Archive of Our Own

July, 1994

It’s freakishly hot the day Nacho meets Lalo—the kind of hot and dry that makes it painful to inhale. Visible waves of heat shimmer off the pavement, casting the world in a warped haze. Hellish weather.

The air conditioner in Nacho’s van has been busted for ages; rolling the window down doesn’t offer much respite. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair—what’s left of it, anyway. All of the men in his family went bald in their twenties. Maybe it’s time to shave it.

Nacho arrives at El Mich earlier than usual. He and Tuco always count the take on Sundays after he takes his Abuelita to church. The restaurant is closed to customers that day—not that they’re much troubled by customers in general, since its reputation keeps the locals away. Nacho pulls into the parking lot, which is empty except for a car that Nacho only barely registers. No Tuco yet. Good. Things go quicker when Nacho gets a head start. He also likes the chance to be alone with the numbers. Sometimes he pores over the columns of figures like a treasure map—there’s opportunities in there, if he’s brave enough to take them.

When he goes to unlock the door, he discovers it’s already open. His heartbeat quickens—this isn’t right. His gaze falls upon the car again, and he truly sees it this time. A ’67 Cadillac Deville in really good shape. He looks around to see if he can spot its owner. The parking lots of neighboring businesses are nearly empty—there’s no reason for anyone to park here other than to visit the restaurant.

He opens the door just a crack. There’s no one in the dining room, but there’s a radio playing in the kitchen—some ranchero song.

Someone is singing along.

Should he leave? Wait for Tuco? Call for backup? Nacho squeezes his eyes shut and makes his mind be still. When he opens them again, his gaze falls on the door. No damage to the lock. Either someone forgot to lock up yesterday…or whoever is inside has a key.

After another moment of deliberation, he decides to go it alone. Tuco only ever adds chaos—better for Nacho to get a handle on things before he arrives. He brushes his fingers over the gun he has tucked in his waist band but decides against drawing it—no sense in needlessly escalating things, especially without knowing what he’s up against.  

Slowly, quietly, he makes his way to the kitchen. It's swelteringly hot in here too - the air conditioning is also out in the restaurant. The sound of meat sizzling on a grill mixes in with the music. The mystery man, his back to Nacho, bobs along with the music as he works at the grill. He sounds relaxed, like he’s in a good mood, although that doesn’t put Nacho at ease. Some men are at their most dangerous when they’re in a good mood.

The mystery man is about six feet tall, with a full head of dark hair. He’s wearing a blue shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows, faded jeans, and well-worn cowboy boots. When he turns around, he lets out a small, startled sound, but then a wide grin stretches under his thick moustache, as if to say he considers the surprise a pleasant one.

Nacho doesn’t think he’s really surprised. Whoever he is, he’s clearly cartel. He had a key, and he’s much too at ease to be an enemy. Tuco had mentioned he expected someone from the organization to visit them soon. So this guy is someone important—maybe someone very important. Nacho’s been working for Tuco for almost a year and hasn’t met anyone higher up than him. He’s not at all what Nacho expected. He imagined a cartel boss would be like Tuco, dressed to flaunt his wealth. This guy looks like he lives at a dude ranch.

“Oh, hey!” the man says in Spanish. “Just in time—here.” He adds some of the meat from the grill to a plate already prepared with tortillas. After sprinkling something on top, he hands the plate to Nacho. “Try this.”

Nacho raises his eyebrows, but he accepts the plate. “And you are—?”

“Why, I’m the new cook, of course!” He winks.

A test, but one that he’s rooting for Nacho to pass. Should he call him out to prove his bravery, or play along? This guy seems playful. Nacho decides to play. “Oh yeah?”

The man gestures to the plate. “Taste my cooking if you doubt me.”

Nacho only hesitates a moment before bringing one of the tacos to his lips. He takes a bite. It’s only okay. “Wow, this is really good,” he says.

The grin somehow gets wider. “It’s the epazote.” His eyes flicker over Nacho’s body, almost too quickly for him to notice. Almost, but not quite. Nacho has learned the subtle language of those kinds of looks. When their gazes meet again, the man’s eyes are darker than they were before. He tilts his hips ever-so-slightly; Nacho’s attention drifts to his large, silver belt buckle, which depicts a cowboy riding a bull.

