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Come back with me, he’d said, let’s hang out, like they were teenage girls.
Nacho had pictured something like poker night or one of those dead weekend afternoons when Lalo had dragged a handful of the guys over to watch some incomprehensible black and white movie on his big asshole TV, but there’s no one else. It’s just them. In the kitchen. Nacho leaning on the counter, watching Lalo pour drinks, turned away from him. Watching Lalo’s back. Muscle under his nice neat shirt.
He’s not the biggest guy ever but he knows how to use it better than almost anyone Nacho knows. Nacho thinks, all the time, about killing him; if it came to it, the two of them, one to one, if he could do it. He thinks it would come down to which of them wanted it more. He goes back and forth on which of them he thinks that is.
Sometimes he thinks about sinking his teeth into Lalo’s throat. Ripping it right out. For once tasting someone else’s blood in his mouth.
“Here.” Lalo puts a drink in his hand and smiles, so Nacho has to smile back at him, even though every time it feels like a grimace and he’s just waiting for someone to ask him what the fuck is wrong with his face—no one ever does. The way Lalo smiles, it’s unnerving. How genuine it looks. It isn’t normal for a guy like that to be so god damn chipper.
“Thanks,” he says, and drinks, and Lalo is still standing right there, in front of him, close. Nacho gestures with his glass to the doorway, the living room. “Don’t you wanna—?”
“What’s up with these things?” Lalo cuts in, as if he hadn’t spoken. He’s still smiling, or more like grinning, more like baring his teeth. Nacho’s brows twitch together but he doesn’t have to ask; Lalo keeps going. He tucks two fingers under the strap of Nacho’s tank, tugs at it and then lets go again, like some shithead kid flicking a girl’s bra strap. What the fuck is he on about. “Your little, eh, wife-beaters you’re always wearing. Make yourself look bigger, huh?” Another tug. “Pequeño Nachito.”
Nacho stares at him. No one has tried to fuck with him like this, in this particular way, in a long time. He doesn’t tolerate it, not anymore, not from anyone. Except this is Lalo.
“Como uno de esos perritos enojados.” He’s still grinning. Twinkle in his eye like he’s having the time of his life. Knuckles resting on the skin of Nacho’s shoulder. “Little but fuckin jacked, huh. Like a pitbull. ¿Eso es lo que eres?”
Nacho doesn’t say anything. Hard enough to keep breathing something like normal, hard enough to keep his face still, closed. He counts in his head. He presses his nails into the skin of his palm. It’s just a little test: Lalo likes to know how far he can push people. As far as you want, Nacho thinks, you can push me as far as you want, because you’re not the one holding my leash. He keeps his mouth shut. He breathes.
Lalo lifts his hand away. Holds it up, amicable. “I’m teasing you,” he says. So good-natured. Everybody’s best friend. “I’m teasing. It looks good. You look good.”
Through sheer force of will, Nacho smiles at him. Says, “Alright, Lalo.” Drinks.
Lalo makes a fist and thumps his shoulder. Not hard. Nothing like hard enough to hurt, except that he hits him right where the bullet is still buried. He must know. There’s a scar.
And it hurts. Not as bad as getting shot did, nowhere near, but it hurts, the strange, sick sort of pain of feeling something inside him moving, the bullet nudging at the flesh that has grown around it. Spit floods beneath his tongue and he swallows, breathes through his nose. Lalo is frowning at him, all innocence.
“Man,” he says, and he’s uncurling his fist and spreading his palm over Nacho’s shoulder. He squeezes. Gentle, at first, but enough to make the old wound ache. “Ignacio, you’re tense, brother.”
He digs his thumb in and it punches Nacho’s breath right out of him. It hurts. Sharp tugging pain, like the bullet is trying to open him up again, from the inside out this time, and Lalo keeps working at it, kneading his shoulder like a massage, and—it’s so fucking annoying that through the pain Nacho can tell it would feel good, if it weren’t for the bullet. He knows what he’s doing, Lalo, knows how to use his hands. Knows what he’s doing right now, too, watching Nacho real close, watching his face as he presses in and in and the gathering pain has sweat breaking out on the back of Nacho’s neck and all he can do is stand there, taking it. What else can he do.
