Work Text:
New Mexico, 42 degree Celsius. The sun is a giant angry ball of fire that takes up the whole empty blue sky, and May hasn’t even ended yet.
The cicadas had found the perfect spots in the bushes to hide from the scorching sun, so they started singing away. Their uncoordinated chirps punching the eardrums makes it an impossible symphony of the season. In the nearby branches, not a single breeze blows through to mellow the incessant sound. Dried up grass crisps under Lalo’s boots with every step. He stands smack dab in the middle of it all, persevering with the last bit of his sanity.
Having lived in a tropical climate most of his life, Lalo was initially confident that the heat during the summer months in Chihuahua was undefeated. As he grew up, the freedom of adulthood and wealth, mostly the responsibility of his job, changed this long-held belief of his when he began to travel and got a few equatorial countries under his belt. The last thing he expected was this reassessment would only stay with him until recently, when the entirety of Albuquerque is put under a massive hot spell. Everything around him— the people, the buildings, the house he resides in—seems to be melting away. Walls made of concrete appear as wobbly as the tiny shaky breaths of the earth, and the sun weighs a ton, both on Lalo’s back and the leaves of his swiss chard.
He has been scurrying around in the backyard for quite some time, tending to the garden that he wasn’t aware of just when it became a thing of importance to him. Unlike many of his ideas, the one involving tilling soil and looking out for unfriendly insects occurred not during one of his sleepless nights, but rather while he was indulging in the comfort of cooking. Watching his creations simmer to perfection and enjoying the soothing aroma of familiar herbs and spices, Lalo let it linger in his mind, convincing him just how convenient it would be to simply go out back every time he needed squash and celery for a dish.
He isn't the keenest on going to the store, and stuffing his pockets with an excessive amount of change is simply ungraceful. It could be that old age has caught up with him, otherwise he wouldn’t know how to explain this compassionate understanding towards abuelita’s fuss about having to back her car out of the garage every quick grocery trip. God knows that he’d missed his Monte Carlos a great deal before he went to retrieve her, and as much as he loves his ride, the ease of access interested him greatly.
Thus it proceeded to grow into a hobby, then gradually turned into a passion. There was failure, then there was progress. Mistakes were made, seeds were left unsprouted, caterpillars were mashed, but he kept at it because he could, because he felt like it. Lalo didn’t stop trying until he witnessed the full transition from bud to flower to fruit. His effort paid off when various colors of beautifully tended zucchinis, bell peppers, and chilies started to appear in his garden. It’s been a couple of years, but after every harvest, the indescribable satisfaction that can only be brought forth by the act of cultivating and caring still makes him want to puff out his chest, filling his lungs to the brim with pride. Cecilio once told him that it’s a man’s job to care. Despite the sincerity in his statement, Lalo laughed, patting him on the back and complimenting his humor. Nowadays, he just wishes he could tell his old gardener how much he’d learned since they last talked.
Caring, he has also realized, was also a need. A need that was planted before he could acknowledge it as what it plainly is instead of the defect he was scolded into believing, and only put in the right condition to flourish when he and Howard started to live under the same roof. Its roots haven’t stopped deepening ever since that day, and it seems to have a life force of its own—something that persists in making its presence known after he agreed to go along with Howard’s proposal to purchase a permanent residence, a place that they both could call “home”. It’s already a strange thing for Lalo to experience alone, but with the other man’s awareness of its existence—either in the form of silence when he observes him busying himself with housework or that of weak but wanton verbalization when Lalo has him begging for his touch in the bedroom— it’s only become all the more bizarre. Though it took some time, and with the aid of his lover’s cherishing, he eventually came round to the notion that it’s in no way an unwelcome feeling to have.
With his hands on his hips, Lalo takes one last careful look around the areas where he’d set up shade cloths. This type of heat wave could put anyone through immense anxiety. Most of what he’s growing can handle it well but it wasn’t him to leave things to chance. There are plants more susceptible to dehydration and wilting in this unforgiving sun than the others, like the beautiful lilies he carefully hand-picks and arranges to put on their kitchen counter with Howard’s smile on his mind, his rosy cheeks and crinkly eyes all vivid.
Well, this is just him now. During moments like this, he still isn’t able to resist sighing at the way his sense of priority has changed over the years, though it is the kind of change he feels grateful that he’d let permeate into his life. Would he have gained this gratitude and appreciation if he hadn't been caught up in the mess that left him a raised scar on his neck? If he hadn’t met someone who comes from the far side of his world? He wasn’t sure.
The instant his tired hands get freed from the confinement of the gardening gloves, he stops being able to ignore the sensory hazard that is his tank top sticking to his skin. The stretch of their backyard is an oversaturated green and irritating in his field of vision, which is limited due to his squinting. He glances at the tomatoes—some green, most in their pink stage—then wipes the sweat off his brows before promptly deciding to head back inside.
On his way to the kitchen, the sight of one familiar Jaguar outside the living room's window catches Lalo’s attention. He stills for a moment, sensing and listening, then continues to pour himself a glass of ice cold water as the faint sound of the shower running emerges in his ears. He hydrates quickly, tickled pink on the inside by the presence of another whom he holds dear, then walks towards the master bedroom.
