Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A dim haze hangs over the temple, weak shafts of light filtering in. They only softly dapple the corrugated walls, inviting the darkness to crawl forward from the corners. With the lamps off, there’s little else to illuminate the place.
This is how Bishop wants it. As ashen as the worry shadowing his face.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, he thinks to himself.

He strains his ears for any sign of Marcus but inevitably hears nothing save for the chatter coming from the common room.
A deep exhale deflates his lungs, the sharp of his shoulder blades arching against the wood. When his spine twists, Bish’s worn boot scuffs lazily into the distressed floor. He sinks back into his throne, thighs falling open.
He stares ahead but sees nothing. Pensive, lost in his own world, he’s like many a forlorn king before him.

That his chair feels particularly harder today is neither here nor there. That its carvings seem to imbed themselves into the leather of his cut, irrelevant.
Comfortable or not, it doesn’t matter. Until he knows what’s happening with the Galindo’s, he isn’t allowed the luxury of ease or relaxation.

A zippo sits between the pads of his fingers, growing warmer the longer he holds it. Slowly, as if he were studying an unearthed artifact with fresh wonder, he brings it up to his eyes.
A deep furrow brackets his mouth.
“Where the hell is he?” he says to his warped, weary reflection in the lighter.
_

At the front, Coco’s penetrating voice rises another notch. The beer sloshes in his grip as he gesticulates.
“I’m telling you, man, the energy is all over! In here-“ He presses the Tecate to his temple.
“And in here, man-“
Eyes widening, EZ looks down at the center of his muscled chest, where Coco is tapping with insistence.
“It’s all about the chakras, dog. The chakras.”
A second later he purses his lips and blows smoke, following the spool with his possessed gaze. It’s as if Coco often forgets he’s in the middle of speaking and just… drifts away.

“You fuckin’ get weirder every day, man,” Angel says, a solemn shake to his dark head. As he swigs from his bottle, EZ bites off a hysterical laugh, patting Coco on the back.
“So let me get this straight, Coco. We’re basically electric. Walking balls of energy and our auras have color. And you turn these areas on with chakra opening? Like what, meditation?”

Chucky, who’s been stocking the fridge, pops up from behind the counter like he’s about to be clubbed in Whack-A-Mole.
“Not only!” he raises one of his fake fingers to make the point.
“Jesus!” Angel exclaims, startled. “Don’t fucking do that, Chucky!”

Chucky’s mouth dips down, gaze lowering in hurt. “I apologize, Angel. I should learn to be less stealthy.” The heel of EZ’s hand presses to his pert lips as he chuckles. Elbow resting on the bar, he points the dark amber rim at his friend.
“That’s exactly what I think when I see you, Chucky. This guy is a ninja.”
He’s the furthest thing from stupid, but sometimes Chucky’s so oblivious to sarcasm! Bless him for having so much faith in mankind- it’s one of the reasons the club loves him.
Chucky’s frown pulls up into a face-splitting grin. “Gracias, EZ. Lo acepto.”  Thanks, EZ. I accept that.

Chucky has grown on the MC, there’s no denying it. EZ and Coco are especially fond of him. Ever since Leti came into his life, Coco saw how he really stepped up and helped her settle. She loves hanging out with him, and their little jabs at each other only mean they care for one another.  
Chucky’s just as much family as any patch.
Something tells Coco that their favorite gringo feels the same. You can see it in his dazzled expression and the passion with which he does even the most menial task.

“Yo, what were you gonna say, Chucky?” Coco asks, hugging himself. The cigarette he’s holding between two fingers is almost burned to the filter.
Chucky happily continues. “To answer Ezekiel’s question, meditation is one method of opening chakras. But then there’s also intensifying mudras and cleansing mantras.”

Angel breaks the moment of silence that ensues by looking over at EZ with a tired sigh. His brother can read his mind and smirks.
Jesus, Angel loves these dudes to death, but this shit ain’t for him.
“Yo, with this, I’m out.”
Right arm on the bar, he twists around and stands. “Gonna go take a piss.”
Leaving chortles in his wake, Angel makes for the bathroom.

The heavy lashes that shadow Coco’s cheeks have flown up in the meantime, eyes bright with elation. Someone’s finally listening!
“YES Chucky, YES! Fuck, you get it!”
Tossing himself towards EZ, Coco shakes him by the bicep.
“I’m telling you, this shit will blow your mind, Eez!”
_

Metal to table, it’s a tap every time Bishop turns the zippo over.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

“I can show you this thing, man, it’s gonna CHANGE YOUR LIFE!”
Jesus, it’s like Coco’s standing right next to him.
Tap.

“It’s called TRANSCENDENCE!”
Bishop’s nostrils flare.
Tap.

“Like Chucky said, there’s this thing you can do-“ Coco’s on a roll now, spitting his words in quick succession. “So you close your eyes, right? And then you imagine the chakra like-“

The lighter flies from Bishop’s hand. He slams a fist on the table and shifts his body to the left, in view of the door.
“PROSPECT!” he screams.

Coco freezes immediately, his angular jaw tensing. “Oh shit,” he mouths to EZ, who giggles a moment later.
Chucky averts his eyes towards the pantry door. A young El Salvadoran crashes into the bar, dropping the box of sodas on the counter. He sprints to the temple, almost tripping over Taza’s duffle.
The brothers laugh, Coco elbowing EZ.

“Yes.. yes sir?” he stutters, his moss eyes dilated.
If it weren’t for the soft light from the window clefting the room, Bishop would be sitting in pitch.

“You tell Coco that if I have to listen to any more of that ESOTERIC BULLSHIT today I will come in there and FUCKING GAG HIM MYSELF!”

Bishops knows Coco can hear him perfectly. That’s the point. He’s got enough shit to think about without all this extra “noise.”
Nico, the new prospect, turns on his heel.
“Excuse me, Coco, Bishop wanted me to tell you-“

Throwing the butt into the ashtray with a flick of his wrist, Coco pushes his hair back, the better to glare at him.
“I heard him, Prospect, damn. You stupid or somethin’?”

Nico’s handsome face falls in disappointment. “No, Coco, it’s just-“
“Jesus, Prospect, it was a rhetorical question,” Coco says as he slides off the barstool.
Nico’s a good kid, they just love fucking with him is all. Their fucked up way of showing affection.

EZ is trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement. He hasn’t been this entertained in a long time. Being around Coco and his crazy musings often results in this. 
Three long steps later, Coco’s figure shadows the frame.
“Sorry Prez, my bad!”
He backs away slowly, like he’s guilty of something and trying not to get caught.
Bishop doesn’t look impressed.
“Just keep it down, Coco.”
“Got it, Prez.”

