Chapter Text
Perhaps you’ll escape. Day and night this obsession. It’s not that you have to achieve anything, it’s that you have to get away from where you are.
— Marguerite Duras, The Lover
There is a dealer on his knees, on the verge of tears and breathing too loud through his nose. His desperation clogs up the air; unpleasant, nauseating. The man is short this month, extremely short, and expecting to make up for it with some bullshit story about a robbery. There's some truth there, maybe, but Nacho knows enough to know men on death row will conjure up all sorts of stories.
Nacho grits his teeth through blabbered excuses. At his back, Lalo; sitting with his feet up, thumbing through a paperback Nacho watched him steal from Hector's nursing home. Nacho doesn't look back at him. Wouldn't want to be seen as looking for direction or worse, approval.
Lalo probably isn't even looking his way. But Nacho's actions are still guided by his audience. If it were up to him, he'd let the guy go. If it were up to him, Nacho would be a long-haul trucker in Manitoba with a modest two-bedroom he could share with his father. But as it stands Nacho must take to violence. A decision, then a shift. Action, as it does, quiets everything outside of itself. A movement and Nacho's knee collides with the dealer's nose.
The bone crack reverberates in the space. The dealer tries to fall to the floor, to cover himself, but Nacho has him by the collar.
"Robbed or not, we're gonna have to find that product."
"Yes. Yes! Of course -"
"I'm serious. You need to track it down tonight. If you don't have it by then…"
Blood gushes out of his broken nose. The threat doesn't need to be finished to land. Nacho lets him go and the guy struggles to his feet before nodding at him, an agreement, and then rushing out the door.
Nacho sighs. It isn't even collection day. He could do without the excess problems that come from newbies too green to understand where it is exactly they've found themselves.
When he looks back at Lalo, the paperback has been abandoned. He's watching with that barely-contained smile, that amused glint of the eye. He should be glad for it, the show was for him after all. But instead, all Nacho can find within himself is irritation.
"Think he'll find that missing product?" Lalo asks.
"If he knows what's good for him."
"I'm sure he's begging to San Antonio right about now."
When Nacho doesn't answer right away, Lalo continues, "You know, for lost things. Don’t tell me your mom never taught you that.”
"I know."
Of course, he knows. His mother prayed to San Antonio for lost things and to San Judas when the cancer diagnosis came in. These aren’t things he ever plans on sharing with Lalo. The man is overly familiar, and in this sense craves things that don't belong to him. All Nacho has left these days is his privacy; it is the one thing he will still attempt to guard.
Lalo, bored with both his book and the end of the show, gets up. He tosses the paperback into a bin.
"No good," he says, "Just wanted to practice my English."
His English is perfect and they both know this. Where Nacho's mouth struggles against the lilts and vowels of Spanish, Lalo switches between the two fluently, with break-neck speed and ease. Here is Nacho's guess: boarding school or some English-speaking private school. Expensive, exclusive, a little prince dropped off at the beginning of the school year with body guards in tow. Nacho knows the type. But here is another thing about Lalo, part of being overly familiar; he likes to downplay to these things. He relates, where there is nothing to relate to.
Nacho does not give him an inch. Though, after the stunt with the police raid, an action only taken due to Fring's gun at his father's head, Lalo's been friendlier than ever. It has only the effect of making Nacho want to run.
Lalo's hand on his shoulder brings him back to the moment.
"You hungry? Let’s eat.”
Against his instinct, “Sure. Here?”
“Nah. Let’s go back to my place. Nothing else to do here today.”
There is a tension he cannot hide at the prospect. Lalo has been to his home, an excruciating experience made only easier by how sanitized the space is, by how little it has to reveal. Going to Lalo’s home, however, feels unsettling in another way, in way that’s not unlike looking over the edge of a cliff, that warning vertigo.
Lalo looks expectant. Eyes that trace the line of him down and up. Nacho swallows, the decision made for him.
“Okay,” he says, and like that ends up in Hector Salamanca’s unattended Albuquerque property, a gated estate filled up with antiques and trophies, and the clutter of a home lived in and then abruptly abandoned. Lalo inserts himself into the scene with ease; taking Hector’s place with no great fuss. Nacho is the one who feels ill-suited to this particular stage.
He sits stiffly at the kitchen counter while Lalo cooks, music playing from a radio that Lalo takes the time to feed CDs into, pointing out songs and lyrics, obnoxiously singing along. In the short time they’ve been together, Nacho has become accustomed to how Lalo keeps a constant soundtrack playing. All Mexican oldies, all classics. His taste in music is almost exactly the same as his father’s, the music Nacho would wake up to on late Sunday mornings growing up. It’s a comparison he would rather not consider.
