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It was one of those excruciatingly hot days in which Max missed southern snows. In the Los Pollos Hermanos kitchen, the temperature shot up to thirty degrees celsius. The AC was on, but it did little outside of spitting out some more warm air. He might as well have been in hell.
Rather than shouting “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!” Max’s personal Charon was taking a day off. Last night, as he occasionally did, Gustavo had walked around their house like a guard dog making its hourly rounds, checking on the locks, the windows, the stove. He must not have wanted to interrupt Max’s sleep by getting in and out of bed because, when Max had woken up, Gustavo’s pillow had gone cold.
Max had found him in the living room. The sight of Gustavo’s dark circles had been enough for him to decide: “Stay home today.”
“Are you sure?” To be even slightly open to the idea, Gustavo must’ve been as tired as he’d looked.
“I’m sure,” Max had assured him right then. “I’ll get Lucho to do your prep and we'll be fine. Besides, it’s a Tuesday. Customers won’t be a problem.”
Gustavo had accepted Max’s reasoning. Before going out the door, Max had kissed him on the forehead and felt it burn under his lips.
Max knew the root of Gustavo's worries. Barely a week had gone by since they’d approached the Mexican cartel with the fruit of his hard-earned chemistry degrees. They’d released their message like a boomerang, sending two rugged men out and welcoming two polished ones the next day. The adjective was the main difference as Max had found both pairs to be equally unpleasant: Bolsa had been polite enough, but Salamanca…
It didn’t matter. Max didn’t have to like the Mexicans in order to work with them, and they didn’t have to like him either. They only had to tolerate each other until he and Gustavo squirreled away enough money to finally move somewhere else, somewhere far away.
Somewhere with snow.
Sighing, Max wiped his forehead. The action didn’t do much as his arm was just as damp with sweat. His knife nearly slipped out of his hand when he picked it up again, but readjusting his fingers around the plastic handle allowed him to peel some potatoes with his usual speed.
Though there were indeed less clients today, that was not to say that Max lacked work. A restaurant was a delicate machine and, in order for it to run smoothly during its busiest times, Max needed to make extensive preparations. That morning, he’d sent Lucho out to run some errands while he took care of the food.
“Hey, Max.” His waitress, Carla, interrupted his mindless task. “One of the clients wants to talk to you.”
Max shot her a worried glance. Whenever clients called for one of the owners, it was generally a sign that he was about to be yelled at. Content people rarely bothered to speak up. “What should I expect?” he asked, setting down his knife.
“Uh… Good things, I think? He really enjoyed the- oh!”
Carla yelped as a stranger — the aforementioned client, Max presumed — entered the kitchen like he owned the place. His pitch black eyes immediately latched onto Max. Under his poor attempt at a mustache, a toothy grin splitted his face.
“Hey, man!” he said in a friendly tone that was just a shade too bright to be natural.
“Um, sir,” Carla said, clearly uncomfortable. “This area is for employees…”
“It’s okay, Carla. You can go back to work,” Max reassured her. As brashly as the man was acting, Max couldn’t bring himself to feel threatened by him. He was skinny like a teenager who’d grown up too fast, and, even with Lucho gone, Max had no doubt that he could physically force him out of the restaurant if needed.
Carla fled without ado. The man's gaze followed her out. “Pretty!” he commented. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“She’s married,” Max answered briskly. As far as Max knew, Carla was actually single, but he didn’t want to risk admitting it to the stranger in case he took that as an invitation to bother her.
Max studied the man for a moment. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for the owner.”
“Well,” Max said, “you’re in luck.”
The other’s smile stretched impossibly wider. “You’re Fring?” he asked in disbelief. “Wow. By the way my uncle spoke of you, I thought you’d be a touch more sunkissed.”
The remark gave Max an unpleasant itch. “He was probably referring to Gustavo. I’m Max Arciniega. We own Los Pollos Hermanos together.”
“Hermanos, but you have different last names," the man pointed out like it was an exceedingly clever thing to observe. "How does that happen?”
They both knew that this wasn’t the only nor the most striking difference between Gustavo and Max, but the latter shrugged and gave the same excuse he always did: “Different fathers.”
The fact that they also had different mothers was a detail that went unsaid. People were generally happy to swallow Max’s story, as the truth was something that most of them couldn’t fathom.
Whether he’d believed it or not, Lalo seemed uninterested in further exploring the partners' genealogical trees. He was looking around and touching everything, examining labels and shamelessly opening the cabinets. He didn’t seem worried in the least that Max might tell him to back off.