There is no light turned on in the bathroom at the current moment. It’s odd, but the warm sunlight of the early afternoon beaming through the small window above the bathtub is enough to illuminate the room. Howard didn’t bother to flick on the fluorescent fixture since it would ruin the atmosphere. He likes this much better: the sunlight bounces off the surface of the porcelain tub and the beige tile walls, making that one particular spot in the room glow. It isn’t too bright, but not too dim either. To him, that glow has the perfect hue for a lamp. There’s only a handful of things that naturally soothes him, and a thin moment of peace with this specific light is one of them.
Water flowing down his face adds to the relaxation. Vapor has condensed on the glass panels of the shower enclosure, blurring his nude silhouette on the outside. Since the moment the sun started to beat down at 8 in the morning, daytime has felt like it was extended for another 12 hours. This is what he needs: the therapeutic scent of his fruity body wash, self-pampering in his own solitude, washing away all the scripted exchanges, the awkward handshakes, and the fake smiles.
Not to overthink isn’t a feat, but more of an attitude that requires consistent practice. He’s been trying to let go of things, all that doesn’t benefit the well-being of his mind. The silky lather of soap combined with the gentle caress of water raining down on him helps as much as it can.
The scent of citrus, as pleasant as he finds it, doesn’t do as well with his significant other as he had anticipated. On the first night Howard tested this new product, Lalo could already point out what wasn’t supposed to be there. He buried his nose into Howard’s neck and contemplated for a while. Silly as it was, he has always loved that serious look on Lalo’s face when he concentrates on trivial matters —how cared about he feels when it happens. The final verdict was that it’s up to him, but Lalo still preferred that “fresh and no nonsense” smell Howard had always carried before.
Their paths crossed in the most natural order of things, but Lalo has struck him as an audacious, ever-changing man ever since. Easy-going and bold—all reflected through his wardrobe and mannerisms. Howard’s intuition signaled to him to look out for things that lurked underneath, but he cared too little to waste his life making the same mistakes and running away from what he wanted again, as nauseatingly correct his gut feelings turned out to be. He thinks about the lacuna within himself that was his own rigidity, and whether Lalo's adaptability, the nonconformity he possesses—the last piece that's been missing—was what it was drawn to. This need to reinvent himself, his personal taste, everything that he has constructed down to a T, was fostered by a fear that took him a while to specify to his therapist, one that’s more deep-seated than the spontaneous urge of simply wanting to switch things up once in a while.
Howard doesn’t plan to be neglected and left behind, at least not this time around. In the face of his own scrutiny, he’s revisited by that inner voice telling him he doesn’t have what it takes. Laughable is its contradiction towards itself by making him feel so stupid. He would be better off without it, and this too takes practice to let go.
Lalo revealed the truth about the “lie detector stare”, as he dubbed it, that he uses on his personnels. It was something he adopted from his uncle to ensure that nothing gets past him. He’d been subjected to such stare before, though without his knowing at first and with none of the distrust behind it. Something more tender, yet more fierce, and most unbreakable runs deep in those eyes. Howard had wanted to ask if he could actually read his mind, if he knew just what to say before he sabotaged his own self-esteem.
It could be that the words were written all over Howard’s face, and he wasn't as good at remaining unbothered as he thought. The subtle attentiveness, the sweetness—they still got him swooning. Throbbing pain sparks in his heart at the thought of being unconditionally loved for who he truly is. If the refreshing minty ocean scent that he’s been loyal to for almost a decade brings Lalo closer to him when they're apart; if the sense of safety infused in one of his shirts that Lalo asks to bring with him out of the country keeps the man grounded in his turbulent world then maybe he will use it a bit longer. The Proust effect is such a potent thing on the human brain. How something that had brought Howard himself to the brink of tears before could be so rewarding at the same time, he’ll never know.
No. No, Howard is still too indifferent for that. He picks up the bottle, scanning the ingredients and reaffirming to himself that he’s still icy. Cold. He still wants to be selfish within his own rights. He isn’t a wasteful person anymore. Lalo can accept him and handle all of him, including his occasional impromtu decisions, and that’s what he’ll do.
Self-satisfaction tugs at the corner of his mouth. The air in the enclosure is now colored by the sweet fragrance of orange and vanilla, warming up his face under the running cold water. His eyelids droop as velvety foam slowly melts off of his hair. Suddenly, the bathroom door opens with a gentle click. He halts and calls out:
— Lalo ?
With his eyes shut, Howard tries to seek him out in the dark. The man answers:
— Hey.
He closes the door behind him. The light remains off in his presence.
— You're home early.
— Yeah. Had to ask the others to take over for me.
He hears the faucet being turned on. Lalo wets his hands thoroughly then grabs the bar of soap and works it into his palms, getting into every crevice, and up his forearms—A habitual motion.
— Did something happen?
— Not really… The weather just got me a little worried.
— About?