He feels sick. He can feel himself shaking. He presses his back teeth together so hard his jaw clicks.
Lalo stops kneading, but he keeps his hand where it is. Keeps the pressure on. Like he’s trying to stop a wound bleeding. And he pouts—like a fucking kid, he pouts. “¿No se siente bien? Am I hurting you?”
Anger burns in Nacho’s face. Anger. Humiliation. They blur into each other. Is he hurting him. He doesn’t know the god damn half of it. Or maybe he does. Maybe he knows everything. Nacho sucks in a breath.
“They had to leave the bullet in,” he says. “When I got shot.”
Honesty. Lalo likes honesty. Vulnerability. Fine.
“Oh,” Lalo breathes, like a sigh. His expression shifts; his gaze narrows in. Like a predator catching a scent. He’s leaning closer, now. Real close. To the side somewhere there’s the clink of him setting his glass on the counter. Nacho cannot move to put down his own. He’s holding it so tight he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.
Slowly, deliberately, Lalo pushes his thumb in, hard, to the meat of Nacho’s shoulder. The pain flares up so hot and bright that the edges of his vision darken; his stomach lurches; a noise breaks out of him before he can bite down on it.
“Carajo,” Lalo murmurs, low, almost reverent. “I can feel it.”
Of course he can—it feels like there’s almost nothing between his thumb and the bullet now, the flesh stretched thin, like at any moment his skin could give way, and Lalo’s thumb would meet the lead.
“That’s a part of you now,” he says, so close now, his head tilted just slightly like he’s, like he’s going to, and Nacho’s skin is crawling with heat, his guts twisting, the pain in his shoulder burning through him, and he knew, he already kind of knew that something like this might happen, he’s not so stupid that he hasn’t seen how Lalo looks at him, he knew that he might have to—“You’ll carry that with you forever, Ignacio. To remind you que tú sobreviviste. Tú eres un sobreviviente.”
His breath feels like it’s caught high up in his chest, can’t get all the way down into his lungs and it’s making him light-headed.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds faint, far away, and the hate he holds in his heart for Lalo Salamanca digs its claws in that little bit deeper. Nacho wants to smash the glass he’s holding, thrust the shards into Lalo’s face.
He doesn’t. He stands there.
This is going to happen. He’s going to let it.
Lalo lets go of his shoulder and the release of pressure brings with it a whole new pain, this dizzying rush of it, like being pulled out from under water. With his empty hand Nacho grips the edge of the counter so hard it feels like a wonder that the marble doesn’t warp beneath his fingers. Lalo is closing his hand over Nacho’s hand, the one holding the glass—guiding it to his mouth and Nacho is letting him, letting himself be guided.
“Don’t waste it,” Lalo tells him, and he does as he’s told, trembling with hatred, his shoulder radiating pain. He drinks, and tries to focus on that heat, that new, rough heat inside of him, tries to follow it from his throat to his stomach. Lalo takes the glass out of his hand and puts it on the counter.
He flattens his palm on Nacho’s shoulder, thumb dragging over his collarbone, and leans in, close, taste-his-breath close, cigarillos and liquor, and this was always going to happen, and it won’t be the worst thing he’s ever done, had to do but he feels sick, and he knows he’s shaking, and—Lalo nudges his knee between Nacho’s thighs and he realises with a sharp jolt that he’s hard. How. From what, from this? From Lalo, trying to dig a hole in his shoulder and breathing in his face?
Maybe he drugged him. It’s not impossible. Except his drink didn’t taste of anything it shouldn’t and, besides, no dick pills he’s ever heard of work this fast, in minutes. Seconds, maybe. He tries to shift his weight, make it less obvious, probably achieves the opposite because Lalo smiles, this slow grin, smug fucking piece of shit asshole bastard. His other hand crawls up the side of Nacho’s neck, up over his jaw, cups his cheek—his palm tugs at his skin, pulls his lip away from his teeth. But he doesn’t kiss him, though he’s close enough—just holds him there, grinning like he might start fucking purring any second, his face like a big cat, his breath hot, palm rough.
