Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The morning sun wasn't supposed to be up so early.

Ignacio closed his eyes shut, trying to capture the last vestiges of sleep that he could get. The train was loud, the bed was hard, the sunlight peeking through the curtains was burning his retinas. All of that was enough to inconvenient him. It was time to get up.

Once again in the casket-sized bathroom that reminded Ignacio that everyone would die sooner or later, he showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed up. His watch read 8:40am. Rehearsal would start at 9:30 once they’ve reached the destination, and the show would begin at 12. Plenty of time to perfect what he lacked.

And plenty of time to fill in his empty, grumbling stomach.

He made one last check of everything before he went to the door. Once he had equipped all that was needed, he slid the door open, and Dog was leaning against the doorframe.

"Mornin', sunshine," Dog sing-sang. His blond locks were damp, and he was wearing a white tank top with holsters that hold up his pants.

Ignacio blinked. "How long have you been standing here?"

"Long enough for the doorframe to leave an imprint on my arm." Dog showed his wrist. Sure enough, there were faint red lines going from his wrist and half-way to his elbow. "I was gonna ask if you want to join me for breakfast in the lounge room."

Ignacio stepped out and closed the door behind him. "I was about to do the same, actually."

"Great minds think alike," Dog said, grinning. "Before that, I got you a little somethin'."

Suddenly, his other hand had conjured a black box that was tied together with a red ribbon. Ignacio didn't even notice its presence at first. He took it with reluctance, feeling the heaviness in his palm. He eyed Dog suspiciously. "Well, it ain't from me. I'm just delivering it for you," he said.

“Then, from who it is exactly?”

Dog clicked his tongue and looked away, as if to consider whether to tell Ignacio or not. "I'm not sure if I can say. Maybe there’s a clue inside that could help you?”

Ignacio was still admiring the box, taking his time. It was about the size of his palm, slightly bigger. The ribbon was made from real silk and not those cheap ones Ignacio could find at gift shops. Certainly, it wasn't from Dog. Not that Dog was poor—it would be unbelievable for Dog to spend so much for only a friend.

"Open it!" His friend said. "I want to know what's inside too."

“Nosy.” Ignacio scoffed. “You're just jealous because you're usually the one who gets all the gifts because of your all-American jock face and now I got myself one and you're whining.”

Dog’s smile curled fondly at the corners, his eyes turned to gentle crescents, and said nothing more. This made Ignacio's scepticism grew stronger. Though he had to admit that he, himself, couldn't wait to open it as well. Untying the ribbon slowly to add suspense—just to tease Dog—before opening the box completely.

Inside, goodness, the most gorgeous cigarette case Ignacio had ever seen in his entire life. It was silver, polished and cold in his hand. Golden tree-branches-like inlays curled from the front to the back of the case. Not too flashy. Just enough to be made elegant. At the side of the case even had his initials: I.V. carved in precise gold letterings. This must've cost a goddamn fortune.

There were six sticks of Lucky Strike cigarettes on one side, and on the other was note in there that read:

"Consider this a gentle persuasion."
- L.S.

Ignacio observed the case as if he was holding the whole world in the palm of his hands. And he let the brightest smile blossomed on his face. Then, he laughed. A deep, unrestrained, freeing laugh that came straight from his chest.

Dog whistled impressively as his eyes traced the beautiful casing. “This is why I'm especially jealous here, pal. I'm going to be frank with you, he only gave this to you. The other boys and me only got a compliment or two. Maybe a pat on the back if we’re lucky enough.”

“If that’s the case,” Ignacio said as he shook the case playfully. “Then, I’m luckiest bastard on this whole damn tour.”

“Damn right you are, Ignacius.” Dog slapped Ignacio’s tummy in a light-hearted manner before he went ahead to the lounge room first.

Ignacio admired the case once more when Dog was out of his eyesight. He could feel his heart pumping blood in his lungs, through the entirety of his body. Loud in his ears. Like the bass thumping of drums, and the sing-song of birds in the summer sky. The warmth of Lalo’s finger on his lips, the absence of space between their thighs, their flesh on the same cigarette. Ignacio was scared. Anxious. This feeling of endearment for the most beloved jazz singer in the world. How could one terminate a desire? Once it was already, securely planted on the base of the mind? A seed that was bound to grow with no promise of reciprocation. Where would this endearment eventually go? Blindly into the sun that it would burn at the end?

Lalo, what are you doing to me?

They've arrived at the beautiful city of Little Falls, Minnesota. The very hometown of Diamond Dollies and they were ecstatic to be there. Jo’s younger brother was stationed at the military base that they were about to perform, and the other girls were asking about how handsome he was, how tall, how strong. When the brother made himself known, he confessed that he wasn’t looking for a wife. At least not yet. At least until the war was really over. He was handsome, tall, typical army-built. The eyes that were similar to Jo’s had met with Ignacio’s. They nodded to each other in apprehension. No use in hoping when there was no guarantee of light at the end of the tunnel.

"My fellow soldiers," Lalo's enthusiastic voice boomed into the microphone, "let me hear you!"

The open field erupted with blissful cheers. He gave the same rehearsed opener just like in every show, but it never failed to stir the crowd. A few whoops loud enough to startle the birds from nearby trees. They adored him. They needed him. The world needed this.

Backstage, Ignacio was sweating from his neck all the way to his toes. This was far worse than their first performance. Because this time, he’d be up front in the spotlight. Not behind the shadows of the curtains. Dog was in charge to take his place for the time being. Now, Ignacio was itching to push Dog away and remained beside the comforting familiarity of the piano. He regretted this. He regretted this so damn much. Why did I agree to this? Oh, I’m going to make a fool of myself! Stupid, stupid idiot.

The band members were informed about the change at the very last minute to which the girls—especially Nikki had reacted quite wickedly. 'It should've been me!' She said. 'I'll gladly switch my place with you, Nikki,' Ignacio had replied half-heartedly. Then, Jimmy with his thunderous voice intervened, 'Lalo asked for you, Varga. You go on that stage or I'll make you.'

And the argument ended just like that.

Of course, Ignacio was rightfully scared. Anxious. But when he heard the familiar melody of ‘For Once In My Life’ in Lalo’s voice, it lead him to move his feet, to voice out his beliefs.

‘For once I can touch what my heart used to dream of
Long before I knew
Someone warm like you
Who have my dreams come true’

Every breath that he took to calm himself would be released with a smile. So much soul in the lyrics. So much hope in those faces dancing in front of Ignacio. They knew all the words to the song. Ignacio once again caught the eyes of Jo’s brother. He was singing along, shoulder to shoulder with his dear friends. A small joy, but a joy nonetheless.

In an easy rhythm of the next song, the jazz singer confessed his pain, and the pianist-turned-vocalist returned his cries with questions, why are you so blue? Let's hear the honest truth. Ignacio strode across the stage, reaching into the corner where Lalo stood. Moving his hips, snapping his fingers, Ignacio then began to confess his pain, his joy, his truth. How he held on, how he kept moving. Lalo harmonised into the shared pain which transitioned into something that was mended.

Their voices blended together so perfectly.

When the ladies chimed in, the crowd erupted once more. And as if they were held by something out of time where the euphoria stopped at the perfect moment, and nothing could ever break it.

Their voices enhanced, bringing life to the stage.
Bringing light to the soldiers.
Bringing light into Ignacio's tainted heart.

A brush on the shoulder. Ignacio looked to his left, Lalo had a real smile on his always-so-polished and handsome face. And he was looking at Ignacio, the way he had always looked at Ignacio. Gentle as ever. Curious as ever. Ignacio wanted to carve that image deep in his mind. He wanted to reach out his hand where Lalo would take it in his. Ignacio had no real understanding of his ability—a blessing, a curse—but knew that this was something he must do. Something he wanted to do. Ignacio wanted to sing so hard he became breathless, until he sweat, until his throat went sore, until his body ached.

He drowned himself in the cheer from the oblivious audience. He felt that joy too—the temporary bliss. Despite the crumbling and unforgiving world all around.

Being on that stage with Lalo, everything felt so damn right.

The curtains were not yet closed when Ignacio suddenly ended up in Lalo's embrace.

"That was beautiful, Varga. Beautiful!" Lalo said, his arms wound firm around his back. His cologne smelt like an expensive sandalwood and so, so manly. Ignacio was on fire in an instance, body limped as a ragged doll. Ignacio was feeling dizzy. Not particularly in a bad way. In a way Ignacio didn't want to say out loud.

Aroused.
Ignacio pulled away, hands on Lalo's chest as he tried to create some distance. He was afraid that if they were any closer, Lalo could feel right through him. On him. Beneath him. Lalo's eyes were dark as the twilight that was settling in. Ignacio wondered if light could even shine in them. Or it'd just get swallowed the way the outer space did. The next thing that was uttered did not make it any better.

"You were beautiful."

The still night had blanketed their embrace with its starry duvet. Noises drowned out behind them—the applause, the cheer, the laughter, no longer existed. Just the two of them. And the deliverance of words that could never be taken back.

The compliment was different than the ones Lalo had given him before. This one was laced with a shared secrecy. Ignacio couldn’t bring himself to say anything because his heart was in his throat. Lalo was quiet now, and Ignacio was silently begging him to say something. Anything at all. This silence, his stillness, so unusual for him, who was always full of energy even when sitting down with coffee in his hand.

Ignacio was about to ask him what he meant by that when he felt someone spun him around. It was Dog, beaming at him. "Need to be on stage with you next time, pal."

