Tangible Schizophrenia


Reception Party

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Guy sex, bad humor and unorthodox cursing.
Pairing: Sands/El, Lorenzo/Fideo
Feedback: Would appreciate any bone you throw my way.
Disclaimer: Characters and general background belong to R. Rodriguez, etc.
Notes: //words// in Spanish. Mexican town names randomly chosen from here.
Summary: One tequila, two tequila, three tequila…floor.


"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction better electroshock the furry fucker back to life," Sands muttered ominously to himself. He couldn't believe what his ears were telling him. God fuck all bastards, but he'd just spent two months tracking these idiots, and where did he find them?

Playing at a wedding.

Well, they were musicians. And Sands supposed that doing a set in the Presidential Palace made for one hell of a recommendation. But really, how the hell was he supposed to get near El in the middle of all this…cheery, probably-colorful-but-definitely-jangling, exuberant crowd of dancing and skipping people? The sounds of jewelry and glasses clinking alone was giving Sands a headache. Let alone the wailing coming from the far end of the room.

"No one even to kill," he muttered sullenly to himself, forcing his hands to stay away from his guns. His cane began to swing back and forth, pendulum-like, cutting lines in the dust, and irritably Sands stilled it. If he whacked someone here, with anything, the wedding guests alone would probably trample him before the three mariachi heroes could even flick out their metal. Sighing, Sands settled his sunglasses firmly on his nose and began shoving and tapping his way through the swirling mob, unerringly following the sour smell of piss and vomit to the bar. He listened for the loudest braggart calling for a drink, sidling surreptitiously up on the side, and then with one undetectable jab of his cane-tip, sent the man tumbling onto the floor.

Whistling innocently, Sands casually but quickly claimed the newly-vacated stool and rapped on the counter. "One tequila with lime, please," he called, one hand feeling in his pocket for money (coins were easy; bills had to be folded lengthwise or widthwise or diagonally, though exact application of a gun barrel usually convinced the clerks to cooperate) and dropping a sufficient amount on the wood. When his drink came, Sands downed it quickly so the taste of the shit wouldn't linger and, resigned, settled onto the barstool for a long wait.


El dropped a note.

Yeah, he recovered, and no one even noticed, but El never fucked up his music. Never before his hand was shot, and especially never afterwards, when he had to relearn everything. It was enough to jostle Fideo out of his sloshed haze-though the liquor did little to affect his playing-and he turned to his friend, whispering quickly between verses, //What's wrong?//

Silently, El jerked his chin toward the bar, all the earlier sad merriment that had briefly lightened his face draining away. Fideo looked over. Drunk, drunk, unconscious, drunk, skinny Americano, drunk-wait.

The stranger at the bar wore snug jeans and a black suitjacket, and when he twisted around briefly to shrug off a stumbling inebriate, Fideo also caught a glimpse of a black leather vest over what seemed to be a black t-shirt. Which told him the man was American, since no Mexican would wear a baking-oven outfit like that during the hot day. Some wore suits, it was true, but they always wore the whole suit, so as to make it clear that they were somebody. Only an Americano would sacrifice his sense for half-done style. He had long dark hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, big dark shades and a white cane that dangled from a wrist-strap. And at least two guns, Fideo knew instinctively.

//Cartel?// he asked out of the corner of his mouth. Apparently he was too drunk to control his volume; Lorenzo overheard and perked up. El, however, shook his head. //CIA.//

On El's other side, Lorenzo was visibly crushed, lower lip pushing out in a well-practiced pout. Several girls dancing right in front of the crude stage wavered, sighing and shrieking at the sight of it. Fideo rolled his eyes, and nearly rolled himself off the platform as he forgot to hold his head still. El pushed him back with an expert kick, then leaned in so both men could hear him. //He's been here for fifteen minutes, just sitting//, El said. //Leave him to me.//

//You sure?// Lorenzo asked. In answer, El nodded and belted out another few lines. The youngest mariachi looked questioningly at Fideo, who bent carefully over the side of the stage, still strumming beautifully, and threw up into a handy bucket. He then wiped his mouth with a rag, shoved it into his pocket and stepped up for a solo. Lorenzo whuffed in annoyance, his entire demeanor shouting 'Fuck you. Have it your way,' and turned his attention to the female members of the audience.


Finally the damn party was winding down. Sands paid for his last bottle, then slowly got off his seat, wincing as his cramped legs began to snap relaxed. Before he had gotten half off, however, his back collided with someone else. Of course, he'd been shoved and had shoved back for the past two hours, but this was somehow different. Probably the lack of sway on the other person's part. Or maybe the gun nestled up to the base of Sands' spine.