Nico stands there, arms hanging at his sides. He looks from Bishop to Coco and back again.
Coco gives him a back-handed slap on the chest. “Well don’t just stand there with your dick in your hand, PROSPECT!”
“Yes, Coco. Sorry,” he stammers.

Maybe if it were clear to him what he was supposed to do next, he wouldn’t be planted in his place like a tree. Nico shifts from foot to foot, rubbing his elbow.
“Jesus Christ,” Bish mumbles to himself. “Go back to the bar, prospect. And when Marcus arrives, send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“PROSPECT!”
Face scarlet, Nico turns back.
“Yes sir?”
Poor kid. Scared of his own shadow. When he first asked to join, he was three days past his 18th birthday, still wearing his gift: his father’s tune up.
All this kid is looking for is a family that doesn’t use him as a punching bag, the prez concludes.
Bishop’s face softens slightly when he sees his stricken expression. He was about to bellow again, but he thinks better of it.
The prez’ll save the lashes for when the kid really fucks up. And he will. They all do.
“Shut the door behind you, prospect.”

Coco rambles back to EZ, gait slow. When he gets close enough to whisper, he rolls his eyes.
“I think the prez needs to open his sacral chakra.”
Arching his eyebrows, EZ asks him the obvious question. “What’s that one do?”
Answer laden with snark, Coco breathes out: “Dude needs to get laid.”
_

Bish has that kind of face, not unkind- just… intense. Despite all that, there are moments of delicate sensitivity in his cocoa eyes. His profile has always been rugged. Somber. It makes him look dependable.
Marcus studies him, the worry lines in his forehead deeper than usual.

The cancer stick belches smoke like a fired shotgun. Every drag Bishop takes burns his lungs, the cloud in front of his face revealing the dancing flecks of dust in the air.

Alvarez weighs his head to the left, hands crossed in front of him.
“No sé donde esta. No sé cuándo volverá.” I don’t know where he is, when he’s coming back.
“I can’t tell you any more than that, primo. I’m sorry.”

It’s like a crowbar takes Bishop in the forehead. He lets his contorted face fall into his open palms.
“Jesus Christ. So Galindo just fucking takes off? Didn’t tell anyone where’s he’s gone?”

The desolation hangs in the air. Marcus wishes he had more answers. Miguel wasn’t exactly very forthcoming with his plans.  
“It’s for everyone’s safety. We all know how far our enemies go to get information. If you don’t know anything, you’ve got nothing to give up even under torture. You know that, cuz.”
“Yeah. I know,” Bishops sighs. There’s a tendril of tension forming in his guts. “Nestor?”

His cousin’s head swings slowly side to side. “I don’t think Miguel told him or his wife. Especially his wife. Not with all the shit that was happening. They weren’t exactly on the best of terms of late, carnal.”
The need to disguise any kind of anxiety proves superfluous.

“Christ. What a clusterfuck. What the hell happened between them? Sometimes I’m grateful I’m not married.”
Alvarez saves his smart-ass comment for another time.
“What happened was the usual shit when husbands and wives keep secrets. He’d been staying in their bedroom and she’d taken one of the guest rooms. What little she’d been sleeping, anyway. I still find her at all hours of the night now, on the terrace smoking or on the sofa, drinking.”

So much has happened. The kidnapping, the fires. Adelita. All the scheming and broken promises. That would wear down any couple, let alone one already in trouble.
Bishop wonders if there’s some other reason behind this, as well? Is it just his wife and his ghosts that Miguel’s running away from?

“Once Dita was found dead, it’s like something got snuffed out inside him, you know?”
Marcus swivels in his chair to keep Bishop in better view. The beer is particularly cold on his tongue as he swallows a sip.
“He’s carrying all of that mierda… the Galindo guilt and all their secrets. That’s a lot for any man. Even one who goes to an incredible amount of effort to seem like he’s heartless.”

What Marcus found at Dita’s recovery- he’s kept that to himself. What good would come from him telling anyone there were bikers there? Probably Mayans?
What kind of bloodshed would that cause?
The Galindos aren’t the only ones who have trouble sleeping.

“Okay, so what does this mean for us? So it’s business as usual?” The question rumbles in Bishop’s chest.
“In theory. For the moment, we’re telling people he’s away on business. Undisclosed location.”
The cigarette safe in the ashtray, Bishop kneads the stiff muscles in his neck and rolls his head.

“Are you afraid the Lobos will get a hold of this?"
“Nah, primo. They’re practically defunct. I mean the few that have survived don’t count for shit. But it could become a problem if all the little factions unite. For the moment, though, that’s not a threat.”
There are more external factors to consider than just losing face. They have to really be careful how they go about this.
“We better tell Chibs in any case. He should know.”
“I agree,” Marcus replies. “But let’s keep it in the circle.”

Bishop nods in agreement, pulls a burner out of his cut. Normally he doesn’t allow phones in the temple but he’s the goddamn president, if he can’t trust himself and the fucking founder of the Mayans-

He dials, bending his gaze.
“It’s ringing.”
On the third, Chibs picks up. “Hey there, Bish. How are ye, brother?”
“Okay, Chibs. Okay. Everything’s fine here, Mayans-side. I’m just here with Marcus. We wanted to bring you up to speed on an… issue happening with our friends in the Cartel.”

Squinting, Chibs peers around the clubhouse. He’s far enough to be out of earshot.
“Aye? Shite. What happened noo?”

Bish hands the phone to his cousin.
“Hi Filip. It’s Marcus. I don’t want to alarm you, ‘mano, I just want to let you know that Miguel… he’s taken a little sabbatical.”
“Wha?” The question leaves Filip with his mouth hanging open. "What the fuck does that mean?"

“He’s having some kind of breakdown, Chibs. Galindo split, told me he’ll be back when he’ll be back. Didn’t tell anyone where he’s hiding.”
Chibs suddenly feels faint, grabs a chair and sits, straddling it from the back. He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
He didn’t expect a phone call could bring a migraine with it.
“Jesus Christ. Well, who’s running shite down there?”
“For the moment, it’s business as usual.” Marcus throws a reassuring glance to Bish.  “I’m supposed to call him with urgent matters, on the rest he’s left me to run things until he gets back.”

Lowering his sooty, thick lashes, Chibs blinks a couple times before answering. He doesn’t like this, not at all.
“All right, all right. Christ. We’re keeping this in the circle, aye?”

“Yes, Filip. Need to know basis- no need to tell you that no one else needs to know, then.”
The not-quite rational sense of fear comes crawling back. It’s an uneasy feeling for now, gnawing at the back of his mind. Is this Clay and Jax all over again?!