“You killed it!” Domingo exclaimed, almost crashing onto Ignacio. Lalo created some space to let the boys soaked up all the glory. The smile had not left his face. To know that Ignacio might be the reason behind it made Ignacio feel giddy. Lalo stepped away from the crowd, arms crossed. Ignacio could still taste the word beautiful in the air. What did you mean by that, Lalo?

“I—” Ignacio blinked, trying to hide this bizarre pounding inside his pants. “I don’t remember like half of it.”

Dog just laughed as he pulled Ignacio into a half-hug. He clapped a hand against Ignacio’s back hard enough to jolt him from the daze. “Doesn’t matter. Crowd went nuts. You’re a goddamn star now.”

Around them, the crew moved to set up the stage for the next performers. With the golds of the dawn and midday banished, strong black silhouettes rooted to land in for the happy soldiers. Twilight, the hours of dreaming had begun. And Ignacio wanted to dream about him all night.

“Must be nice, huh?” A voice said out of nowhere. Ignacio turned around to see Jimmy writing something on his clipboard. “All you need is to sing one song and everyone fucking adores you. Don’t let it go to your head. Lalo is already a great pain in the ass to take care of.”

The manager clicked his pen and gave Ignacio a long, dispassionate look. He walked away to the dressing room, leaving Ignacio to ponder about whatever that was said by him. He had never heard Jimmy talked about Lalo like that before. Such malicious, lifeless tone. Perhaps, Jimmy didn’t mean anything by it? After all, Jimmy was known for his quite hurtful way of joking with people. Was it possible that the tour wasn’t exactly everything that the world had hoped for?

“Hey, Ignacio,” Heath called. Jimmy was briefly forgotten. “Teach me how to hit that last note.”

Wisconsin

The band had just wrapped up a brief performance in the hospital’s main hall—a quiet, acoustic set meant to soothe. Nothing grand, just a few stripped-down jazz numbers and ballads. Now, the band and a handful of staff had gathered leisurely in the lobby, mingling with soldiers wrapped in gauze and quiet laughter, passing frenzy.

The piano tucked beside a bookshelf and a giant window overlooked the garden where Ignacio found himself with Lalo, occupying a space where they didn’t have to explain why.

He faced Lalo in that small piano chair, so he could look at Lalo straight in his dilated brown eyes. Lalo diverted his gaze from the piano to him, and that bright white smile is back on his handsome face again. Though, Ignacio couldn’t help but notice how his smile didn’t quite really reached his eyes the way it usually did.

As if a mask accidently fell.

"How about you show me an original piece instead?" Lalo said, scooting over by a mere inch, but for Ignacio, he felt like Lalo had morphed into his body. "You've done these wonderful transcripts of other musicians. And of mine. I'm sure you got a few of your own up your sleeve?"

Ignacio's eyes skimmed over the hospital room. Men in uniform were exchanging soft jokes nearby. A nurse poured tea near the corner. Nikki was charming a corporal with her rouge-dipped smile. Domingo, Heath and a group of veterans were deep in a game of poker. Meanwhile, Lalo and him were sat at that small piano stool like lovers attached to the hips.

Ignacio felt like nobody was watching, but at the same time everyone was watching.

"The last piece I worked on was ages ago," Ignacio said truthfully. "I don't exactly remember how it goes."

“Well,” Lalo smiled, tapping a soft G on the ivory, “I suppose you should go with the flow, then. See where the notes take you. Maybe you'll create a masterpiece so brilliantly that Tchaikovsky would be rolling in his grave.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Always assuming the worst eh, Varga? What if I cry instead of laughing?”

“That will be ... even worse, actually.” Lalo cackled at that, but Ignacio was dead serious.

Ignacio was certain that his soul left his body when Lalo got up out of the stool, leaving Ignacio alone. He thought Lalo was just playing with him all this time. He felt lightheaded. Even more so when he heard some chairs being scraped closer from behind him. All of the sudden, the lively conversation from the people in the room faded.

They're all watching me.
Lalo is watching me.

His fingers hovered over the keys. Ignacio took a breath.

And he played, letting the flow to take him.

The melancholic tunes filled the room, as if Ignacio was holding his heart out on a silver platter for everyone to devour. Yet, the only judgment that truly mattered at the moment was Lalo's. Was his piece flavourful enough? Did it fit the taste of the most beloved singer the world had ever known? This was the first original piece he had worked on since the day his father brought home the baby grand. Ignacio had spoken a lot about his grief—to Lalo, so he let his music bear the language now. Playing the nostalgic tunes, Ignacio thought about home where his father was still alive, and his mother was baking in the kitchen. Playing the nostalgic tunes, Ignacio wanted everyone in the room to think about their homes where everything was well and perfect. Let his music carry the sorrow away, and the memories were nothing but joy.

The last key was delivered. An applause filled with genuineness erupted for the pianist.

He felt Lalo's presence looming on his back, heavy and dangerous. Then, his lip brushed against Ignacio's ear, whispering, "You never fail to amaze me, my dear."

When Lalo pulled back, the sound of the applause returned.

"Can I request a song?" A soldier asked cheerfully as he made his way towards Ignacio. His right arm was in a cast, and his face had plasters all over it. And more people started to approach Ignacio with such giddiness that Ignacio didn't feel overwhelmed, rather, comforted.

"Why, of course, sir." Ignacio smiled to the man. "What is it that you want me to play?"

"I'm not sure if you're familiar with this piece, it’s Serenade by Franz Schubert … "

His voice tuned down, and Ignacio had turned his head, wanting to see Lalo's reaction to his sudden popularity, but there was no one.

Lalo wasn't there anymore.

He looked around as he skimmed the unfamiliar and familiar faces sitting in the room. Still no Lalo. Distraught, Ignacio mindlessly fulfilled the request from the fellow soldier. Fingers pressing black and white keys away, but his mind wondered where his beloved jazz singer had gone.

***

Sometimes, the desire to kiss Ignacio was too much to bear that Lalo had to walk away.

There he was now, standing behind the balustrades outside of the patient lounge that overlooked the garden. Any other man his age might had been upset at being so frequently outsmarted, outperformed, outlived by someone way younger, but Lalo had always admired and been proud of Ignacio. Seeing everyone gathered round to witness his talent, Lalo thought that it would be unkind to stay. For Lalo wanted Ignacio to be the star. Not just in the room. But soon enough, the whole world. Perhaps they could travel to every country there ever was—singing and dancing with the music they'd crafted with their own hands. Spreading hope, forbidden love. In ten years time, would they still be hand-in-hand? Would Lalo have retired by then? Would he still be alive?

Lalo hated hospitals. Hospitals made him feel. Hospital made him too sentimental for his own good. Empty white walls, medicines to stall the inevitable, heroes in coats and nurse uniforms. They said hospitals were known for dying confessions of truth, and only truth. And the walls of hospitals had heard more prayers than the walls of a church. Lalo had his share. His uncle’s weak hand on his, as the man told him that he had loved Lalo like a son. All the way to the end, his dying’s breath was Lalo’s name. The father that he needed when his own father failed him. People around him failed him all the time. A helpless child could only ball his fists when he was angry, letting the tears streaming down, down, down. A child’s cries were not real—as happiness was the only thing he should know. ‘You can’t be sad. I’ve given you everything. Why are you still ungrateful, Eduardo?’. Lalo had always been angry. Even before the death of his uncle, even before the fame had gotten to him.

Although this wasn’t the same hospital where his uncle passed, the effect was still similar. Same empty white walls, familiar medicines to stall the inevitable, heroes in coats and nurse uniforms working tirelessly to save lives. This private hospital was known for its lavish design. It was designed with an open-air concept, a lush garden in the middle of the lobby. It offered a range of amenities that resemble a luxurious hotel, including private rooms with DVD players, luxury linens, and gourmet dining options. However, because of the war, the private hospital was temporarily opened for all the wounded soldiers and other ill patients. Everyone was equal here—the rich and the poor. Behind the main desk stood tall corkboard panels, where photographs of notable figures had their faces and names displayed behind the glass. Lalo wondered if he, too, would end up being showcased behind those notice boards when he finally took his last breath. Would he die alone? Would somebody hold his hand as he uttered his final words? What would his final words even be? Would it be someone’s name? If so, who would it be?

He shook his head slightly and sat on one of the stone benches that faced the central garden. A few children in pale white hospital clothes darted between the hedges, their laughter echoed through the empty, lifeless walls of the building.

So young. So innocent. So pure.
Yet there were already stuck in this hell-hole of a place.

The sadness of the memory had occupied him so much that Lalo didn’t realise that the children were … dancing.

The melody of the piano guided them through the grass of the garden. Ignacio had changed the piece that he was playing to a very dear nursery rhyme, Lavender’s Blue. The children were singing along to them: Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green, when I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen. All five of them were bouncing and pouncing. Their hands waving around, feet tapping to the melodies. Bright, bright smiles on their flawless faces. It was contagious that Lalo had to smile too. Lalo glanced over his shoulder to see Ignacio in the lobby, watching the children as he continued the song. Music was indeed the language that people, no matter the age, race or gender could understand. Between the notes, the drums, they could speak what the human heart couldn’t. Let the music be the voice. Let the music be the light.

“What do you think about this family that you created?” Lalo asked before Jimmy had the chance to sit on the bench properly. Lalo recognised his cologne from a mile away. Rich, warm, and complex. Just like Jimmy as a whole.

His manager was wearing something less vibrant this time around. Light beige blazer with matching slacks, dark green button down and a green tie that had leaves pattern on it. Now that Lalo really thought about it, Jimmy’s attire had become more and more monochrome as the days went by. As though he was wearing a different persona. The sunlight caught the edge of his wedding ring, and Lalo stared at it a beat too long.

