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Leon had protested taking a break.
But somehow, Luis and him wound up visiting the Merchant’s wares regardless, perhaps at the former’s insistence that stocking up was important (and frowning when Leon set a timer). The agent doubted a few extra matches in the shooting range really qualified as supply collection, though he’s here already, so might as well.
Leon sucks in a gentle breath from anticipation, his chest rising and expanding with the familiar thrum of action. It comes out in a fast stream between pursed lips, exhale rebounding off the shotgun held in front of him and fluttering back at the agent.
Squinting, he stares at the sight before him: lacquered planks layered over tinted-blue flooring, dimly lit lanterns hung on parlor walls illuminate the worn mural depicting a barque out to sea. The butt of Leon’s gun rests comfortably against his shoulder as the speakers crackle with life.
“Three. Two. One.” Gravely, thick and doused in accent, the merchant’s voice commands him to attention. “Begin!”
The buzzer sounds and immediately, timber cut-outs of leering pirates and beaming sailors pop up into view. Some sort of sea shanty blares unhelpfully in the background, tropical drums pound with bursting cheer. An exotic rhythm Leon's learned to tune out.
It’s nice, the blond thinks, shifting position to aim and shoot in rapid succession. Finger against trigger. Lock and press. To lose himself in the worn, repetitive motions of gunfire like he all too often does, and be soothed by furled clouds dusting air with angry smoke. Such imitation warfare is laughably simple when compared to the real deal.
Leon’s targets don’t resist, apart from mechanically jerking side-to-side in a sad attempt to escape his bullets. It never works. At least here, the faces he eyes down the front of his barrel don’t wear a second skin. They don’t rear their ugly heads once more, when dirtied flesh reluctantly gives way to mangled sinews and disguised abominations. There is no second chance, no actual threat.
The agent has mused himself into part distraction, faintly aware of his body carrying itself through practiced gestures; those that evoke peril and promise excitement. Except Leon’s focus gets yanked back to what’s ahead when the merchant’s cry echoes again. “Reload!”
Tongue darting out momentarily to wet his lips, the agent does as he’s told. Leon loads new shells into the magazine tube like dealing out a fresh deck of cards, jamming down the release and giving the shotgun’s forearm a brisk pump. In no time at all, he’s ready for the latter half of the game.
His wooden prey continues to fall, splintered holes blown cleanly wide into roguish grins and peeling paint. Leon’s efficient shots bring them down easily, without requiring so much as a second thought. That is, until Luis opens his mouth. He always just has to open his mouth.
“Excelente, yanqui. ¡Ese es mi pequeño niñito blanco!”
Ugh.
Leon doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know that the Spaniard is leisurely draped across some miscellaneous barrel, every inch of his loose-limbed frame the image of relaxation. The agent can already visualize the toothy, lopsided grin as it slants its way across Luis’ face. Framed by tousled curls, and decorating pepperish scruff of his beard.
Leon can hear it too, the persistent, intermittent click click of Luis’ lighter, no doubt being played like a makeshift instrument between his fingers. Flicked open, closed, obeying some unheard tempo. Dancing from brown skin to cool metal rings. Constantly in motion, Luis is a man of restlessness, filled with buzzing energy that seems impossible to deplete.
There’s an elusive beauty in the manner which he primps and preens at his hair, fiddles aimlessly with his clothing. Leon finds he wants to throw himself into Luis’ path and clasp those habits tight. Press each motion close with all his strength, so that they don’t escape.
It’s all strangely foreign to the agent, after being conditioned to hold still for hours on end. Keep the same position, barely blink, and simply remain, so help him. Until Krauser tells him to be at ease, or the tyrant lurking around the corner stalks away. Leon’s gotten well accustomed to this state of awkward suspension: forever waiting for the other shoe to come crashing down, alert and inert no matter the circumstances.
“Gee, thanks.” Leon mutters deadpan, lowering his head in a shallow nod of acknowledgement. “Love that you're paying attention.” His attitude earns him an amused chuckle from Luis, a low sound sending heat washing through his veins. Had the heel of his shotgun dug into his collar like that before?
But Leon needs to focus on the pirates; one on the left weaving between sailors, one on the right going in the opposite direction. Another two hundred points, three hundred points--
Luis lets out an appreciative whistle.
At what exactly, Leon isn’t sure. Because Luis’ gaze is burrowing into him now, dragging over Leon in an achingly slow, purposeful sweep. A hot stripe prickles down his backside, closely trailing his spine and causing him to adjust his weight over to his other foot. Leon’s palms slick with perspiration, fingers slipping over trigger and around grip, suddenly the strength of dripping wax held to open flame.
