Chapter Text
…I with thee have fixed my lot,
Certain to undergo like doom; if death
Consort with thee, death is to me as life;
So forcible within my heart I feel
The bond of nature draw me to my own,
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
Our state cannot be severed, we are one,
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
Nacho must have passed out at some point, because a splash of water crashed him back to consciousness. He gasped and struggled—only to find that his wrists and ankles were bound, arms over his head, legs spread, splayed like a starfish. The frigid water made his naked skin break out in goosebumps.
He shook his head and blinked the water away, trying to see. The room was dark except for a light shining in his face, and his vision was still blurry from whatever they’d injected him with. When his eyes adjusted at last, he could make out a video camera on a stand and Tyrus beside it, who held an empty bucket. He regarded Nacho with a lascivious smirk—was every man Fring hired a freak like him? No, not Mike. Did he know about this? Would he step in to help? Or had he washed his hands of Nacho? Their last meeting hadn’t ended well.
“Thank you, Tyrus,” said a voice from the darkness. “You can leave us now.”
Tyrus mimed a kiss to Nacho before disappearing. Fring emerged from the shadows. He had a towel slung over one shoulder. “That’s a St. Andrew’s cross you’re affixed to,” he said. “According to legend, St. Andrew did not feel worthy enough to be crucified in the same manner as Christ. The Romans obliged him and put him on this crux decussata. A crooked cross. I think it suits you.”
Nacho willed himself not to struggle, but animal panic took over as Fring approached him. He shushed Nacho as he dried him off, his touch obscenely gentle as he moved the towel over his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his legs and in between them. He finished by drying his face and then threw the towel aside.
Nacho tensed, waiting for a blow, but when Fring touched him again, he remained gentle—almost reverent. He brushed his fingers over the scar on Nacho’s shoulder. “The bullet is still there,” he said. “I have an old wound myself, in my leg. I can ignore most of the time, but it bothers me when it rains.” He leaned in until his lips nearly touched Nacho’s ear. “When your wounds ache, do you think of me?”
Nacho’s only answer was a dry sob.
“In a way, it’s like I’m already inside you,” Fring continued. He pressed down hard on the bullet. Nacho hissed in pain. After a moment, Fring relented and moved his hand downward until he reached the scar on his flank. “I have penetrated you. Marked you. You are mine.”
Nacho shut his eyes, but Fring grabbed his face. “Oh no—keep your eyes open. Don’t you want to see the gift I got you?” He pulled something out of his pocket—a silver choke collar, like you would use for an unruly dog. He put it over his head and around his throat, then gave the loop a small tug. “Not so different from your usual jewelry, is it?”
“Whatever you’re going to do, just do it,” Nacho said through clenched teeth.
Fring raised an eyebrow. “I thought I would have to work harder before you begged me.” He walked to the camera and pushed a button; a red light blinked on. “I will be like the Romans and allow you to choose your punishment. What do you think you deserve, St. Ignacio?”
Nacho’s head swam. The scheming part of his mind started whispering plans—he wants you, you can use that, get his dick hard and convince him to untie you… He ignored it. His head lulled. “I deserve to die.” His voice was barely audible, even to himself.
“Interesting,” Fring said after a moment. “That is not the answer I expected. And why do you deserve to die?”
Nacho just shook his head, unable to speak. Fring approached him again and pulled the collar, constricting Nacho’s airway although not blocking it. Nacho wheezed.
“Do you remember your associate Arturo?” Fring said. “How he spasmed as the life drained out of him? I think I’d like to see you gasp.” He pulled the collar tighter, choking him completely.
The noises that came out of him embarrassed him—the panicked grunts and sputters of a trapped animal. His lungs screamed with pain. At last, Fring let the collar go slack. Nacho coughed and sucked in huge gulps of air. His eyes watered, and drool dribbled down his chin.
“Do you want to play this game a little while longer, or do you want to talk to me?”
“I’ll talk,” Nacho gasped.