“Family?” Jimmy scoffed. He took a cigarette from his blazer pocket and lit it up with a small lighter. “More like co-workers who are constantly trying to outshine one another.”

“Ay, c’mon now.” Lalo laughed. “They're all right. More than all right.”

“I don’t know. They certainly can't replicate your old pals. You know, the people who actually paved the way for you to be where you are right now.”

Lalo shrugged. “Just need time.”

The men fell silent. They watched as the kids were called to come back inside for lunch. One of them, a girl with curly blond hair and blue eyes, turned around and gave Lalo a little wave. Lalo grinned and waved back. So young. So innocent. So pure. Lalo wondered if he was ever going to have children.

“Today marked the second-year anniversary of my divorce with Odette,” Jimmy said, cutting the stillness.

“It’s been that long? I never knew.”

“And you never cared.”

Lalo sighed. “Both of us have been fairly busy with our lives, alright? We don’t even have time to ask about each other. Now I’m asking you, how are you, McGill?”

Lalo could sense an irritation masking on Jimmy’s face. He looked awfully tired as if he’d been through the trenches himself. His cigarette was half-way done.

“I’m good, Salamanca.” He flicked the cigarette to the ground, and stubbed it with the heel of his shoes to kill the ember. “People are saying good things about this tour, man. More locations are calling us to perform.”

Lalo sighed again. If Jimmy wanted to change the subject then so be it. After all day of rushing and beating lines, all he wanted was to have a nice conversation with his dear old friend. Lalo had tried. “What's the plan with Ms. Wexler? You're keeping in touch with her?”

“Yes, surprisingly. She had kindly agreed to sponsor us big time. But she requested to only perform at grand halls and theatres which is understandable, giving her fame and whatnot. Might have to organise an orchestra. We can ask her to perform with us for the grand closing of our tour. You're going to train your voice a little harder, bud. Can't overpower an opera singer but at the very least you can try.”

Lalo’s lips curled at the sides. “You fancy her, don't you? Ms. Wexler?”

“Everybody fancies Ms. Wexler.”

“No, no, no, amigo.” Lalo laughed as he straightened his posture. “You fancy her. Admit it! You were smitten at that party. Practically floating. And now she’s suddenly headlining our finalé? That’s new. You usually lose your mind when I suggest collaborations.”

“I told you, we need the money. It’s not because I—”

“No use denying it.” Lalo shook his head. “You’ve got it bad.”

Jimmy didn’t laugh. Instead, he turned to him with a look just a shade too cold. “Oh yeah? Like how you fancy Ignacio?”

It was Lalo’s turn to be quiet. Deep, brooding, uncomfortable silence.

That belief was there since the beginning. All that needed was for a third party to bring that belief forward from its salient hiding place and be presented in front of the culprit. Lalo looked over the garden, silent and calm. For some reason, he couldn’t look at his manager now.

“Where is this coming from?” Lalo asked into the distance.

“I don’t know.” Jimmy shrugged humourlessly. “Perhaps, let’s start with the fact that you went off to go duet with him without my knowledge first? Yeah, sure. The crowd might be eating it up now, but they’re still watching. You and a man, together on stage? It’s not subtle. Don’t give them a reason to bring the rumours back.”

The music carried by Ignacio had long died. And so did the reason for the conversation to continue. To have admit to Jimmy would mean to relive the guilt Lalo had longed to purify. And wasn’t the purpose of the tour to cleanse that shame? It was easier for Lalo to remain still. Jimmy waited for him to say something, to break but it never came. Barely hiding his impatience, Jimmy stood up and buttoned up his blazer. He gave Lalo a curt nod before making his exit.

There’s a deep trust between them, built from the time they spent together. Jimmy had always been on the look-out, giving advices to Lalo to be and remain the best of the best. Jimmy had reached to him two years after Lalo first released his debut album with his golden voice. Both of them were 25 years old at the time, still new to the industry. Lalo was just freshly married to a beautician named Charlotte. All was well for all of them.

Until, the fire within him began to spark. The marriage fell apart in exchange for the rise of Lalo’s band.

Lalo was old enough to know his desire to be with a man was real. This awful secret that he was hiding from everyone. From himself, even. There were days when the feeling became painfully unbearable—the craving of touching other men, and being touched, that Lalo would resolve to spend the night with women instead. It was easier that way. Safer. He could lose himself in their warmth, their softness, their scent, and for a brief moment, he could almost believe he was what the world expected him to be. He had laid his head on a thousand beds. Each time with different women, different lovemaking. However, the flame never stopped burning.

Now with Ignacio, that flame had burned him entirely. And he never wanted it to die.

***

All in all, mixed in with it Ignacio had inexplicably, and against his wishes, found comfort within the band. Ignacio hadn’t realised how much of a loner he was until the moment he quite suddenly caught on to the fact that he had been pulled into the middle of the make-shift family these members had created. The stories of home that everyone told made Ignacio felt like he was there with them. Minnesota, New Jersey, even London.

There were days when they would do multiple shows on multiple locations, and there were days they only did one show at a grand auditorium full of important people and figures. Ohio, Kentucky, West Virginia. Ignacio preferred the peace that small audiences had to offer—in hospitals or in smaller military camps. At times, it would only be him and Lalo singing a simple acoustic duet while the other band members played board games with the soldiers.

Ignacio was beginning to grow closer with Domingo and Amber as well. After the mutual understanding of having a relative died in the war with Domingo, they had formed a close brotherly bond as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. Also, a shared pettiness towards the rich. He actually had a dream, that kid. To become a professional violinist. To become a part of an orchestra. Which made Ignacio felt bad even more. Hell, he joined this tour because he was fucking bored of his own home? And there were Domingo, Heath, the ladies—who actually had real dreams that they wanted to pursue. And also, to help the people.

All the other ladies were delightful. Yet, they could get on Ignacio's nerves sometimes with their hasty remarks, and overdramatic nervousness before performing on stage.

Ignacio had a strong believe that Amber might had a crush on him. He'd caught her staring, asking Ignacio the most trivial and obvious questions such as, 'Do you know how to tie this ribbon?' When she'd done it countless of times before. Or, 'Is it okay if I sit next to you on the train, Mr. Varga?' When there were plenty of other seats that she could've chosen. Perhaps, Ignacio was reading too much into it. Perhaps, she was rather biased towards Ignacio which was fine, of course. His whole life, he was never anyone’s first choice. Someway, Amber made him feel appreciated.

Everyone became a permanent fixture in Ignacio's dull life. They saw each other every damn day, and sometimes, if Ignacio was lucky, he'd get to be in the rehearsing room all by himself which happened seldomly. Those seldom moments, Ignacio treasured the most. Using it to practice songs in the most obscure way possible. Experimenting as he liked to call it. Some privacy away from his now public life. He'd transposed Lalo's songs, adding up his own little flavours. Not that he wanted to overshadow Lalo’s masterful heights in any way, but he only realised then how much Lalo's music resonated with him.

Reminded him so much of his parents.

And music was the sole catalyst for their conversation starter.

"Varga, you're brilliant!" Lalo would boast when Ignacio played his modified piece. His compliments always made Ignacio's heart skip a little faster. "We're adding that bit to our next show. Let everyone see how talented you are."

Or perhaps because he wanted to be praised by Lalo too. To be seen by him. To be understood.

All those times, the smiles on Lalo’s face did reach his eyes. Lalo looked more real behind the stage curtains. He looked at ease, unjudged, unlabelled. Ignacio liked to call it: The After Hours Look. Under his façade and beauty. Must be the ego inside of Ignacio to think that—Lalo felt free whenever he was around Ignacio. Could that be it?

Ignacio slammed the fallboard of the piano so hard that he scared himself. It was enough to wake him up from his trance. He brushed aside the optimism and remembered the way Lalo always responded to these transpositions with such a complete performance of delight that Ignacio should have trouble believing he really meant it.

Do I want to be you? Or do I want to be with you? Would the answer have revealed itself once the right moment came? Would Ignacio be able to accept it once the answer presented itself, or would he live the rest of his life denying what was written for him since the beginning of time?

He glanced at his bracelet where the metal cross inhabited the leather. Ignacio felt something twist in his chest. It twisted and twisted until his throat became a victim of that twisting. Nausea. His odd desire for the singer surely had secured him a special place in hell. Why was he destined to have such feelings? Why him and not Dog? Or Domingo? Or maybe one of the ladies to desire her same kind? And what good would his repentance do if he wanted to fall for the same sin again? Quite possibly again and again until the end of his life.

Right, he got it.

It must've been admiration! What he felt for Lalo. No further explanation!

But … all those touches that they shared. The fact that Lalo never once showed a sign of disgust already meant something to Ignacio.

It did make him feel seen. Understood. It's coming back, isn't it? The questioning that Ignacio wanted to be left unanswered. That was buried deep, deep within him. He began to conjure up the question more than decades ago. For the boy who had the same innocent green eyes as Amber’s. Ignacio hadn't thought about him for many years; but he saw a hint of him in Lalo. However, Lalo wasn't the one who made the question risen again, Ignacio was the one who did.

Maybe he did want it to be answered.

They made headlines upon headlines. Washington Post, Sunday Times, New York Times. Their faces were displayed on the front page of tabloids—smiling and having fun while performing for the fighting soldiers.

Lalo Salamanca and his crew: bringing hope to cope!

The American Heroes Tour changes lives!

However, there was one particular headline on a newspaper that really caught Ignacio's attention.