“Can you keep it down? I’m trying to concentrate here.” Leon’s grumbles are punctuated by a few more of his shots barely hitting their mark, and the subsequent thumps of wooden targets ricocheting once, then disappearing below imitation ocean waves. He’s getting sloppy. Aggravated.
“What, so commentary is illegal now? Don’t you, ah, pay me any mind, Sancho.” Luis basically purrs the words, and for once Leon is grateful he’s not able to face the researcher. The tips of his ears are burning, the agent’s fringe parted in such a way that it’s useless for covering the sight, as warmth travels and creeps across his neck. Flushed pink, blossoming against pale canvas.
Shit.
“Trust me, I’d rather not. You’re just hard to ignore, and not in the good sense.” Leon replies between gritted teeth, desperately hoping that the incessant babbling of his mind will be drowned out by the heavy rain of bullets. It isn’t. Rather, everything decides to grow louder, the agent’s heart thundering against his ribcage like the wingbeats of a trapped, flailing bird.
“That’s a damn shame,” Luis drawls, the words leave his mouth gaiting an unconcerned stroll, in no hurry to reach Leon. “I beg to differ.”
Leon scowls. “Have fun begging, then.”
“Oh yes, I will, actually. I’ll have all the fun I want.” The Spaniard hums with relish, sounding like he intends to do exactly that, eagerly annoying the living daylights out of him in the process.
Pouring yet another round past the countertop doesn’t improve much. The blond’s shots only veer farther and farther away from his swashbuckling foes, narrowly avoiding flying into the ether. Luis titters. “You, on the other hand, seem like you’re experiencing quite a bit of trouble.”
Leon can make out the brief scratching of scuffed boot soles against creaky floorboards behind him, and it demands the entirety of Leon’s training to stop himself from whipping around at the noise. There’s no danger in sight, so why in god’s name is he so tense?
“Must be your imagination, ‘cause--” Leon’s protest trails off, dwindling into a tired sigh. The agent’s shoulders rise to nearly graze his jaw as he sinks the firearm closer to his chest, rapidly realizing that Luis is on his way over. “What are you doing?”
“Lending my assistance,” The researcher tuts quizzically, his tone blunt and obvious, as though surprised that Leon hadn’t caught on already. “This excursion is supposed to be relaxing, ¿entendido?”
“I’m telling you, I’ve got it all under control.” It’s a terse answer. More automatic than anything else, suddenly defensive. Leon knows guns, more constant than he does people. Less complicated. They get him, he gets them, and whatever mysterious information the other man has to offer won’t change that. Luis’ footsteps don’t halt, however. They only draw nearer. “…Your listening skills need some work, pal.”
“So does your aim, apparently.” Leon walked right into that one, but Luis says it accompanied by far too much gleeful pleasure for his liking.
A cloud of smoke hovers at the corner of Leon’s vision, the tendrils of wispy vapor mixing with stray gunpowder fumes. Telltale breath felt along the nape of his neck betrays the culprit: Luis taking a long, deliberate drag on his cigarette as he steps forwards. The wispish fragrance of cinnamon and sooty nicotine muddles the air, causing Leon to wrinkle his nose and inhale a smidgen deeper.
Luis’ presence is distinctly felt behind the agent now, space held precious-tight between the two men, dense and thrumming in heated waves. The researcher waits until Leon has just finished picking off the second to last target, then closes what little distance was left untouched. Maneuvering around Leon’s side, he snuffs out his cigarette on the side of his shotgun. Powdered ash dusts the material and peters off in clumps, leaving blackened vestiges behind.
Leon should be offended, but a different emotion swells inside his chest instead, strangled with need and angrily clawing for attention at his throat. There’s a lump lodged somewhere in there too, though he can’t fathom why. So he swallows it down. Hard.
Difficult to do when Leon’s mouth has gone dry, yet he manages.
Gives in. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Faint, tender pressure goes and hugs the blond’s lower back, as if galvanized by relented blessing. The contact patiently guides his spine tall again, straightening the hunched line of his body. Luis gestures blithely with his other hand over Leon’s front, slender fingers waving the cigarette stub, scattering more ashen traces around their feet. Hazy advice drifts between Luis’ lips and the other man’s ear, though warm breath caressing cheek is worth infinitely more than any instruction.