//What are you doing here?// El. Obviously. Poor man sounded a bit pissed off, that deep voice of his going scratchy and coarse like sand in the transmission of a Porsche. Tired, but then he had been singing ridiculously sappy lyrics for the whole day. "Really, a man whose wife runs off with all the money should just shoot the dicksucker," Sands mocked, referring to the last song. "Stalking her down and then killing himself in front of her is just such a…a…countrified cliché."

The warm body moved closer as El rested his hand against the bar counter, trapping Sands between the mariachi and the barstool. "This is not a good place for you," he murmured into Sands' ear, moist hot breath tickling the curl of cartilage.

"No fucking shit," Sands replied caustically, nonchalantly slouching back. "The tequila is crap and the beer's worse than embryonic fluid. You're taking me somewhere better, or I'm leaving."

That staggered the hero for a second. "You think I want you here?" El said at last, slowly so Sands could hear every little vibration. The American made a meaningless little wave with the hand that wasn't holding the cane and replied, "Well, if I leave you'll have a hard time paying off your debt."

El cut loose with a tiny scoffing chuckle, dripping sweet molasses. "I owe you a debt? I heard the stories, about the blind gunslinging gringo who'd moved south of the border, but they never said you were delusional."

"Well, you do," Sands stated with finality. "Starting with a bottle of decent tequila. And get the damn gun out of my back. I'm sore enough as it is from waiting for you three to finish up your shit."

"Are you here for anyone?" El asked skeptically.

"Have any bodies turned up?" After a minute, the gun withdrew and Sands felt himself being taken by one elbow. "Where are we going?" he prodded, as El guided him out of the still-crowded room and down the hallway, two pairs of boots making soft thuds on the carpet.

"I have a room in the hotel. With tequila." And that was it. El clearly was a true subscriber to the school of stoic silence. Or maybe it was silent stoicism. Sands was beginning to think he was a little buzzed. His legs were still working fine, though, and-his cane clinked against something and he swerved just in time to miss crashing into the side of the elevator-so were his reflexes. Anyway, there was no way he was getting through this conversation without some source of alcohol. El could be the designated pistolero. Which reminded Sands…"Could you not shoot me?"

The elevator pinged; they'd gone up, three floors to judge by the time elapsed. El dragged Sands out, moving with decided irritation. "Hey," Sands protested, "I'm blind, you inconsiderate fuckass."

"I noticed," El answered dryly. "So was it Barillo or Marquez?"

"Barillo's daughter, actually," Sands said, swallowing down the gorge that still rose whenever he thought of that bitch. "Marquez doesn't have the imagination."

Nearly shoving him into the room and onto the bed, El retreated only long enough to kick the door shut and lock it; the mariachi had probably done even that while still training a gun on Sands. The American grinned, pulling himself up so he sat on the edge of the mattress. "Nice of you to still think of me as dangerous."

"When I remember what you put me through," El said, a violent smile curving his voice, "It seems less…unexpected."

"Oh, you mean the whole 'give you a chance to save your country'?" The lightness falling from his speech, Sands continued seriously, "You do realize that Marquez was planning a coup with or without my involvement. Even if I'd never clawed my way out of Momma's belly, the Day of the Dead still would have had real death."

Brooding, slightly-startled silence. Then the sound of El crossing the room and the feel of a hand sliding into Sands' jacket. "What the-" he grabbed El's wrist and instantly had a gun pressed to his forehead. Sands froze. "Look," he explained warily, "I don't put out on a first date."

A snort of amused disgust, and the gun moved away. Just a little. Sands could still smell its cold metallic presence hovering near his temple. "I am not talking to you when you're armed," El declared.

Fuck. Well, he didn't need this paranoid son of a fifty-peso whore. El could take his goddamn…really fast…and effective…guns and shove them up his…acrobatic and very capable ass. Fuck. "Fine, but I'm keeping my cane. And you're holstering your gun. And I'm getting tequila in the next five minutes."

"That is acceptable." Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Sands released the wrist and waited patiently while El searched him and took away all the guns, knives, garrotes-the man was really too knowledgeable about secret spy gear. It made Sands wonder. There were several soft thumps as El set Sands' things down on the sidetable, and then some odd noises. The bed suddenly dipped under El's weight as the mariachi sat down, one leg stretched behind Sands and the another bent-kneed so a boot-tip poked Sands in the hip. A cool bottle was pushed against the American's hand.