“Got it. All right, thanks for tellin’ me, brother. If anything changes, call me.”
“Will do, brother,” Marcus assures.
“Ye all stay safe down there. Talk soon, right?”
“Yeah, ‘mano, talk soon.”

A shadow of contained alarm crosses both their faces when he ends the call. Bishop rubs his stubbly chin, his left hand then carding into the back of his head.
“I hope all this shit doesn’t blow up in our faces, primo.”

Shrugging with only the corners of his mouth, Marcus twists the ring on his finger.
“Me too, carnal. Me too.”

Chapter Text

Nestor stands at the patio doors, his probing stare frozen in blankness.
It’s the desert in his direct line of vision, but his attention is not consumed by what he sees.
It’s precisely what’s absent that wrings him inside out. Or rather, the who in this equation of loneliness.
 
There’s no hint on Nestor’s face of the raw ache he’s feeling. He’s been an expert at keeping his features deceptively masked. It’s part of his job.
And yet… when he’s alone like this, his own reflection in perfectly polished glass his only companion-  how can the ghosts in his mind not scream at the rafters?

Emily’s steps echo in the other part of the house, and it makes him bend his head to the noise. She’s been working out her shock and anger by decluttering. Boxes get filled, others get emptied.
Above all… an unmentionable number of Merlot bottles end up in the trash.
Mrs. Galindo is a mess, and honestly, he doesn’t blame her too much.
Miguel leaving the way he did- it fucked with everyone.

Assuming by the sound of furniture scraping along the floor that Emily’s safe, he lets his large hands fall from the holster. They drop limp at his sides, his right thumb catching on his pocket.
Back straight, body still, from afar he looks composed. On closer inspection, though, peering within the depths of the man- no one would guess exactly how much he’s hollowed out in grief.

Nestor Oceteva is not a man of many words. It’s easy to stretch the silence from his wringing heart to his pouty lips. His mind, however, is a more difficult beast to tame.

He wears no smile- he lost it somewhere between Miguel getting in the car and the headlights fading into the distance.

Nestor’s face right now is an homage to veiled sadness. Eyes like a glassy pond gleam- he can feel the unbidden tears pooling.
Shit.
Taking a rib-stretching breath to stifle the emotion, it ends up being of little reprieve. One rogue drop runs the length of his nose, and he wipes it from his cheek with a swift swipe.
An uneasy glance over his shoulder assures him no one saw his moment of weakness.

Mikey.
He’s somewhere out there, on the opposite side of the sky.

Nestor had never known the touch of winter because Mikey had always been his eternal summer.
His kisses were as warm as the red pomegranate sunrises of late July. 
But now, now Nestor stands alone.
Shivering.
Lost.

Biting into his lip so he doesn’t let out the shrill cry building within his very core (the scream anyone would merit if the only man he’s ever loved- the one who could never be his and his alone- had suddenly taken off…), Nestor lets himself step back, falling softly into the sofa cushions.

“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath.
He’s making me weak, Nestor thinks. But he’s known this since they met. Everyone has an Achilles heel. Mikey Galindo is his.
 
It’s uncertain when his boss will be back. Perhaps tomorrow- perhaps in 6 months. In the meantime Nestor will have to cohabitate with all the what ifs.
He pulls up the mental album of all their stolen moments. Nestor smiles to himself for the first time today, putting to memory every sigh... every astonished silence. Every single time he greedily drank in Mikey’s beauty... 

His hand travels to his neck. First to the hollow of his throat where Mikey always lingers with his plush lips. Next to the space above his clavicle, where his tattoo often hides his lover's marks.
Finally, to the longer chain, the one whose end no one ever sees.
He pulls it up, traces an M over his breast before extracting the medallion.

It’s hot to the touch, his scorching skin burning a low flame for his one and only. It never peeks from underneath his clothing, the Archangel Michael medal…but it always lays over his heart.
His most prized possession- Miguel gave it to him when they parted. The latter was going off to college and Nestor to try his luck in the military. 

"Stay safe, mi amor," Mikey had said, later putting the same necklace on himself.
Mikey still carries it in his pocket, a good luck charm now, wrapped in a silk handkerchief.
Their secret, their love, forged in a flame and molded into gold. They've both held it close, their promise. The trinket is just a mere symbol. 

Nothing will ever tear him away from Miguel, not until he draws his last breath. And even then... 
That's why Mikey forcing them apart hurts so much. Why Nestor has barely slept since he took off. 

Nestor learned what it meant to give himself totally to the man that had looked out for him since they were kids. Early on it was clear Nestor's heart was his.
When Mikey needed him when he took over the family business, he didn't even have to ask. Nestor had told him he'd always be there for him. No matter what. 
He loves him. Unconditionally and irrevocably.

Mikey will come back. Nestor knows this. He will. 
But when?
And until then… what?

His laments, his desires, they seem selfish when faced with the possibility of things never going back to the way they were. He wants Miguel to be safe. Happy. 
If that means being alone for a while, so be it. 

Nestor's scratchy voice, his craving acts of dubious morality in the middle of the night, is now reduced to whispers chanted to the heavens.

What the hell are they really supposed to hope for, these two lost souls? When has anyone in their line of work ever been gifted happiness?

Chapter Text

The message must have come when he was in the shower. Nestor had checked the burner before stepping in.
He stares at the screen, eyes misting over. Scanning the words, every line makes the lump in his throat grow bigger.
Biting his lip, he plops down on the bed, the one in his room in the service wing. Phone precariously balanced between his fumbling fingers, he reads the text once more.

Nes- Being here all by myself, I’ve got too much time to think. Those thoughts inevitably drift to you. I miss you, and it’s only been a handful of days. Mi amor, I can’t wait. I know it’s dangerous, but I need to see you. Please meet me where you can no longer see the sea. You know the place, I’ll wait for you tonight. If you get there first, keep the lights off - I'll be there as soon as I can. No tengo que decirte que tengas cuidado. Tome las carreteras secundarias, asegúrate de que nadie te siga. Yo haré lo mismo. No puedo esperar a verte. Te quiero mucho, Nes. Por siempre tuyo

He thumbs over the last line, as if the Mikey’s words could somehow materialize his essence beneath his fingertips.
I love you, Nes. Yours forever.
It’s the way he and Mikey always ended their letters. Mikey would never sign his name, didn’t want to compromise Nestor in that way. But they wrote one another without fail, even when he was overseas on assignment.