Luis would be better off spouting literal bullshit, since absolutely none of his words have taken root in Leon’s brain. The agent is too preoccupied with glaring down the final target as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Leon to remember that the Spaniard expects a response.
“You still with me there, amigo?” Apart from startling the blond, Luis’ question is further accentuated by the playful tilt of his head. His fingers travel their way to Leon’s hip, absentmindedly drumming against the intersection of harsh bone and seasoned muscle.
“Yeah. Just hurry up with the explanation so I can finish this.” Leon rasps, continuing to watch the pirate a few feet away rock to and fro with a squared jaw. He leaves the hoarse please unsaid, fights the urge to display how badly the close proximity is affecting him.
“Ahora que lo pienso..” Luis gathers the fore-end of the shotgun in his palm and tips upwards. “I believe it would be better if I showed you.” Right as a comeback begins piecing itself together, any semblance of wit dissolves on Leon’s tongue when his touch switches from waist to wrist.
Luis’ skin is balmy against his own. Velvety, soft and inviting. Practically a death sentence. Leon’s eyes tear away from the target and down to their intertwined hands, feeling light calluses brush over his knuckles. From this angle, the blond can count every freckle adorning tanned flesh. He’d noticed the speckled moles earlier, draped over the other man like constellations dotting the night sky. Leon wants nothing more than to learn all their names, map out complicated charts, commit the landscape entirely to memory. Trace an exploratory thumb along lanky limb, and watch goosebumps rise.
His thoughts are very rudely interrupted by the sensation of his hands being moved into unfamiliar territory. Granted, the Spaniard’s limited firearm experience must only cover pistols, because everything’s been shifted to all the wrong places.
Too far ahead in one direction--yet somehow not enough at the same time--with the gun considerably raised. His superiors would probably have a fit at the mere thought of Leon holding his weapon like this. He glances back at Luis with a look that’s meant to be unimpressed, but he’s reprimanded first.
“Come on, vaquero,” Luis clicks his tongue and winks, looking from Leon to the only pirate left in front of them. “Keep those baby blues pointed straight ahead for me.”
This guy. Leon doesn’t want to dignify that line with a response, but something about how the researcher phrases it makes him comply regardless. With his teeth worrying his lip, the agent grudgingly resumes peering at the target again. Except where Leon’s staring doesn’t quite match where his attention is.
Even as the researcher repositions Leon to his heart’s content, his touch is featherlight. He’s seen Leon take hit after hit, witnessed him pull dozens of acrobatic stunts with no regard for possible consequences, hell, even been the one watching the blond’s six during many a firefight.
And yet, Luis still handles Leon with the utmost delicacy, as if he couldn’t stand it otherwise. The treatment is unfamiliar to him, a little too much to bear. Leon’s not exactly sure how to react, how to deal with this level of care, consideration dyed scarlet like cigarette roses and leather jackets with fancy embroidery. Half of the agent screams to retreat before he can get comfortable, before Luis and his warm embrace have the chance to worm their way underneath his skin.
Before they tunnel through festering layers of flesh, follow the rush of whizzing blood past capillaries and veins. Until they carve out a home for themselves deep below Leon’s fresh wounds, his weathered scars, and permanently latch onto every internal organ he owns. Another part of Leon craves for that to happen, for the parasite already growing inside him to gain some due company.
Which is precisely why he’s left reeling when Luis pulls back and steps to his right, the other man seemingly satisfied with his work. Some unbidden concoction of relief and regret lingers in place of benign fingers and downy caress.
“How's this?” The Spaniard rests against the counter and spreads his arms in broad, sweeping presentation. Luis’ eyes grant Leon an ample once-over, prior to crinkling at the edges from his pleased smirk. “Give it a shot, hermoso. See how that feels.”
The answer? So much worse. Though Leon’s unable to parse whether it’s due to his form being utterly ruined, or because Luis is beyond reach, the feeling of him gone as quickly as it came. He hates that he can’t tell. Abrupt disappointment strikes him, a longing so irrationally genuine it forces Leon to bite down on the inside of his cheek, preventing himself from pursuing the feeling further.
“Well, here goes nothing,” the blond grouses, narrowing his sights on the target and tightening his index over the trigger. All things considered, Leon is more than confident that he’ll be able to hit the damn object, regardless of whatever senseless corrections the researcher has made.
Naturally, he misses with flying colors.
Both corners of Leon’s mouth are instantly weighed down by a grimace when the buzzer signals that time is up. The agent hurries his hands back to their usual spots, cradles the firearm like a lifeline protecting him from embarrassment, while backing music slows to a crawl and leaves the pair alone.