There is an attempt to show off, Nacho thinks, when Lalo takes out a sauce he had made beforehand - you like mole?, he asks before listing off a dozen ingredients, detailing the complex process of drying and roasting the chilies, then combining with spices and broth, took me four fucking hours, but it always tastes better overnight.
Even in his anxiety, hunger still curls in his stomach as the scent wafts into the air, savory and just a little sweet. The dinner table is already set and Lalo has them sitting directly in front of each other. When he places the plates of chicken and rice, covered in a mole warm and fragrant in front of them, Lalo does not dig in. Once they are both seated, he holds still in anticipation of Nacho's first bite.
"Try it."
When Nacho hesitates, the way one can't help but do under scrutiny, Lalo continues, "Don't be so nervous, Nachito. Go on, I made it for you."
Lalo's attention is like action, it quiets everything outside of itself. It demands tension then choice. He brings the food to his mouth and chews. One bite, then another. Lalo remains attentive and such an audience brings all things to awareness, the tastes and textures easier to consider. It's perfect - he can deny Lalo many things, but not this. In all things culinary, the man is a cut above the average hobbyist. Those eyes don’t leave him until he swallows, following a path down his throat.
Nacho knows what Lalo is waiting for. Nacho allows him a little, pleased noise as he confirms: "It's good."
Lalo relaxes his posture immediately, smile bright and difficult to look at it.
"Good shit, right?"
"Good shit. It's - amazing."
He takes another bite, a sudden hunger awakening. It is good, and Nacho remembers that he hasn't eaten since morning, a lackluster meal made more lackluster in comparison.
"I wanna guess," Lalo starts around a mouthful of his own food, "that you're the kind of guy that just eats because he has to, right? 'Cause if you didn't, you'd starve."
Nacho would like to rebut him, just for the sake of it, but it's not an inaccurate assessment.
"Food is food."
"Nah, man, food is pleasure. If you go too long without eating something delicious it's bad for your soul."
It's not that Nacho means to deny himself but -
"I'm not much of a cook," he says, instead.
"Your parents?"
There Lalo goes, asking after things off-limits.
"My dad's alright, but nothing special."
Lalo tilts his head, as if he's looking for what's missing. What's missing is this: once Nacho's mother passed, the Varga household emptied of many things. Of a certain warmth, of loud conversation, of any dish that took more effort than boiling or reheating. Lalo shakes his head, raises a hand.
"Wait, wait, here's another guess: protein shakes. You live off them."
"Well, yeah. Got to bulk up somehow.”
"Ay, Nachito, you're killing me."
"It's not that bad. Practical."
“But the taste? I couldn’t do it. I can see the benefits, though. You’re fit, looks good.”
The compliment is accompanied by a purposeful look down his arms. It makes him pause, it makes his thoughts stutter to a stop.
“You too. For your age,” he says, and immediately regrets it, “I mean, you’re fit, too -”
Luckily, Lalo finds his slip-up amusing, throwing his head back in laughter rather than getting angry.
“Wait a second, how old do you think I am?”
“Older than me,” he says, simply. You’ve got the same music taste as my dad, he thinks, but there’s nothing to do with that comparison. He takes another bite of food, and finds another question to distract him, “You work out?”
After that, the conversation moves on with surprising ease. Nacho clears his plate, which Lalo eyes with unconcealed satisfaction, and beer continues to loosen their tongues. Still, there is something that does not immediately click, something still nudging at his mind since Lalo’s compliment. Something that he suspects but isn’t sure of. The evidence builds. After the dishes have been washed and put away and Lalo is looking at him a certain way, with a certain lingering hunger that the meal hadn't seemed to sate. There is the way they are suddenly standing closer, the way Lalo has held back that tendency towards sternness that he showed during that last poker game.
He is not certain, though, until Lalo asks him if he'd like anything stronger to drink.
Nacho knows what desire in other men looks like. When he sees that look in Lalo, it jars him, stops time. It seems he'd let his guard down without meaning to, and all it took was a warm meal. In the few seconds of silence, panic starts, starting somewhere along his spine and then displacing in his chest. Then -
Lalo’s hand at his jaw. His fingers are calloused, his palm wide. Nacho can see the most likely path before him materialize: Lalo will kiss him, and there will be no way to reject him without offending him. Melodic guitar still strums from the radio and it’s a song his dad likes; at that moment he thinks of his father. He thinks, too, of Gustavo Fring.