Curling his fingers around the glass, Sands popped the top off with a thumb and took a sip, rolling the liquid thoughtfully around his mouth. Then he swigged the tequila, afterwards wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "A great improvement," he proclaimed, lying back and scooting-slowly, so the good stuff didn't spill-to sprawl across bed, legs arched over the one of El's.

"So what is this 'debt' that you spoke of?" El inquired, when they'd both gotten settled.

Sands raised a hand and began to tick off his fingertips. "One-you took my fifteen million pesos. Two-I killed Ajedrez-"


"Barillo's girl. She was a Mexican special agent who was one of my contacts," Sands half-sighed, half-growled. "Now don't interrupt, or I'll run out of alcohol and you'll have to get me more. Two-I killed Ajedrez, which distracted Barillo and kept her from revenging dear daddy after you'd killed him. Three-I helped you save Mexico."

El laughed shortly, chuckles cutting off abruptly with the sound of swallowing. Tequila, Sands' nose told him. So the mariachi wasn't a total wet blanket.

"Four-In performing the aforementioned items, I lost my sight and got shot in the legs. Five-Chiclet suffered losses of revenue to the amount of twenty-five American dollars by helping me get to a hospital after the fighting. So I paid him, and you therefore owe me that too, by virtue of being the one starting the entire mess." Sands paused, craning his head up briefly to drink. "Any questions?"

"I do not know this 'Chiclet,' and I did not begin this."

Shaking his head, Sands gestured rudely. "Never answer a rhetorical question, El," he admonished. Then he blew out air noisily. "Whatever. Chiclet was a kid, who, of course, sold gum. And before you ask, he's very alive and very well."

"You cared for someone?" Bastard sounded surprised and almost approving, which annoyed Sands to no end. Like he needed someone to tell him yea or nay.

"Shut up," the American bit off, chugging down half the bottle. Something occurred to Sands. He turned his head toward El, sunglasses digging into the side of his face, and asked, "So who did start this?"

"Marquez. You…were right. I cannot blame you for that."

"Halle-fucking-lujah," Sands muttered. "He's seen the light."


//Is El completely blind?// Lorenzo demanded, stomping around the room he and Fideo shared, slamming his things around. //That guy was fucking CIA, the fucking one that got us into Dias de Los Muertos, and El just takes him back to his room, like they're buddies?//

Fideo contemplated shoving his head beneath a pillow, but his roommate had already tossed them across the floor and he felt too tired to bother retrieving them. //If we get kicked out of this hotel, El will not be happy//, he pointed out, toeing off his boots and flopping onto his lovely soft bed.

//Go suck yourself// was Lorenzo's succinct answer. //What if El has a problem?//

//He won't.//

//And how do you know?// Lorenzo snapped angrily, rummaging around for their own alcoholic stash.

//I do//, Fideo answered slurringly, starting to doze off, //because I'm told. And now you do, because you've been told.//

Emitting snarls and muttered imprecations between swallows, Lorenzo sulkily slumped on the floor and polished off his first bottle.


A long, uncomfortable silence reigned. Sands gave it the metaphorical finger and snuggled down, licking the last of the tequila from the bottle rim. Beside him on the bed, El shifted. Wriggled, really. "Yeah?" Sands asked harshly.

"What are you expecting as repayment?" was El's stunningly insightful excuse for a reply.

"Right now, another tequila would do me just fine," Sands said, voice thinning a little as he arched his back out, popping bones. He waved the empty bottle vaguely in El's direction. It was taken from him; a bit of glass tinkling, and a new bottle replaced it. The atmosphere in the mariachi's corner of the bed was positively long-suffering. Like they'd been the ones married. Actually, not quite that. Like they'd been married, forever, and knew what the other would say ages before it was even thought. 'Course, if that were true, then El's next little comment would be-

"You're sweating. Only idiots would dress like you in this heat."

Blinking, Sands systematically studied the darkness before him. That was fucking creepy. That was weirder than Cucuy in a schoolgirl's outfit. That deserved a toast.

The American opened his newest tequila and took a deep draft.

"Sands…" El drifted off, apparently as perplexed as his companion. Grunting, Sands levered himself up and awkwardly stripped off his jacket, shifting his bottle from hand to hand as he did, then flung it over the bed. Then he lay back again. On further thought, he unbuttoned his vest as well. "You know, we could really use some limes and salt," Sands tossed off.