Unscathed, the final pirate taunts him with a victory lap around the range, then returns below deck. Risking a glimpse of the other man, he braces himself for casual derision in wake of newfound failure. For the smallest sign of weakness shown to be pounced on at once.
Instead, the blond is greeted by the sight of Luis throwing his head way back, flowy dark locks along for the ride. He’s almost cackling in delight, as his shoulders convulse in tandem. The Spaniard’s eyelids squeeze shut as his brows knit together, and Leon can even make out gleaming lamplight reflecting off his canines. Brilliant is a shamefully cheap description of Luis’ grin. It’s an expression positively glowing with humor, pure emphatic joy. Wholly unguarded.
Oh.
For a brief, fleeting second, Leon dumbly wishes to always keep that smile right where it belongs - secure upon Luis’ visage. Cherish this single wonderful moment amidst the mind-numbing hellhole dubbed Valdelobos, and neatly tuck every detail inside one of the various utility pouches at his hip for safekeeping. He’ll hold onto this sunburst brightness, so as to ward away rainy days.
It suits Luis; contentment properly filling out his features, which dispels the hunger-pang look that’s been hounding the man since the agent first saw him. There’s no smug bravado plastered across the researcher’s self, a total absence of the smarmy demeanor he had previously worn from head to toe. Just his melodic laughter, sugary sweet on Leon’s ears, the triumphant sound clear and rich, like drizzling honey for him to savor.
And savor he does. Leon is unaware he’s gawking until the Spaniard tries to recover, raising a shaky finger to wipe away entertained tears. Leon would swiftly part with any amount of his valuable ammo, waste scarce shell upon shell, if only it meant Luis was going to do that again.
“Oye, mierda,” Luis manages, labors for breath. “Way too good, didn’t guess you’d seriously believe me--” His words are cut off by dwindling wheezes, last slivers of mirth bubbling out from underneath floorboards.
The agent’s mouth must be hanging agape out of confusion, because Luis has to temporarily turn away in order to compose himself. He holds up his hand flat, as if to say, give me a minute. To his credit, Leon half considers reaching for it.
“I was messing with you.” Luis explains, lowering his arm and resting it on the countertop. A snicker escapes him, despite his efforts. “Of course, a squire would know his own weapon better than anyone else.”
Leon mulls this over, purses his lips. Admittedly, he should've known, but he’s also relieved Luis isn’t downright clueless. Then again - he did just get fucked with for a decent stint, and was none the wiser (perhaps Leon shouldn’t be one to judge).
“And what about his knight?” He winces at how clumsy the sentence comes out, his voice chipping on quaking syllables. Luis beams, presumably glad that Leon’s playing along for once, and indulging in his reveries. There’s a twinkle within the other man’s eye when he responds, leaning closer like he’s about to let Leon in on a secret.
“His knight is simply happy he listened anyways.”
Happy. Leon expects the occasion to sour, for Luis to start harping on yet another never-ending tangent again. But he doesn’t. In its place, they settle into a comfortable silence, the blond searching for an adequate reply and surfacing with nothing of worth. Quiet stretches on.
Words to eloquently express how he feels - that could convey coherent meaning - fail as the Spaniard just looks at him, tiny sheepish curve idling on his lips. Leon impulsively slides the safety of his shotgun back on, setting it down against the countertop with a light thud.
Before the agent realizes what he’s doing, his palm is cupping Luis’ cheek.
The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air, feeling as if it's physically taking up room between the duo, when Leon tentatively runs the pad of his thumb over Luis’ lower lip. Parting them. His other fingers gather loose strands of pitch-black hair and brush the fibers away from his face.
Leon swallows, inquisitively glancing from Luis’ mouth to his darkened, captivating gaze. The other man holds steady with soundless intake of breath, not shrinking away. Possibly for the first time in his life, Luis is completely speechless, standing still and upright like a startled deer ready to bolt. He hopes he doesn’t.
“Can,” Leon begins roughly, dares to vocalize his desires. “Can I …”
He watches Luis’ gray eyes slide shut, while barely registering his slight nod, an imperceptibly subtle dip of his chin. It is the most lovely kind of permission he could ask for.
Leaning forwards, all muscles tethered by caution, Leon slants his lips across Luis’, feeling coarse stubble scratching against his skin blend with warmth, barest breath beneath his nose.
Pure, untamed relief blooms. The silken pillow of his mouth abides Leon’s pressure in gentle welcome, bringing with it a dizzy surge of want that dulls his senses. Leon is by no means a smoker, rather opting for sticks of mint, but he finally understands why someone could so easily become addicted to this brand of menthol taste ghosting Luis’ tongue.
