Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rodolfo never felt that his life lacked anything.

He had enough of fidgety siblings, a loving mother, a caring grandmother, and a shy father. Their awkward little house, in the south-eastern part of town; pale yellow, with scaly tiles; as if a dragon flying nearby had shed its skin. Two stories high and with flower pots on the balcony railings. Their red-and-gold kitchen where his grandmother baked bread: he loved to hug her, to press his cheek against the soft fabric of her warm-red, layered dress; she always smelled of cinnamon.

He had had enough of the dusty neighborhoods of Las Almas and the noise of children in the narrow streets. The brilliant streaks of light, from the setting sun, reflected in the windows. Red crayon markings of classics on the old asphalt. A time-worn ball and yellowed book pages. Sitting on the porch on Friday nights, when it's dark and bedtime, but Dad sits next to me smoking and Mum hums something vaguely familiar, rocking Jazmin asleep in her arms. Gatherings around the TV with the whole neighborhood, during football matches.

It was all enough.

It imprinted itself on his skin, became a pleasant routine. He knew almost everyone; the wily Marco, the easy-going Antonio, and once he'd met the skeptical Miguel. But he had never known Alejandro. The man with that name appeared quite suddenly; he jumped out at him from the alley, all disheveled and with a stupid smile on his face. He grabbed him by the arm, pulling him forward, to a place where the network of thin streets was more like labyrinths.

A man named Alejandro was not supposed to be in these parts. The quiet town in northern Mexico, bordering Texas, did not suit him at all: sparks flew out from under his feet like the wheels of a roaring train; he burned his skin with his touch, clumsily clinging to Rodolfo's wrist with fingers smeared with something; he breathed full-bodied, rushing forward. He stood out against the dusty streets, the quiet evenings and the soft routine.

Sweat glistened on his skin, but only a guttural laugh escaped his mouth. Rodolfo seemed - and still seemed - to have a red-hot stove burning in his chest under his old pale green T-shirt. The man with the name Alejandro makes a sharp turn, slides his torn trainers on the stone tile mosaic, and looks up - the golden sun dancing in the cloudless sky. He smiles at it, so hard that his gums glisten with saliva.

Rodolfo doesn't know why he doesn't have the courage to release his fingers from the other man's grip; he doesn't know why, instead of stopping, he continues to chase aimlessly onwards, as if trying to catch a bird - or to become one; he doesn't know why he wants to smile and laugh uncontrollably around this man; he doesn't know, and he doesn't want to know. The man with the name Alejandro runs his fingers along the soft yellow plaster of the house, not afraid to scratch his pads against the roughness.

He looks back, dives around the corner of a nearby building, and drags him along. Leans his palms on his knees, stretching his lips in the stupidest smile Rodolfo has ever seen. His forehead and cheeks are red, clear droplets dripping from them and dust sticking to them. His untrimmed dark hair is completely disheveled and shimmers in the sun. All Rodolfo can do is stare stupidly and indecently. But the Man with the Name Alejandro doesn't mind: he catches his gaze and smiles even more, even though it would seem that he is.

"Did you like it?" he curves his lips in a sly way, raising an eyebrow - almost like Marco, only more dangerous. Then Rodolfo doesn't know his name, he doesn't know what to answer. There's a pleasant emptiness in his head, cotton wool clogging his skull without letting any thought stay there for long. It's freer now. The man, whose name he doesn't know yet - but he's pretty sure it's a name he hasn't heard before - holds out a sweaty, hot, open palm to him, and blurts out;

"My name is Alejandro."

The man with the name Alejandro smiles at him, and Rodolfo smiles back.

✦✧✦

The next day, the boy shows up on his doorstep. He is wearing his pale green T-shirt and black shorts. He stands, hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, smiling just like back then — in the dusty alley. Five-year-old Jazmin watches him through the kitchen window, Karel squints warily from the doorway into the living room, Giovanni laughs gleefully in the background.

Dad asks who he is, Grandma smiles, calling him "Fuego Joven" - as if she knows much more about him than Rodolfo himself. Mom kisses him on the forehead and nudges him closer to the door with her palms. Alejandro smiles as if he has the whole world in his pocket, not bread crumbs.

He fumbles with his shoelaces, puts his T-shirt on inside out, and blushes when Mirabel points it out. Grandma already has time to feed the Fuego Joven with freshly baked delicacies. Rodolfo is not ashamed - this is his family after all. But his cheeks are still red as he leaps out of the doorway, slamming the door shut, and his palms are wet, soaking up the world's oceans.

Alejandro drags him into the woods, toward the giant mountains. It's scorching in the sun, chilly in the shade. The ground under their feet sometimes crumbles, sometimes is green and tickles their ankles. It's effortless for the new friend to hop a couple of meters uphill, while Rodolfo drags himself barely understanding how the other manages it. Alejandro turns his world upside down, squinting in the light, breathing heavily through his nose, and never stopping that infectious smile.

"Rudy, come quickly!" Alejandro turns round, passing another small ledge and the roots that form the steps. Rodolfo stops.

"...'Rudy'?"

"You don't like it?"

He looks at Alejandro, behind whose disheveled mop of hair it's bright. There's a halo framing every bulging hair, like on icons.

"No," he shakes his head finely, grinning, "I like it."

Alejandro grins good-naturedly, continuing to gallop upwards, born to do this.

By the time Rudy catches up with him, they're already out from under the tree crowns. It's getting bright and bright enough to cut your retinas, and the rocks clatter against each other beneath the soles of old, cheap convergences. Alejandro lets out a chuckle, exhaling the hot air sharply. The sun is baking on the top of his head. When Rodolfo gets used to the light, he almost stumbles: to his right, two meters away, the world stretches out, vibrant, full of color and sun-soaked.

Their little town, painted in pale yellow and other soft shades. The glittering river, like a snake studded with sparkles, slides into the distance towards other trees and slopes. Small, dusty roads resembling a fallen tree with a pile of branches and scattered cotton pieces—real trees, green, with frequently faded, yellowed leaves. People from this height look like ants, the kids on the bank of shining blue satin ribbon are tiny. Rodolfo had never seen so much of the sky not hidden behind clotheslines, awnings, or tufts of leaves. The world seemed to be half made of blue, immersed in it, offering no resistance.

Alejandro followed his gaze, squinted, and smirked self-satisfyingly.

"Like it?"

Rudy wanted to ask why he's asking when it's clear with just one look — yes, he likes it. But Rodolfo, it seems, lost the gift of speech and could only stare at him with wide eyes — first at him, then at the landscape.

And only when the sun dazzles him, disappearing beyond the horizon, and the yellow gives way to sunset orange, words flash in his mind that he will never say out loud.

"You're brave, Alejandro," the wind dances, tousling his hair, "braver than anyone I've ever known. And I'll follow you to the end."

Alejandro laughs heartily, looking him straight in the eyes.

✦✧✦

Everything around is yellow and shining. Yellow lamp, yellow light, yellow T-shirts on those sitting in front of the television, and on the screen, everything is yellowish-yellow. Around is loud, and the air is stuffy, vaguely smelling of cigarette smoke and cinnamon. Alejandro exclaims something beside him, then leans back to the soda can, attentively listening to the conversations of people around or the commentator on the screen.

His dark eyes are glowing, framed by yellow, his hair shines, and he leans on Rodolfo with all his weight, twisting in such a way that he supports Rodolfo's almost unconscious head with his shoulder, pressing their hips together tightly. Rodolfo is tempting to sleep, but there's no space on the couch at all.

He can see Karel from the corner of his eye, who is also sitting close to some sharp-faced girl, probably Sabina. Someone wants to go to the bathroom, tries not to step on anyone, passing between the rows of people sitting on the floor, blocking the view, to which the older ones, crowded on the back of the couch, grumble disapprovingly and ask to go faster.

Rudy yawns, to which Alejandro just laughs loudly and pokes him in the ear. Someone hands over a plate of food; a soda can flies onto his lap, then another one, but this time it's empty. Someone below is telling jokes. It would be nice to listen.

"I'll take this?" Alejandro says to him in his ear, taking the full can and throwing away the empty one. Rudy doesn't object.

He rolls down onto someone else's shoulder, for which someone sitting to his left clicks their tongue and climbs onto the back of the couch. On the screen, football players in yellow uniforms run around, and the commentator comments on what's happening incoherently and very loudly. His bare feet barely touch the prickly pile of the carpet, which is probably as yellow as the entire room.

Rudy sees a full ashtray on the windowsill, and it's already dark outside the only window. Only the yellow lamp is lit, the lights of lighters, and the ends of cigarettes. To his left, someone older leans over, muttering something incoherent and exhales with a snort. It's sixteen-year-old Vasco. He also tousles his hair, saying with a smirk, "Don't sleep until the final goal is scored."

Someone behind him asks which team, to which Vasco snorts again, muttering about any team and that now someone particularly clever will be cleaning up the mess that will remain here after everything. Ines – he's sure it was him – blesses him to sleep, and Alejandro intervenes.

"He's not sleeping," he laughs.

Rudy lifts his head and sees him rolling his eyes, talking to Ines about the match, how shades change on his nose – yellow, lemon, bright green, yellow again – how his lips, spread in a smile, move. And then all sounds fade for him, like cigarette lights in the far corner of the room.

There are no shouts, no laughter, no commentator's comments audible. The whole world is focused around Alejandro. His dark hair, eyes with amber undertones in the sunlight, and the perpetual smile frozen on his face. Somewhere in the stomach, something spilled, and now it, sticky and viscous, reaches out to other organs, bathing them like in holy water. It's a vague feeling.