"Answer my question." Man, did El sound impatient. Bit different from the recluse Sands remembered. He wondered if El's eyes still glimmered like dying coals, or if they'd ever kindled after the shit went down. After all, the mariachis hadn't exactly been vacationing. Despite the occasional wedding. Bodies all behind them. More than behind Sands, actually, and that was a little sobering. But not much, since it also was pretty condescending of those pricks. "Oh no, I accidentally massacred another hacienda," Sands sing-songed sarcastically. "Guess that's another thirty-something marks against me-but wait, I'm good. Never mind."

"Are you drunk?" El queried, bumping Sands' legs with a boot-sole. The American didn't deign to answer that, instead flopping out an arm and half-heartedly scrabbling at El's shin, trying to shove it away. The leg--the leg of The--shifted down; oddly enough, Sands' hand seemed to want to follow, staying glued to the calf. Well, okay. His other hand was still behaving and holding onto his cane. S'all good. Except he'd stopped drinking-what the fuck? That had to be remedied immediately.


Fideo woke far too soon with a strong sense of impending doom cuddling up to his back. He carefully extricated himself and sat up, looking behind him.

Blurry brown eyes returned his gaze dizzily, rolling slightly in their sockets. //Whassayaduggin'?// Lorenzo slurred, staggering even though he was lying down on the bed.

//Shitwit//, Fideo mumbled somewhat affectionately, getting off the mattress and poking around. Five minutes later, he was feeling much less friendly and much more homicidal as he kicked the bed. The little jackass had drunk all their alcohol: the beer, the tequila, the unidentifiable shit in the plastic quart jug…

Cursing Lorenzo for three generations back, Fideo swiped the room phone off its hook and frantically dialed, only to slam it back after a few sentences of entirely too-solemn conversation. The wedding had cleaned out the hotel, and probably the town; El might have had something, but he was closeted with that CIA dick. And Lorenzo was completely smashed. So Fideo couldn't go out and look for a drink anyway.

//Shit.// Fideo lay back down, closing his eyes and hoping to sleep through sobriety.

A warm, wet thing touched his face, then began skating all over it: tracing brows and cheekbones, brushing lips, outlining nose, poking eyes--//Shit!//

Fideo jerked back, rubbing a hand over his face. One pouting Lorenzo glared up at him. //Wha' now?// the younger mariachi whined.

//Why the hell are you licking my face?//

Rolling his entire long body in a loose-limbed gesture of contempt, Lorenzo sniped, //'Cause ya ta-te-taste good. 'm not gon' lick somethin' gross, lik' th'Fed.//

The Fed? Fideo thought about that for a moment. Found it eerily and scarily plausible, given what and how El had told him about Agent Sands. Fuck. He really, really needed a drink. Reality was too damn strange without a nice haze between him and it.

Below, Lorenzo attempted to sit up and listed over the edge of the bed, only grabbing onto Fideo at the last possible moment. The boy reeked.

Fideo thought about that, and then bent down and proceeded to unceremoniously stuff his own tongue into Lorenzo's pretty pink, conveniently-parted lips. He systematically extracted every bit of alcohol still clinging to the insides of his friend's mouth, swiping over teeth and gums and soft yielding flesh. It wasn't much, but every drop helped.

Eventually having to breathe, Fideo pulled back only to have Lorenzo's unexpectedly strong arms lock around his waist. The other mariachi had a delicate flush staining his cheeks, shading to deep cherry on his neck and ears, and his breathing was quick and shallow. And his eyes…were shining, brighter than the sun at high noon.

Except for the scudding beer-colored clouds that kept drifting over the pupils. Fideo huffed, trying to pry himself free. //Look, Lorenzo//, he said, not looking at the other man, //You're…very drunk. Drunker than a priest at Communion. So you should let go, lie down and sleep it off, and when you wake up with an exploding head, I'll kick your bony ass back to sleep, okay?//

//Hmm?// The boy avoided Fideo's brush-offs with the liquid grace of those with 100-proof coursing through their veins, and clawed his way up until he could wrap around Fideo's neck and blunder into another burning kiss.


"Why is your hand on my leg?" El posed mildly. Sands finished his swig and shrugged.

"Why do you ask so many damn questions?" the American retorted. "You weren't anything near this curious before."

"You're not answering any of mine," El observed, unseen gaze still singeing Sands' body. Same to you, Mariachi Man, Sands thought. I'd like to know why you haven't taken my hand off. Can't possibly be that aggressive-passive. Passive-aggressive. Passing. Did El think Sands was making a pass at him? Arrogant dickhead.