Lalo Salamanca and the pianist: who's the mysterious man?

"It seems that Fort Hamilton wanted to reschedule our performance to this evening instead of tomorrow,” Jimmy said one morning as they were heading to New York. “So, we got four performances at four different locations. We're going to have to work overtime today, folks. But, uh, great news! Ms. Wexler had very kindly got us new outfits to wear. Holidays spirit! We're in December now and I want us to look ready. Ladies, yours are to your right and the gents, to your left please. Thank you."

They all scattered like children on Christmas morning as Jimmy pointed toward the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, each one marked with their names. When Ignacio opened his, he saw that it was a lavish deep-red three-piece suit. And a pair of glossy duo-toned loafers. However, when he tried on the shoes, he had some difficulties putting them on. It took him a couple of times before he finally got to squeeze his feet in them. It was tight. His toe jammed against the inner edge. He had to take off his socks in order to get his feet in.

"Hey, Jimmy?" Ignacio called. Jimmy approached him with his usual unreadable expression. "Do you have a bigger size? It feels a bit tight."

Jimmy frowned. "Looks fitting to me.”

"Yes, after I almost cut my feet in half. Just one size bigger, will do. Please. It's killing me already."

"Sorry, pal. I got no duplicates with me. You'll have to work with 'em."

Ignacio sighed. This is going to be a long day.

"Varga," Lalo called out of the blue. He gestured using his head, and Ignacio knew right away what he meant. They’ve spent too much time together yet Ignacio didn’t know how to name this knowing.

Ignacio pointed a finger up. "In a moment,” he said, grimacing as he twisted his foot again to ease the pressure. “This damn shoe.”

As he leaned forward, he heard the low whispers coming from the girls. Well, they weren't exactly being subtle about it.

“Why does Ignacio always get to sing with Mr. Salamanca?” Nikki said.

“I know!” Jo chimed in. “We work our skirts off to even get a line with him. Then, Ignacio just fluttered his … quite long, pretty eyelashes and get the things that he probably doesn’t even want.”

“Bet he’s doing it just to secure his place,” Mary added. “Maybe using Mr. Salamanca to get to Ms. Wexler. The way he did at the party.”

Ignacio ignored them, letting their words flowed out of his ears like a polluted river. He wasn't offended, no. Until, the next topic that they brought up.

“You girls don't think Mr. Salamanca is a fairy, do you?” Mary said after a beat of silent. She was quieter now.

Ignacio quickly shot a look at Lalo’s way, almost breaking his neck in the process. But Lalo had gone into the dressing room already. Good. Ignacio wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the look on Lalo’s face if he heard that. Ignacio felt his heart flamed. He hadn’t heard that word since he was a pre-pubescent, naïve boy.

“Oh my God, Mary,” Nikki shrieked. “What are you saying? Mr. Salamanca is doll dizzy of course. Look at us!”

“Mary’s got a point,” Jo said. “I mean ... do you remember about the rumours from ‘45?”

Ignacio slowed down his movements, ears perked up.

"You mean that story about him and another man?” Amber voiced out for the first time that morning. “In a bar?"

Mary hummed. “And didn't he divorce his wife not long after? Maybe that’s the reason?”

“Girls, who cares?” Nikki said dismissively. “He could be kissing the entire Navy for all I care—as long as he gives me a duet.”

The laughter that followed was sharp and careless. Ignacio wondered if anything even meant anything to them. Ignacio shot a look at the gents’ way, wanting to know their reactions. It seemed that they were lost in their own worlds too. The expensive suit and tie had them by the throats, couldn’t be bothered by anything else. Ignacio wanted to get away from everyone on that train. He hated them all for being ignorant, and hated himself for caring. Why? Why should the subject matter to him?

The dressing room door creaked open again, and Lalo emerged. His hair was neatly slicked back, the white streak fell on his forehead. The girls straightened like puppets yanked by strings.

“Oh!” Amber nudged Nikki excitedly. “You should ask Mr. Salamanca to sing with you this time. I'm sure he'll consider it.”

Nikki cleared her throat, all sugar now. “Mr. Salamanca,” she cooed, crossing her long, smooth legs. “Wouldn’t you like to sing with me this time?”

Ignacio halted. Everyone in the room was looking at her. But not Ignacio. His eyes flicked to Lalo, the same way Lalo’s eyes flicked to his. Briefly and uncertain.

“Uhm ...” Lalo trailed.

“Ignacio’s had enough time in the spotlight. We’d all love a chance to shine. Don’t you think so?”

There were hums of agreement. The girls clasped their hands and nodded with angelic smiles.

Lalo tilted his head, considering. Then, with a warm smile—the one that wasn’t true, the one that was constantly be displayed on stage and not behind the velvet curtains—he said, “You know what, darling? Why don’t we save a duet for Texas? Big stage, big audience. You best believe I got the song just for you. You’ll dazzle like no one has ever seen before.”

Lalo winked, and the girls squealed. Something quilted Ignacio on his chest. A bitter sensation. Yet, Ignacio couldn't properly name what it was. However, when Lalo moved beside him and placed his hand on Ignacio's lower back to guide him away, the sensation evaporated.

It was replaced by a euphoric one.
One that Ignacio didn't let linger for too long. It wasn't right to feel that way. No.

It wasn't right.
There wasn't any reason for Lalo to do what he did. Ignacio was capable to walk into the room with no assistance whatsoever.

They entered the dressing room. These moments spend alone with Lalo made Ignacio's heart skipped a little faster. Lalo let Ignacio go, and headed to the vanity to grab a piece of paper. Ignacio hated the way he wanted his hand to stay a little longer on him.

"I'm thinking about doing this song for our next duet," Lalo said thoughtfully as he handed Ignacio a lyric sheet. 'Unchained Melody' the title read. "A little switch up from our usual, upbeat performances. The soldiers need some romancing too. Ain't that right, Varga?"

‘Lonely rivers sigh
"Wait for me, wait for me"
I'll be coming home, wait for me

Woah, my love, my darling
I've hungered, hungered for your touch’

Ignacio read the lyrics carefully, line by line. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled a sharp, uncertain breath. "I don't know, sir."

Lalo seemed genuinely startled. "What do you mean?"

"Nikki's right. You should sing with her instead. Her voice will be a better fitting for this song. She's a great singer."

"A better voice or a safer one?” Lalo asked. Ignacio furrowed his brows. “I specifically asked for you, didn't I? I'll inform you if I ever changed my mind."

"Lalo—Mr. Salamanca. I don't think this is the brightest idea for us to sing such ... amorous song. People are going to start something."

"Start what?"

Speculation. Rumours.
Was Lalo doing this on purpose? Ignacio needed to put this act to the end. Screw the publicity stunt or whatever Jimmy and Lalo had up their sleeves. Ignacio had his spotlight, his chance, and he didn't want to have it anymore. He didn't deserve any of it.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't possibly accept this. It's too much. I appreciate the opportunity to sing on stage with you. It's been wonderful."

Ignacio brushed past Lalo, but he was stopped.
His eyes widened and he turned around. Lalo had grabbed Ignacio's wrist, hand covering his bracelet that burned into Ignacio's skin, his face unreadable. Ignacio's heart grew powerless every time he was reminded that Lalo was bigger than him. While he was so small, and so unimportant.

"Varga," Lalo said. His hold was so tight that it turned Ignacio's skin light. "I don't want Nikki the same way I don't want Ms. Wexler. There could be the greatest musician of all time out that door and I'd still want to sing with you."

Ignacio returned the unreadable gaze but there was something inside Lalo's eyes. Something that made Ignacio wanted a reach out his hand and touch Lalo’s face. It was similar to the ones he gave Ignacio the first time they met, and that night in his sleeping quarters. Only this time, it was deeper. Still, in the stolen moment, Ignacio was close to learning about himself, perhaps because when he’s close to Lalo, he’s close to himself, close to knowing what he yearned for. No one else should understand this but you. I want you to understand it because I know that you should. His wrist went limp in Lalo's hold, trying to lessen the discomfort. The touch burned still, leaving imprint in its wake.

"Why?" Ignacio asked desperately. There was so much to be said in that one single word. "Why me?” Why any of this really? Why create this bond that we have in the first place? The one that is sure to be destroyed at the end? “Why choose me to sing on stage with someone as great as you? I'm a nobody."

A minute elapsed as Ignacio waited for Lalo to break the suffocating silence.

"You're not a nobody, Ignacio. Don't think I don't see you, eh? I see you. You might not know that but I do."

His heart was slamming so hard against his ribs he feared they might've crack.

Lalo had always been so good with his words. He'd hypnotised people into believing a world that he created—no worries and just keep on dancing and singing. He had definitely said that to multiple others. Maybe the girls. Or the men. Ignacio wasn't special. Both of them knew that. Lalo could never truly see him. Nobody could. Not even his own mother. Not even himself.

"You're just saying that."

“You don’t have to believe me,” Lalo said. His hand still holding onto Ignacio’s wrist. “Sometimes the best things in life just show up, and let me tell you—I didn’t spend all day dodging Nikki’s whining just to hear you say no.”

“She’s asked you before?”

“More times than I heard Jimmy ramble about the stress of this tour. So, have some sympathy for this poor chap. I don’t have the energy in me to fight off with another person that I care for deeply.”

Ignacio listened and thought about it, and he finally realised that he would be an absolute moron if he chose to decline this offer. He attempted to fight the smile that broke across his face, but didn't quite manage to stop it. "Alright," he said. "Alright."

He could always answer himself later. Tonight, he just wanted Lalo to hold him.

***

Lalo used to be afraid of the unknown.