Alejandro looks at the screen again and shouts, but somewhere far away, and Rudy doesn't hear him. He spills soda on his shorts and hugs him with one hand, Ines's hand tousles his hair, and then two more join in, belonging to someone's fingers. Karel on the periphery smiles, rising from his seat. Sabina pouts, leaning against the wall. Vasco shouts in his ear to wake up. And Rudy lightly bums his head against his nose, when he shakes it.

"You deserved that," Ines laughs, and Alejandro laughs along with him.

✦✧✦

Alejandro is about to introduce him to the others, those whom he probably already knows, but he doesn't want to disappoint Alejandro. They want to play football together, so he runs home with eyes full of anticipation. Rodolfo can only smile and sit on the sidewalk in front of his house. It's the same kind of house as everyone else's in Las Almas, only with a more square roof: instead of brightly colored tiles, it has a flat, sandy-colored platform with borders. And there are fewer flower pots here than in their family.

Alejandro never talked about his family, probably because he didn't want to emphasize the fact that Karel — his, Rodolfo's, brother — didn't like him. They tried to talk, but the fiery Alejandro, who endeared himself to his entire family right away — even to the critical Mirabel! — apparently wasn't someone who earned his trust. Well, fine, so be it. Nothing terrible happened, right?

A cat stared at him. It sat down, folding its paws close and covering them with its tail, just watching. Its eyes were dirty — either green or brown, but in the sunlight, they gleamed amber. But despite everything, its eyes were beautiful and intelligently cat-like. It was gray-brown, with chaotic black stripes — like a tiger or zebra — and a black tip on its tail. Its face looked as if it had dipped into milk — splattered with white and flowing down to its chest. Also, its paws were white, one completely at the tip, the others almost to the belly.

It just sat there and watched. It allowed itself to be petted and scratched behind the ear but had no intention of going anywhere. It was the smartest of all the few cats in their little town. No one gave it a name because no one saw the point. So Rudy doesn't even try.

"Hola, Rayado," Alejandro stands before him, already with the ball and in different shoes, looking at the fluffy creature proudly sitting on the sidewalk.

"Rayado?" Rodolfo asks, squinting.

"Well, just look at his coloring!" Alejandro squats down, justifying himself, "and does he have any other name?"

"He doesn't have a name at all."

"And is that fair?" The cat rubs against Alejandro's outstretched hand, purring loudly. When Rudy pets him, he doesn't make a sound. "Others have names, why doesn't he?"

"They just haven't come up with one," he shrugs. There's not a soul on the street, and only someone from Alejandro's house watches from the window. Faces are not visible, but it's probably his mother.

"So let's do it." Alejandro's eyes sparkle in the sunlight, and now they look alike with the cat. The difference, perhaps, is only in intelligence.

"No one else will use it except us."

"Well, let them not," Rodolfo freezes, and Alejandro continues, shrugging, "what does it matter? It will be our cat and our name."

Rodolfo is surprised at how easily he says it. He isn't concerned about other people's thoughts, doesn't care what someone else will name the cat or what nickname it will eventually have. Right now, he is only concerned with what Rudy himself will call the intelligent animal.

Perhaps it's time for them already. The sun reflects in the windows, flooding the street with golden light, and the silhouette disappears from the window. Someone is laughing nearby, and the wind rustles in their ears. In a couple of minutes, they'll need to be in their places, a few hours later, they'll go their separate ways home, and until the next Friday, there are still two days. But for Alejandro, what's happening right now is always more important. Rudy looks away, lowering his head.

"I like the name 'Rayado,' " he mumbles modestly.

The cat purrs, and Alejandro just laughs.

✦✧✦

They skipped classes — his mother would probably give him a good scolding when he returned home. But it was Geography, and Alejandro persuaded him to escape together. They slipped away during the break, gathered their things, and no one even noticed their absence. It wasn't the first time for Alejandro; he knew where and how to sneak away. However, Rodolfo had no idea, so he hurried along.

It was fun. They bought pastries from Aunt Hizela, ran across rooftops (climbing up through balconies), and headed towards the mountains. In just under nine years, they had caught up, and now Rodolfo easily kept up with Alejandro, who climbed the rocks like a born mountain goat. The sun was dazzling, and the ground beneath their feet was dry as they emerged from under the overgrown tree canopy. They wouldn't stop at this small cliff that seemed gigantic to them a couple of years ago.

Alejandro leaped higher, and the wind lightly tousled his shiny hair. He had significantly improved after Christmas. After a week of house arrest (he never told what he had been punished for), his face became more rugged, losing its boyish roundness. He and Mirabel became the epitome of the perfect couple, although they were not in a relationship. Speaking of Mirabel, it's worth mentioning that she is now the most beautiful girl in town, and Rodolfo is bombarded every day with questions about her likes, interests, and so much more.

Alejandro only laughs at his sufferings, calling their relationship with Mirabel strictly friendly. He doesn't understand how one can love someone so much as to lose their head over it. Rodolfo doesn't dare tell him that his sister is already losing her head over Alejandro, and she interrogates him about him. He himself is the subject of whispers and gossip. Someone spreads rumors that he sleeps with everyone and then dumps them, someone claims he wears makeup to look handsome. Damn it, any stunt Alejandro pulls never goes unnoticed.

They climb in silence, with only the irregular breaths, their footsteps, and the sounds of nature around them. Stones clatter against the soles of their sneakers. Rodolfo occasionally glances at the landscape. They ascend higher and higher, the ledges become more dangerous and steeper. The higher they go, the more spacious it becomes, and the air is purer. Alejandro inhales deeply and stops. They walk over a river, and beyond it is a vast rocky expanse with a cluster of trees.

Alejandro gazes into the distance, and Rodolfo gets lost in his gaze. Those older than them call them foolish young men, a strange duo, their peers categorize them both ways. Alejandro laughs when he finds out that Rodolfo's cousin drew them as superheroes or when Jazmin, embarrassed, asks them to play together. The entire town knows that they are inseparable. Without Vargas, there is no Parra; without Parra, there is no Vargas.

"I want to join the army."

"What?"

Alejandro turns to him, smiling apologetically. Rodolfo looks at him, eyes wide open. The wind here is strong, tousling their short hair. Other's eyes shine amber and familiarly.

"I'm planning to join the army after graduation," Alejandro's smile is small, almost apologetic. Rudy can't understand what he's apologies for.

"Are you serious?" Rodolfo gets lost in the others gaze, looking downward.

"When have I ever joked, Rudy?"

Alejandro's voice is gentle and sad. Is he already preparing to part with his childhood friend? There are still two months until summer. He gazes at the landscape, spread out like a painting, vibrant and almost unreal. Their little town now occupies a good part of the canvas, like a creeping vine, weaving through the houses near and far. The river is babbling louder than usual today, and the trees don't grow as tall. It's a whimsical picture. And Rodolfo has already made his choice.

"Then I'm with you," he shrugs. The clouds in the painting are quite lively, sailing like paper boats on the water.

"Are you kidding?" Alejandro looks at him, lips curving into a mocking smile. And Rodolfo observes him for a second, speaking align with the wind:

"When have I ever joked?"

Alejandro scoops him into a hug and laughs so hard that his voice breaks.

✦✧✦

In Las Almas, the mountain town of eternal summer, spring is coming to an end. They are drinking adult beverages, and mom reluctantly lets him go to the graduation party. No one talks about their future. Teachers pat them on the shoulders, congratulating them on passing exams, female teachers hug them, saying how great they are. Giovanni and Karel (who arrived home) hand out alcohol from the capital when parents aren't looking. Sabina, the sharp-faced girl, throws herself at Karel, kissing him passionately, openly displaying their relationship.

Alejandro doesn't let him go for half the evening, talking to everyone. And then, when Rudy needs to go to the bathroom, he just disappears. For half an hour, he can't find him, searching corners and groups of girls, hoping they kidnapped Vargas, but he's nowhere to be found. Someone hands him a glass with something; neighborhood boys beg him to play soccer with them. Everything is bright and colorful, with an evening blue tint.

After soccer and a couple of missed goals, for the amusement of the kids, his cousin Hermes drags him into a very engaging conversation, only words and topics are indistinguishable. Then someone (later turning out to be his classmate Dalia) pulls him into a dance. The girl is beautiful and dressed in traditional clothing, and someone throws someone's hat on Rudy while they're spinning. Someone feels nauseous, someone laughs loudly, the music is interrupted, and Rudy hopes to sit quietly in a corner until his head stops spinning.

Ines hands him a bottle of water and smiles, leaning against the wall behind. Rudy drinks it all in one go, squatting down and rubbing his eyes.

"Better?"

"Thanks," he mumbles.

They don't speak another word. Ines goes to help others like Rodolfo, and he himself steps away from the dancing and incoherent chatter. Vasco wanders among the graduates, scanning with his eyes and is already thinking of approaching, but he sees Ines and retreats with a calm soul.

"Rudy!" Alejandro pops out of the crowd, all red, with slicked-back hair and an amber stain on his perfect shirt here and there. He is still handsome, even more appealing. "I've been looking all over for you!"

"Alejandro, damn it..." Both of them are already drunk, and a pleasant languor wanders through their bodies. Alejandro, with a conspiratorial smile, grabs his hand and drags him through the crowd.

"Let's go!" He calls, beckons, as if he doesn't hold his hand.