The boot prodded at Sands' ribs again. Irritated, he whipped his cane around, but it was instantly intercepted and yanked, dragging him over and forward onto El's lap. Familiar metal pushed against Sands' temple. "Fucking Satan's ass," he complained loudly, "Didn't we go over this?"

"Answer. Me."

"Fine, fine," Sands grumbled, warily shifting himself so his neck wouldn't cramp. "You're so lucky I finished that bottle first, or we'd stink worse than a Tijuana public stall."

To his great surprise, El handed him more tequila. Sands blinked, popped the lid and drank. "Okay," he began, slurring occasionally. "I'm going on the assumption that we both agree you owe me. So I retired. CIA took me back long enough to do some patch-up and find out what happened-which really sent the wind up Langley's raddled tail-and then they informed me that I could either take early retirement or sit behind a desk, and do you know how fucking hard to do paperwork is when it's in Braille? 'Course not. Langley couldn't sack me completely 'cause Marquez did die and 'cause the coup scared the shit out of your President, so he's concentrating on internal affairs and ignoring the U. S. for the moment. Which is technically what was supposed to happen."

"I find it hard to believe that they would simply let you go. They never let people walk away," El said, putting the gun away. He still was holding onto Sands' cane.

"Yeah, that's about it. Now I'm an unofficial consultant," Sands muttered into El's belly. "I keep an ear out for 'merica and don't fuck up Big Business, and I can go my merry way, for the most part."

"But you cannot, because you need me to kill someone," El stated, voice laced with harsh resignation. Startled, Sands reflexively looked up, drinking his tequila with a pensive expression.

"No one ever comes to me unless they want death," El responded to the unasked question floating over the two men's heads.

"Well, you can kill them if you want," Sands said indifferently. "I can still murder and wreak mayhem by myself just fine, thank you. But what I really wanted-was…well…to ask…to ask…you…" he was gritting his teeth, forcing out the necessary words, "…for…he--assistance."

And then the American quickly chugged his drink, attempting to erase the hated feeling of helplessness with the warm burn in his throat.


Halfway through the kiss, Fideo gave up. Lorenzo obviously wasn't going to, and, well, if they were going to fuck, they were going to fuck. Nothing to be done. The boy already blamed drunkenness for that mess back in La Puerta del Monte. Besides, Lorenzo would probably pass out trying to get out of his pants.

Or maybe getting into Fideo's pants. The older mariachi wasn't really doing more than holding Lorenzo up, but the boy was more or less ripping the clothes off the two of them. Lorenzo's mouth seemed to be everywhere, nipping and licking and kissing nerves to singing life. His hands, numbed though they were by the alcohol, nevertheless undid buttons and zippers at an alarming rate as they sought bare skin, rasping guitar- and gun-calluses over Fideo's body. Trying frantically to keep up, Fideo finally toppled himself forward, pinning Lorenzo's back to the bed. Undeterred, the boy snaked long, long legs around the back of his partner's knees and clenched their bodies together.

Suddenly gasping, sweat springing from nowhere onto his face, Fideo groaned as his growing erection ground against Lorenzo's, involuntarily reveling in the slip-slide of hot skin, the wiry tickling of hair trapped between squirming limbs. He was leaving openmouthed kisses on Lorenzo's throat and shoulders before he quite realized what he was doing, and by then the boy was moaning little delicious prayers, like //please, oh Madonna, more// and //harder//.

Their unfastened pants gradually worked themselves down lean muscles as the two men thrust against each other, finally stopping in constraining bunches around knees. Fideo threaded one hand through short soaked hair and yanked Lorenzo's head back so he could devour the sweet, stubble-rasping line of the jaw, then moved up for a long, soul-bruising kiss that left both pairs of lips bleeding when he pulled back for a heave of breath. Whimpering feebly, Lorenzo raked demanding nails down Fideo's back, urging on the pace.

Driving each other on, they came nearly together, bodies stiffening against the abrupt cessation of motion. Lorenzo emitted a thin, high keen, mouth spread jaw-breakingly wide as he thrashed, spraying droplets all over Fideo's stomach and chest, while Fideo was silent, only a jerk of his hips and a deep gasp marking his climax.

Barely propping himself up on wobbly elbows, Fideo waited patiently for his vision to clear, then examined the face under his.

//Fucking God, that was good//, Lorenzo panted, eyes hugely dilated, eyelids fluttering with languid satisfaction. //Why the hell haven't we done this before?//

Still drunk. Fideo rolled his eyes and slumped off to the side onto his back.


