Chapter Text
“Anyway, Miguel’s pissed at me these days—ain’t you?” Chico calls, raising his voice. He watches Miguel twist around, brown eyes narrowing.
“Nah,” he claims after a moment, but he pulls the drawstrings of his hoodie tighter, face a pale oval between his hunched shoulders, which are collecting snow fall as he goes back to staring at his shoes, tapping them on the bleacher bench below him.
Chico turns back to Benito, raising his eyebrows to say See?
Benito snorts, making the air frost in front of him as he shakes his head and pushes to his feet. “Hey, just sweet-talk him a little—treat him like a lady. He’ll thaw. Right, Alvarez?” He clambers down the risers, the icy hand that reaches out to dap Chico up as he passes swinging by to swat Miguel’s shoulder next.
“Yo, fuck off,” Miguel snaps, body swaying massively to the left even after Benito’s hopped down to the ground below their seats, going off to handle the guy who’d been signalling he wanted to buy.
When Benito’s out of sight and Miguel’s still lying there like the dead, Chico gives a huff and shifts over, lifting his ass an inch over cold metal to minimise contact with all the parts untouched by a single fuck of heat since summer.
“C’mon, Miguel…”
Laying on his side across the bench, the fucker remains motionless, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and sweater hood pulled in close around his face as snowflakes gently touch down on his cheek. He’s got a real skill for not getting up when he’s supposed to, but then again, Chico’s used to persisting.
And Miguel sulking on the bleachers isn’t exactly the same as those mornings when he barely has a spark in his eye, unable to rise for Count.
“Just giving you shit, Miguel,” Chico says quietly, knowing why Miguel’s still giving him that icy shoulder, anyway—why he’s been irritable this afternoon, just like he’d been the other night. The mood swings come and go, though, and Chico can be patient. “You really want D, I’ll give it to you. But I don’t think you do, man.”
Miguel scowls out across the yard in stony reply and, after a moment, licking his lips, Chico ventures to reach out, hooking a hand under his arm.
“C’mon, don’t do this shit to me. Tired as it is, asshole,” Chico tries, but he knows the whole feeling sick thing is wearing thin; Miguel doesn’t even help sit himself straight as Chico drags him upright.
That, and it must’ve been Miguel who’d leaked what Sagar said to the other members of El Norte; Chico’s been getting beverages fucking left and right the past two days.
When Miguel slumps against Chico’s side, Chico just barks out a rough laugh. “Close enough, huh, Miguel?” he says, glancing around where they’re seated.
Of course, no one’s looking, and even if someone was, there’d be no way they could find the closeness too odd—too intimate. They would’ve undoubtedly seen how limp Miguel had been as he’d been hauled to sitting.
Momentum.
Nothing questionable going on.
“You think you know what I want?” Miguel says, head practically hanging on Chico’s shoulder as he makes another push to get him to sit properly on his own.
“You told me what you wanted, Miguel,” Chico reminds him. “You wanna stay clean and get through this.”
Miguel snorts. “But if I wanted something else,” he says, lifting his head and looking at Chico, nose an inch from his. “You’d gimme it?”
Chico blinks, staring at the splash of pink over Miguel’s otherwise pale face, his cheeks and the tip of his nose ruddy from the cold. “What do you want?” he says, watching the snow catch on Miguel’s hood, delicate patterns lingering, white against black.
“You’re the fuckin’ expert, ain’t you?” Miguel replies, raising his eyebrows. He’s sitting up on his own now, a tension setting in as he waits for the response.
Or maybe it’s Chico’s imagination.
It all feels like a test, either way, and one with an obvious answer, too.
Swallowing against a dryness starting to invade his mouth, Chico doesn’t reach for the guess sitting right there where he’s trying to ignore it.
Can’t take that shit back, Miguel. Don’t you fucking get it?
“Know you don’t want Destiny,” Chico settles on, sticking to the safe path—to what won’t upend shit again, so soon after it’s finally feeling stable again. “So, you know, these things you think you want, Miguel? Forget it. You can get through this the good and hard way, man, or you can bend over and make Alonzo’s day—”
“Fuck what you know, bitch. What you know couldn’t fill a fuckin’ thimble, asshole,” Miguel snaps, shooting to his feet and practically spitting fire. His footsteps echo as he stomps down the risers, throwing a dirty look over his shoulder. “Trying to do right by my ass, Carmen. Always actin’ like you know better. Damn!”
“Oye—Miguel, you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Chico retorts—sees Miguel whirl and climb back up, moving so fast, there’s a second where he thinks Miguel’s scrambling up to attack. He jerks back, the metal bench behind him touching his back as he stops and Miguel stops, too, standing on the level Chico’s sitting on and glaring down at him.
“What am I doing, Chico?” Miguel challenges. “Say it.”
And it’s right fucking there again, and it almost feels like a dream that Miguel’s the one pointing at it—giving up the game—but it makes sense, too, and Chico understands it.
He gets it. Gets Miguel.
Miguel doesn’t have shit to lose—not like Chico.