They push through the graduates, apologize on the go, and run through the streets, while people behind them make noise. The blocks are empty, not a soul around, and only the wind freely wanders between the buildings: it grabs laundry, making it flutter; it spins around beams and whistles, sliding between the stones under their feet; it runs ahead of them, urging them on. The farther they go, the quieter and more peaceful it becomes. And only the feet in old shoes beat an uneven rhythm, only the heavy breathing and the joyous laughter of the wind — or maybe Alejandro.

Vividly, sensually, warmly. A stranger's hat falls off Rodolfo; his legs give way, he stumbles, and there's such joy in his heart. Alejandro, running, touches the drying sheets above them, spinning in turns but never letting go of his hand for a second. The head refuses to logically process the situation, and the heart tears itself out of the chest and wanders through the body like a mad thing — dancing, sounding in ears, then in heels. Falling in love and loving, shouting and crying, singing and awkwardly reaching for notes. Doing everything it wants.

They run. They run until their legs start tingling, until their throats become damn dry, and until they reach the foot of the mountain. The wind leaves them, rising in a wave upward and getting lost in the cluster of trees. The city can barely be heard now, drowned out by the chirping of crickets, Alejandro's laughter, his breath, and the blood rushing in their ears. The night is cold; it creeps under their shirts, painting everything in shades of indigo. Only the stars twinkle as white dots scattered across the sky, and despite everything, they feel warm and happy.

Alejandro forges ahead, grasping the tree bark with his fingers and covering each meter with such ease. Rodolfo struggles to keep up, holding onto his hand with just the tips of his fingers. Darkness has settled behind the thick trunks, and they stumble over rocks and roots, laughing like fools but still climbing.

"Why are we dragging ourselves there?" And still he walks. Laughs and walks, dirtying his shoes. And Alejandro turns around, just like back then, on their first ascent, except there's no sun, and his tousled-slicked hair is outlined by a faint white shimmer.

"Trust me, Rudy," his eyes weary from the darkness, but he squints and whispers, — just take it and trust me.

He wants to say — confess — that he trusted him from the first seconds of their acquaintance, that he swore he had already given his heart into someone else's hands. The words almost escape his lips, almost dissolve into the night air, but they linger, absorbed into the language with a sweet taste, staying there as they both step onto dry land under the — barely visible — moonlight.

The city lights flicker in the distance, and a bit further, only the emerging, new farm frozen in time is visible. In the dark sky, not a cloud in sight, the moon pours its light like milk, and the river sparkles like Alejandro's eyes. The treetops are bluish-purple, the grass is dark, and their town is burning and blazing like never before. This flame — like in a bonfire: hotter and mightier, but it will never go beyond the stone circle, and only sparks can escape from it — born in it, they have never seen the world, but outside the house, they quickly wither and, sooner or later, extinguish. Yet, Alejandro still burns.

He ascends higher and farther, Rudy is about to lose his silhouette in the darkness of the night; they and the mountain will become one, and he will disappear on its trails, merging with the forest, becoming part of a single system. Rodolfo shakes his head, accelerates, catching up with Alejandro, and they both freeze. The celestial darkness erupts, it bursts, and fireworks slice through the sky. Bright, red-yellow, purple, blue, a mix of colors looks unnatural against the backdrop of pure black.

"Damn it!" Alejandro raises his hands and sighs, — we missed it! — his eyes shine, shimmering with colors like the palette of an artist who painted all the landscapes in these parts, and his face barely touches this bubbling kaleidoscope of colors.

"Are you kidding?" Rodolfo smiles, overcoming the distance between them in two jumps, "you knew about the fireworks the whole time and didn't say a word?" he punches him in the shoulder, but not hard, in a friendly way. After all, they don't really fight.

"Rudy, it was a surprise!" Alejandro smiles in response, spreading his arms.

"Damn Pendejo!" Another hit, just as light as the first, but more playful this time.

The fireworks fade away, exploding with a loud, popping sound, and then vanish like sparks from a fire. In the blazing city, there's merriment and dancing, everyone on the main square is probably spinning around: Dalia, the guy whose hat they put on him, and maybe someone lured Ines or cousin Hermes into a dance. Alejandro smiles and snorts, watching with a squint as the last, bright-orange burst of sparks fades.

"So what now?" Rodolfo tilts his head, watching as Alejandro brushes his hair back with a hand.

He snorts, looks down — below them, ten meters away, the dark river is murmuring.

"Now?" He grins, although it's hard to discern in the darkness, and steps back, "now we jump, Rudy!"

Alejandro leaps down with a battle cry, disappearing beneath the water with a loud splash. Rodolfo follows him without thinking about how dangerous it might be. The water is cold, and he touches the riverbed with his fingertips, struggling in the current. His shirt is wet, and he miraculously doesn't lose his shoes as he resurfaces. Alejandro is a meter away, tilting his head back and laughing like a maniac. The only difference is that this is his most genuine laughter.

Water drips down his face, hair sticking to his temples, and in the moonlight, he looks like someone who cannot exist. Well, such people don't exist in the world — they just don't. There's no stubble that feels soft to the touch and doesn't cut the palms, dark hair that shines, either from gel or the sun, and eyes with an amber hue. It's a living sculpture, and the sculptor, while molding it, was immensely in love.

And Rudy feels — somewhere deep down — something that has been growing inside him for several years, a subtle feeling hidden in the fabrics, lifting its head, straightening its shoulders. It nudges his stomach with its elbow, shakes like a chick, and stirs, settling more comfortably, awakened after a long sleep. Rudy's first breath is the first breath of the creature that settled in his chest the first time he met Alejandro. Rudy hopes it won't be the last.

Alejandro splashes around, spraying water. They don't touch the bottom, and when they climb out onto the shore, he does it barefoot. Rodolfo carefully places his shoes at the water's edge, and Alejandro, barefoot, pulls him back in, splashing water on his back. His shirt clings to his body, hair sticks to his forehead, and a chilly wind sweeps along his back. In a couple of days and nights, it will get warmer, and the sun will rise earlier, making their town glow even brighter. And they will disappear, lost in a foreign, big city, among other future soldiers.

Alejandro takes off his shirt, still red from alcohol, and Rudy shivers, standing waist-deep in the water, the wind biting his bluish fingers.

"It can't be!" Alejandro stares at the junction between darkness and the fields, and Rodolfo turns around: the sky is reddening, just beginning to brighten at the edge, igniting with each passing hour. How long have they spent together? "Sunrise, Rudy, sunrise!"

He snorts, splashing water at Alejandro, who just laughs in response.

✦✧✦

Rodolfo doesn't like the army. They went through the same training, the same test, and the same medical examination. They were accepted without questions (apparently, their childhood hikes along mountain trails kept their bodies in good shape). They managed to get into the same unit, and after shifts, visits to each other in the barracks became routine rather than an event.

Year after year passed; they got used to it, and after completing their service, they signed up for another three years. During short leaves, they came home, basked in the sunshine, and played with the kids by the river or in the mountains. His mom scolded him for the long absence, and his grandmother turned eighty. Then there were funerals and wreaths, Jazmin's twentieth birthday, and Mirabel's wedding — a mix of bitterness and cloying sweetness that made the cheeks ache. Giovanni slung his arm over Rodolfo's shoulder, and with Karel, they repaired the leaky roof. Alejandro started smoking.

In the evenings, they disappeared onto the roof or porch, drinking and smoking. The city spread like a vine, but from the mountain heights, you could still see its end and beginning, albeit not as clearly as before. Mirabel's husband, Octavio, built a farm, and they would soon have a child. Rodolfo is happy, and Alejandro disappears after three bottles, mesmerizing the restless children — playing or peeking out of windows — with his epic descent from the second floor, using the roof as a slide, and jumping over the balcony railing. And so it goes on.

Karel also eventually finds a wife, Dalia, and settles in the town, teaching at the local school. Giovanni moves in with his parents and Jazmin, initially singing about being forever alone, and then getting engaged to a quirky newcomer, Sara. At their wedding, a choir sings, Sara's daughters (she apparently already had two children) carry flowers, and her family now consists of forty people. Alejandro acts as the groom's best man at the wedding, dressed in a vibrant suit. His mother cries, and his father sheds a couple of tears too.

And then they return to another town, to weapons and the smell of gunpowder. Scented with love and sunshine, with burning eyes, Rodolfo is already waiting for the next vacation to spend more time with his family. For now, all that remains is to wait, drinking alcohol in the military bars of the big city, among other soldiers, and to mimic those evenings with Alejandro — the ones in a blue haze, shared only between the two of them.

A lamp flickers at a distant table, surrounded only by the clinking of glasses and drunken clamor. The sharp-nosed bartender — like in some movies — wipes glasses and looks worn out. Nearby, Alejandro, smiling, talks to someone from his fellow soldiers on the adjacent stool. His eyes gleam, and his face already sports a dirty beard. Rodolfo blinks wearily, a football match playing on the television in the corner.

The bar doors swing open with a loud crash, and a couple of burly soldiers stomp in, making their way to the bar, loudly ordering something in broken English. Following them is a slender brunette; she's wearing cargo pants and a high-necked top. Her dark eyes sweep the room assessing, pausing at Alejandro, who has turned to look. After that, she sways her hips as she moves towards the distant tables. All eyes, except those of the newcomers and the bartender, are fixed on her.

"Who's that?" Alejandro observes as the stranger reclines on a couch, and the broad-shouldered men head toward her once their drinks are ready.

"That? No idea, honestly," Rodolfo casually nods at the brunette.

"Who are you talking about?" Lewis, their fellow soldier, inquires.

"Do you know who she is?" Alejandro persists, while Rudy just scowls and shakes his head.