— About? The plants, of course. They needed shades. Just yesterday they’re fine, but they've started to wilt on me. Some trimming had to be done, too. Es de locos…
Howard smiles, the slight sense of alertness in him dissipates with Lalo’s exasperated sigh. Hearing about the garden—both of its progresses and setbacks—has become the norm for him these days. Watching that section of greenery in their backyard grow alongside Lalo’s investment in it has brought him an unexplainable sense of homeliness. His partner’s enthusiasm is a charming thing. Howard has helped him with it several times before, but his understanding and knowledge on gardening won’t be as extensive as Lalo’s, considering how many handbooks on it the man has been able to collect.
Like the way his root vegetables are embedded in the soil, it’s reassuring to know that Lalo’s place beside him is fixed, and that he won't go anywhere else anytime soon.
— Forecast did say it was gonna be a hundred something today.
Examining his own face in the mirror, Lalo touches the redness on his cheek and hisses:
— Carajo… this is fucking evil, man.
— Tell me ‘bout it. I was sitting and still burning up. You’d think it’d start to get better.
Lalo splashes water onto his overheated face a few times, relieving the sunburn with its coolness. He eyes the laundry basket outside of the shower. In it, the navy wool with white pinstripes that he’s seen on the regular piles up on top of itself with a sleeve hanging off the rim. It turns out that even the highest quality of fabric can only be so breathable.
— You might as well have worn a straitjacket, honey. I don't know what you expected.
Howard, feeling the jab to his pride, only huffs good-humouredly:
— What’s that supposed to mean?
— Nothing. That suit just doesn’t seem very… ideal to me.
— Rude. Show some respect for the standard attire, please.
— I do. I’m just saying, you gotta lie in the bed you've made.
— Oh yeah? That’s rich coming from the guy complaining about jeans sticking to his legs in the summer.
— Hey, no shit-talking about my jeans.
Lalo points an accusatory finger without turning away from his reflection, and Howard just laughs.
Taking a step back away from the mirror, he puts his hands on where said jeans are snug around his hips. His eyes do a look-over of his own body, his chin juts out:
— And you know I look good in them.
— Never said you didn’t.
— Fine. You’ve got me there.
He concedes, chuckling more at himself than Howard’s counters:
— And why aren’t you in one of your round table meetings right now?
Soap accidentally slips into Howard’s eyes. The stinging takes him a while before he answers:
— I got bored.
— Really?
— No, not really. The AC in my office went awry for some reason. Maintenance is looking into it. They told me it’d take a couple of hours.
Surprised that a minor inconvenience can pose problems for a person of discipline like Howard, Lalo asks matter-of-factly:
— So you also decided to ditch work? Great minds.
— Actually I plan to go back there later. Didn’t want to sweat through evidence and documents is all. Unlike you, I’m much better at doing my job.
Howard corrects and tries to accuse him. The attempt humors Lalo:
— If we’re already here before 5 and our only excuse is it’s hot out, then we’re both shitty bosses, don’t you think?
A momentary pause.
— I’ll be damned. Maybe we’re really not cut out for this, Lalo.
— Ain’t that the truth.
They laugh at their own stupidity. With his guard down and being fully relaxed, Lalo feels that there’s virtually nothing he couldn’t talk about with Howard when they're like this— when they barricade themselves from the rest of the world. As the comfortable silence settles between them, he listens to water hitting the floor softly like drizzles at the end of July. They recline on the effortlessness of their mundane conversations, their authenticity. The sunlight shining through the window eternalizes this moment in Lalo’s mind.
The distant past is materializing before him. He was more rambunctious, less burdened. It’s where he only stood at his mother’s armpit, leaning on her shoulder while she listened to him running his mouth about what he saw on his bike ride. Where he observed her mending his clothes, how she prepared their meals.
He wasn’t meant for this. A safe landing or a private haven where he could unwind merely existed as an abstraction; An idea that was as well-built as a toothpick construction was formed through the tellings of people of his surroundings, be it the ones he worked with or worked for, or the people who put their trust in him before he found out he couldn't do the same for them. He had a duty, and that was to roam, to never get attached. Disposables were those without Salamanca in their veins. The universe and all of its fucked ups swirling and floating endlessly—He’s one in the infinite number of particles, all living in harmony under its imperious gaze. To either be flung into dark cold space or to collide with another and be met with his own demise, that had been the rodeo.
He accepted it. Again and again. How long could he possibly keep this up? And when he could no longer do so, what or who would be his safety net? These questions evolved into the ambience of his mind, reminding him of what he would truly have in the end, or rather the lack thereof.
Howard’s humming to a jazz tune brings him back. The melody is familiar enough for him to recognize that it’s one of his lover’s favorites, but its name is still a blur. His lower back aches from the vanity top digging into it. He realizes that he’s been standing here, letting his mind and eyes wander. Through the fogged up glass panel, he can still make out the smooth trail of milky soap tracing the grooves of Howard’s muscles, the dip of his lower back, slithering lower and lower. By his statuesque build and the tantalizing contrast between the light bronze and where the UV from tanning lamps couldn’t reach, Lalo is convinced he won’t ever mistake that form for anybody else.