Chico squints up at him, the pale gray blanket of clouds in the sky above glaring in his eyes, oddly hard to look at. “You think I can’t handle a couple moodswings?” he says finally, deflecting—closing that window Miguel’d opened for him. Clack. “My old man’s a fuckin’ junkie, too, Miguel.”
Above him, Miguel lets out a scoff of what must be scorn and disbelief and gives a small shake of his head as he straightens up, turning on his heel again.
“Whatever.”
Always been a coward.
Chico’s ears ring. “Miguel.”
But he just goes on down the steps again, pushing his hood back as he stalks off across the icy yard.
“You don’t need it, Miguel!” Chico calls after him, but even if he hears it, Miguel doesn’t give so much as a backward glance.
Later, amidst the drab landscape of the yard, Alonzo’s pink polka-dotted head burns in Chico’s field of vision.
Snow falls in steady intervals as he continues to sit there, frigid, hands in fists in his front pockets while Miguel and Alonzo stroll along the far edge of the frozen blacktop.
At a certain point, Alonzo puts an arm around Miguel’s shoulder—doesn’t get it pushed or shrugged away, Miguel’s breath frosting in the direction of his feet as they talk, his head bowed.
So that’s it, Chico thinks coldly, watching with a numb face and numb ears. Everything numb.
So it ain’t over, pills or no pills.
So it’s Fuck you. Again.
Chico looks away, blinking hard and swallowing harder as a shiver in his chest threatens to grow bigger—violent. Shake him apart.
Yeah, it’s loneliness that’ll break a guy—the threat of being alone that gives chase—sends a man over the edge like a lemming over a cliff—running full tilt, that is.
Then again.
Letting out a heavy sigh and hunching in on himself, Chico watches Miguel’s head turn in his direction and figures, shuddering, that he already knew that.
*
Knowing something’s not always enough to act on it, though, and Chico understands this fucking intimately. Likewise, there’s plenty of shit that he’s done without knowing why—why he’d even wanted to.
But then there’s the shit he wants to do and pretends not to know why.
Watching Miguel finally split off from where he’d been glued to Alonzo’s side—walking at his elbow all around the yard and sitting in his shadow in the cafeteria—Chico reluctantly chooses to give up the masquerade.
Alonzo heads off to Visiting and when Miguel goes up the tier, Chico only gives it a few seconds before he follows, his feet feeling like lead every step of the way.
He pushes past the feeling, though—keeps lifting one foot after the other, because after all, this thing—this conversation he’s gearing up to have? Feels like a long time coming.
Miguel’d tried to start it before, standing at the edge of an overdose.
Now it’s his turn. Now it’s him who has to give the rope tied between them some slack.
Walking up to the cell, Chico spots Miguel before he’s fully past the bars into the doorway.
Miguel’s sitting on the edge of his bed, knees open as he hunches over, rifling through a box on the ground between his legs. He doesn’t glance up as Chico enters and goes to his side of the cell, sitting across from him.
“That Alonzo’s?” he realises after a second of studying Miguel, who pulls out a notebook—puts it on his lap as he kicks the box under the bed and then shifts back, opening the pages over his thighs.
“S’good for a laugh, you know?” he mumbles, not looking up.
“Miguel.”
His behavior is strangely muted—ashamed or something and trying to pretend otherwise, and noticing it gives Chico a reason to suspend his original intentions.
He observes Miguel a little while longer, taking in all of his body language—his half-tensed slouch, the slowness of his hand moving over the paper in front of him as he flips through the pages of Alonzo’s notebook. He notes the way Miguel’s breathing, heavier than he would normally, eyes flitting around as he skims the writing, lips pressing together into a frown at whatever he sees.
“You high?” Chico asks quietly,
Miguel’s eyelashes flutter. “Yeah.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps and he looks up, eyes guarded, his entire expression set to something defensive as he gives a small lift of his shoulders. “Lonny gave me a tab earlier,” he goes on, like it’s no big deal. “Shouldn’a come to you the other night. Sorry,” he adds, and then clears his throat loudly, straightening up before scooting back into the shadows and leaning himself against the wall by the bed. Pulling his knees up, he props Alonzo’s journal on his thighs as though that’s all he’d wanted to do—as if Chico can’t read the retreat for what it is: defenses being raised. “Putting you in that position, you know? Know you’re just trying not to rock the boat.”
A heavy unease sinks into Chico’s stomach, weighed down in particular by that last bit, delivered so blithely yet feeling like a fucking jab.
“I guess I’m surprised, man,” he manages after a few seconds of mental grappling. He’d really thought—truly—that keeping clean was what Miguel wanted for himself—that tough love was what he’d needed.
“You shouldn’t be,” Miguel replies coolly, gaze remaining fixed on Alonzo’s journal. He snorts at something he’s reading. “Besides, it was only one pill,” he mutters after a beat.
Just one.
Chico tilts his head, regarding Miguel, who’s making a show of not noticing—of doing his own thing.