Sands and El both heard the cry, automatically tensing in preparation for the worst. When the only thing that showed was a fly buzzing around the bedside lamp, Sands realized the truth and relaxed. "Thin walls for a nuptial," he remarked.

Which for some reason sent El into uncontrollable hysterics-okay, it didn't. But the man did laugh once; same thing, for him. For once, curiosity strolled in without irritation riding its back. "What?"

"That was not the bride," El chuckled. "That was my friend."

"'s gotta be the tall puppy, then," Sands grinned, also amused. "From what people tell me, your other buddy looks too butch."

"So what do you need assistance with?" El asked conversationally. Just what the fuck kind of clockwork spun this guy's brain? Sands wondered. He wiped out entire towns to get to one gangster, fucked up the capital-and in Mexico that took a lot--to take on the army, and then he could just turn around and apparently forgive Sands? Yeah, well, that was workable.

Except for admitting the whole 'I'm not quite as badass as I used to be' problem. Shit. Shit in his stomach, roiling and surging and fuck but Sands should've known better than to mix good crap with bad crap. He dropped his cane and the empty bottle onto the bed, and hastily rose, only to be stopped yet again by-"Look, get that fucking thing out of my face or I'll puke all over your chains."

"Oh," El answered.

Oh oh oh, Sands snarled savagely to himself, staggering off the bed. And then an arm slid under his, and El very nicely and very gently carried him over to the bathroom, putting his hands on the edge of the toilet before the mariachi stepped back. The American would've snarked something, but his mouth was a little too full of sour vomit, with the convulsing in his throat and stomach promising more to come.

Sands threw up.


//You'll be sick soon//, Fideo spoke to the ceiling, absently grabbing at Lorenzo's still-wandering hands. The other mariachi snorted disbelievingly, and then slurped clumsily at Fideo's cock. Which began to rise again, much to Fideo's own incredulity.

Scooting up against the headboard, Fideo pinned Lorenzo's wrists together in one hand and picked up the boy's chin in the other so he could look directly into those dizzying eyes. //Just what the fuck are you doing?//

//Fucking?// Lorenzo offered innocently.

//Goddamn it, Lorenzo--// and suddenly Fideo was cut off by another sloppy kiss. Disturbingly, their appeal seemed to be growing on him. His cock certainly was enjoying it. But…damn it, he was sober and now felt responsible. //You have no idea what you're doing//, Fideo muttered gruffly, pulling away.

Hands seized his face and forcibly turned him back. Looking down on him earnestly, Lorenzo asked plaintively, //Don't you think I like you?//


//Why the fuck else do I hang around you?// the younger mariachi went on, tone growing more upset. //El didn' ask me t'haul your ass around. I could be his friend an' not yours. But no…I stay with you. An' you stay with me.//

//I don't do one-time fucks, Lorenzo//, Fideo growled, more harshly than he'd intended due to the unexpected warmth suffusing his cheeks. He hadn't blushed in years, and he didn't mean to start. //That's your line.//

Nothing but breathing, air scraping in and out as Lorenzo's eyes widened so the whites blanked out his pupils. And then he punched Fideo, slamming the other's head back into the wall, where it nearly cracked the plaster. //Go to hell, you bastard//, he gritted out, chin up in injured dignity as he moved away.

Tried to, actually; the accumulated liquor in his system throwing off his balance just enough for Fideo to grab Lorenzo by the hips and yank him back. //Let go of me, you fucking dick!// Lorenzo shouted, slapping at the hands holding him still. //You goddamn high-and-mighty motherfucker--//

//I'm sorry//. Fideo buried his face in his partner's back and repeated, //I'm sorry. Lorenzo-I'm-I-fuck, you drank all the damn tequila. I'm stupid when I'm sober. 's why I try not to-I'm sorry.//

Ever so gradually, the younger mariachi untensed, ceasing his assault, though his posture still remained angry. //At least you didn't offer to pay//, he finally muttered.

//You and El took my share away after Cuernavaca// Fideo reminded him, provoking a fond chuckle from Lorenzo.

//Yeah, Fideo, you were a real stupid shit there.// Lorenzo kept giggling, though his chortles got softer and softer. //You're still an idiot. We already had a first time, and then you gotta turn down th'second 'cause you don' wan' to stop.//

//You are so fucking far gone//, Fideo said, mouthing a shoulderblade gently. His hands traced down Lorenzo's sides to the boy's cock, thumbs rubbing circles against the tender inner thighs. Sighing, Lorenzo leant his head back onto Fideo's chest and made little shifts of the hips, teasing Fideo's cock and encouraging the warm fingers stroking him.