Before his eyesight deteriorates any further, he wants to keep admiring. He admires the way water droplets hanging onto Howard’s limbs reflect the sunlight from outside, watching them sparkle so bright in his shadow.
Maybe, just maybe, he has received the answers he so desperately needed. Too many a night had been spent driving around aimlessly, letting that echo inside the hollow chamber of his chest take the wheel, but that final stop needn’t be illusive anymore. Fact is he’s still here, with life still being pumped throughout him despite having come within a hair’s breadth of death: a sign telling him that there’s meaning to this after all, that he deserves to know all about it.
— I could go for a shower.
He looks down at his feet, running a hand through greasy hair, slicking back the few thin strands that broke free from the bond of gel.
Howard turns his head as if surprised that Lalo is still here, voice touched with cheekiness:
— Well, I thought you'd never ask. Come on in, the water’s fine.
— Who said anything about asking?
— What, you're getting cold feet on me?
— Oh I’d never. Just didn’t know you’d think of me as someone so easy.
He purses his lips and sneers at the man:
— Well, aren’t you?
— Am I?
— You’re funny.
— Grazie.
— Not a compliment. Now stop being a comedian and get in here. I’ll die of loneliness if you don’t.
For once, Howard is surprised with how pleased with himself he sounds. This cockiness that's come out of the blue feels strangely reminiscent of the rose-colored glasses the lovesick 22 year-old Howard saw life through. He would be out of his mind if he really thought it’s being driven by the young, dumb love he ran out of luck for far too long ago. He revels in it regardless. The need to have Lalo closer creeps into his teasing, doing a balancing act between his sacrosanct dignity and total succumbence to temptation. He hopes it isn't too obvious.
— You get on my nerves sometimes, you know that?
He makes it sound like it's a bad thing.
— Sorry sweetheart, but I only know what you want, and need—and everything in between.
— What else do you know then?
— That you might be a hopeless romantic? And in love with me?
— That’s one big claim, Mister Hamlin. Care to back it up?
The sudden formality sends a shiver down Howard’s spine. He reaches out to change the shower pattern to mist:
— I’d say it’s all in the way you've been staring.
— Is that right?
— No doubt about it. You and your roving eyes—I don’t think you’ve ever been so quiet… and so still.
Lalo folds his arms, scratching the left side of his mustache as he concurs:
— You’ve made a compelling argument, abogado.
— I know.
— But in my defense, I’m just a man with a soft spot for pretty things.
— Ah… and he sounds like he’s missed me too.
That gets a chortle out of him. Howard feels heat tingling on his cheeks.
— Yeah well—it’s possible. I can’t deny that I did think about you… at some point.
— Only at some point? You sure?
— Of course! And that's generous…I also have my own operation to run, hermano. You understand.
In Lalo’s roguish remarks, there’s always an edge of challenge. This is the kind of game he'd play, Howard knows, when he's completely secure within himself, within Howard. His flirtatious quips dose him with a sliver of conceit but never the right amount to satisfy his ego. Instead, they serve as an invitation, hinting that there's always more to be desired, and all Howard has to do is follow the trail. If there were one thing he'd learnt from being with Lalo, it'd be that everything that could be said would eventually be said. Rule of thumb is to take the conveyed longing, multiply it by ten, then you will be able to unveil the full emotion behind.
It amuses him—seduces him, too.
— Like I said, I’ll be out of here in a few hours. So if you wanna keep wasting your own time—
— Got it, got it.
The reminder goes off like a starting pistol in Lalo’s ears. Suddenly, the clothes on his back become obstacles, and he can’t shed them fast enough.
Lalo’s sweat-glistened chest came into view first when Howard turned. It’s the first time both of them have truly laid eyes on each other since they got home. That smile that could revive the cold, dead heart of an avaricious businessman, that nose that Howard adores so much, it’s all immense gratification at the end of each day—after another 12 hours of trying to get his father’s legacy back to where it once was. In the grand scheme of things, Lalo will always mean more than that, and he would write it down with his own blood. Lalo is much more than hearty meals waiting on the dinner table and a gorgeous face and a body that could turn Howard ravenous, but damned if it didn’t make him more appreciative towards what landed in his lap by fate.
He moves backwards to the wall to make room for him, watching the man in all of his naked glory—easy and unencumbered by everything. He lets his arms hang. He strides at leisure. The Garden of Eden seems like any place on this planet he makes it. Howard feels a tremor running up his legs as he takes in the dark curls scattered across Lalo’s chest, down the line of his abdomen, partly hidden under the protrude of his soft lower belly and above his manhood. The sweltering heat emerges again, and water on his back starts to evaporate.
Lalo’s gaze, which could either instigate a fist fight or a battle of tongues and teeth, only leaves Howard’s face when he steps inside the perimeter of the shower head. He welcomes the gentle rainfall, closes his eyes and works the water into the thickness of his hair with rough hands. His arms merely become bigger and stronger in this state, muscles firm and flexing under caramel skin, making him all the more irresistible. Howard swallows dryly. He could just grab him, hang onto them for dear life, for he’s truly afraid that he’s about to fall, hard and willingly.