He exhales deeply, pulse quickening.
I’ll see him tonight, he thinks to himself. It's too good to be true. Nestor’s broad grin reaches his eyes, spreading small lines outward. His heart fights for space in his chest, the air caught in his lungs. If his shaky legs could carry him that far, he’d run to him right now.

Mikey’s right. He needn’t tell him to be careful- he knows to take the country roads and not get followed. He must procure a different vehicle once he gets to town, too… an added layer of protection.
This means he best get going. The more time they can spend together, the better.

Hearing Emily downstairs in the kitchen reminds him to excuse himself for the night. He’s off shift, sure, but he never leaves the property without telling the Galindos.

Emily.
There’s that stab of guilt that always buries itself in his breast. All the “I should have’s” and “if only’s” that have plagued him in these years roll through his brain.
He doesn’t want to have these feelings. He’d rather not find himself in the middle of this.
But loving Mikey is the only thing he’s ever known. Stopping would be akin to drowning.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, the mad rush to stomp out those embers was real. While he was in the service- when he first got back, Nestor had women – and men- who momentarily distracted him. Faceless and nameless to him now, those love interests didn’t know it then, but they never stood a chance.
They’d never win his heart because it was a triangle even before beginning, each one fighting a losing battle against the ghost of Miguel Galindo.
So when Mikey came back to him, when he sought his help (and the comforting warmth of Nestor’s arms once more), he fell back into loving him all too easily- like a habit he never managed (or wanted) to break.
How could he forget the man whose fingerprints are on his soul?

Nestor replaces the phone on the bed, his long hair a jet curtain dripping down the middle of his powerful back.
Once he’s dressed in dark jeans and one of his best shirts, his long fingers travel to his head. With practiced ease, he plaits his hair and fixes the ends with the holders.
The look in the mirror is perfunctory. He shuts off the lights, wishing the unease in his gut could be snuffed out just as effortlessly.  
Wallet and keys in hand, Nestor makes his way to the kitchen.
_

The space is in semi-darkness, the lamps dimmed. The hood led is still on, the back of her golden head shiny under its light. Emily turns when she hears her name.
She’s nursing a cup of tea, and if the smell of rum wasn’t a giveaway, the half-empty bottle of Zacapa Royal on the counter is.
There’s no judgment in his gaze. Lately Nestor’s tempted to do the same.

“Mrs. Galindo, I have a personal matter to attend to this evening. Vaca is here for the night, I’ve got the usual number stationed outside on the property. If anything happens, they’ll call me. Mr. Alvarez is due back from business affairs tomorrow. Do you need me for anything before I go?”

Emily leans back, palms clasped around the steamy mug. One eyebrow arches as a tender expression stretches across her face.
“I don’t need anything, Nestor. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”

She waits until his back is to her. “And Nestor?”
He stops mid-stride, snaps around to her afterthought. “Yes, Mrs. Galindo?”
“Say hi to Miguel for me.”

The phrase makes him stop in his tracks. Nestor can feel the blood drain into his legs.
“I’m sorry?” he asks weakly, the room spinning around him.
“Miguel asked for you, did he not? Isn't this why you're leaving?” The knowing look- the simper. It cuts through him.
“I-“ he stammers.

Emily raises her palm to him in a show of acceptance. The spoon clinkles against the ceramic as she lifts the cup to her lips and blows.
“It’s okay, Nestor.” Her words are slow, weighed.  “You don’t have to lie to me. There’s been enough of that going around as it is, don’t you think?”

It traps his breath in his strained throat. Nestor nods, almost imperceptively.
“Yes,” he admits, his demeanor suddenly somber. “I’m seeing Miguel. I’m sorry- I don’t know what-“

“Are you meeting him where he’s staying?”
His fingers dig into the leather of his wallet. This is making him really uncomfortable.
“No ma’am. Another location. He really doesn’t want anyone to know where he is, he wasn’t lying about that.”
“I believe you,” she sighs.

Emily’s too calm. Almost disturbingly so. Nestor studies her movements as she opens the cabinet and pulls out a chrome travel mug.
“Would you like some coffee for the road, Nestor? I assume you’re going far.”

“No, thank you,” he manages, waiting to see what happens next. He’s beyond confused- his temperature rises the longer her eyes cling to him.
“Okay then.” Two fingers hook into shot glasses. She sets them down on the island and pours two ounces of rum in each. A lacquered finger pushes one to him, a bit of it sloshing out as it skates across the marble.
“Before you go, have a drink with me.”

Emily’s face is watchful. It’s like she’s putting her thoughts together. Something more intricate than even she imagined.
Nestor thinks he shouldn’t partake, the inner conflict lining his brow. But the look he’s being given doesn’t leave room for much protest.
Without saying a word, he lifts the glass to his lips, and she follows suit.
A half-smile curling her lips, Emily says “Salud.”
“Salud,” he replies, the liquid burning down his esophagus a moment later.

“Can I ask you a question, Nestor?” Emily surprises him, pouring herself a second. 
“Of course.”
His is a quiet voice now, offering short responses.

“Are you in love with Miguel?”
The query hangs there, more a statement than a question, really. It grounds itself between them and the truth sprouts branches.

An arm crosses his stomach in a protective hug. Dragging one palm down his pant leg, the guilt flushes Nestor's face.
“Ma’am?”
Emily lifts her gaze, eyes brightening at the realization. “You are in love with him. And knowing Miguel, he’s in love with you. I can read it on your face.”

It should be the opposite. It’s illogical. But somehow hearing her say it makes him feel lighter. What’s crazy is the fact that there’s a growing smile on her face and her body is visibly relaxing.
Shouldn’t she be angry?

“Mrs. Galindo, I-“
“I’m fucking with you, Nestor,” she chortles. “I’ve known. I’ve known this whole time. I figured it out after we married. Not at first… because I don’t think you were together again then. But after some time, when things got more complicated between us, and Miguel started acting strange, that's when I suspected.“
“I don’t understand…”
He doesn’t. Everything from his focused attention to the sensation of an icy coil wrapping itself around his core spells: what the fuck is going on?

Pulling up a stool, she beckons him to sit. When he does, pouring himself into it, she takes the one next to him and tilts her tawny head.

“Listen, Nestor. No one in this house is a saint. We all have our secrets. When Miguel started taking his little ‘business’ trips, I suspected another woman. What cartel boss doesn’t have lovers, right? It was part of the package. But then he’d come back, never with perfume on him. Never a lipstick stain on a shirt collar. Just a musky scent and a grin from ear to ear.”

Nestor listens politely, incredulous that Mrs. Galindo isn’t throwing plates- or punches. Sitting still, sheep-like, his hands wring in his lap.
“One day I noticed he was going away for the night. Same day you were off shift. The cologne I’d always smell on his clothes- well, I walked past you that morning and picked up the same. Then it all made sense. I was relieved, actually.”
“How so?”
Thank goodness he’s sitting because he suddenly feels faint.