“Good. Now—why do you deserve to die?”
“I’ve killed. I’ve robbed.” His voice shook. “I’ve lied.”
“You’ve betrayed,” Fring added. “Yes, I think it’s that last one that’s most on your mind. When you told me that Lalo would obey your commands, I have to admit I was skeptical. I thought for certain once he recovered, you would regret not taking me up on my offer to help condition him. But I was wrong. The way he looks at you... And this?” He pulled something else out of his pocket—the ring Lalo had given him. “Solamente tú. Very romantic.” He shook his head. “He loves you. Or should I say—he loved you. But not anymore. Not now that he knows the truth.” He started to put the ring back in his pocket.
A surprising spark of anger lit in him. “Give it back.”
Fring looked surprised. “Could it be that you truly love him? Are you capable of it?”
Tears rolled down Nacho’s cheeks, and he couldn’t wipe them away.
Fring did it for him. “Very well,” he said. He slid the ring back on Nacho’s finger. “To remind you what you threw away.” He cupped Nacho’s face. “You don’t deserve to die for your crimes. No, you deserve to live, and suffer. That will be my gift to you. To give you the punishment you deserve. Maybe it will bring you some peace.”
He stepped into the darkness behind the camera and came back with a rack on wheels, containing whips, paddles, ropes, and knives. Fring moved his hand along the rack as he kept his gaze on Nacho, looking for a reaction. He stopped when he reached for a long, snakelike whip.
Fring nodded. “Yes. A good place to start.” He reached not for the whip but for a knife and returned to Nacho’s side. “I’m going to undo your restraints now and turn you around. If you don’t behave, I will cut a hole in you. It’s a painful way to die, Ignacio, and there are many things I can do to you while you wait to succumb to your wound. Now, will you be good for me?”
“Yes,” Nacho whispered.
Fring undid Nacho feet first, and then his hands. Shakily, Nacho turned around and let Fring redo the restraints. The cold edge of the knife pressed into him, right on the scar on his flank. Nacho seized up, frightened for a moment that Fring had decided to gut him anyway. But then the knife disappeared, replaced by Fring’s bare hand.
“Good boy,” he murmured. “You’re doing well.” He kissed the back of his neck. Nacho trembled.
Footsteps clicked on the floor, away from him. He flinched at the crack of the whip—not on him yet. No, Fring just wanted him to hear it.
“Let’s begin.”
When the lash finally hit him, Nacho didn’t bother to hold back his scream.
When Lalo was a child, his sister Isabella went missing. She had made some very teenage decisions and ran away rather than facing the consequences. Lalo couldn’t remember the details of her bad behavior, but he did recall the panic that swept up his entire family. No one slept, even Lalo, who had only been eight. His job had been managing his hysterical mother. His father halted all business and ordered his men to devote themselves full time to getting his baby girl home. They’d found her a week later, tearful and repentant. The relief that took the place of the panic was intoxicating in its intensity.
It didn’t stop her ass from getting beat, though.
Lalo didn’t doubt he could find Nacho—that is, if he had all of his usual resources at his disposal. But how to start a manhunt when he didn’t want anyone to know Nacho was missing? He had Marco and Leonel, and that was it. His cousins were unmatched in their tracking abilities, but many hours had been wasted while they made their way to the states.
He’d found the scraps of fake Canadian IDs in the wastepaper basket in the bathroom, for Nacho and his papá—no doubt an escape route Nacho had been working on before Lalo came into his life. He had given up on the idea, clearly, but now he’d changed his mind again. It was a myth that panicked people behaved erratically. In fact, their actions became extremely predictable.
So—Nacho’s resources were a bag of cash and a car. He’d head north and would stick to discreet motels. Unless the paranoia had really got him, and he slept in his car. Lalo was just calculating how far Nacho could have driven when his phone rang—an unfamiliar number. He answered it. “Yeah?”
“He’s at the chicken cooler,” a gruff voice said. “I’d hurry if I were you.”