The man notices him noticing. His grin turns sly.

Huh. More surprises. Better play it cool for now, but there’s definitely potential here. He finishes the first taco and picks up the second. “So is the old cook being replaced?”

The man waves his hand dismissively. “No, nothing like that. In truth, I’m not sure I’m going to stay. We were worried for a while about how this restaurant is run. But things have really turned around in the last few months.” He gestures to Nacho with his spatula. “I think you might have something to do with that, yes?”

Nacho puts the plate aside and leans against a pillar. “If you say so,” he says, crossing his arms. He knows his arms look good when crossed; it shows off all the hard work he does at the gym.

The man’s tongue flicks along his lips, but before he can respond, the front door opens.

“Yo, Nacho, you in here?” Tuco’s voice.

Damn. Nacho was hoping he’d have a better grasp on the situation before Tuco got there, but the mystery of this man remains unsolved. Before he can think of what to say, Tuco reaches the kitchen.

He stares at the man. “What the fuck are you doing here?” For a heart-stopping moment, Nacho thinks Tuco’s chaos is about to explode, but the thing about chaos is that it will always surprise you. Because Tuco’s smiling now, so wide it’s like his face has cracked. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he says again, his tone now one of manic glee. He rushes toward the mystery man and crashes into him, wrapping his arms around him like an excited grizzly bear. They’re both laughing and patting each other on the back, and then Tuco hugs him again, gentle this time, tucking his head into the man’s shoulder like a child.

At last, they part. Tuco looks at Nacho and points excitedly to the man. “Look, Nacho, it’s my cousin. My motherfucking cousin!”

Another Salamanca. He should have known.

“My name’s Eduardo, but you can call me Lalo.” He points at him. “And you are Ignacio Varga. They told me you’re smart.” His eyes twinkle. “And you are.” His gaze flickers over him again, and then he turns his attention back to Tuco. “Let me finish making lunch, and then we can talk business, yeah?”

Lalo and Tuco start chatting about family business and cartel gossip—no one Nacho’s ever heard of, but Nacho keeps quiet and listens carefully. The addition of a new Salamanca ought to make Nacho nervous, but he’s more intrigued than scared. In his time in the business, he’s discovered everyone in the drug trade is either stupid, greedy, or crazy. Lalo’s definitely not stupid. His plain clothes suggest he isn’t greedy, either.

Which leaves crazy. Is he crazy? Maybe. He kind of has to be to flirt with him so brazenly. Nacho can handle crazy.

At least, he hopes he can.

***  

Nacho only sees Lalo once more that week. On his first night in, he questioned Tuco and Nacho on their territory. Tuco did all the talking, but Lalo met Nacho’s gaze and tilted his head a little whenever Tuco said something that seemed off—is this for real? Nacho offered an equally subtle nod or shake of the head at his claims. Tuco didn’t notice, and Lalo never called him out on his boasts. With a few gentle questions, he redirected Tuco and got something closer to the truth out of him.

On Wednesday, he returned to El Mich to help with the take. Nacho feels sorry for their crew, even though Lalo is weirdly friendly to everyone. But that’s what makes him so unnerving—like a wolf who insists on making small talk while he decides if he should eat you. Of course they’re terrified.

It doesn’t help that Tuco is in one of his manic moods. He rambles and rants like he does when he’s high, except Nacho knows he isn’t high, because Tuco had given Nacho his pipe. Do you see this? he’d said. Then he dropped it on the ground and stomped it into oblivion. That’s what I want you to do to my face if you catch me with this shit. Got it?

Nacho said he did. After Tuco stormed away, he swept up the broken pieces of the pipe. He wonders what he will really do if he sees him smoking, and hopes he never has to decide.

At least Tuco’s chatter isn’t angry. He’s ecstatic about Lalo’s visit. He keeps telling stories of Lalo’s many feats of bravery and cleverness. Lalo is about ten years older than him and apparently made quite an impression on young Tuco. Lalo is, in other words, Tuco’s hero. It’s almost sweet. Nacho doesn’t really register most of what Tuco says. How can he be expected to pay attention when Lalo sometimes sits so close to him that their thighs touch?