— Shampoo?
He asks, already pressing twice down on the pump of Lalo’s shampoo bottle in the corner rack.
After thoroughly getting his hair soaked, Lalo simply lets his hands fall to Howard’s sides and be replaced by the other’s. The syrupy liquid gets distributed evenly onto every side of his head, then lathered in such slow and lingering motions until it’s frothed up. A lot of understanding about a person can be drawn from how their hands appear. Among the realizations he’d obtained from mentally dissecting people, this one sticks to him in the most peculiar way. Sometimes, something deep inside, a particular aching, plagues his very being when their uniqueness—the hallmarks of their humanity—becomes magnified through the lens of his nostalgia. He could see tiny pale scars across his uncle’s knobby knuckles fading with time, feel the thickened skin of his palm with each jesting but assertive tap on his cheek. He could remember the deep creases and age spots of Yolanda’s hands, how she didn't need any force when she held his hands to show that she cared. The vigorous, brotherly grip Tuco had on his shoulder clashes with the desirous one his college ex had on his jaw when they kissed: small, delicate and pointy with manicures.
And the overcautious handle that Ciro’s frail, inept fingers had around the too big weapon he was assigned remains fresh in Lalo’s mind.
Then there’s Howard’s hands being a world of difference away from his. They’re certainly softer with sunscreen and residual skincare. They smell of various medicinal floral fragrances instead of gun powder and grease. Long and rather thin fingers of one insistently clasp over the back of the other, as if they themselves and the body they’re attached to could fall apart at any moment. In place of prominent calluses on the knuckles and where fingers connect to the palm, there’d be bumpy layers of skin at the very tips, like pieces have been ripped away repeatedly. They would be more clumsy with mechanical tools, and would look even more bizarre around one of Lalo’s firearms.
Were there to be concaves taking after the shape of Lalo’s lips anywhere on those hands, it would have been awaited. It is an outrage that yearning wants to rip out his chest and yet his adoration for them, his tried-and-true affection for the man, can’t even be imprinted. And it would burn through him if this vehemence weren’t made bearable by Howard’s reciprocation, by him also showing Lalo how it really feels: grasping his collar, seizing his wrists, holding him so close that they could absorb each other— Something utterly startling from a person who’s wrapped up in the cocoon of haughtiness and reserve on the outside.
He stunned with the vice-like grips in Lalo’s hair, electrified with neatly kept nails dragging trails of fire down Lalo’s back, and truly subjugated him when he stood over Lalo’s body on their bed, the only things he had on were Lalo’s button-down, a pair of briefs, and a daring expression; behind that sharp, stone cold exterior has always been tempting plumpness that’s colorful and overflowing with passion. Their shared cig hung low between thin lips that perpetually turned up into a smirk, and those slender, yet-to-be-trained hands swung Lalo’s 9 millimeter around carelessly like he hadn’t known any better.
“Now we’re one and the same” was what he said, tongue in cheek. Had that not made Lalo’s heart skip a beat, it would still have been all fun and games.
Now they’re massaging into his scalp, relieving the tension deep inside. It’s become ever so clearer with each day passing that his love has reached beyond their appearance and will keep pooling at the feet of what they could do—what Howard would allow himself to be. The perfect balance between sickly tenderness and force he keeps even during the artless act of washing Lalo’s hair for him probably also says something along that line. That’s why not an ounce of abashment is felt when Howard pushes down on a pressure point on his crown and he surrenders a low groan in his throat.
— That feel good?
Howard asks in a dulcet tone. His smile reaches his eyes while Lalo’s stay closed in blissful serenity. The other man only hums in response. With a face like that, he’s simply asking to be provoked.
— You sure look easy now.
Lalo grumbles back:
— Shut up.
Before he can register it, the pair of strong hands pull him forwards. It’s more of a playful yank, one that almost sent him slipping with a yelp. Lalo gets a hard slap to the shoulder for it, and they giggle until their foolishness subdues Howard’s thoughts about the brief contact of their bare thighs.
Once the shampoo gets washed out entirely, Lalo’s hair is flattened and slicked back by the wetness. Coal black enhanced by healthy shine. Any grayness is hardly noticeable. It makes his eyes and mustache stand out even more. Although this Gomez Addams effect has been stylishly replicated with gel before, Howard is still unsure if it captivates him. When it’s slightly overgrown and given free range to move, it’s the easiest to tousle, to mindlessly run his fingers through, to kiss. Especially on mornings he’s awoken by Howard getting ready for work, hair disheveled, grunting discontentedly and pulling at his sleeve and doing everything alike to hold him back.
— Does that hurt?
The redness on Lalo’s face distracts him. He smooths over his cheek and forehead with his thumb. The man just purses his lips and shrugs:
— A little. Not as much as before.
Howard sighs disapprovingly. It’s gotten old:
— You’re not tough for walking around without spf. Just use mine. It’s the green tube in the cabinet.
— I’m fine, Howard. It’s not that big of a deal.