It took Lalo a second to place the voice. “Michael? Fring’s Michael? Is that you?”
Lalo half expected him to hang up, but he didn’t. “You’re wasting time. Get some men and get over there.”
“Why do you care? Your Fring’s man, aren’t you? Why would you go behind his back like this?”
A long pause. “I didn’t sign up for what he’s doing to Varga. Don’t have much of a conscience left, but this is where I draw the line. And now I’m washing my hands of the whole situation.” The line went dead.
Lalo’s stomach turned. If Fring had him, that was terrible news for his Nachito. On the other hand, at least Lalo knew where he was. Now it was just a matter of getting him back.
He dialed Marco. “Change of plans,” he said when he picked up. “Meet me at this address. And bring guns—lots of them.”
Time passed. Nacho couldn’t be sure how much. He lived now in the moments between blows, in the gasps of breath stolen between screams. Images flashed through his mind—his hands around Lalo’s throat, the burning gas station, his father’s tear-stained face, the massacre at Lalo’s home, Hector’s collapse, and on and on, the miserable mess of his life of crime. He didn’t know which hurt worse—the blows or his memories.
After the first round with the whip, Fring had taken him down while he was half out of his mind in pain, laid him tenderly on the floor and wiped down his wounds with antiseptic. He gave him a drink of water from a bottle and then kissed his wet lips. Then it was back on the cross, and they started over again, this time with a paddle, beating his ass and the backs of his thighs. Again Fring took him down and tended to his wounds.
After the beating, Fring turned him around and hung him facing outward. He disappeared in the shadows beyond. Nacho’s head lulled to the side as he started to lose consciousness.
He jolted awake at a loud banging. He thought maybe it was in his own mind, but no, there it was again. Shouts, gunshots, the sound of a door opening. He heard someone’s voice coming from above.
“Give him back.”
Nacho’s heart sped up. Lalo? Could it really be him, or was he hallucinating?
Suddenly, the overhead lights turned on. For the first time, Nacho got a good look at where Fring was keeping him—some sterile, cavernous space of cool steel. Fring remained in his place behind the camera. Lalo stood at the top of a long flight of stairs, his arms crossed. The twins flanked him. Leonel had his gun drawn, and Marco held his axe, which gleamed in the fluorescent light.
“If you want him to pay for what he’s done, leave him to me,” Fring said. “I’m not opposed to letting you watch.”
“You’re a real sick fuck, you know that?” He sounded disgusted. “He is mine. Give him to me, and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Fring said. “He’s a viper—it is unwise to let such creatures out of their cages.”
Lalo laughed. “Yes. He is my serpientito, but I’ve developed a taste for his venom.” He pulled out his own gun and pointed it at Fring. “Killing you would be bad for business, but I will do it if I have to. Undo his restraints now.”
At first, Nacho wasn’t sure if Fring would comply. But a moment later, he did as Lalo asked. Nacho collapsed. The twins descended the stairs. Leonel put his gun in his holster and took off his jacket, which he draped over Nacho’s naked body, and then he put an arm behind his back and under his knees, lifting him from the floor. Marco kept his gaze fixed on Fring, axe brandished. He gave it a little swing in Fring’s direction before turning to follow Leonel up the stairs.
They stepped out of the door. Nacho caught the sight of a few bodies littering the ground in slowly widening pools of blood. Nacho shut his eyes. Rescued. But why? Did they want to kill him themselves? Or did they believe him innocent?
Marco eased Nacho into the backseat of his car and lay a kiss on his head. Probably not intending to kill him, then, although Fring had kissed him, too. Lalo replaced Marco and shut the door behind him. A moment later, they were on the road.
Nacho rolled onto his belly—it was too painful to lie on his back. Lalo put Nacho’s head in his lap and stroked his cheek. The tenderness was too much—Nacho began to weep.
“Shh,” Lalo murmured. “We’ve got you.”
“But… why?”
“Because you are ours.”