“Because it was you. His best friend. Because you’re a man, which meant Miguel was hiding his sexuality from me, probably because he thought I might disapprove. That kind of disappointed me, honestly, more than the discovery initially did. We had a few gay friends in college. He should have known better than to think I wouldn’t understand. Anyway- “

Pausing rather nervously, Nestor breathes in a solemn half-whisper. “He loves you, Mrs. Galindo. He’s told me many times. He’s not gay, he’s just-”
“Gay for you, Nestor?" The scrunch of her features says NO. "I don’t like labels, it doesn’t matter. Bi, gay, in love with love- whatever. I get it. You and he have history. You give him something I can’t, take him to a place, mentally, I’ll never know because we don’t have those years of strife together as glue.”

There’s a sober shyness to his teary gaze. The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m sorry, I knew it was wrong but-“
Head tipping back on the neck, attention skyward, Emily lets out a long exhale.
Her warm hand reaches, closes over his, and Nestor looks down at it when she squeezes. 
“I don't blame you. Right or wrong, there’s something irresistible about Miguel. One can’t help but surrender to him. And before you say it, it wasn’t just about sex, I'm sure of it. You love each other. Miguel never cared about fucking for fucking’s sake.”

Rapidly blinking, Nestor tries to process what he’s been hearing. It’s honestly still not registering.
“You’ve loved him since you were teens?”

Taking shaky breaths, he confirms what she already knew. “Yes, though I don’t know if he loved me then. It might have just been-”
“It’s never just about sex with Miguel,” she interjects. “Don’t think that, Nestor.”

The pregnant pause fills up with her grabbing her purse from the back of the chair.
“And history? Loving someone from your past that knows you inside and out? I’m familiar with the sentiment, Nestor. Trust me.”
A self-deprecating laugh follows.
Emily looks around as she fishes, waiting for a nonexistent someone to be standing in the dark corners, waiting for a reason to scold her. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her handbag and holds them up.
“You mind?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Please, go ahead.”

She lights up, mouth pursed around the cigarette until the bright flame doesn’t illuminate the shadow between them.  
“May I ask?” There’s a distinct note of apprehension to Nestor’s query.
“No need,” she replies, blowing out the first puff. “Everyone who knows our past thinks it. I’m talking about EZ, yes. Now you understand why Miguel had you follow me? He felt threatened. He had every right to worry, I don’t blame him for that. It was just the “pot calling the kettle black” situation that angered me. Maybe if I had fallen in love with a woman, it might have allowed him to open up to me about you. But it being EZ- now a Mayan to boot- that was too big a pill for him to swallow.”

“Mrs. Galindo, you don’t need to-“ 
The filter makes a crisp burning noise as she takes a drag. “Like I said, we all have secrets in this house. I know yours, and now you know mine.”

Nestor speaks at the air between them, words chosen carefully. “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t feel this way for him.”
Cocking her head to the side, her pool eyes fill a bit with tears. “I actually believe you, Nestor. I know what it means to be the one who pines. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The swell of love that rises within him is beyond any describable emotion. All he can do is nod in agreement.
“I’m honestly okay with it. I haven’t been the best wife. Lately, I’ve been a pretty shitty one. If you’d been a woman, I’d have been pissed. I’d have compared myself to her, felt I wasn’t enough. But this- how can I compare myself to you? And more to the point, why would I?”

“I can’t believe you’re so open to this,” he murmurs. All of this is surreal. 

“I am and I’m not.” She taps the ash into the dish by her hand, the lighter turning repeatedly between her fingers.  
“I’m fine about you two. I was jealous of Adelita, however. Had I not known about your relationship, I might have suspected it was Miguel who’d gotten her pregnant. But I knew he wouldn’t betray you like that.  I guess it’s just a question of perspective, huh?”

“Adelita- Mikey never---”
“I know. I know,” Emily cuts him off.
Unexpectedly, she reaches out and caresses Nestor’s cheek. He flinches for a second but then realizes it’s her, so he allows the contact.
A faint smile holds a touch of nostalgia. “Mikey. That’s the other thing.”

“What other thing?”
“Nestor, you’re the only one he allows to call him Mikey. It’s extremely sweet. That’s how I know he loves you. He lets himself be a different person around you. Softer. Something he normally fights against when he wears his mob mask. There’s more than one Miguel Galindo, but I have a sneaking suspicion he’s his best self with you.”

Perhaps it’s true, Nestor thinks. She’s a smart woman- if she’s seen it…
Nestor worries he makes him weak, though. The concern- the river of loving words Mikey’s always had for him- but gives out with an eye dropper to others...  
“Perhaps you’re right, ma’am.”

“Stop with the ma’am,” she orders, lips parting in a dazzling display of white teeth. “Call me Emily. You’re sleeping with my husband, we both love him. We should at least be on a first name basis, don’t you think?”

Shit if this day hasn’t turned into an unexpected telenovella. “Thank you, Emily. I have to be honest, this is really weird for me. Sometimes I thought about what would happen, you know, if you found out. And now you tell me you did all along. I just – I guess I’m glad I don’t have to go look for another job.”
This is the first time both of them laugh.
“We’re fine, Nestor. I’m happy he has you. Knowing you love him means you’d give your life for him, not just because you’re paid. That puts my heart at ease.”

“I’d die for him, Emily,” Nestor answers without hesitation.
“I know. And I wouldn’t- that says a lot, doesn’t it?” Her gaze clouds a moment.

“You’re a mother. It’s normal you’d think to your child’s well-being first.”
“Of course, I’d die for Cristobal.” Most of the cigarette is gone. She lets the butt drop and rubs it into the bottom of the dish.  
“Thinking about life, it’s been lonely. This house is built on pain, Nestor. There should at least be some joy in it. So now that you’re informed, maybe we can talk sometimes. About Miguel. Make each other less lonely while he’s gone?”

Eyes widening, he touches the shot glass and tips it left and right.
“I’d like that.”
“Great.”

Emily leans in, taking his hands in hers. They're silky- almost delicate. Not what she was expecting.
“You look sad. You should be happy.”
He should. But it's still nagging at him. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
The weariness lifts from her face, taking his spirits with it.
“I am, Nestor. Miguel needs these moments of happiness, and if you can give him that, I won’t be the one to take it away from him. Who am I to deny him what’s already a part of him?”

“Thank you,” he says in a shaky voice. All this time he’s been reflecting on how this might end in him losing Mikey forever. Instead... 
 