The knot of his throat bobs as he gulps, though. After another second, Miguel gives an exasperated noise. “Fuckin’ diary’s full of lies, bro,” he remarks abruptly, the sound of turning pages increasing as his knees drop down and he lurches forward, frown deepening. “Damn!”
Licking his lips, Chico proceeds carefully. “Lies about what, Miguel?”
“Sex, bro,” Miguel growls, closing the notebook and sliding out to the edge of the bed to throw it back into Alonzo’s things with a look of disgust and indignation. “Is that what he told you?”
“What?” Chico blinks, taking in Miguel’s glare and the agitated rise and fall of his shoulders—the clench of his fingers over the edge of the bed where he’s sitting. “Miguel—”
“I mean there’s shit I’m not proud of, man,” Miguel plows on, cagey. “And there’s things I have to do that I don’t want to—”
“Miguel,” Chico says, raising his voice. “How many tabs did Alonzo really give you?”
The question snaps Miguel out of his rant and he frowns, eyes focusing on Chico. “One,” he says immediately, and there’s a moment where he seems to consider the answer—where the reminder seems to calm him a little, a slow exhale dropping his shoulders. Then he bites his lip, and there’s a crack in that calm, which never manages to fully settle. “He says he’s gonna give me more,” he follows up hoarsely, eyes darting over Chico’s face, as if searching for something—as if pleading for understanding. Reassurance. “I don’t know,” he says, voice dropping even, lower, to a whisper. He rocks at the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “Seemed like a good deal—damn. I know it’s stupid, Chico. Trust me. Used to do a lot worse, man, you know? So I know. Used to put a lot worse in my body.” His eyes drop down, head hanging for a moment, and Chico’s insides twist.
He should go to Miguel, he thinks. He should cross the aisle and go over there—
But on the tier outside, metal clangs, a couple of other inmates walking by and briefly throwing shadows into the doorway, and Chico doesn't move.
It shakes him, how tense he goes, attention split by the movement in his periphery, and then that fucking guilt creeps in.
Who’s he kidding?
Coward.
Across from him, Miguel doesn’t have that distraction. “I’m fucked,” he says, drawing out the word; fffucked, he says. It seems to echo through the cell, Miguel’s eyes wide—still scouring Chico’s expression. “I know I’m fucked, Carmen. You think I don’t know?” he continues, quieter, almost contemplative in between his ragged breaths. “I just. I don’t think I can do it. S’wrong. And it ain’t fuckin’ fair to you, what he wants—”
Lightning shoots through Chico. “Miguel, what’re you-?”
Miguel’s expression freezes, those eyes bugging even wider, panic spilling across his features. “FffUCK,” he says, spittle flying as he pushes to his feet and shakes his head vigorously. His hands grip his head, fingers lacing behind his skull as he turns on the spot, looking caged—biting his lower lip so hard, the area turns pale.
“Okay, Miguel, calm down, man.”
That unsettled feeling in Chico surges as he watches Miguel rock from foot to foot and then pace out a little further, abruptly imbued with a frantic energy Chico’s seen once or twice before—doesn’t spell anything good.
But it was only one pill, Miguel had said.
It can’t be Destiny keying him up this bad already, can it?
Rising to his feet, Chico seizes Miguel by the arm, holding firm even as he feels him jerk under the touch, trying to pull away.
“Yo, Chico, what’s-?” Genardo.
Chico belatedly registers the clang of the tier outside after Genardo’s already peeking in, eyebrows pushing together.
“Get out,” Chico barks, gesturing in aggressive dismissal with one hand and tightening his grip on Miguel with the other.
“He okay?”
“Having a bad trip is all,” Chico replies brusquely, urging with another wave of his hand, “Go—go, man. And don’t let any other motherfuckers over here,” he adds, satisfied when he sees Genardo shrug and retreat. “Christ,” he says under his breath, dragging Miguel toward the back of the cell in the meantime, no mind paid to the resistance he’s putting up.
Good as flailing is what Miguel’s doing, legs seeming to half buckle by the time Chico forces him back behind the curtain and shoves him down onto the john, kneeling down in front of him. “Miguel,” he says, gripping his thighs and watching him bring a quivering hand to his face, rose tattoo replacing his eyes. “How many tabs did Alonzo give you?”
The knot in Miguel’s throat bobs and he scrubs that hand over his face—clasps his palm over his mouth like he’s going to be sick before pressing the heel of his palm up against his temple, expression pinched and eyes skittish.
“Oye.” Reaching up, Chico gives his cheek a light pat. He can see a light sheen of sweat at his hairline—can only imagine the nerves running rampant under his skin. “How many, Miguel?”
“One,” he croaks. “Just one!”
“Exactly, man. Just one.” Feeling the leg under his hand beginning to bounce, Chico presses down on Miguel’s thigh, rubbing it up and down like he’s trying to get him warm—maybe distract the shakiness right out of him. “It’s nothing, man. Right? You’re freaking out.”
Miguel nods, hearing him and sucking in a harsh breath, a strained attempt at a Mm-hm trailing out of him.