Relief flooded through him. The world started fading at the edges. Nacho closed his eyes and gave himself over to the darkness.
Nacho woke up face down on cool, white sheets. He had shorts on that he didn’t remember donning, and his torso had been wrapped in bandages. Where was he? Not his house, and not the Salamanca’s Albuquerque place either. It smelled clean, in the way lived-in spaces aren’t. He pushed himself up gingerly to look around—a hotel suite, spacious and upscale.
Lalo was in an armchair reading a newspaper. He set it down when he saw Nacho stir. “There he is,” he said a little too brightly. “I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I think I can guess.”
Nacho tried to sit up and winced. Lalo was at his side in an instant. “Here, let me help.” Once he had Nacho upright, he got some pills and a bottle of water from the nightstand. “Here, painkillers. The good stuff.”
Nacho eyed the pills, but figured he was already at Lalo’s complete mercy anyway, and he hurt everywhere. He put the pills in his mouth and drank the entire bottle of water.
While he drank, Lalo examined his back. “The damage is not too bad, although I suspect you’ll have some scars.”
Some days he felt like nothing but scars. “Where are we?” Nacho asked.
“Hotel Andaluz*—nice, yeah?”
“And why are we at a hotel?”
“What, you don’t want to be pampered?” He grew more serious. “Seems likely Fring bugged the house. I’m having some guys go through it now.”
“Oh.” Nacho set the water bottle on the nightstand. “Where are Marco and Leonel?”
“Taking care of some business. Don’t worry about it. Here—” Lalo went to the mini-fridge and pulled out an ice pack. “Let’s ice you down.”
Nacho let Lalo arrange him on the bed, propped up on pillows with the ice pack against his skin. His mind swirled—it felt like he was dreaming. Was he actually still in Fring’s dungeon? Had his mind finally snapped?
“Are you actually here?” Nacho’s voice quavered.
“Oh, amorcito.” Lalo kissed his forehead. “He did a number on you, didn’t he?”
Nacho swallowed. Part of him thought he should leave well enough alone, but he had to know what Lalo was thinking. “About Hector…” he began.
“No,” Lalo interrupted. “We will not be discussing that. Now, or ever.”
So he knew. “I only ever did what I had to to keep my father safe. I never wanted—”
A slap, hard enough that his teeth rattled, cut him off. Wide-eyed, Nacho held a hand to his cheek.
“I said, we’re not talking about it.” He got up. “You need to keep your strength up. I’ll order room service,” he said in a lighter tone as he picked up the phone. “Burgers sounds like just the thing, yeah?”
Nacho said nothing as Lalo placed the order. He couldn’t figure out what was happening. Were things going to go back the way they were before—with Nacho under Lalo’s heel? It was better than being under Fring, but it still made his heart sink. “We don’t have to talk about… that. But we do have to talk.”
Lalo heaved an enormous sigh and joined Nacho on the bed again. “You get three questions, and then the subject is closed.”
Nacho swallowed. “Do Marco and Leonel know?”
“They have the same information as I do, but they keep their own council. I wouldn’t push the matter if I were you.”
Nacho’s gaze shifted downward to the white comforter. It had a spot of blood on it that had dried from red to a dull brown. “Do you forgive me?”
Lalo ran a hand over his mouth. “I think you and I are past forgiveness. You don’t forgive a difficult road; you only feel relief that it’s behind you.”
One last question. “What do you want from me?”
“A life with you by my side, of course.”
He had run out of questions, but he couldn’t help asking one more. “Why?”
“Why?” Lalo took a moment before he responded. “Because before I met you, I lived a carefree life. Money and power meant nothing to me—I only wanted to enjoy the time I had on this earth as much as I could. But amorcito, a carefree life is not living to the fullest. Out of every person I have ever met in my almost fifty years of life, only you have made me understand that. And only you can fulfill me in this way.” He took Nacho’s hand and ran a thumb over the ring. “But I also understand that I cannot force you. If you want to run away to Canada, I will let you go.”