What would it be like to work for this Salamanca? Nacho finds himself daydreaming about it as he works at his papa’s shop—the shop that will be his one day. Or at least that’s what his father thinks. The thought of a life hunched over a sewing machine is much scarier than the drug trade.

Working for Lalo isn’t the only thing he daydreams about—it’s not even the main thing he thinks about. Is Lalo really flirting with him? It seems like an impossible idea—his own explorations with men, limited as they were, stopped as soon as he got involved with the cartel. A paranoid part of him wonders if this is some sort of test, since that seems like one of Lalo’s things.

But that doesn’t really make any sense. Why would he want to get rid of Nacho? Someone homophobic enough to conduct elaborate stings to sniff out gay dealers is probably not the type who would be comfortable pretending to flirt. And the attraction is mutual. He can still feel the heat of Lalo’s gaze on his skin…

Okay, so maybe it’s still a terrible idea to get involved with him. The chance that things could go disastrously wrong is too high. But the more he tries to talk himself out of it, the more he wants him. An opportunity like this will never come his way again, especially since Lalo is exactly his type—older, masculine, and he even has a mustache.

A man like that has been his fantasy for a long time. Back when he was in high school, he once went to a party with Domingo’s drama club and band geek friends. They’d been close as kids but had drifted apart in high school as Domingo got more involved with orchestra and theater. He suspected, in fact, that the only reason he’d been invited was that he had a weed hook-up.

Well, maybe that wasn’t fair. Nacho probably would have refused since he usually considered himself too cool for that crowd, but he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, and it had caused a lot of drama with his friend group. Isabella was a nice girl, so he was cast in the role of the villain who broke her heart. Accusations of cheating were thrown around.

Nacho didn’t fight back, partly because he didn’t want to dignify it with a response, and partly because he would rather people think he was cheating than know the truth—firstly, that he had decided he probably never wanted to get married and also never wanted kids, two things that Isabella talked about constantly, and secondly, that he was having a serious freakout about his sexual identity. He liked girls, but lately whenever he jerked off, his best orgasms came from thoughts of men—specifically older men. It wasn’t like he was going to act on it—it was just a fantasy. But where were these fantasies coming from? Would they go away? What did they mean?

It turned out that theater kids partied pretty hard. After several beers and a joint, he found himself in an extremely intimate hours-long conversation with Chris, their school’s resident out gay guy. Chris explained to him the concept of bisexuality and then mused that maybe Nacho's thing for older men with moustaches stemmed from his desire for attention from his father, who was too busy with work and fretting over his chronically ill wife to give his son the attention he needed. It’s called Daddy issues, he’d said sagely before going to the bathroom to puke.

Nacho wasn’t so sure about that, but the conversation did make him feel better. They became friends for a while—it was easy to talk to him since their social circles didn’t overlap. They even made out a few times. After graduation, Chris took him to a gay club where Nacho had his first sexual encounter with a guy. He was a few years older and had a great moustache, but it would be a stretch to call him a daddy type. The sex was fine, but not spectacular. At the very least, it satisfied his curiosity.

The fantasy eventually faded, but Lalo’s arrival has brought it roaring back. He knows it’s stupid and tries to talk himself out of it, but it’s a losing battle. He’s got to fuck him—he’ll regret it forever if he doesn’t. And then he’ll leave, and Nacho will have gotten it out of his system for real this time.

At least, that’s the plan.

***

Nacho sees Lalo again for the take the next week. The air conditioning is still broken. Lalo sits beside him again. The first three buttons of his paisley shirt are undone, exposing a thin thatch of curly black hair. Nacho tries to avoid staring. He’s not successful.

Around lunch, Lalo stands and stretches, then wipes his face with a handkerchief. “Dios mio, it’s hot,” he says. “I could use a swim.”