Despite his desire to do so, Max was starting to get an odd feeling about the man. He wasn’t wearing anything that pointed to wealth — his shirt was as cheap as it was obnoxiously patterned — but the rows of teeth he’d been so eager to unveil were suspiciously white, straight and intact. Furthermore, he carried himself with the confidence of a spoiled brat who had never gotten disciplined once in his life. With that in mind, and the fact that he’d been seeking out Gustavo, it seemed likely that he was related to the cartel in some way.
Max rattled his brain to try to figure out who he was but, save for Eladio Vuente, the only cartel members he could recall were the ones he’d already met. And there was no way this self-impressed young man could be Eladio. Max suddenly regretted Gustavo’s absence; ever the politician, his lover had memorized every important player in the area precisely to prepare for such an occasion.
Dreading an answer he already had in mind, Max spoke, interrupting the other mid-reading of their employee schedule: “May I ask who your uncle is?”
“Don Hector.” So there was Salamanca blood clotting somewhere between this guy’s heart and brain; that figured. He turned his head to catch Max’s reaction, then laughed. “Did I scare you? Relax, man!”
He was pushing it. Max was certain that his face had betrayed nothing, and he made a point not to give the jab any importance by responding to it. “I remember him," Max said. "Now that you mention it, I do see certain similarities.”
He’d meant this as a subtle insult, but the other seemed pleased. “I’m Lalo!” the man finally introduced himself, extending a hand that Max reluctantly took in his own.
Instead of shaking it, Lalo tightened his hold in an attempt to crush Max’s fingers. This guy! Max thought, fighting a wince. I get it, you’re the man. Will you fucking let go?
As if reading his thoughts, Lalo loosened his grip. Max’s relief was short-lived when his interlocutor immediately replaced one rudeness with another. “Woah, you’re sweaty!” he exclaimed, wiping his hand on Max’s apron. “I hope you didn’t touch my food with those hands.”
“The AC’s broken,” Max explained curtly, crossing his arms so that Lalo would stop fondling his chest area. What the hell was wrong with that guy?
“Why, it’s not that hot- oh, but you’re not used to our climate, right? What kind of accent is that?”
“Chilean."
“Ah, yes. Beautiful country,” Lalo complimented, not bothering to make it sound like he meant it. “I do have to say, I’m amazed that a foreigner like you managed to capture authentic Mexican flavors. That chicken, for example! Delicious! The crispiness, the flavor, the…”
“Thank you,” Max said as Lalo continued throwing more and more grandiloquent words at him. “I was a sous for this place’s last owner, a Mexican chef. He taught me.”
“Oh?” Lalo seemed thrilled by that new information. “And how did you get to snatch his restaurant from him? Did you buy it?”
“No,” Max said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “He left it to me when he died.”
“You must've been heartbroken.” Lalo didn't even try to stifle his grin. “Anyway, it all worked out, right? I got a good meal out of it. Maybe I’ll even make your recipe for my abuela, some day… I’m a bit of a cook myself, you know?”
“You could bring her here,” Max suggested. “I’m afraid I keep my recipes under lock and key.”
Lalo laughed. “I see you, businessman. Alright, I'm feeling generous. How much for it? Do you want me to buy you a new AC?”
“It’s not for sale,” Max insisted.
The statement seemed to make something short-circuit in Lalo’s brain. He hesitated, then blurted out: "I don't understand." For the first time, Max thought he sounded completely sincere.
“Not everything can be bought,” Max said wisely.
“That’s- No- Huh. What a lovely sentiment,” Lalo replied, forcefully pulling the words out of his throat.
He waited, but Max didn’t reward him with an offer. For some obscure reason, that seemed to offend Lalo. He asked again, pouring all of his unnerving charm into the request: “Please, do me the kindness of sharing your recipe with me.”
Max said no.
Lalo began to cool off on the politeness: “Give me your recipe.”
Max said no.
Lalo stomped on the ground like a child: “Give it!”
Max said no.
Lalo exploded: “Listen here you fucking pig, my family runs the cartel! If you want to work for us, you have to do as I say! Even if you weren’t working for us you’d have to do as I say!”
“Or what, you’ll kill me?“ Max scoffed. “You still won’t get it!”
Lalo seemed ready to grab Max's knife and go at it anyway, but a sudden idea made him narrow his eyes. “Good point," he replied calmly. "Maybe I'll kill your boyfriend, then.”
The unexpected words hit Max like a mean liver shot, the kind that made the body shut down in a split second. Any satisfaction he'd gotten from refusing Lalo’s request instantly drained out of him, fear taking its place.
“What?” he stammered, too stunned to think of a smoother reply.