"Unbelievable," he raises his eyebrows. "You're lucky you don't know Garza!"

"Garza?"

"Valeria Garza," he repeats, now also turning to glance at the woman. "The storm of the whole city."

Alejandro smiles, softly repeating her name with his lips. Whatever had stirred and stretched its neck, whatever lived in his chest, it kicked his stomach. Tadeo, Lewis's buddy, hearing what they were chatting about, immediately joins them on the adjacent stool, leaning on the counter.

"Heard the news?" he chimes in, keeping the conversation alive. "Garza is joining the special forces."

"In a year or two," Lewis snorts, downing the rest of his bottle in one gulp. "Once she finishes her service."

He orders a new one, and Alejandro's eyes sparkle like never before. He runs his hand through his hair, never taking his eyes off Garza, and after playing with the collar of his shirt, he stands up.

"Where are you going?" Rodolfo raises his eyebrows, and Alejandro just grins.

"To introduce myself, Rudy."

He leaves leisurely, circling around other patrons, and Rodolfo feels a punch in the gut as he silently watches him go. Tadeo drinks, chuckling at Alejandro's move, and murmurs softly, "He's going for it." Lewis scowls.

"You know, Rudy," he leans in, "it's better not to get involved with her."

"Lewis, I can't be responsible for Alejandro."

"But you guys are supposed to be best friends," he shrugs, and Rudy swallows.

"Yeah..." He turns around.

Valeria speaks, and Alejandro's smile widens.

✦✧✦

Rodolfo doesn't know what's missing in his life. He isn't sure what exactly is the puzzle piece that completes the picture. Alejandro introduces him to Valeria after just two weeks, presenting her as his girlfriend. That night, he went back alone since they disappeared half an hour into the conversation. Caught in a downpour, he got soaked to the bone, and the unsettling feeling in his chest stirred when Alejandro didn't show up for hours.

He only arrived the next morning, as Lewis explained, and that day he looked so content and happy that it sparked envy. After the next day's breakfast, which they had separately, he crashed into his barracks, and, to the bewilderment of their fellow soldiers, sprawled on his bed for half an hour until the sergeant almost kicked them out to the gym for laps around the stadium. They didn't talk much. Alejandro would occasionally ask something, but it was all trivial, and talking about his mood or its reasons was out of the question. Rodolfo simply didn't want to ask.

In the evening, he vanished, just evaporated into thin air. He didn't join him the next day to play pool with the guys, and he declined a round of table football with Lewis and Tadeo. He would show up in the morning and disappear after dinner, lying on his own bed or Rodolfo's, unwilling to engage in a conversation about his lifted spirits. When Rudy catches him in the locker room after lunch, he mutters something about fate bringing him his better half and that he would see it for himself soon.

He saw and heard it all. Garza was as graceful as a cat and as dangerous as a snake. Yet, when they first met, she was smiling and very friendly. "This is my childhood best friend, Rodolfo," he nodded, while the feeling in Rodolfo's chest writhed in agony, releasing venom that killed everything in its path. "And this is Valeria, Rudy," he breathes with a whistle, "you probably don't remember her," he does.

In the next vacation to Las Almas, Rodolfo comes alone. Listening to the radio in the car and eating a sandwich he bought in solitude. His hands freeze, and from his clothes, he takes very little, as usual. Mirabel names her daughter Ruth, and Rudy holds her in his arms, so small. Mom cries when she sees him on their doorstep, Jazmin is now long-legged and only half a head shorter than him. Giovanni wonders where Alejandro disappeared, Rudy says he's busy. Now he shares his evenings with the feeling slightly wriggling beneath his heart—it crawled in there and cried. And Rodolfo cried with it.

On the next visit, carrying a basket of pastries for his aunt and her new husband, surrounded by old friends, he sees Alejandro with Valeria by his side. Later, children ask him about the girl who used to hike with him in the mountains, and during one of the training sessions, he finds crudely and clumsily carved on a tree, "Te amo Valería." He knows the author but doesn't want to admit it to himself. He comes home exhausted and worn out, and then Jazmin tells him that Alejandro came by and asked about him.

"I want to join the special forces," is what he says when they meet in the evening on the rooftop. "I don't like our inaction. I want to help people, not sit in the barracks or gym until night."

"Alright," Rodolfo mumbles, finishing his beer.

Alejandro leaves, not waiting for any other response. Rudy already knows that he will go there too. They've always been together—without Parra, there was no Vargas, and without Vargas, there was no Parra. He leans over the concrete barriers. Alejandro, in his usual manner, rolls down the roof to the balcony and jumps over the railings. Valeria comes out from under the awning; he puts his hand on her shoulder and says something.

Alejandro laughs as he leaves.

✦✧✦

After several missions, they are promoted. The special forces don't differ much from the regular army, except the rooms are a bit more spacious, typically housing four or six people instead of a whole platoon. They had to learn English and undergo additional training, staying awake for several nights, spending the entire day crouched down, and losing all traces of humanity, automating every action. Alejandro handled it well and was surprised when he noticed a familiar face among the newly minted special forces.

In the photo from the award ceremony, he stands, kissing Valeria, while Rodolfo stands nearby, deadly tired and seeing no sense in the awards. His emotions sank somewhere under his ribs, so it almost didn't hurt anymore. It shrank and diminished, merging with the organism and becoming almost like a plant that no longer needed care. There was no point in arguing or quarreling with Alejandro — it wouldn't change anything and would only spoil their relationship.

Now, to find Alejandro, they looked for Valeria. During the rare leaves (joining the special forces reduced them to a Christmas week and one week in the summer), he returned home, seeing the edges of the city from the mountaintops less and less frequently. After Giovanni learned about Garza, he smiled, approving of Alejandro's choice. Karel still didn't like him much, though he became more tolerant. One evening, he called her a freak — either a witch or a snake. Rudy remained silent, not knowing what to think.

He loved to be silent. No one asked him — he simply didn't open his mouth. With Alejandro, you could be quiet and unnoticeable — he shone and chattered for two if needed. No one considered him oversaturated or too bright. He was Alejandro, always like that. It seemed he could talk from birth or was mute for half his life and tried to make up for the lost years. Initially, he spoke, and then he fell silent, and they sat in silence, smiling like idiots at every moment.

In the summer, Rodolfo noticed dried blood on the asphalt and children playing with a gun. His elderly mother became more jittery, and his father bought a rifle for home, reassuring him it was for hunting. There weren't many animals in the Las Almas forest, and it was forbidden to touch them. Then red and blue flashing lights screamed throughout the street, gunshots and people's screams could be heard. The sidewalk was in red spots, smelling of gunpowder and copper, acquiring a persistent odor of burning in the heat. Rodolfo knows this smell. It's how battlefields and office buildings smell after acts of terrorism. It's the smell of death.

And now, this smell is everywhere in Las Almas. It spreads through the streets like a plague, infecting every alley, and if not for the windows, the houses would be unbearably stinky. He finds his mother crying in the parental bedroom, local children split into groups — those who fear going outside and those who like holding weapons and playing with white powder. Children love adult things, and they have never seen real horror.

For the following week, Alejandro is jittery, and Rodolfo hopes that blood and bodies won't become commonplace in their town. That he won't see someone from his family among the dead. Afterward, they are gathered in a large hall, a long speech is delivered about the state of Mexico, mentioning their — Alejandro's — home. The contagion, decay, plague, in short — the cartel. They recruit everyone, mostly children and teenagers. On the same day, Rodolfo packs his things.

They are transferred to Las Almas, back to their homeland. Back to the forests, the river, and the mountain trails. Where they don't go now, where it's always dangerous. Rodolfo wonders if anyone remembers, aside from the elders and those already grown, that jumping into the river was almost a rite of passage. Soldiers from other towns are neutral about everything, and Rodolfo, despite the task itself, is happy to be home for a couple of weeks longer.

Now he is fully responsible for his town. Alejandro is still raging, but now with a smile on his face. In the remaining couple of days, the guys from the squad only talk about the upcoming mission, digging for information on it and looking for people who lived or grew up there. Rodolfo remained silent. Alejandro also refrained from idle chatter, keeping quiet about the place of his birth. Their town was slowly being infected with an ugly disease, and they didn't like it.

"Did you hear?" mumbled Lucas, leaning over the table during lunch, "In Las Almas, they call the children 'Children of the Valley.'"

Once upon a time, they were also Children of the Valley when the city was just emerging, and its population did not exceed two hundred people. Back then, they called everyone who underwent the ritual and knew how to climb to the mountain's summit "Children of the Valley." They braided bracelets and wreaths from flowers and leaves; they watched birds until nightfall, trying to find the most beautiful feather. And then they raced through the streets against the wind, forgetting about lunch.

"And who told you that?" Salvio skeptically folded his arms across his chest, raising his eyebrows.

"My cousin," Lucas shrugged, leaning closer. "He was there—imagine that? He was there and tried to find out something for me."

"And he found out this?"

Rodolfo tried not to smile. Despite Lucas's efforts in the half-empty canteen, anyone could overhear them, and a trained special forces operative, distinguishing the sound of footsteps on a noisy highway without speed limits, could do it in no time.

Rodolfo left, and Lucas and Salvio continued talking, but there was no point in listening. He already knew everything they were discussing. His barracks were empty; the three guys he shared it with probably disappeared in the gym or some bar.

In solitude, Rodolfo laughed, and somewhere in the neighboring barracks, Alejandro laughed too.