It takes Nacho and Tuco off guard. “No problem,” Tuco says after a beat. “I’ve got a friend who has this sick pool—”

Lalo shakes his head. “Nah, none of that chlorinated shit. I want real water. A lake, the ocean…” He looks at Nacho. “What’s your favorite beach?”

“I don’t have one. I’ve never been.”

“You’ve never seen the ocean?” Lalo says, aghast. “You’re shitting me. Why?”

Nacho shrugs. “Never got around to it, I guess.” The real reason is that his mom was often too sick to travel.

“That settles it—we’re going,” Lalo says.

Nacho and Tuco exchange incredulous looks. “Uh, there’s not really any beaches in New Mexico,” Tuco says.

“I know. You think I'm stupid? I was thinking San Diego—beautiful beaches there.”

“But isn’t it like, a twelve-hour drive?” Nacho asks.

He looks at his watch. “Let’s see, it’s three now, plus dinner and pit stops and accounting for traffic—we’ll get there by sunrise, no problem.”

“So we’re just going to drive all night,” Nacho says, still not getting his head around it.

“I don’t sleep much anyway. I'll do all the driving and you can nap when you get tired.”

“That’s crazy,” Tuco says. “You can’t—”

Lalo tilts his head and smiles. “Are you telling me what I can and can’t do, primo?” he asks.

“No!” Tuco says quickly. “I’ve just got, like, responsibilities and shit. If both me and Nacho are gone, there won’t be anyone to—”

“I was thinking just me and Nacho.” He pats Tuco on the shoulder. “You’re too important to leave, yeah? Besides, you’ve seen the ocean.” He turns to Nacho. “Well? What do you say?”

“Yeah, sure,” Nacho says, trying to sound causal even though his heart is pumping so hard he hears the rush of blood in his ears. “I need to tell my dad, though.”

Lalo’s smile widens. “Of course. Family is everything. You’ll probably want to pack a bag. Come back here when you’re done—but be quick. We have a long drive.” He stretches out the long.

Tuco looks back and forth between the two of them before fixing on Nacho. His eyes narrow. “Sure, whatever.” He crosses his arms and scowls. Jealous, maybe? This might cause problems.

But that’s in future. Right now, he can’t bring himself to care.

***

“You’re driving to San Diego?” his father says as he watches Nacho pack a duffle bag. “Now? Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

“It’s kind of crazy,” he admits. “But I never go anywhere,” he adds under his breath. He grabs another shirt, and then he’s done. He’ll have to buy a bathing suit when they get there. He used to swim all the time at Domingo’s, but that was years ago, when they were kids.

“And who are you going with?”

“A friend.”

“Do I know this friend?”

Nacho closes his bag with a loud zip. “I’m twenty-three, Papa. An adult. I don’t need to introduce you to all my friends. And I’m sick of never going anywhere or doing anything. I need a break.” It comes out furious, which startles them both. Nacho sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I met someone I’d like to get to know better,” he says, more softly.

Immediately, his father perks up. “Oh?” He can practically see the visions of grandchildren dancing in his eyes, which is what Nacho intended. The lie only pangs Nacho a little. It’s more of a half-truth than a lie—he has met someone—it’s just not someone who can give his dad grandkids.

His father sighs. “Forgive me, mijo—I forget sometimes you’re still young. You’re right—you do deserve a break. I can manage without you. How long will you be gone?”

Good question. “A couple days. I’ll call you if we stay longer.”

As Nacho heads for the restaurant, he wonders what his dad did to deserve a son who lies to him so much. But he shakes the thought off. There will be plenty of time to feel guilty later.

***

Lalo is leaning against his car in the parking lot when Nacho returns. Again, it’s the only car in the lot. Tuco must have left.

“You ready for fun?” Lalo says as Nacho approaches him, bag in tow.

“Yeah,” Nacho says. And he is. He really is.

They hit the road. Neither of them say much for a little while, but it isn’t an awkward silence. Lalo turns the radio to a Spanish station and hums along with the tunes. It’s the same station his dad likes to listen to.

Nacho breaks the silence. “So you really plan to drive all night.”

“I told you, I don’t sleep much. An hour or two and I’m good.”