Spitting out the last of his half-digested breakfast, Sands knelt there on the tile floor for a moment, wondering how he was going to get through the next few minutes. Unfortunately, his head was beginning to clear, and the twinges in his stomach were sending firm warnings against trying to blur the world up again. He had a sinking feeling that he'd given away just a little too much to El.

The mariachi, meanwhile, was brushing strands of hair back from Sands' face, taking off his sunglasses, wiping his mouth and chin with a damp towel, and pressing a plastic glass of something into his hands. Water, Sands discovered when he sipped it, twirling it around his mouth before feeling his way to the sink and spitting it out. "Where's my cane?" he asked breathlessly, still a bit nauseous.

"Here." El gave it to him. And then El kissed him, lingering and comfortable.

"Wha-what?" Sands managed to stammer, when they'd parted. Seeing as the man was still pressed up to Sands' side, he could feel the uncertainty in El's shrug.

"That was the worst-tasting kiss I have ever had in my life," the mariachi commented wryly. "You should rinse your mouth again."

Okay. His knees were unaccountably wavering, but Sands could do that. His mouth did still taste gross. Not like the acid sweetness in El's, about which Sands was not going to think.

Then after he'd spit in the sink, the bastard had to go and kiss him again. This time his legs failed. Collapsing into El's arms, Sands made a note to shoot somebody as soon as he got things settled. Cliché, but his manhood definitely needed reassertion at this point. Way past fucking embarrassing now-a nice hand stroked down and massaged his ass. Whatever. Instant gratification was very much in Sands' personal description.


Grinning madly, in one fluid motion Lorenzo twisted around, lifted up off Fideo's fingers and plunged himself down onto Fideo's cock.

//Oh FUCK!// Flailing under the onslaught of tight fire encircling his erection, Fideo grabbed at Lorenzo's thighs-which shifted everything. //Oh, Holiest of Holies…//

//C'mon, c'mon c'mon//, the happily bouncing mariachi in his lap chanted insistently, already fucking himself.

//Fine, fine//, Fideo mock-grumbled, tilting Lorenzo backwards so he could get some decent leverage and properly ream the kid. Fingers digging holes into Lorenzo's legs, Fideo tried a first thrust, feeling out the territory. Moaning, Lorenzo wriggled around. Fideo pushed in a second time, and Lorenzo's voice broke, skimming the scales rapidly into a whimper.

Good angle, then. Making sure the other man couldn't move, Fideo commenced his assault, alternating long deep thrusts with short hip rolls that threw Lorenzo's body into a beautiful upward bow.


Muffled screaming interrupted Sands' and El's groping session, which had gotten rather intense. Sands' inner shirt-which was a button-down and not a t-shirt as Fideo had assumed-hung wide open; his leather vest dangled from one arm and his pants zipper was at half-mast. El had lost his jacket and pants, and when they stopped, the mariachi had just finished carefully removing his various weapons while at the same time trying to keep Sands' amorous hands from accidentally-or intentionally-running across one.

"Damn, is that your friend again?" Sands gasped, one hand working up El's shirt. "His screaming's more girly than a virgin whore losing it."

"One of them, yes," El replied distractedly. "The other-" he paused briefly to listen, hands frustratingly still on Sands' ass, "The other…is also my friend," he finished, sounding bemused.

"Fucking adorable," the American grunted, taking in a mouthful of chest and biting. El abruptly dropped down and Sands' pants were suddenly ripped down his legs and somehow over his shoes, trails of reddening burn rising in the fabric's wake. "Shit!" he yelled. "You could've torn off my balls!"

"But I did not," El pointed out far-too-reasonably, and then the mariachi came back up, the click of a plastic bottle opening heralding his approach. Sands managed to grab two broad shoulders just before the first finger stabbed in, finding the spot much too quickly and shorting out Sands' mind.


Lightning blew through Fideo's entire body, but he forced himself to keep moving through and past it, until beneath him Lorenzo shrieked and spasmed. Then Fideo climaxed, unable to withstand the rippling squeeze around his cock.