✦✧✦

Las Almas welcomes them. On the day of their arrival, it's hot, and they are given a little time to rest before starting the briefing. The guys share everything they've found out about the city, and Rodolfo chuckles at rumors that many who lived here before the cartel ended up committing suicide by jumping off a cliff, and the particularly devout inquire about the offerings needed for the local spirits. This time, it's Alejandro who laughs, loudly and tilting his head back; Valeria is not around, she's in another squad.

"Las Almas isn't that scary," the guys exchange glances. "You'll see."

"Just take a closer look," adds Rodolfo, standing up. His rest is over. "From a height, you can't see the bottom."

During the briefing, they provide a brief overview of the upcoming missions, and everyone watches only Alejandro and Rudy, who are sitting away from the others, at the edge of the table. Then, on the way to the bar, he meets Mirabel with one-year-old Ruth in her arms, and they exchange a couple of phrases. She asks if he will come to the family dinner on Saturday. Everyone is still staring at Rodolfo, this time with their mouths slightly agape.

"Sister," he responds when they pass a few meters.

Alejandro, as always, disappears. Probably taking Valeria to the mountains or to his home again. And Rudy changes the offered apartment for his old room. His mother kisses him on both cheeks and hugs him as he enters, his father gives him a pat on the shoulder. Jazmin is not home; she's staying at her boyfriend's place, and yes, her parents warned her about all the protective measures. And they did mention her brother being a soldier.

He tells them everything: that they will stay here to eradicate the cartel, what his comrades say about Las Almas, and that he will definitely come to dinner on Saturday. This night, he sleeps like he did in his childhood. Dreams come back to him, but this time, there is no blood or dead bodies. The smell of the gunpowder, even if it's not real, doesn't clog his nose, and his muscles don't ache from the weight of the weapons. No screams or explosions behind his back, and no dammit camouflage either.

He dreams of Alejandro. In a golden shirt embroidered with flowers and black pants, barefoot. They run through a field, stumbling and falling on the grass. He hears his laughter, playful like today's wind and the rustling grass. His own breath, blending with Alejandro's into something eternal. He sees clouds overhead, their edges burning in red and yellow, ignited by the setting sun. Breathing is easier, and happiness boils within him, spreading through veins and arteries, filling the heart's chambers and every artery to the brim, the feeling in his chest stirs, warm breath on his stomach.

In the morning, he is maximally relaxed. It happens when you drink too much, and emotions overflow, and you just sit there, smiling like an idiot, and zoning out. His mother smiles at him, they have breakfast together, and he leaves, returning to military formation. In the locker room, the guys almost interrogate Alejandro, asking only one thing—why didn't he tell them he's from Las Almas.

"Not just me!" he laughs, turning to Rodolfo, who can't help but look at him with warmth in his eyes.

"It just happened," Rodolfo shakes his head.

Alejandro grins and hugs him by the shoulder as they exit. In a very long and terribly boring briefing, the Chief informs them that they are going to head to La Araña today. They can't wait; otherwise, he'll start suspecting something. They are told to behave calmly and normally, just continue with their routine and not talk about it. Then the Chief singled out Rodolfo from the exiting crowd.

"I need to talk to you," he tosses a folder onto the table, on which his, Rodolfo's, full name is written in untidy handwriting. "You were born and raised in Las Almas, as well as your friend—or should I say, comrade?—Alejandro."

"I don't understand your hints, sir," Rodolfo shakes his head, shielding his eyes.

"I want, if something goes wrong," he leans in, looking from under his brow, "you and Alejandro to lead the operation."

"But sir—"

"Rodolfo, your parents live here, don't they?" The Chief leans back in his chair, his eyes sharper than usual. "This is your home, and you know it better than any of us. Let us rid it of the infection and help us do it."

"Okay."

"That's good. Go."

In a couple of hours, they seal off the city to avoid casualties, and Rodolfo still feels the unpleasant aftermath of the conversation. Alejandro stands side by side with him, ready for anything. It's evident that he also spoke with the Chief, judging by how he squints and tightens his grip on the weapon. No one should get hurt.

Then, gunshots, cries, and a group of soldiers disappear into the mountains. They follow, running in their footsteps, and other special forces struggle with the unfamiliar terrain of Las Almas, slowing down as they climb. Alejandro keeps trying to contact Valeria. She was in the group that presumably went up. No response.

Someone shouts about betrayal. And in that moment, something in Alejandro snaps. He turns around and roars at everyone. His eyes blaze, radiating a bright amber light. No one is lucky to see him in anger. He's bright and sunny, and then he burns down villages and smashes people's faces into blood, so much that he peels off their skin with his knuckles. It's the most horrifying sight. Grandma would call him "El diablo en forma humana".

"Continue the pursuit!" Rodolfo shouts at the top of his lungs, grabbing the angered Alejandro by the forearm and dragging him away.

And into the place of cries and fire comes a quiet, apologetic whisper. They settle on the ground, Alejandro clutches his vest, not lifting his head, breathing rapidly, as if on the verge of death. The wind rustles the leaves, and the rifles clatter against the cold ground. It's always cooler under the trees than in the blazing sun. His mouth dries up, and the sounds of their groups are no longer audible. All that remains is hope—that they won't get lost and will catch those they're hunting. They aren't sure who it is.

Then Alejandro sobs, and his constant apologies blur, becoming murky. Rudy embraces him with both hands, one slipping into his hair, tracing circles with his thumb as if trying to smooth out the unevenness on the skin. Las Almas falls silent. It's not just a city—it's towering mountains, a transparent river, playful wind, and rustling leaves. It's fields with growing corn, golden wheat spikes, and fruit filled with color. It's clouds, rocks, and the ground beneath their feet. It's everything. And it falls silent.

"You're not guilty—do you hear me? Not guilty," Rodolfo whispers, pressing close to the other's ear. "It might still be a mistake, Alejandro."

They both know it's not. La Araña couldn't have escaped without help. Valeria and her group were traitors, part of the cartel. And Alejandro feels betrayed, used, and now utterly useless after almost a year of their relationship. The wind howls, clouds darken, and the radio reports a failed operation.

Rodolfo no longer hears Alejandro's laughter, and it seems to him that it's gone forever.

✦✧✦

It's the first time they kiss in the club. It's so vibrant and colorful there that it makes Alejandro smile. It's not like his usual grins — wide and covering half his face. But that doesn't mean it's insincere. This time, it's just the two of them, no other soldiers around. It's the farthest club, and no one here has any idea who they're dancing with. Exactly what someone needs after the past few weeks.

Valeria vanished from their lives, along with her group. The cartel's roots burrowed even deeper, but for now, it settled and lay low. The Commander scolded them for over an hour, those who spoke received the most backhanded compliments and upcoming training sessions. "You're not good enough if you managed not to notice traitors right under your noses," is what he said. Local boys inspired by the tales of their elders found La Araña's body. The new cartel leader they started calling El Sin Nombre.

Alejandro became completely disheartened — disappearing into the gym, pushing himself to exhaustion, or staying in his room. He stopped going to bars with the guys; later, he broke someone's face, and Rodolfo found him guzzling alcohol like water in his room. That night, he woke up a couple of times to drunken muttering and sobbing. His roommates were gone, and Alejandro spent the night there to avoid causing trouble. At dawn, they greeted it with a bottle of something unpleasant and a quiet monologue about life.

"Life's a bitch, Rudy," Alejandro muttered, not parting his lips and slumping on his shoulder, "It's such a bitch, Rudy, you wouldn't believe."

He fell asleep an hour before reveille, and they just sat there. Rodolfo took a swig from the bottle, then tossed it away and dragged Alejandro to his bed, just like that — in black boots and a dirty shirt — covered him with a blanket, and slumped down on the floor, waiting for their comrades. They skipped breakfast, and the whole day was worse than ever.

A week later, Rodolfo drags him to the club, and they get drunk like there's no tomorrow. The dance floor is packed with loose girls and loud guys, and the alcohol is cheaper than anywhere else. Alejandro's face is red — either from the lighting or the alcohol — and he pulls him to dance, blending in with the figures in the center of the floor. Rodolfo's hand in someone else's fingers. In agile and calloused fingers of Alejandro.

The song is absurdly silly and inappropriate, but they clumsily move, nodding to the beat of the drums. They're pushed, and they push, sticking to each other like sauna leaves, laughing when their hands collide. Alejandro closes his eyes, shouts something, but it's not audible over the bass, and Rudy feels how his thighs touch someone else's hands. And then they kiss.

Hands cup his face, fingers catch his cheekbones, and the thumb caresses his jaw. Rodolfo with one hand grabs the back of another's head, squeezing the hair, the other embraces the neck, pulling even closer and almost diving fingers into the shirt collar. He clings to him as if he's about to die. Alejandro's lips are dry and hot, with a bitter taste. He kisses wet and assertively, releases his face, and roams the body with his palms. They bump with teeth as they're jostled from behind.

Rodolfo feels Alejandro starting to laugh and leaning backward. He literally bursts into laughter, closing his eyes, and Rudy just watches, still hanging on his neck: someone else's lips are red, the face too, sweat glistens on the forehead in multicolored drops. He quiets down and breathes heavily, the music changes to something slightly more restrained, and the DJ — or whoever the hell controls the music in this club — yells into the microphone.

Alejandro opens his eyes slightly, his gaze wandering and as murky as a mirror after a shower. He scoops Rodolfo into his arms without asking for permission, and breathes into his ear somewhere. And then he hoarsely sings, so Rudy just melts, and all he wants is to turn into a little puddle and never let go of Vargas. Half-melted, he strokes circles on the black fabric stretched over the shoulders, almost not breathing. Alejandro is next to him and doesn't disappear anywhere, doesn't vanish into the room or the gym, and on his face, there's fatigue and ecstasy.