“Look at me,” she points her chin at the clock. “I’m taking up your time. You should get on the road. He’ll be eager to see you.”

“Yes ma’am- I mean Emily.”
He makes to lift himself from the stool when she says his name.
Before he can react, Emily grabs Nestor’s face. She kisses him full on the mouth, tongue tracing the fullness of his lips.
They part slightly, more out of instinct than anything else, and only enough for his tongue to sample the nicotine, the rum, and the sticky sweetness of her lip gloss.  

Nestor stiffens, but it’s over before he knows it. She pulls away, wiping the moisture from the corner of his mouth with her thumb.
Dumbfounded, he stares at her, shocked and breathless.

“He’s lucky," she winks at him. "Sorry for the ambush. I just needed to know: you kiss really well."

With that Emily slides off the stool, back over to where the bottle of rum is. She pours herself the third, her head slanted just enough to keep him in view.
“Take care of him tonight, Nestor. Love him. Make him forget why he ran."
“I will,” he whispers, a blush rising to his cheeks.
"And give him that kiss from me.” The request, the sentiment behind it, is no less crazy than the rest of what has just transpired.

Still tasting her on him, Nestor licks away the residual taste. It's not that he's grossed out, or the kiss was bad. It's just not Mikey.
No one’s mouth is Mikey’s. No one’s probing tongue as smooth or sweet.

He gathers his things, slips his personal phone into his pocket and makes sure the burner is in his coat. Emily waves goodbye to him as he walks past the living room.
Before exiting he throws one last glance in her direction and smiles. 

Once she hears the gravel shift and his car is out of sight, she opens her Iphone to the gallery. Sliding a few pages back, Emily lands on the photograph she was looking for.  
It's of her and EZ from back in high school. A screenshot from a forgotten Facebook album, of an even more distant memory. 
She wonders where he is. 
She wonders if he's up. 

Hand hovering over his contact a second later, she wonders if she should call. 
 

Chapter Text

Nestor’s been at the house for a little over twenty minutes, thirty before schedule. The precautions took less time than expected and there wasn’t a soul on the back roads, not at this hour of night in the desert.

His dreamy eyes have compensated for the twilight. Legs slightly parted, he hunches over, tattooed arms resting on his massive thighs. Through the windows of the villa is the terrace and the panorama of the arid valley, both shrouded in shadow.
There’s so many of them, these badlands, that they tend to fade into a neglected background. But on nights like these, when the sunset has overcome the day and it’s so quiet you can hear your own pulse thrumming in your ears- Nestor has the time and the peace of mind to enjoy its stillness.
It also takes him back to his childhood.

Scouting the sky, he latches onto the constellation on display before him. He can’t remember the name, just that it’s always the first he’s able to identify.
If his brother were here, he’d know. He was the one who always dragged the blanket out on calm nights like this, regaling him and Mikey with all the mythology behind the formations.
If Nestor still remembered their conversations, he’d hear his brother’s voice labeling them.

“That one is Mamalhuaztli, Nessie” he’d say, pointing to today’s Orion belt. “The fire stick.”
“And that one?” Little Nestor would indicate another.
“Yeah, that one!” Mikey’d underline with his enthusiasm, throwing a gaze to Nestor, eager to emulate and impress him.
“That one’s Citlaxonecuilli- Ursa Minor, hermanitos. It used to be called the wagon of heaven.”

Simpler times. He misses them. He misses his brother, too. For better or worse, their struggles made them into the men they are today. He wouldn’t trade those first years with Miguel and his hermano for anything.

When he reflects on it, Nestor thinks he might have loved Mikey even then. It would have been difficult not to- they spent every waking moment together. Through the mischief and the friendship of their youth- to the promises (and pains) of their present, they’ve rarely been apart. And even when they were, only physically, they were always tethered by their undying promise to be there for one another.
No whispered pledge was ever forgotten between them, which is why they’re both coming here tonight.

A text alert distracts his revery. Mikey is due to arrive, he notes, if the time isn’t deceiving.
His breath hitches when he opens the phone.
Yes, it’s precisely that.
5 min mi amor.

Five minutes. 300 seconds.
It’s a reflex by now. When Nestor’s mind wanders to Miguel, which is more often than he’d ever admit, he reaches for the necklace. It immediately makes him feel close.
Pressing a hand to the left of his sternum, Nestor’s fist swallows the medallion. For once, he is actually “unfastened,” literally and figuratively.
He’s opened his shirt to a three-button gap, so it’s easy to just slide his hand underneath the cotton. Nestor is unusually casual as well- face relaxed, smiling reminiscently despite himself.
Holding the charm between his fingertips, he studies its familiar etching with the thick of his thumb.
A poor surrogate for the intoxicating feel of Mikey’s soft flesh, but it doesn’t matter.
He’ll be here shortly.

Drawing a deep breath, a strong awareness of his own heartbeat seizes a hold in his chest. Nestor shuts his eyes, dragging in even more air to steady himself. His hands tremble slightly in anticipation.
When he refocuses, the ETA is one minute.
59…
There’s the hum of an engine and then silence.
42…
A door closing and then a lock turning.
17…
The sound of keys hitting and a bag softly landing on the floor.
3, 2, 1…

Mikey.
“Nes?”

Tonight the stars seem to suspend from the dark vault of heaven. Nestor’s breathing is regular again despite his heart jolting. Mikey has that calming effect on him.

The echo of his leather heels draws near. Nestor stands up, momentarily fixated on the exterior. It’s the blackness that gets him- transports him back to the last time he and Mikey made love.
It was at least a fortnight ago. Their bodies meshed - his love’s eyes like a dim shore of an inky river. The way they bore into Nestor’s made him forget his name.
 
The molecules of memory make his skin prickle even now- Jesus!
Next came their shared shuddering exhale as they broke. An explosion that perfumed of honey- and hope. Nestor gathered him in his strong arms afterwards, forehead to forehead- brothers and lovers.
An urgent press of tongue and teeth against caresses as gentle as an evening shower.

They’re so gone for each other it almost borders on obsession.
_

“Mi amor.”
Midnight eyes soften at the sight of Nestor. Despite the eclipse in the room, they can make each other out perfectly.
“Mikey…” The appellation is a prayer.

A long pause ensues as they look at each other through the darkness. Nestor twitches in anticipation, takes a half step forward.
Miguel stops him.
“Stay there, Nes. Let me come to you.”

Miguel lights a match, illuminating his handsome features in a soft glow. A slim leg extends into one slow step.
He’s been planning this for a week.

“Tres fósforos encendidos, uno tras otro en la noche.
El primero para ver tu cuerpo entero…”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Three matches one by one struck in the night.
The first to see your body in its entirety.