Nacho raises his eyebrows. “An hour?”

“Or two.” He smiles.

“Sounds miserable.”

“Not really. It’s like having two lifetimes.” He pauses. “The nights get a little lonely sometimes, though. But hey, I’ve got you to keep me company.”

The way he says it makes Nacho’s heart flutter. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it all night.”

“No worries. Like I said, you can nap. Nice thing about these old cars—lots of room in the back to lie down.” Lalo rolls his head, his neck cracking. “So how did you meet my cousin?”

“He came into my dad’s upholstery shop. We got to talking about cars, and then he invited me to this car show. Then we started hanging out more.”

Lalo’s eyebrows raise. “You became friends?” He sounds skeptical.

“Yeah,” Nacho says a little defensively. “You don’t believe me?”

Lalo laughs. “No, no, I believe you! It’s just—most people find my cousin hard to get along with.”

“I mean, yeah, he’s got a temper and he gets carried away sometimes, but he’s fine when he’s not—” He cuts himself off, but it’s too late.

“When he’s not high, you mean,” Lalo finishes for him.

Nacho slouches in his seat. “Yeah.”

“Does he get high a lot?”

“I don’t know, I’m not his dad.” It comes across more defensive than he intended, but he seriously doesn’t want to rat Tuco out.

Lalo studies him for a moment before turning his attention back to the road. “So, you became friends. How did you start working for him?”

“I do all the books for my dad. When he found out, he said he really needed help with his…business. He told me I wouldn’t have to do anything I’d be uncomfortable with. Just look over his numbers. He said nothing added up—that people were cheating him.”

“Were they?”

“A little. Mostly things were just disorganized.”

“And you cleared that up.”

“Yeah.”

“You do more than keep books though now, right? You were packing when we met. He talk you into that?”

“No, it was my idea.” He remembers the first time he saw a duffle bag full of cash. All it would take is one bag, and all his and his dad’s problems would be solved. At least, that was his initial justification. His dreams soon got a lot bigger.

“So you’re ambitious.”

Nacho shrugs. “I guess.”

They lapse into silence. Nacho turns his attention out the window, to the endless stream of cars on the highway. No traffic yet, but that’s bound to change—it’s nearly rush hour. Some of Nacho’s good mood has soured, but he can’t pinpoint why until Lalo speaks again.

“He talks a lot about you, you know. Really trusts you.”

Is this the whole reason behind the spontaneous beach trip? To separate him from Tuco so that he can grill him? Seems a lot more likely than a cartel don wanting to sweep him off his feet. He’s totally misread the situation. God, he’s such an idiot. “Glad to hear it,” he says flatly.

Lalo either doesn’t notice his tone or chooses to ignore it. A song comes on the radio and he turns it up. “I love this one!” He sings along. His voice is pretty good. A pang of longing twinges in Nacho's chest. He rests his head against the cool window and suppresses a sigh. Lalo was right - it's going to be a long ride.

***

They stop for dinner around 9 at a diner in Phoenix. They spent the ride alternating between silence and chatting about neutral things like classic cars and Nacho’s extended family in Mexico. Nacho has relaxed a little. Even if sex isn’t on the menu, it’s probably not a bad idea to ingratiate himself to the boss. Lalo’s clearly doesn’t have a lot of faith in Tuco’s leadership. Of course, being a Salamanca means he won’t be pushed out…but maybe he’ll be assigned to a different territory. Maybe they need someone like him to run things. He’s not completely delusional—it will probably take years. But he might as well put the work in now.

The diner is not busy. A couple of truckers sit at the counter, but the tables are empty except for one—three girls and a guy, all around Nacho’s age. One of the girls is wearing a University of Arizona sweatshirt over a very short skirt. From their makeup and shoes, it looks like they’re heading for the club. The guy is wearing eyeliner and his whole face is dusted in glitter. They look at Nacho and Lalo as they’re shown to their table and start whispering to each other. Lalo notices them and smiles, which produces giggles.