“Oh, please, don’t play dumb,” Lalo whined. “That's so boring.”
“I don’t- I’m not-”
“I- I- I-” Lalo said, mocking Max’s stuttering. “‘If you didn’t want people to know the truth, you should’ve thought of something more convincing than ‘brothers.’”
Closing his eyes, Max took a slow breath to steady himself. What would Gustavo do? he wondered, aching at the thought of him peacefully sleeping in their bed. His better half had always been the more convincing actor.
Max got in character. “Do I look like a faggot to you?” he asked in a low, defiant voice. Insults of that nature didn’t wound him too deeply — after all, they were true — but he knew that the average man wouldn’t welcome Lalo’s allusions with anything less than anger.
Lalo cocked his head, considering the question carefully. “I can see it.”
“You’re insane,” Max breathed out.
The other man laughed. “Don’t call me insane, you’re the one who’s fucking another guy! Unless you’re the one who’s taking it up the..?”
“Shut it!” Max cut in, furious and humiliated in a way that made his head throb. He supposed he should be thankful that Lalo had decided to run his mouth in the privacy of the kitchen rather than in front of his customers. A poor consolation, but he’d take it.
Rather than looking slighted, Lalo gave him an insufferable smile. “There's no need to be emotional. I don’t care about what you like. However, if I were you, I'd worry about the fact that others might not be as open-minded.”
Max frowned at the allusion. Since they had just met, there was only one way for Lalo to have learned of his relationship with Gustavo: word of mouth. Who could’ve told him? Max's customers? Unlikely. Carla? Even less. Hector? Possible. Had it been a lucky guess, or did he know? How could he know?
Upon Max’s conflicted silence, Lalo sighed. “Okay. I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be friends, yes? If I apologize for what I said, you’ll give me your recipe, yes?”
Max tried to think of a way out, but there was none. Defeated, he accepted Lalo's offer with a stiff nod. He hated having to give the Salamanca what he wanted simply because, through a cruel toss of the dice, the other had been born into power, but Max would offer his life if it could protect Gustavo’s. In comparison, what was a bit of pride worth?
As Max wrote the recipe on one of the paper rolls he used for bills, he thought that Father André might’ve been wrong about the way things had unfolded in the garden of Eden. The snake had had no desire to make someone eat that apple but a mustachioed Eve, overtaken by a sudden and unprovoked fit of sadism, had threatened him into relinquishing it.
When Max set down his pen, Lalo gleefully stretched his arm to snatch the paper from his hand. “If it doesn’t taste the same, you’ll see me again!” he promised.
Max could only hope that Lalo was as good a cook as he claimed he was. The last thing he needed was for Lalo to elbow a salt shaker into the spices and start crying about sabotage.
As Lalo, satisfied, walked towards the restaurant’s entrance, Max planted himself in the kitchen’s doorway to watch him leave. Outside, a newcomer held the door open for Lalo.
“Thank you,” Lalo said, somehow managing to make it sound smug.
“My pleasure.” Max’s heart dropped when he recognized Gustavo’s voice.
He briefly wondered whether he’d imagined it, but that question was laid to rest when Gustavo entered seconds later. Naturally, he was dressed in a short-sleeved yellow shirt. Max had once confessed that he loved how the color looked on Gustavo and, since then, it was nearly all he wore.
When Gustavo's eyes landed on Max, he smiled and started walking a touch faster. The sight, combined with Lalo’s absence, gave Max enough relief to make him weak in the knees.
“Hey,” he said tenderly once Gustavo had joined him. “Couldn’t even take the morning off?”
“I’ll feel better if I keep busy,” Gustavo replied. Max thought, not for the first time, that his partner was like one of those sharks that had to keep swimming at all times in order not to drown. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
“I need…” Max paused. “I need you in the kitchen. Now. Come on.”
Gustavo raised his eyebrows, but he followed Max. Once they were out of sight, Max wrapped his arms around Gustavo and squeezed hard enough to trap him. Not that he needed to. “I missed you.”
“Are you okay? You saw me a few hours ago.” Gustavo’s voice sounded muffled as his face was shoved into Max’s shirt, but he didn’t try to pull away from the sweaty hug.
“I still missed you,” Max murmured, rubbing his face in Gustavo’s hair. Then, an afterthought: “We should be more careful.”
His stomach tightened when he heard the other laugh. “You’re the one who grabbed me!”
“I know, I… Last time,” he promised.
They remained locked together for a long moment. Max knew he’d have to let Gustavo go at some point but, before he did, he added quietly: “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Gustavo said, and they parted.