He was used to have his life meticulously planned down to the last period. Every possibility listed, every mistake to avoid, every victory to acclaim. Now, he could see that the unknown could be something so freeing.

Jazz was all about improvisation. To have trust in your fellow musical friends and let their melodies guide you into the unknown together. Domingo started this time—something quick and grounded, just enough to grab the attention of the watchers. Dog and Heath followed not far behind, something calm like a home after dark where most people had fallen asleep. Ignacio came along, being the light. Together, their instruments dragged into the unknown where there were infinite possibilities, mistakes to be made, victory to be claimed at the end of the road. Ignacio slipped a note, but they continued on. The rest of them had turned that mistake into something beautiful. The watchers’ smile grew brighter, becoming light in their own darkest days.

Ignacio's lips grazed the microphone; his worries were washed away by the hazy tune of the double bass. Dance, dance with me, he sang. And so, Lalo danced with him. All eyes were on Ignacio as if he was going to be the next big thing.

Lalo took the microphone from his grasp, did the same by grazing his lips on the only thing that could connect their mouths together.

An indirect kiss.
Eyes wide, Ignacio saw that. Like experiencing déjà vu. Lalo felt the same too.

Everyone else disappeared.
Like none of them mattered but Lalo and Ignacio. Reborn. A fresh start. He found himself unmiss. He found himself unheard, unseen, uncertain. He was young again—back when he didn't know that he'd be well-known as he was that day. Back when people didn't whisper in recognition when they saw him walking down the street, back when his face didn't appear on billboards, tabloids, and televisions, back when the world was unexplored and infinite possibilities await him. Improvisation. Go with the flow.

He found himself freed in the unknown. Now that Ignacio was here.

Lalo was reborn.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your birthday is today, Varga,” Lalo said while sliding the cufflinks off his wrists. He had invited Ignacio to join him in his private dressing room with the excuse, ‘It’s a two men performance now’. And it had taken a fair amount of convincing. Or pestering. Mostly pestering. “I’m quite offended, you know. It shows that I’m not special enough for you to tell me about it.”

“How did you know that?” Ignacio asked.

“Dog told me.”

“Of course, he did.”

Lalo watched himself in the mirror and ruffled his hair. He still remembered that Ignacio told him one time that Ignacio had preferred the white strand of his hair to fall on his forehead. It was supposed to be an absent-minded comment, but Lalo had buried it in the back of his head. To be honest, Lalo, too hated how clean his signature style looked, too slicked, too performative. Carefully, he grabbed the white streak with his fingers and styled it the way Ignacio had liked it.

He turned to Ignacio. “Let's get a drink. Me and you.”

Ignacio shook his head, offering a tired smile. “I’m exhausted, sir. These damn shoes made me think I had to amputate my ankles by the second song.”

Lalo clicked his tongue. “More reason for you to sit down somewhere quiet, get those murder weapons off your feet, and tonight is my treat. Just a little place, not far from your homestay.”

This was probably their busiest day out of the bunch. However, Lalo was feeling more energetic than ever. “I’m asking nicely,” Lalo said, softer now. “No grand gestures. Just a drink and some company.”

And Ignacio surrendered once more. “Alright.”

Entering the restaurant, a very soft, jazzy piano tunes played in the background. Not only did Ignacio look so dashing under the low light of the fine dining, but the thought of having all of Ignacio to himself excited Lalo. His body. His soul. It felt whole. A feeling like hunger stirred in the hollow space of his stomach though it wasn't a yearning for food.

Most certainly not.

The waiter came with the menus, and Lalo already listed the dishes in fluent French, then asked for Bordeaux wine for the two of them. Meanwhile, Ignacio had saved himself from embarrassment by just pointing the menus to the waiter instead of trying to pronounce them.  

"This is a whole lot fancier than just a bar," Ignacio said plainly after the waiter went back to the kitchen. "Don't you think so?"

“Oh no, dear.” Lalo chuckled sarcastically. “It just seems like that on account of the fancy wine and excellent service. They like to treat you nice when you're a famous singer. They pretend you matter. I find it hard to complain.”

Lalo mentally cursed to himself. He should've rented the whole place for the night just so him and Ignacio could be alone together properly. Despite the booth that he chose, that offered quite the privacy, he could still feel wandering eyes around them. The waiter returned shortly with the bottle and poured them each a glass. “I’ll be back with your food, gentlemen.”

Ignacio gazed at his wine glass, seemingly fascinated by the ruby-coloured liquor, and pursed his lips. "Why not invite the others too?" He asked quietly.

This must be a trick question. Ignacio had this habit of asking things where he wanted specific answers. Perhaps he wanted a verbal validation from others to whatever he was thinking at the moment. And I know whatever you're thinking about, Ignacio.

“Why do you always ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“Maybe I just want to hear you say them out loud.”

That I like you, Ignacio. Can't you see it? I want you all to myself. I can't take my eyes off from you when you're away. How my body longed to have you by my side all the damn time. God, Ignacio. You're making this so hard for me.

"Too crowded," Lalo answered. It was torture, having to disappoint Ignacio. And the temptation to tell Ignacio was strong. But he’s certain that neither of them was ready to know the truth. Not tonight. Well, or ever. "I can't possibly pay for 9 people's meal. And it’s your birthday. You deserve to have something good.”

Fortunately, Ignacio accepted the answer. For the weeks that had passed, Ignacio opened up a little bit more. Even though he concealed every fragment of his own life, it was revealed piece by piece by accidental confessions or willing exposure. Lalo would bring up something he remembered from the little pieces of Ignacio's stories; Ignacio would fill in a little more of them. Like how his father taught him how to play the piano, and how Dog was his childhood best friend up until college.

These little glimpses into Ignacio's mind sometimes left Lalo sympathetic, but had hopes that he could shine some light through the crack of his heart.

He concluded that Ignacio's most profound pessimism was because of his late-father, and the way he felt that he could've done so much better as a son. To Lalo, it was an evidence of Ignacio's ability to care deeply. When he shared that conclusion with Ignacio, Ignacio looked back at him with eyes wide with vulnerability, instead of that flat stare he used so often to keep his pain in check.

"I know I'm a miserable man," Ignacio had said over a game of chess once.

"But?" Lalo asked after Ignacio took a long pause.

"No, that's it. I'm a miserable man."

Ignacio was trying to be a fruit that wasn't worth squeezing the juices out, but Lalo had always found his spot, gently pressing it until the last bit of taille oozed out. The two of them had spent days and nights together, separating only for a handful of hours because of sleeping in their own quarters. Just meters apart.

In between performances, Lalo would pull Ignacio into an empty room, occupying a space where they didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. They'd practiced behind closed doors. Walking around the streets anonymously when they had times to spare after a show. They'd argue about what's the best ice cream flavour, and after a mouthful of banter, they'd settle for: cookies and cream. An unbeatable classic.

They had talked about everything and nothing. The sky and the people. The streets during night-time—how alive with laughter from bars and restaurants. They’ve caught up in a stinging, teasing, flirting sort of exchange. Always, Lalo felt adrift, finding new things to ask Ignacio to make sure their conversation never end. But often, he kept getting distracted by the mere existence of Ignacio.

There was one time when Ignacio was pointing at the moon, but Lalo was looking at his hand. The very hand that graced the piano keys, sending melodic tunes to those who lent their ears. And Lalo had lent his ears. Lalo had lent his heart. The only thing was—would the very hand accept his desperate offering? Lalo wanted to take the hand in his hand, he wanted to kiss the hand with his lips. As he did so, he'd whisper tenderly, grace my body with your hands like you grace the grand piano, my darling, Ignacio. And I'll make sounds only for your ears to hear.

"I was born during the full moon," Ignacio had said one night, as he took another bite of his cookies and cream ice cream. Despite the cold December air, cold sweet treats would always be an exception. "My father told me that's why my head is so circular. Just like the moon."

"And that’s why you always glow like that. Makes sense now."

There was something so easy with talking with the pianist. For even pauses felt like their own conversation. All was natural, and nothing was forced. There were times they had mismatched opinions, but in the end, they’d smile at each other as if nothing bad had ever came between them.

Their food arrived with a flourish. Lalo’s, surprisingly simple steak frites. While Ignacio with his canard à l’orange. Ignacio peered down at Lalo’s plate, lifting a brow. “I never thought you’d be one for such base pleasure as steak and some fries.”

“I may be on the front page of every tabloids you see, but there's an awful lot you'd still be surprised to learn about me,” Lalo razzed as he took a bite of his food. "What do you suppose a singer like me eats?"

Ignacio swallowed and drew himself up. "Some pretentious, obnoxiously French food that you can't ever pronounce for the life of you. Like my duck with this orange sauce here. Why is the role reversed?”

Lalo laughed easily. Ignacio and his dead-pan sense of humour. Two peas in a wilted pod.

"How's the wine?" Lalo asked instead.

“Délicieux.”

They ate wordlessly for a few minutes. Too busy savouring the food that was brought upon them. They commented on their food like they were experienced chefs, using big words like ‘succulent’ and ‘moreish’. They laughed at their inane antics.

Taking his time, Lalo searched for things to say, a more intense topic to discuss. Lalo supposed a decent man would be ashamed of himself for asking, but Lalo never once considered himself to be a particularly decent man.

And so, Lalo reached out without thinking too much. He hovered his finger in the air at first, then, over the bravado that the liquor had given him, he touched the faded scar on Ignacio’s brow. Tracing it. Once. Twice. A brief delight crossed Ignacio’s face. The dream that he believed to be out of his reach had reached his fingers; to be able to touch Ignacio like this. Another wish had come true.