For a moment, Nacho’s mind drifts to Chris and Domingo. They’re both in college now—Chris at some school in California, Domingo in Ohio at Oberlin, having won the battle with his dad. And here he is, with a cartel don. What would they say if they knew what had become of him? He hasn’t spoken to Chris since he left two years ago, and Domingo didn’t even call him last time he was in town.

The waitress, a tired looking woman, takes their drink orders and leaves them to look over their menus. It’s all standard diner fare. Nacho will probably get a burger.

“So,” Lalo says once they’ve gotten their drinks and placed their orders. “Why have you clammed up on me?”

Nacho furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“We were getting along so well, and all of a sudden, you get defensive. Why?” He doesn’t sound accusatory, exactly, but the question is so direct that Nacho is caught off guard.

“I-I’m not—I mean, I don’t think I’ve…” He trails off as he tries to think of something to say. Lalo says nothing—he just keeps looking at him, his expression neutral. “Why did you want me to come to the beach with you?” Nacho says, turning it around on him.

It doesn’t work. “Why do you think?”

Nacho takes a deep breath. Fuck it. “I think that you wanted to get me away from Tuco so you could question me about him. I think that either you or another don are worried about his leadership, and that’s why you came to Albuquerque.”

Lalo takes a sip of his coffee before replying. “You are very smart. Humble, too.”

Nacho’s cheeks heat at the compliment. He gets the smart thing, although he’s not sure he agrees since he feels more confused than ever. But where did humble come from?

“I love my cousin,” Lalo continues. “But he’s a bit…well, you know how he is. We gave Tuco Albuquerque because it’s one of our less important territories—like don’t get me wrong, all of our territories are important. But there’s more room for error in Albuquerque. Good for training. But Tuco is not a good student, and our eyes here have seen some things that are cause for concern. To be honest, we were going to pull him. Until you came along.”

Nacho’s eyebrows shoot up. “Me?”

“Sí. You really turned things around.” He winks. “Are you getting it yet?”

No. Nacho feels duller than ever. Is he failing this test?

Lalo takes pity on him. “I came here for you, Ignacio.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. My tío was planning on coming, but well—his heart is not so good. But more than that—I had to meet this Ignacio Varga for myself. It’s not everyone who can not only get along with Tuco, but get him in line.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Nacho says quickly, in case this is a trap. “It’s not like I give orders. I know my place.”

Lalo chuckles. “How about you let me decide what your place is?”

Before Nacho can think of an answer, a torrent of giggles erupts from across the room. He looks over his shoulder—the club crew is staring at them again. When they notice Nacho looking, the guy hides his face in his hands, which makes the girls laugh harder.

“Looks like you’ve got a fan club.”

Nacho turns his attention back to Lalo, who is grinning at him. He can’t think of anything to say, so he shrugs, hoping Lalo will let it go.

He doesn’t. “I bet you get admired a lot. How does it make you feel?”

His face heats—he hopes Lalo doesn’t notice. “Flattered, I guess.”

“Even when the boys look?” There’s something careful in the question. For the first time, Nacho considers that maybe Lalo is nervous about him, too.

He meets Lalo’s gaze. “Yeah. And hey, who’s to say they’re looking at me?”

Lalo scoffs. “Me? An old man?”

“Old? What are you talking about? You’re what, thirty?”

“Thirty-four.”

“That’s still not old.”

“Maybe not. But look.” He points to his hair, right above his forehead. “I’ve got white hair.”

Nacho doesn’t see anything, so he leans in a little closer and squints. After a moment, he finally spots it—one strand of white in a sea of dark, right on his hairline. “You’ve got one white hair. That doesn’t count.”

“It won’t be one forever.”

Inspiration strikes. Nacho grasps at the hair and plucks it. “There. Now you don’t.” He’s impressed with himself that he got it on the first try.

Lalo seems impressed too—he’s smiling at least. Nacho doesn’t pull back right away. They both are breathing a little heavier.

“Smart, humble, and brave,” Lalo says, his voice like a ripple on dark water.

Well, damn. Turns out he’s not an idiot after all. Not about this, at least.

There’s more commotion from the fan club. “Pay up!” the girl in the college sweatshirt says loudly.

Nacho barely registers it. They belong to an old world. He’s sailing into a new one.