Nacho blinked. “You’d let me go?” he echoed. “Really?”
“Sí, mi amor.” He kissed his hand and let it go. “So will you stay, or will you go?”
Did he really want to live his life under an assumed identity—the ultimate lie, one that would never end until the day he died? He would be far away from everything he’d ever known, doing the dreary work he’d been willing to risk his life to escape, never seeing his father again, and being eternally alone.
Or he could stay with the man who had not only seen the worst in him, but embraced it. The lies could stop with Lalo—and only him.
“I want to stay.”
Lalo’s face broke out in one of his wide grins. “I’m glad to hear it.” He kissed him, but pulled away after a moment. “Things will have to change. I’m too old to play games anymore. Let’s be partners—fifty-fifty. No more lies, no more power plays.” He offered his hand. “Deal?”
Nacho took his hand. “Deal.”
“A happy ending it is, then!” He pointed a finger at him. “But just so you know—I cannot bear to lose you, but I’m willing to take you out with me if you pull anything like this again.”
Only Lalo could make a murder/suicide threat sound cheerful. “Noted.”
“Bueno.” He stood and stretched. “I have some business to conclude after lunch. I figured we’d stay here for a week—give you some time to heal, and then we can go home.”
Home. He liked the sound of that. “I have a request before we leave.”
“Anything.”
Lalo laughed loud and long when Nacho told him what it was. “I love the way your mind works, Nachito. Let’s do it.”
Lalo hated the name of the nursing home—Casa Tranquila. As if there were anything tranquil about the half-lives of its residences. His tío most certainly wasn’t. He regarded Lalo with hard eyes. If Lalo had any doubts about his mental capacity, the look he was giving him now laid them to rest.
“I’ve just finished all the paperwork. Marco and Leonel will take you back to Mexico—to a place much nicer than this one. It will be good to be back in your own country, yeah? No more American prisons for you.”
Hector’s glare intensified. He blinked several times.
Lalo sighed. “I don’t blame you for being upset. But there’s no changing what’s been done.” Lalo looked around the room at the other old folks. “You ever wonder who all these people were before? No doubt some of them had lived honest lives. Others, not so much. But you all ended up here, no matter what kind of life you lived. Makes you think.”
He scratched his chin. “One of my first memories is of you, at Abuelo’s funeral. You cried harder than anyone else. I thought maybe you loved your father most of all. And maybe that’s true. Who can say? But it puzzled me when I learned later that you played a role in his downfall. Oh, maybe you didn’t pull the trigger. But when Tío Antonio came to you and asked you to join him in taking charge of the family, you said yes, even though it meant betraying your own father.
“La familia lo es todo. You taught me that. But what do you do when family fights family? Do you choose the side of who you love the most? Or maybe you decide on pragmatism—who will advance the interests of the family best? Or maybe circumstances make the choice for you.” He stood and kissed his uncle’s head. “I’ll come see you when you’re settled in.”
Hector’s breathing grew heavy. He rang his bell as Lalo walked away, but he didn’t turn back. Let him ring it. Bells were for ringing.
After all, it wasn’t as if they could be unrung.
Domingo never slept well anymore. Anxiety plagued his every waking thought, but at least he had some control over it. All bets were off once he closed his eyes.
But he half felt like he was dreaming when Nacho showed up at his door at one in the morning. It had been two weeks since he last saw him. His sudden disappearance made all the guys uneasy, although Lalo told them all don’t worry about it, which was hardly reassuring.
“Hey, Mingo,” he said. The weak florescent light of the apartment complex flickered. He seemed about as tangible as a ghost.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Or, it will be.” He held up a large duffle bag. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“Money. Lots of it. Enough to retire.”
Domingo blinked. “Retire?”
“If that’s what you still want.”
“What happened to needing me to control Tuco?”
Nacho waved a hand. “I can handle it.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I’m a control addict, and I’m trying to get clean.” He held out the bag a little further. “Go on. Take it.”