Heat ripples under Nestor’s skin, the first flush of impatient sexual desire consuming it. What's Mik doing?
Miguel’s body responds in kind, aches with the promise of fulfillment.
But not yet.

Miguel strikes a second. It smells like dust on a hot lightbulb, this burn. Is this also what forbidden love scents like?
He moves one long stride closer.
“El segundo para ver tus ojos.” The second to see your eyes.

And what eyes. Jesus, he could forget himself in those cinnamon orbs, Miguel thinks.
And he has. So many times. He'd be lying if he said otherwise. 

Mikey's face tenses in hunger, coloring violently.
Nestor gasps. His lover's gaze not only explores, it suggests. What unspoken possibilities await?

Both can feel the naked longing that stretches between them. Mikey is savoring the moment, almost teasing both himself and Nestor.
Miguel’s mischievous smile dazzles against his sun-kissed complexion as he pulls another match from the box.
It blazes immediately after, one last purposeful footstep closes the gap between them.

“El tercero para ver tu boca.” The last to see your mouth.

Dropping his thick lashes, Nestor looks down at him and bites into his lower lip. How long can a man survive in apnea from air, from love, from a caress?
His hands clench and release, wanting to reach out- needing to feel him.

The sizzle of the last stick dying returns them to pitch. Trailing a finger down Nestor’s open collar, over his scorching chest, Miguel never loses eye contact.
He unbuttons Nestor’s shirt with deliberate and tortuous calm.

Nestor swallows back a strangled gasp. The passion inching through his veins moves him to within a hair’s breadth of Miguel’s mouth.
Only a sigh separates them.
“Y la oscuridad para recordarlo todo abrazándote,” Miguel whispers.                                                                                                                                                                                                    And the darkness all around to remind me of all these as I hold you in my arms.

From Nestor’s breast breaks a low moan, and Miguel surrenders to the moment.
“Mikey…” He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted him more. “I want you,” Nestor implores.
“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

Miguel kisses the hollow of his throat. This is his spot.
“I don’t need the light to find you, Nestor.”

He catches him by a braid next, jerking Nestor’s neck out in offering. Nes melts into the touch, Miguel sucking into the tattoo, hard enough to mark him. His teeth take small nips to the sensitive skin, just in case the hickey doesn’t take.
This is his spot.
“I’d find your lips in the blackest of nights. Say you’re mine, Nes. Only mine.”
The request is more a whimper than an order.

“Mikey, fuck… “
Sliding his arms around him, Nestor pulls him close in a claiming gesture. A confirmation.
He abandons himself to the scent of Miguel’s cologne- to his attraction. 

“Always Mikey. Soy tujo para siempre.”  I’ll always be yours.
_

This is their game. The give- the take. Sometimes predator, sometimes prey. They don’t hold to unnecessary definitions or limitations. They just are, and when they’re alone with one another, nothing else in the world exists.
Miguel’s skin still burns from the memory of Nestor’s generous hands, a ghost of his sex filling him still pulses somewhere within.
But tonight… tonight Miguel wants to gift him eternity.

When the last button is undone, Nestor’s shirt falls open.  Miguel tilts his head to the left. Takes him in, drinks him up. The weak illumination from the terrace outside shadows the grooves of his perfect muscles.
“I missed you, Nes,” he breathes. “Christ, I missed you.” He shakes his head like he does when he just doesn't know what the fuck else to say. 

With an easy slide of fabric, the shirt drifts to the floor, Mikey’s hands sailing over his powerful shoulders a second later. The movement is fluid. The feeling... a soft, gentle whicker. Miguel’s tongue slides along the crevice of Nestor’s lips, begging entry.
Nestor parts his. He cradles Mikey’s head from the nape, the other in his hair. Testing the connection as if it were the first time; the slow penetration swiftly becomes hard and searching.  

They’ve kissed a thousand times before, but it’s never felt like this.
Raw.
Desperate.
Their hearts race in cadence to a hummingbird’s wings. Nestor’s plump mouth and his eager lips bruise helplessly beneath rough thrusts.
Neither stop. Not until hands knead into flesh, clothes are disposed of haphazardly all over the room. They stand bare chest to bare chest, swollen sexes bleeding precome. 

Fuck.
“I want you, Mikey. I need you. Por favor… “ Nestor crushes himself into him, their cocks grinding at the roll of his wide hips.

The men drop to the rug, Nestor’s position emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of Miguel’s waist as he makes room for him between his legs.
Miguel arches there in invitation, the tip of his cock maneuvering just outside Nestor’s opening. Nestor smiles wickedly, his gold tooth glinting for a moment as it catches the security light.

Slowly and seductively, his gaze slides downward. He brings Mikey’s hand to his mouth, presses his knuckles there for a peck, before sliding three fingers over his tongue.
Miguel goes slack except for his turgid muscle.
"Nes... "
Nestor flicks his tongue against Miguel’s digits, getting them dripping wet, before guiding his hand down. Miguel’s long cock arches up, its glistening tip nestling between the cleft of his lifted ass cheeks. The lazy, lubricious nudging pulls back his foreskin.

“You want to fuck me, Mikey?”
The question is more than rhetorical. Everything in Nestor’s gaze says do it, take me. Everything in Miguel’s says I need to be inside you.
From under caterpillar lashes, Nestor doesn’t wait for an answer. He blinks, slips the same fingers he’s been licking inside himself, eyes rolling into the back of his head when Mikey finds the sweet spot.

Christ. 
Teeth ripping open the condom with his free hand, Miguel’s unable to ignore the painful ache between his legs any longer. His bad for teasing. A breath doused in desire leaves his mouth.
“I want to make you forget the world, Nes.”
_

Tasting, pushing, slowing down only to quicken.
Biting and sucking–only to hold one another sweetly like two forlorn souls.
Miguel and Nestor worship each other like only they know how. Fuck the norms. And what would those be, anyway?

Nestor moves with Mikey, not against him, sheathing his needy cock in his warmth, welcoming every plunge through a haze of barbaric urges and groans.
His wide palms slide, cutting through space and time and obstacle. This is their time now. His and Mikey’s.
Up the groove of Miguel’s slick back, Nestor remaps down to the perfect curve of his toned ass.
Ten fingers urge him on.
“Fuck, Mikey… fuck… more.“

Nestor grunts as Mikey drives in deeper, the slick sounds in time to their laments. Tightness coils in his body, the first hint of orgasm like a dawn rising behind his lids.
“I’m close, Mikey… I’m close… “

Miguel robs deep breaths until he’s strong enough to lift himself. Body taut, hovering over him, he puts all his weight in one hand. Mikey pulls out reluctantly, removing the condom and tossing it to the side.
Poising himself on his knees, wrapping his fingers around their erections, Miguel strokes them both in a two-handed race to release. Nestor claws, begs- toes curled against Mikey’s calves. It’s unbearable, this climb. 