***

After their meal, they hit the road again. Conversation flows easier now, although Lalo does most of the talking. Nacho likes that; he’s never been much of a talker himself, and Lalo is fun to listen to. He tells stories of his childhood in Mexico with his dashing narco father and his beautiful mother, who was a fashion model before his dad swept her away. When Lalo was a toddler, his mother got him on a modeling shoot for a brand of diapers. The thought of Lalo’s baby bottom in some magazine makes Nacho laugh. He tells the story with such charm that Nacho almost misses the dark undertone of the ending—my papa put an end to that. The learning curve for a narco’s wife is…a little steep, you could say.

He segues into stories of little Tuco, who started causing trouble from the moment of his birth. His poor mother labored for forty-eight hours before the doctor finally ordered a c-section. The very first words Tuco heard were his mother cussing him out for being so stubborn. The stories are cute at first—stealing treats, shooting bb guns at rats. It’s fun to imagine Tuco as a little kid—surprisingly easy, too.

But things take a different turn when Lalo’s stories get closer to the present. “He had a hard time getting into the business, too. We caught some pendejo stealing from us, so I gave it to Tuco to handle. His hands were shaking so bad he missed! Leave it to Tuco to miss a point-blank shot. Even the thief laughed. He didn’t miss the second time, though.”

Lalo laughs, but Nacho doesn’t. He feels like he’s swallowed ice. He had forgotten for a moment what Lalo is—and what he is now, too.

Silence washes over them. “So you ever use that piece of yours?” Lalo asks casually after a few moments.

Nacho takes his time answering. “Not yet,” is what he decides on. “I know how to use it, though. I can defend myself.”

Lalo purses his lips. “What’s that saying? Sometimes the best defense is a good offense, no? You will be doing more than defending yourself, Ignacio.”

“I know,” Nacho says quietly.

“It’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

Nacho rests his head on the window and shuts his eyes. He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to think about this right now.

His eyes fly open when he feels a hand on his knee. “Hey,” Lalo says. “You’re tired. How about I pull over and you get in the back seat? Get some rest.”

That does sound good. “You sure you’re okay to drive? Maybe we can get a hotel.”

Lalo flashes him a grin—a crescent of white in the dark. “I told you - I don’t sleep much. Never have.”

For some reason, that makes Nacho shiver.

***

Nacho wakes up with a start when the car stops. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes—he had the strangest dream. Domingo and Chris had been sitting in a booth with the club kids from earlier, except the table was on a beach. They were laughing and having a good time. Nacho was on a boat in the ocean, drifting further and further away. No matter how hard he waved and shouted, they wouldn’t turn his way.

Lalo looks back at him from the front seat, that crescent moon smile on his mouth again. “There he is! You sleep okay?”

Nacho sits up and yawns. “Yeah.”

“We’re here. Come and see.” Lalo gets out of the car.

Nacho shivers as he steps out, too. It’s just before dawn and the sky is purple and gray. The cool air smells of salt and something unfamiliar—the word briny flashes in his mind. And there it is—the dark, churning waters of the sea.

Lalo isn’t facing the ocean—he’s facing east, towards the rising sun, leaning against the back of the car with his arms crossed. Nacho joins him. They watch the sun rise in silence as brilliant red and oranges win out over the dark night sky, the same as they did every day. It’s been a long time since Nacho has seen a sunrise.

“Never gets old,” Lalo says with a satisfied smile. “The world is so beautiful—it makes my heart ache sometimes.” Nacho must have given him a funny look because Lalo laughs. “Forgive me—I’m sentimental.” He stretches and lets out a roar as he yawns. “And now, it’s my turn to sleep.”

Before Nacho can respond, Lalo opens the car door and climbs into the back seat. “Ooh, it’s nice and warm,” he comments as he stretches out on the bench seats. “You run hot!” He shuts his eyes.

Why does this feel like being abandoned? “Uh, how long are you going to sleep?”

“An hour or so,” Lalo says, not opening his eyes. “There’s a jacket in the trunk. Put it on and go for a walk—take in some of that beauty, yeah?”