“Qué quiere,” Nacho manages, through his teeth, looking up into his face, forcing himself to hold his gaze. Lalo’s eyes are black fucking holes. Nothing real in them. No soul. This close it makes the hair stand up on the back of Nacho’s neck, the way he’s looking at him.
The pad of Lalo’s thumb drags over his lip, over his exposed teeth and then past them, into his mouth.
“Abre,” he says, as if he has to, as if Nacho’s mouth isn’t open for him already, as if he could do anything else but open it, no matter how badly he wants to bite down. Breathing hard now, through the fading pain, through the steady but unmoving pressure of Lalo’s thigh pressed up against his dick.
“Like that. Good.” He rubs his thumb along the ridge of Nacho’s teeth, just feeling, like he’s testing the edge of a blade. His skin is hot, tastes like salt, like sweat, like nothing special.
“Afilados,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself. His eyes are on Nacho’s mouth. Nacho stands there leaning hard against the counter with spit gathering in the corner of his mouth and fantasises about crushing Lalo’s thumb between his teeth, breaking the skin, tearing through the flesh, snapping the bone in two.
Lalo takes his thumb out, takes his hand away and Nacho gulps down air, swallows his spit, his head dropping back where he’d let Lalo take its weight—in the same movement Lalo slaps him, hard across his hip, the inside of his thigh; it makes his muscles twitch, makes his hips jump up.
“Abre.” And as he does, as he shifts to let his legs open further, Lalo pushes his thigh right up between them and pushes his thumb into the scar on his shoulder at the same time and Nacho half chokes on the spit still in his mouth.
They blur into each other, the pain from the bullet squirming in him and the—the rush of something he doesn’t want to think of as pleasure from Lalo’s thigh grinding up against his dick, pleasure is not the word for it, it’s not—but—God—and he just stands there, pinned between the counter and Lalo’s thigh and Lalo’s hand and Lalo doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t duck his head, just stays right where he is, eyes on his face—he wants Nacho to want it.
That’s what he wants. That’s who he is. Someone who likes to be wanted, admired, worshipped. Nacho forces himself to take one hand off the counter and grab a fistful of Lalo’s shirt. To tilt his head just a little, to bump his nose to Lalo’s like he wants to be kissed.
“Lalo,” he whispers, low, breathless, and Lalo grins that fucking grin and leans right in, almost—
“Not on the counter,” he says, and Nacho fucking hates him and how steady his voice sounds, casual, like they’re making god damn dinner plans.
“I don’t fuck where I eat. Well,” he laughs, and pushes his hand between Nacho’s legs, past his dick, right to his ass, and he digs his fingers in, presses at him through his jeans. Nacho sucks air in through his teeth, rising up onto the balls of his feet, the visceral instinct to escape that particular intrusion too strong for him to override by sheer will. Lalo doesn’t seem to care, though. Just goes on grinning that fucking predator grin. “Sometimes I do.”
He steps back, lets go of Nacho altogether, and Nacho slumps back against the counter, gasping, dizzy. He looks up at Lalo and Lalo is—he’s not altogether unaffected.
There’s heat in his face, and his eyes, the way he’s looking at him—that laser-point focus—he’s into this, he’s really fucking into it. More than just some dick-swinging display of power, Nacho thinks, hopes, at least, Christ, because if he’s into it, really into it, at least Nacho can use this—can get something out of it that isn’t just one more layer of metaphorical dirt he won’t ever be able to scrub off his skin. It’s an opening, or it could be.
Find a way.
This is a way. It’s a way.
Lalo hooks a finger into the gold chain around Nacho’s neck and pulls.
Not the bedroom. Lalo takes him to the living room couch, plants a hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him down.
“Romántico,” Nacho mumbles, as he hits the leather, and Lalo likes that, laughs loud and pleased with himself right by his ear as he crowds up over him, shoving his legs apart with his own, no grace, no care, but that’s fine—that’s better. If he has to do this. If he has to let Lalo do this to him. He doesn’t want it to be nice.
“What, you want me to wine and fucking dine you, Ignacio, huh?” Lalo’s palm is on the back of his thigh, pushing till his knee almost meets his chest. He crawls right up close, caging him in—he’s big, like this, heavy—and Nacho hasn’t been this close to a guy before without violence and it feels strange—his flight or fight reflex is trying to kick in, beating hard behind his ribs and it’s not even just some fucking guy, it’s Lalo.