"What happened here?" He asked in a quiet voice. "You got some war stories up your sleeve?"

"Nothing heroic like you definitely thought of.” Right, so he didn't fall off a tree and hit his head after trying to save a kitten that was stuck on a branch. "I just ... I hit a goal field while playing football really, really hard. I got a concussion and was sent to the hospital. I was fifteen. I was a wild kid."

"Still wild now with the amount of wine you're consuming."

Ignacio chuckled faintly. "I'm thirsty." His hands were shaking. Was he nervous?

"I think it's lovely. It adds character." Lalo took a sip of his wine as well to make Ignacio feel less alone. When really, he would rather drink up Ignacio instead. He checked out his body, searching for more parts to touch without looking too desperate, too pushy.

The bracelet.
Yes. Lalo could ask about that.

Subtly, he touched Ignacio's wrist where the leather bracelet was worn. It was reasonably masculine, a loop of plaited leather with a metal cross in the middle. It seemed that the cross had seen better days as it had oxidised overtime, giving black discolouration on its edges. Hooking two fingers underneath as a bold gesture, testing the water. The limit. Again, Ignacio didn't pull away. Why didn't Ignacio pull away? He should've. You should pull away now, Ignacio before I do something stupid.

"This too," Lalo said while his thumb skimmed the material. The metal cross felt cold under his touch while the leather felt warm. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

"My father made it for me. I can't remember the last time I took it off."

"You're religious?" Lalo asked.

"No," Ignacio whispered, a hint of embarrassment in his tone. From the touch or from the admission? Or both? "But my father was. I don’t wear it to proclaim my Catholicism. My faith is so weak that I’m ashamed to even say that I’m practicing this belief. He made it for me, believing that it would protect me. And he said that as long as I have it on, he’s here with me. So, I wear it for him.”

Over the course of dinner, the two regaled each other with stories about Mexico. A home they undoubtedly had a hand in. Ignacio with his mother's restaurant, and Lalo with his early childhood years. The Varga's relationship was the stark contrast of Lalo's parents' marriage. While the former was open, affectionate, and full of warmth, the latter had been frigid and characterised by a lack of communication and true mutual understanding. Perhaps there was some form of love between Lalo’s parents, but Lalo had never witnessed any sign of tenderness between them, nor had he ever heard them conversing about music, cooking, literature, the beauty of living, or other interests they may have had in common.

“What you had with your father was special,” Lalo said. “He’d be proud of the man you are today.”

“You really believe that?”

“I’ve witnessed your greatness before my own eyes. Of course, I believe that.”

Lalo told Ignacio that he was closer with his uncle, Hector more than his own parents. His uncle would take him camping, hiking, all-sorts of outdoor activities that would make kid Lalo sore for days until he couldn't go to school. The worst one was when his uncle took him on a hike to go see a waterfall when Lalo slipped on one of the rocks and scrapped his knees badly. There was blood everywhere—on his hands, on his backpack, in the water. The one who took care of his wound was his uncle, the one who made sure it healed right was his uncle, his father—nowhere in sight.

After school, Hector would teach him how to play the piano and acoustic guitar. "My uncle hates to see me resting," he said to Ignacio. "Always gotta work with that grumpy old man. But he taught me a lot. I owe him that much."

Lalo always dragged coming home. Lights were on, but the house was empty. To resolve that, Hector would take him around the city, and introduced him to a lot of important figures. There was something sweet about being out in the world where you could be free. Lalo never had a permanent home. Just temporary stops—three months here, seven months there. A suitcase, a set of keys, and a clock ticking down to his next transition. Hector would be by his side, always.

"He sounds like a great man,” Ignacio said.

"He was."

A pause. "Was?"

Lalo spun his glass of wine around. He saw his reflection on the glass, how his face was once an open sky had darkened. "He had a stroke couple year back. I was there. He went peacefully, at least."

A worried look etched on Ignacio's face. “I’m really sorry,” he said sincerely. Lalo wanted so badly to kiss that frown away, tell him it's okay and it's in the past. But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t.

Instead, he sank deeper into his chair with a feeble smile. He cleared his throat. “You know, it’s funny,” he said, “if it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t be here. On stage. With you. He forced me to come with him to a bar when I was barely the legal age. Told me to sing before I believed I could. Anyway—”

The subject was too heavy for him at the moment. He had to stop himself before the tears threatened to spill.

“Hey,” he said, brightening slightly. “You should cook me some of those flautas of yours, hm? Maybe I should pay your restaurant a visit. See you in action.”

Ignacio's worried expression eased somewhat into a faint, shy smile when he heard that. A gorgeous hue of rose-pink on his already pretty cheeks, and he looked away. Look at me, Ignacio. Let me see you. Let me see your face.

"Sure," Ignacio choked out. "It’s, uh, my own recipe. I was told it's one of the best in town."

Lalo thought about what it might be like, having Ignacio to himself. Let his mind lingered on all the little things about living with Ignacio; he'd be in the kitchen, expertly cooking every dish known to mankind, wearing an apron but shirtless underneath it. Lalo would be in the living room reading news that weren't written about him. When nothing interested him, Lalo thought about getting up from the couch and went to the kitchen where Ignacio resided most times. Wrapping his arms around his then-lover’s waist, and pressing gentle trail of kisses down his neck as he breathed his scent.

Lalo had always wanted to live beside the ocean. Where the sound of waves could be loud enough to hide the cheers and cries of the lovers. They could be as quiet or as loud as they wanted. The noise of Mother Nature would be there to shield them. He believed that the beach was one of those places where time would stretch, and they could stay in that happiness forever and beyond. Behind the walls where everything could not be seen. They could be anything they ever wanted. Lalo could be Ignacio’s, and Ignacio could be his. He wanted it. He wanted perfect with the man.

Perhaps the reverie was too much for Lalo that he had to take a huge swig of his wine. His cheeks grew hot. His whole body did.

Every conversation they exchanged it was as though they've known each other for years. When Ignacio told him about the beautiful city of New Orleans, Lalo felt like he was there with him. Jazz music filling up the twilight sky from bars and pubs. All kinds of people, Black, White, Hispanic, high and low, people who wanted to escape their lives or for any other humane reasons.

Pink-cheeked and warm with liquor and a good amount of flirting, Ignacio was approaching the point of absurdly drunk by the time they've finished their meal.

"Let's go for a walk," Lalo said.

"I'm tired.” Ignacio’s head lolled back. “And should I mention I’m as drunk as a fiddler?”

"I want to show you this little place I'd like to go when I'm in a tizzy like you are. Don't worry. It don’t require for you to do jumping jacks. And it's on the way to your homestay anyway."

Ignacio sighed with a smile. “You know, I can never say no to you, right?”

Lalo smiled, too. “I know.”

They sat down on a vacant bench that overlooked a small, private park.

“Finally,” Ignacio groaned. Lalo noticed the way Ignacio always did that; pinching the bridge of his nose whenever he was frustrated or annoyed. It was adorable. “These shoes will be the death of me. I'm going to take these off. Screw your manager for asking us to wear this god-awful miniature loafers. Such ignorant—”

Lalo only stared at Ignacio fondly as he blathered about Jimmy. There was something honest in his manner which Lalo found very moving. Ignacio was barefoot on the cold pavement. Lalo sat closely beside him, hands in his coat pocket. The ground was lucky. Getting to touch, to feel the smooth skin of Ignacio's. Lalo kissed the ground Ignacio walked on. Barefoot or not.

“I would offer to carry you the rest of the way, but I have a feeling you wouldn't like that idea too much,” Lalo said. “Unless you would. In which case, that can be arranged.”

“No arrangement needed. I'm fine on my own, Lalo.”

“Oh? We're on the first name basis now?”

“Your surname's too long. Lalo is easier.”

“Hm, I'll allow it. If you let me call you, Ignacio.”

“Call me whatever.”

“Alright … Whatever.”

Ignacio laughed. He looked beautiful like that; at ease, and content. His teeth were perfect-white. Lalo had written a thousand songs, listened to a thousand tunes, but Ignacio's laughter was his favourite melody. Light as a feather. Mended something within him that he didn't know was broken.

A bit further from the park was the glorious Empire State Building. It made him remember the days and nights of fooling around with his childhood friends, chasing highs and going to parties without being invited. Lalo’s parents were powerful people, so it was easy to get out of trouble. Lalo wondered where his boys were—if they’ve turned to men that were more certain about their lives more than Lalo himself. If they were married now, had children, and maybe their children had children. If they’ve seen Lalo on the television screen, feeling proud instead of envious. All Lalo could do was just pray for their success and their health. Wherever they were.

“I've always wanted to live in New York,” Ignacio said, his voice barely audible. But, Lalo picked up on that as he always did.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” A small smile carved on Ignacio’s lips. “It's so alive. But when it's quiet—which rarely is, you have to appreciate whatever's given. Makes you ... cherish it more. The little things.”

The little things.

The streets were surely peaceful, but the holiday spirits were buzzing around the storefronts. Music was playing faintly in a jazz joint not far from them. There was only a sliver of moon that night, but the lustre from the festive lights around them were enough to not feel like being enveloped by a mantle of complete darkness. Like a real-life metaphor—darkness all around but hope still shone between the cracks of the pavement. Like the purpose of the tour.

"It is lovely, isn’t it?" Lalo asked. "To see those faces, light up."

Ignacio didn't answer that.
He was quiet for some time.