Fucking pathetic.
And it nearly makes Chico crack a grin, a pressure in his chest that could be fondness—could be heartbreak.
“What’s happening is you’re panicking, that’s all,” he says softly, leaning forward a little, one knee pressing hard against the concrete floor as he peeks up into Miguel’s face—reaches up and peels his hand away from his head, bringing them both into his lap. “Ain’t fucked, Miguel. It’s one tab. You pay Alonzo back, and then you’re back to staying clean. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he tells him, watching Miguel’s eyelashes flutter in slow blinks and finally failing to fight back the urge to grin. “Ain’t anything you can do that’ll be unfair to me, either,” he adds, stroking Miguel’s forearm. “Only one you’re screwing here is yourself, okay, pendejo? Me, I’m like a fuckin’ cockroach, Miguelito. Don’t worry about my ass,” Chico jokes, and Miguel must hear the growing levity in his voice because he lifts his head, eyebrows pushing together.
“You’re no bug, Carmen,” he says, and gives a weary sigh a second later.
Chico does smile a little then. “Thanks,” he says and Miguel gives a quiet snort.
His breathing’s turned more even and he’s no longer trembling under Chico’s touch, even if his face is still drained of color as he looks back down, and that barest hint of amusement fades again as he watches the hands against his skin.
Chico keeps on sliding them up and down over Miguel’s arms, palms tickled by the hair beneath them. “I just mean,” he says, shrugging, quietly relieved by Miguel’s quick drop back down from the edge of hysteria. “Do whatever you have to, Miguel. I have your back, man. I wanna have your back.” This time, he thinks with that old twinge of contrition, and his massaging hands coming to a still, curved over Miguel’s wrists. “Just quit freaking out on me, okay?”
He forces out a chuckle and sees Miguel glancing up through his eyelashes once more, still fidgety about it.
“Gonna start thinking you like making my ass worry about you.”
“You worry,” Miguel breathes. It’s not quite a question, but he searches Chico’s face like it is.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re my friend.”
There’s silence again then, Miguel letting out a sigh through his nose, mouth giving a rueful twitch.
“You’re gonna be okay, man.” Another beat and Chico pats Miguel’s arm, pulling away and starting to sit back on his heels to stand.
“We gonna talk about it?” Miguel blurts out before he can. His stare is firm now, unwavering in a way he couldn’t seem to hold onto earlier, even if there’s an edge to it, tension in the clench of his jaw as he waits for a response.
He doesn’t have to define this.
Chico knows what he means.
It’d been what he’d come to talk about in the first place, but now, faced with the topic’s imminent and overdue fucking dissection, he hesitates. “Talk about what?” he says, shrugging as if he’s not running for that fucking cliff ledge. “I mean, we can talk, sure. Talk about anything else you wanna talk about, Miguel. What do you wanna start with? Why you take the fuckin’ tabs? Time you overdosed?”
Miguel looks at him, eyebrows pushing together incredulously.
Yeah, Chico knows better.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Miguel reaches up again and rubs a hand over his head, letting out a slow sigh. “You know, if I didn’t O.D, Alonzo probably would’ve fucked me by now,” he muses, bluntness cutting.
Another jab, somehow.
“It doesn’t—”
“Nah, it does. It would matter,” Miguel says. “Because I’m not really fuckin’ gay.”
“Just for the stay, man. I know,” Chico says, forcing a bit of a smile on—trying to inject lightness again, as if that hadn’t felt like a fucking punch in the chest—jab number three, second half of the old one-two.
“And you’re still wrong—doesn’t matter. None of it does, Miguel.”
Snorting, Miguel says, “What, you think I’m fucked up ‘cause I care too much? I should suck it up?”
Chico frowns. “Didn’t say that.”
Miguel looks down with a vague nod then, as if to agree—as if to acknowledge his accusation had been fucking unfair. “Well we ain’t done the deed,” he continues quietly, defenses lowering again. “He’s savoring it and shit—the whole fuckin’ lead up or whatever.”
It’s fucked, his tone says. Ain’t even gay. Can you imagine?
They’ve been through this all already, though, so Chico follows that line, wary of how much further they can go with this discussion—what good could possibly fucking come out of digging deeper. “Look, man, you don’t have to let him. It’s one pill, remember? You ain’t out of control. You don’t have to do all that prag shit again.”
“I’ve had so many chances to say no,” Miguel points out, sounding almost puzzled with himself. “But I never do, you know? And now it’s like—like, I’m like—you know, I have to work up to it so… that’s what happens now and…” His brow furrows, lips pressing into a hard line. “I can still come, you know, when he’s watching. Every time, you know—” He swallows hard and looks up, meeting Chico’s eyes—searching them with his own—“Part a’ me wishes I won’t be able, but I can.” A muscle in his jaw jumps and he almost says it as a warning: “I can do anything he tells me just for those fuckin’ pills, Carmen. Things I’ll regret, you know? That’s the part that doesn't matter anymore.”