A truly disgusting song starts playing, and Rudy wants to get out of here as soon as possible. Alejandro mumbles and rubs his ear against Rudy's, but stumbles on poorly bending legs. They have to push through several ladies, and the arriving youth curses them as they leave. Then there's breath on the neck, brown hair, and the warmth under the shirt. Awkward steps and the chilly wind scratching their cheeks.

In the building, it's hot; outside, it's cold. The sign is bursting with colors, assaulting the eyes. Alejandro leans back against the wall, breathes deeply with a whistle, and, despite the cold night, leaves the upper buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Rodolfo stares unabashedly: at everything within his sight, at everything he's allowed to look at. Alejandro's shirt sticks to his body, someone managed to spill something pink on it. He rummages through the pockets with his palms and pulls out a crumpled cigarette.

"Let's go home, Alejandro," Rudy says, pinching the cigarette between two fingers and pressing it against the asphalt. The night blinks with a thousand eyes, illuminated by the crescent moon.

"Will you take me to your parents' house?" Vargas stretches his lips into a smile, looking from under thick eyebrows.

"Since when did you start considering my home as yours?"

"Since I spent more nights there than in my own."

Rodolfo nods, a smile spreading across his face, and it's almost like in that dream—happiness bubbles in his veins, splashing hot steam onto his internal organs. The feeling, glued to his heart, feels red and breathes hotter than ever. Only the shirt is white, and instead of flowers, there are speckled stains. They're not barefoot; the grass doesn't tickle their ankles, and no one set fire to the clouds.

"Let's go to the barracks, Alejandro."

"I'll crash at your place?" He sparkles with his eyes, pushes off the wall, and strides toward him.

"Is that a request?"

"More like a statement."

For the first time, Alejandro smiles so brightly.

✦✧✦

They stumble into the barracks when the clock's hands pass two in the morning. The room is empty, only the wind gently sways the curtains. Their shadows stretch sharply angled under the furniture, and Rodolfo steps on someone's uniform while dragging Alejandro to the bed. His lips sparkle, he smells of alcohol, fruits, and men's shampoo, so persistently that you could probably trace their path.

He stumbles, takes a couple of awkward steps, and falls onto the bed in a star shape. Rodolfo, in his usual manner, shakes his head, closing his eyes, and a smile blooms on Alejandro's face: tired, drunkenly foolish. The frosty wind wanders along the open neck and slips under the shirt, breathing into the damp lower back. A foreign hand reaches for the desk lamp, but halfway there — feeble or reconsidering — it falls, hanging from the mattress.

Rodolfo tousles his matted hair, walks closer to the bed, and drags the wet trail behind him. Fine drizzle is not an uncommon occurrence for Las Almas. Alejandro stretches out on the mattress, not bothering to take off his dirty shoes, and sighs loudly. The wooden floor is divided by pale stripes. Someone from the neighboring room steps onto the balcony, the click of automatic lamps is audible, the creak of a plastic chair, and the rustle of clothes. Yellow softly emerges on Alejandro's dark face, clings to his shiny eyes, and stretches over his lips, curved in a smile.

Rodolfo, also messily splattered with yellow, takes off his boots and removes the annoying belt. He carefully leaves them under the table, next to someone else's shiny shoes with slanted tips. Then, he climbs onto the bed with his feet, starting to take off Alejandro's boots. The latter giggles and squirms playfully. Rodolfo pokes him in the knees, tossing his dirty shoes onto the floor.

"Come on, Alej," he rolls his eyes, barely visible in the darkness, "don't be stubborn."

"What did you call me?"

Alejandro freezes, and so does everything inside Rodolfo. He holds his breath, tenses all his muscles at once, which from the outside might look like he's having convulsions. Then he crawls upward, hanging at the level of someone else's heavy, rising chest and looks. They breathe in unison, and the other person's eyes can be discerned from the darkness without much effort: deep and flickering. Someone on the balcony clicks a lighter.

"Alej," he whispers, "Is that a problem?"

"No, Rudy," Alejandro ruffles his hair and tilts his head sideways, touching his cheek to Rodolfo's shoulder, "No problems at all."

Rodolfo wants to kiss someone else's lips. With just one look into the shining eyes, he feels rejuvenated, once again becoming an awkward teenager, with a drunk Alejandro beneath him—just like he is. The feeling in his chest burns, melting his ribs like clay, and all his muscles stick in something sticky and viscous, like honey. It's not like a raging bonfire; rather, it's like a burning match that warmed the hands of the Little Match Girl* from the fairy tale: it's the warmest and most tender flame.

Rudy is ready to tuck him away in the palms of his hands and hold him so long that all his fingers burn. But he'll keep smiling, watching as they glow brightly in a vibrant red. The red color of Alejandro. Then the light on the balcony goes out, the mosquito buzzing near the faded lamps stops, and the Night Smoker sighs heavily, closing the balcony door. Alejandro's eyes sparkle for a few more moments, like lanterns, and then dim.

Rodolfo, all red and tender, slips to the floor, leaning his head against the bed frame. Alejandro's hand awkwardly smears his cheek with the back, moves to the slightly overgrown, uncut hair — awkwardly catching onto the locks, pulling them, then gathering them just above the crown — and then scratches his neck. Rudy can only smile and barely audibly hiss, closing his eyes.

Then — silence and inaction. Any sounds — breathing, the rustle of clothes, the wind's whistle — drown in the air, which is now tangible and fills the lungs like water. Sighs are echoed by vibration, the rustling scratches like a rasp on exposed skin, and the wind's howl is like waves, tickling bare feet. So they spend five minutes at most, silent and drowning in their silence.

"Rudy?" Alejandro's voice is hoarse, the letters cut his vocal cords with ribbed ends, and he blinks in the darkness, as if blinded. Rodolfo grunts in response, "thanks."

"For what?" He turns his head.

"For everything."

Rudy smirks.

"Fuck you with your apologies" completely innocently, childishly.

Alejandro falls silent, and the atmosphere becomes incredibly intimate. Not in terms of vulgarity, but rather, coziness. You don't want to leave this place — just capture this moment in memory and hope that dawn won't flood the room with pink-orange hues anytime soon. Conversations stretch time, and in this place, buried under bodies, washed in blood, in the once vibrant Las Almas, time is scarce.

"Hey," Alejandro tilts his head to the side, Rodolfo catches this glimpse, and with one look, he says, "Look at me." And he does. Disheveled and terribly gentle, Alejandro smiles, whispering into his soul, "I really will do it."

Rodolfo bursts into laughter, which dries up in his throat.

✦✧✦

The nose is filled with the smell of gunpowder and metal. Breathing is almost impossible, the urge to cough arises, and nausea creeps into the throat. Alejandro, on the right, leans against the wall and signals to the other soldiers. Rodolfo pulls a flashbang from his belt and closes his eyes. There's a buzzing under his eyelids. Vargas, now a Colonel, slaps his shoulder and nods.

Then, a ringing in the ears, the sound of fifteen pairs of feet, deafening shots, and blood everywhere. Soldiers arrest some white-collar hostages, pointing rifles at the back of their heads, and unintelligibly report via radio about the hostage situation. Screams, screams, screams. Everyone is yelling, some aggressively, some out of fear, some simply because they have nothing better to do and they just scream. Never take newcomers into your squad, never, damn it.

Alejandro gives orders, assigns groups inside the building, and they scatter. One is left in charge of the rest. Later, Rodolfo loses track and stops paying attention, going on autopilot. He reports the location of targets, removes cartel members from the staircase, covers the Colonel. He breathes slowly and steadily, ready if someone decides to jump out of a door with a rifle or crawl from under a bed with a Glock.

Alejandro nudges him, pushing his shoulder, and then Rudy emerges from the fog. He stops for a moment, feeling the glass crack beneath his boots, and just watches. He welds his gaze to Alejandro's figure and doesn't budge. He can't because his legs feel frozen, and his muscles have stiffened. Like a tree, growing through concrete—trapped from both sides, suspended in air, forever frozen.

And then a shadow, crawling on the floor, a blurry silhouette, and blood boiling in the veins. A fair-haired girl, a foreigner, with strangely pale skin, in a colorful tank top and cargo pants, grabs Alejandro from behind. When the knife blade is ready to cut his throat, the sense of his own body returns to Rodolfo. All movements are automated: knife, jerk, strike.

He thrusts the knife into her neck; blood spurts from the jugular vein as she falls to her knees, clutching her throat with her fingers. Alejandro tumbles down with her. For the first time, Rudy's hands tremble so violently. He looks only at the body, a ringing sound returns to his ears. Blood pours onto the floor, touching his boots and Vargas's dark pants. Rodolfo inhales sharply, kicks the girl in the back, and cuts her throat. She wheezes for a few more seconds and rolls her eyes.

He glances around, shoving the corpse aside, and searches Alejandro's body with his palms, not knowing where to hold. The gloves are in the way, and he removes them, flipping over Alejandro's body. On the opposite face, there are wide-open eyes and a slightly parted mouth. Alejandro blinks.

Rodolfo is ready to send him to the afterlife with his own hands if he dares to repeat such recklessness—foolishly bypassing him without checking the passage. He places his palm on Alejandro's cheek, and the stubble scratches his fingers, but the damn gear prevents him from getting any closer. His heart pounds in his chest, the fear-frozen feeling jerking back and forth, distracting him. Alejandro, lying on the rocks with his own rifle, grabs his elbow with a dead grip, maintaining eye contact.