Lalo’s dick he can feel, hard, pressing against him, Lalo’s fingers digging in to the muscle of his thigh, Lalo’s breath on his neck. Lalo’s teeth scraping over his scarred shoulder, pulling his tank to the side, like he’s going down on a woman with her panties still on.
There’s no way this can hurt more than that did. He could take two bullets for the Salamancas, he can take getting fucked by one of them, but there’s still that fear—the urge to punch Lalo in the throat or headbutt him in the nose and just run. This, like everything, he has to force himself to see through, has to fight tooth and nail against every instinct he has in him. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, if he should put them on Lalo, if he’d like that or not, he doesn’t know what this guy likes in bed (or on the couch) and he can read people alright but he isn’t psychic—Lalo sinks his teeth into Nacho’s shoulder then and sucks, hard and he ends up gripping at the back of the couch, anyway, leather squeaking under his fingers.
“Ignacio—” Lalo lifts his head, and Nacho half expects to see his mouth smeared with blood, lion-like, from mauling his shoulder, but there’s nothing, just spit glistening on his lip, just his eyes like bottomless pits. “Is this what your girls are into? This dead fish pillow princess thing?”
He grinds his jaw, face heating up—say something, he tells himself, say something, do something, you fucking idiot, but he’s just caught there, under Lalo’s weight, his power—Lalo touches his cheek and Nacho opens his mouth a little, automatically, but he doesn’t put his thumb in again, doesn’t pull at his lip. Just holds his face, kind of gentle, and that’s so much worse. “Háblame, Ignacio,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
Don’t be nice, you sick fuck, he thinks. Don’t be fucking nice.
Nacho shakes his head, makes himself meet Lalo’s eyes, black, focused on him like he’s the only thing that exists. It’s not easy, looking at someone who’s looking at you like that—he looks at Lalo’s mouth, instead, a little bit open.
“Nothing,” he says, but that’s a lie and an obvious one; Lalo’s eyebrows are already twitching up and Nacho doesn’t want to listen to him call bullshit so he keeps going, talking to the open collar of Lalo’s shirt, the glimpse of throat.
“I’m not—” he starts, not gay, not into guys like this, except his dick is hard so maybe he is, a little, or at the very least he’s got some kind of fucked up wiring because something about this is doing it for him, physically, and he’s not trying to make him stop, anyway. He isn’t stupid enough to try to make him stop. “I haven’t done this before,” he says, finally, swallowing. “Not with a guy.”
Lalo’s smile is slow, spreads across his face like an oil spill. Alright. He likes that. Of course he likes that. He wants everything to belong to him.
“Good,” Lalo says, and kisses him.
It’s weird as hell to be kissed by someone with a moustache. Weirder that it isn’t an instant turn-off, that it doesn’t disgust him like he thought it might—but if he isn’t turned off by someone else’s dick pressed up into the crease of his thigh a moustache isn’t really that big of a deal. Under the scratch of the hair Lalo’s mouth is soft, a little smoky, and he kisses like he likes it, likes kissing for its own sake; he kisses Nacho’s mouth open, licks inside, tongue on his teeth, and he could bite down right now, bite through it, it’s just muscle, it’s just flesh, would he choke or bleed out or drown, which would come first—he sinks his teeth into his lip, hard enough that Lalo winces. Just a little. Just barely. But he does.
Afilados, Nacho thinks.
Lalo is pulling back, sliding his hands over Nacho’s chest, catching on the chain, the neck of his tank—Nacho pushes up into it, like it’s one of the girls on top, Amber’s slim little hands on him, or Jo’s, as if there’s any point pretending. He’s going to ruin this fucking tank, stretching the neck of it right down so he can drag his fingertip down the line between Nacho’s pecs.
“Do you wax?” He sounds fascinated. Nacho glowers up at him, can’t help it, squirming underneath him. “No, no, it’s nice,” Lalo says, in that tone, that note of condescension that makes it so fucking hard not to go for his throat. “It’s nice, you put the effort in. You take care of yourself, you know.”