Heat creeps up Chico’s spine and he stares into Miguel’s eyes, remembering curled, slippery fingers—remembering ecstasy—and wondering what Miguel expects from him now. What reaction he’s looking for or hoping for or what.
It’s okay, Chico opens his mouth to repeat himself like a broken record, but he closes it after a moment instead—lets his thoughts settle, eyes wandering up over the concrete wall behind Miguel’s head.
There’s something between them.
Something nebulous and tangled as it is, stained with old blood and wrapped in the current thorns of constraint—the price of acknowledgement—of total surrender.
Chico knows it and he knows Miguel knows it.
We gonna talk about it?
“You know why I gave you pills before?” Chico says eventually, after he’s taken a visual tour of the entirety of the cramped area behind the curtain where they’re squeezed—come back to Miguel, who’s waited, unmoving.
Miguel lets out a derisive huff, looking down at Chico’s left hand and reaching out. “‘Cause I asked.” The unexpectedly soft touch of his hand slides warm over Chico’s, pulling it back to his knee—covering it with his own.
“Wanted you to ask me, though,” Chico says as Miguel’s other hand mirrors the action of the first. “Wanted you to get them from me, so you wouldn’t have to get them from Alonzo,” he tells him.
“I know. Better you I don’t gotta jerk off for it, right?” Miguel says, echoing back what Chico’d tried to point out to him all those weeks ago. He chews his lower lip a second later, eyes scanning over Chico’s face. “Will you give ‘em to me now?” he wonders.
“No,” Chico says—winces internally, seeing the way Miguel’s expression shutters briefly at the swift response. “Alonzo, man, he wouldn’t like it,” he adds, which gets Miguel chuckling suddenly, hands squeezing Chico’s even as he leans away, upper back resting against the wall behind the toilet.
“Fuck, you always were loyal, Chico. I give you that,” he says, tone changing, lifting out of the intimate hush of before, a bitter twist to his mouth.
“Except to you,” Chico supposes, pulling his hands away once more.
Miguel snickers darkly. They can joke about all the bad blood now, though, and even at the reminder of where shit had gone wrong originally, Miguel is calmer than he’d been earlier.
With the new distance between them, the tension seems to ease, but as Chico sits back on his heels again, he can’t help but feel at a loss. He can feel the conversation winding down, moment of vulnerability and honesty drawing to an end, but he’s still got fucking shit to say.
Weren’t we gonna talk about it?
“Look, let me help you stay clean,” Chico says, throwing it out there and taking a risk—adding, “Fuck Torquemada, man. You ain’t gotta jerk off or fingerbang yourself or whatever except on your own time, alright? And you wanna take it up the ass—”
“Volunteering to help?” Miguel’s eyes flash from where his head is tilted back.
“…You ain’t gotta do it for pills,” Chico finishes, glad when his surprise barely manifests—when there’s not so much as a tremor in his words.
“Shit,” Miguel mutters, huffing cynically and cautioning, a grim smile spreading weakly across his features, “You know you’re gonna flame out tryin’ to help me, Chico.”
Fuck that, Chico thinks, straightening up on his knees, a spark of defiance turning into an outright blaze, feeling impossible to stamp out and driving him to lean in—seize Miguel’s shoulder and yank him over until they’re bent together, foreheads nearly touching. “Not going to happen, Miguel,” Chico grits out, feeling Miguel tense—not caring. He moves his hand to the back of his neck, keeping him close, forcing their eyes to meet—feeling the ragged pant of astonishment from Miguel against his own lips as he says, pushing their temples together as Miguel’s hand flies up to grip his forearm, “When the fuck have I ever gotten tired of you, pendejo, huh? Fuckin’ here right now, on my knees—shut up—” he adds, hearing the uneven laugh start to shake out of Miguel.
There’s a beat, and he can feel Miguel’s forehead pushing back against his a little, nose nodding closer to his, brushing. He swallows hard. “I love you,” he rasps—hears the words like gravel, scratching in his ears. “Okay? Got your fucking back, hermano. Whatever happens.”
They’re so close they could kiss.
It’s the thought that keeps running through Chico’s head, making his face hot and, this close, skulls touching, it’s a wonder the message doesn’t beam straight into Miguel’s own mind.
Maybe it’s already there. Maybe Chico got it from him.
Yet, when Miguel moves after a second—lets go of Chico’s arm—he slides right by him.
Not away; closer, yeah, just not in that way Chico’s craving after.
Miguel’s arms wrap around his upper back, chin hooking over his shoulder as he pulls them into a firm hug.
It takes everything not to push himself further into Miguel’s arms—not to grab him closer.
This ain’t no staircase hug. No welcome back.
Chico gives Miguel’s back a light pat, not trusting himself to wrap an arm around him, and Miguel murmurs, not seeming to notice either way, “S’a problem with that, Chico.”
“Problem?” he manages—feels Miguel inhaling against him, breath rattling and arms strong around his shoulders where he’s draped.