"Rudy?" he whispers.

"Are you okay?"

"I..." He crumples, lowers his eyes, and jerks them from side to side, "yeah."

Rodolfo's mouth is dry, and he almost cries with relief. He berates, lowering his head to the other's chest. His knees, annoyingly, tremble, and he shakes all over, breathing heavily. Alejandro braces him with his knee in the right side, and the kneepad painfully presses against the pelvic bone. One of the squads persistently calls the Colonel on the radio, and Alejandro curses it to hell, switching it off.

He grabs Rodolfo by the nape, digs his dirty glove under the collar of the shirt with a zipper, and massages the protruding seventh vertebra. Somewhere a floor below, gunshots and screams can be heard, and Rudy feels like he's about to be sick. Stones and debris scratch his palm; the smell of copper, sweat, and men's shampoo fills his nose. After this mission, he promises himself that he'll drink himself into oblivion and finally confess to Alejandro.

He owes it to himself.

"Rudy," Vargas slaps him on the nape, "we need to continue the operation."

Rodolfo wants to curse this operation, curse the youngsters and useless soldiers, curse damn Alejandro, who, despite nearly fifteen years of service, almost ended up among the dead! A few more seconds, and his photo would be on the dresser—black and white, with a diagonal ribbon.

"Just try it," damn it, Alejandro, "just try to put yourself in that position again," he growls, clenching his fists, and Alejandro's face instantly softens, the furrow between his brows smoothing out and almost disappearing.

"I won't, Rudy," he slides his fingers under the helmet, into the hair, "I won't."

A smile appears on his face, and the soldiers are back on the communication channel.

✦✧✦

He receives accolades, but the clothes have to be thrown away.Only upon entering the room does he feel the stench emanating from him. Of sweat, gunpowder, and death. Rodolfo spends the remaining twenty minutes before lights out, standing under scalding water, rubbing his skin red. And when he comes out, in clean clothes clinging to his body, with wet hair and a twisted towel on his shoulders, Alejandro is sitting on his bed.

He looks unusually disheveled, with an untucked shirt and prickly stubble. He nervously fiddles with his fingers, glances at the floor, sighing deeply and loudly each time. The other beds are empty — their owners have gone for the evening revelry. It has become a tradition; the higher-ups stopped catching them once they realized it was futile and wouldn't help maintain order.

Rodolfo smiles, feeling the sensation beneath layers of flesh and bones—the one that sticks to the heart and solidifies like magma—slowly melting, dripping sweetness into the stomach. When Alejandro notices him, he is already standing in the middle of the room, shivering from the draft. He wants to say something sharp, but all that comes out is a silly remark:

"Was I awaited?"

With a smile so dumb that he wants to ask himself why he's grinning. Indeed, why?

Alejandro perks up, runs his fingers through his tousled hair, seemingly trying to calm down, and takes a deeper breath. His eyes gleam with anxiety, and he himself appears nervous, fidgety, not like his usual self.

"Rudy, I think you shouldn't go anywhere today," he says quietly, lowering his gaze, searching for words in the scratches on the boards.

"What are you talking about, Alejandro?" Rodolfo frowns. "I feel perfectly fine."

"Rudy, it was a tough mission," he shrugs, turning away, "you need to rest."

Disturbed. That's how he looks. With shoulders timidly slouched and the most expressive eyes—apology and fear flicker in them. Almost like back on the mountain, with bright sunlight, a babbling river, and a revelation that changed everything. The draft whistles, Alejandro warms his cold hand, placing it on his neck.

"Alejandro," Rudy shakes his head, "you were on this mission too."

"It's different."

"No, Alejandro," his voice grows firmer, you can hear the letters cutting through his vocal cords, "it's not different."

Rodolfo lowers his hands, and they stand there for a few seconds. One—staring at the floor, the other—searching for words in the other's silence and tension. The lights of unfamiliar windows shimmer in the window, and now it gets cold for both, because one has water dripping from his hair down his collar, and the other is foolishly walking around with open neck at the end of November. Rudy breaks the ringing silence first:

"I don't understand, Ale," and Alejandro barely twitches, "what happened?"

"Stop this."

"Stop what?"

Sharp, cutting, and swift gaze. Like a gunshot or a paper cut. And immediately falling down, back into the cracks in the boards, and disappearing behind the lids.

"I..." Inhale, a Alejandro's attempt to gather strength, "I remember what happened at the club."

"And what happened there?" He raises his voice, "What do you mean, Alejandro?"

"A kiss, damn it!" So abruptly that Rudy jerks, "I mean a damn kiss!"

Silence. It's as if he's been stunned, and eardrums have just burst, blood flowing down his neck, heading for the collar of his shirt. Then he hears his own heavy breathing, and he's released: shoulders drop on their own, his gaze meets the floor, and the heaviness in his chest becomes even more profound, pushing and sticking to other organs. Rodolfo whispers:

"And what of it?"

Alejandro just grimaces, frowning.

"You don't understand—"

"I don't," his voice is measured and dry, devoid of any emotion, "it was because of drunk, you were broken, Alej."

"Don't call me that!" Again, a hot flash leaving a burn in the chest, as if someone poured gasoline.

And here they are again in silence. But now both are like opposites. One is hot, passionate, and absolutely cold. One is frowning, with shining eyes, the other sighs in a tortured manner, shivering. Darkness gathers in the corners of the room, the moon peeks through the window, spreading a pale glow across the floor.

"Alejandro," he says, and doesn't breathe anymore, "what happened to you?"

"Nothing," and Alejandro grimaces again, turning away, "nothing happened to me, Rodolfo."

And the feeling in his chest scratches, howls—so much that it makes one want to howl too. Everything around is covered in frost, sparkling frost crawls onto objects, and now he exhales—dense, whitish plumes of breath.

"Alejandro," firmly and quietly, feeling the soreness in his reddened throat, as if he had eaten snow.

"Rodolfo," Alejandro's lips respond, also so quietly that if someone were on the balcony or behind the door, it wouldn't be heard.

His own name reverberates in his chest with a fine rasp, like half-chewed food, and Rodolfo turns it inside out, wanting to shudder, to crawl out of his body, as if it's not his own. For some reason, he immediately thinks that there won't be any more idiotic "Rudy" in the middle of the night, that no one else will draw out the vowels of his name, sprawling on his bed like some drunk gelatin and repelling all his comrades with their behavior. That there won't be balcony gatherings, empty chatter about stars, war, and life, with a bottle of El Reposado and a marathon of dumb jokes.

"I don't like it, Alejandro," Rodolfo shakes his head, not ready for all the pleasant memories to be burnt.

"And what do you like?" Alejandro gets worked up, hearing his own name, and he doesn't care about the rest of the sentence, "sitting in a corner, sipping beer and occasionally crawling out of the bar to shoot a couple of drug dealers in the head?"

"Don't turn me into an alcoholic, Alejandro," Rodolfo steps so close that he feels the foreign breath on his skin, and glares fiercely into the eyes across from him, "I'm a soldier, I've been boiling in this cauldron for fifteen years."

"What do you like, Rodolfo?" Alejandro growls, pressing in.

To hell with it.

He grabs him by the chest, pushes him back into the closet, and kisses him. Presses so hard that he feels the other's heart pounding, and in his ears, only the pulse is frantically beating. Fingers grip the shirt until they tremble, and Rodolfo awkwardly rubs his nose against the other's, and the thick stubble pricks his chin.

Clumsily, he bites into the lips, almost forgetting to breathe. Alejandro, in response, clings to his bare elbow, scratching the skin with his nails. It's amazing how he hasn't been knocked out yet. Legs unsteadily press against the floor, lips start to ache, and the air runs out unusually fast. Alejandro tastes like alcohol and oranges.

When Rodolfo peels off from the other's lips with a wet, smacking sound, no one says a word. It's tight and oppressively hot in the chest, and they breathe almost in unison: greedily and hoarsely. Alejandro now looks tousled, all red (cheeks, cheekbones, nose, and damaged lips), and his eyes are completely different: like mirrors, devoid of former words and feelings. This time, Rodolfo twists his lips, not understanding why, almost spitting out:

"I hope this answers your question."

And he runs away, leaving Alejandro to look emptily at the doorway.

Not a sound is heard throughout the building: all the laughter has disappeared somewhere.

✦✧✦

He runs into the mountains, to the murmuring river and the stones pounding under his soles. To the place where the moon will bathe everything in white shimmer, and where, in the clouds or under the roots of ancient residents, he can hide, trembling and clutching his head in his hands. Where no one will dare say a word to him because it's not customary to speak here. Only fools and idiots speak (Alejandro fitting both descriptions), and the wise ones — listen.

They listen to everything. Sooner or later, if you listen closely, in the wind's howl, you can hear a flute, and the barking of stray dogs — it's not malice, it's a choir. The trees here are like big tubas, and the birds play high notes. The water is a set of oboes, the grass—cymbals, and the chirping of crickets — a whole bunch of tinkling triangles. In Las Almas, a whole orchestra gathers if you listen.

"Those who couldn't conquer the mountains have nothing to do in Las Almas," his now deceased grandmother used to say, smiling, when she learned that he had been climbing the mountains for so long. He remembered it for a lifetime, and he regretted that he couldn't spend more time with her. Would she scold him for quarreling with Alejandro? Or for not seeing great-grandchildren because her grandson is a complete idiot who fell in love with a man (and his best friend, no less)?