"Tell me, Lalo," he finally spoke. "I don't think you're doing this just for the sake of bringing hope to these men. I bet there's more to it than that. Publicity stunt? The rumours of your musicians separating because of some conflicts? I suppose ..." he spluttered, "... you ain't a complete saint, right?"

A couple ambled pass them, laughing and didn’t even spare a glance at them. It was dark enough for their faces to not be visible. Lalo always liked how the night provided him anonymity. But being anonymous with someone that had resided in a special place in your heart was another definition of paradise.

The beautiful couple moved on, whispering behind their hands like high school sweethearts.

Lalo imagined what his life would be like if he was an ordinary man doing ordinary chores. Eduardo Salamanca instead of The Great Lalo Salamanca. If his name meant no significance on the streets—would he be happier?

But then, his destiny to meet the gentle pianist wouldn’t be written. In that life, he would’ve never met the other. Never heard that voice. Never witnessed his talent in transcribing music. Never walked him through the empty streets on a night like this, with his body so close to Lalo that their shoulders were touching. He preferred this life. He preferred this one very much. Even if it meant they wouldn’t go beyond the line of band members or good friends. As long as he got to be even in the same room as Ignacio Varga, he’d choose this life over and over again. He hadn’t felt this strongly for anyone before. And he hadn’t felt for a long time.

So, no—he wouldn’t have been happier.

Suddenly, Lalo needed to get the truth out. All of it—every last shameful piece. He wasn’t scared to say that he was scared.

“I had an affair with Franco’s wife,” Lalo said flatly. Truth was out. There was no turning back. “That’s the scandal. That’s what people heard. And it’s true. Not proud of it, but I won’t lie about it either.”

A faint laugh—almost a pitiful sigh coming from Ignacio made Lalo face him. Ignacio shook his head in disbelief and said, "Damn. That’s some heavy stuff, pal."

Ignacio, as beautiful as the festive lights, as beautiful as the waterfall Hector took him to see, as beautiful as the stars dancing around them in the dark winter sky. Lalo loved being the one to make him laugh even when the reason behind it wasn't good.

"It was a mistake," Lalo reasoned. “Delilah, she … she was darn lovely, but none of it was real between me and her. It was in the heat of the moment. She was unhappy with Franco, and I needed someone to make me feel indifferent. I don’t know. With her, people wouldn’t question much. We kept it a secret for a while. But Franco knew me beyond the surface—why I did what I did. He called me names until I couldn’t keep it up anymore. I snapped. I told him straight up in front of everyone that I was sleeping with his wife just to prove a point. I’ve destroyed everything that we’ve built. Franco and I had been friends since I first came to Hollywood and I ruined it. I was lost for a very long time. I harboured myself away from everyone else. Then, Jimmy set this tour up, told me to find some new faces, start fresh. Said it’d clean the mess. Remind people who I was. Who I’m supposed to be.”

Lalo stared straight ahead. He was surprised to find that it was so easy to let the words out despite Ignacio had sneered at him. Lalo wasn't sure if Ignacio was still drunk out of his mind but him being there, sitting beside Lalo, it made Lalo felt warm and heard.

“This tour is just some patriotic smoke screen. Jimmy said the troops need distraction, so I can give them that. I needed a distraction. So, Ignacio. I’m not a saint, no. I just sing like one. And I’m trying to be better than what I was.”

A man came out from the door of the jazz bar, and leaned against it. The music spilled out into the night, accompanying the silence that was shared by the two.

‘Have I sinned?
Was I to blame?
If I try, could things be the same?
Please say the word
That you will forgive
For without your love
I don't want to live.’

Whoever the singer was—he was going through something. His voice was a desperate plea; blowing his lungs and guts out of his own hardship until the bitter end of the song. The listeners of the bar applauded, and demanded for more. Another man had stepped out from the place and the man from earlier walked beside him. “That kid is insane!” Lalo wasn’t sure who was talking since they were walking the opposite side. They seemed close. At ease. Shoulder to shoulder.

"You know ..." Ignacio eventually voiced. Lalo returned his attention back to him. Ignacio fixed his posture on the cold bench. " ... my dad loved you. Him and ma. God. Especially ma. Always had me play your songs on the piano as if there ain't no other singer in the world. Honestly? I didn't get the appeal at first—your ridiculous moustache, that damn accent that you put on.”

Ignacio turned slightly, just enough for Lalo to see the fondness creeping into his smirk.

“But then, I started listening. Like really listening. My parents moved from Mexico to New Orleans in their 20s, but they carry their roots wherever they go. They hid their colours at first, scared. Understandable for their part. And you? You were up in the spotlight, making names for yourself. You weren’t trying to hide your roots or paint yourself as white-mix or something. You made room for people like us. You made us feel seen. Heard. Not just as Mexicans—but as Mexican-Americans. Like we belonged in this country and not just some afterthought.”

All the lights left in New York had gathered in the park, and it was there that Lalo found a glint in Ignacio's eyes again. Hearing that was like given the blessing from Ignacio’s parents. As if somehow, just by sitting here, Ignacio had unknowingly handed him permission. If he ever found the courage to show up at Ignacio’s doorstep, meeting his mother and perhaps—asking for eternity—maybe she would say yes. And that would be the greatest gift Lalo could ever ask for.

“Anyway,” Ignacio went on, but the sheepishness from his admission hadn’t leave his tone, “all I’m saying is ... maybe you’re not a saint. Well, none of us are. But one mistake does not erase all the good that you’ve done. You’re still that man to a lot of people, Lalo. If not them, then to my parents. And to me.

“You don’t have to explain yourself if you’re not ready. I just want you to know... I’m here. If you need someone. For whatever reason.” Then, Ignacio chuckled to himself. “Sorry, it’s the alcohol-talking. I’m never this sentimental before.”

“You learned from the best.”

Ignacio chuckled again. “That, I did.”

A garden full of flowers began to bloom in Lalo’s heart. Usually, Lalo Salamanca would be the one to give long speeches, giving hope to anyone who was willing to lend an ear. Now that the tables have turned, Lalo wasn’t sure what to respond. He was quite fearful that he’d say utter nonsense, and embarrassed himself in front of someone whom he admired very much. So, he basked in the silence one more. It was bizarre to admit this—but he was damn shy. He was blushing profusely that he had to look away from the pianist.

Lalo had caught Ignacio's head lolling back a few times, fighting to doze off. Alas, his head gravitated towards Lalo's shoulder. Lalo stood up, making Ignacio jumped a little. "You’re right. It’s getting late. Come, I'll give you a piggyback."

That sobered up Ignacio real quick. "A piggyback?" He scoffed mockingly. "You think I'm five?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Your feet are not in the state to walk any further." Lalo gestured downward with his chin. "Your accommodation is just three blocks down. Come, I'll carry you. It'll be fine."

"Lalo."

"Ignacio."

They stared at each other.
The weary pianist sighed before bending down to put on his torturous shoes once more. But, Lalo immediately stopped him. “Let me,” he said. He bent down, and tied the pianist’s shoes.

Then, Lalo stood up and gazed down at Ignacio.

“Come,” Lalo said softly, holding out his hand. Ignacio seemed hesitant, watching the hand as if it was a bomb that could detonate at any moment. A breeze of wind passed him—an encouragement for him to take it. Sometimes, you’ve made your decision in your mind, but you become uncertain. Turns out, all you need is just a little push. Ignacio placed his hand in his delicately before becoming more certain, more driven. Perfectly, they entwined, and Lalo pulled him up. With one swift motion, Ignacio was up from the bench. Lalo turned his back towards Ignacio, bending his knees. He could feel Ignacio's presence looming tall behind him, the hesitance returned. Then, arms were wrapped around Lalo's neck and his body closing the distance. His cold cheeks took refuge on the side of Lalo's neck. Up, they went.

Lalo settled Ignacio gently at his back, hands falling to his hips to squeeze into the soft flesh there. "I got you," Lalo said. They fit together. Just two being holding each other in the darkness. Lalo's breathing eased, and he heard Ignacio's too, both found comfort with the peace.

"Another humiliation ritual," Ignacio muttered into his skin. "What have you done to me, Lalo?"

Lalo hummed. "Don't get too far into that pretty head of yours, darlin'. You'll fall for me."

There was a small noise made by Ignacio—a snort. And if that ain't the most adorable thing that Lalo has ever heard.

Lalo strode across the street, the lights dousing him in tough glares at intervals. Greens, purples, golds, and every colour that could light up any gloomy faces. There was the antique store that Lalo was overfamiliar with—the gems of times past where his tiny fingers took in the curves of each lamp and gift box that he could find. The clothing store that displayed the glimmering, layered skirts of dresses with intricate bodices on wooden mannequins. And the flower shop where Lalo had bought a bouquet of yellow roses for his former-wife, Charlotte. Lalo didn’t pay much mind when he bought the flowers, thinking only yellow was Charlotte’s favourite colour. Until he read somewhere in a book that said yellow flowers mostly symbolised platonic love. A presage of the future where Lalo fell out of romantic love for her. Lalo’s grip tightened on Ignacio as if to tell him that he wasn’t the person that he used to be. He didn’t deserve Charlotte nor the man he was carrying on his back.

A chuckle from behind him, and Lalo’s melancholia was swept away.

Lalo couldn’t see it, but he could sense Ignacio looking around the streets like a lost tourist. With that big, Bambi eyes of his. Lalo had seen this scene unfolded his whole life, he didn't bother to take note on his monotone surroundings. But this made him want to cherish this small part of his life once more.

“You're right, Lalo,” Ignacio said. “It feels good to see them happy. Even if it's just for a while. I think what we're doing is good. And being on stage with you ... it feels good.”