— No, your peppers and your mint leaves get to have sun protection but you don’t? You need to take care of yourself.
— Why? So you can be the only one with a nice tan?
He rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue:
— That’s not how it works, and you know what I mean.
Nagging Lalo over the littlest things this very grown man is perfectly capable of comprehending isn’t worth it, Howard has come to realize. Most of the time, it’s general forgetfulness that gets the better of him. Whereas on occasion, the heavy discouragement in Lalo’s voice when he asks “what’s the point?” bears down so hard on his psyche that Howard has to accept being weighed down alongside him. Which is why every time Lalo has that funny sunscreen white cast on, or remembers to make himself a mug of the herbal tea Howard’s therapist recommended him to switch to, or asks to join him on his morning run, Howard would simper away. And it wouldn’t matter how many times Lalo exasperatedly points out how idiotic it is. Still… still, he only has the energy to get this frustrated when he cares enough, and that feigned oblivion on Lalo’s face, batting his eyelashes so innocently, making him just want to—
— Agh!!!
It’s Lalo’s turn to cry out in confusion and pain as his cheeks get pinched impossibly hard. Despite the doting concern being exhibited just a moment ago, Howard is having none of that mercy:
Lalo taps his hands frantically:
— Off! Off!
From the way he tilts his chin up, Howard looks down at him, taunting him:
— Aw… pobrecito. I thought it didn't hurt anymore.
Lalo bears the hurt of his already inflamed skin being tortured and hearing Howard’s horrendous accent. He hisses:
— I told you—ugh… to shut up!
— Don’t like that word being used on you? Just so you know, the feeling is mutua—
In the blink of an eye, Howard’s lungs get knocked out of his ribcage, or that’s simply how it feels when Lalo ruthlessly rams him against the wall. He shouts from the bare, heated skin on his back getting smacked against cold marble tiles, then growls and squirms like a dog resisting punishment. His effort isn't for trying to get away but to get himself adjusted to the inescapable grips Lalo's hands currently has on his waist. They're digging so far into his flesh that the first knuckles disappear. Firmly and painfully pinned as he is, he still giggles at the cartoonish red on Lalo’s cheeks. The smugness he feels is as unwavering as the other’s annoyance, and it's unmistakable on their faces.
— You're not as cute as you think, güero.
And neither are you, he almost thinks aloud.
— Whatever, you like me.
Despite being forcefully subdued, Howard feels oddly unstoppable. He could fight back. He definitely could. He has the upper hand after all, he'd like to think, on account of him being taller and having acquired boxing knowledge and the few martial arts lessons his late father signed him up for that has rotted in the back of his mind. But this—the nature of their relationship, of his true self—his own ability to get a rise out of someone worthy being put to good use at long last; the displeasure radiating off of his lover not being a form of abuse but reward, Lalo being where exactly he wants him to—it’s a whole different type of high.
It’s all for him. Belongs to him. Thrills thrum to the very tip of his fingers at the idea, at the memories of the times rage and lust melded into magma of passion, where the aftermaths was Howard waking up on sweat damp bed sheets with numb legs stuck open and dried blood under his nails, turning to see a passed out Lalo with a gash on his lower lip and the tattooed arm draped over Howard’s torso, purpling blotches and bite marks visible on both of them.
Jesus, why does he kind of want to have a photograph of what Lalo’s arms look like right now? He wants their ferocious exertion of putting him in his place and the way they’re seasoned with little scars and moles to be captured with high definition. He would make it his keepsake, and it would have its own designated compartment in his briefcase, traveling with him wherever he goes.
But it has never been the animalistic carnality that kept Howard remain stable and confident in what they have. It’s always the calm after the storm —the awkward necessity of coming to a mutual understanding that they let play out when Howard murmured an apology as he treated the scratches he inflicted onto Lalo and the other did the same through hisses—that has diminished any possibility of Howard's falling out of love.
The intensity in their eye contact never falters. Howard chews on the inside of his mouth, casting his gaze down Lalo's hairy, broad chest and weighing his chances. He then juts his face out. A silent request, like asking a caged predator to let him pet its soft fur and keep his arm intact as a bonus. It got him as far as a brush of their juxtaposing noses, but that flash of interest taking over the irritated look on Lalo’s face motivates him. The inch and a half between their bodies, they both could agree, has been rendered redundant. So he tries again, this time landing a peck on those wonderful lips, shuddering from the brief scratch of facial hair. Kitten soft and quick swipe of his tongue makes Lalo an offer he can’t refuse. Everything to keep the pulse of romance going is ultimately stripped down to challenge, and he wouldn’t hesitate to spend the rest of his days trying to get to Lalo, to genuinely see him—something that he feels the other is still set on believing in its absence.
Perhaps for the first time in his life, he has followed the no regrets policy solely for how much it meant to him and nothing else.
— What are you trying to do, hm?
Lalo asks low in his throat. The way his lips move is too mesmerizing for him to sound this unimpressed, Howard thinks:
— I'm trying to fix that face of yours.
— Is it working?