"Maybe she would forgive," Rodolfo thinks, swallowing sour saliva, "she always forgave me." Even when he didn't deserve it. Especially when he didn't deserve it.

And somehow it's sad and hurtful, very heavy on the soul. The feeling has shrunk completely, curled up into a tearful lump under his heart, and it jerks and kicks so much that it takes his breath away. His legs hurt, and his skin feels like it's burning, but to the touch — it's just icy. He once again portrayed himself as a complete idiot, lost his towel along the way, and stormed out into the street (in the damn end of November, mind you, in the coldest year in the last ten!) in just a shirt and cargo pants, still wet.

Then, stumbling and with a throbbing pain in his muscles, he makes his way through the thicket of trees, grazes his hand on a branch, and finally arrives at their spot. Once it was only theirs, then Alejandro brought Valeria here, and Rodolfo dared not show up here anymore — it's not right, you see, to come to a place for lovers like this.

"Love is such a fragile thing, mi ángel," his grandmother used to say when he asked about the relationship between the neighbor girl and the farmer's son, "You can break it with just one wrong step, and then you'll regret that step for the rest of your life."

He can't tell you the exact number of bullets in the chamber of their rifle, but he can easily recount everything his grandmother said to him while knitting. Or how many moles Alejandro has on his back, what his favorite words are (Hermano and Pendejo), and all the nicknames he came up with for stray dogs. And it seems that Rodolfo will remember this forever — family and Alejandro.

Then he stands on shaky legs, counts the houses and windows glowing yellow, watches the dark clouds, listens, breathes — and becomes a new instrument in the orchestra of Las Almas. Settling on the ground, he realizes how frozen he is (he can't bend his stiff fingers, and in the darkness, he can't see their color), tucks in his legs, and hugs himself. The collar is wet, the hair is half-dry already. He thinks:

"I'll die a cold death" — and smiles.

He breathes with a whistle. Watches and listens. The distant lights are burning, and now the city blocks everything — the fields, the mountains, and the trees. The scratch on his forearm stings. Las Almas now only lives in the mountains, and it's foolish for strangers to come here — he doesn't like those who don't belong to the Valley wandering around. Those who haven't worn various feathers and haven't thrown themselves into the water from a running start. Those who don't pet courtyard dogs and cats, who don't know what it's like to laugh, tearing their voices, at some foolishness.

He sits on the cold ground for God knows how long — in the valley, time gets lost — for what feels like more than a week, but in reality, clearly no more than two hours. It seems he frostbitten both of his kidneys. The lights are now half as many, and the moon, on the contrary, is bigger.

He breathes on his frozen fingers, and his eyes are almost closing — it's some kind of abnormal fatigue that comes only when you're really feeling crappy. The lashes stick together, and he looks up at the full moon. When he hears hurried steps and rocks clattering, he knows exactly who it is. Grandma would say it's thanks to Las Almas, and Rodolfo won't argue.

"I searched for you," Alejandro fumbles behind him and drapes his leather jacket over his shoulders — it's still warm and smells of Vargas's finest cologne.

Rodolfo doesn't resist; he hunches over and presses his trembling hands to his chest. Alejandro sits down next to him, almost touching thighs. And now, in the Las Almas orchestra, a new, quiet sound emerges — foreign heavy breathing, synchronized with the wind and the trees. He looks at him for a moment, then moves closer and reaches out.

"Give me your hands," Alejandro covers Rodolfo's palms with his own, looks into his eyes. "I'll warm them up."

Alejandro is warm, and the November wind means nothing to him, so he can afford to sit without an upper garment, even on the cold ground. Now, they switch roles: Alejandro gazes at the beauty of the night, and Rodolfo gazes at Alejandro. His eyes crawl over the perfect profile, then over the back, and a question arises — did Alejandro get more moles, or are there still seven?

"They'll send another group to us," he says without reason, turning to him. "Just so you know."

And for some reason, it feels awkward. Rodolfo lowers his gaze, and Alejandro breathes on his hands in the cupped palms, moving even closer — shoulder to shoulder. The wind tousles his hair, sweeps across the freshly cut nape, and continues singing its way down to the river. Vargas smiles, but just a little — even though his eyes are now squinted.

"And there's a new base being built," he continues, "they'll leave soon, and we'll stay."

And again, their gaze returns to the landscape. The artist who painted all these pictures must have been one of the Valley's children, perhaps one of the very first. Because it's not clear: how did he manage to make the painting, where black prevails, so colorful to the eye?

"They'll appoint me as the leader there," he sighs, and Rodolfo drops his shoulders, "and you will be my deputy."

All his words sound like dreams. Like something that cannot be in reality — like a world in the whole world. But for some reason, he wants to believe, and the desire is so irrational that it goes beyond reason and becomes a new, entirely different feeling. It's the silliest thing in the world (even sillier than Alejandro, he has to admit).

Rodolfo wants to witness the sunrise here, regardless of not getting enough sleep and facing the likelihood of a scolding from the General. Alejandro also shows no hurry to leave, and it seems he wants the same. A sunrise witnessed with Alejandro is something else, and it's impossible to replicate it with anyone else. Every time feels like the first time: back then, wet, drunk, and smiling like complete idiots, they were the happiest people on Earth, bathed in the first, reddish morning rays.

"Hey, Rudy," something melts in his chest. Alejandro only looks at him, still holding his hands, and Rodolfo, as if he short-circuited, inhales abruptly, almost sobbing. The powerful smear of the childhood nickname spreads over him, and he feels like a washed-out stroke of waterlogged watercolor on the canvas of Las Almas, small and inconspicuous but so significant.

And Alejandro kisses him, so slowly and softly that Rodolfo has to grip his elbows to stay put. His frozen fingers tremble and are almost numb, and his left foot awkwardly shuffles on the ground, seeking stability. The natural orchestra falls silent — a fermata over the pause: it's unknown how long Las Almas will choose to maintain the silence.

Only the brisk rhythm of their hearts is audible, and how heavily they inhale the icy air into their lungs, filled with words like water. This year is exceptionally cold, perhaps due to all the events. Or maybe because of the changes. When both lean back, Alejandro's eyes are ablaze and shining, like little lanterns. Rodolfo himself is burning from the inside and just watches and listens, as he always did.

Then they giggle like small children and kiss again. This time properly.

✦✧✦

The sun breaks through the white curtains, dazzling and scorching the retinas. Rodolfo wearily opens his eyes, exhaling. He sits on stiff, barracks-style sheets, shoulders hunched, like Atlas tired of bearing the weight of the world, and fingers the silver tokens on his chest. They glitter in the morning rays and jingle as they collide.

No one in the room. The fan hums rhythmically, outside the wind roams, peering into the open casement, and on the base, on a weekend, it's so quiet that you can hear someone flipping a switch at the other end of the barracks. And in Rodolfo's mind too—profound silence.

It's the absence of signals in the radio waves, it's white noise and ringing. It's inhaling fresh air after a week of gunpowder and blood, or the scent of freshly laundered sheets mixed with the smell of Ariel detergent. It's someone else's breath on the neck at five in the morning, it's the inability to breathe because of someone else's leg thrown over his thigh. It's chaotic tossing in sleep and drunken whispers in the ear, in the chest, in the neck. It's everything and all at once, thrown into one pot over medium heat.

Rodolfo traces the token with his thumb, feeling the unevenness and raised inscriptions. He circles the letter R three times, skips two letters, scratches the O and L with his nail, and smiles, letting the token dangle freely on the thread around his neck. Someone on the bed above has foolishly scratched a love confession to his girlfriend and crossed it out, making Rodolfo smirk every time he sees it.

The doorknob clicks, and fire walks into the room. Rudy should be scared, but instead, he suppresses a forced smile and blinks for a long time, as if waking up from a long sleep. Alejandro smiles with all thirty-two teeth, entering the room and closing the door with his foot. Bright sunlight reaches for him, and his tousled hair is lazily slicked back, shining after the morning shower.

"Here, take it," he hands him a white mug, settling on the bed next to Rodolfo with a quiet creak. He chuckles, with a smile on his lips, and cradles the white ceramic with both hands, warming his palms.

The coffee in the mug is dark, rippling with every movement, and the mattress sags under Alejandro when he lies across the bed, leaning his head against the wall. He sighs deeply; his chest, clad in a black t-shirt, rises and falls, and Rudy places an open palm on it, feeling the beating heart and counting the beats in his mind. None of them objects to their foolish actions.

And Rodolfo, in a silly irony, never once said "Love" or "Like". Only small, fleeting nods and smiles, to which Alejandro responded in the same way — quick and brief. And then they pressed their foreheads together, breathed into each other's necks, and mumbled silly and unrelated remarks, intoxicated by each other's bodies.

There was no lust or debauchery there, just quick kisses and the touch of lips to each other's earlobes. Only laughter and casual shoulder brushes. There was something insanely strange about waking up together on a weekend, with tousled hair and the absolute certainty that no one would see them together. Something alluring about scratching the other's side, slipping a hand under the shirt while the other slept, arms spread out like a big star.

And somehow, it all felt so right—whispering into the other man's neck, feeling his hands on your body, and having a possessive desire for him to be everywhere.

Alejandro takes Rodolfo's hand in his, kissing the tips of his fingers, then leans back to grab his shoulder and lowers himself onto the bed, spilling black coffee on his army pants. Rodolfo lets out a soft exhale and breaks into a smile, tilting his head back.

"You're brave, Alejandro," he smiles, squinting, and his eyes sparkle with happiness, "braver than anyone I've ever known. And I'll follow you to the end."

Alejandro laughs heartily, and the sun today is so bright.