If the agent focuses beyond the thick rush of blood in his ears, he can hear their hearts beat together as one, fluttering in step. Although Leon swears his own must be speeding up when Luis makes a soft noise at the back of his throat, prompting him to bring the other man closer still. Wandering hands pull loose at Leon’s shoulder harnesses, clutching needy fistfuls of calfskin strap, and he draws tender, hesitant strokes down the small of Luis’ back. Cards the hand that was hugging his jaw through wavy tresses. They fit perfectly, just the way he had pictured they would.
Heat trickles from every new gasp of discovery, seeping from quickening breaths that spill over the petal cushioning of their mouths, until the foamy tide rises and engulfs Leon aglow. It reminisces knocking back hard tequila on scorching summer nights: sears his insides all the way down, ignites a spark of tantalizing vertigo within his stomach. Leon knows they’re kindling something dangerous here.
Maybe he’s okay, playing with fire.
Eventually, he must break away, sluggish in withdrawing. Luis yearns to follow him for more, made apparent by how his lips briefly chase after Leon’s blindly, then reluctantly expel a sigh of acceptance. The Spaniard’s half-lidded eyes flit lazily open again, roused awake from an intoxicating trance. His lips are puffed pretty as a rose, arranged into a coy pout. Leon slides his thumb over them again, hushing the imminent protest.
“Later.” The agent whispers, straining to calm the furious explosion in his chest and let it catch up to his swimming head. He’s been running marathons around all day, fought tooth and nail against infinitesimal odds, yet now is when he anxiously needs a breather. “Or I, uh, might not be able to make it.”
As if in agreement, and to simultaneously add double meaning, Leon’s watch chirps with authority. Out of time. He removes his hand from Luis’ mouth and brushes his knuckle over the contour of the other man’s cheek.
Luis huffs out a barebone scoff, clearly unconvinced of his shoddy plea. Though a slight proud smile does creep along his profile. Donning a faux guise of indignation, the Spaniard unravels his fingers from Leon’s trappings and raps them under his sternum. “Ay, por el amor de Dios. Your heart could handle much worse, and that’s a fact.”
“Fact, or theory?” The joke slips free from him in giddy flurry, though said statement does hold certain truth to it.
Luis cocks a brow. “Scientific theory is treated as fact, cabrón.”
“My bad, then.” Leon goes as far as to chuckle when Luis rolls his eyes in exasperation, mouth working against a rueful grin. The researcher quietly groans and rests his forehead in the crook of Leon’s neck. His inky hair faintly tickles his collar, and the blond leans the side of his chin to meet the fluffed mass.
“Hello to you too, shortcomings of the American education system,” Luis bemoans dramatically, propping his full weight against the agent with pointedly more force than necessary.
It causes Leon to stumble momentarily. Smooth. His knees have become weak, sodden and useless from stopping his foot from tangling with its twin, in some odd-fashioned dance.
Behind him, Leon’s hand frantically searches for purchase against the counter, wanting to avoid bringing Luis along and creating a scenario where they both crash towards the ground in unison. His palm fortunately does find the railing’s edge - Leon digs his fingers in, allowing him to brace the pair of them against firmly planted banister.
Save, the agent is woefully belated in noticing that his elbow has knocked the forgotten shotgun off the opposite side. “Shit--”
Leon immediately swivels apart from the Spaniard and lunges for his firearm, but he’s not fast enough. Desperately swiping at bare expanse for a moment, he feels his fist closing ineptly around unsettled air. Reflexes be damned, it seems. A loud, jagged clatter reverberates through the shooting range as bulky weapon encounters parlor floor.
He cranes his neck out beyond the countertop to stare at the aftermath, an unpleasant cringe clamping the blond’s lips together. Woodwork aside, hopefully nothing is jammed. Leon prays the Merchant won’t make his best (and only) customer spare extra expense in that case.
“Poor you, mi príncipe. Second loss of the day.” Luis pats his shoulder with mock kindliness, looking over it and serenely eyeing the fallen shotgun.
Leon’s already hoisting a cargo pant leg above the railing, about to climb across and retrieve it, when he pivots - unreadable mire splayed on his face. “First, actually.”
It takes a solid pause for Luis to pick up on the implication. The agent watches him blow out a breath, chew contemplatively on his lip. Then he leans forwards.
Somewhere out there, a scoreboard reads zero to two.