The pair of them melted into the bedcovers, breathless and exhausted. Fideo nuzzled at the damp hollow of Lorenzo's throat, while the other mariachi feathered trembling fingers over the arms and legs still wrapped around him. Then Lorenzo cocked his head, looking up, puzzled, into Fideo's eyes. //Is that El?//


El barely gave Sands any preparation before the hulking bastard cupped two hands around Sands' thighs and heaved, throwing the slighter man up against the wall. Sands' head smacked the plaster. "Ow! You dickeating-"

El took one step forward and shoved his cock into Sands' ass, sending the American into a full-body shake. Sands dug his nails into the backs of El's shoulders until he drew blood. "God, fuck me. Harder, goddammit, you pitiful loose-assed prick, you fucking dogshitting cocksucker…" he groaned, crossing his legs behind El's back and shoving himself down as hard as he could.

For the first few minutes, El obeyed, giving it to Sands as hard as he could imagine, but then the mariachi suddenly, unexplainably stopped. And when Sands, cursing direly, tried to make him move, El wrenched the American's wrists up onto the wall and pinned them together above Sands' head. "What do you want from me?" El hissed.

Laughing hollowly, Sands smirked back. "Been learning from your enemies?" he gasped.

"Since I met you," El answered, dark humor spreading his voice into rich rasping tones, "I have had to become more cunning. It was a useful lesson."

Uselessly, Sands tugged at his wrists. Noting the struggling, El clasped his other arm more securely around Sands' body and rocked towards the wall, once, languorously, shredding moans from Sands' throat. Catlike, he licked up one side of the American's neck, then detoured to flick teeth against a soft earlobe.


//No. It's probably the CIA agent//, Fideo replied absently.

//What!?// Lorenzo tried to lunge off the bed, but his recent exertions and his lingering inebriation allowed Fideo to easily hold him down. //Hey…//

//If the American is the one yelling, El is fine// Fideo told his lover.

//Okay, fine// Lorenzo glowered, staring at Fideo. Fideo stared back. //Dumb shit//, the younger mariachi muttered, grudgingly moving himself to cuddle back against the other man. Fideo blinked, then draped an arm over Lorenzo.

//I don' really want to think about whatever El's doin'//, Lorenzo murmured, sounding sleepy. //Doesn' sound like it's torture.//

//If you'd saved some of the tequila, we could've made sure that we couldn't think about it// Fideo observed, just shy of accusingly. Lorenzo whuffed, lazily elbowing the other mariachi.

//Shaddup and sleep.//


If he didn't get some relief soon, he was going to die. Blinding, getting shot, it all hurt, but that was then and this was now and Sands was in fucking pain. His ass was shuddering, his cock felt twenty sizes too big for the skin covering it and The Mariachi was calmly ravaging Sands' mouth with lips and tongue and only God and the devil knew what else.

Sands struggled to speak, causing El to back off slightly. "I need," he forced out through clenched teeth, "a partner. Because-look, you know why."

"Yes," El said succinctly, and then he let go of Sands' wrists and slammed his hips up, hand dropping to work Sands' cock ruthlessly.

Unable to control himself any longer, Sands climaxed furiously, the contractions of his abused ass milking El into coming as well. They both howled, rattling the glass of the mirror over the sink.


Groaning again for an entirely different reason, Fideo reluctantly rolled away from Lorenzo to grab the phone and dial blindly. An irate voice came on, and he immediately broke into a string of abject apologies, promising money and the Virgin Mother only knew what else to pacify the hotel manager. At last convincing the hotel not to throw them out, Fideo scrabbled the phone back into its cradle and fell back into bed, spooning behind the peacefully-sleeping Lorenzo.


Sands woke to an angry argument in Spanish. Blearily, moving cautiously because of the screaming ache in his ass-and he had to grin smugly at that memory-he wrapped a corner of the bedsheet around himself and sat up. The quarreling stopped.

//Okay, he's pretty// said a light tenor, half-admiring and half-resentfully. Someone growled from the man's left, and the stranger went on, //Christ, Fideo. I wouldn't sleep with him if somebody held a gun to my head. Either head.//

//Fideo?// El inquired.

//Lorenzo//--so that was the name of the wailer--//drank all my alcohol. I've been sober since dinner yesterday.//

//I made it up to you//, Lorenzo muttered. Footsteps approached the bed, and someone dropped Sands' shirt onto his head. "He's coming with us," El stated, tone brooking no further discussion.

"Mind saying why?" Lorenzo asked, still irritated.

"Because the fucker owes me dinner," Sands interjected, feeling for the seams and then sliding his arms into the sleeves.

"Dinner," Fideo repeated.

"Yes…a drink, a dinner and dancing, is it?" El responded, handing Sands the cane.

"Damn straight," Sands declared. "Now where the fuck are my shades?"


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