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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R. Rough sex with no details.
Pairing: El/Sands, ref. to El/Carolina
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn.
Notes: Inspired by T. S. Eliot's 'The Wasteland,' the poems of Jacques Prévert and my fever.
Summary: For the contrelamontre 'regret' challenge. Written in 26 minutes.
***
When they fucked, Sands told El he wanted it. He told him to pin down and thrust, to bite, to snarl, to fuck. And El did. The mariachi slammed Sands up against the wall and tore in; he scraped blood onto his teeth from neck and shoulder and lips. That was what Sands wanted. That was what El wanted.
Before death, before the thunder spoke and Sands dripped his eyes into the dust-fear in dust, fear in a handful of dirt that might blow in and leave him literally with nothing but shit in his head-before the sermon of fire preached by revelers-turned-soldiers and by a musician-turned-killer, Sands had wanted something else. Comfort. Safety. Not for others, for himself. Mexico drowned its poor at birth and left the empty bodies to the puppet-strings of the strong, like him. He'd carved his beat from bodies and fear, had his own little trail through the wasteland. His own path, with ten-foot concrete walls and barbed wire and the best security embezzled money could buy.
He has no path now, no haven. He's got a dead-walking mariachi and a cane. He's got a pension and a few good guns. He's got no eyes. He's walking his way in the dark forest of nightmares and memories, and he's forgotten the way.
He knows El's in the same place, and that's why he goes to him. He knows El's going to a different destination and that's why he goads the man, scratches the tenderness from him and clamps down until El can either lose his dick or rip Sands open.
He hears when El stumbles over his name, feels when the other man reaches for streaming dark locks and finds only shirt and back, senses when El starts to forget and treats him too softly, too delicately, like a woman. Sands is not Carolina. Sands has no Carolina, none to call him through the black woods to the end of the journey. Sands doesn't want one.
But sometimes, when they're lying limp across each other and El half-pets the sodden hair back from Sands' forehead, he wants to be the hand that crosses the trail and grabs, wants a path of more than one. He wants to turn over the cards and find the Emperor instead of the Fool, instead of the Hanging Man. He wants-he wants-he wants.
He doesn't know what he wants. He does know blood. He asks for it.
He gets it.
***