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"I think," Nacho said as they drove back to Lalo's hacienda, the music turned up and the windows rolled down, "I hate Don Eladio."
Lalo looked at him for a long moment, his dark-coffee eyes wide. Then he laughed, the sound light and startled. He had a great laugh when it was genuine, and Nacho scolded himself for thinking so. "No one likes Don Eladio," Lalo said, unbothered. He had his arm resting along the edge of the window, wind playing through the silvery streak in his hair. The early sunset light suited him well, gilding his features in gold. Nacho looked away. The tips of his ears were hot. Fuck. "It's about respect."
Acá Entre Nos was playing over the radio, Vicente Fernández's voice ringing out through the speakers. "Que pa' probarles de tus besos me olvide," he sang, his voice full of longing, "y me bastaron unos tragos de tequila."
Nacho kept his eyes on the road, but he was keenly aware of Lalo watching him. It raised goosebumps along the back of his neck, and he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel to try and distract himself. It didn't help.
"You had me worried for a minute there," Lalo eventually said. His voice was soft, like it was some great secret he was confessing, like it was a crime to worry, like it was unforgivable to care. Did he care? Nacho doubted that very much. "I don't like to worry, y'know? Only makes things worse."
Speaking a confession of his own, Nacho replied, "I worry a lot."
"I know!" There was laughter in Lalo's voice again. It was less warm this time, less genuine. He touched the spot between his own eyebrows, saying, "You've got this little wrinkle right here." He let his hand fall, turning his dark, dark eyes out the window again. The sunset light lit them up like gold. "You're too pretty to let yourself wrinkle so early, Nachito."
Nacho wasn't sure if that was an insult or a compliment, but his heart flip-flopped stupidly in his chest all the same.
"No te he dejado de adorar," Vicente Fernández crooned, his voice low and soft, and Nacho tried and failed not to take the lyrics to heart. "Alla en mi triste soledad."
Outside, the sun was just touching the horizon, streaking the sky with orange and pink and gold. It had been a long day, and the weight of it had settled atop Nacho's shoulders like a cloak of lead. He asked, "What would've happened if I didn't impress him?"
"Who, Eladio?" No Don, no respect in Lalo's voice. Was his esteem really that shallow? "He'd have killed you, probably."
Nacho echoed, softly, "Probably." It wasn't comforting.
"Don't look so worried," Lalo chuckled, his voice going flat-out cold now. He was still smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes. It sent a not-unpleasant chill racing down Nacho's spine, and he hated himself for it. "Besides, there are worse things he could have done than just kill you."
A fate worse than death, Nacho thought. If the plan went well, by tomorrow morning, Lalo would be dead. But he wasn't wrong: Don Eladio would do far worse than just have Nacho killed for getting Lalo taken out.
Maybe he should have just told Eladio how he really felt.
Maybe he should tell Lalo how he really felt. He could say, You're an arrogant, soulless pig. He could say, You don't deserve the luxuries you have at your disposal. He could say, I hate the way you look at me like I'm actually worth something.
He said, "It's gonna be a long night."