“You say we’re blood,” he says, and turns his head, humid breath touching Chico’s neck, followed by the brush of something real and soft. “Then what the fuck do I have to stay clean for, Chico?”
Chico goes stiff—habit—instinct not allowing it to just fucking happen.
This ain’t a dream. But there’s no mistaking it, either.
Miguel kisses his neck again and Chico jerks back to find his eyes—stare into what is dark and inscrutable in return.
“Fuckin’ don’t have anything else,” Miguel says, wryer now, letting his hands back, arms which were loosened around Chico’s neck sliding further away, hands trailing down, following the plane of his chest. “S’my destiny to rot in here—might as well get fuckin’ high on it. Like you say. I just do what I gotta do.”
The weight of his hands vanish from Chico’s ribs as Miguel lets go of him and sits back, almost as if he were going to lean toward the wall behind him again, only, he doesn’t.
Only, one hand curves over his thigh, resting lightly. The other drops between them.
Chico’s eyes follow—takes it all in as Miguel cups his own groin, the heel of his palm starting to rub.
There’s silence except for the rustle of fabric—the dull pounding of blood in Chico’s ears, and Miguel’s breath growing ragged.
“And that’s easier?” Chico supposes, trying to point out the incongruence—how doing what feels he has to only seems to leave Miguel feeling trapped as well. His mouth has gone dry, though, and the rest of the words don’t come.
Miguel’s hand keeps going.
“Uh-huh.” He’s massaging indulgently over a firm bulge now, erection tenting against the cheap, inflexible fibers of his uniform slacks. Glancing up, Miguel lets out a huff, hand slowing—moving aside. “It’s just sex.”
And he doesn’t want to, but Chico gulps hard, throat sticking, anyway, his head starting to swim.
Feels like he’s drowning. Feels like he’s already underwater, weightless as he watches Miguel peel open his fly and push the elastic of his boxers down, the weight of his cock springing free.
Flushed, hard.
Chico’s seen it before—well, glimpsed it.
Now he stares. Stares at the way the thin skin pulls tight near the blushy head. The way Miguel’s hand wraps so naturally around the shaft, wrist hovering over dark hairs as he gives his cock a loose, dry stroke.
Looks heavy, bobbing in the air, a slight upward curve to it.
Fucking gorgeous.
The thought bursts free with a violence that shatters the remainder of the mental wall sequestering those similar notions.
Miguel, he’s sexier than he has a fucking right to be, even when he’s a mess. Fucking crooked grin and stupid doe eyes burned into Chico’s mind for who knows how long, clouding his judgement and insisting that he’s hopelessly pretty, even when he looks like shit. Even when he’s messed up and scaring Chico.
And he’s not messed up right now, either way. Been taking care of himself—grooming—been eating more, putting muscle on again, slowly.
And seeing him like this—exposed, aroused—
Lust crackles through Chico, prickling like static, leaving what feels like a sheen of sweat behind him as Miguel’s free hand lands heavy against his shoulder—damn near electrocutes him, welding him to the spot as he feels the fingers squeezing him at the same time he sees the tendons shift in the back of Miguel’s other hand, grip tightening.
He hisses—sucks in an affected breath and lets it out shaky, hips rolling off the toilet seat a little as he touches himself.
Chico knows that sound—knows the firmness of Miguel’s cock and the swollen tightness of his balls straining against the elastic of his boxers—the way pre-cum is beading at his slit as Miguel’s breath trembles; it’s that feeling of being so turned on, it almost hurts.
And when Miguel’s gasp is rapidly cut off by a second, sharper intake of breath, and his eyelashes flutter and his nails dig into the curve of Chico’s shoulder, grip hard, holding him close, Chico knows it’s the relief of pushing past that initial sensitivity with a rough touch—Miguel feeling that zing up his spine as he pumps into his hand—wicks moisture from his tip with a quick swipe of his hand.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and lets go with another small buck of his hips, cock swaying in the air, practically holding itself upright as he pauses to spit in his hand, drag that palm over delicate skin slow and indulgent, his own gaze downcast, as if inviting Chico to admire with him.
It’s a fucking performance, the hand on Chico’s shoulder massaging firm over the curve and Miguel’s breath heavy as he simultaneously strokes up the length of his cock, both hands moving back a second later, twin rhythms seemingly designed to seduce—immerse them both in the feeling coursing through Miguel.
Something bitterly fucking jealous tears through Chico.
“This how you do it for him?” he whispers.
The sudden introduction of a new sound seems to tear the tension spun strong and sticky as a spider’s web between them. Miguel’s eyes flash up, widening—
“Show me,” Chico insists, and Miguel’s gaze darts back and forth over his face, a sense of conflict rising in the arousal that’s smoldering darkly in his eyes.
Or maybe Chico’s just imagining it.
Miguel lets go of his shoulder a moment later—slants back and hikes up his shirt, hips jutting as he exposes a taut six pack and ribs that are still just this side of too bony, ridges pressing harder against skin as he sucks in a rough breath—changes his grip, fist going tight and movement structured in a way that somehow feels both lazy and desperate.
