole. Sands hates those little dots with a passion. What jerk-off thought that six little dots could make words? It takes Sands nearly five minutes to read one fucking paragraph, and by the time he’s finished with that paragraph, he’s too frustrated to continue on to the next one. Lorenzo takes great delight in Sands’ displeasure over stupid fucking annoying fucking Braille, just another reason for Sands to add to the list of why he hates the little guitar whore. The stupid mariachi laughs as Sands tosses the book El had somehow found him, meant for beginning Braille learners, onto the ground. Sands can just picture the smug look on Lorenzo’s face—the perfect, pretty little face he’s constructed in his own head. He pulls a small gun from his waistband, and points it directly at Lorenzo. “I would love to get a lucky shot and blind you too so that you have to deal with this shit,” he growls, before firing a shot several feet to the right of Lorenzo. The sound of wood breaking under the force of the bullet is almost as satisfying as maiming the cocky kid. Almost.
Lorenzo has a mole on his thigh, where the crease of his left ass cheek meets his leg. Sands found it as he was lifting Lorenzo’s hips, trying to hit his prostate. His fingers had traced the raised flesh, and as he’d pounded into the youngest mariachi, he’d smiled gently: Lorenzo was incredibly vain, and Sands had found a flaw.
Fideo is in love with Lorenzo. Or at least in lust. The poor little drunk had mistaken Sands’ room for his own after a late night at the local bar. It had been little work to convince the mariachi to stay in his bed, but Sands had not expected the confession that had come out of their sloppy fucking. Or more accurately, the slurred cry of, //Fuck, Lori! God, Lorenzo!// as Fideo came.
El Mariachi is a sentimental fucker, in Sands’ humble opinion. At night, Sands hears him helping Fideo to bed when he’s too drunk to do it himself. He watches after Lorenzo like an older brother or a father. He’s too soft on the kid, Sands thinks. Sometimes he wholeheartedly believes Lorenzo just needs a good smack, or a swift kick to the balls, not El’s misguided attempt to…well…guide him. And then there’s the way he holds Sands after sex, like they’re in a relationship and Sands hasn’t just come from Lorenzo’s bed smelling of tequila, hand-rolled cigarettes and semen. Sands wants to tell El to fuck off the moment he feels the mariachi’s arms wrap around his waist, but he doesn’t because maybe, just maybe, he kind of, sort of likes it. Maybe.
El made his way to the graveyard just as the sun was setting. All around him, he could hear the gentle murmurs of prayers and soft singing, his path lit by the glow of hundreds of candles. The mariachi walked slowly to a grave unlit by candles, with no offerings of food or sugar skulls or flowers. El brushed the dead leaves away from the still fairly fresh grave, placing a small white lily on the ground. He pulled his guitar from where it had been slung over his back, sat in front of the small gray headstone and began tuning the instrument absently.
El closed his eyes as a cool breeze blew through his unbound hair. Taking a deep breath, the mariachi began playing a quiet tune he vaguely remembered from his childhood. As El finished the song, he opened his eyes, smiling slightly at the figure that stood before him. Pale as a skeleton and nearly as thin, the American smirked silently, pushing his black hair away from his sharp features. El rested his guitar on the ground, standing slowly and reaching out a hand towards Sands. He brushed his fingers across the American’s bone-white cheek, before tracing a hollow eye socket with a guitar-calloused finger.
“Lo siento,” El whispered. The man before him nodded, and for a moment, El saw white eyes and brown irises and black pupils staring back at him before the pale man before him disappeared. “Lo siento,” El murmured again, kneeling to pick up his guitar and to cast one last glance at the headstone, which said only ‘Sheldon Jeffery Sands ?-9 Noviembre, 2003’.
El had tried his best to care for Sands, but the fever had been too much. Now, every year, on the anniversary of Sands’ blinding, El returned to his grave to once again beg for the American’s forgiveness. He had been the cause of many deaths, but for this one, he could not forgive himself.
Lo siento means I'm sorry.
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