“Okay,” Nacho says, but Lalo’s already snoring.

Nacho finds the jacket—soft, worn leather that smells like Lalo’s spicy cologne—and sets out in the direction of the water. They’re in a lonely spot—no big parking lots, no piers, just a thin strip of rocky sand. Obviously this isn’t a great spot for sunbathing or swimming, but it’s private, which is why Lalo probably chose it.

He makes his way over the rocks until he reaches the smoother sand. He stares at the open sea. Of course he’s seen pictures and movies but seeing it in person is something else. It feels too big—nothing but water as far as he can see. Like the desert, somehow. But you can walk in the desert. You can get lost, but at least there’s ground under your feet. It can’t swallow you.

At least the sound of the waves is soothing—somehow both loud and quiet at the same time. He moves closer until the waves touch his boots, then crouches to touch the water, feeling the ocean for the first time. It’s ice cold.

He moves back a little ways and sits. He was afraid he’d get bored waiting for Lalo to wake up, but he doesn’t. Lalo’s right. It’s beautiful.

After a while, he returns to the car. He peeks in the car window—Lalo’s still asleep. Should he wake him? Surely he needs more than an hour. Quiet as he can, he opens the door and finds himself staring down at him. Looking at him is like looking at the ocean—both scary and soothing. He could look at him for hours and never be bored.

Lalo’s eyelids flutter open. When he sees Nacho, he smiles. “Well?” he says. “How do you like it?”

Nacho doesn’t reply. Instead, he plunges over him and crashes their mouths together. Lalo kisses him back, wrapping his arms around him, dragging him down and down and down.

He takes off his coat. Deftly, Lalo undoes Nacho’s fly with one hand and slips inside, curling his fingers over his hard cock and running his thumb over the wet head. Nacho keens and thrusts forward, which makes Lalo chuckle. “Off,” he murmurs against his lips, tugging at his jeans. Nacho doesn’t have to be told twice. He wiggles out of his pants while Lalo does the same. Neither of them have the patience for anything else—besides, it’s very cold. They kiss and stroke and rub against each other like teenagers until their orgasms crash over them, drowning them in pleasure.

When it’s over, Nacho collapses on top of him, gulping in air as he tries to catch his breath. Lalo’s chest heaves underneath him, rising and falling, hard and fast at first before settling into a soothing rhythm. Lalo gives Nacho’s oversensitive cocks one last squeeze before raising his hand and pressing his fingers against Nacho’s lips. He parts them without thinking, and Lalo slips his cum-slick fingers inside—it’s salty and a little sour.

Lalo draws him into a kiss again, licking inside his mouth. “You taste good, Ignacio.” His chest rumbles with his words.

Eventually, they sit up. Nacho reaches for his pants, but Lalo’s hand stops him. “No, let’s go get cleaned off.”

Nacho blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, let’s go for a swim!”

“I didn’t bring a suit—”

Lalo laughs like Nacho has told the funniest joke he ever heard. “Smart, humble, brave—and funny, too.” He unbuttons his own shirt and sheds it, then tugs at Nacho’s T-shirt.

“What if someone sees us?” Nacho says as Lalo pulls his shirt off.

“Then we’ll give them an eyeful. Don’t get shy on me now, Nachito.”

So he’s Nachito now. His breath hitches again—why is it so hard to breathe around this man?

They shed the rest of their clothes; Lalo grabs Nacho’s hand and drags him towards the sea, laughing all the while. The air is freezing, but it’s nothing compared to the water, which cuts into Nacho like a thousand knives. He had no idea anything could be this cold. But there’s no chance to hesitate—Lalo doesn’t let him. His grip is strong; his will is stronger. Nacho can do nothing except give in.

Nacho adjusts to the cold sooner than he expects—his whole body numbs. It helps that Lalo’s arms are around him, teaching Nacho how to ride the waves. He imagines them swimming farther and farther out until the world shrinks away, and it’s just them and the open sea as they leave the world behind.

That’s impossible, of course. They will crash back to land sometime. But for the moment, Nacho shuts his eyes and rolls with the waves. It almost feels like flying.