“Nes… Nes… “ Mikey realizes he’s overwhelmed. Nestor helps, bends to grasp Mikey’s cock and lets Mikey take care of his.

"Come for me, Mikey. Come for me," he stutters, fumbling through the labrinth of his own ecstasy.

A mess of limbs and sensations. The salty essence of sex and a litany of first names and cries to God… it all permeates the air. Their mouths meet in frenzied need when at last they come, seconds of difference separating the swell of their spend.

It’s like they’ve shattered into a million pieces. Nestor’s writhing beneath him, body saturated with lust and stomach painted in their come.
“I love you, Mikey,” he pants, delirious. “I love you.”

Primal ownership takes over when a hint of lucidity returns to Miguel. He throws himself onto Nestor’s semi-hard sex. While his hands anchor in the hollows above his buttocks, Mikey licks him clean, making his entire thick shaft disappear into his cavity.
Waiting for both their sated bodies to come down off the high, all the while Nestor’s hands rake into Mikey’s ruffled hair. Eventually their erratic heartbeats settle back into a natural rhythm.

“Si no estoy contigo estoy perdido, no sé vivir, Nes. Te quiero, te quiero,” Mikey confesses, bearded cheek flat against the V of Nestor’s damp, dark pubic hair.
If I’m not with you, I don’t know how to live, Nes. I love you.. I love you.

_

Nestor slides down into the steamy water until he’s submerged to the chin. The bath gel is spicy- exotic. It’s oily silk against their nakedness.
He sighs, bliss’d out. Leaning back, the top of his head touching the center of Mikey’s chest, he puckers his lips. Miguel bends, brushing them with a swift peck, before scooping some water into the small dish.
He rinses the shampoo from Nestor’s hair with loving delicacy. It’s like a second baptism, promising him forever to Miguel.

Thoughts are no longer lining up. The cartel boss can’t wrench his gaze away from his lover’s strong features, so different from his. Something's different today, and he feels things won't ever go back to how they were. 
“I love you, Nes.”
It just escapes him before he can realize how utterly needy he sounds. A second later he doesn’t care. It’s nothing Nestor doesn’t know already. It's nothing they haven't already said to each other tonight. 

Nes inches up, angling a devoted glance upwards.  A grin stretches across his face as he twists to kiss Mikey again- he can’t get enough.
“I love you, too, Mikey.”
Miguel catches his chin, forcing their mouths together. The taste of soap lingers in the achingly deep exploration that follows.

“This is paradise, Mikey,” Nestor declares, breathless and completely smitten when they pull off. He lets his hand make small waves in the sudsy water, a gesture childlike but also symbolic of how serene they are. Seeking his hand, Miguel threads his fingers with Nestor’s just under the surface of the bubbles.
“I only wish it could last.”
Yeah. Don't we both, Nestor thinks. “I know Mikey. Me too. But I’d never ask that of you.” His tone might say otherwise, but Nestor had resolved himself to the reality of all this long ago.

Soft tendrils of Nestor’s beautiful long hair float around his shoulders. Miguel reaches out and kisses a lock, massaging into his scalp with his free hand.
There’s an icy fist round his heart, squeezing. A flicker of sadness makes him frown.

“I don’t think you know how much I love you, Nes. I’m awful at showing it, I'm sorry.”

He doesn’t know where this is coming from, Mikey’s self-admonishment. He’s about to reply when Mikey continues. “I often think you deserve better. A normal life. A man or a woman who will love you and maybe, if you wanted... give you kids. I wonder if I’m only holding you back. I wonder if all I'll ever be able to give you is grief.”

“Mikey-“ Tears flood Nestor’s eyes. Panic riots within him. Is… is Mikey breaking this off? He spins, both palms enveloping Miguel's face. "No, Mikey. No." 

It's like he didn't hear him. His expression is ghosted. “But then I can’t breathe when I think about losing you. Rage rises in me if I think about you in someone’s else’s arms. Is that selfish? Wanting you to be mine and mine alone when I can’t offer the same?”

Nestor’s stomach tightens. He wants to tell him that Emily knows- that it’s okay. He doesn’t have to choose and it doesn’t fucking matter because love is love and-
Instead he says this:
“I don’t want anyone else, Mikey. I love you. I only want you, even if that means only being your guard. Even if that means we never touch again and I have to love you from afar.”

Jesus, his nearness, his devotion- it’s heart-wrenching. Miguel chokes back a sob, all his fears an ugly tapestry draped before his eyes. 
The sensation that he doesn’t deserve ANY love- let alone Nestor’s, consumes him. 
“Nes, I know you’re by my side to protect me, but honestly I’d throw myself in front of a bullet for you without hesitation. I don’t know who, of the both of us, would have the clarity to save themselves first. And that’s the most beautiful fucking thing ever.”

Nestor hooks into the edge of the tub, on top of Miguel. Some water sloshes onto the mat. “I’ll do anything to protect you and your family, Mikey. ANYTHING. Remember, I don’t matter.”
WHAT?! 
No. 
“No, mi vida. You do.” This time there’s no hesitation on Miguel’s end. “You matter to me. Sei todo, mi amor.”  You’re everything, my love.

Nestor blinks back the sudden, scalding tears, and that’s when Miguel decides that things have gotten too serious for a rendezvous in the desert. “I don’t want to talk about sad things, Nes. We have a few hours left. I just want us to love each other into the dawn.”

The moment's over. He knows Miguel well enough. When he reaches for the glass of wine and averts his gaze- he's shutting down. 

“What do you want me to do, Mikey?” he offers, a slight tremor to his voice.

Miguel flits back, feels the intensity of Nestor’s gaze down to his toes. A bolt of desire moves through his body and makes his sex awaken again. The hot water helps. 

"Well..." 
Reaching through the bath to Nestor’s newly interested erection, his very touch turns it to from uncertain to granite.

“Fuck me, Nestor. Like there’s no tomorrow.” A libidinous smile tiptoes across Mikey’s lips.
Okay... Nestor gets it. Enough with the sentiments. 

Mikey gives him a couple of lazy tugs, and Nestor's hooded expression holds behind it a tango of desire. “Done. And then?”

Drawing himself under Nestor's chin, he kisses his jaw. “And then, mi amor, breakfast. And I want to braid your hair.”

Chapter Text