He smirks, then gives him a real, proper, less chaste kiss, watching Lalo’s eyes slip close briefly, feeling his soft lips parting in his persuasion.
— You tell me.
Mentally declaring victory as lingering pecks transition into something more open-mouthed, Howard gives into his own desire. It’s such an elated feeling to know that he’s the only one who Lalo gives way to this easily. He could pretend to get mad or annoyed to preserve the stubborn masculine control of “I have no weaknesses” that's as transparent as saran wrap around expensive store-bought fruits, but reality has proven time and time again that Howard has become his soft spot in the most forceful yet inexplicably pacific way possible. Not only do actions speak louder than words but they’re also more effective, and this does more to inflate Howard’s ego than superficial flattery from business partners or Lalo’s own ridiculous flirting. It has come to a point where he would naively turn a blind eye to any faces the other would make and any actions he would take when he’s out of Howard’s reach, and regards this as the sole version of his lover— a man who is weakened effortlessly when confronted with utmost adoration.
Howard pulls on his plump bottom lip with his teeth. A whine escapes, and there’s an equal amount of desire for him in it. It feels like his soul is being set on fire, and he wants more. He will always want more.
— So ready, aren't you?
Lalo says in between second-long breaks. That devilish chuckle is back.
— Mhm… any time, for you.
— I hope you don’t make it up to just anyone like this.
— Nah. You're the only one who’d fall for it.
— Smartass.
With his mouth still needily attached to Lalo’s, he squashes any chance of them getting a proper laugh out. He starts kissing him like he needs it to survive, like the world is about to collapse onto them. They are not getting any younger. If given the opportunity, he would take back all the time that was misspent on forbidding himself from getting the love he deserves and giving it back, all of his youth and vigor that was wasted on slaving away for things that didn’t enrich him. It’s only after his joints started to creak and pop more often and he couldn’t stand up straight after crouching down as fast as he used to that he received his long-overdue wake up call. He could either regret and dwell on the past forever or make every second count from now on. Lalo’s large and searing hands roam up his back, squeezing firm muscles and encouraging him. He arches into that sturdiness, making his decision.
Lalo consumes. He devours. The man makes it a certainty that he will also take everything that he can. His grips are possessive. His arms cage around him. The quake in his body that hasn't let up one bit isn't generated by fear but by suffocating, dizzying, insatiable lust. He can never bring himself to explain why, but it turns him on so much he might go insane. Way before the new life and outlook he’s adopted, the idea of winning was formulaic. Either you fight and you triumph or you lose and perish, or you simply have not once experienced real and raw gut-wrenching defeat, so you’d better hold onto that like your life depends on it. No matter how much he had preached the opposite, Howard was just one among the many who got caught up in it. It had never occurred to him that relinquishment was a reward he could allow himself to have. Chances are the years have worn him out, and clinging to control has become the bane of his existence. At the same time, everything about Lalo— his arrogance, his foolishness, the complicated sentimentality that seems incongruous with the former two—just makes him crave the man’s giving him a taste of it over and over again until he doesn’t want to ever go back.
In the midst of his hot-blooded desire to submit, he still finds himself rejuvenated and inspirited by being the one to draw those shaky breaths out of Lalo. The urgency in their inhales keeps accelerating as Howard firmly tugs on the hair near his nape, where he knows Lalo likes it most, just to watch the man lose himself and make him give up more shameless approving groans, ones he’ll never grow tired of hearing.
He licks into his mouth, tongue mapping out the ridges of his canines and molars, and Lalo’s powerful but now trembling hands smooth down where he’s positively reintroduced indents and bruises. They’re studying those narrow hips all over again, from the love handles they support to the way they're sculpted. Just by skin on skin contact, he can recall all of their vigor and fluidity and the normally hidden intensity they exude when they're atop of him—They’re nothing short of perfect right in his grasp.
A strong leg comes up to wrap around the back of Lalo’s thighs and knocks him forward, finally. Finally. Finally, no more separation. They meet, slotting together like puzzle pieces. Swallowing down each and every moan that they elicit from each other, they were both hungry and greedy for it—a satisfying culmination of putting everything beside survival on hold, now this is the only thing that they need to thrive. He receives the breathless, demanding cues of “more” and “please” from Howard to move his caressing further south. Only white hot, intoxicating friction between them when they grind, from their chests to their abdomens to their arising hard-ons. Lalo's hands, made of a too heavy-duty material to be carrying out such gentle actions, hold him with all the devotion in the world. Pressing and pressing, lifting and kneading his backside, appreciating simultaneously the natural softness and the firm muscles Howard has honed.
When they part to catch their breaths, begrudgingly so, their closeness has Lalo look up into Howard's eyes, chest full of giddiness. The blond’s clumped and drooping lashes appear darker against his glimmering blue irises. His lips are kiss-swollen and pink now, ripened by both the humidity and the pressure of Lalo's own. He looks a mess—a mess by others’ standards, but a fruitful cultivation by Lalo’s—with flushed cheeks and usually flawless hair sticking to his forehead and a haze of lust clouding his face. Lalo isn’t one to be easily rattled, but the recognition that the current state of Howard is the result of his doing and for his eyes alone has wrecked all that’s left of his composure.