Nacho stares up at him. He could almost laugh.
“Not everybody does.” Lalo slides his whole hand under Nacho’s tank and squeezes the muscle of his chest, and he doesn’t have to make himself arch into it—his body moves of its own volition, because it feels good.
He likes being touched like this, kind of admired, appreciated—with Lalo, though, the way he’s looking at him, touching him, talking to him, it’s beyond any kind of attention he’s ever had from anyone else. It’s like he’s looking right through him, past his body and his muscle shirts and his fucking waxed chest and right into him. Like he can see the lead, the scar tissue—like he took one fucking look at Nacho and knew exactly why he looks the way he does, acts the way he does. Not just out of vanity. Out of fear.
But he doesn’t see that he fucking hates him. Doesn’t see why he’s here, and that it isn’t because he wants him.
His hands are pushing up under Nacho’s shirt now, finding the other gunshot scar, low on his belly; he touches that one too, strokes it with his thumb, makes the muscles of his stomach jump.
“I can take it off,” Nacho says, but Lalo catches his wrist as he goes for the hem, lifts his hand to look at it. He finds the tiny, pinprick scar in the web between Nacho’s thumb and first finger. How. It’s almost invisible.
“¿Qué pasó ahí?”
“Sewing machine,” Nacho mumbles, reluctant, irritated. This tiny scar, from that stupid accident, all that time ago—feels more revealing, somehow, than any of the others. Lalo puts it into his mouth, and sucks. It feels wrong to see him like that—Nacho closes his eyes, drops his head back, but then he’s thinking about what he would look like with his dick in his mouth instead and the thought makes his stomach clench, makes him twitch, and Lalo must feel it; Nacho feels him grin.
He ends up with his tank rucked up under his armpits, belt unbuckled, jeans open, the heels of his boots pressing into the small of Lalo’s back and Lalo’s tongue in his mouth again and Lalo’s hand (finally, finally) on his dick. He’d murmured no eres tan pequeño aquí as he got it out, wrapped his fist around it, sounded almost impressed, and Nacho had seethed with loathing and then had to bite his cheek not to shout when Lalo tightened his fist.
The strangeness of being touched like this by a man is overshadowed by the strangeness of being touched like this by Lalo, but that, in turn, is smothered by how good it is—working him slow, steady, giving just enough to get him chasing it, not enough to get anywhere. It’s making his stomach ache, making his lungs burn with something rough and furious, that Lalo is making him want it. Could’ve held him face down on the counter and fucked him like that, let it be rough and mean, let him hate it, plain and simple.
Now Lalo’s fingers are nudging up against his ass, damp from how much his dick was leaking, wet like a fucking girl, and his body can’t decide if it wants to get away or get closer—he grabs at Lalo’s shirt, his hips jolt up and then back again, and Lalo smiles against his mouth, and with his other hand holds him down, holds him still. His skin burns under Lalo’s palm.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Good. Abre.”
It hurts, at first, the intrusion of it—Lalo’s fingers are big, a whole lot bigger than the slender tip of Amber’s the one time she tried this, promising he’d like it. That had been alright, a sweet kind of edge, but this is, this—this man whose heart he would rip out of his chest with his bare hands if he could has his fingers inside of his body, and it hurts, and it feels so fucking good he can hardly breathe. It’s this heat right deep down in him, in his guts, this ache; hollow like hunger, but it burns like fury. Never been like this on his own, or with girls, not quite like this, no matter how wound up he’s been—he wonders is this how it feels for them, for women, this, this starving void. Or maybe it’s just him. Just for Lalo.
Lalo, who is stroking inside of him and chewing on his shoulder so it hurts just on the edge of his awareness and rubbing his dick up against him so he can feel it, and he would never in a million years have thought that would turn him on, would knock a tooth out of anyone who insinuated it might have done but, God, it gets noises out of him that he’s never heard from anyone, let alone himself—he digs his heels into Lalo’s back, like he’s trying to spur on a dull horse, groaning through his teeth. Any more of this is gonna drive him crazy.
“C’mon,” he whispers, and hates himself. “Lalo.”