He jerks himself fierce and ruthless, in dogged pursuit of an orgasm.
No connection; they might as well be separated by a clear wall, worlds away as Miguel holds Chico’s gaze in something akin to scorn, though there’s no denying that it fucking works for him—that this distance and coldness only serves to transform him into something like a work of art—makes Chico burn hotter, even as he feels…
Sick.
Nerves all ajitter, static roaring in his ears alongside those low grunts and sighs he realises are familiar to him.
And it’s a kind of contempt he sees in Miguel as he races for the end, fondling the base of his cock as pre-cum turns his other hand slippery—spreads a shine over his cock while he works for completion.
When he comes a minute or so later—when his hand stutters and his hips jolt and his fist squeezes just below the reddened head of his cock, the sound Miguel gives is strangled, an angry whimper-sob of relief that’s born and dies in his chest as milky fluid spills over his knuckles.
Done.
Miguel’s chest heaves once and his shoulders slump, shirt sliding down to his navel as his abdomen relaxes. There’s a bead of cum that’s gathering tension and speed, leading a trickle fast down the back of his hand.
Chico stares, frozen, head spinning at the abrupt finish.
Miguel looks up through his eyelashes, face mildly, beautifully aglow with the exertion, and it’s almost too much to take in—to believe.
Chico can smell his musk, heavy in the air with his orgasm, like a sweet plume of noxious fumes, intoxicating his mind.
“Now you gimme what I want,” Miguel murmurs.
That droplet of cum has made it to the edge of his wrist—is threatening to drip right off and onto the floor between where his legs are slightly parted when Chico reaches out—catches it unthinkingly with the knuckle of his index finger.
It’s warm.
Or maybe it’s Miguel’s hand that’s warm, slowly uncurling from around his dick, which is still half-stiff, which is still gleaming mostly wet with spit and pre-cum and that dribble of release that didn’t erupt over his fist.
“Told you I ain’t holding,” Chico says, his own voice coming to his ears only distantly. He can feel his mouth moving but it doesn’t seem to connect with the rest of him.
His finger slips against Miguel’s hand.
What the fuck is he doing?
“Not what I mean,” says Miguel, who hadn’t startled at the proximity of Chico’s touch to his dick—who catches Chico’s wrist in his damp, sticky touch and brings his hand right to his mouth.
Blood flows south, a low tug between Chico’s legs even before Miguel’s lips open.
It’s his tongue that touches Chico’s finger first, velvet and hot, welcoming him into Miguel’s mouth as he licks away his cum—tilts in, bobbing his head obscenely.
Chico feels him suck—watches his cheeks hollow, and then there’s a soft, wet pop before the air feels cool against his skin and Miguel lets go of him, glancing down.
You’re hard.
It doesn’t need to be pointed out.
The tight press of Chico’s slacks over his aching groin is undeniable as he snatches his finger back and twists, grabbing the toilet paper roll to their side and wiping off his wrist—wadding up a few squares and shoving it in Miguel’s direction, his ears all hot, mind greedily replaying what he’s just seen without producing any further thoughts of substance.
He’ll see this again in his fucking dreams—he know he will. He fucks Miguel in his dreams—pretends otherwise. Pretends not to remember.
“Chico.”
Miguel’s dick is soft as he shoves it back into his boxers, pants left undone as he sits forward, the V of his legs widening.
“Carmen.”
“Yeah,” he says—I’m here. Forcing himself to look back up—finally—he’s cognizant of the renewed rash of heat that spreads over him as he meets Miguel’s searching eyes.
“Now you give me what I want,” Miguel repeats, and Chico knows what it is.
He’s always known.
Just felt—
Just couldn’t—
Just.
But now, swallowing hard, Chico shifts up on his knees and tilts forward. Gives in at last to the magnetic pull under every inch of his skin and reaches out again, like he’s reached out multiple times by now, yearning always there. Craving.
Fucking hunger for the closeness. The touch.
He touches Miguel again now—feels his warm, stubbly jaw beneath his fingers as he cradles his face—holds him first as if Miguel’s the one who’s liable to shrink away.
Of course, he doesn’t.
Chico pulls their faces together and feels a hand settle gently over the bend of his elbow as their lips touch, featherlight, soft on soft on—
Firm press, feeding a spark of what could be into Chico’s mind, his lips buzzing as he pulls back just far enough to look into Miguel’s eyes and realise how that wasn’t enough.
Nowhere near it.
How it barely scratched the fucking surface—was like tossing a stone down a deep abyss and not hearing anything back for multiple seconds.
Tink-ink-ink!
The impact comes in an echoing wave, the depth of his desire exposed—fucking laid bare to him.
Chico shudders and Miguel’s other hand appears at his side, closing the circuit of their touch, and he drags them together again, a low groan ripping through his chest as their mouths meet once more, crushing this time—needy, this time, Miguel’s mouth parting immediately, his hands moving—tugging Chico closer.
They grapple; they kiss.