Howard was right. He is hopeless.
— You’re so beautiful.
Lalo blurts out, almost a low whisper. Howard feels his throat close up.
— So handsome, and tall, and… Are you really mine?
— Lalo—
There it is. The challenge that Lalo also poses for him. His unquestionable love. The insecurity buckling under it. Shouldn’t have called it a game if it were rigged in the first place. It is so unfair that he looks so serious, and his smile isn’t supposed to twitch at the corner when his voice quivers at the end like that. Howard has to feel up his arm of muscles and flesh fiery hot with life to reaffirm to himself that this is all real. As real as the sparkle in Lalo’s eyes before it’s stored away again as he hides in the crook of Howard’s neck. As tangible for Howard as the remnants of his past heartaches and vulnerability for he's the only one who could touch them. Burning lips set him alight. Scraping teeth threaten to rip him apart. He is truthfully reduced to desperation.
And it is so crazy how lovely he can be, a word he has presumed debarred from the world’s list of vocabulary used to describe his lover. There'd be a fixed sense of inhibition to him even here—stubbornness, timidity, a nonsensical defense mechanism. Lalo is here, Lalo is so close to him, with only several layers of corporeality standing in their way, and certain things start to demand to pour out of his mouth—mouth he knows well has begged Lalo to use it time and time again, entirely at his mercy, lost in the debauchery of it.
Who would Howard Hamlin be if he were to be without order and restraints and completely engulfed in chaos? In this instance, he would be himself. This weather, the Devil, they have gotten to him in one way or two, but these barriers can go to hell for all he cares.
Nobody could hold a candle to Lalo, and nothing could possibly compare to this. Not even the escapist hours at his favorite cocktail longue that he hasn't given the time of day in recent years.
It's all just too fucking good.
— Lalo…
He tries to speak, but it comes out as a pant. Lalo looks up from where he has been leaving his marks with mild concern:
— Mi vida?
— I n… I want you.
The frown on his forehead loosens at Howard’s constrained admission. A smile slowly stretches on his lips. A genuine one.
— Just take me, you… stupid man.
Lalo laughs, then kisses him on the cheek. Howard follows suit, but the humor gets lost somewhere in the transmission and it ends up sounding more like a sob. They're still covered in water, the thing that keeps humanity tethered to mother Earth, needy and territorial. He feels like they've been reborn. His wet hand is woven into Lalo’s wet hair. His eyes have become wet too. All of it will bear witness to what he’s being shown, what his heart is telling him, what Lalo won’t be able to find it in himself to deny later even if he wants to.
The night sky has never been so clear. Howard thinks to himself as he walks up the steps of their front porch. The stars use it as a backdrop to shine even brighter. The wind is blowing at last, chilling the moisture at his hairline and the back of his dress shirt. Like a circular glutinous rice cake that has been precisely portioned, the moon flaunts its sublime illumination while sharing the other half of itself with its sun. Foliage in the area sway and caress each other, lullabying the cicadas into their rest so they can start all over again tomorrow.
At exactly 21:47:41 o’clock, Howard hits “send” on his last text to Julie thanking her for staying late and assisting him before unlocking the front door. He told Lalo in advance that work had been unpredictable and not to wait for him. With a soft pillow propping his back up so he can view his lover reassembling himself better, the man seemed to be elsewhere with that tranquilized by afterglow look on his face when he should have paid attention. Blabbering about the spell Howard had casted upon him, he was so placatingly kissable that Howard had no choice but to let it slide.
Yet the minute he steps inside, he still finds himself being surprised by the aroma of freshly cooked food in the air. Something with coriander and cloves that’s still bubbling on the stove welcomes him. From the side of the threshold leading into the kitchen peeks out Lalo, greeting him chipperly with a smile as warm as what his stomach awaits:
— You're right on time! Come— Oh, wash your hands first.
No pyjamas, unexpectedly, and his hair is kept in place with gel like earlier. Howard takes note of the yellow shirt that he likes and different pair of jeans under his apron. The sound of the heels of his boots hitting the floor is swift and feverish, as if he also left after Howard’s departure in the afternoon, came back home not long ago then immediately got started on dinner without stopping for a second to take his shoes off.
Plates and utensils clank on the table as he sets it. Whistling while doing so douses the whole place in the color of happiness and squashes any crippling despondency Howard would be feeling long before Lalo is here with him, at this hour, having looked forward to his return. In Howard’s mind though, the possibility of him getting prepared just to take off is ever present. For all he knows, Lalo could grab that sage green jacket hanging by the entrance, puts it on then disappears into the night once again, leaving Howard doubting if he’d come back at the time he promised to.
Arms wrapped around him from behind. Blond hair nuzzling the side of his face. Howard breathes him in, soaking him up through all of his senses. This single moment of them coming together, it’ll be drawn out for as long as they will it, for it’s the witless banters, their unconfined laughters, their unequivocal feelings for each other that will get them both past daybreak, safe and strengthened.