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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sands/El
Disclaimer: Were, am, and will never be mine.
Summary: Drabble. Was doing laundry and pants-bunny attacked.
***
"No."
"Sheldon-"
Clicking of a gun cocking. "I told you-no, don't interrupt. I told you never to call me that."
"Sands. We're musicians. We play instruments."
"Maybe you do. I don't." From across the bed, cloth rustled and little metal links chimed. Gun quietly uncocked and thudded on the side-table. "I don't. Listen, The, I really don't. I have no sense of rhythm. I'm American. Our music is uniformly shitty. So why don't you and-"
"No."
"Look, don't make me…okay, do make me." Moist sounds of nipping and licking. More rustling.
***
Lorenzo lifted his head. "He's going to break the tambourine," he noted, shoving his friend with a grimy boot-tip.
"So go over and tell them to stop," Fideo murmured, turning over.
"The last time anyone interrupted," Lorenzo replied with studied care, "we almost got excommunicated."
***
On the other side of the door, Sands' lips stretched into a lazy, satisfied smile. Thin walls made eavesdropping so much easier. And getting his own back for the constant noise of mariachi pants so much more gratifying. Then El's mouth moved lower, and his mind slipped away.
***