The world stopped.
Or at least, Lalo's world stopped.

The words sunk in his mind.
He felt Ignacio's body became heavier behind him as if given in to him. Submitting to him. With his arms around his shoulders, and his cheek pressed against the crook of Lalo's neck. His pulse accelerated underneath the palm of his hands.

"I tend to cheer people up, that's true." Lalo tried to keep his voice as steady as possible. But how could he when Ignacio just said the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to him?

There was no response. Lalo glanced over his shoulder. "Ignacio?" He called out.

Again, no response.
And he felt something nuzzling on his neck, Ignacio's hot breath skimmed over his cold skin.

"Ah, how the mighty has fallen," Lalo cooed delightfully. He hoisted him higher with a delicate move, making sure Ignacio was safe and comfortable. He continued to walk on the quiet street.

"Strangers of the night," Lalo sang into the stillness.

"Exchanging glances, wondering in the night.
What were the chances we'd be sharing love.
Before the night was through?
Something in your eyes was so inviting.
Something in your smile was so exciting.
Something in my heart told me I must have you."

The two men earned some strange, and concerned glances from the occasional passers-by, though they didn't say anything. Until there was a couple—man and woman walked by, and shot them a look. Then, their eyes widened in recognition. "It's Lalo Salamanca!" The woman whispered not-so-discreetly to her lover.

"Don't mind him, fellas!" Lalo said to them, and to anyone who might be hearing. “Just had too much to drink is all. You two have a great night!”

At last, he reached the brownstone apartment Jimmy had arranged for the male band members to sleep in. The lights on the first floor were still glowing faintly, curtains drawn, the faintest buzz of an old radio spilling out from one open window. Lalo knocked the front door with his foot, and there was a set of footsteps could be heard rushing to the front.

The door opened wide, and Dog stood there with wide eyes. “About time,” he muttered. “I was starting to think you ran off with him.”

“You have no idea how badly I want to do that,” Lalo said. And Dog laughed. Easy, genuine laugh. It took Lalo aback slightly. He was prepared to receive a disgusted look from Dog, but he didn’t.

“Let me help you,” Dog said urgently. They put Ignacio down with caution and Dog wrapped Ignacio’s arm on his shoulder to stabilise the drunken man. The three of them passed the threshold that lead to a room which Dog and Ignacio would share for the night. There were two single beds. “This is his,” Dog pointed to the one on the left beside a closet. At last, they laid Ignacio down, and caught their breaths.

Dog was an observant type. He could sense that Lalo wanted some time alone. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be in the other room if you need anything,” he said before heading out.

The night lamp was casting a shadow over Ignacio's placid face; every anxious line was smoothed out. So relaxed in his sleep that Lalo was reminded of how young Ignacio was. How wounded. This mixture of lost youth and the fear of the future had created a fierce desire within Lalo. To protect and take care of the man lying on the bed soundly.

Oh, Ignacio. My melancholy baby.

Lalo traced his index finger on the side of Ignacio's face, to his jaw. Like he did at the restaurant. Once, twice, he caressed it. The stubble that scraped his fingertips was replaced with the softness of his lips.

An urge came without mercy. Lalo wanted to lean down. He wanted to feel that rose-coloured lips on his. To taste it. He wanted Ignacio to know how loved he was. Not just by the audience. But especially from Lalo.

If Ignacio was sober, would he push Lalo away? Would he curse Lalo out? But he didn't do any of that every time Lalo touched him. Whether by accident or willing. Ignacio took Lalo as he was. No judgment.

Do you like me, Ignacio? Do you like me the way I like you?

The complain about the shoes flashed across Lalo's mind. He took off Ignacio's shoes from his feet to see the damage and sure was—his heels were red and the side of his feet too. He searched around the room for a balm, perhaps Dog had one. In the cabinet of the side table, none. Some sort of moisturiser? Any ointment? Still nothing. A sigh escaped as he thought of a final solution. But that solution was actually the first thing that came into his mind hours ago.

Lalo moved to the edge of the bed.

He massaged his feet. Now, Lalo was luckier than the pavement for able to feel every bit of skin a lot longer. He could've kissed the small cuts, then he'd moved to his ankles, to his knees, to his inner thighs. Lalo was itching for Ignacio to open his eyes—to see how Lalo was taking care of him. Wanting him. Though at the same time, he was grateful that Ignacio's eyes were closed because he was ashamed by this wanting. How embarrassing. Ignacio gave a faint rumble, but otherwise he appeared sound asleep.

Lalo stood up. He watched. He felt. The burning sensation on his hands—Ignacio's skin still lingered at his fingertips. He stretched his hands out, letting the inferno dwelled for a second more.

“Lalo?” Ignacio mumbled faintly. “You still there?”

Deep breath. Exhaled. “Still here, darling. Never left.”

“Can you stay for a while?”

The thrill of saying yes, yes, had bubbled at the edge of his tongue, and he would gladly blow it out for only Ignacio to hear. But he could sense another ear in the room, waiting to pop the bubble.

“Can't.” Lalo glanced at the doorway. He flexed his fingers, letting the inferno sizzled for the last time. The light from the other room flickered, and the laughter from the others floated easily through the space. “Looks like Dog doesn't want me to stay long.”

“Screw him,” Ignacio said. “Stay.”

Is it still the alcohol-talking? Lalo asked in his mind. It was very unusual for Ignacio to be acting like this—the man said it himself. Would he able to remember any of the things that he said to Lalo tomorrow?

And how desperately, and absurdly Lalo wanted to stay. To climb on the bed that Ignacio shared with Dog, filled the space and held Ignacio until the morning sun came. Even when the morning sun blinded them, they'd stay in bed and let the day just pass them by. Lalo could easily cancel the next show. They'd explore the city some more—trying foods they couldn't pronounce, and telling each other their sonder as they watched people rushing by on the street, each with their own untold stories. Maybe that reverie would last, would come true, like how Lalo imagined the day they had a house together, cooking in the kitchen and dancing around in the refrigerator light.

But he felt like his presence was a burden. A nuisance. Not only to Ignacio but to the other gents. They were in the other room smoking, and Lalo could hear faint whispers that included his name. His ears rang. The intrusion had reminded him how visible they were to people who didn’t deserve to see them.

And they must've saw everything.

"I'll check on you tomorrow,” Lalo said, his tone was final. “Sleep well, dear."

Lalo stole a kiss on Ignacio's forehead. Tenderly. He couldn’t help himself. He was just a man after all.

Fixing his coat, Lalo stole one last glance at the resting pianist before leaving the room. As he was about to open the front door, Dog already caught up to him, saying, "Let me."

Lalo turned to Dog. "Hey, make sure your buddy takes some painkillers when he's up, alright? Also, you're going to need to change his clothes. Make sure he's nice and cosy. Maybe give him a glass of water ..."

His mouth couldn't stop rambling all of these instructions at Dog. Why couldn't he just stay by Ignacio's side? Dog wouldn't have to do all of the work. Lalo would gladly do all of it with no complaint.

"Alright, boss." Dog chuckled fondly once Lalo was finished. "I got it."

"Yeah, I know," Lalo said as he scratched the back of his head. He was shy again. "Just a bit worried for your pal there. He had too much to drink. He's gonna have the worst hangover tomorrow. Alright … Good night, Paulson. See you tomorrow.”

Lalo was about to walk pass Dog when the man stopped him. “Wait, sir.”

“Hm?” Lalo’s brows shot up.

“Thank you ... for making Ignacio smile again.” Dog was fidgety. His eyes were everywhere but on Lalo’s. “It's, uh, it's been awhile since I've seen him this happy. I kinda forgot what his smile looks like. So, whatever it is that you do—thank you,” he said. “Have a good night.”

“Just doing my job as an entertainer.”

Finally, Dog had the courage to look at Lalo in the eyes and said, “You’re more than that.”

Lalo left the compound with a sense of gratitude. He flagged down a taxi and told the fine driver where was heading. It was the hotel that Jimmy had booked for him to stay for the night.

The city never failed to amaze Lalo with its beauty. No matter how many times Lalo had watched the scene unfolded in front of him. It was unfortunate that Lalo hadn't seen a new colour in the black-and-white city of his. Monotonous. Dull. Repetitive.

Until Ignacio came along.
A speck of gold in his greying home.

Back in the hotel room where everything was quiet, Lalo had more time to ponder his feelings. He could never stand the silence. It made the voices in his head sound louder. It churned on in the darkness like a runaway motor. Instead of wasting his time counting rabbits, he decided to chase high. That's why he spent most of his days at bars, drinking and singing just to drown out the whispers and his violent tendencies. It's a mess that old thing. He hated to be alone with it for too long.

But not tonight.

Tonight, was immensely different, but all the same. The more he laid on the bed, the more awake, his thoughts—once nightmares and anguish had taken forms into something that was worth staying up for. Remembering the soft conversations that flowed, the shared pain of losing a loved one, the starry night above the bright city, and the secret lingering touches.

He sunk deeper and deeper into the soft mattress. No desire to swim back up. The soft voice of Ignacio's drifted him away. He had never felt this strong feeling for anyone before. Maybe for Charlotte once but that became a fading memory. For his whole life he was restless, searching for something he wasn't sure what.

Ignacio's music swayed him. Relaxation.
Lalo, he'd said. Lalo, Lalo, Lalo.

His own name hadn't sound so fucking beautiful.

Tonight, was immensely different. A good different. It was the first time Lalo didn't allow himself to think of the bad things. The worries. He was utmost at peace that he was able to close his eyes with a smile.

Behind his lids blossomed a thousand stars.