Domingo accepted the bag. It was so heavy he nearly dropped it. “Thanks.” It felt inadequate, but what else could he say?
Nacho rubbed the back of his neck. “I gotta get going.”
“Where?”
“Mexico. Home.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great, Mingo. Really. And you can be, too. If you want my advice, get the fuck out of Albuquerque. Go take up music again. Find someone and start a family, if you want. No one in this life will ever come after you—I swear it.” He shrugged. “But do what you want. There’s a place for you in the organization if you want it.”
Domingo shook his head. “No, I’m out.” He bit his lip. “So is this goodbye?”
“I guess it is. Hey—” Nacho reached out and wiped a tear from his cheek that Domingo hadn’t realized was there. “Don’t be sad. I swear that I’m good. And who knows—we might run into each other again.”
Somehow, Domingo doubted that. He dropped the bag and threw his arms around his friend’s neck. He tried to think of something he could say—but was there really a good way to say goodbye to the man who had been your best friend for decades?
At last, they parted. Nacho’s eyes were wet, too. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too.”
And with that, he left, the metal stairs rattling with his footsteps as he descended. Domingo went inside and closed the door—only to open it again and rush out again, clinging to the railing of the stairs as his gaze strained across the erratically lit parking lot. He saw Nacho get into Lalo’s car and heard the echo of laughter. Not mocking or cruel. Happy.
The car pulled out of the parking lot. Right before it turned onto the road, Lalo stuck his head out of the window and waved. “Buena suerte, ratoncito!”
Good luck, little mouse. Domingo started laughing—a giddy release of a feeling he couldn’t quite name, like some mix of relief and regret, and against all odds, hope.
They gathered the supplies like they had for the night in the desert—matches and gasoline, fresh newspapers, a sledgehammer. They added a few more—spray paint and knives.
All was quiet at Fring’s restaurant. It looked so banal, like any other fast-food joint. One pathetic piece of a pitiful empire. It wasn’t long for this world.
Nacho’s back still ached from Fring’s treatment, although Lalo had been right—the damage was not extensive. No doubt Fring wanted to take his time breaking Nacho in. He should have killed him while he had a chance. Lalo and Nacho were devoting themselves full time to making him obsolete. But Nacho could wait for his ultimate revenge. He had learned patience.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t have a little fun.
They giggled like schoolboys as they laid waste to the restaurant, scrawling mocking taunts with the spray paint, eviscerating the booths, smashing through the windows and the tables. They fucked on the front counter—give Fring one last video thrill, assuming the security cameras were on.
Then they drenched the place in gasoline, the fumes making Nacho feel even giddier. Nacho lit the first match. When the fire caught on in earnest, Nacho took a moment to bask in its warm glow before retreating. They didn’t go far—Nacho got hard again as they watched the flames from the safety of Lalo’s car. Lalo sucked him off—his second orgasm left him boneless with contentment.
Lalo licked him clean, then pulled up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Feeling satisfied, amorcito?”
“For now.” He pulled Lalo in for a kiss. “We should get out of here, though. I think I hear sirens.”
They set off on the long drive to Mexico. It was a new moon but far from dark—the stars lit their way. As they drove, Nacho’s mind drifted. There were no guarantees for the future. As Lalo had pointed out, the life of a narco was rarely long. Someone was always lurking in the shadows, ready to shove a king off his throne. Fring, if they didn’t get him first. Some lean and hungry plaza boss. An assassin from a rival cartel.
But it was possible they’d beat the odds. A vision played in his mind of the two of them, elderly together. They’d find some young successor to take over and then retire to the home they’d shared for decades. Seemed far-fetched, and they probably didn’t deserve a happy ending, anyway. But since when was life fair?
Maybe whatever ending lay in store for them didn’t matter. They had each other in this moment. It had been a twisted, perilous path, but the road ahead was straight at last, and they would follow it together to the very end.