It’s a blur in Chico’s mind—a hot mesh of desperate, clashing lips and tongue and teeth as their heads nod against each other—turn in rhythmic explorations.
He lets his hands roam; he touches Miguel’s warm neck and his firm shoulders and his broad chest. Feels solid body and flat planes—sharp ridges, all masculine. All Miguel.
The scent of him still heavy in the air, the taste of him now fills Chico’s mouth, warm and neutral as their tongues slide together and Miguel’s calloused palms frame his face. The touch keeps him steady as he’s met with a dirty surge of ravenous kisses which leave him panting and breathless minutes later when they break for air, saliva stringing between their lips.
Chico’s head swims. His face burns—body tingles, nerves dancing from the stimulation, or maybe it’s overstimulation.
“Christ,” he chokes out—sees Miguel’s eyes dark as the night and so intensely focused on him, he feels naked.
They kiss again in frantic, staccato bursts, and Chico pushes up off the ground a bit, needing off the hard concrete, his fucking knees killing him and nowhere to go but up.
Hands yank on the front of his shirt.
“Curtain,” Miguel breathes into his mouth, a sharp warning of how quickly all Chico’s common sense has been eroded.
Chico doesn’t heed it.
Aimless and unsteady with desire, the pull at his front only seals his fate. He crashes into Miguel—catches his hand hard against the concrete over his head as he lands astride his thighs and feels eager arms snake around his back to greet him—hold him closer as Miguel tilts his head back and their kisses slow—deepen.
Eyelids fluttering closed, Chico savors the sedation—the seductive indulgence of sucking slow kisses—grazing his teeth over Miguel’s lip and hearing his breath catch ever so slightly.
Hands massage circles into his back and ride up and down his spine as Chico sways against Miguel and feels him rocking back, legs bouncing beneath him and hips lifting, an invitation for him to grind.
Should be humiliating.
Should be shameful. Unnatural and wrong.
Riding another man’s lap like a bitch.
But it’s Miguel and he—
He doesn’t even know how long he’s wanted him.
There’s an art to pretending not to know, and part of it’s the self-deception, the fantasy. Lying so long it becomes the truth, or a half truth, or whatever fraction of a truth that gets him through the day undisturbed, façade intact.
Not a maricón.
Reality—or maybe it’s just the last stand of his old defenses—comes down like a cudgel when Chico feels Miguel’s hand on his dick.
His eyes snap wide.
“Wait.”
Turning his head, there’s a moment where Miguel’s lips move to his cheek—pepper quick kisses along his jaw, nipping hungrily up until the moment Chico leans back, reaching between them to catch Miguel’s hand—press his other palm to his chest.
“Not—not right now, man,” Chico whispers urgently.
Miguel blinks, looking dazed, chest rising and falling beneath his hand.
Fuck, he’s sexy, lips pink and swollen, eyes glittery and unfocused as he flutters those long lashes again, wrist twitching in Chico’s grip as his gaze drops down almost accusatorily.
Chico tilts back carefully, erection straining heavily against the fabric of his pants. “I mean, it’s late—lockdown, man,” he finds himself insisting. Part of that’s reasonable enough; wouldn’t do to get caught like this, and every additional second back here is a second of pushing their fucking luck.
But then there’s the truth—the real truth.
“You a chicken, man?” Miguel says, pulling his lower lip between his teeth after, chewing kiss-plumped flesh as he waits for his answer.
Chico stares, blood pounding in his ears, the heat of everything catching up to him in the stillness, making him fucking sweat.
Then again, Miguel’s sweating, too, a light shine at his temple as his gaze drags heavy over Chico’s face and Chico wonders if Miguel likes what he sees, too, and if that’s shocking to him still or if he doesn’t think about it, really—the fact he’s attracted to a man.
He flexes his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching, and Chico lets him go.
“Ain’t chicken,” he grumbles.
“Sorry,” says Miguel, the crooked grin that splits across his face saying otherwise.
There’s no real indignation in Chico in response, and even if there had been, he thinks it’d be gone after the way Miguel leans in—says C’mere, lips already brushing Chico’s, kissing him sweetly—kissing his cheek and jaw and finding his mouth again when he’s beaming.
They sink back into indulgence and simmering pleasure and Chico realises he can’t quite remember the last time he kissed anyone like this, soft as the morning light—so soft it melts him—has him thinking in fucking poetry and shit—but it must’ve been with Consuela… Some moment beyond the haze of Hancock and Oz and all the detention centers—the holding cells and the clear walls, the hospital—the Hole.
For a second, he’s out there again.
He’s in his car. He’s in his old bedroom, the one Yeni used to yell at him to clean up. He’s lazing on the brown sofa in the living room, Yankees game warbling on the radio and the ever-present bustling of the city drifting into the room on the breeze from the open window.
It fades under the quiet sounds of their lips as he kisses Miguel and Miguel kisses him, and Chico quits running for the cliff edge—stands still. Discovers the world keeps spinning, Miguel right there at the center of his.