Clink of his belt buckle. Nacho lifts his head, despite himself, to look—Lalo’s dick is nothing special, really, except for the fact that it’s Lalo’s. That’s enough to make his insides twist, turn him almost dizzy with anticipation, blood thumping in his skull, so much like how it felt to sit waiting in that car with his back turned on a gun about to be fired into him—Lalo strokes himself, sighing, softly, and Nacho swallows the spit under his tongue.
His skin is prickling; he feels kind of wired, jittery, too high. What the fuck is he doing. How did he get here. A glance at Lalo’s face—he’s looking down at the scant space between their bodies, mouth a little open, hair out of place, eyes half-open, black as tar.
“Wait.” Nacho puts his hand on Lalo’s stomach, feels the muscle under there, tense through his shirt. Lalo looks up at him, questioning, impatient, maybe. He wants this. Nacho holds onto that, through the fear, through the hatred, the humiliation. Grips it tightly. Lalo wants him. “You got a—?”
Lalo laughs. “I’ll pay for your Plan B,” he says, and pushes the head of his dick inside.
Nacho’s whole body spasms. He throws an arm up, bites into the back of his wrist, hard, to keep from crying out—clamps his thighs around Lalo’s ribcage, twists the fistful of his shirt, and Lalo keeps pushing in, slow, slow, murmuring abre, abre, like Nacho has any control over it, like Lalo isn’t trying to shove something into him where things aren’t really meant to go.
“You have to relax, baby,” he tells him, making his voice sweet and coaxing, smoothing his palm over Nacho’s flank, his side, up under his shirt again. “Relax. That’s it.”
He pries Nacho’s arm away from his face to kiss him, slow, open, swallowing up the awful cracked noises being dragged out of him by every nudge of Lalo’s dick. Every nerve in him is lit up with bright heat and his whole body is trembling like there’s a current running through him and Lalo is moaning into his mouth, low and shameless. Nacho clings to the collar of his shirt, the hair at the back of his neck, damp with sweat.
It’s the best it’s ever been. That’s the worst part. That will always be the worst part, when he thinks back on this, because he won’t be able to not, when it is this fucking good—it’s the most intense overwhelming toe-curling brain-melting sex of his fucking life, and it’s with Lalo Salamanca. Lalo’s dick in his ass, Lalo’s teeth in his shoulder, Lalo’s hands all over him. No idea how long it lasts, once Lalo is right inside him and fucking him properly, deep and steady—only that by the end of it there are tears in the corners of his eyes and he’s shaking like he’s sick and when Lalo bites his shoulder so hard he could swear he feels his teeth against the bullet he comes so hard it feels like a seizure. Every muscle locks up—Lalo curses, breathless, fucks him through it even as he clenches so hard around his dick that it must hurt him. He snarls when he comes, with his mouth open against Nacho’s collarbone. Comes inside him, and stays there for a minute in the aftermath, panting. Nacho is too out of it to hate him for it just yet—he will, though, later.
Lalo gets himself together first. Nacho stares numbly at the ceiling with his heart still thudding and his nerves still twitching as he pulls out, which stings, and feels wet warmth ooze out of him after. Wonders if he’s bleeding. At least it’s not his couch.
There’s movement; the rustle of Lalo hitching his pants back up. The insides of Nacho’s thighs burn. His shoulder aches where Lalo’s teeth have been. Sweat is starting to cool and dry on his skin; so is the smear of come on his stomach. Lalo looms up over him and Nacho closes his eyes, doesn’t want to look at him—he touches his cheek, taps him there, but gently.
“Hey, hey, Ignacio. Are you in there, baby? ¿Estás conmigo?”
He nods, slowly; his neck feels stiff, tense, from where he’s been pressed into the arm of the couch. He makes himself breathe slow and steady and does not open his eyes. Lalo’s moustache scratches over his cheek as he leans in to kiss him.
“Yo sé,” he murmurs, meaninglessly, close by. “Yo sé. Stay there, duerme un ratito, okay? I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.” Another little tap. Nacho wants to break his fucking fingers. “Háblame, Nachito.”
“Yeah,” Nacho says, to make him shut up. “Okay, Lalo.”
He keeps his eyes closed, and when he passes out, eventually, he dreams about putting a bullet in Lalo’s head.