Then Lalo’s lips brush his in an action that is both familiar and yet absolutely foreign. He has kissed countless times in his life; but never anyone with facial hair, that scratches against his skin. Never anyone not only taller but wider, with bulk that pushes against him and that could cover him entirely. Never a man.
The thrill that courses through him cannot be made separate from his fear. His mouth falls open in what might be shock and Lalo takes that opportunity to press against him, his leg pushing forward against Nacho.
In another circumstance, in another place or time, or with someone else, Nacho would shove him away, maybe give him a black eye for trying. In another circumstance, Nacho would pull him closer, until they were hip to hip, maybe get a hand under his shirt. As it stands, Lalo is a Salamanca by both blood and duty, and Nacho is a man that would like to be anywhere but here, in this game. So instead, he stands frozen still in indecision.
He does not snap out of it until he feels Lalo’s tongue, pushing forward and insistent, and suddenly, he cannot control his flinch back. A movement made unconsciously.
Panic starts once more at the thought of having offended Lalo, the sorry falls out of his mouth automatically, landing in the silence like a dead thing.
He expects to find Lalo’s expression angry or upset, but instead, his head is titled and analytical. Perhaps a lesser man would be embarrassed at being rebuffed, but Lalo seems unbothered. Nacho has often thought, despite the perhaps tiredness of such a comparison, that Lalo has the same effect as a curious, yet ultimately bored cat. That swats at prey just to see what it’ll do. This is how Lalo looks at Nacho.
Then, Lalo takes a step back and chuckles.
“Go home, Ignacio. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Nacho nods and leaves before the man can change his mind.
The entire car ride home, his grip on the steering wheel is too tight. He thinks this is not what Fring meant when he said get close, it’s too dangerous, too risky -
He cannot afford to have Lalo angry at him, but he cannot give him this. Here is the terrible secret at the center of his anguish: Nacho already knows himself attracted to men. But it is something kept at the strictest distance, untouchable. Not something he’s willing to confront now, if ever. Most certainly not something he is willing to allow Lalo Salamanca to have any part in.
He wonders if Lalo was able to see that in him and that is what tonight was about. If he perceived what Nacho’s always denied, even to himself. Or perhaps Lalo simply doesn’t care. He is so powerful, so feared, that there is no reason for him to hide. No reason to worry about who it is he reveals his attraction to. Tonight it was Nacho, in another circumstance, it could have been anyone else. Lalo does what he wants.
Both thoughts make him resentful, in entirely different ways.
His thoughts race and do not quiet, and by the time he is in his own bed, the situation has not improved by any margin. He digs through his bedside drawer and finds sleeping pills. He is hesitant to take them after Gus’s men kidnapped him in the middle of the night. In fact, he’s been laying off all substances, for the need to stay sharp is too crucial.
As a desperate measure, he invites Amber into his bed. She attempts to kiss him, but there is still a phantom press there, so he gently redirects her, and her hand ends up in his underwear, stroking his dick.
But it’s wrong. Her hand is too cold, too skinny, and her motions are all perfunctory. His thoughts still race. He still thinks of Lalo’s hand at his jaw. After several minutes of something barely pleasurable, his frustration peaks, and he swats her hand away.
He grips himself and shuts his eyes. When he starts stroking he wishes he could say he’s thinking of nothing - indistinctive faces on indistinctive bodies, snapshots of pornography, memories of more successful encounters. Instead, he is thinking very vividly about a leg pressed between his own. About having to lean up to kiss and the distinctly masculine feeling of scruff and muscle.
Once the image forms, it's impossible to let go of. Against the logic of his sound mind, he grips onto the fantasy; Lalo, hard in his denim, and crowding against him. He imagines those hands coming to his waist, pinning him back. What it would be like to be rutted against. To touch back.
His orgasm sneaks up on him. So fast and intense that it’s unsatisfying. He sobers too quickly for any afterglow and remembering Amber’s presence ushers in its own discomfort. Graciously, she says nothing, simply settling in to sleep across from him in the large bed.
One’s own thoughts are a private arena, but even still not a place he should have indulged, something that becomes increasingly clear now that lust can be sorted and squared away. He is quite accustomed to this song and dance, this war within his own attraction, but never have the stakes been so high.
That anxiety starts back up again and he looks at the sleeping pills sitting on his nightstand, remembers Fring’s men pulling him from his bed in the middle of the night, and decides it’s still worth the risk. He swallows one dry and allows sleep to take him.